Scattered, Smothered and Covered Up in Traffic

         

God Help Us

   Living in the Atlanta area for the last three years, I have been exposed to some of the worst traffic in the nation. The mega growth in the 80’s and 90’s created a metropolis with a handful of bedroom communities that now total over 5 million in population. Some experts predicted that by 2025, Atlanta and Chattanooga would be one gigantic megalopolis. At one point in 2003, Henry and Forsyth Counties were in the top 5 for population growth in the nation. These counties were mainly rural and the owners of the land were happy to sell their acreage for a premium price and move to St. Simons Island, a popular destination for the rich and shameless here in Georgia. Subdivisions were constructed in record time, red lights were installed on what used to be dirt roads, and mortgages were thrown around like candy. This property was prime because it was close enough to Atlanta to get to work but far enough away that new residents did not experience the hustle and bustle of city life. With this influx of human beings, the interstates in the metro Atlanta area have become parking lots from 3:00 – 8:00 in the afternoon on weekdays. It is absolutely maddening.

Once, when I was in college, it took four hours to get from Athens to Cassville.  A water main busted on one highway in Cobb County and that sealed the fate of the entire metro area. See, since they are all connected, it set off a giant chain reaction. I turned my truck off on I-285 and sat on the tailgate for 45 minutes. The water main that busted was thirty miles away. The same thing happens when people have fender benders, flat tires, the DOT is surveying land, or a squirrel is slain in the right lane and its lifeless body remains on the interstate. Everybody has to stop and gawk like they have never seen a dented quarter panel.

"Y'all Ain't Doin' That Right"

            The DOT is another issue. Have you ever watched them? One guy operates a jackhammer while ten others stand around smoking cigarettes telling that guy what he is doing wrong. They take three hour lunches. They don’t work when it rains or snows. They get paid handsomely to do this. They also decide to “work” when it is the least convenient time. Need a road paved? I-85 and Pleasantdale? That is in Gwinnett County, Georgia, population 700,000. Let’s start at 2:30 pm on Friday! Here come the orange and white barrels for thirteen miles, a speed reduction, a closed left lane and forty five steamrollers, forty two of which will likely never move. Remember folks, you paid for those steamrollers too. Then we all get to sit in traffic for hours while one guy works for ten minutes and takes a break. Another guy cranks a steamroller, realizes that the wind picked up 10 mph and switches it off, claiming that the potential erosion of topsoil supercedes the necessity of his labor (well, imagine a Georgia twang and more four letter words). Then a “bossman” comes out, stands around surveying the situation for about fifteen minutes, talks to some guy named Randy on a Nextel phone and then leaves for the rest of the day. All of this worthlessness takes about two weeks and completely destroys the afternoon commute.

            The installation of red lights is another sore spot for me. I have no idea what person(s) are responsible for the decision making process, but they are right there with the guy who thought it was wise to bring kudzu to the United States and the other guy who thought the Ford Edsel should be sold to the public. These are the guys who take four hour lunches, are never in their offices and their phones always go to voice mail. In Bartow County, there are several intersections that desperately need red lights. You know, the ones where if a wreck happens, the EMT’s will have to remove the victims from the asphalt with a sponge. There must be an unwritten rule, a magic number of deaths and injuries that must occur before the DOT will act. On the contrary, there are some red lights that are inexplicable. The ones where you could literally get out of your car, build a bonfire and dance around it in a loincloth and be back in your car before the light changed and nobody would see you.  In fact, last year, a red light was removed in downtown Cartersville because so many people complained about its uselessness. When have you ever heard a red light being removed? It had been installed only a year before, in an area that had not changed in years, replacing the four way stop that was working just fine. Meanwhile, another motorist is torn apart crossing five lanes of traffic by another going motorist going 60 miles per hour downhill on Main Street between Starbucks and Publix. Leave it up to the Georgia DOT.

 The Untimely Death of my Waffle House

  I also blame the DOT for the dilapidation and decline of my exit on I-75. For years, the exits on I-75 were in numerical order. Exit 1 was at Lake Park, Georgia near the Florida line and the last exit was in Rocky Face, Georgia, on the Tennessee state line. My exit was #127. I call it “my exit” because I spent so much time at the Waffle House there, that I actually became a squatter. Seriously, I could have challenged ownership of that area on grounds of adverse possession and probably had a fighting chance.

That Waffle House is one of many sources of awesome memories from my childhood. I remember one night, my parents, my brother and I decided to make it a Waffle House night and crammed ourselves in a booth at about 9 PM. The place was absolutely full of people and most of them appeared to drive a truck for a living. You can always tell a truck driver apart from others, they always have that “been up all night” look. That is not an affront to truckers at all, that is a hard job and absolutely necessary to our economy. Anyhow, we had just ordered when one of the truckers went to the jukebox put in one single quarter. When you only put in one quarter, you already know what you are going to play. He entered the three digit code and returned to his seat with his coffee. Seconds later, a sad saxophone and Bob Seger’s raspy voice began to play over the speakers. “Turn the Page” is a staple of Waffle House jukeboxes everywhere. As Bob belted out the first few words, the truckers all seemed to tap their feet or nod their heads in time. Before we knew it, as the chorus came on, they were all singing along to the top of their lungs, especially the line, “there I am, up ooooooooon the stage!” Men who did not know each other, from different states and walks of life, were singing Bob Seger together in a Waffle House in Cassville, Georgia on a summer night at 9:15 PM. As the song ended, they all laughed and shook hands and high fived. Everybody finished their meals and went their separate ways with coffees to go. It was a nice moment.

That particular jukebox was wonderful. I had a lineup that I played each time I went. “Come Monday” by Jimmy Buffett; “Hold on Loosely” by .38 Special; “Hotel California” by The Eagles; “Ramblin’ Man” by The Allman Brothers and whatever the best country song on the board was at the time. It was often a George Strait song. The 90’s had some good country that was popular, and on the contrary, there were also some god-awful travesties that found their way onto that jukebox. One of which was “Indian Outlaw” by Tim McGraw. Lots of people thought this song was great, judging by the number of plays it received. I think this may be the worst song ever. My usual waitress, Sharon, thought it sucked too. When it would come on, she would roll her eyes and take a cigarette break. Not only were the words to the song unfathomably ridiculous, he mixed in a few lines from “Cherokee Indian Reservation” by Paul Revere and the Raiders to go ahead and insure that the song would be terrible. I guess anything worth doing, it’s worth doing right. Congratulations, Tim, for ruining my hash browns and coffee for at least six months in 1995.

Back to the DOT, they decided in 1998 that our exit numbers should be changed. They were going to number them according to the mileage between each exit to help travelers gauge their distance and time more efficiently. Soon thereafter, crews of men were all over I-75 taking down the old signs and replacing them with shiny new green markers with our new numbers. I should have gone out there and offered them a hundred bucks for our sign. We went from #127 to #296, which meant we were exactly 295 miles from Exit #1 in Valdosta. Consequently, our exit also became a target for new truck stop construction. A Pilot station and a TravelAmerica station opened within months. A Comfort Inn, a seedy bar and an adult video store followed. The entire area went downhill quick. My Waffle House, which had stood in the same spot since 1974, serving our community faithfully all those years, closed. They could not compete with 24 hour Taco Bell, Burger King, Subway and McDonald’s, a recession, and the health food craze that scared off fringe customers. The building now sits, boarded up, with weeds in the parking lot and graffiti on the plywood over the windows. Every now and then, a broken down car will be sitting in the parking lot. When I first saw it, I could not believe my eyes. I called my brother in Oxford, Mississippi to deliver the sad news. He sat silently on the other end of the phone for a good ten seconds. He and I spent a lot of time there, especially when I started driving, and now it was gone. It all started when the DOT changed the exit numbers. We had our own number and we were just fine. When we became a mere mile marker, the whole thing went to hell in a handbasket. The county cops basically live out there now, serving arrest warrants at the cheap hotels, where drug dealers pay for rooms by the week so they can peddle their poison to the other trash that live there. The DOT had to install two red lights due to the heavy traffic on the exit, but they were too lazy to install left turn lanes to get back onto the Interstate, so when a tractor trailer turns left to get back on I-75 at the usual snail’s pace, you completely miss the green light.

So, in short, prior to 1998, we had three gas stations (American owned), a Red Carpet Inn, a Waffle House and no red lights. In 2010, we have seven gas stations(who knows who owns any of them now?), a Red Carpet Inn and a Comfort Inn, a bar, an adult video store, Taco Bell, Burger King, McDonalds, Subway, Popeye’s, Country Pride Restaurant (the TravelAmerica 24-hour joint), two red lights and no Waffle House. Progress? Not hardly. All it has brought is the disappearance of an institution, traffic, crime and a collection of low rent people strung out on drugs who spend their welfare checks on lottery tickets and beer. The DOT can kiss my scattered, smothered and covered ass….127 times.

           

           

Obscure Song You Should Download

This is a 1962 collaboration between John Coltrane and Duke Ellington called "In A Sentimental Mood." It mixes Ellington's piano and Coltrane's saxophone perfectly, considering the name of the song. There are no words, but it does not need words, as this song will make you think simply by listening to its peaceful sound. It reminds me of being in New York, sitting in a quiet bar, watching the snow fall outside and people walking by when I was there over New Year's. All I could think was, "life is pretty dang good." Thanks John and Duke, you are geniuses.

Welcome to Northwest Georgia...Part One

“How y’all doin?”

This is a phrase that means something in northwest Georgia. It can be spoken to many people, or just one, but it conveys a sentiment that your fellow man cares about you and yours. We used to greet people this way at Cass Grocery. Our customers would respond in many different ways:

“Fine! How y’all?”

“Good! How’s your momma ‘n them?”

“If I was any better, I couldn’t stand it.”

“Workin’ my ice (“ass” to the rest of the world) off, how you?”

The conversation would continue from there. You could find out so much from a person in those few minutes. Add those up over years and years of service and you get to know a whole hell of a lot (another northwest Georgia saying) about somebody. That’s what I loved about being there, the camaraderie of the people and their general kindness toward us and their appreciation. When I won the countywide spelling bee in 5^th grade, I got more pats on the back than I could count. “That boy right thar….he gonna be somebody,” I heard one man say to his brother. Unlike many places I’ve seen, people were actually happy for your success because they took de facto ownership of it. I even find myself claiming others successes, you wouldn’t find a happier person for Richard Samuel (Running Back at UGA from Cassville) than I…well, maybe his momma, but I digress. I assume that most small towns in northwest Georgia resembled our little hamlet.

What do I mean when I say “northwest Georgia?” In my mind, it is all the counties that border Alabama from Haralson to Dade, from Dade to Murray County, from Murray down to northeast Cherokee County, from there across Bartow and Polk and all that lies in between, with the inclusion of north and west Cobb County. (Cobb, contrary to popular opinion, is not all subdivisions and Land Rovers. Trust me.) When I have ventured into other metropolises, like Cedartown, Rome, Summerville, Dalton, Chatsworth, Ellijay or Calhoun or if you get into the outer reaches, like Fairmount, Flintstone, Felton, Esom Hill, Ball Ground, Eton, and the like….you get the same kind of person that I grew up with.

I speak with authority on these topics because of my years at the store. I was an archaeologist in Air Jordans and I loved every second of it. I’m proud of the fact that we were one of the last full service gas stations around. I’m also glad because walking out to those gas pumps gave me the first glimpse into life in our little corner of the universe. It was a circus out there. Somebody would pull up and my Dad would holler, “Got one on the front!!” Out I would go into this…..

 I had people pay me for $5.00 in gas in unrolled pennies. I had a guy pull up one morning at 7:30, still drunk from the night before, and get $0.27 in gas so he could get to Cedar Creek Road two miles away and go to bed. I’ve had people get gas in milk jugs, water bottles, paint cans, and once, in a Thermos. I had a guy get $3.00, pay with a twenty dollar bill and tell me to keep the change because it was Christmas Eve. There were rags, newspapers, sticks, and grocery bags for gas caps. There have been wasps (pronounced “waw-st-es” by real southerners), spiders, dirt daubers and hornets making their home under the gas door. There were Hefty bags, old dresses, plywood and cardboard for various windows on the vehicle. I have seen more mismatched rims, hubcaps and tires than I can count. I have seen Mustang hubcaps on a Camaro, Explorer hubcaps on Pontiacs, Acura hubcaps on Chevrolets, and many with no hubcaps at all because they sold them to a pawn shop. There were coat hangers holding hoods down, bungee cords keeping hatchbacks from flying open, missing mufflers to make the car sound louder, and some leaked oil so badly that I had to put cat litter down to keep somebody from throwing a cigarette on it and burning the place down. Bumper stickers and personal license plates were an artform. There were airbrushed masterpieces from Panama City or Gatlinburg, such as “Southern By the Grace of God,” “Misty and Dwayne 4-Ever,” and “Smart Ass White Boy.” There were classy stickers like “Eatin Ain’t Cheatin,” “Redneck Bitch” and Calvin pissing on everything from Ford and Chevrolet to the IRS and the President. I have had to pump gas with the handle sideways, upside down or at a snail’s pace because some of the older model vehicles could not accommodate the gas any other way.

This is the tip of the iceberg. You could see all of this in one day. Once I finished pumping gas, I was expected to bag groceries, make sandwiches, hot dogs and barbeque, monitor the hardware, keep the coolers stocked and make sure the cigarettes were prominently displayed. The cigarettes were a huge deal. I mean, paramount to the success and failure of a customer’s day. Essentially, they are twenty pieces of paper filled with tobacco attached to a fiberglass filter (or not). We sold almost any brand you can imagine. There are more kinds of cigarettes than vehicles on the road. Just listening to Dad order them on the phone would give you a seizure. “Yes, I need three cartons of Parliament Ultra Light Menthol 100’s in a Box.”  Ridiculous. If you measured the store’s size and compared it to the cigarette rack, I would say it took up 1/10^th of the entire store. The Surgeon General says cigarette smoking can cause lung cancer? Heart Disease? Low Birth Weight? Ha. We follow a different creed here in Cassville. We are of the “Hey, Smoke Up Johnny!” mold. One man named Doc used to buy a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and four packs of Winstons every single day (except Sunday, when he would buy beer from a bootlegger). He was seventy years old, what did he care? Wildly enough, Doc probably weighed 140 pounds soaking wet. I have no idea how that little man was able to smoke and drink that way, but he did.

When a customer becomes a regular and they are a smoker, you immediately learn their preferences. Sometimes, orders get cancelled and you are out of a certain brand. A few people make do and just get something similar. However, most people are loyal to one brand and by God, they stick with it. Seriously, they may be more loyal to a cigarette than their own family. When we were out of a brand somebody wanted, that’s when the three act play would begin.

Act One: (denial)

First, the customer, we will call him “Jerry”, approaches and orders.

“Gimme a pack of Marlboro Red’s in a box.”

You then deliver the world-crushing news. “Sorry Jerry, they marked ‘em out on us, can you use something else? I got ‘em in a soft pack.”

You see the dread. You witness the perspiration trickle down their temple. Hats come off. Fingers run through hair. “Oh man.” They take a deep breath and look down at the floor. “Are you serious?” they ask.

Act Two: (acceptance)

After a few seconds of thought and meditation, their eyes meet yours.

“Well, I can’t smoke them Lights or them Mediums, no flavor. Them soft packs gets crushed too easy.”

The decision making process kicks into gear. You can hear their thoughts. They are pondering the trip to Wal Mart. You gotta save them from themselves at this point, “Jerry, I got Basics, they are cheaper and they are in a box too.” He shakes his head, “Basics ain’t worth a shit, it’s like smoking cardboard.” They give you the sad look. The look of a child who just got the kybosh on a trip to Six Flags. Cue another forlorn glance at the empty rack where the Marlboro Red’s once were.

Act Three: (overcoming obstacles)

Jerry is now craning his neck, pawing his chin, pondering his next move. This is the single most important decision of the day. There is no margin for error. One wrong choice and all hell will break loose. Another deep breath. He examines the cigarette rack and it’s 75,000 choices. A sad sigh exits the nasal cavity.

“Awright, gimme a pack of Newports.”

A menthol cigarette that is more expensive, the sensible choice. I shrug and lay them on the counter. Jerry pays and immediately starts slamming the pack into his palm. You must pack the tobacco or it does not smoke right, they say. I did not know smoke did anything but rise into the stratosphere and deplete the ozone layer. You must apologize to Jerry for being out of his brand, though.

“Awwww, that’s alright, I smoked these when I was in the Navy. I had to switch though. Man, these goddamned things’ll kill you!”

He chuckles and leaves. The day has been saved. Wal Mart lost four cents.

Welcome to Northwest Georgia.

           

Obscure Song You Should Download

Emerson, Lake and Palmer were an excellent progressive rock band that began in 1970. Mixing classical music themes with rock 'n roll, they produced seven albums in the 70's, including "Trilogy" in 1972, which spawned their best selling single "From The Beginning." This song is a testament to their versatility and captures their unique sound in four minutes of bliss. This band and song should not be obscure in my opinion, but they have overshadowed by Pink Floyd and Yes throughout their career. Enjoy!

Nudie Magazine Day: Comparing Billy Madison and President of the United States

Like most Americans, I have a batch of movies that I like to call "my favorites." These are the go-to movies when I cannot decide what to watch and I can always depend on them to serve their purpose. If I want to be intrigued, "Shawshank Redemption"  or "Gran Torino." If I want to cry, "Born On the Fourth of July" or "The Green Mile." If I want inspiration, "Remember the Titans" and "Braveheart." When it's action I need, "Tombstone" or "Saving Private Ryan."

Mostly, however, I like to laugh. I have an enormous library of comedies, ranging from "Kings of Comedy" to "Tommy Boy" to "Trading Places." Guys like Chris Farley, Eddie Murphy, Dan Akyroyd, and Bernie Mac have helped me get through some rough days. After a long day at the office, I love to watch the barbershop scene in "Coming to America" or the first five minutes of "Super Troopers." It's hard to focus on motions and briefs when Eddie Murphy says, "Oh, dere dey go, dere dey go, every time I start talkin' about boxin' a white man gotta pull Rocky Marciano out dey ass!" Classic.

Billy Madison is one of the most quotable comedies of the 90's. Adam Sandler probably was not aware that he had a gold mine in this movie, but in my generation's eyes, it was Fort freakin Knox. It may be silly, it may be crass, it may have a dumb plot, but that movie is hilarious. The critics hated it of course, as they do all comedies that don't have dark meanings or a subplot that speaks to human nature or some other BS. That crap is so tired. As far as I'm concerned, we all need a lot more slapstick in our lives, and a little less abstraction....if you please (the first and probably last Toby Keith reference in this article).

Speaking of slapstick, the President of the United States  is one of the hardest and most stressful jobs in the world. Putting up with every demand from every corner of the world does not sound like my cup of tea. Judging by the "before and after" pictures of the last three Presidents, serving the public in this manner obviously accelerates the aging process. Poor Barack, he will look like Morgan Freeman before his term is done. We need to instill some humor into the Oval Office, and decelerate this full frontal assault on our Commander in Chief. With that, I bring you a comparison of Billy Madison and the President.

1) Nudie Magazine Day/Election Day:

So, Billy is laying in the pool in the beginning, hammered out of his mind, talking to his friends. (The President consorts with his political staff about the upcoming results) He then asks his friend, played by Norm McDonald, what day it was. "October?" he replies. With this response, Billy realizes that today is "Nudie Magazine Day." (Election Day) He hops in his golf cart and careens toward the mailbox, crushing flowers and bushes all along the way, angering the gardener, repeating "Nudie Magazine Day, Nudie Magazine Day" in his drunken stupor. ( He realizes he has been elected and forgets all the little people that helped him get there) He grabs the package and tears into the literature with delight, "Drunk Chicks" and "Over 80." (The President must appeal to any and all demographics and age groups to win the popular vote).
Billy then sees an imaginary penguin and passes out on the doorsteps of his father's mansion (President moves into the White House, as the last poor schmuck moves out)

2) Billy in the Bathtub/Meeting with Congress

Billy has to clean up and sober up for the big dinner his father is hosting. (First meeting with Congress) Billy enacts a fight between his shampoo and his conditioner (Democrats and Republicans) as to who is better. "Shampoo is better, I go on first and clean the hair." (Republicans: less spending, more military presence!) "Conditioner is better, I make the hair silky and smooth." (Democrats: more government jobs, more taxes!) "Oh really, fool?! Yeah, really!" Billy then bashes them together and drops them into the soapy water, apparently knocking both pugilists out cold. (Congress can't agree on anything, filibustering and eventually coming to no decision as they lambaste one another on our dime). Billy then says, "stop looking at me, swan" to the marble swan adorning the side of the tub. (President addresses the public about the political standstill, basically telling us there is nothing to see here)

3) Billy at Dinner/Meeting with Cabinet Members:

Billy strides into the dinner late, causing the entire table of businessmen to miss their flight home (President was playing golf at Congressional). He ignores this fact as he instantly slurps down the soup placed in front of him. (President realizes he is the supreme being in the room, does not care for others time, they work for him, dammit!) "Hey Carl, what's up?!" Billy says to his most trusted friend at the table. (President gives the VP, aka Mr. Irrelevant, a nod).  Billy's father comments on Billy's tan, to which he replies, "yeah, I fell asleep by the pool for a few hours." (President played two rounds, actually) "Did ya fall asleep, or did ya pass out?" says Eric, the evil minion who secretly wants Madison Hotels for himself. (the guy in the room who wants the President's job and will undermine him in anyway to get it). Billy's father addresses the table about the future of Madison Hotels, when Eric makes faces at Billy, who responds in his own gibberish language. (President needled about his policies, has no clue about the particulars because some staffer wrote his last speech, so he wings it)

4) Billy Goes Back to First/Four Years in the White House

After coming to grips that he may lose Madison Hotels, Billy decides to go back to school and take it seriously this time. (The goal of every first term administration is a second term - Clear and Present Danger, biotches. +1 for a movie reference within a movie reference). Billy's first day is marked by a missed bus and a crazy teacher named Mrs. Lippy (President skips a briefing about military strategy because the First Lady is pissed that she can't plant a palm tree on the Lawn). Mrs. Lippy reads a story about "The Puppy Who Lost His Way" and Billy critiques the plot of the story, "You got a pet, you got a responsibility, you don't give up looking after an hour, you get your ass out there and you find that f***** dog!" (President delivers a fiery speech to a special interest group, saying what they want to hear so they will donate more money). Then the class plays dodgeball. (Congress is putting up a big bill, probably health care) Billy gets eliminated and returns to the class (Stay out of this, Pres. We are working for the people!) He enters to find Mrs. Lippy dancing alone (First Lady is drunk and riding a tricycle in the Oval Office) who ushers Billy out to play again. Billy annihilates the class one by one, exclaiming "Now, you are all in big trouble." (President vetoes the bill with gusto)

5) Billy in Third Grade/President's Popularity Decreases, then Increases

Billy sits in class and looks around for someone to talk to. He looks at his neighbor and says, "First and Second Grade were easy, but Social Studies and long division? This is going to be tough!" (President is overwhelmed by the war on terrorism, environmental concerns and keeping his special interest groups happy) Enter Veronica Vaughan. (The American public). Billy is enamored by Ms. Vaughan and does all he can to impress her (President knows that re-election is fast approaching). Ms. Vaughan is having none of this, as she hates Billy. Billy makes fun of a child reading in her class.."T-t-t-t today Junior!" (President passes several bills that increase taxes, angering the public). Ms. Vaughan grabs Billy by the ear and takes him into the hall. "Are you psycho, do you not have a soul?" (The people speak out in town hall meetings, on the internet and through the newspaper) Ms. Vaughan threatens to fail Billy and goes back to the classroom. Billy says aloud, "Veronica Vaughan....so hot, want to touch the heiny, owwwwww." (The public threaten to vote for somebody else, President is worried but confident he can win them back). In the end, Billy redeems himself by helping his friend Ernie on a field trip, who peed his pants. (President passes a bill decreases taxes and increases opportunities for small businesses, who are all filing bankruptcy). On the same field trip, Billy also touches Ms. Vaughan's chest (warming up the public for the next election) and deals with a perverted bus driver, played by Chris Farley (an indepedent who looks to steal votes in the next election).

6) Billy in High School/Dealing with War

Billy returns to high school in a Trans Am and REO Speedwagon shirt, forgetting that this is the 90's (President has no clue about military policy). The students are not very welcoming, as he is made fun of and has lunch food dumped on his head by O'Doyle (The  Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a five star general who served in Vietnam, basically tells the President to piss off). So, while in class, Billy decides to increase his popularity by making fun of a teacher. "Chlorophyll, more like borophyll! (President unilaterally decides to bomb a town in Libya, which is deserted with the exception of some fig trees, oops). After that does not work, he turns his attention to an unsuspecting girl and exclaims, "no! I will not make out with you!" (President blames Israel for unrest in the Middle East). Things take a turn for the worse when Eric, the evil minion, bribes Billy's old principal Max Anderson into saying that Billy paid him for grades. (The guy who wants to be the next President brings up a sex scandal involving the President and an intern).

7) Billy vs. Eric/Re-Election Time:

Billy challenges Eric to an academic decathlon. (Campaigns, Promises, Backscratching) The principal reads the rules and warns them about cheating. "If I catch anyone cheating, especially with my wife, who is a dirty dirty tramp, I am just gonna snap." (The public is tired of all the crap, the scandals and negativity, want the best man for the job) Billy and Eric face off in science, math, music, sports and drama, with no clear winner (President and other guy exchange mudslinging. They poke holes in the other's resume. DUI's. C's in college. All the pertinent stuff). The final event is a Jeopardy of sorts, where Eric and Billy get to select the category for which the other must give an answer. Eric chooses "The Industrial Revolution" for Billy. (There is a debate on national television). Billy does not know anything about it, but upon seeing Mrs. Lippy in the crowd, he remembers "The Puppy Who Lost His Way"  and compares it to the Industrial Revolution.(President's answers are completely vague, with coached phrases and buzz words set to elicit applause). The principal allows the applause to die down before going on a tirade. "What you have just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard...et al" (The people do not like this approach, they have seen it before and it doesn't work) Now, it's Eric's turn. Billy chooses "Business Ethics." (The debate turns to small business loans, and the other guy is a Democrat, uh oh). Eric has no answer and loses his mind, threatening to kill Billy with a concealed pistol (Other guy stumbles around with an answer, then points out another sex scandal to cover it up). Before he can carry out the deed, Eric is double ax-handled by Max Anderson and sent to the floor. (Intern rears her ugly head again and says the other guy put his hand up her shirt and paid her $10,000). Still fighting, Eric, comes back up with the gun. He is then shot in the ass by Danny McGrath, played by Steve Buscemi (A long lost buddy of the President turns up three photos of the other guy snorting coke with Marion Berry in a whorehouse in Florida, thus ruining his chances for election). Billy gets Veronica in the end (the public) and decides to hand the company over to Carl (the VP is going to run things for awhile, there is golf to be played). THE END

Side Story

1) Poop in the Bag/Immigration

Billy and his friends decide to play a trick on Old Man Clements by filling a paper bag full of poop and lighting it on fire on his doorstep (President decides to give Mexicans political asylum, but it has to pass through Congress first). He places the bag on the doorstep, lights it and rings the doorbell. (President tells Mexico he is sure that the bill will pass.) Old Man Clements comes to the door and sees the bag, and shouts "Call the fire department, this one's out of control!" (Mexico tells its citizens that America will be opening her borders). "Don't put it out with your boots, Ted!" shouts the old man's wife. (Other countries warn Mexico about Presidential promises). In the end, he stomps the bag and smells his shoe and says, "It's poop again!" (Congress votes the bill down, President tells Mexico, "my bad"). Billy and friends laugh, "he called the s*** poop!" (The President decides that since they don't speak English, they didn't need to be here anyway)

Why I Still Love the NBA (And You Should Too)

Flash back to 1993. I was twelve years old, adorned with my Dominique jersey, Shaq shoes (yep, those gigantic blue, white and black ones) and was the proud owner of every Michael Jordan poster that existed. I bought every trading card I could get my hands on and luckily, I had a father and mother who fully supported this obsession. Dad and I would drive far and wide to buy the best ones, I remember seeing his face light up when we found Pistol Pete's rookie card. I read every statistic and memorized it. I watched every game on TNT and NBC (I miss the old 90's intro music and those cheesy graphics). I guess it was better than taking up smoking, which some of my friends were doing already. It was fun to watch them sneak around, light up the cigarettes their older brother bought for them, and then cough violently while maintaining the "cool" face. No thanks, I will just indulge myself in free throw percentages, offensive rebounds and dunk contests.

Basketball was an escape for me. I could walk down to my halfcourt, turn on the lights at night, and shoot until my heart was content. It was so quiet down there, with the exception of my dribbling and occasional bricked shot (yeah, right). It was just me and the crickets. The halfcourt was situated next to a cow pasture, which was at the foot of a hill where several skirmishes took place during the Civil War. It was eerie at times, but honestly, when I was shooting ball, nothing could bother me. I would imagine myself as Jordan, dismantling the Blazers in the '92 Finals with a 35 point half (the Shrug game). I would be David Robinson some nights, Larry Bird in others. I would be Tim Hardaway and Magic, throwing impossible passes and weaving through defenders like they were cardboard cutouts. I would be Dr. J, attempting his reverse layup against the Lakers over and over, but never quite getting it. Anybody who knows the NBA knows exactly what shot I am talking about.  I probably took 2 million shots at that goal, wore out about 75 basketballs and played my Dad about 500 times (my record against Dad: 2-498). After our one-on-ones, covered in sweat and with dead gnats all over us, we would talk about the game. He would tell me stories about players from the 70's. We would talk about Jabbar when he played for Milwaukee. Who was the best shooter off the dribble, who was best off the screen and who would take your head off in the lane when they were going to the basket. Willis Reed's comeback in the '70 Finals. Dave Cowens diving for loose balls and basically scaring the hell out of anyone who played against him. Those stories made me love the game more and more every time I heard them. Then Mom would yell from the house, "Guys! Dinner is ready!" and we would sprint up the house and chow down. Great days.

The NBA was great in 1993. I was lucky to have witnessed, in my opinion, the greatest era in NBA history. From 1984-1993, the League flourished in talent and popularity in a manner that simply cannot be measured. Of course, the 1984 Draft changed everything, when the Blazers bypassed Michael Jordan at the #2 pick and he went to Chicago. The best player in the game (not realized at the time) going to a big market city just itching for a star. Couple that with the right supporting cast, the right coach and being ridiculously media savvy, Jordan and the NBA hit the gas and did not look back. I came of age when Jordan was at the top of his game, but so was Barkley, Malone, Stockton, Thomas, Robinson, Mullin, Wilkins, and a whole host of other phenomenal players that I loved to watch. All the great moments they produced will be in my mind forever. Like Jordan's layup in the 1991 Finals against the Lakers, Bird's steal of Isiah Thomas's pass in the 1987 Eastern Finals, and Magic's baby sky hook. I will pass these memories on to my children, just as my Dad did.

Guys like Shawn Kemp, who was one of the best in-game dunkers ever. (Dominique is still the best, I'm sorry. Windmill slam off two feet at full speed? Please.) Or the forgotten players like Terry Cummings and Sidney Moncrief. Cummings averaged over 20 points for his career, rarely missed a game, and played his tail off every single night. Too bad his best years were with the pre-Robinson Spurs, who were positively awful. Moncrief was a blanket, he absolutely shut down the perimeter, making the NBA All-Defensive Team 5 times in his career, along with 5 All-Star teams and one NBA First Team. Too bad he played in Milwaukee from 1979-1990, a small market team who played second fiddle to the Celtics for an entire decade. (footnote: check Moncrief's wikipedia page and see what Jordan had to say about him. Respect.) The expansion of the league to Charlotte, Miami and Minnesota took place, which made me happy because there were two more southern NBA teams to root for. Watching Larry Johnson, Muggsy Bogues and Alonzo Mourning was always a treat, especially in those blue/purple atrocities they called uniforms. The great Dunk Contests (I still believe Nique beat Jordan in Chicago, it was the only time I ever rooted against MJ. Nique got hosed.). Bird winning the Three Point Contest after walking into the locker room and said he wanted to know "who was going to finish second." The rivalries. The physical nature of the game and the sense of honor that the guys had on the court was palpable.The guys who played back then loved the game and you could tell. It made loving the NBA easy for a kid like me.

Of course, there were the great teams of that era, which I would put up against the Mavs right now and go straight up. The 1987-88 Lakers with Jabbar, Magic, Cooper, Worthy and Byron Scott? They could hang with Dirk and Co. So could the '91-93 Bulls, the 1986 Celtics, the 1986 Rockets, and the Bad Boy Pistons from '89-90. Of course, we had the Dream Team in 1992. A collection of the greatest players in the world (and Christian Laettner) that basically put the world on its knees, double tapped it in the back of the head and put two pennies on its eyes for the ride to the Underworld. We asserted the claim that basketball was "OUR" game and always would be. I watched every second of those games, savoring every blowout like a piece of my Grandma's pound cake.These were my heroes flexing their muscle, playing at their highest level, and doing it for America. You don't get much better than that.

As I have gotten older, the hero worship has decreased. All of those players have retired and become coaches and commentators. There have been lockouts, scandals with referees and players,contract disputes and a bad economy that have affected the popularity of the League. I admit that my interest wavered from '04-'07, the lowest point of the NBA since the late 70's, before Magic and Bird saved it. There have been rule changes that have softened the game, thanks to the brawl at the Palace. Players get technical fouls for slightest disgusted expression and suspensions are handed out like parade candy. The physical nature that I grew up watching has been replaced by a lot of touch fouls called by referees who are too concerned with the possibility of a fight starting. It's a physical game. The testosterone is through the roof. Fighting and trash talk are inevitable and I think the front office has done the players and the fans a disservice by clamping down so hard. I'm not saying hand out Glock 9's before each game. I'm saying that the League should allow a player to do some talking after a great dunk or shot rejection. It is entertaining and spawns rivalry, which makes the game better.

The game will get back to it's old self, I am convinced of this. They have a great model in the '84-'93 years. They need a Jordan-type player to take over, restore the physicality, and find a way to keep teams together so rivalries will be created. We need more Charles Oakleys and less Erick Dampiers. We need more Kevin McHales, Scottie Pippens and Gary Paytons. I see the qualities of those guys in our players now....guys like Kevin Durant, Raymond Felton, Dwyane Wade, Dirk, and Blake Griffin. The 2011 Playoffs and Finals were the best I have seen in years and it reminded me of those old Bulls/Pistons, Pacers/Knicks and Lakers/Celtics slugfests that we loved so much. This lockout will get resolved and the guys will go back to work because the love of the game is still there, no matter what anyone says.

How do I know this? Because whether it's 1993 or 2011, whether the kid is white or black, whether it's in a tiny town like Cassville, Georgia or on 161st Street in the Bronx, there is a kid shooting ball, imagining himself in the shoes of his heroes. They didn't let me down and they won't let this generation down either.

World Problems: Solved by Yours Truly

There are certain questions I have about the way the world has become. For a Southern  man like me, some of this stuff is so far removed from my lifestyle and interests that I have no idea about them except what I have read and heard on the internet and television, which are the Gospel of course, so I believe it all. Nah, when I was in journalism school at the University of Georgia, I took a class about the history of journalism and my teacher was a very cynical woman who taught me to believe nothing I read that is generated by the national media. “Sensationalism!” she would say. I guess it stuck with me.

1.         Why is the public becoming more and more medicated, especially children? Have problems paying attention? Adderall. Can’t sleep? Ambien. Can’t control yourself? Ritalin. I cannot count how many times I have been somewhere and saw a kid acting up and the parent says, “Well, he’s not taking his Ritalin right now so this is what happens.” What? For an independent nation, we sure are slaves to these tiny little doses of God-Knows-What. People get hooked and the health insurers and pharmaceutical giants continue to fill their bank accounts to the point of explosion. In journalism school,  I remember doing a research project on the advertising campaign of Paxil, a drug that treats “General Anxiety Disorder.” Do you know what the symptoms of GAD are? Basically, if work and life have got you stressed out, you don’t have much energy as you want and you cannot stop worrying about everyday problems, then Paxil is the drug for you. Every single person I know should be taking Paxil, according to that description. It was a disease that was created to sell drugs, nothing more.

I got answers for all of the above mentioned problems, in perfect non medication form. A good ass whipping always made me pay attention, a hard day’s work always put me to sleep without trouble and if I was out of control, my dad would pinch the fat on the back of my arm and give me a look of death and suddenly, being out of control was not worth it anymore. Get a grip, parents, literally. As far as GAD goes, that’s life. Grow a pair. The excuses are getting tired and drugs are not the answer.

2.         The nitpicking in this country is ridiculous. The national and local media markets love a great scandal. They love to find a fault in someone or something and run it into the ground. Tiger Woods could have his own news channel now. “This just in, Tiger took a leak in his third floor bathroom and it looked like he may have peered out the window of his bathroom at a woman walking her dog. Is he sleeping with her? Did she have his love child? Find out after the commercial break.” He will never escape his mistakes because the media will not allow it. You think Kobe is off the hook? Hell no, its just that his scandal has been replaced by newer and more juicy scandals. However, whenever Kobe’s name comes up, it always seems to go like this, “Kobe had 28 points and 13 rebounds in the Lakers victory over the Sacramento Kings on Tuesday night. If you will recall, Bryant was accused of raping a young girl in Colorado, for which he apologized and he has moved on.” Right. Moved on. 

            The microscope has got to lose focus at some point. Groups of people are going to do things that other groups are not going to approve of. During the 2010 Winter Olympics, the national media published a story about the way the Canadian women’s hockey team celebrated their gold medal winning performance over the United States. Apparently, these Canucks had the audacity to light up cigars on the ice and drink an alcoholic beverage to toast their victory. In Canada, hockey is everything. It is their national pastime. They waited four years for this moment. The media and the IOC did not like the fact that some of the girls were under the legal drinking age of 19 (they were in Canada, not the US) when they imbibed and the smoking of cigars was just a sign of disrespect that could not be overlooked or excused. Damn them all to hell. They had to “issue a statement” of apology to the world. The coach was chastised publicly. The girls were sent to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas where they will await lethal injection. Children everywhere will now drink a fifth of Jack Daniels every time they make an “A” on a math test. Completely ridiculous and overblown, which is what I come to expect unfortunately.

                     If the media cannot find something wrong with your words, they will find something wrong with the inflection you used, or the direction your eyes moved when speaking. I did not vote for Barack Obama, but that poor man has been dissected more times than a bullfrog in a sixth grade biology class. Let him do his job, whatever that is, and if he does a bad job, he will be voted out. We don’t care that he emphasized a word too much, used his hands in manner that suggested he did not care about the rights of the ruby throated sparrow, or the suit he wore was .56% rayon. Find something interesting and USEFUL or stop reporting. The media’s purpose has been skewed and basically operates as a de facto judge, jury and saboteur of privacy. You are supposed to report information to the public as it happens, not the way you think it happened.

3.         I am ready for certain words and phrases to disappear out of the vernacular in this country. You ever watch movies from the 30’s and 40’s? Phrases and words like “what’s the idea?” and “swell” are never said anymore, at least not around here. I’m not sure when the citizenry started using them, but they apparently faded out of existence in the 70’s, judging by films made during that decade. Judging by that formula, it takes 30-40 years for a word or phrase to go the way of the dodo bird. There are some words and phrases now that I would like to accelerate to an early demise.

• “Issue” is a word that is beaten to death. Actually, it’s the use of the word, rather than the actual word itself. There are no such things as “problems” anymore, there are only “issues” now. A man with a bad personality? He has “issues.” The Marines are stalled out in Afghanistan because of roadside bombs? They are having “issues” with insurgents. Can’t find a place to park your truck? You are having parking “issues.” You don’t like something a person said to you? You have an “issue” with them. The word “issue” suggests to me that there is a situation where there are two sides that disagree and the two sides must come to an agreement to resolve it. This does not work for bad personalities, Taliban insurgents, parking vehicles or insults heaved in your direction. The world I grew up in had “problems.” I want problems to come back. Only in the vocabulary sense though.

• “Closure” is another one. It is used by people who want to sound more intelligent than they really are. “Closure” seems to be the buzz word in murder and kidnapping cases : “well, they found Bobby in the bottom of the river, it looks like somebody shot him. Thank the Lord, his momma can have closure now.” See? It sounds stupid in Southern English. It sounds stupid in any vernacular.

• “Making a statement” has become the new way to communicate for those bestowed with celebrity status, especially when they get in trouble. Athletes use ESPN to “make their statement” for them. The statement has four parts: acknowledgement, apology, reasoning, treatment. “I know what I did was wrong, I’m sorry to all my fans, I wasn’t thinking clearly, I will check into rehab tomorrow.” Then Stuart Scott and Scott Van Pelt nod in agreement and all is well. Tiger Woods actually did his in person, complete with scripted hand motions and tears. He did go to Stanford though. I don’t see Britney, Lindsay or Mike Tyson apologizing for their respective smoking with a baby in the car, 9^th DUI or various sexual assaults in person. They get the paid-by-the-hour Harvard mouths to write theirs and have their lawyers read it. The family stands behind the lawyer, all adorned with sunglasses to hide their tears, the occasional nod and the scripted one armed hug, and we’re done. I’m going to start doing that whenever I forget to pay a bill or take out the trash.

Allman Brothers with Eric Clapton: "Layla" 3/19/09 New York City, Beacon Theater

Why do I post this, you ask? Well, my brother and I were in New York City when this concert occurred. The Allman Brothers go to the Beacon Theater every March and play nearly every single night for the entire month. I went online to Stubhub and saw the tickets listed at $200 a piece. That was a little steep for me, as I had seen the Allman Brothers twice before. Kicker: Clapton was a surprise guest and nobody knew it. So, we went to the Beacon and waited until the concert started and tried to scalp some tickets.

"$700," says the man in the Coogi sweater and Timberlands. "$700?!? The concert is already started, you still holdin' tickets!" I said, exasperated. A man with long hair, a bandanna, and a leather vest looks at me and says, "Clapton is on stage, dude. Playin' all night." Matt and I felt our stomachs sink to the dirty Broadway and 74th Street sidewalk. Would I pay $400 to see Derek Trucks, Warren Haynes and Clapton play? You bet your sweet ass I would. So, we went to McSorley's and showed some Brooklynites how it's done in Cassville. Great night, but I still kick myself every time I think about it.

Lesson learned. Money comes and goes every day; Clapton and ABB....only once. And I missed it.

The Year of the Acronym (something I wrote awhile back)

            2010 is the year of the acronym. The FIFA World Cup is being played in South Africa, the host nation is RSA(Republic of South Africa) according to the scoreboards. So far, there have been two draws, Bishop Desmond Tutu showed off his dance moves, the US team bus was involved in an elephant related traffic jam (how many people do you know that can claim this?) and Nelson Mandela’s great granddaughter was killed by a drunk driver. In fact, it was her own driver, hired by the family to get her home from a concert. Of course, he survived. This tragedy prevented Mandela from witnessing South Africa’s first match against Mexico. I’m taking bets on the driver’s life expectancy…he may not live past his drunk tank visit. Or in acronymic terms, he is SOL and probably DOA.

The BP Oil spill has been in the news every day since the rig fell into the ocean. Every state and federal agency is involved in this disaster, which means acronyms galore. Of course, we have FEMA. By the way, the FEMA fan club announced that they will not have their annual meeting in Louisiana this year. NOLA is being threatened with an environmental disaster of monumental proportions, US-UK relations are strained, and the Dow and NASDAQ indicate that BP stocks are plummeting faster than a NASCAR race at Talladega. The WWF (World Wildlife Federation) is up in arms because this spill is destroying ecosystems and threatening numerous species of maritime fish, birds, mammals and reptiles. If you recall, the animal WWF sued the wrestling WWF, won a judgment, which resulted in the WWF becoming WWE, which can now be seen on USA instead of TNT.

PAC Ten member USC was just sanctioned by the NCAA in a big way, the worst since SEC member Alabama was banned from postseason play from 2001-2003. Apparently, before he went to the NFL, Reggie Bush received a rent free home in LA, a new suit for the Heisman trophy presentation in NYC, and incalculable cash gifts from celebrities and boosters along the way. The NCAA decided to take away thirty scholarships, ban them from bowl games, including any BCS appearances, void all of Bush’s records and possibly take away their BCS championship from 2004. Before this came out, Pete Carroll bolted from LA for the NFL and Lane Kiffin, a former USC assistant, left UT after one season to come back to LA. Bush may have to give his Heisman trophy back as well. Maybe they will give it to A.J. Hawk, who finished sixth in the voting that year. Of course, stay tuned to ESPN, MSNBC, CNN and ABC for further details.

More states are enacting laws that ban texting while driving. This is a no brainer. Countless accidents and skyrocketing insurance rates indicate that this has become a real problem on the roads. Texting is also the fertilized egg of acronyms. Teenagers have a new language. Forget Spanish. They speak, what I like to call, “LOL.” LOL stands for Laugh Out Loud and it’s the most widely known texting acronym in the universe. Even my grandma knows what it means. Imagine a teenager getting into a wreck while texting…”OMG, this POS car just hit my BMW! FML! She is getting out…Dude, this lady is so fat, ROTFLMAO.”

From this language, we have derived a quick way to communicate our thoughts for $9.99 a month. I will admit I am a willing resident of the texting world and I pay my property taxes. The other day I sent a message to my friend, “At the ZZ Top concert, ttyl.” It is a part of our lives whether we like it or not. Hell, on Itunes right now, there is a song called “OMG” that is #3 on the pop charts. I had someone text me “Thank You” the other day with a simple “ty.” It was in lower case, so I guess that means it was like a casual thank you, like when a barista at a coffee shop hands you a coffee that you ordered. You say a quick thanks and move on. I guess an upper case “TY” would be warranted if you got somebody out of jail, paid for an expensive dinner or remembered to TiVo their favorite show on TMZ. This can be a problem though. In the South, we have different ways of saying things. Instead of “thank you,” myself and like minded individuals often say “preciate it” or “preciate ya.” Southern texting is a work in progress and I’m going to be on the front lines fighting for our rights. YTTSOBTIAPNSHDFADQP. “You tell that sumbitch that I ain’t paying no six hundred dollars for a dented quarter panel.” See, nobody except a few Dwaynes and Darryls will get that.

Welcome to my World: Greasing the Train Tracks for Y'all

Welcome, Willkommen, and Bienvenidos! See, I am multicultural like that. This is an open door blog and all walks of life may tread in peace here. I created this blog after several requests from friends and family, plus it is a kickass way to vent about stuff that I care about/want to make fun of. Sarcasm is my native language and I speak it fluently, so read with a grain of salt....actually with a whole boulder of salt. I do not hide how I feel because there is no point going through life in America without standing on your own two feet. This is my blog and I control all that I survey. There may be things you don't agree with, that's fine. There may be holes in my blogosphere, but it's not from pollution, so tell Al Gore to stick to his own inconvenient truths. What I can guarantee is that I will do my best to make you laugh, cry, reminisce, and ponder things in a different light.

I'm a northwest Georgian, born in Cartersville but raised in Cassville, an unincorporated area 4 miles north. Many of my ideals and stories come from here. Cassville has changed over the years, it is not quite as small and the novelty of living there has worn off with the influx of subdivisions and strip malls that decorate the landscape now. The Cassville I remember had no stop light. The Cassville I remember had dirt roads. The Cassville I remember taught me to appreciate the silence of an early morning cup of coffee as the sun cooked the dew off the grass. I'm not saying this way of life is extinct, but it's like the dinosaurs right before the big meteor hit the Earth, it is on borrowed time. I have done my best to retain all that I could from those years of my life and perpetuate them in all that I do and say.

My Dad owned a general store, Cass Grocery, for 26 years. Of those 26, I worked there for 14. We were a full service gas station (one of the last in the county), grocery, hardware and feed supply store. We prided ourselves on service and treating every customer like they were special (you can define "special" however you want). I got to know hundreds of people, their families, and everything that I needed or did not need to know about them. We had wooden benches in front of the store and every morning, the men of Cassville would congregate with a cup of coffee and a biscuit and talk about everything from politics to property tax. It was like C-Span, except everybody wore Carhartts, camouflage, and smoked Marlboros. They probably didn't lie as much either. Everybody I grew up with says I have two educations, one in the schools and one from the store. I don't have a degree on the wall from Cass Grocery, but I sure as hell use it way more than calculus.

Let's see, I'm a sports fanatic. When you grow up in the middle of nowhere, there really isn't much else to do. My brother and I played any and all sports, except swimming (our pond had water moccasins, any Southerner knows to stay the hell away from them). In fact, we sold our four-wheeler to pour a half court in a pasture behind my house, complete with outdoor lighting. What self respecting ruralite sells his four-wheeler for a basketball court? This guy. I have a photographic memory, so sports statistics, movie quotes and top ten lists are like crack to me. I love to people watch, New York City (weird, right?)(instead of saving money for student loan payments, I use it to go to NYC three times a year and blow it out), a good steak, cocktails, Georgia football, live oaks with Spanish moss, Crossfit, and pretty much all music except for pop country and most rock since 2001. I hate unoriginal people, flavored coffee, Nextel phones, comedy movie sequels, red ink pens, public bathrooms and small appetizers. Most of what I write will touch on these subjects, complete with random Youtube videos.

So, thank y'all for reading and I hope you enjoy. Oh yeah, and I'm writing a book. This is a shameless plug, sorry. It's been two years in the making, but I am getting her ready for any and all who are willing to publish this bad boy.