Georgia Barbie Dolls

You read this title and think....what? Barbie dolls...clearly he's lost it. The West Coast done rurnt (has ruined) him.

Nah. When I was living in Alabama, I was emailed a hilarious list of Alabama Barbie Dolls and their descriptions. What the writer did was take a town or an area, use the reputation of the town to create a Barbie doll, complete with accessories and various versions of Ken. It made for hilarious reading and it made me think, we need a list for Georgia! How can we, the Empire State of the South, be behind Alabama in anything?

        **Joke:   You know how to tell if a raccoon is from Alabama?

         Answer:  It gnaws off three of its legs and its still caught in the trap.

Just kidding, my Alabama friends. You know I love y'all.

Anyhow, without further adieu, I give you my Georgia Barbie Dolls. If this list offends you, remember...it's a joke. Grow a pair.

1) Buckhead Barbie: This Barbie Doll is the most expensive doll on the rack. She comes complete with a a trust fund, a tennis skirt, a closet cocaine addiction, and a giant Chevrolet Suburban to haul her five kids to their private school and to soccer practice (no football, due to East Point Barbie's kids) Her husband, Kennington, comes with a popped collar Brooks Brothers polo, his midlife crisis Corvette, a girlfriend in Waleska, and a seedy arrest record from college that involved Barbie's ex best friend, Mitzi.

2) Cassville Barbie: This Barbie is modestly priced, due to the high volume of illegitimate children that come with her, and the fact she comes pregnant as well. She is equipped with a midriff, a meth addiction, a tattoo of her baby's names on her left thigh with a rose intertwined, and a Mustang with mismatched rims.She also has a black eye because her boyfriend, Kenny, came home from the lube shop and his fish sticks weren't heated enough in the microwave. Kenny comes with a six pack of Coors Banquet Beer, a Foreigner t-shirt with a pack of cigs rolled in the sleeve and skullet. (The Kenny became rare once Barbie got pregnant again)

3) Cartersville Barbie: This Barbie is nearly as expensive as the Buckhead Barbie, but only because this Barbie is trying to be Buckhead Barbie. It comes with a Chevrolet Tahoe, $40,000 of credit card debt, a condo in Gulf Shores, Alabama and a permanent reservation at Applebee's. Her husband, Kenton, has a Chevrolet 2500 Diesel, a lawn care business (with real estate license on the side) and if you pull the newly added string,  he says, "I was the sh*t in high school." These models are only sold in Cartersville, as they cannot actually leave the city limits.

4) Calhoun Barbie: Same description as Cartersville Barbie, except they are sold as far as Chattanooga, because that's where they go to party.

5) Virginia Highlands Barbie: This Barbie comes with a Toyota Prius with a Dave Matthews Band sticker, a cute little foreclosure house (that they got a great deal on) she just bought with Ken, and no kids, because they are waiting for their careers to take off. Ken comes with a laptop, a desk, a brand new Toyota 4-Runner (for which he traded his Accord with 380,000 miles, still had the frat letters on it too) and a newfound love for PBR. These models are sold in Starbucks and Barnes & Noble exclusively.

6) Southside/East Point Barbie: This Barbie comes with a dropped Honda Civic, a job at Hartsfield Airport (some models are being changed to Taco Bell though) and an Iphone attached to her ear at all times. Her boyfriend, Kendall, comes with an Escalade on 26's, a flat billed Cincinnati Reds hat and a probation violation. Ironically, this Barbie is modestly priced for the same reasons as Cassville Barbie, and Kendall's rarity can explained by Barbie's recent pregnancy. This model is sold below I-20 only.

7) Savannah/Augusta Barbie: Eerily similar to the Buckhead Barbie, this model comes with a BMW, a house on Tybee Island, a Red Hat Society membership and a an injured neck (from looking down her nose at the other Barbies). Kennington is also eerily similar, except he is Kennington III and his secret arrest occurred at Dingus Magee's in Statesboro, Georgia. (Luckily, his dad, Kennington, Jr. is a judge and got him out of it)

This list was brought to you by Natural Ice (5.9% alcohol, the highest before Georgia woke up, wooohooo) and Mellow Mushroom gluten free pizza, which I fully intend to annihilate this evening. Have a good one!

Eastbound and Down....or Sonoma is a place, not a truck

Well, I'm at the end of my West Coast jaunt and let me tell you, this has been a trip well worth it. Napa and Sonoma Valley are two of the most beautiful places on earth. Forget all you hear about the politics, the people and the plummeting property values, California is awesome, for the most part. Maybe I am saying this due to the perpetual buzz of wine tastings and the food coma that I put myself in every night, but everybody should come out here and see it for themselves. The redwood forests, the beautiful mountains and the perfectly planted grape fields make you glad to be alive.

Moonshining in a Range Rover

These people are really into wine. I mean, it's almost fanatical. Some of them are so in tune with grape tastes that they can tell what side of the valley they grew on just by sipping the wine. These people are characters to say the least, and I enjoyed talking to all of them. They were all very interested in moonshine running stories, so I was happy to oblige with all I knew about dispensing white lightning throughout our state. Pride, baby. Cassville would have been proud. I told them about the origins of NASCAR, what "revenuer" meant and how Prohibition was the greatest thing ever for many north Georgians. These winemakers love the stories of souped up Ford and Chevys, tearing down the highway, outrunning the police and the IRS and into legend. These were my ancestors and my heritage, and dang it, I'm proud of it. However, I did tell them that it would be hard for them to run liquor in their Range Rovers and be taken seriously.

"Run liquor?" one winemaker asked.

"Oh," I chuckled, "yeah, they would drive down to Atlanta from the mountains and sell it to rich people with speakeasies. The IRS wanted their cut of the sales, that's why they had to run it in the middle of the night or use a front." (My ancestors used a construction company as a front)

He thought that these people would come UP to the mountains and buy it, kind of like a wine tasting. I could see it now....a crowd of people in a tour bus pulls up in Rabun Gap, Georgia....

"Yes, I'll try your finest white, please. Oh honey, look at that cute copper still over there! Hey! What kind of shotgun is this?"

"Uh, they all fine and they all white. How many jars y'all want?"

It would deteriorate from there, a gun would be probably be drawn and all hell would break loose.

Hot Air Balloons and Mudbaths

Mark two things off the bucket list. I went to Calistoga, California and got in a giant wicker basket and floated 900 feet above the Valley, seeing the vineyards in a different, very cool perspective. The only thing that we were not prepared for was the fact that this basket held 14 people. I have noticed that any group of humans over 10 people is no better than a herd of cattle. In fact, I prefer cattle. All they do is eat, moo, and poop. Have you ever seen how long it takes to deboard a plane? It is pure madness. Hell, I bet a herd of cattle could be off that jetway in 20 seconds.

As with any guided tour, you have the normal group of people: the middle aged guy with a fanny pack who makes constant commentary and thinks he is funny, but he's not; the nervous women who make inocuous comments about the equipment failing; the dorks with their jackets tied around their waists; the hungover younger couple who could puke at any second; the sweet older couples who are too nice to tell everyone to shut up and of course, the foreigners who smell of stale cigarettes and chatter in their native tongue constantly with the cameras on autoshoot.  I was able to ignore all the commentary and the fanny packs and really enjoy it.

Then, it was mudbath time. Mubdbaths are not for the claustrophobic. You step into the warm mud and cover yourself in it and you really cannot move. Not to mention, it is 95 degrees in there. I had sweat running down my face and in my eyes. The point is to sweat out all the toxins in your body, which I did, along with my manhood. I basically laid there for twenty minutes and panicked until it was over. I even tried my Happy Gilmore happy place scenario (me at a Georgia football game where they hand the ball to Herschel every down, the Jumbotron plays Three Stooges episodes while I'm served filet mignon, pistachio ice cream and pecan divinity by my grandmothers) It didn't work. Plus, I was trying to justify this decision to the people back home...

"You paid to waller around in mud? Hell boy, you coulda done that for free down at Allatoona! Gene! C'mon over here and listen to what this fool did. Boy, I knew college would turn you into a liberal!"

Luckily, we were able to go to the "cool down" room, where I laid with a cold towel and cucumber slices over my eyes. What is the point of the cucumber? I don't know. I wish it had been pizza, because I would have scarfed it down as soon as they shut the door. This was probably my first and last mudbath.

I left my heart in San Francisco...and went back to get it

San Francisco was...random. You think the homeless problem in Atlanta is bad? If the homeless problem in Atlanta is a sprained ankle, then San Francisco is a torn ACL. They are everywhere and they are aggressive, I felt uncomfortable walking around in several areas. I went to Haight-Ashbury to see where the Summer of Love took place back in 1967. If you need a Grateful Dead t-shirt or if you want to smell what concentrated body odor/trash smells like, then Haight is your place. I was not impressed and I hate that, because I like the history of the area.

**Sidenote: if you wonder where marijuana is located in the city, just walk down Haight Street. I got more "Hey man, you need some green buds?" than "hellos." Or you could just settle for the secondhand high coming from every apartment on the street.

There were nice places, but I doubt that I will ever return to San Francisco on purpose.

So, it's "Eastbound and Down" for us, back to good ol' GA. (+1 for Smokey and the Bandit reference) Thanks to Wine Country, I can now say "Nice Cab!" without sarcastically referring to a busted yellow Crown Vic on Peachtree Street. I will truly miss the West Coast and I will definitely go back. Now, I just gotta get back to drinking without my pinky up......

Left Coast Musings from Yours Truly

Greetings from Wine Country! I'm currently surrounded by grapes, rolling hills, no humidity and some of the best food in the universe, so I've got that going for me, which is nice. (+1 for Caddyshack reference) People in Napa are extremely friendly and are really excited to have a Georgian in their midst. I've had more wine suggestions made to me than minutes Kris Humphries played last season in the NBA. (oh no he didn't!) I gnoshed on some barbeque at a place called The Bounty Hunter last night. It was excellent and I informed the cook that as a Southerner, I gave his ribs two thumbs up. It seemed to make his day. That was Dinner #2. I had Dinner #1 at a place called Horizons in Sausalito, California with some wonderful friends from Palo Alto. I had a cocktail called "The Sausalito Sling" and it was a tasty concoction that I enjoyed as I watched sailboat races going past Alcatraz Island across the Bay. It was fruity and non-masculine, but if I walked through life caring what other people thought, I'd be teaching typewriter maintenance at the Rocco Clubbo School for Women. (+1 for A Few Good Men reference)

I've spent the last 24 hours comparing Cassville and Napa. Needless to say, it's like comparing Bill Russell and Shaquille O'Neal, they have similarities but they would never be mistaken for each other. Take last night for example...here's a conversation I heard:

Wino #1: (with a glass of a Cab called "Ridge Runner" in hand) "We saw La Boheme at the theater in San Fran last week and it was excellent. Then we had dinner at French Laundry where we enjoyed the cous cous and mango salsa braised skirt steak. Unbelievable."

**Sidenote: "Ridge Runner" is an old nickname for Southerners, specifically the moonshine runners. It hit home. It really did. I almost stole a Trans Am and "got on it." I tried "Ridge Runner" and it was excellent, by the way.

Wino #2: "Oh yes, we are certainly going to see La Boheme. It's so inspiring."

See? That conversation would NOT have taken place at Cass Grocery. It would have been more like this...

Billy: "La what? Bo- heem? Hell, I think my brother got bit by one of them things in Vietnam."

Earl: "Yep. Mine too. His leg swelled up bigger than that new burrito down at Taco Bell. Y'all been down nair (there) yet? They only 99 cents and shooooey, they are goooood!"

Billy: "Mmmmmm-hmmmmm."

Those are the people I know and love.

Secondly, there would be no wine. At all. If we splurge, it's a PBR Tall Boy. Although I have noticed that PBR is making a comeback in the hipster neighborhoods in metropolitan areas. News flash! We've been downing PBR for years and we always knew it was good. Dad and I couldn't stock the shelves fast enough. A man named "Doc" used to come in the store and he would buy a case of PBR and four packs of Winstons EVERY SINGLE DAY. Doc weighed about 140 pounds soaking wet. I have no idea how that little man was able to drink so much, but he did. ("Doc" was doctor like Dr. Pepper was a doctor)

Lastly, and most importantly....there are no Waffle Houses here and Pepsi is more plentiful than Coca-Cola. There is something fundamentally wrong with this. It is my mission to infiltrate and immerse these Left Coast folks in the goodness that is scattered, smothered and covered hashbrowns. I mentioned it to one Napa native and he scoffed, "We have Burger King..." I looked to the sky and said, "Alright, Father, I'll ask him!" He ran. (+1 for Braveheart reference)

This adventure is far from over and so are the comparisons. I will keep y'all posted.

Keeping Up with the Jones...or Dwayne and Darryl

Cassville, as you all know by now, is an unincorporated area. For those of you who don't know what that means, it essentially means we are not a city with its own government. We fall under the auspices of the city of Cartersville, much to the sorrow of Cassville natives. We'd rather be tied to a place that is more our speed, like Kingston or White. You know, places that only have one blinking red light, all the cops are nicknamed "June Bug" or "Doc" and being out past 10:00 is late. Nope. We are stuck with Cartersville. According to the State of Georgia, we are recognized only for our historical significance and that is the only reason we are on the map. My friends from college, mostly suburban Atlantans, called my home "The Area." This is a good description. When you can sit down in the middle of the street for an hour and not get hit by a car or a wayward Bush Hog, you live in an "Area."

**Sidenote for the uneducated: A Bush Hog is like a giant lawnmower for pastures that is utilized by attaching it to the back of a tractor. It is an expensive piece of equipment. Several men in Cassville own a Bush Hog and this elevates them to a prominent status amongst the populace. You can often see them meandering down Cassville Road with their orange triangle stuck to their tractor seat. Also, "bushhogging" is an accepted verb in Cassville and the rural South, Merriam-Webster just doesn't know it yet. Further, do NOT ask to borrow anyone's Bush Hog, the answer is a resounding "no." Thanks! (this sidenote was brought to you by Natural Light, the beer of choice in Cassville, Georgia since 1986 - when Bartow County stopped being dry)

Speaking of prominent status, Cassville has an upper echelon that very few know about. I'm not talking about the subdivisions that were built during the 90's population boom. Nobody from Cassville recognizes these places and any mention of them brings out the same disgust as "Atlanter" (see earlier post). Unfortunately, my parents moved to one of these subdivisions after I went to college, so I had to endure wisecracks from the benches. "Ooooh, movin on up I see!" with the sarcastic tone. It was all good though, I would pay them back by telling everyone they drink decaffeinated coffee. (which was erroneous, as we NEVER kept decaf, ever.) No, the upper echelon did not populate the cul-de-sacs of the world. They lived out "in God's country," as they put it. Basically, the further out you lived, the better you were. There were several other requirements to be seen as prominent:

1) You must own a horse trailer. Hell, you don't even have to OWN a horse. You just gotta have the trailer. I swear I have never seen more empty horse trailers than on Cassville Road on a Saturday. All you have to do is get some hay, some dirt, and maybe a dung pile or two and spread it out in the floor. You'll be hearing  "he's got it made!" in no time. You also need a pair of Justin's, at least one pair of Wranglers (with a dip can ring) and be sure, for the love of Dale Earnhardt, to have a bridle laying in the passenger seat.

2) You must have a spare truck somewhere on your property to haul trash and/or drive around on a Sunday. A mid 90's Ford Ranger or S-10 with 300,000 miles will do. That way, you can make remarks like "I was gonna drive the 350 but hell, I figured I'd take the little truck out, ya know, just to keep her warmed up." You must also have, at a minimum, three four-wheelers. One of them must permanently reside in the back of one of your trucks. You gotta be ready, you never know when you'll get the call...."Meet us over at the power lines, Jody's drunk and gonna take his Daddy's 4x4 out muddin'!"

3) You must go to Panama and Gatlinburg once a year and stay for a week. No, I'm not talking about the country in Central America with the canal. I'm talking Panama By God City. However, you must leave off the word "city." That let's people know you've been there before and are experienced in the ways of the Redneck Riviera (kind of like how people say they are going to a "Dave" concert when referring to The Dave Matthews Band.) This way you can smugly say, "Hell, we was gonna go to Lake Weiss, but I told Momma we ought to just get us a timeshare down at Panama. That way she get her one of them Joe's Crab Shack shirts she wants."
Gatlinburg goes without saying. Take the whole family. Go to the countless rod runs and bike weeks. Go to Dollywood and get an airbrushed t-shirt with lightning and wolves howling over a canyon that says "Shane N' Tonya 2011." Nothing speaks higher of you than a purple unicorn flying over a moonlit lake with "Rebel Girl" in cursive under the collar. People will mutter, "I bet they ate at Longhorn's every night, you KNOW they got money."

**Optional: A trip to Cherokee, North Carolina is high on the list of the upper echelon. Since we are all 1/32 Cherokee anyway (as everyone in north Georgia claims to be), you are free to go up there and blow your hard earned money in the slot machines at a casino called "Lone Wolf" or some other name that invokes your native pride.

For those of us who cannot attain this status, we can only try our best to keep up. My advice....start out slow and don't get too carried away. Buy a small 10 foot trailer and drag it behind your truck and get the feel for it before you spend the dough. You don't want to look foolish pulling $8,000 worth of emptiness around the store. Take a short trip to Gatlinburg or maybe break yourself in by going to Maggie Valley, the minor league of mountain extravaganzas. Keeping up with the Dwaynes and Darryls can get dangerous and you don't want to overdo it. You could end up living in a trailer park with no airbrushed t-shirts and forced to take the kids to Lake Winnepesaukah.....and that just won't do.

Recap of the Weekend...or 0-2 feels like a massage with a Brillo Pad

I needed another day to recover from the exasperating loss in Athens this past Saturday. I have never seen Lady Luck turn her back on us so many times in one game. You cannot spot another SEC team 21 points off turnovers and expect to win. My Dawgs are 0-2 for the first time since 1996. (We lost to Carolina in our second game in 1996 too). Flashes of brilliance followed up with flatfootedness and carelessness. When they ran the fake punt, I actually aged ten years. So I'm 40 now. Twenty two more years and I'll be drawing Social Security. Judging by the way this Administration is going, my SSI money will be borrowed from Taiwan. Oh well, who cares? This weekend was about remembrance anyway. The tributes to the fallen UGA alumni were awesome, especially Noah Harris. Noah was a fraternity brother of mine from Ellijay and he was killed in Iraq in 2005. We used to eat lunch together in Snelling Dining Hall and he showed me the most awesome of snacks, apples with peanut butter. I still eat it today and I think of him every time. RIP brother, we all miss you.

This recap is brought to you by Jack Daniel's Tennessee Sippin' Whiskey, Bombay Dry Gin and Corona Light (watching the figure....sue me).

The tailgate was uneventful. Mostly due to the fact that we were late and North Campus has so many rules and regulations now, that it felt like a game between BYU and Liberty University. For those of you who don't know, BYU students are not allowed to even drink coffee, much less alcohol. I have nothing against this policy, but it just ain't for me. And Liberty....get real. If they say "dagnabbit" they are on the proverbial Number 7 train to Hell with John Rocker. As a sidebar, I saw John Rocker at a UGA game last year, looking like he just got out of a cardboard box under a bridge. (with all due respect to people who live in cardboard boxes under bridges) I remember reading his comments about New York and hoping that at the end of the article he would say, "Psyche! I love New York" or something like that. (Psyche was an awesome 90's saying that I wish would make a comeback.) Alas, he did not. Thank God he is from Georgia and pointed it out several times during that article. The writer had to be salivating like Pavlov's dogs as he listened to that drivel.

The coin flip was won by us and we deferred. Carolina comes out and instantly goes three and out, which was promising, considering how last week went. (We won the toss, proceeded to get three penalties, lose two yards and I ate my hat, puked it back up and ate it again, like a dog) Our offense trots onto the field and I pucker up tighter than a snare drum. I start sweating bullets as the O-Line breaks the huddle. If we have to endure another game plan like the one from Boise, I am going to lose it. No, really. I had it all planned out. I was going to take my shirt off, start doing "The Sprinkler" singing "Shawty Swing My Way" by KP and Envyi. As security whisked me away to jail, the commotion would inspire the offense to run the "Annexation of Puerto Rico" and Isiah Crowell would score untouched for a 7-0 lead. (+1 for Little Giants reference). These are the lengths I will go to for a Dawg win.

The game plan had changed. Bobo was calling the game like an old pro. We advanced the ball on Carolina at will...until we hit the red zone. We bogged down quicker than a Lane Kiffin recruiting trip in East Tennessee. We kick a dadgum field goal. (See? Even mentioning Liberty University makes you pious). They get the ball back and do nothing. We drive down and kick another DADGUM field goal (this piety ain't gonna last). The next two drives are a repeat, except Blair Walsh shanks a knuckleball and misses the damn field goal (whew, that's better). So, we have plowed through their defense only to be up by six. We are holding Lattimore down and flat outplaying them, but we are only up by six. In the Southeastern Conference, you cannot miss opportunities or your opponent will surely make you pay, and pay we did.

We scored touchdowns eventually. Crowell carried the ball 16 times for 118 yards and had two touchdowns. Murray threw some great passes and racked up yards and touchdowns. We scored 42 points...and lost. First was a Crowell fumble that was taken back to our five yard line (I aged five years there). Then a Murray interception that was taken to the house for a touchdown (five more). Finally, Murray was getting sacked and attempted some sort of throw/toss that was fumbled away and the Carolina DE rumbled into the end zone for the winning score (I aged ten years here, so actually I am 60 years old today. Dagnabbit.) Steven Garcia played through his hangover ( I don't know for sure that he did, I just assume it at this point), but he did not really have a great game. He seems to be more consistent when it comes to suspensions and moronic comments. Lattimore had 176 yards BUT never really damaged us until the 4th quarter, when he broke a forty yarder. It was our own mistakes that doomed us. We outplayed them all night. Everybody was making the same statements on the walk back to the car....."woulda, coulda, shoulda." I contemplated walking into oncoming traffic but I figured with our luck, I would get hit by a Honda Element. I would total it and come out uninjured and get sued.

This game may be the beginning of the end of the Richt era. The armchair quarterbacks are suiting up as we speak. Their hindsight is 20/20 and they seem to know everything we did wrong. I personally enjoy listening to middle age, borderline obese guys who couldn't jump over a credit card make comments about football. Support the team or get lost. Go pull for FSU or Tennessee or whoever you pulled for in the 90's. I'm not happy about these losses but I'm not bailing on the guys in the fourth quarter, muttering about how much I donate as I walk back to my car. For starters, I could not donate all that much because my student loans are too high. Secondly, I was so hungry that I couldn't talk. I almost dug through the trash to find a half eaten piece of fried chicken. Lastly, I seem to recall that UGA went 6-5 in 1979 with absolutely no hope of recovery. Dooley was on the hot seat and the program seemed to be on the decline. Then some kid from Wrightsville changed everything. College football is fickle and always has been. We will be back. Go Dawgs!

Super Wal-Mart: The Bane of Southern Existence

I despise Wal-Mart. I mean, seriously, I freaking hate Wal-Mart. There are so many reasons, so many instances, so many times that I have walked out of there with just a little less faith in the human race just because I was there. Unfortunately, the Waltons targeted small Southern towns when they decided to construct these temples to hickdom, these bastions of "omg, that 400 pound chick has on a midriff" and kids with permanent Kool-Aid moustaches with full diapers. Our county was not spared by this epidemic and in the early 1990's, they planted a Super Wal-Mart right beside Highway 20 in Cartersville, four miles from our store.

I tried my best to NEVER go in there. There was just something wrong about someone like me intentionally walking through those doors. I thought of all the mom n' pop stores all across the South that were out of business because of Wal-Mart. All the hardware stores, pharmacies, gas stations, craft stores, and clothing stores that were boarded up in the town square because Wally World priced them into the unemployment line. In Northwest Georgia, so many downtown areas are desolate and are simply a black hole for any business because of places like Wal-Mart. Luckily, we were far enough away and provided such a unique service, that Wal-Mart never really threatened our existence. Stick it up your ass, Sam Walton. If I had a DeLorean, a flux capacitor and Mike Tyson, I would go back in time and have him reenact his knockout of Carl "The Truth" Williams.

I remember the last time I was in Wal-Mart. It was 1:00 AM and I had a leak in my bathroom and there was NOBODY open. No, I checked. I called places twelve to fifteen miles away, just so I would not have to face the inconceivable notion that I might have to spend money with them. No luck. So, I piled into my car, covered my entire body with hand sanitizer, said three Hail Marys (but I ain't Catholic) and made the trek. As I meandered down I-75, I glanced in my rearview and saw my own reflection. I shook my head and said "Judas Iscariot Stephens." I felt like a traitor.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I could not help but notice the 1,278 random shopping carts strewn all about the parking lot. Some were upside down. Some were rammed into each other.  Others were nestled against vehicles. I notice this at every Wal-Mart parking lot I ever pass by. They even have those motorized carriers that push the carts back to the store for them, but it does not seem to matter. I park about six miles from the front door so my car does not get T-Boned by a stray cart. I navigate through the carts, the trash, 235 oil puddles and two beggars wondering the parking lot who simultaneously ran out of gas and needed a couple of bucks. As I approach the front door, I notice the cart boys standing around, smoking and talking about their new barbed wire tattoo that has their new baby's name intertwined in it. "Oh great, you procreated," I thought.

I walk by the arcade area, which is full of kids, at 1 AM. One child, who couldn't have been more than ten years old was feeding the crane machine like Rosie O'Donnell at a Krispy Kreme happy hour. Every time the crane would drop the prize, the kid would blaspheme, and then feed it another quarter. Hope springs eternal at this Wal-Mart. I pass by a woman, who field dressed at 375 lbs (in a midriff no less), with a cart full of Orange Fanta, potato chips and Chips Ahoy cookies. One guy sneezed all over the apples in the produce section, three employees went on break and lit up cigarettes before they got out the door and the greeter, obviously doing her best Ben Stein impression, says "Good Evening, welcome to Wal-Mart." Thank God they pay her.

I get to the hardware section. I need a toilet repair kit, which is a very obvious, very common piece of plumbing equipment. The employee assigned to this particular area saw me, rolled her eyes, hung up her cell phone, and walked over to me. I use "walk" very loosely here. It was more of a slither/shuffle (sliffle). She looked half dead. She somehow mustered a "Kin ah hep you?" I wanted to say, "No, actually you can't. You need to go buy some floaties because you are drowning in the shallow end of the gene pool." What good would it have done? "I don't know nobody named Gene Poole" is what she probably would have said. I told her I needed a toilet repair kit. "Uh whuuuut?" was the reply. The waves of the gene pool are splashing against my legs now. She "sliffles" over to the little red phone and calls a manager.

The manager was probably about 20 years old. He was holding his pants up with his left hand as he walked toward me. He has a neck tattoo. Nothing says "I don't give a damn about a career" like a neck tattoo, unless your into MMA. He is equally clueless. He takes me to the plumbing aisle, which is a plus. "It's probly in nair somewhar" he mutters as he retreats back to his post. An unattended six year old darts by us with a fishing rod in hand chased by another child riding one of the bikes he took off the rack. I peruse the shelves until I find what I need and hustle to the cashier lines.

There are 47 cashier stations. There are 12 self checkouts. Only two registers are open, so I am in line, at 1:15 AM. Of course, I get behind the typical future Harvard honor graduates:

1) The overweight woman in house shoes and a tanktop, cart overflowing with three kids who pick up every piece of candy on the racks, and Momma smacks their hands EVERY time and says, "Cody! Shane! Y'all quit that before I whup y'alls butt!";

2) The old man who writes a paper check for $4.37 and does not pull out the checkbook and start writing until the cashier has already told him the price;

3) Two teenagers out too late, talking and texting on their Iphone without hesitation, using a debit card to pay for a Kit Kat. Of course, it gets denied three times before a manager gets called.

I survey the landscape for a way out. All register lights are off. Tumbleweed blows across the way and I see the imps from the ice cream cooler at the store. They are doing the "Cabbage Patch" over in layaway, pointing and laughing. After twenty minutes, it's finally my turn. The extremely friendly cashier (with three apostrophes in her name), who frowned so hard that I thought her lower jaw would come off, whipped the box across the scanner, $10.13. I hand her a twenty dollar bill. She inputs the information and the register makes an odd noise. It cannot calculate the amount of change that is due. You should have seen the look of panic on her face. Miss America's brain throws a rod right then and there. Another manager call. "It's $9.87" I say quickly. This does nothing for Miss America. When the debacle finally gets sorted out, it's 1:45 AM. I fixed the toilet in four minutes and went to bed.

Every experience I had in a Wal-Mart was similar to that one. This is the business that killed off the little man? People who knew your name, knew your whole family, cared about your opinion of their service, and greeted you with a smile....replaced by the cess pool of Southern humanity and hospitality. As for me, I'm never going back to Wal-Mart. I'm letting the toilet leak next time and I'll wait for Mom n' Pop to open up.

A Recap of the Weekend aka 0-1 feels like strep throat on your 21st Birthday

After rehashing the abomination that was the UGA-Boise State game, I am now able to recant some of the weekend's events in a more clear light. I needed 48 hours to boil over, explode, cool off, have some comfort food (large Papa John's, giant Steak n Shake milkshake), watch other teams who sucked worse and then listen to the call-in show with Coach Richt. What an informative uplifter that was. Coachspeak, "we need to execute better," coachspeak, "scheme was off," coachspeak. I turned it off after some hick from Warner Robins said "irregardless" for the third time in one sentence. I could not take it anymore.

So, in order to feel better, I need to point out some things that happened over the weekend that were good and/or funny, cause Labor Day hasn't been this laborious since 1996, when we lost to Southern Miss 11-7 at home in Jim Donnan's first game. Some guy named Favre made our defense look like hell all game and I wondered if he'd ever make it to the NFL. Now, I wonder if he'll ever make like a tree and get the hell out, but I digress. (+1 for Back to The Future reference) This rehashing will pick me up at 6 AM Saturday morning, when I arose ready to meet the Boise Taterheads for the first time....

6:00 AM:     Ding, Ding, Ding. Nope, it's not the alarm. It's the dream I just had. I was an MMA fighter and I was squaring off against LeGarrette Blount (the guy who coldcocked the Boise player last year after they beat Oregon). The bell had just rung and LeGarrette waddled toward me like a duck, so I laughed at him. Then his right hook got my jaw and the guest referee, Greg "The Hammer" Valentine, counted me out in four seconds. Time to hit Starbucks.

6:25 AM: I write a poem about GameDay as I down 24 ounces of rocket fuel. I already have my Georgia gear on. Another customer approaches me, "do the Bulldogs have a game today?" I cut my eyes at him in disbelief. An angel appears on my shoulder, "no, no, no, be nice!" On cue, the devil appears, "destroy this idiot, now." The devil says "you homo!" and disappears. (+1 for Animal House reference) I was in too good of a mood so I informed the man that we did indeed have a game today. He was wearing a fanny pack and black tennis shoes with black socks, so I was pretty sure that this guy probably played Magic: The Gathering and cared more about goblins and orcs than yards per carry.

6:45 AM: I venture to the Waffle House, which is full of Dawg fans. Aaaaaaah, my people. (+1 for Varsity Blues reference) I proceed to inhale an omelet, grits, hash browns, three tomato slices and four glasses of water. The jukebox is blaring and "Ramblin Man" is the choice. It's gonna be a good day. Then "Sexual Healing" comes on...

8:30 AM: I try to find a Planet Smoothie store because I'm still hungry. They are all out of business. I guess the health craze finally did them in too, since most of the smoothies contained about 300 grams of sugar. I guess my "Mediterreanean Monster" craving will have to wait. It's already 87 degrees at this point.

10:00 AM: I'm back at home, watching ESPN and catching up on high school scores. My nerves are already getting frayed because I see Lee Corso pointing with his pen and telling the country that Oklahoma IS the team to beat right now. Even if they've laid an egg in every BCS game they've played since 2001. I think back to the 2005 championship when USC absolutely destroyed them. I don't care if they gave Reggie Bush half of Los Angeles, that was an ambush unlike I've ever seen.

11:00 AM: It's time to get to Atlanta. Vinny and I haul down I-75, listening to Munson highlights and every hardcore rap song that exists on his Ipod. There's nothing like Ice Cube's "You Know How We Do It" on a Saturday morning. I find a Smoothie King on West Paces Ferry. At first, they wouldn't let me in because I didn't drive a Land Rover or attend a private school. So, I told them that my great, great uncle had the biggest house in White, Georgia. That seemed to pique their interest. Couple that with Vinny's Bimmer and I was in like Flynn. 950 calories of bliss.

12:30 PM: After navigating through traffic and the DragonCon crowd, we finally get to our parking space. DragonCon is something everyone should see. The best was the 400 LB Princess Leia, complete with the rolled up hair and white gown. Thank God she didn't wear the bronze bikini from Return of the Jedi, or I would have lost my smoothie in Vinny's car. If Tech people were wondering why their game did not sell out, look no further. All your fans were dressed as Storm Troopers, dwarves, and Hobbits I think.

1:15 PM: The tailgate is set up. I pour my first drink. It's about 137 degrees on the asphalt, so the ice melts before I'm done stirring. A hot breeze blows. Vaughan pulls out his brand new Coleman camping fan and puts in three "D" batteries. It does about six rotations and dies on the spot. Three people from Boise fall out in the parking lot and become french fries.

2:30 PM: We are busy laughing at Auburn's terrible performance against Utah State and sweating like Patrick Ewing in 3rd overtime at Madison Square Garden and the AC just went out. That dude could sweat more than anyone I've ever seen. We get in Vinny's car and get some air. Bystanders laugh as they see us turning inside the car, holding our shirts and shorts up so the air can cover all areas. The guys playing beer pong across the way are getting too drunk for their own good. They were probably born in 1992 from the looks of them. I suddenly feel old.
\
4:00 PM: Auburn pulls through and wins. I get a call from a friend in Alabama, "those are the luckiest SOBs on the planet!" A Boise fan walks by with black socks, black shoes and a fanny pack. He pulls out an asthma inhaler and uses it. The beer pong players tell him to go back to Dragoncon. We are going to win, I can feel it. I'm hungry again, so I crack three eggs and fry them on the asphalt with a medium rare steak. Three tents catch on fire.

7:00 PM: Walking to the game, roadie in hand. UGA fans that have been drinking all day = destruction of property. Today is no different. The yellow lot of the Georgia Dome parking complex looks like God took a giant weedeater and disintegrated 20,000 cases of beer and 10,000 bags of chips all over it. State pride, baby!

8:00 PM: Herschel Walker is the honorary captain for us. Boise's guy is a nobody. He looks like he just got out of bed after an all night bender in Idaho's undoubtedly wild bar scene. It's in the bag. Herschel fires up the crowd and puts the Boise guy in a rear naked choke and kills him. Just kidding, but it would have been funny/tragic. We win the toss and elect to receive. It's the only call we made all night that worked.

8:30-11:30: A hodgepodge of penalties, one yard draw plays, isolation fade routes to a 5'11 receiver, drops by our #1 receiver and our defense being asked to defend 40 yards of turf every time because our offense is more predictable than OJ's second trial. During the game, I contemplated several things: 1) Going to Dragoncon as Han Solo frozen in carbonite; 2) drowning myself in a urinal; 3) working the concession stand with the extremely friendly and helpful Georgia Dome staff (NOT); 4) Looking up the upcoming hockey schedule on the Iphone;  and 5) buying a fanny pack and black shoes and socks. Terrible game.

The rest of the weekend:

• Oregon got "quacked" by hitmen from Louisiana. I guess guys with dreadlocks from Slidell, Louisiana don't really seem to care about suspensions when their defense is that stout. Seriously, #3? Oregon? Good work, Tigers.
• Maryland singlehandedly won the ugliest uniform contest and it wasn't even close. This was like McGovern vs. Nixon in '72. It looked like somebody took the Maryland state flag and red carpet and told a classroom of six year olds to make a uniform.
• Steve Spurrier is a genius. Sit your starting QB, spot East Carolina seventeen points and then come from behind to blow them out. Half of their fans probably died from a heart attack in the first quarter, so maybe they won't be in Athens this Saturday.
• Skip Holtz is a quote machine. When asked about beating Notre Dame in South Bend, he replies, "we didn't come up here with cameras." That's some serious cahonies. (Ahem, UGA coaches) Good work, USF.
• Camden County, Georgia defeated Glennville, Ohio in a 23-14 grudge match in Cleveland. It's always fun to listen to Robert Smith and Kirk Herbstreit make excuses as Ohio's best team gets mollywhopped in their own backyard by a bunch of swamp people from Georgia, running the Wing-T like it's 1986.

Finally, I realized something else. Ten years ago today, a group of Middle Eastern men were planning to do the unspeakable to us. They were getting their final plans together, plotting and waiting for their big day. Their premeditation was going on as we all carried on with our lives like everything was OK. Little did we know....

I was in Park Hall, Dr. Poss's 10:10-11:00 Classic Literature class, learning about the Aeneid when it happened. I was wearing a red polo shirt, shorts and a white UGA hat with a frayed bill.

Football is one thing and I will forget this loss. I will never forget that day. God bless us.

Poem for GameDay (written in haste and with the assistance of Starbucks)

Today, we tee it up in the Dome,
Not far from our Athens home,
The boys in red and black,
Versus the boys in blue and their passing attack

They are number 5 in the nation,
They of Statue of Liberty trickeration,
We are number 19 and being second guessed,
We are no longer among the SEC's best.

Change was the buzzword for our Commander in Chief,
Well, today is our day to turn over that new leaf,
We are going back to the days of old,
The Dawgs are smelling blood, this season's story shall quickly unfold.

Our pride is on the line, and the nation will witness,
a new breed of Dawg hungry and relentless,
So, duck and cover, and run for your lives, if you might,
Cause we are busting Bronco heads come Saturday night.

Go Dawgs.

5 Ways to Know Somebody is from Cassville (or any other small Southern town)

1)  People Known for their Vehicles

I cannot count how many times this conversation took place at the store:

Customer #1 (Gene): Hey, Earl, I was at Taylor's the other day and I saw Johnny, he told me to tell you hey"

Customer #2 (Earl): "Johnny?"

Gene: "Yeah, you know Johnny, drives for Millis Trucking, lives up in Pine Log."

Earl: "Hmmmm, I can't call it. What does he drive?"

Gene: "That red Chevy 4x4, you know, the one with the wooden running boards and rebuilt 383 in it!"

Earl: "Oh yeah! Johnny! That son a gun don't play around, he quit school on account of recess!"

Then the conversation turns to Johnny's truck and how he could make it sound, run, and look better. Literally, people would not remember a man's name, but you mention his vehicle and the lightbulb comes on. If said person pulled up at the store, other men would go out to his truck and they would pop the hood. Then they would spend the next 20 minutes analyzing the various workings of the truck and discussing past repairs they've all made on their trucks. Groundbreaking stuff.

2) The Two Fingered Wave

You thought I meant two bird fingers, didn't you? Nope, those are reserved for your closest friends. Trust me, I have never waved at some people a day in my life, all they get from me is two birds. It's a sign of affection in Cassville. The "two fingered" wave is the Cassville way of saying hello as you pass one another on a two lane road. Since we all know each other by vehicle, it was pretty simple actually. When you got within 20-30 yards of the approaching car, you lift your index and middle finger off the steering wheel for at least 3-4 seconds. That was essentially saying, in this generation's terms, "what up, dog?" Non return of the two fingered wave would get you a tongue lashing on the benches at the store.

"Hell, I waved at Bobby yesterday, and that sumbitch just went on by me like I was his mother in law."

"Awww, you know he is getting stuck up lately. He just bought a brand new Dodge Ram, he a big shot now!"

3) Going to Atlanta/Atlanter

Whenever somebody had to go to Atlanta, it was a big deal. From the way they talked about it, you would think Atlanta was light years away, the people spoke in Sanskrit, and robbery was an occupation rather than a crime.

Roy: (with a hint of exasperation, like you've just been told you have a venereal disease): "Shooo, me and Pearl's goin' to Atlanter this weekend. Her cousin's sister's little girl is in a cheerleading thing down there. Boy, am I dreadin' it. Different world down nair (there)."

Delmas (with understanding compassion in his voice): "Damn, Roy, y'all better pack some heat. Leave the girls in the hotel after 6 PM, they'll knife ya down there."

If you are older than 60, you must say "Atlanter." You also have to include a disappointed inflection in your voice (like your car just got keyed, Dixie Speedway is closed for repairs or Natural Light went back to regular price). The "er" emphasizes your elder status in Cassville and shows your lifelong disdain for our state's capital. Those of us under 60 had to pronounce the word in full but we had to be sure we kept the inflection, because the older crowd could accuse you of actually liking Atlanta. That's how rumors start.

4) Work Caps

Many of the men in Cassville had jobs that required no desk. Most of them worked outside, in construction, landscaping, grading, you name it. Rather than a suit and tie, these men work t-shirts, flannel shirts, jeans and boots to the job. Since they spent so much time in the sun, most of them also wore hats. However, 99% of the men called them "caps." My Dad says "cap." Billy says "cap." It's just the way it is. Also, these men do NOT mix caps they wear at home with caps they wear at work. If they came in after 5:00, they would always be wearing a different, cleaner cap. It may even be the SAME cap, but they use one for work and one for home. These caps also had to be a certain style: sits tall on the head, advertise some sort of equipment, construction company, or race driver, and for the love of all that is holy, do not bend the bill. That is a sure sign you are not from Cassville. You got a black, mesh back, Caterpillar cap and a green John Deere cap? You are golden. Oh, and as far as race drivers go, NO Jeff Gordon. That's social suicide in the 30123.

5) Trips to the Emergency Room

People in small towns, Cassville included, LOVE to go to the emergency room. They live for it. They cannot wait to slice their finger off, smash it with a hammer, or develop some sort of unearthly sickness that requires an ambulance ride down to the hospital. You also need to have every single family member descend upon the waiting room like their are giving away free Travis Tritt tickets. Not just your immediate family either..... cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, nephews, nieces, everybody. They all have to sit around forlornly for hours and hours, take the day off work, and at least 3/4 of them have to smoke. This causes them to go outside and light up, which fulfills another requirement. They are able to intercept any and all people who may know you and they tell your harrowing ambulance ride story and what the doctors are saying about your chances of survival.

When you finally get out, you must come into the store with your hospital bracelet still on your wrist. This fulfills yet another requirement. Somebody, without fail, will ask, "what the hell happened to you?" The story is then repeated, with every sordid detail just a little more embellished than last time. It was like the guy caught a giant fish that got bigger and bigger every minute, except he laid in a bed that cost him $1,500 and had to pay for $120 worth of medication for bronchitis. Honestly, it was maddening to listen to these hospital stories, over and over. Sometimes, I would say, "Good Lord, how many damn times do we get to hear this?" The person would get angry and say something like, "who do you think you are?"

I'm the guy who does his job, you must be the other guy. (+1 for The Departed reference) God bless us.

The Blinking Four Way Stop...God Help Us

For years, Cassville had absolutely no traffic lights. None. In fact, the road I grew up on was not fully paved until I was in 10th grade. We had that bootleg gravel, sakrete and dirt mix for years, rendering car washes useless and causing some nasty scrapes when Matt and I would fly downhil on our bikes, shooting down imaginary Migs and "breaking hard left." (+1 for Top Gun reference). I'm not sure who I was, Maverick or Ice Man, but I loved to say "the plaque for the alternates is in the ladies room" after blowing Russians out the sky. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them crash and burn in Two Run Creek, and then celebrating with a milkshake at Neen's....aaaahh memories.

The road that ran in front of the store, Cassville Road, was paved with actual asphalt. It may have had a thousand potholes, but the citizens living on its frontage enjoyed the perks of pavement. One of the perks of pavement is the speed that you can drive. This stretch of road was like a race track to be honest. The speed limit was 35 miles per hour, but it was hardly acknowledged. There were no stop signs, no traffic, no yields,  and no police officers, so Cassville natives could travel at warp speed at all times. There were good reasons to be in a hurry up there. You did NOT want to miss the Evening Cash 3 drawing, did you? I think not! There was one sign close to the store indicating that a sharp curve was ahead (which it was), but it did not seem to slow anyone down. Further, somebody spraypainted "No Mercey" on the sign in 1994, so I guess the artist was telling us to put the hammer down. When I left Cassville for Athens in 1999, that sign was still there, a glowing sentiment to the local education system.

For years, the hammer stayed down. Guys in Camaros, fresh off the racks and the removal of the muffler, would fly by the store. For those who are unaware, taking the muffler off made the car louder, plus it's cheaper than Flowmasters. The T-Tops removed, the IROC-Z lettering glistening in the sun, mullet flying like a flag in the wind, Foreigner and /or Journey blaring out of the Kenwood...nothing punctuates going 75 in a 35 like "Hot Blooded" or "Only the Young." Many guys would slide the transmission in neutral as they passed us, and rev their engine, and shift back into drive as they passed the parking lot. This was a Cassville man's way of saying, "what it is, jive turkey?!" We would always throw up our hands and yell at them. We didn't care that they drove like a bat out of hell, it burned gas faster so they would come back up there and buy it from us.

In the early 2000's, I guess the county had received enough complaints about the speed on Cassville Road to do something about it. Contrary to my personal opinion, no "death quota" had been reached. I've always felt that the DOT waits until 2-3 tragic accidents occur before traffic control is considered. However, as fast as people traveled on Cassville Road, I do not remember any serious accidents happening. I remember one man got his bumper knocked off turning left off Cass-White Road and the bumper skidded down the road, past me with sparks flying, and into the fence next to the store. The guys on the benches went crazy. I think one of them took it home. There was only one wreckI really recall and it did not result from speed. One morning, at about 6:30 AM, I was pumping gas and I was half asleep, when a van pulled up at the stop sign where Cass-White Road intersects Cassville Road. The windows were rolled down and there were two people arguing in the van. A very skinny man and a not so skinny woman tucked into this brown Chevy van that was about 37 different shades of brown. Apparently, he had come home a little late the night before, and could not explain his whereabouts. "Who was she?! You tell that whore anytime she wants some, she knows whar (where) to find me!" exclaimed the woman. As he was turning right, he called the woman a four letter word that shall not be repeated here. I see the woman's elbow come out of the open window, as she cocked back and hit him with a right jab. He lost control of the van and smashed into a telephone pole. The woman got out (barefoot and only wearing a long "Gatlinburg 1984" t-shirt of course) and dragged him out of the van, punching and kicking. I was about twenty yards away, watching aghast, along with about ten other men. We all skipped coffee that day, because we were wide awake after that.

Anyhow, that particular intersection was the focus of the DOT and the new traffic control device. Since there was already a stop sign on Cass-White and Jo-Ree Road (which both intersected Cassville Road directly across from one another), they decided to affix two new shiny red octagons on Cassville Road, making it a four way stop. Just for good measure, they also added a blinking red light. This process took about 3 weeks to complete and it was all the rage in Cassville. "There's our damn tax money at work!" exclaimed the men on the benches. They too noticed that it required 17 men to put a stop sign in the ground and at least 47 to get that red light up. I think between them all, those workers smoked 13,278 cigarettes, took 327 breaks and made 2,908 Nextel calls during that time. Money well spent.

This new addition was unveiled and it did not take long for the problems to arise. There were more wrecks in two weeks than we had seen in 15 years up there. People running the stop signs, rearending each other, and misunderstanding what the blinking lights meant. One stop sign was hit by a woman backing out of the parking lot at the store, shattering her back glass and bending the stop sign to a 90 degree angle. All of this could have been prevented if they had just left us to our own devices.

I remember one day after the four way stop was installed, I was standing out front with Billy, one of our oldest and most loyal customers. Billy had been in Cassville for the majority of his 76 years and had seen it all. He came up there every day and would hang around for hours, keeping us entertained and just generally overseeing everything, "the mayor of Cassville" is what people called him. This particular day, Billy and I were watching the cars go by, talking about the Braves and how last night's game turned out. (Billy had a love/hate relationship with them and we bet on every game. If the Braves won, he bought me a Mountain Dew. If they lost, I had to buy him a pack of hot peanuts) I notice Billy looking at the four way stop very intently and I could see his wheels turning. Billy chewed tobacco constantly and he was just standing there, working the wad in his mouth and looking at the "traffic." At the stop, there were a total of five cars waiting their turn to go, with maybe twelve people total sitting in them. Billy gets this disgusted look on his face, shakes his head and spits on the ground. He wipes his mouth, looks at me with his squinty eyes and says, "Gotdam, where'd all these f****** people come from?"

I don't know, Billy. I truly don't know. The urban sprawl shows us "No Mercey." God bless us.