Eighteen years ago next Sunday, Karen and I got married. In Knoxville, Tenn.

I’ve written about this before, sort of, here. That post details how we found a good restaurant for after the vows. (We got married in a small chapel in a part of Knoxville called Old City. It was just us, the preacher and a couple of witnesses at the ceremony.

But I haven’t written about why we chose Knoxville or that particular day to get married (or at least I don’t think I have – I’ve written somewhere in the neighborhood of 140 posts, and I don’t remember them all. I went back through a few of them today to see if I’d written this one before and I couldn’t find any evidence.

So here goes …

I’d asked Karen to marry me some months before. OK, I’d asked her in February. OK, it was a Saturday night. Actually it was Sunday morning, just a few minutes after midnight. OK, it was Valentine’s Day. Call me a sentimentalist. I’ll plead guilty.

She said yes, but we didn’t set a date or anything (we’d been living together for several months). And we didn’t tell anybody.

Time marches on, and we moved to Gastonia a little later, where I worked at the newspaper and she worked at the hospital. Sometime later that year, I’m thinking it was in September, Karen’s car broke down one Sunday afternoon on our way back to the Hellmouth of Weird from Charlotte. A very nice guy with a couple of teeth who enjoyed the dirt-track races in Clover, S.C., stopped to help us and gave us a ride back to G-town. We found out the car was basically not going to be repairable, so we went to a local dealer to buy a used one. No problem, we found one that served us well for a long time.

But when we went to insure it, Karen’s insurance company – which was cheaper and better than mine – told us we had to be married by the end of November (we were buying the car together). No problem, we thought, we’re planning to get married anyway.

Of course, as it often does, life gets in the way.

I can’t remember exactly how long after that it was, but Karen’s mom came from Pennsylvania to spend her week at the condo she owned in Gatlinburg. We were planning to go spend the weekend with her there with Mimi and her friend, Lovey. While there, we decided to go to Dollywood. Now, Karen’s mom had had a heart attack some time earlier, but she on the whole was doing well. We thought.

Because after a long but thoroughly enjoyable day at Dollywood, we went out to eat in Pigeon Forge. And sure enough, Mimi started feeling poorly. By the time we left, I had to call 9-1-1 for the first time in my life and get an ambulance. They took her to a small medical clinic there and immediately shipped her to Knoxville, the site of the nearest large hospital, where she was to have bypass surgery the next day.

So we set up camp in Knoxville for a week or so, and a few weekends after that, while she recuperated. Strange as it may sound, we grew to really like the city and we soon decided that’s where we’d get married.

Because, remember, the insurance company clock was ticking.

They finally let her out, and we drove her back to G-town to stay with us awhile as she continued to recuperate.

But it wasn’t to be that simple. Something strange, it turns out, often happens with heart-bypass patients. They can develop a chemical imbalance and get severely depressed, and that’s what happened to Mimi. She just completely shut down and became unresponsive. So on another Sunday morning, I called 9-1-1 again.

She wound up spending some time in the hospital where Karen worked. But once the medicine kicked in, she was fine, almost immediately. But it’s mid-November now and the clock is really ticking down. Because we really couldn’t leave town while she was there, and we didn’t want to get married in G-town (way too much potential for bad karma). But then Karen’s sister came down and flew back with Mimi to Pennsylvania.

Which left us about a week or so to get married. Luckily, it was Thanksgiving week, which meant we had some time off. So we went to Knoxville to get the license and then back for the wedding that Saturday. We stayed in a great BandB, had a wonderful ceremony, a great meal and have had a great life.

Of course, I guess that was pretty much – wait for it – insured.

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. – Aristotle

The recent allegations of sexual abuse by former Penn State defensive coach Jerry Sandusky have taken me back to another time and place: my days as a graduate student and teaching assistant at Penn State, and the memories of sharing Penn State football with my dad.

Growing up in Central Pennsylvania, Penn State was our team. Sure, we’d root for the Steelers in the Super Bowl, but talk always surrounded what was going on with our boys in the nameless blue-and-white jerseys. And the game of the week was always on – sometimes the radio, occasionally television (a rare thing since there were only 10 channels back then and no ESPN).

My dad was a shipping clerk, so we didn’t have the privilege of snagging some tickets for Beaver Stadium and taking a 1.5-hour road trip to State College. Our relationship with Penn State was purely long-distance. But the team from Happy Valley was one of the things that made my dad truly happy, and one of the few ways we could connect.

When it came time for college, I wasn’t interested in going to Penn State. It was too big for me, coming from a high school class of just 180. And my friend Jenny was going there. So I picked a smaller state school down the road, Bloomsburg University – but my team was still Penn State.

During college, I changed my major to communications and became involved in intercollegiate public speaking (forensics). This opened doors to a paid graduate education, coaching the speech team and teaching public speaking. I applied and was accepted to three great schools, but the best offer came from the closest one – my old friend, Penn State.

That was in 1983 – the year after Penn State had won the national football championship. My dad was genuinely excited – my kid is going to Penn State, and hey, did you know she’s a teacher there, too? You would have thought I was coaching football, not public speaking (although the two years I was there, the football team was “rebuilding” and won another national championship in 1986, the year after I left).

During the next two years, my dad and I exchanged calls frequently about the football players in my classes (genuinely decent guys and excellent students), the upcoming game of the week (I froze my butt in 50-yard line seats for $12 each as a graduate student), and my one and only conversation with JoePa himself, as just he and I passed on a downtown street (Hi Joe, how are you doing today?) We even drove past Beaver Stadium a couple of times during campus visits.

In his later years, Dad had a Saturday night ritual. He would “clean up”, don his favorite blue blazer, white shirt, grey pants and red tie, and hang out at the nearby Ramada Inn. His favorite game was to go there on the night of a home Penn State game, and pretend he was a visiting color commentator for ABC Sports. I’m not sure how many people believed him, but he sure had fun telling stories.

Even after I left Penn State in 1985, Dad would still call me to talk about Gary Brown, a Penn State running back (1987-1990) from our hometown of Williamsport. Dad died in 1989, so he never knew that Gary went on to play in the NFL for eight years, and later coach. He would have liked that.

I’ve only been back to Penn State once since graduate school. I probably wouldn’t recognize the campus today – or Beaver Stadium – which is now twice the size it was when I went there. But my memories of the school, and the team I shared with my dad, have remained strong. More than once, I’ve had an employer acknowledge the value of my Penn State education. And even though I live in ACC sports country now, I still proudly declare my love of Penn State during football season.

I don’t know if Joe Paterno failed to do the right thing by not doing more regarding Sandusky. Many times, someone in his position (and of his age) is often protected from ugly by the people who surround him. Maybe his judgment was clouded, or his faculties were beginning to fail (he was 75 at the time). Maybe he should have retired a few years ago, before he started to embarrass himself in other small ways. If he was negligent on this one, he doesn’t deserve a pass. But if he honestly didn’t know exactly what happened in the locker room – or he felt like he was following procedure, then I’m genuinely sorry for him.

I’m just sad that an excellent educational institution and what I knew to be an outstanding football program has been tarnished forever by this horrible situation and a few individuals in power positions who made some very bad decisions.

My dad would surely have something to say about this. And he’d call me up to talk about it. If he still could.

The title of today’s post is from one of my favorite Cowboy Junkies song, which is really a series of kinda random reflections on a particular day: “Thinking of things that don’t have to add up to something,” as Margo sings it.

So that’s what I’m going to do today, my last day at home before beginning a contract copyediting job at Red Ventures here in the Greater Indian Trail metro area (actually, it’s technically in Fort Mill, S.C.). I’m looking forward to it, but it means my blogging will be limited to nights and weekends, so it might be awhile before I post again. Or not – you never know.

Sun Comes Up, It’s Friday Morning … and I still hate using microwave ovens.

OK, I do use them when I have to. They’re OK for heating leftover pasta or soup or chili or stuff like that. But warm a steak in the microwave? You might as well eat leather. Chicken? You might as well eat rubber. A pork chop? Well, you get the point.

When I do use them, there’s usually a little quirk involved – big surprise, right?

I like to set the time sequentially. By that, I mean that if I want to cook something three minutes, I either set the timer for 3:21 or for 2:34, whichever is likely to give the best results. For four minutes, 4:32 or 3:45.

It just seems to make the food turn out better.

Sun Comes Up, It’s Friday Morning … and for some reason I’m reminded of all the one-legged people I’ve known in my life. Actually, I know why I’m reminded of it. A Facebook friend of mine posted yesterday that she was going camping this weekend for the first time. And going camping reminds me of people with one leg. I’ll get to why in a minute.

There was my biology teacher in high school, I think his name was Mr. Robinson. We only had him for not quite one semester – I’ll get to why later. Mr. Robinson, if that was his name, had been a star basketball player at some small college or another. At least in his mind, he had some NBA prospects. But he’d lost a leg – I can’t remember which one – from the knee down in a car crash – possibly on the way to camp.

And boy was he bitter about it. I got along with nearly every teacher in high school – but he was the exception to that rule. I thought he was prickly, a smart ass and a know-it-all. Which meant he was something like me. We argued over projects – I did a half-assed one on fruit flies in which I drew – and I can’t draw at all – a cartoonish fruit fly. He ridiculed it, begrudgingly admitting that the info in it was good even if the illustration sucked.

I considered him a crappy teacher, and we weren’t headed for a good outcome. But then Mr. Robinson, if that was his name, got fired. We heard he got a DUI, but I don’t know this for fact. The best part was that they replaced Mr. Robinson, if that was his name, with a former beauty queen. And she might have been nicer than she was pretty. It was her first job, and we kinda ran all over her, even though we liked her – we LIKED her, liked her, in fact. Or at least I did.

The next two one-legged people I met I liked much more. Both, as it turns out, and I swear I’m not making this up, worked in newspaper photography.

Second things first, I’ll take about Jamey, whom I met when I worked at The Gaston Gazette. Jamey was the photo editor and a good guy in a department of good guys. I don’t claim to know for sure, but I think he was missing a leg from birth. (He also had some issues with his fingers.) He wore a prosthetic leg and managed to get around just fine. Sometimes he’d tap the prosthesis, which would remind you it was there.

I left after four years there for Henderson, where I was editor. And we brought Jamey in primarily as our IT guy (we shared him with another paper, but I have to admit we got more than our share of work from him because of our prior relationship). He helped me create and manage the website, and he was a mentor for our young but outstanding photographer, Ashley. I’ve lost touch with Jamey, but I think he’s still in the Raleigh area.

That leaves the other one-legged photographer I’ve known, my friend R.D. Benedict. R.D. lost a leg to cancer when he was a teenager. But I’ve never known a less handicapped person in my life.

I met R.D. when he started working at The Daily News in Jacksonville. He was a local guy, and his primary role was to prepare color separations for the newspaper. (It’s one of those processes that was there for awhile and now isn’t – as, sadly, is true about so much of newspapers.)

R.D. had a prosthesis, but I never saw him wear it. He used to say it was uncomfortable.

He preferred to just pin up his jeans or shorts and use crutches. But he was pretty nifty on crutches. R.D. could balance a plate of barbecue and a beer better than anybody. He could whip me bowling (OK, he abandoned the crutches and just hopped down the lane to the foul line for that).

Best of all was going to King’s Dominion with him and his now wife, Steph. Because we had a “handicapped” person in the group, we didn’t have to wait in line for any of the rides. We just moved right to the front. And if we wanted to ride again, they let us. What a great deal!

But here’s how “handicapped” R.D. was in reality. He’s the one who drove us from J-ville to Northern Virginia – pretty good haul.

Here’s another example of “handicapped” R.D. was. Whenever we’d go camping (see, I told you I’d get back to it), R.D. would set up the tents. We had some great times hanging out at the Northwoods Tavern, too. R.D. and I had a magic trick that had everyone at our table mystified. I miss him a lot.

Sun Comes Up, It’s Friday Morning … and I don’t understand Twitter at all. Oh, I understand how to use it, and do. But I’m not on it all that much. What I don’t understand is the follow notifications I occasionally get. I’ve had a few from Arthur Murray dance studios around the globe. I guess they just see the name. But I got one this a.m. from an organization of young professionals here in Charlotte. Professional? I qualify – sometimes. Young? Not so much. And then I got another this a.m. from someone who promised to give me the latest news on handball. Who know there was any?

Sun Comes Up, It’s Friday Morning … and I really, really want to beat N.C. State.

“A conservative is a man with two perfectly good legs who, however, has never learned how to walk forward.” – Franklin D. Roosevelt

If you’ve followed this blog – and if you have, thanks, and if you haven’t, it really won’t matter for this entry – you know that my deep-seated ambition is to be a superhero, though it doesn’t seem to be happening, mainly because of a lack of superpowers. But now I think I know why.

It all came about a few days ago when I was in SoBo for my sister-in-law’s funeral. Her death came as a shock – I guess many do – and was a time, of course, of great sadness.

But the grieving also brought about some nice things. During the visitation, I reconnected with my cousin, Sharon, whom I hadn’t seen in years. She told me something highly interesting, which I’ve alluded to but not explained on Facebook.

What it was was genealogical research. She’s been tracking the history of the Murray family. I wasn’t surprised to find that we had come from Scotland. I had suspected that side of the family was Scotch-Irish anyway.

But the rest of what Sharon told me was pretty surprising, because I figured our clan was just a collection of worker bees.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, Sharon told me hadn’t completely nailed down every detail, but she was sure the proof existed. And I, for one, believe her.

Anyway, here goes: Turns out the Murrays in the family tree started out as Morays in Scotland. And Sharon has traced the family all the way back to a guy named Andrew Moray or Andrew Murray. His claim to fame was co-leading (some say leading) the Scots at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in the summer of 1297, when they turned back the vastly larger English occupation forces sent by King Edward I.

Turns out Andrew could have used some good PR, because the other “co-leader” got all the fame from the battle (It didn’t help that Andrew died shortly after from wound he suffered there). The other guy’s name: William Wallace. You might know him better as Braveheart.

By the way, Sharon didn’t tell me this, but those Murray (Morays) also, apparently, were some kin to King Duncan. Yep, the guy that was the model for the one MacBeth killed in the play.

But Sharon did have another nugget from the family tree. If we’re kin to old Andrew Murray (Moray), then we’re also kin – direct descendants, even – to someone else that you have heard of. Someone who played a part in the history of Virginia and, for that matter, the United States. Someone who quite literally stuck her neck out when she didn’t have to.

That would be Pocahontas.

So, to recap, the Murray clan has a pretty well-established history of standing up against tyranny and injustice. Which, to me, is one of the greatest legacies anyone could claim. I’ve always been proud of my name, but I can say that I’m even more proud to learn all this family history. Which I really hope is true. And choose to believe.

—–

But there are other heroes, too, the kind that do the right thing, even when it doesn’t find its way into the history books.

And heck, these people might be even more important that individual leaders (see Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series for examples of this).

I saw one of those while home for Tania’s funeral too.

My old neighbor Harry was the around the same age of my older brother Frankie, Tania’s husband.

I always liked Harry, he always had a joke, but I was a little frightened by him, too. His jokes sometimes seemed to have a serious side – and sometimes a pretty foreboding one. But by and large, I liked him, as I liked all our neighbors growing up.

Anyway, Frankie, who is in very poor health, was devastated by Tania’s death. He’s withdrawn anyway and became even moreso given that terrible loss.

No one, not my sister, not Frankie’s son, not anybody, was really getting through to him.

Except Harry, who visited every day. Who showed great kindness and compassion and humor. He makes Frankie smile. He really has brought out a lot of the old Frankie.

I can think of no greater hero to me right now.

And he didn’t even need super powers.

“We can’t all be heroes, because somebody has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by.” – Will Rogers

If you follow me on Facebook, you know that I like to listen to Spotify, the online music service. I like Pandora, too, because the two are different. On Spotify, you mostly pick what you want to hear when you want to hear it (there are a few biggies like Led Zep that aren’t on it). So you can listen to stuff you’ve always wanted to hear more of – for me, that’s been Gram Parsons – or that you’ve always liked but never owned – like Traffic and John Hiatt.

I don’t always use Spotify, though. I like Pandora, too, because of the randomness of it all. You get introduced to stuff you might not have heard. The Supersuckers, fronted by my favorite artist (or at least the artist with my favorite name) Eddie Spaghetti, fall into this category.

But anyway, I get sentimental sometimes – I know that’s a shock – when I’m listening to Spotify and listen to stuff from my youth back in old South Boston, Va. And a recent song got me thinking about my best bud in high school, Tommy Nelson, whom I haven’t seen or heard from in at least 32 years.

The song was from an entirely forgettable Uriah Heep live album that Tommy had. Actually it was a medley: The Rock’N'Roll Medley, in which the band covered Roll Over Beethoven, Blue Suede Shoes, Mean Woman Blues, Hound Dog, At the Hop and Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.

Was it any good? Hell, no. But we were 16 years old when it came out and we liked it. We liked it so much that we even sort of had a routine with it, where we’d trade the lead vocal back and forth. Bad enough that we did that. But I remember actually singing it for these girls (and I’m withholding the names to protect the innocent) we double-dated with. Who actually went out again with us after that. (Funny thing is, we never really set at the beginning who was dating whom, but it all worked out. Both of us liked both of them, and we had a good time. Which is all I’ll say about that.)

One thing I can’t remember about the above incident is whether we took the girls to Nelson’s Pond. Though I’m pretty sure we did. It would have been SOP.

Nelson’s Pond. Now there are some memories, though admittedly many of them are hazy.

We interrupt this blog for a special announcement to one potential reader: To Tommy’s sister, Anne Garner (who is one of my Facebook friends), if you’re reading this, stop now. Please. (I will always think of Anne Garner as being about 10 years old, though I know she’s not: She’s married to my cousin, for one thing.)

Nelson’s Pond was across the road from Tommy’s house on land that his parents owned. Or at least that’s what we called it when we went there to party. When we took dates there, we called it Passion Pond. Though I don’t know that it ever lived completely up to that name. Or at least I’m not telling.

But we had a lot of good parties there. We drank a lot of beer and did other stuff – again, I’m not telling. Let’s just say it sort of reminds me of the big field where they throw the party in Dazed and Confused, by far the best move ever made about growing up in the 1970s.

As kids can be, though, we were kinda stupid. I don’t know that we left them, but lots of beer cans – and other stuff – got left on the property. So eventually Tommy’s parents put a gate up on the road that went in there. Which didn’t stop us. Tommy had a key, after all, but it put a damper on having parties there. Particularly since it meant that Tommy’s parents, T.P. and Doris Anne, were kinda keeping an eye on activity there. We had to be a lot more careful after that – there was only one way in or out, so you definitely didn’t want to get caught.

Tommy and I actually met on the basketball court – we played on the two best teams in a youth league. He played for the Hawks – they had a 6-6 guy at center who went on to play some at Hampden-Sydney College, a really tough guy named Rex Puryear, a really good point guard, Stan Bradshaw, and some other good players. I played for the Springers. We had my best friend growing up, Mike Lipford, who was a damn good athlete and I think could have been a really good basketball player, my good buddy George Fountain, who was about 6-1 or 6-2 at the time and was a top player, and Larry Scott, who would later star at Elon. The other two starters were Ronnie Ratliff and me – our job was to play defense and pass – anything but shoot. Our coach was Harrison Connor, a tough guy who sponsored the team out of his own pocket when the local Ruritans withdrew funding because we had black players. Sadly, I’m not making that up.

Anyway, the Hawks beat us, but Tommy and I got to be friends. He’d later talk me into going to his church, First Baptist Church in South Boston. I went because they took beach trips and stuff. (Which might be fodder for a future entry. Or not.) I’d go to Sunday school, sometimes preaching. Or sometimes we’d go to the gas station down the street and hang out, sometimes with one of the Methodist Church girls I had a huge crush on. Sometimes we’d go to the Presbyterian Church across the street: Pound for pound, they had the best-looking girls.

But Tommy and I lost touch when we went to college. I was at UNC, Tommy was at Wake Forest. I went over to visit him once and really didn’t like it there at all. To top it off, we lost the football game to them that weekend.

I never went back, and I never saw Tommy much after that. I hear he’s moved back to SoBo, and some of my friends have reported running into him. I’d like to reconnect with my old buddy, but I haven’t put much effort into it. I’m kinda that way.

And I’d better quit now before this whole thing gets a bit too – here it comes – pond-erous.

“A fool can throw a stone in a pond that 100 wise men can not get out.” – Saul Bellow

Karen tells me I’ve been ranting a lot lately on Facebook. From crappy service/treatment at/by Lowe’s to the Boy Chancellor to the DMV, it just seems like stuff has been driving me crazy – crazier – lately.

But here’s the thing. I don’t bitch all the time.

Case in point: Tuesday.

Karen had just left the house when the phone rang a few minutes later. It was her: “The TPMS light is back on.” “Come back home, I’ll put some air in it.”

I should explain here that a couple of weeks ago the Tire Pressure Management System light had come on while we were a few miles from the house in Monroe. I checked the front driver’s side tire and sure enough it was a bit low, so I went to the gas station nearest the house and put some air in the offending tire. Checked it the next morning, and the next and a few times since and everything’s been A-OK. I’d pretty much assigned it to the inactive file of my brain filing cabinet.

Till Tuesday. She got home and we swapped cars, and I went to the gas station and measured it. It had lost a fair amount of air, so I added some and knew that I likely had a problem. That afternoon, I called the service guys at the Dale Jarrett dealership around the corner and told ‘em my problem.

I’d started going to the dealership for my oil changes and other service needs a couple of years ago. It is close to Murray Manor and I like the cafe over at the Ford section of the dealership. They serve a mean country ham biscuit and have good wi-fi, which combine to take the sting out of waiting. They’re fast, they don’t up sell and I trust ‘em. One day I had a lengthy repair and they took me home so I didn’t have to cool my heels there all day.

Anyway, they told me to bring it before 4 and they’d fix it that afternoon. I told ‘em I was pretty sure I needed to replace the bad tire and its mate and would leave it up to them as to whether I needed to replace all four tires and that I certainly thought it was possible.

So I went down about 3:30, dreading the $325 for two tires I’d surely have to pay and the $650 that I feared it would be.

They got to it right away and five minutes later the main service comes back into the waiting room. “Mr. Murray, I can’t in good conscience tell you that you need to replace ANY tires. They’re in great shape.” “What about the leaky one?” “There’s a nail in it. We can patch it and get you out of here for $12.”

There you go. I’d given them free reign to charge me $650. They’d countered with $12.

I’ve always liked Dale Jarrett as a driver. For one thing, he’s a big Carolina fan. And he’s always seemed like a good dude, an unassuming guy it’d be fun to have a beer and watch a game with.

And while I still don’t want to buy a Ford (my Dad wouldn’t like it if I did), I’ll continue to patronize the service folks at his dealership. There are some good guys there.

So much for the raving part of today’s post. But you just knew there had to be rant, and here it comes.

Last week several North Carolina newspapers published articles about a state Department of Public Instruction report on the layoffs that have been imposed since the recession in 2008. The report was worthless, it turned out a couple days later when it was really scrutinized, because the school systems used different criteria in determining what was a layoff and what wasn’t. Two systems didn’t even answer the survey.

The original articles talked about how many fewer teachers there are this year in public schools in the state (that part isn’t debatable). And how many fewer teacher assistants. And counselors. And nurses. And social workers. And librarians. It’s an outrage, really, a stupid, shortsighted, penny-wise and pound-foolish move by the Republicans who now control the flow of tax money in the state. All to get rid of a penny of the state sales tax. I don’t know about you, but that extra penny I’ve been keeping since July 1 isn’t exactly making my pockets bulge.

But here’s the thing. The article didn’t talk about how many fewer assistant principals there are in schools this year. And I have a feeling – from the anecdotal evidence of the schools my kids go to – that there aren’t fewer assistant principals. Which is the one thing the schools could do without.

I didn’t like the assistant principals back when I was in school. And I liked them far better then than I like the ones I’ve dealt with since my kids started middle and high school.

Like the one who assured my wife that my oldest son was safe. Safe from the “death threat” issued by his 50-pound girlfriend because he had teased her.

Like the one who told me last year that kids giving an account of an “incident” involving my youngest son weren’t just saying what she wanted to hear. “I’m a trained professional, Mr. Murray. I know how to get them to tell the truth,” she said. Only she didn’t. That’s according to one of my son’s teachers, who knew of at least one lie told in the recounting of the incident. And told me about it. The same assistant principal who hung up on me when I was discussing the “incident” with her. (Full disclosure: I had Hulked up and was yelling at her.)

Like the one who refused to let my son transfer to another section of biology last spring to get away from a crappy teacher. Despite having the backing of his guidance counselor for the transfer request. Despite my taking time to attend a conference with the teacher. Who told at least three lies during her conversation with me – she didn’t know I knew what I knew, but the guidance counselor did and heard the same things I heard. The same assistant principal who wouldn’t return calls or emails requesting an explanation. He finally – at the prodding of his boss, whom I really admire – did tell me that he just didn’t want to let a student change teachers. (So why’d I go through the conference, it the transfer wasn’t going to happen regardless? All I heard was the crickets.)

Like the one who prowls the halls of my son’s middle school with a bullhorn. The better to yell at kids with.

Like the one who makes the robo-calls nearly every night from the middle school. To give such vitally important information as bluejean day Friday of last week. On consecutive nights.

And yet we keep these people when budgets get tight and cut teachers. It ain’t right.

When you get right down to it, I find them pretty – wait for it – TIRE-some.

So it goes.

Disclaimer: I love and respect the community-college system and believe it is a vital part of this state’s infrastructure. Despite everything you’re about to read …

After 18 months of being laid off, I decided earlier this month that maybe I need to change my job-seeking strategy. Writing and editing jobs don’t seem to be plentiful right now, and the superhero thing doesn’t pay very well – not to mention that lack of superpowers thing.

To make what’s destined to be a pretty long story a bit shorter, I’ll skip all the Hamlet-ian deliberations of being and not being. I decided I’d start pursuing becoming a paralegal – there’s writing and editing in there, and I’ve always been interested in the law and – believe it or not – enjoyed working with lawyers on two or three projects at the magazine.

Which pointed me to the community-college system. Which has been a huge debacle. Here’s why (and I swear every word of this is true):

First off, I thought, I’d get in touch with the person in charge of the program at my neighborhood school – South Piedmont Community College. There was a problem. She has been off at least the last month of June and was to be gone the whole month of July. Yep. She does, however, occasionally answer emails. Here’s what she told me when I wrote telling her I already had a bachelor’s degree and asking how to get started in the program (and I’m copying directly from her email): First, your must submit your application, get an official transcript sent in, (the transcript will let us know if you must take the College Placement Test (CPT),) take the CPT if necessary and then register after all the necessary paperwork has been completed.

Sounds pretty simple, right?

So I ordered my “official transcript” from the University of the People, where I graduated in 1979 (keep this in mind as we go). I wasn’t 100% sure at this point whether I’d attend SPCC or Central Piedmont Community College, which also offers a program. (I ultimately decided it would be dumb not to go to SPCC – one of its campuses is five minutes from my house.) So I had the transcript sent to my house.

In the meantime, I filled out the online application to SPCC. A couple of days later, I got an email from admissions. The admissions officer provided a checklist of what I would need. It was different from the info I’d gotten from the program head (now a week into her exile from the office). I’d need, according to the admissions officer, the following (again directly copying from the email – you’ll see why later):

• Have an official copy of your high school transcript (GED or Adult High School diploma is accepted) forwarded to Admissions.
• Submit official college transcripts from all colleges or universities previously attended.
• Submit SPCC Transfer Questionnaire to the last institution attended (ONLY for Transfer Students).
• Take the SPCC College Placement Test (unless you have met the necessary English and math requirements at an accredited college; contact Testing for more information).
• Apply early for Financial Aid, Veteran’s benefits or scholarships if interested.
• View our new student orientation before classes begin. You may find this online at www.spcc.edu (click Admissions, then Orientation).
• Meet with an academic advisor or counselor to select your classes.

High school transcript? WTF? I have a bachelor’s degree from the flagship of the UNC system, and I have to prove that I have a high-school diploma? I thought, “This must be wrong. I’ll just call and explain and straighten it all out.”

Except the admissions officer didn’t put her phone number in the email. That’s OK, I looked her up on the website and tried my luck. Except she was going to be gone at least a week, too. So I replied to the email and explained that I had a four-year college degree and said I figured that meant I didn’t need high-school transcripts, right?

Here’s how an underling at the department answered: If you are in a program, you are required to send your high school transcript. If you are a  Special Credit student not applying to a program, we will not need your high school transcript.

That didn’t exactly answer my question. So I replied again and told her specifically what I wanted, repeated that I had a college degree – and the transcripts to prove it – and asked whether I needed the high school transcript. And why?

The underling again said I did. So did the program director, whom I also emailed – she didn’t address why she hadn’t said that initially.

And, oh yeah, here’s the reason I needed it: It is required of all students.

Well, my old high school, Halifax County Senior High in South Boston, Va., is now a middle school. I doubted the records were there. So I called the Board of Education there to request the transcript.

Only something was wrong with the Board of Education phone system that day. The call never connected. Despite multiple attempts.

So the following Monday, I called again. Got through to a very nice woman. Who told me she’d be happy to send the transcript. Only I had to fax the request in. Fax? Who uses faxes these days, I thought? I can’t email the request? No, she said. It has to be faxed.

Well, of course, I don’t have a fax machine at my house (and I don’t want one). So I went to the local UPS store and did it. They only charged me a buck, fo I felt pretty good about it.

I called a few days later, and sure enough the high-school transcript had arrived. However, the admissions underling said, they were still waiting on the college transcript. “No problem,” I said, “I have that here at home, and I’ll bring it by.”

She paused. “You have it in a sealed envelope, right?” “Well, no.” I’d opened to make sure that, after 32 years, they’d sent the right Arthur Murray’s transcripts. And to jog my memory on how I’d done in school. “It has to be in a sealed envelope for us to accept it,” she said.

I started Hulking up. I didn’t turn green, but I did start shouting and asked to be transferred to her supervisor, the admissions officer, whom I’ll call Stacie (not her real name), because she’ll continue to figure in this tale.

Stacie said it did indeed have to be sent in a sealed envelope, to ensure that it hadn’t been doctored with. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I shouted. “Why didn’t anybody say this?” “It says it on the website,” Stacie said. “Uh, no. It doesn’t,” I said, and challenged her to find it. “That’s what we have to have, anyway.” I started griping that I’d already gotten one and it had taken several days. Stacie, who I must say really was a kind person in the face of more than a little bullying on my part, misunderstood my concern. She said she’d try to call the office at Chapel Hill and see if they’d send a free copy. Not for the last time, I explained that I wasn’t concerned with the cost – only the time involved. But she kept repeating that she’d try that.

Only I don’t think she tried too hard. She called back late that afternoon and said she couldn’t find a phone number for UNC records, so she’d emailed them instead and hadn’t heard anything. She’d let me know if she could get that fee waived. I again explained that I wasn’t really worried about the cost, just the time.

Two days later, Stacie called again to say she still hadn’t heard back and I’d better order the transcripts again. So I did. In the meantime, she said, I could come in the following Monday and take the college placement test so I’d have that out of the way. “Wait a minute,” I said, “isn’t that why I’m getting this college transcript from 1979?” “You mean it’s more than 10 years old?” she said. “Well, yeah. I’ve been saying that from the beginning.” “Well, you’ll have to take the CPT anyway,” she said. “We’ll get the transcript and apply for a waiver to the 10-year rule and see if we can get your classes counted. Don’t worry.”

So, vowing I wouldn’t get upset no matter what, I went to get tested, picking the building that the sign that said “Testing” pointed to. Only it was the other building. The woman at the testing counter was great, she asked what I was there for and I told her the paralegal program – the one that was for people with college degrees (they also have one for people who don’t have them). She looked at me kinda funny but started setting up my test on the computer. She said, “You don’t need to take the math part for that, so I won’t include it.” “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes,” she said. “You don’t need it.”

So I took the test, about 75 questions or so, some of which asked me how much I studied for it – not at all – and how to cut and paste on a computer – remember, I’m not making any of this up.

I finished and went to the registration room to sign up for classes. One of the admissions folks called me in and started looking up my stuff. Turns out the college transcript had gotten there that day. So my application was complete, she said, adding that I’d done extremely well on the placement tests. Stacie was sitting there at the same table, and she introduced herself to me. She took me to the college registrar.

Only the registrar was on the phone. On a personal call. And stayed on after seeing me, and ultimately three or four other students waiting to speak with her. This went on for about 15 minutes.

Finally, she finished and asked me what I wanted. I handed her my paperwork, which included a form to have my transcript evaluated for classes that could be counted at SPCC. “Which classes did you want to be considered?” she asked. “All of them,” I said. “Or at least all the ones I’ll need for this program.” “Which program are you applying for,” she asked. “The paralegal program – the one for people who already have a college degree.” “What do you mean?” she said. “The program is the same whether you have a degree or not.” “That’s not what it says on your website,” I responded. (That’s still not what it says on the website, by the way.) I was starting to get upset.

Then it got worse. “What are the course numbers?” she said. “Is that a trick question,” I said. “I took these classes 30 years ago. How am I supposed to know the course numbers, especially when I had to send the transcript to you in a sealed envelope?” “If you don’t remember the numbers,” she said, “how do we know that you retained the knowledge?”

Now I’m furious. My gamma-ray infused blood is boiling, I’m likely turning green and getting ready to start smashing. I slammed my hand down on the desk and, in my best whiney John McEnroe voice, said, “You have got to be kidding me. You didn’t just say that!” She threatened to have me removed if I didn’t calm down. She then said she’d make me a copy of the transcript (I, of course, already had one, but I didn’t let her know that.) but that I’d need to get the course descriptions as they were written in the college catalog at the time they were offered. “And I’m pretty sure the psychology department won’t accept your Intro to Psychology class. You’ll have to take that again anyway.”

I’m still fuming but keeping my mouth shut and hands clenched at my side so I won’t be cuffed and escorted out – I was at least that sane. Then, she said, “Why didn’t you take the math placement test? You need that, too.”

She finally decided I didn’t, and we agreed that I’d go ahead and register for classes pending the appeal of taking the intro courses in English and psychology.

She sent me to a guy named Kevin, who would help me sign up for classes. And he was helpful, I’ll give him that. First off, he looked at my placement test and said, “Wow! We don’t see these kinds of scores. You did quite well.” I thanked him, and we got down to business. I’d have to take Introduction to Computers, he said. Isn’t there any way out of that, I asked. I’d been using computers for 30 years. He said I’d have to sign up and then I could test out at the first class. Fine, whatever (of course, that meant I’d still be charged for taking the course). We put together the rest of a schedule, determined the rest of what I’d have to take and he figured out what I’d owe and printed an invoice.

Which said I had to pay by the day before. (Keep in mind that registration is still going on and will be throughout next week, too.)

By that time, I’d had enough of SPCC. So I went home to figure out how to get the course descriptions from 30 years ago for appeal to have classes taken at UNC Chapel Hill accepted by a community college.

The following afternoon, Karen and I talked more about the program and decided that all the roadblocks – I’d basically Hulked up at every stage of the process – probably were a sign that it wasn’t meant to be. We’ll try something else, we decided. Five minutes later, I got an email from SPCC telling me my registration would be invalidated if I didn’t pay for classes by 7 a.m. the following day (keep in mind that’s less than 48 hours from the time I signed up – no buyer’s remorse allowed here). We laughed at it, again figuring it was a sign.

But the story’s not over yet.

At 7:57 the next morning, I got a notice that I had been purged – my registration at SPCC no longer existed. Less than an hour later, I got an email from Stacie. Here’s what it said: I am happy to inform you that your admission file is complete. You are now eligible to earn a degree, diploma, or certificate through the program.

So I was purged before I was admitted. I’m now a college dropout, I guess.

And I feel fine.

“Members of the graduating class, I have only one thing to say to you today … It’s a jungle out there. You gotta look out for number one. But don’t step in Number Two …”
_ Rodney Dangerfield (in the movie, Back to School)

I gotta say. Carolinas Medical Center really did exceed my expectations during Karen’s stay there for laparoscopic surgery to repair a (most likely) congenital hernia in her diaphragm. To a person, the folks employed or volunteering there were exceedingly nice and understanding and treated us with great respect. She’s in pain, it’s true, but we think and hope it’s a natural consequence of the procedure. But that’s not what this blog is about.

No, it has to do with the other families of patients there, three sets of ‘em in particular.

When we got there Monday, we went to the surgery waiting center, which would become my home for about 81/2 hours as it turned out.

As is my custom, I chose a seat away from other people, and we sat and waited to be called back.

Or at least I thought we had a seat away from everyone else.

Turns out we were sitting fairly near the coffee/tea machine. Which attracted lots of folks, most of whom got their beverage and left. Well, all of whom got their beverage and left. Except for one guy. Who, as it turned out, had just about the most irritating voice I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t that he was Gilbert Gottfried – just irritating on his face. It was just that he had a low voice. That carried. And carried. And he felt obligated to talk. All the time. And to top it off, he was something of a know-it-all. Which I know all about.

We moved behind a partition to get some relief. A few minutes later, Karen was called back to pre-opp, and I got to go see here there a little later.

As it turns out, there was another booming voice next door. We never saw the guy, but we imagined him to be a big old Italian bear of a man. Despite the volume, his voice wasn’t irritating.  By listening, we learned he was a big smoker, with a big family. A toddler – I’ll assume a grandchild – poked his head through the curtains and looked at us. We waved at him. Somehow these folks made us feel better. We didn’t know what he was in for, but given the smoking, we knew it might not be good. Still, I never heard the guy gripe or complain, and I wish him the best.

But after all too brief a time I was back out in the waiting room.

I found a seat, again away from the madding – or maddening – crowd. Within minutes, I’d discover just how maddening. They were older women, and they knew each other but obviously hadn’t seen one another in some time.

I don’t even remember when or why I started listening. Amend that. I listened because I couldn’t help it. They were loud, and they talked incessantly.

It was about eggs. Hard-boiled eggs. I can only think of one sentence to say about hard-boiled eggs. Here it is: I hate hard-boiled eggs.

But these women talked about hard-boiled eggs for what seemed like hours. OK, it was really about 10 minutes. Maybe less. It just seemed longer.

They talked about the correct way to boil the eggs. (I can name that tune in four notes: Boil water, add eggs.)

They talked about the correct way to crack and eat hard-boiled eggs. (I can name that tune in one note: Don’t.)

They talked about adding vinegar to the water: Not white vinegar. Not rice vinegar. Not balsamic vinegar. Apple-cidar vinegar. You know, the kind everybody means when they say vinegar.

To be truthful, they might have been talking about poached eggs by this point. I was trying desperately not to listen – and failing miserably.

I finally put my earbuds in and started listening to music (courtesy of my trusty Samsung Galaxy 10.1 tablet) just to drown them out. Should have thought about that about a dozen eggs or so sooner, but I didn’t want to risk not hearing them call my name from the update desk.

A little later, they called me to the update desk and said the procedure had begun. I knew it would take a couple of hours, so I decided to go get some lunch – it was 3 p.m. by this time. I got a pager and left my cell number at the desk and went down to the cafeteria, where I had a decidedly unhealthy Philly and fries.

By the time I came back up, my tablet was in need of plugging in, so I found a spot in the waiting room where I could plug in.

Unfortunately, that spot was near a group of folks from Hickory. How’d I know they were from Hickory? Because they were hicks. Among the worst I’ve seen. Make that heard.

There were two 40-ish couples, an older man and a couple of teens. The older guy and the teens were fine. The two couples, not so much. There was a blonde wearing white. Tight white. Sort of sheer white. And tight. Especially around her belly, legs and butt. She and the other woman, a less-flashy brunette, were carrying on, laughing and telling stories, loudly interrupting one another and the guys along with them. Again, grabbed the earbuds, but now I really was worried about missing an update. Each time the intercom would sound, I’d have to rip the earbuds out and hope to catch the name. I shot them several glares, but they either didn’t see them or, more likely, didn’t care.

It bothered me. I was there knowing there was a 99% or higher chance of a good outcome in Karen’s procedure.

But it occurred to me, if not to the Hickorians (Hickoryites), that there probably were lots of people in there for life or death procedures. And they had to listen to a bunch of howling and laughing and foolishness. I couldn’t really move – I really needed to recharge – so I just sat there and seethed. And thought up the surgeries I’d like to see inflicted on them. Most of which involved garden sheers and tongues.

Here’s the … And Other Stuff

The irritating folks from Hickory were originally going to be from Gastonia. That’s because I enjoy poking fun at Gastonia, where I lived from 1993 to 1997. I’ve previously called said it was built on the Hellmouth of Weird, kinda like Sunnyvale was the Hellmouth of Demons in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

But get this. I have great affection for Gastonia. There’s no place on earth that recognizes its shortcomings and tries so hard to overcome them. If I poke fun at the city, it’s in the manner of friends giving one another the business.

Here’s why this matters: The congressional redistricting plan currently before the goobers in the General Assembly puts Asheville in the same district with Gastonia. Which has apparently outraged the folks in Asheville to no end.

I say that because of what I suppose was intended to be a humor column Sunday in the Asheville paper. Here’s a link if you want to see it, but I can’t say I recommend it. The premise was that because they’re in the same congressional district, Asheville and Gastonia must be alike. Here’s what it was in practice: A snarky, unfair putdown of Gastonia, criticizing it for having pawn shops (which I’m betting Asheville has, too), downtown parking (as if that’s a bad thing) and unpretentious restaurants. The underlying theme: We’re better than Gastonia, and we shouldn’t be in the same district).

Hey, I like Asheville. It has a lot to recommend it, including cool restaurants and music venues. But Gastonia has some damn good stuff going for it, too. Like Tony’s Ice Cream (mentioned, but not enough, in the article). Like the Schiele Museum, which is pretty cool in my book. Like people who – as I said earlier – can laugh at themselves and realize they don’t live in paradise.

The two cities definitely have something in common, though: Terrible representation in Congress. Patrick McHenry from Cherryville represents Gastonia, and even his fellow Republicans thought he was over the top recently with his criticism of the woman helping to set up a national consumer-finance agency. As for Asheville, it’s represented by Heath Shuler, the Republican masquerading as a Democrat. Which is fine, since he masqueraded as a quarterback for the Washington Redskins. And who apparently is torn between running again for Congress and being the athletic director at the University of Tennessee. And maybe being a double-naught spy.

Humility and knowledge in poor clothes excel pride and ignorance in costly attire.
- William Penn

Karen hated it. She said it didn’t make sense – she might have me on that one. And she even criticized it again this a.m.

Which is kinda funny. Because she inspired it.

Here’s the inside story on Either Learn to Endure, in a special Behind the Music edition of Rants ‘n’ Raves.

It was last week when she was looking at some bargains on Amazon for her Kindle. She asked me if I’d ever read Slaughterhouse-Five. I had.

Then she asked what it was about. I paused, laughed, and said, “That’s a pretty good question. I guess you could say it’s about the firebombing of Dresden during World War II.” She was horrified. “It’s a pretty funny book.”

She looked on for something else. So it goes.

But it got me to thinking about writing a story that jumped around among sort of unconnected things that might have a bit of a connection after all through all the machinations. I thought immediately not just of Vonnegut, but of two of my favorite works – Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, and John Dos Passos’ U.S.A. trilogy.

Now I don’t pretend to be Vonnegut or Faulkner or Dos Passos, but I thought I’d borrow a bit from all three for a disjointed narrative (Faulkner) that jumped from topic to topic (Vonnegut) with lots of obscure song and topical references (Dos Passos).

And that’s what I did. The central portion of the narrative was about how I’d narrowly missed being in fight once in a Jacksonville bar – the closest I’d ever come to getting punched out (which would most assuredly have happened had things progressed). But I also wanted to talk about the ongoing struggle of newspapers to survive – to the point of dumbing themselves down so much – both in what they write about and how they write it – to become less relevant, not more.

To tie all those notions together, I used a headline inspired by The Sound and the Fury, lines from one of my favorite poems, Ozymandias (by Percy Bysshe Shelley), a quote from Watchmen (spoken by the character Ozymandias) and lyrics from Public Enemy’s Fight the Power, Whiskeytown’s Yesterday’s News,  Dave Alvin’s Evening Blues, and the Avett Brothers’ Shame.

It occurs to me, of course, that having to explain means I didn’t do a very good job of storytelling: nonlinear or otherwise. So it goes (couldn’t resist).

I’ll close this section with a Vonnegut passage from Chapter 9 of Slaughterhouse-Five: ”Everything is all right, and everybody has to do exactly what he does.”

Here’s the And Other Stuff:

I have been struck by some more examples of bad newspapering, courtesy of bad or nonexistent copyediting.

In yesterday’s (or maybe Wednesday’s) Wilmington paper, an article addressed the governor’s need to appoint a judge because of the “sudden death” of a jurist. Isn’t all death sudden? You go from breathing one second to not breathing the next. Methinks they meant “unexpected” death. This is the same kind of lazy writing that produces articles praising the creation of “new” jobs. I want to see some old ones created once in awhile.

Today’s Charlotte Observer had an egregious headline on THE LEAD STORY about the governess vetoing the voter-ID bill. Here it is (still up on the website at 11:09 this a.m.): Measure’s critics say it cut reduce turnout.

I guess it cut at that. I’ll bet they wish they wut have read it closer.

They also should have read their story on a Chinese company that will begin production of solar panels in Charlotte later this year a bit closer. Here’s a gem from it: “which opened its first North American headquarters in Charlotte last month.” I’m just wondering where they’ll open their next North American headquarters.

At least I was trying to be sorta obscure.

Shalom.

I met a traveler from an antique land …

“Our freedom of speech is freedom or death. We got to fight the powers that be. Lemme hear you say, Fight the power.”

Karen enjoys watching the “The Bachelorette”/”The Bachelor.” And I watch along with her. Lord knows she accommodates me on enough of the crap I watch. So I don’t complain, and sometimes I even marvel at the dynamic present as the guys and girls try to find forced true love. Of course it doesn’t work very often. The bloom came off the last couple even before the final wrapup show. Lots of the folks they pick to be on it are either pretty self-absorbed – not a good prescription for letting someone else in – or have intimacy issues to start with. We don’t take it very seriously. We’ve come up with a drinking game – take a shot every time someone says “amazing” or “here for the right (or wrong) reasons,” though we haven’t played it (the show is on Mondays, after all).

“I can’t fly or sink or swim. It’s a lot like falling down standing up, and I’m falling down. You’re my cup till I understand. Wait a minute and see the pieces don’t fit this time.”

What if they threw a protest and nobody came?

“Well, yesterday’s news is what I have been reading.” And in my Charlotte Observer Monday there was an article about Westboro Baptist Church in Kansas and its plans to protest at the funeral of a Gastonia Marine, as it does with other service members who die in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was on the front of the local section, about 600 words or so. Which was about 600 or so more words than people who actually protested, according to today’s Gaston Gazette. Still, mission accomplished. The nutso church got the attention it wanted without even having to stand out in the hot sun.

Last night’s episode had the bachelorette, a young dentist named Ashley, in Thailand with her entourage. On one of their group dates, the guys learned how to kick box, apparently the national sport of Thailand. So then they faced off against one another. Apparently no one saw that this could be trouble. One of the guys, a Wall Street financier named Ames, got his bell rung pretty badly and had to go to the hospital. Which at the very least got him the pity vote to stay on the show. Turns out he’d never been in a fight in his life.

“Then you heat the coffee on the stove. Pull the cup down from the shelf. And slowly turn your back on me. As I sing a blues song to myself.”

There was an interesting twist in The Charlotte Observer story. It said the church “protests at the funerals of dead servicemen.” I guess that’s because there’s really no one at the funerals for live ones.

“And I wish that I could hear, Yeah I wish that I could hear, The blues you sing to yourself.”

But that wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve seen in the Observer over the past three days. That honor would have to go, as it usually does, to columnist Scott Fowler. Who says the Charlotte Bobcats shouldn’t select Jimmer Fredette from Brigham Young University in the NBA draft this week. That’s actually fair enough. I wouldn’t either. But he doesn’t say it’s because Fredette isn’t quick enough to play the point or strong enough to play defense or any rational criticism. No, he says the Bobcats shouldn’t pick Fredette because Adam Morrison was such a disaster pick for them. He says they’re two of a kind. What’s he mean by that? They play different positions, after all. And they seem to be different guys – Fredette appears to be much more comfortable in the spotlight, for instance. And Fredette hasn’t wrecked his knee. Oh, yeah, they’re both white! Guess they Bobcats shouldn’t pick Dirk Nowitski or Larry Bird, either.

“My life is different now I swear. I know now what it means to care About somebody other than myself.”

Karen asked me if I’d ever gotten punched in anger. No, I said. What I didn’t say was that I almost had. It was back when I lived in Jacksonville.

“Shame, boatloads of shame. Day after day, more of the same. Blame, please lift it off. Please take it off, please make it stop.”

Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,  And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read. Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed.

“I did it 35 minutes ago.”

It was at a bar on the cusp of Court Street. It wasn’t a topless place. I’d gone after work to have a beer and play some pinball. That’s what I was doing when the Miller sitting on the pinball machine fell to the floor. It had been put there by one of the two Marines playing on the next machine. “You owe me a beer, chief,” the owner said. “No,” I said. “You had yours sitting in a place where it was bound to fall off.”

“You expect me to talk. No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”

The Bobcats obviously have no plans to draft the Jimmer anyway. They haven’t had him in for workouts, and I don’t think it’s because they’re planning some great misdirection move. Later in it, he says, “I (Fowler can never write a column without an “I” in it) don’t think Fredette will turn into Morrison …” So what was the point? It was a column in search of a delete button. As most of his are.

The Marine kept at it, raising a pretty big fuss. One of the waitresses I was friendly with bought him a beer to shut him up. Only it didn’t. He kept threatening me and telling me to come outside. Now I have some anger issues and I can do – and have done – some stupid things when challenged, but Hilda’s boy wasn’t born yesterday. I wouldn’t have had a chance against him, even if his buddy stayed out of it. Which he wouldn’t have. Eventually the bar manager, a big biker guy named Buffalo whom I also was friendly with, threw the guys out and made sure they left. So I was saved from the closest thing to a thrashing I ever got.

“Everybody’s got a secret, Sonny, Something that they just can’t face, Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it, They carry it with them every step that they take.”

… Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.

A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.