Not Gonna Do It

Did you really think that County Law Director/Admitted Embezzler Bill Lockett had it in him to do the conscionable thing? Step down? Why, he ain't going nowhere. No sirree, bobtail nanny goat. He won that election fair and square and you couldn't pry his pocket-pickin', slime-covered fingers off that government (tit) chair. No way. No how.

Now that it's official, that is, he's admitted to being a crook, all of the decisions that come out of his office will make more sense. Once on the take, always on the take.

Think Janet Jackson..."What have you done for me lately?"

Euphemisms Kill Me

You know, I've always heard people talk about finding a dream job and I've always thought there was no such thing. But as of this morning I realize I was wrong. I know exactly what job would be my fondest desire. I want to be the HEADLINE WRITER for the News Sentinel. I know I would do a better job than whoever does it now.

"Law director admits he improperly took money"???

How about: "Knox County law director's former employer forces him to admit he embezzled money"
Too long, you say?
Okay, what about: "It turns out Bill Lockett is a fucking thief"

And fellow citizens, the coffers over at Kennerly Montgomery & Finley were nothing compared to the ones he's got access to in Knox county.

Lots of people go through hardships. Some resort to breaking the law. You can visit them on Sundays at the prison. You can visit Bill Lockett on the sixth floor of the City County building in the office with "County Law Director" on the door. Now that's a crime.

Never Leave Me Alone With The Hedge Trimmer

I might get carried away and turn a couple of evergreens into Ron and Philly. I need to figure out how to give them arms. Decorating for Halloween and Christmas has just reached a whole new level.

Life On Lavinder Lane

When we were growing up we only had one t.v. and it was located in the living room. Well, that's not exactly true. We only had one working television. The newer one would always be sitting along side of (if it was a console) or on top of (if it was portable) the non-working one. They weren't quick to dispose of anything. When the whole family watched t.v. together, there were only two couches to sit on, so I'd usually opt for the floor to avoid the close quarters. Unless it was Saturday morning or right after school, in which case Priscilla and I owned the couches. That's when we'd stretch out and watch for hours, because we hardly ever met a t.v. show or cartoon we didn't like. Oh, how I longed to be Philly Joe and live in Petticoat Junction.

We actually had a den ,but it was downstairs, and nobody went down there except in the summertime because it wasn't heated. Sometimes DaddyDearest would build a fire for us so we could hang out there, but not often. I really don't remember if there was a t.v. down there, but I know there was a record player and plenty of room for dancing and boy, we loved to dance. It was also the perfect setting for the slow-dancing, belly-rubbing, make-out scenes (we called them parties) that we had in our early teens. There was usually enough drama at one of those to make "It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To" the theme song of the evening.

There was a whole lot of wasted space in our downstairs, and by wasted space, I mean rooms that were never used for anything except to house junk. And we sure as hell had plenty of junk. We never had to get rid of anything. If we weren't using something, we could just "store" it in one of those basement rooms until we needed it again. Most everything there became as long-forgotten as the many piano recital pieces we were forced to memorize.

At different times through the years, at least one or two of us girls used one particular room downstairs as a bedroom. J.C. and Suzanne were sharing it back in 1962, when Suzanne helped J.C. climb up and out of the window to the waiting arms of Romeo, and on to the elopement that sent the family into a complete tizzy. Suzanne won the Oscar that next morning for her performance of the innocent, sleeping sister who hadn't seen or heard a thing. I still to this day burst into spontaneous applause when I think of how superb she was. In time, J.C.'s freedom flight actually turned into more of a prison term, so she had to give Romeo the boot a few years down the road.

And the accumulation of junk we left in those downstairs rooms? MommyDearest tapped into that stuff for years. She had more garage sells than Uncle Joe had excuses for not helping out at the Shady Rest.

Pass The Corn Bread

COMFORT FOOD is this millennium's classification of everything we ate growing up in the 50's and 60's. It includes meatloaf and mashed potatoes, fried chicken and baked beans, spaghetti and meatballs, and chicken pot pies. It applies to anything reminiscent of the good ol' days and anything that makes you fatter...at least that's how I see it. Hell, when we were growing up, other than hamburgers and hot dogs, COMFORT FOOD was the only thing we ate. Back then, it was just called home cooking. There we were, humming along, minding our own business, when out of the blue, our hamburgers and hot dogs became FAST FOOD. And our precious french fries became taboo because they were fried in saturated fats. Then, a few years later, in order to justify eating anything but salad and sushi, the food editors dubbed all the go-to foods that we had so dutifully learned to cook, COMFORT FOOD. I don't know where they got that. DISCOMFORT FOOD would be more like it. Sit down to the table and eat a big ol' plate of COMFORT FOOD, then tell me how comfortable you are. Better still, stand in the kitchen for an hour, chopping onions and peppers, slapping a meat loaf together, peeling potatoes and carrots and shredding cabbage, and when you're finished cleaning up the mess, would the words COMFORT FOOD come to mind? VERITABLE FEAST would be more like it. One of the reasons that restaurants have started serving this so-called COMFORT FOOD is because nobody is willing to go to all that trouble to make it at home anymore. And few, if any, young people are interested in trying out the old family recipes. They'd rather order pizza. At my grandmother's house there was a pot of pinto beans and a pan of corn bread on the stove at all times. I daresay, it wasn't COMFORT FOOD. It was survival.

Down At The Beau

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning on Wednesday, a thirty-something woman who had likely spent the last three hours drinking gin and tonics at the bar, squeezed in between me and the stickman at the craps table. "I don't know anything about this game," she slurred. "That's what we're here for," he assured her. She stayed and played for about an hour, during which time she required constant attention from the staff, but they didn't seem to mind. She was, after all, an attractive woman wearing a skimpy top. But she continued to drink while she played, so her condition only worsened. Luckily, she was a pleasant drunk. But she never caught onto any part of the craps game even though she continued to put chips on various spots on the table. If she happened to win on a roll, the stickman would remind her to pick up her winnings. If she lost, and that was most often the case, she always just seemed confused. At one point, she sat down on a stool and took some sips of her drink, then stood back up with her eyes at half-mast and asked, "Now, where am I?" To which a croupier replied, "That would be the Beau Rivage in Biloxi, Mississippi, ma'am." The whole table roared. He knew she was talking about her table bets, but he couldn't resist.

The Junket

I took a tip from a PRO on how to pack for our junket to Biloxi: EVERYTHING in one bag. No carry-on's.

Here's why: When we land in the airport in Biloxi, they'll immediately load us on a bus to head to the casino/hotel. In this case, that would be the Beau Rivage. We don't fool with no stinkin' baggage claim. No sirree. They'll take care of our gear for us. They'll shuttle us lickety split to the gambling hall, dump us out, hand us our room keys, and point us in the direction of the slot machines (as if we couldn't use our special radar for that). What we don't want: any encumbrances that would prevent us from diving right into action. And when we get tired (in a day or two) we can stagger to our room and walla! Like magic, our luggage will be there, waiting. What it boils down to is this: No time wasted with the petty details. Let them handle those, while we get down to the business at hand: giving them our money.

Have you noticed the over-abundance of colons in this post? I know you have. Don't lie and look away. I did it on purpose. As I get older, I find that I need to shart, I mean share, my daily ups and downs (so to speak) and I needed a segue to my own personal colon, which has been in hyper-active mode for the past three days: I have had what my mother always referred to as "the backdoor trots." I'm hoping that it's cleared itself up by 8 p.m. tonight, 'cause that's when we're boarding the plane for Biloxi, and I'd like for that to be a non-issue, thank you very much.

And it was not without forethought that I just referenced my mother on this day of days. To honor her memory: a picture of my mother, Susie Johnson Webb, when she was a young hottie.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama!

In Honor of Ron's Birthday...

A Pictorial History of his Golf Game.

Ron was actually tall and skinny as a limber-backed teen-age golfer, and he was deadly serious about the game.

By his forties, he had taken on the look of a typical week-end duffer, and when all else failed, he simply upgraded his equipment.

But now in his fifties, a round of golf is just an excuse to drink beer, smoke cigars and take an occasional trip with the boys.

Happy Birthday, Ron!

Shut The Box

I had never even heard of this game until this past week-end with the Yahoo's. There were six of us staying in a two bedroom, two bath villa by the eighteenth fairway, which would have been perfect except that about three hours into our fun (and by fun, I mean massive amounts of alcohol consumption) neither commode was working. Did I mention there were six women and that we were all drinking? No one seemed concerned.

"Oh, just call Ralph. He'll come right over and fix it."

Apparently Ralph was in charge of that sort of thing at this "resort" and the Yahoo's were familiar with his "work".

Sure enough, Ralph and his helper showed up and after thirty minutes of fine-tuning, announced that the toilets were now working...BUT! JUST IN CASE..."the OFFICE is unlocked and you can use the bathroom there if these happen to quit working."

By the time we left the villa to play golf the next morning, we had all made at least one Office visit.

We delivered the bad news to Ralph when we saw him at the clubhouse, and to add insult to injury, we had to tell him that the t.v. wasn't working either. He assured us he'd take care of everything.

Then, there was the GOLF. We were completely and utterly soaked by about the third hole. But we sloshed onward in the rain until we had finished the front nine, then we took a lunch break and returned to the villa for sustenance and dry clothes. By that time, Ralph had fixed the plumbing problem so we were good to go...so to speak.

Like idiots, we all trotted back out after lunch to play the back nine, and I'm not ashamed to admit that on hole number sixteen, when the rain had once again become steady, I had had enough. I picked up my ball and told my team, "I'll be in the bar."

Meanwhile, back at the villa, Ralph had called the cable company, so they came by and powered up our television just in time for us to enjoy the Derby.

On Sunday morning, we watched it rain some more, but when there seemed to be a clearance, we laced up our golf shoes and headed for the first tee. Three of the girls even teed off. But by that time, the rain had started up again, so we said, "No more!" and packed our bags.

Let me just say, it was great to see the Yahoo's. They're a special group of women. Smart. Funny. Compassionate. And, yes, competitive...both in Golf and in Shut the Box.