Paul's Market

Back in the day, Aunt Millie and Uncle Paul owned a little grocery store out on West State Street, which they very cleverly called, Paul's Market. It was a quaint little place with vegetable and fruit shelves out front, (shelves, not bins) seemingly to attract customers, though I'm not sure the strategy worked. I assume they got the idea from an earlier business...the fruit stand they operated down in Lakeland, Florida, sometime before that. I never actually saw their fruit stand, but I have seen pictures of them standing in front of it. It was next door to the miniature golf course they managed, and of course, it was always sunny and warm in every photo. My guess is they did all right as long as the weather was tropical, but they packed up and moved back to Tennessee when winter rolled around. Or, when Millie got homesick. Either way, they ended up back in Bristol operating Paul's Market for many years. It was a huge treat for us kids when the folks took us out to the store. Millie and Paul were generous beyond words.
"You can each pick out three pieces of penny candy."
We were in hog heaven, but it was a tough choice.
There were the candy kits. They came in a pack with five chewy pieces and there were several flavors to choose from. I loved them all, especially the banana and chocolate ones.
We loved the wax colas, tiny little sixpacks of wax bottles filled with flavored sugar water. You could chew the wax after you drank the contents.
Then there were the ever-popular pixie sticks. Who didn't love those straws filled with sugar that was tart and sweet at the same time?
And bubblegum and jaw breakers and candy cigarettes.
I always wondered why we couldn't get five cents worth. But, no, they held us to three. That was how they rolled.
The best was when we got to go to Paul's Market at night. They stayed open til eleven p.m. back when nobody else did. Of course, nothing was different at that hour. They didn't get more generous the closer it got to closing time, but it still felt cool to be there late at night.
The worst was when DaddyDearest drove by their store one afternoon after work and caught a glimpse of the tomatoes Uncle Paul had on his shelves. Now I don't know how he recognized them from afar, but he did. Somehow he knew they were the very tomatoes he was growing in my grandfather's backyard, the ones that were intended for our family's consumption. Turned out he was right. Uncle Paul, who lived right next door to my grandfather, had spotted those beauties from his kitchen window and had taken the liberty to go out and clean the vines. Suffice to say, the shit hit the fan over that. And that may have been when the free candy dried up. All three cents worth.

Old Yeller...I mean, Fred

Fred (the dog) has taken to wandering the neighborhood when we let him outside to poop, which because he's old and demented, is about every fifteen minutes. Never mind that he has a "shock collar" around his neck. Boundaries mean nothing to him anymore. Apparently he's immune to pain. So, off he goes in his decrepit condition, attracting attention from all the sympathetic animal lovers around the neighborhood who encounter him, and that's when the "fun" begins. It may have something to do with the huge bulbous blood blister he's sporting underneath his eye that bleeds on demand to make him look even more pathetic (and nastier) than he already does. I think he uses it to his advantage. That, and the little humps (growths) all over his back...well he is truly a lovely sight.
A couple of days ago, PhillyTwo and I were chilling in the "Bird's Nest" (our version of a Man Cave) when the call came in. It was the Fred's vet...the one listed on his dog tag. "Your dog has been injured." Shit. I was in still my pajama pants, as I had been all day and my hair was a scary mess. PhillyTwo had just finished doing a workout, so all she had on were sweat pants and a sports bra. She grabbed a shirt and I desperately tried to smooth my hair down before we ran out to the street to find Fred chowing down on some dog food, surrounded by a group of concerned neighbors. Oddly enough, they were standing directly in front of our house, but none of them knew that he belonged to us. That's because Fred's invisible fence has always kept him in the back yard...until lately. They thought he had either been hit by a car or attacked by a mountain lion. It was the bloody eye thingy. One of them, a young boy, had brought him food, which Fred was consuming like he hadn't had a meal in a month. So, standing there in my pajama pants with my wild hair telling those nice, well-meaning folks that yes, Fred was ours, and no, he wasn't injured...he always looks that bad...and yes, we do feed him...well, I don't think they were buying any of it. Nevertheless, we thanked them for their interference, I mean, their concern, and PhillyTwo picked him up and we turned tail and marched back into the house.
I hate that damned dog.

And Speaking Of The Movies

I was reading an article today, titled, "The Shushed and the Shusher" - you can find it on the NPR site - a blog by Linda Holmes. I'd link to it, but for some reason I'm unable to. Could be I'm a buffoon. Anyhow, it's about people who talk in the movie theater...DURING the movie.
I agreed with the sentiment of the article, but I'm a tad more aggressive about shushing people than the author was. If someone's disturbing my movie experience after I've paid a small fortune and gone to the trouble to be there, I'm all about letting them know. I love to be with Ron when it happens, though, because when it comes to movie shushing, he's the king.

Think 1997 and Titanic.
Two women who were sitting behind us had been whispering nonstop during the entire movie. Finally, came the moment when the ship was sinking, all hell had broken loose, and the emergency flares were exploding into the air. It was both serious and sad, and that's when one of the women behind us stupidly spoke in a LOUD whisper, "Oh look! Fire works!" Ron had finally had enough. He turned around with an exasperated, "Ladies! Please!" After that, we didn't hear another peep. Now while it did lessen our enjoyment of Titanic, as far as I'm concerned, it was okay because it planted a necessary seed for future pleasant cinematic experiences for me and Ron.

The very next movie we went to see was Saving Private Ryan. The theater was crowded so there weren't a lot of empty seats. We grabbed two along the wall and as soon as we were comfortably situated, we realized there could be a potential problem. The previews had already started and the guy behind us was talking to his buddy like he was in his own man cave. The moment the movie began and it was obvious he was going to continue his conversation, Ron turned around and posed the question, "Are you going to talk through the whole movie?" The guy came back with a smart ass, "I might." The look on Ron's face was enough to end that boy's life, but he closed the deal with, "I don't think so." He turned back around, we watched the movie in peaceful silence, and when it was over and the lights came up, I noticed the guys behind us had vanished.

Once you go down with the Titanic, you learn.

The Oscars

The Hosts: Is that the best they could do? Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin? I can think of at least a dozen people who would have done a better job, starting with Neil Patrick Harris. Why didn't they just let him stay and host after his opening number? Or why not Ben Stiller? His moment on stage as an Avatar was better by far than anything Steve and Alec did.

The Dresses: Those were my pick for the four best-dressed actresses. If I have to tell you their names, then you really shouldn't be here.

The Stars: Say what you will about George Clooney, he works the crowd like nobody's business, shaking hands, giving autographs. The other stars should take lessons from him. Gabourey Sidibe may have burst on the scene as a great actress, but she needs a lot of work on her red carpet skills. She kinda acted like a moron.

The Winners: I only saw one of the nominated movies, so I can't weigh in who won and who lost. I've vowed to do better in the coming year, and actually try to see a few more good flicks.

Pre-Oscar Coverage: Kathy Ireland was so awkward it made me cringe. If she's going to do that job, she needs to get some training...maybe from Sherri Shepherd.

Shall We Gather On The Patio

So, I was flipping through the channels the other night and I'm almost embarrassed to admit that the particular show that caught my attention was something called "Campmeeting" on the Inspiration Network. It was truly sick. Three old white men who had Grecian-Formula-ed every hair on their ugly-ass heads and were barely able to move their mouths from the tight-faced effect of too much plastic surgery, were sitting outside on a balcony overlooking Jerusalem (yes, the one in Israel) and were taking turns telling viewers why they should call in to their prayer lines (back in South Carolina) and cough up substantial sums of money, because by doing so, like magic, their money troubles would disappear. I know that sentence was pretty fucking long, but it's not nearly as long as the prison sentences those three men deserve for the scam they're running. The only financial troubles that would get "healed" from viewers calling those so-called "prayer lines" to donate money would be those of the preachers, and by preachers, I mean money-grubbing, scum-of-the-earth bottom-feeders. It's hard to imagine that people listen to those snake oil salesmen who actually say the words, "you must obey", but they do and they do! The youngest of the three men, David Cerullo, is president and CEO of the Inspiration Network and here's where he lives:


It's a 12,000-square-foot lakefront bungalo in Lake Keowee, South Carolina, valued at over $2 million. He barely squeaks by on a salary of $1.5 million per year and his whole family is on the payroll. So, yeah, everybody needs to call in and give a little money to help them maintain that meager lifestyle.
Let me just add that I love, love the name of the show, "Campmeeting", designed to bring to mind the old-time tent revival, I'm sure. Sadly, the only things that get revived during this so-called meeting are the bank accounts of those shysters. And why did they travel all the way to Jerusalem to do the patio beg? If they're going for "Jesus-like", then, shit, go all the way...have the crew mike 'em and nail their asses to seven foot crosses and while they hang up there bleeding, they could ask people to call in and donate money. I'd pay to see that.

The History Channel Isn't Just For Nerds

As you can see, I've let Google put their ads back on my blog. I'm not really sure why we ever broke up in the first place, but we're back together now, and..."We're like peas and carrots, Google and me."

My two new favorite t.v. shows happen to be on the History Channel, but that doesn't mean I'm learning about World War I (the Big One) or about President Taft (the really Big One). No, my shows hit much closer to my redneck roots: Pawn Stars and The American Pickers.

Pawn Stars (think: Porn Stars) takes you inside of a pawn shop in Las Vegas run by a family (think: mafia) of shrewd wheeler-dealers, headed by the grandfather, Richard, who started the business, Richard's son, Rick, who does most of the day-to-day deals, and Rick's son, Corey, who is learning the business from Dad and Grandpa. It's not just your run-of-the-mill diamond rings and fake Rolex watches that come into the store. It's vintage pinball machines, cuckoo clocks, guns and swords, as well as old boats, motorcycles and trucks. It's a little bit of everything. Expect the unexpected and expect the grandfather to be as hateful as hell, Rick to call in one of his expert friends to do an appraisal on every show and Corey to be the village idiot. Not only is it entertaining, but you learn a lot about the workings of a pawn shop, as well as historical facts about the items that are brought in by Las Vegas customers. Casinos are never mentioned in the show, but I picture the people who do business with the family, walking straight out of the pawn shop and straight into their favorite casinos with new-found cash. But again, that is never mentioned.

The American Pickers is entirely different. It's two guys, Mike and Frank, who travel the country "picking" treasures out of old sheds, barns and junkyards to take back to Iowa to rehabilitate and resell for profit. They're pros at spotting the pieces that have value, from the smallest knickknack to the biggest albatross. They buy it all. The interesting part is seeing the collective messes that people have hoarded in their basements for forty or more years, and how hard it is to get them to part with any part of those messes...even when some one's offering them cold hard cash and the camera's rolling.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who loves these shows. They're in the top ten of most watched on cable t.v. God bless the U.S.A.

Coulda Been A Contender

I can't say that I was glued to the television during the Olympics, but I certainly watched my share of the speed skating, snow boarding, ice hockey, skiing, bobsledding, figure skating, etc., and while I found it all very uplifting, it also reminded me how much I hate cold weather sports. I mean, there those athletes were, competing their little hearts out, working and struggling, and not only did they have to contend with the aches and pains of sore muscles and injuries, they also had to contend with the snow and ice. They had to be freezing their asses off. I couldn't even watch without a blanket around me.
I haven't always been such a lodge bunny. When I was young, I loved the snow. I couldn't wait to get out in it. My favorite time was at night when it was really cold because that's when the snow was icy and packed down hard and it was perfect for sledding. We'd build a big bonfire on the edge of the park and everyone would show up with their sleds and we would go up and down that one big hill for hours and hours. In between runs, we'd warm ourselves by the fire until our coats and gloves were smoking, then we'd be ready to go again. I wouldn't exactly call what we did a "sport". It was more like an "activity"...one that we started doing when we were nine or ten and continued doing through high school. Of course, when puberty first arrived, our gatherings became half about the sledding and half about the boy-girl-ing. By then, we would take the downhill run with our current squeezes, stop on the way back up the hill to make out behind a tree, then mosey back to the bonfire and try to look as if nothing had happened. Oh, it was very thrilling...for thirteen and fourteen year old hormone-infested nymphs. But if we could have gotten our hands on some snow skis or snow boards (a futuristic concept) back then, our hill might have become an alpine ski run and we might have become Olympic athletes...in between the make-out sessions, of course.