tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35231773506345323162024-03-05T19:15:24.392-06:00Deep South ThoughtsBrad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.comBlogger114125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-47293696562740319642015-08-06T21:20:00.001-05:002015-08-06T21:21:30.560-05:00I See...I was reading some Whitman the other day – "Leaves of Grass" – and was inspired to write some free verse. Poetry is something I've dabbled in over the years, and while I'm never satisfied with what I've written, I feel it's a healthy exercise. I wasn't going to post this here, but a friend and fellow writer said I should.<br />
<br />
So, here's what I wrote.<br />
<br />
–––––<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
<i>I can’t see the person</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see sweat, tears, blood</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Pain, despair, suppressed longing</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Stains on the conscience scrubbed raw</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see shells and facades</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>The remnant of a childhood lost</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>A vain clutch at a phantom breeze</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Bearing fix’d mistakes from a previous life</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see cues taken</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>From generations before</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Worn paths, crooked and straight</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Myriad means converging at the same, inevitable end</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see connections</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Forged by want and need</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Friends and lovers dancing ‘round</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Led by notes of flat plains and sharp valleys</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see families</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Bound by strings of DNA</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Bonding and fissuring in undulations</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Ever defined by blood and an unchosen name</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see monsters</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Ravaging ones, meek ones</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Ones unsure which side to take</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>And those who wish they could be angels</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see skin, hair, veins</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Flesh to be caressed and cut</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>A thin sheet of beauty pulled taut</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>To cover the macabre form of our souls</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see rituals</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Words handed down</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Drinks at 5:00 passed around</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Men in silent combat with their father’s shadow</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see chaff</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Buffeted and tossed</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Floating indistinct across fields</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Landing where it will in its own time</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see monuments</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Built by a scheming world</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Balanced upon anonymous shoulders</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Toppled by the capricious shifts of money and ideals</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see refuse</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Swept down the sidewalk</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>By the passing swoosh of wingtips</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Filling in the jagged cracks to save stubbed toes</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see masks</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Hiding tortured faces</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Prosthetic grins beneath sad eyes</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Crow’s feet scratching at the plastic skin</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see promise</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Frenetically swirling inside</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Bubbling and boiling as if in a cauldron</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Seeking an outlet to explode itself into the world</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see rivers of blood</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Spilled in the giving and taking of life</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Splashing across the grass and the lilies</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>The sins of man lapping at my feet as I tread the shore</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>I see hope</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Nonsensical, indomitable</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Reaching blindly into the mist</i></div>
<i>Assured its faith will soon be rewarded</i>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-88270181796501616562015-07-20T21:48:00.000-05:002015-07-20T21:58:14.555-05:00I'll Take a Quiet LifeSilence is priceless to me. I seek it out obsessively, looking for a moment or two in the rare ebbs and lulls of my life. Silence doesn't mean a lack of noise, but rather a chance to let my thoughts and emotions rise above the outward cacophony. On my short commute to and from work, I listen to music from my iPod (never the radio, ew), and it's usually carefully chosen. It needs to fit my mood, and apparently my mood the past year or so has been best reflected by the music of Radiohead.<br />
<br />
One of the songs that often captures my mood, as well as my general desire for silence and peace, is "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5CVsCnxyXg" target="_blank">No Surprises</a>," off the album "OK Computer." The entire album is about alienation, and "No Surprises" speaks to the pervasive suburban emptiness I find myself feeling, and that I crave in a resigned way.<br />
<br />
<i>I'll take a quiet life</i><br />
<i>A handshake of carbon monoxide</i><br />
<i>With no alarms and no surprises...</i><br />
<i>Silent, silent</i><br />
<br />
Most days I just want to be left alone, tucked into my anonymous corner of this vast world. I'll accept whatever is given me, so long as that handshake brings me the promise of predictability and, above all, silence. No voices telling me what to think or do, no winds ruffling my hair, no rain pelting my skin. Slack tide. Stillness. A cloak of solitude, where nothing can find me. That's what I want.<br />
<br />
It's nearly impossible to have for any amount of time. The shouts and bangs and ringings and clamors of life penetrate the cocoon and force me to engage with them. The noise might be an unpaid bill or a plate dropping on the floor – both give me a start. They didn't always cause such a visceral reaction, but my guess is the wreck in 2010 lowered my tolerance for racket of every kind.<br />
<br />
<i>A heart that's full up like a landfill</i><br />
<i>A job that slowly kills you</i><br />
<i>Bruises that won't heal</i><br />
<i>You look so tired, unhappy...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The noise causes that landfill to stack up higher and higher, desperately seeking a place to be released. The emotions pile atop one another until they've no place else to go, so they slip and collide and undercut each other, and those slices of silence bulge as the landfill tries to empty itself all at once. The thoughts and feelings can't be sorted out before the noise resumes.<br />
<br />
I've never been able to take people in large doses. They only make life more inscrutable. I tend to live inside my own head, and there always seems to be an invisible wall between me and other people, whether it's my wife, parents, good friends, co-workers, acquaintances, strangers. I can connect with them, to a point, but I can't let them in because I don't know how. Or maybe I just don't want to, because that would make the silence all the more elusive.<br />
<br />
So I come off as aloof or uncaring or, worst of all, apathetic. I don't like to talk, so that doesn't help the perception. But the less I talk, the less others talk to me (in theory), therefore – silence. Silence is the only place where I feel comfortable. It's a place I use to go to more often, when I was young and life had yet to fully spring itself upon me with its demands and distractions. That's probably what I miss most about my childhood, is the ability to lie quietly on the carpet in my room and imagine little men playing baseball in front of me. The easiest way for me to return there is by getting lost in a song that speaks to me either through the lyrics or the music (preferably both).<br />
<br />
I get lost in Radiohead all the time. It's my oasis of silence.Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-66284263822654357822015-07-10T17:12:00.002-05:002015-07-10T17:12:54.876-05:00A Prison of Stars and BarsSomewhere in my closet, or maybe the attic, tucked away in a dusty brown box, I have two flags: the Confederate battle flag, and the Stars & Bars Confederate flag. I've had them since at least college, and at one time I displayed them proudly. That was a long time ago. Now, they feel like skeletons in my closet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you grew up in the South – in my case, Mississippi and Louisiana – when I did, symbols of the Confederacy were the norm. You didn't give them a second thought, at least not if you were white. I had those flags, and I had a battle flag bandana, a battle flag license plate, a battle flag keychain, and a shirt or two featuring the flag. They were fashion statements as much as anything else.<br />
<br />
I was wearing that bandana one night in a mall in Chattanooga when a police officer came up to me and told me to remove it, expressing concern for my safety. I was taken aback. The cop mentioned a recent incident in Kentucky where a teenager with a Confederate flag flying on his truck <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1995/01/22/us/symbolism-turns-deadly-when-flag-is-misread.html" target="_blank">was gunned down by some black guys</a>, but I couldn't conceive that happening to me.<br />
<br />
That same year, I was chilling in my dorm room when a couple of my black dorm mates came in to hang out for a while. One of them looked up at the wall above my bed and said, "What's up with the flag?" My full-sized battle flag was hanging there. I don't recall my response, but I'm sure I used the word "heritage" in there somewhere. We didn't discuss it further.<br />
<br />
Another time, I was at a Louisiana Tech football game, and upon returning to my truck I found someone had stripped my Confederate tag off the front. So I bought another one.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I realize I was essentially oblivious to how others perceived the flag. I knew some people didn't like it, but I failed to understand why. I saw no logical reason to get worked up about it, and I truly think that was more due to ignorance than racism. Like any white Southerner, I've had to work through a mindset that is partly racist by nature, but I have never been one to set myself against another race simply because I'm white and they're not. When I was young, I never understood why my friends would use the n-word, and I remember arguing with my friend and his cousin – a girl a few years our senior – about using that slur.<br />
<br />
Years later, I exchanged several emails with a man from Detroit who had read something I wrote and spewed some of the most hateful words about blacks I've ever read.<br />
<br />
This is how I encountered racism growing up. It was no longer the raging behemoth that had once enveloped the South in its shadow, but its mark was still there, the scars still sensitive to the touch. Racism still thrived in those festering wounds, like an infection that can't be treated. My parents and my friends' parents came of age smack in the middle of the Civil Rights movement, and unfortunately, not all parents of that generation raised their children the way mine did. On the playground, in the dusty old barber shops, even at church, wounded white pride made itself evident in the form of whispered epithets and off-color jokes. I even remember a friend popping in a cassette with songs that fantasized about killing Martin Luther King Jr. I winced at the time, and now I wish I had said something.<br />
<br />
I'm not trying to absolve myself of being a racist. Too many times, that's what white Southerners (and many non-Southerners) do. "Oh no, I'm not racist, not me. I even have black friends." But it's there. My racism was a more passive strain, borne of ignorance and, later, an unwillingness to let go of things I treasured. Which brings me back to those flags.<br />
<br />
I'm a Civil War buff, and the history of our fair region has long fascinated me. The flags have an important place in that history, and while I'm fine with them being banished from the governmental domain, I see no reason to rid myself of them. They have meaning, and not just to me, whose great-great-great-grandfather enlisted at age 15 to fight in a Confederate uniform. They have meaning to the story of the South, in particular to its great tragedy. And anything with meaning should be remembered, which is not the same as being endorsed.<br />
<br />
Bring the flag down in South Carolina, change the Mississippi flag – I don't care. Because symbols, while important, tend to be a product of their time. The time for those flags was more than a century ago, and they are worth preserving – in a museum, with other historical artifacts. But I don't want to get bogged down in that hot-button issue, which our society has – in typical fashion – managed to elevate far above the far more important issue of what caused Dylan Roof to slaughter nine black people (the flag had squat to do with that).<br />
<br />
For those who still cling to the flag and other symbols of the Confederacy, I say this: You're holding us back. To say that the flag is about your heritage is fine, but to place such an inordinate amount of import on it in regards to your Southern heritage is to sell the South short. The South is so much more than a flag or any other symbols. Our history is so much richer than that. If you think a flag being taken down is a serious threat to your Southern identity, then maybe you don't have as much of a Southern identity as you'd like to think.<br />
<br />
There are other flags of Southern pride you can wave, so to speak, besides the Confederate one. Wanna talk heritage? How about our musical heritage? It's found in people like B.B. King, Elvis, Leadbelly, Hank Williams Sr., Drive-By Truckers, the Allman Brothers. It's found in places like Memphis, New Orleans, Muscle Shoals, Athens, Nashville. It spans generations and genres, transcends race and politics and everything else that seeks to divide us, and it reminds us all that we have in common.<br />
<br />
How about our literary heritage? The words of Faulkner and Welty and Grisham. How about our athletic heritage? Friday night and Saturday afternoon football, with stars like Payton, Dupree, Manning, Bo, and Herschel. The fertile baseball soil that grew legends like Hammerin' Hank, Ty Cobb, Josh Gibson, and Frank Thomas.<br />
<br />
There is plenty to celebrate about one's Southern heritage, which is much more than a piece of fabric. There's more heritage in a single Hank Sr. lyric than there is in a museum full of Confederate flags. Speaking of Williams...<br />
<br />
We had just moved from Oxford – where Ole Miss fans passionately waved Confederate flags at home football games – to Clinton before my second-grade year. At Clinton Elementary, part of our curriculum included music appreciation (or whatever they called it back then), and my most vivid memory of that is learning about Hank Williams. We learned about his music, and we learned about the man, who would often be laid up on a cot spitting up blood just before a performance.<br />
<br />
<i>I love to see the towns a-passin' by</i><br />
<i>And to ride these rails, 'neath God's blue sky</i><br />
<i>Let me travel this land from the mountains to the sea</i><br />
<i>'Cause that's the life I believe He meant for me</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Those words, from Hank's "Ramblin' Man," capture the Southerner's love for his homeland. The intimacy of small towns, the expanse of the countryside, the tree-blanketed mountains, and all the charms of the Southland. Those have always been there and always will be. A flag? That's a transient symbol, just one small square of a diverse tapestry that stretches across a land and a people and a history that defy any sort of narrow categorizations or stereotypes. We often complain as Southerners about being put into a box, but it's far worse to put yourself in a box, tied off neatly with a Confederate bow.<br />
<br />
We're more than that. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/09/magazine/the-souths-heritage-is-so-much-more-than-a-flag.html?_r=0" target="_blank">As Patterson Hood put it</a>, "Why fly a flag that stands for the very things we as Southerners have worked so hard to move beyond?"</div>
Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-30180185523304284792015-02-22T16:58:00.000-06:002015-02-22T17:01:02.921-06:00Mind Stream: The Bulging Earth<i>I've been reading "Writing Down the Bones," by Natalie Goldberg. Wish I'd read it years ago. Anyway, what follows is a stream-of-consciousness exercise I did a few weeks ago after reading one of the chapters (I forget which chapter). Kinda dark.</i><br />
<i>–––––</i><br />
<div class="p1">
The world is full of too many things. It is bulging, the ground roiling with the uncontainable existence of life and non-life. All the sunshine illuminates for me are the scars and bruises of time and shoots of love that never bloom from the earth because no one truly knows how to nurture them. We are broken gardeners, claiming love and other things of which we know almost nothing. Our "love" is but a ghostly mockery of whatever love truly is, or perhaps it's a hint of a phantom that exists only in our feeble minds, which are full of too many things that contradict each other and paralyze our internal logic.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I stand on a street corner as cars and people and life whiz past in fast-forward. My eyes find no focus, and my heart beats alone, a quiet drum beat hopelessly looking around for its music. If the music is there, the cacophony is drowning it and burying it in some crevice where even moonlight cannot reach. I stand on this corner and stare at the silver sky, waiting for the rain to bring either clarity or death. My name is Nothing, and no one calls it.</div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
The straight, smooth lines that carry men slice my veins. My soul leaks out and is carried away on the autumn winds, and I cannot follow. The browned leaves gather at my feet and rise up, and I become them, and I float away in a thousand parts.</div>
Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-10207444364966705682014-03-03T17:43:00.000-06:002014-03-03T17:46:05.647-06:00Nicolas Cage and the RaptureJust a quick post to note that Nicolas Cage is starring in a reboot of the "Left Behind" movie series, because of course he is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">
Jesus wept. RT <a href="https://twitter.com/jon_bois">@jon_bois</a>: nicolas cage is starring in a left behind reboot <a href="http://t.co/njse25IbL6">http://t.co/njse25IbL6</a><br />
— bradlocke (@bradlocke) <a href="https://twitter.com/bradlocke/statuses/440628335002288128">March 3, 2014</a></blockquote>
<br />
The Left Behind books were entertaining, although I certainly had significant theological disagreements with them. And the Kirk Cameron movies were just meh, but I gave them an A for effort. With Cage and some other familiar names on board – including Chad Michael Murray and Lolo Jones(!) – this new project might be taken more seriously by the general public.<br />
<br />
My wife can't stand Nicolas Cage, and he's not my favorite actor, either. He's been in some good movies, though, and he's certainly not scared of any role. Nor does he shy away from movies with spiritual content (see: "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-oHOmjeQuHs" target="_blank">World Trade Center</a>").<br />
<br />
I get the feeling this movie will be spectacular – whether a good or bad spectacular, who knows. But Nicolas Cage in a rapture movie has my attention for now.<br />
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Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-39398706401118726772014-02-21T22:23:00.001-06:002014-02-21T22:23:29.066-06:00I Don't Mean to Offend, but...What triggers our reactions to what we perceive as offensive words or behavior? To what degree are those reactions borne of an intuitive sense of right and wrong, as opposed to social conditioning?<br />
<br />
Growing up in a Christian home, a lot of things about the world offended me as I got older and developed a sharper view of the sin in man's heart (and in my own heart). I still consider myself a Christian, but I find myself being less easily offended these days. Part of that is because it takes up too much energy to get offended at every little thing.<br />
<br />
I mean, I still don't like hearing someone take God's name in vain. And there are certain social issues on which I have strong feelings, and it can upset me when someone mocks or dismisses my beliefs. But I get over it.<br />
<br />
Perhaps my skin has thickened from being a journalist all these years, or maybe I've become apathetic (certainly cynical), but what bothers a lot of people doesn't bother me all that much. Perhaps it should, but it doesn't. Given the influence of my childhood and adulthood experiences, it makes me think that social conditioning does indeed play a large role in what we find offensive.<br />
<br />
But I also believe there is an intuitive aspect to it. You see it in very small children, who aren't old enough to understand what you tell them about right and wrong but can sense when someone has been wronged (especially if it's them). The law has been written on our hearts, so to speak, even if we can't always make out exactly what it says.<br />
<br />
And that's where the social conditioning can come in. Those who are older and in authority take a child's pliable moral sense and shape it into something more solid, whether for good or bad. Once that value system is established – and everyone has a value system – then we can more easily identify what we do or don't find offensive.<br />
<br />
A certain amount of self-righteousness is inherent in any value system, and thus a proclivity for seeking out things that offend us. When something offends you, it's because your sense of right and wrong has been pricked, and taking a moral stand for something makes you feel morally superior to whatever or whoever has offended you. We all like being in the right, and most of us like letting others know that we're in the right and, if they disagree with us, they are clearly in the wrong. So really, being offended is something we want.<br />
<br />
This psychological phenomenon, by the way, is not unique to any particular group of people. Christians, Muslims, atheists, Republicans, Democrats, communists, pacifists, warmongers – all possess some sort of moral sense, even if it's twisted. All are offended by those who oppose them.<br />
<br />
Of course, some people are more easily offended than others. Given how my attitude in this regard has changed over the years, does being less easily offended equal a crumbling value system? Or more accurately, perhaps, does it mean my value system has turned inward? (Even the most selfish person has values, it's just that most of those values are concerned acutely with the self.) Is it a sign of maturity?<br />
<br />
As I ponder this, one thought strikes me: Over the years, how I handle personal insults has changed dramatically. Of all the things that might offend me, a personal insult isn't one of them. Again, I point to my experience as a sports journalist, a job in which insults come with the territory. Sports fans can be a pretty easily offended bunch, and so they lash out at the easiest targets – the messengers.<br />
<br />
It's at the point now that someone hurling insults my way actually provides me with a few laughs. Witness this recent Twitter exchange, precipitated by my calling a Mississippi State player a bust after two seasons:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisccXVt5f_1otzXp7mtEB-LrexjgI8UheShnHfev1KH6_b0NEfSTRH_VBefETnU8fsoyJq8NstRFSeZKa-dJ4lrjWVsKD2RoHcpf81mMxOu-YP-8Tzrv9TEoZL7i_nVltcUNtz5KS0-FI/s1600/Twitter+screencap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisccXVt5f_1otzXp7mtEB-LrexjgI8UheShnHfev1KH6_b0NEfSTRH_VBefETnU8fsoyJq8NstRFSeZKa-dJ4lrjWVsKD2RoHcpf81mMxOu-YP-8Tzrv9TEoZL7i_nVltcUNtz5KS0-FI/s1600/Twitter+screencap.jpg" height="277" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
That's tame stuff. I once had a reader – an atheist who took exception to a column I had written for a Christian website – send me an email in which he prayed that Satan would give my children cancer. It doesn't get more offensive than that, but I ultimately laughed it off because of how ridiculous it was.<br />
<br />
Laughter is a great way to deal with those who would offend you. It strips such a person's words and actions of their power.<br />
<br />
Of course, choosing not to be offended leads us into another moral thorn bush, one in which I often find myself entangled: We can think ourselves too morally advanced to let those offensive heathens bring us down. There's that damn self-righteousness again.Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-38417338853103637592012-07-24T16:06:00.000-05:002012-07-24T16:06:56.247-05:00Short Story: Battle (or, Initiation)<i>I have neglected this creative outlet for too long, perhaps because I had put upon myself unreasonable demands for its purpose. So I have decided to appropriate this space for a more specific use.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>I like to write essays, short stories, poetry, and the like, but I keep it all under guard on my laptop. But it's the kind of writing I enjoy most, much more so than the tripe I put in the newspaper every day. So I will, as <b>Red Smith</b> liked to say, open a vein here and bleed. Many things I have had written for weeks or months or even years will appear here periodically. Being extremely self-critical, I do this with some apprehension, but I figure if people don't like what I write, well, they can find something else to amuse them.</i><br />
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<i>My first entry as I take this new course is a (very) short story about a Union soldier entering battle for the first time. I simply have titled it "Battle," although "Initiation" might be a better title.</i><br />
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*****<br />
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<div class="p1">
An orange sun burns through the mist that is pressing down on our camp. There is a heavy silence, of expectation and foreboding. I am freshly shaven. My uniform is clean and stiff, my black boots tightly buckled. My hat is snug. I check my pistol. It's clean, polished, loaded, ready. My stomach is full of ham and coffee.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
The rest of camp is beginning to stir. My fellow soldiers speak in low tones. General Ammond told me that men always speak this way before battle, not wanting to make Death aware of their presence; He would be here soon enough.</div>
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<div class="p1">
The birds are silent, as if they sense something. There is no breeze to move the trees or tall sage grass. The world seems to have paused, waiting as long as possible to furiously exhale. I am breathing easily, nervous not for what I must do – I am well-trained – but for that moment when reality becomes completely inescapable. It is not the bullets and bayonets I fear, nor the men wielding them. It is the unknown fates that will befall us, the Providence that comes well-disguised as chaos and chance.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
I have steeled my mind, and so my nerves are no match for my focus and resolve. Still, thoughts of home steal in. The images flit about my mind, and they seem to be so distant from the present in both time and space. They seem little more than a dreamy prelude to the cold reality now facing me. For a moment, I feel like the only man in the world.</div>
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*****</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
Cannons have been carefully aligned, trenches dug, fences erected. The medical tents are clean, fully stocked and prepared for the inevitable influx of patients. I recall a play from my childhood, one my school did about the Revolutionary War. I had played a general. The stage had all the necessary props, all the accoutrements of war, but with no real battle to fight.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
The fog is lifting. To my right, well up a hillside, citizens mill about. They are putting down blankets. I see three women in ruffly dresses, fanning themselves. One man has a telescope, surveying the landscape. I remember what we were taught about the ancient Romans and their lust for bloodsport at the Colosseum.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
It is time for formations and last-minute instructions. We all know the battle plan like we know the Psalms, and likewise take comfort in it. I sense some fear among our men, but more than that I sense confidence. My fellow officers are striding down the lines, inspecting, searching for any flaw, be it an unbuttoned coat, an unsighted musket, or a wavering will. Everything is in order, and few words are spoken. We are ready.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
*****</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
My horse is fidgety. He seems anxious for the battle, unwilling to await the trumpet's call. He has done this before. I have not.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
We can see the enemy coming out of the haze. It is already hot, and sweat is rolling down my cheeks. The scent of dogwood floats by on a breeze, and then the air is still.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
The enemy is advancing through the sage, and the only sound is the swishing of their boots against the acquiescent grass. We stand, waiting for the moment, and then the thick air is pierced by the battle cry. The guns rattle as they're unshouldered, the front line kneels into the damp soil, and staccato blasts puncture the air. All the illusions that I'd taken for reality to this point dissipate in the smoke and the screams.</div>
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<div class="p1">
*****</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
Sounds roll around and collide in my half-dream. Booms, pops, yells, grunts, whizzes, hooves clamping, men crying for God or mother or both. An image of a girl I once wanted fills my groggy mind. Desirée. Caramel skin, hazel eyes and hair as black as the first mare I broke. Desirée once smiled at me, and in that shard of time my heart felt a peace that I've not since felt 'til now. She smiles again, as through a haze, and I am floating toward those blossoming lips. I feel I must be dead, and this is my Heaven. Yet I know it's not real.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
I am back in the field, on my stomach. My head feels weighed down as if by a man's heavy boot, and my uniform is twisted about and torn. I lift my head slowly, bloodied sage stuck to my cheek. A fallen soldier's soles are inches away. I suddenly realize the battle has ended. A negro hums as his shovel reaches into the ground. I rise on all fours like a wounded dog. The ground is red, as if the roots of the sage are opened veins.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
I stand, feeling like an old man rising from his death bed. Bodies of men and horses lie haphazardly across the pasture like discarded cigarettes. The fog has been replaced by lingering gunsmoke, the acrid smell swallowed up in the stench of what I presume is death. It is like what I once smelled at my uncle's slaughterhouse, only multiplied and folded over and thrust into my nostrils with the force of a roadside abductor, who instead of ammonia soaked his cloth in dead men's sweat. It is nearly smothering me.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
My ankle hurts almost as badly as my head. I limp over to the negro gravedigger and ask him who won. He replies that we did, and I realize that victory smells the same as defeat to those in the fray.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-87904977346106042092011-02-18T23:29:00.003-06:002011-02-19T01:04:49.395-06:00A Clean-Shaven Start; or, Every Whisker CountsI fancy shaving was once an exercise in meticulous patience, the daily routine of which set a man at a reasonable pace to start his day. Seems it was a chore that produced or augmented that particular character trait, unless the man had an otherwise indomitable personality that precluded it or was simply a brute.<div><br /></div><div>I shave once a week, and with the utmost expediency (though probably not efficiency). That habit summarily defines me: I loathe the mundane, little-picture duties that carry more weight than I realize; I prefer trying to capture the big picture in one fell swipe of the blade, which is why I often find later that I've missed a few whiskers. I'm not in the daily practice of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps the art of facial cultivation is lost only on me. I see plenty of perfectly clean-shaven men around me. But the point isn't the end result, but the process.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've seen advertisements for electric shavers where a young, virile looking man is dashing to the office while trimming his strong jaw with said product. It's dandy if it works, but shaving has been reduced to just another helpless object of our breathless culture.</div><div><br /></div><div>I recall a scene from one of my favorite movies, "Glory," where an officer is staring into a dirty mirror outside his tent, carefully running a large blade over his face. A war was on, and perhaps his morning grooming was done while weightier matters filled his mind, but he nevertheless could not continue his day until the painstaking process was finished.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mind you, this is not some indirect criticism of beards. Far from it. Beard cultivation can be an art form and can require more time than a simple shave. Others allow their beards to grow like ivy, which while it might not point to patience (although the beard-wearer may be a patient man), it signifies another trait: Unbeholden to conformity.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, yes, I believe a man's shaving habits can provide a portal to part of his character, though certainly not the whole. The act also reminds one of his humanity when those little trickles of lifeblood seep from the neck. It reminds us that life is best lived at a clean, deliberate pace.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-54077781386835885382010-11-15T20:40:00.004-06:002010-11-15T21:42:29.171-06:00What's in a Town Name? Or, That Cutoff Joke Was Too EasyThe South has a rich literary history, and that's reflected in something you might not realize – town names.<div><br /></div><div>I haven't been all over the country, but the most interesting, funny, funny-sounding, and curious names seem to be attached to Southern towns. And the smaller the town, it seems, the odder the name can be. Town names are a form of literature, to me, in that they can say a lot in just one or two words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some personal favorites, most of which I didn't have to look up (unincorporated towns included):</div><div><br /></div><div>• Cuba, Ala.</div><div>• Noxapater, Miss.</div><div>• Rolling Fork, Miss.</div><div>• Cutoff, La.</div><div>• Dry Prong, La.</div><div>(Those last two remind me of a Lorena and John Wayne Bobbit joke, but since this is a family blog...)</div><div>• Coffeeville, Miss.</div><div>• Denmark, Miss.</div><div>• Oddville, Ky.</div><div>• Gu-Win, Ala.</div><div>• Bald Knob, Ark.</div><div>• Green Frog, Tenn.</div><div>• Kiln, Miss.</div><div>• Toad Suck, Ark.</div><div>• Turkey Scratch, Ark.</div><div>• And my personal all-time favorite: Smackover, Ark.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder, of course, how these town names came to be. I could do some research, but that'd be too much like work. So I'll take a stab at how some of the above towns became so named.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Cuba, Ala.: Obviously <b>Fidel Castro</b>'s top-secret American spy headquarters. Or just where he keeps a summer home. Bribes the locals to keep quiet with free cigars and large guns.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Rolling Fork, Miss.: See, this one guy wanted to call it Rolling Fork, but another wanted to call it Rolling Spoon. They got in a fight to the death, and you can guess which utensil won out. (Rolling Knife guy suffered a tragic, and embarrassing, injury but later founded Cutoff, La.)</div><div><br /></div><div>• Denmark, Miss.: The first and only Danish settlement in Mississippi is still a thriving community of tasty pastries.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Bald Knob, Ark.: [CENSORED]</div><div><br /></div><div>• Toad Suck, Ark.: You don't wanna know. Let's just say it's derived from some weird local custom involving warts.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Kiln, Miss.: Originally named Crucible, then later Induction Furnace, and finally Kiln.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Smackover, Ark.: In 1889ish, the mayor of the newly established town was set to reveal the name (as voted on by the settlers) at a well-publicized ceremony, but just as he was about to make the big announcement, a runaway mail carriage ran him smack over and killed him, so they went with that. Nobody liked that jerk anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>Weird town names aren't limited to the South, of course. There's Intercourse, Penn. There was the boomtown of Tombstone, Ariz. And the aptly named Peculiar, Mo. And let's not forget West Elbow, Mont. (OK, that place doesn't exist, but it should; there is a West Thumb, Wyo.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe that's why I find big towns and cities so boring. No character, no color, just names as cold as the concrete. I mean, how could you not love a place like Rabbit Shuffle, N.C.?</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-79780082669025442652010-04-29T19:35:00.005-05:002010-04-29T20:01:06.303-05:00Is 'Greatness' Big? Or, Astronauts Are OverratedMy kids were watching PBS today, and somebody came on and started talking about "making big things happen," or something to that effect. They showed a kid dressed up as a doctor, another as an astronaut – you get the picture.<div><br /></div><div>I've got no problem shooting for the stars, striving for mighty feats in whatever vocation or endeavor one chooses. Our country's rich history is full of stories of grand successes, from <b>Ben Franklin</b> to <b>Andrew Carnegie</b> to <b>Neil Armstrong</b> to <b>Bill Gates</b>. But our country was not built on "making big things happen." Which brings me to this question: What's wrong with striving to do little things, and doing them well?</div><div><br /></div><div>The message of becoming great is pervasive in today's generation of children. "Believe in yourself!" and all that crap. The underlying message I get from it is that if you don't achieve great things – or at least try to achieve them – then you're nothing. You're a failure in a society that doesn't really grasp the true meaning of greatness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Take me, for instance. Sure, I'd love to be a famous novelist or something, and yeah, I'm actually attempting to write a novel (it's hard!). In my profession, the normal course is for one to work his way up the ladder, eventually landing at a metropolitan daily or prestigious magazine (or these days, a major Web site).</div><div><br /></div><div>I work at a 35,000 circulation small-town paper. Maybe that's where I want to stay. Society would largely frown on that, I believe. But if I love what I'm doing and do the best I can at it, that's worth more than trying to climb a ladder just because it's there.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope I can teach my kids that while chasing big dreams is OK, it's not the only option. Sometimes the big things we make happen appear little to the world. But those "little" things add up and make us stronger as a whole.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Today's Redneck Thought:</b> "If you're doing what you're able/And putting food there on the table/And providing for the family that you love/That's something to be proud of." – <b>Montgomery Gentry</b>, "Something to Be Proud Of"</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-41236132704031571532010-02-18T18:27:00.003-06:002010-02-18T19:17:52.830-06:00Understanding True BlessingsI hear the word "bless" used a lot, to the point where I've become rather annoyed with it. A sneeze is followed by, "God bless you." A common way of saying good-bye is, "Have a blessed day." And we all know that we should count our blessings, and certainly say a blessing before eating a meal.<div><br /></div><div>But when a doctor used the word the other day, it hit me in a totally different way. I was sitting in my hospital room last week when the doc was going over my file from the car accident I was in Feb. 1. I suffered a broken collarbone, a cracked rib, a bruised lung, and a lacerated spleen. All seemed to be going well with my recovery, though, until Feb. 7. A blood clot worked its way through my heart and into my left lung, which became flooded by fluids.</div><div><br /></div><div>Five days after that episode, the doctor looked at me and said, "You're very blessed that you're not dead." I knew it had been a close call, but the way he said it made it more real. And I found it curious that he didn't use "lucky" or "fortunate" – he said I was "blessed." And that helped me understand exactly what that word means.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luck and fortune are capricious and impersonal, and I'm not even sure how much of either exists in this world. I don't believe our existence to be a series of random, undirected events. There is a purpose for each of us, and recognizing that helps us to recognize when a blessing comes along. A blessing is a gift, even if it's not what we necessarily want at the time. While not dying was certainly a blessing, I'd say the accident itself was a blessing (in disguise, if I may).</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had a lot of time to myself these days, and it's helped me refocus on my relationship with God. I'm realizing how much I've been ignoring important things while ripping my hair out over worldly concerns. I keep forgetting He is in control, even when I'm spinning down a highway – especially when I'm spinning out of control, unable to do anything but shout his name and wait for the nightmare to end.</div><div><br /></div><div>This situation has shown me just how blessed I am. So many people dropped by to visit, gave us food, helped watch and/or chauffeur our children. I was on prayer lists in four continents, and I even had some Lutheran nuns in Arizona praying for me. I could never have imagined so many people caring so much. That is what you call a blessing.</div><div><br /></div><div>And my faithful wife, Rachel, stayed with me nearly every night in the hospital, tending to my needs and showing me just how committed she is to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>A true blessing is not merely some random good happening to us; it's a directed action that produces massive spiritual and emotional ramifications. That my body was so damaged was a blessing; that the doctors and nurses were able to preserve my life was a blessing also. Those two blessings are forever intwined, and it's my prayer that they will bear the kind of fruit I never thought possible, fruit that will be a blessing to others. I hope it's as real to them as it has become to me.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-37967075203983300102010-01-24T21:52:00.004-06:002010-01-24T22:37:33.059-06:00Saints in the Super Bowl; or, It's Snowing in Hell (or New Orleans, Same Thing)So the Saints, the team that used to be the epitome of NFL ineptitude, are going to the Super Bowl, thanks partly to some more <b>Brett Favre</b> "magic" in an NFC championship game. For a kid who spent nine of my formative years in Louisiana – albeit in the north part, a world away from N'awlins – who was quite familiar with the grocery bag-headed shame of Saints fans and the inability of them to win in the playoffs the few times they made it there, this is a stunning development.<div><br /></div><div>This is almost like the Cubs winning the World Series, except that's actually been done before. So this is more like <b>Paris Hilton</b> grasping the Pythagorean theorem, or <b>Uncle Kracker</b> putting out a song that doesn't make me want to rip out my eyeballs, or <b>Mark May</b> making a valid point, or <b>Miley Cyrus</b> winning an Oscar, or <b>Phil Fulmer</b> passing on the buffet, or a Hollywood marriage lasting 50 years. Heck, four years ago the Saints were playing their "home" games in San Antonio and New York. Plus, they're the Saints. When they reached the NFC title game three years ago, that figured to be the zenith of their existence.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the team that normally turned in the kind of performance that once caused former coach <b>Jim Mora</b> to go off <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zX4ox7aX_wc&feature=related">like this</a>. Losing was in their DNA, and it kind of fit with the city that's long been the rectum of the South (for the record, Jackson, Miss., is the armpit). This was a team the freaks could embrace. They were destined to be losers for life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then <b>Sean Payton</b> came to town, and then <b>Drew Brees</b>, and voîla, a real offense. Then they went 8-8 last year, and oh yeah, it's the Saints. Duh. So I sure as heck didn't see this coming, and it still doesn't make sense.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I've been hearing and reading the phrase "WHO DAT!" countless times over the past week, which means the next person that says it will likely receive an envelope full of anthrax from yours truly (just a joke, Mr. FBI agent!). But lots of my Louisiana friends are in a state of euphoria – and probably a state of extreme drunkenness – and I am happy for them. And I'm happy for the Saints, a team that I used to hate for reasons I now can't recall. I'm all about a team from the deep South representin'.</div><div><br /></div><div>Following the game, Saints running back <b>Reggie Bush</b> said of the celebrating fans, "Hopefully, they won't destroy this place." Hopefully not, but I wouldn't be surprised if a few snowflakes fell in the Crescent City. It'd make about as much sense as the Saints going to the Super Bowl.</div></div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-72128934016030151382010-01-16T21:22:00.001-06:002010-01-16T21:22:19.305-06:00Drew metro<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsX9I_XdmaJjELxoQJtKHhVd6Tcu4Ud65y4XIdkjQYtOv3PtVyDjrjhyf0VULSpwGm1h-Ig6j2acRN6weLqeJ6idSsiDegtQba0Rdk6K-RCR5v012Jt6TW-28hIc4NWkoUMZlBFRcJBc/s1600-h/photo-739306.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsX9I_XdmaJjELxoQJtKHhVd6Tcu4Ud65y4XIdkjQYtOv3PtVyDjrjhyf0VULSpwGm1h-Ig6j2acRN6weLqeJ6idSsiDegtQba0Rdk6K-RCR5v012Jt6TW-28hIc4NWkoUMZlBFRcJBc/s320/photo-739306.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427543898621266338" /></a></p>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-49532517780659601682009-11-27T11:25:00.005-06:002009-11-27T12:08:06.040-06:00Redneck Toys; or, Getting Unstuck<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxS9GVSZzuPgSFZKHZBHQIQrMITT-L7xFOLkK1_syEqzF1SC_xrxZjBAtjmVLDiApepjSyhd1DhqklPFoAhl1kkFE5894_NoJFMSseMde2FgUoBUBuF51Gz3nMEzd62HHrDv4EqfxYzs/s1600/golfcart.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxS9GVSZzuPgSFZKHZBHQIQrMITT-L7xFOLkK1_syEqzF1SC_xrxZjBAtjmVLDiApepjSyhd1DhqklPFoAhl1kkFE5894_NoJFMSseMde2FgUoBUBuF51Gz3nMEzd62HHrDv4EqfxYzs/s320/golfcart.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408839176289417714" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53DxFVKklv_7NJgkrRtNSeLfbv4sSiF4aFiDeVwSAatcUy-a1UryuhopeVYBVyJw5xh-a3CIURGmU3PniOhkDyHwPdNWCeTqUVDKXeevRCIOKElHkdBs_cnn-yBqOgnO7hHVYNrsrozk/s1600/StuckTractor.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53DxFVKklv_7NJgkrRtNSeLfbv4sSiF4aFiDeVwSAatcUy-a1UryuhopeVYBVyJw5xh-a3CIURGmU3PniOhkDyHwPdNWCeTqUVDKXeevRCIOKElHkdBs_cnn-yBqOgnO7hHVYNrsrozk/s320/StuckTractor.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408836539416714674" /></a>Sometimes we rednecks just want an excuse to play with our toys. Which explains the picture here. My father, seated in his tractor, and David, my Aunt Marie's husband, decided this would be the best way to pull a golf cart (upper left corner of picture)<div>out of the mud on my grandparents' back 40 yesterday. My daughter and a cousin got that stuck, and as you can see, my dad got stuck trying to get them unstuck. Hilarity ensued.</div><div><br /></div><div>So my cousin Kelly and I mosey down and promptly remove the golf cart from the mud in a matter of minutes. Several hours later – OK, maybe two hours – and after many failed attempts, we finally free the tractor of its muddy moorings.</div><div><br /></div><div>As Kelly and I noted, if they'd just called us in the first place, we could've gotten the golf cart out ourselves and saved them the grief of the tractor being stuck. But I'm not really sure Dad and David minded so much. When Dad finally backed it out of the ruts, David let out a "Whoooooo!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Hey, toys are fun.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Today's Redneck Thought</b>: "What do you call a bunch of tractors sitting outside a McDonald's in Arkansas? Senior prom."</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-43667090428301571262009-10-26T21:02:00.006-05:002009-10-26T22:11:31.221-05:00Don't Flaunt It; or, Redneck FailThere's nothing wrong with being a redneck – in fact, I'm proud to be one – but I don't see the need to always flaunt it. And if you're going to flaunt it, at least do it tastefully, if that's possible.<div><br /></div><div>I was driving up Highway 45 this afternoon when I passed a nice white minivan. And on the trunk were a pair of <a href="http://www.kmonkey.com/blog/trog/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/fp2407mud-flap-girl-posters.jpg">mudflap girl</a> stickers. You know the ones I'm talking about, the kind usually found on the mud flaps of a big rig. I'm going to assume the guy has kids, because, you know, he was driving a minivan. Epic Parenting Fail.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of Epic Parenting Fails, <a href="http://failblog.org/2009/10/25/parenting-fail-18/">here's one</a>. And <a href="http://failblog.org/2009/03/27/parenting-fail-8/">another one</a>. And then there's that sign in Birmingham for a local "caferteria." And then there are people who hang fake bull testicles from their trailer hitch. And then there are people who paint their cars to look like a stock car. And then there are those Carl Hogan Automotive commercials. And then there's the mullet. And then there's <b>Billy Ray Cyrus</b>. Might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, "Howdy, I'm just a dumb ol' redneck! Shoot!"</div><div><br /></div><div>So what I'm saying is, rednecks can be dignified. We can have class. We don't have to fulfill all the negative stereotypes. So next time, Mr. Minivan, try one of those "My Child Is An Honor Student" bumper stickers. They're annoying, sure, but at least they doesn't make me want to call social services on you.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Today's Redneck Thought:</b> "Son, don't pistol whip your sister." My wife, to our 5-year-old son</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-70783518565051166542009-10-11T16:57:00.004-05:002009-10-11T17:39:49.049-05:00A Tight Spot; or, Just a Little Mud<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEY5fgEHu5dKI_PW4AeWwhJUgfeXlxozax-zIb7MjayaxThySIsRkP9VQjZB6rX6V8zVpN0HjE9sOWXxQJTOxh3qX8kFB9qA9nq3Bs_fmcJJ3zx3AdJ399OMmvGtIfl3BMO0sZSoboIV4/s1600-h/Muddy+truck.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEY5fgEHu5dKI_PW4AeWwhJUgfeXlxozax-zIb7MjayaxThySIsRkP9VQjZB6rX6V8zVpN0HjE9sOWXxQJTOxh3qX8kFB9qA9nq3Bs_fmcJJ3zx3AdJ399OMmvGtIfl3BMO0sZSoboIV4/s320/Muddy+truck.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391465549307041890" /></a>See this picture here? I captured it in West Point last week on the way home from Starkville. Yes, that is a huge chunk of grass sticking out of the top. I can only imagine what this guy did. I thought about asking him when he pulled into a gas station, but then I chickened out.<div><br /></div><div>So I tried to think what sort of situation he could possibly have gotten into. It looks like he rolled the thing, but I saw no damage to the vehicle. The placement and pattern of the mud splatter baffle me. Maybe a sod truck dropped part of his load as the guy drove past him.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is one of those "write your own caption" pictures, I guess. And it reminds me how rednecks tend to find themselves in odd predicaments. Like a <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMN7fGZW_BY">Charlie Daniels</a></b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMN7fGZW_BY"> song</a>, or like the time I got married – just kidding, wifey! – or like the time me and three friends slept in the front of a Ford Ranger, instead of our tent, because we thought we heard wild hogs running close by.</div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, aren't some of the best Southern stories about being in a pickle? Like <b>Jerry Clower</b> and the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-AX9QoFhEhI">coon huntin' story</a>. Or <b>Ron White</b> getting literally <a href="http://www.livevideo.com/video/B9277A1B481C47CF97205B8D4B1BB57A/ron-white-tater-salad-thrown.aspx">thrown out of a bar</a> in New York. We just have a knack for getting in a "tight spot," to quote <b>Ulysses Everett McGill</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as long as you come out the other side with no more than a little mud on you, I guess you're OK.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-91528809135353805302009-10-02T16:44:00.004-05:002009-10-02T17:32:13.749-05:00I Hate Walmart; or, No Smiley Face HereI don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but I hate Walmart. I loathe going there, and of course, I go all the time. It's like they've got a gun to my head. "Oh yeah, where else you gonna shop on your budget? Kroger? Ha! That's for rich people, folks who drive Dodge Magnums."<div><br /></div><div>It might have something to do with the fact that I worked at a Walmart the summer after my senior year of high school. I thoroughly did not enjoy it. Checking out 50 jars of baby food at a time, installing toilet paper dispensers, "zoning" – I hated it, plus it was interfering with my baseball. I finally called in "sick" one day because I knew it was probably going to be my last baseball game, ever. It was – an all-star tournament in Monroe, La. I never went back to work at that joint.</div><div><br /></div><div>Later on, as I was trying to save money for getting married, I worked about a month at a Sam's Club in St. Louis. That much time in a walk-in freezer messes with a man's brain (and sanity).</div><div><br /></div><div>Exacerbating my misery was incompetent management, but that's another rant for another day. The only thing I gained from those experiences was a greater appreciation for the college degree I eventually earned. Nothing wrong with working at Walmart, but it ain't for me. I'd rather dig ditches or be a kamikaze pilot.</div><div><br /></div><div>Is it anti-American of me to hate Walmart? I'm all for capitalism, but there's such a thing as being too ubiquitous (see: Notre Dame football, Ryan Seacrest, Chris Berman). And Walmart just has no personality. I mean, they had to steal the (ubiquitous) smiley face, which they didn't even <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smiley">come up with</a>. It's a dull, depressing place to me. It's where Collin Raye's subject in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRv0jVZtdbY">"Little Rock"</a> went to start over while rehabbing.</div><div><br /></div><div>This brings me to a Web site I came across earlier today. The only fun thing about going to Walmart is the, um, scenery. Especially late, late at night. The Web site, <a href="http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/">www.peopleofwalmart.com</a>, is devoted to documenting the odd assortment of folks who darken Walmart's automatic doors. Frightening stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm with my wife. We need a Target here.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-66948289220356960382009-09-01T13:43:00.003-05:002009-09-01T13:52:46.285-05:00A Redneck and His CrackPhone; or, Crap Again!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4viasVon7lXgOqs4AU-BzD0gFbM21bXPPbJ9iy_BXcW225HnB2U7SFOvM5SnUD5SqKTUnnE953rMT5lH5ss48ifOYk_E5qsgqEIUQNKjfwNzalc8iuRappF5OFhouLUe1oyhzus7KAYk/s1600-h/Crack+phone.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4viasVon7lXgOqs4AU-BzD0gFbM21bXPPbJ9iy_BXcW225HnB2U7SFOvM5SnUD5SqKTUnnE953rMT5lH5ss48ifOYk_E5qsgqEIUQNKjfwNzalc8iuRappF5OFhouLUe1oyhzus7KAYk/s320/Crack+phone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376571791404770258" /></a><br />Further proof that rednecks just <a href="http://bradlocke.blogspot.com/2009/05/fancy-hay-hauler-or-leaving-our-mark.html">shouldn't have nice things</a>. Stupid driveway! You know, they call iPhones "CrackPhones" because of their addictive nature. Got a whole new meaning now. And I always said it would never happen to me.<div><br /></div><div>Of course it didn't have a case on it, because that $30 piece of crap fell apart two weeks ago. But hey, at least I didn't <a href="http://bradlocke.blogspot.com/2009/06/redneck-and-his-400-iphone-or-crap.html">drown this one</a>. And at least it still works, although it'll probably give me lacerations on my face one of these days. Still love my iPhone, but I never had this problem with that <a href="http://www.areamobile.de/images/tests/nokia/6610i/6610i_front_schraeg_400.jpg">old school Nokia</a>.<div><br /></div><div>*sigh*<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-33968172185036553122009-08-08T16:18:00.004-05:002009-08-08T17:24:21.337-05:00Gut Check; or, the Southern Male PhysiqueI'm kind of ticked off. Used to be, the beer gut was the exclusive domain of redneck men (and a few redneck <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UyAmAcfZ6U5oVtMp8ZYH6w0niB4vIpJaBGvVG2Bb4vN_LI91ZMVMylVfkN8SqLEV6qiEAJXXGJbrMt6lp1lhiwnl0GIpmzVDIQvBHULpiUY9ApZQEt9E8jIQbIuCMZHcCyZt-IGOgNI/s320/IMG_0910.JPG">women</a>). Oh, I suppose a bulbous belly is common among men of all cultures and eras, but nobody has worn it better than us. We take our beer guts seriously. And any time Yankees want to stereotype us – like in the movie <a href="http://www.flixster.com/movie/a-time-to-kill">"A Time to Kill"</a> – they have our stomachs protruding from underneath a wife-beater.<div><br /></div><div>I've got a bit of one myself, and I'm conflicted, because I don't particularly like carrying it around. I almost got rid of it last year, but then I slacked off in my workouts, and it's back to spare tire size. Although it's not really beer that's made it grown so much as the abundance of sweets that find me at every turn. (Hey, you know how it is in the South; work, church, parties, weddings, funerals, festivals, holidays, ballgames, breakfast – we'll find any excuse to bake a cake.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, now that America is as fat as ever, the beer gut is as prominent as ever – especially in Mississippi, where <a href="http://www.hattiesburgamerican.com/article/20090803/OPINION01/908030313">we're No. 1</a>! There should be a distinction, though: Just because you're obese doesn't mean you have a beer gut. <a href="http://i.pbase.com/u10/drewski39/large/21939959.FrodosPhotos081.jpg">This guy</a> has a natural beer gut. <a href="http://blog.mrseb.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/peterowens_1238335c1.jpg">This guy</a> needs to lay off the fried Twinkies. Let's not tarnish the beer gut's good name by equating it to morbid obesity. Growing a beer gut is just a natural part of a man's maturation. That's why it takes so much work to get rid of one, except for those select few who could eat nothing but gristle all day and still stay skinnier than <b><a href="http://www.ayushveda.com/mens-magazine/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/calista-flockhart-picture-3.jpg">Calista Flockhart</a></b>. I'm pretty sure those kind of people are aliens. Flockhart is for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>But like I said, I'm not overly fond of my own gut. Probably my vanity, which often blinds me to the fact that I'm 33 years old with a wife, four kids and a full-time job. Besides, my wife says she likes my love handles – and there's a reason they're called love handles. (Yeah, I said it.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I should probably stop fighting it. And finish this Samuel Adams before it gets warm.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Today's Redneck Thought:</b> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cd6ANFKQGGw">This</a>.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-321778950567649832009-07-18T17:11:00.005-05:002009-07-18T17:54:58.418-05:00What's in a Name? or, SpellboundMy wife and I have four children, and I feel confident in saying that none of them have extraneous letters in their names. This makes us outcasts in a place like Mississippi, where being original in naming your children means shoving as many silent, useless letters as you can into each name. Or just making up a new spelling altogether. There's this one kid I know named Bayleigh. Seriously. I also know/have heard of Ashleigh, Braedan, Maxx and Madeleine.<div><br /></div><div>And I have a friend named Geoff who doesn't understand why his folks didn't spell it Jeff. As he recently wrote on his Facebook page, "people from kindergarten to elderly routinely mangle my name, sometimes even asking me why I spell it that way, as if I popped out of the womb with a crumpet in one hand, quill in the other, and demanded, with an aristocratic air, that I be Jeff with a G."<div><br /></div><div>I don't necessarily have a problem with how people spell their kids' names, but as Geoff can attest, they're setting them up for a lot of frustration down the road. And not just them, but the people who will unwittingly misspell these names on legal documents or in box scores. I mean, how else could you possibly spell Brittany? You'd be surprised: Brittni, Britni, Britney, Brittani … I've run across all of these spellings – and probably others – in my time as a journalist, because it seems a lot of girls with that name play high school sports.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've never been crazy about androgynous names, either, but they're en vogue: Ashton, Carter, Madison, Peyton/Payton. I can't really talk, because my son's first name could also be used <a href="http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/2006/celebdatabase/drewbarrymore/drew_barrymore1_300_400.jpg">for a girl</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>What happened to good old Southern names? Actually, they're still around, but they come in pairs. Sarah Beth, Anna Catherine, James Henry – and that's cool, but sometimes such a trend is annoying simply because it's a trend.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I'm this way about names because my sisters and I were given simple, easy-to-spell names. Just to screw with people, maybe I should start going by Bradleigh.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Today's Redneck Thought:</b> "And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him … Bill or George, anything but Sue! I still hate that name!" – <b><i>Johnny Cash</i></b>, "A Boy Named Sue"</div></div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-4683111067173119912009-07-15T21:47:00.002-05:002009-07-15T21:50:29.847-05:00A Redneck Easter; or, Making DoI know, I've been a deadbeat blogger again. I've got a couple of things I want to write about, but right now I'm at work. But I ran across something I must share, via FAIL Blog. It's what happens when a divorced guy gets his girl Easter weekend and then realizes that she wants to hunt easter eggs (I'm assuming that's what happened). No telling what's in those eggs, either.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://failblog.org/2009/07/15/easter-basket-fail/">Here it is</a>. Good grief.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-63066262871687021402009-07-05T14:15:00.003-05:002009-07-05T14:51:00.715-05:00Women & Guns; or, Don't Make Me Call My Sister<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHvrWdBhnFAPDOleOdEFED6tMvQXKF_tkWuMd87HcGIzqFhqSVja2jnVEOmt_In-tBdmgpdn3Thfa9og-ZXAHUTlM7nBSaLg5EoXmHSGNdayc-3btErjUJs1o2v7gRq72uMboTuVHNhY/s1600-h/Drew+%26+Sis.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHvrWdBhnFAPDOleOdEFED6tMvQXKF_tkWuMd87HcGIzqFhqSVja2jnVEOmt_In-tBdmgpdn3Thfa9og-ZXAHUTlM7nBSaLg5EoXmHSGNdayc-3btErjUJs1o2v7gRq72uMboTuVHNhY/s320/Drew+%26+Sis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355065875916740418" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>Growing up, I would sometimes get into a tiff with my younger sister, Rachel. Yes, shocking, I know. But she always started it.<div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I'll admit that I was not always the clear victor in these tussles, because she cheated. Well, that, and she's pretty tough. Nowadays it's her job, if the situation calls for it, to kick somebody else's butt. She's in the Air Force and owns many guns, which makes her awesome (on top of her intrinsic awesomeness; I mean, she <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">is</span> related to me). She's stationed in Germany but is stateside for a few weeks as she prepares for her second deployment to Iraq. So I got to see her last week.</div><div><br /></div><div>And how did we bond? By cleaning our guns, of course. Well, she did most of the cleaning. I hadn't cleaned my Ruger 9mm in so long that dust had collected in the barrel. Heck, I haven't shot the thing in years. Sad, I know. Like leaving a brand-new car in the garage.</div><div><br /></div><div>My son, being 5 and male, was eager to "help" us clean the guns (as seen above). We even let him hold them, all the while stressing safety, of course. That's the problem with people and guns these days – too many people who don't respect guns and their power own them. No amount of government screening will keep all such idiots from buying them, I'm afraid.</div><div><br /></div><div>OK, mini-tangent over. Point is, you don't want to mess with my sister. Really, you don't want to mess with most Southern women, especially the ones who pack heat. My dad has told many a time the story of my late grandmother running off some strangers with her pistol. This is the same woman who could wring a chicken's neck – with one hand. I was young when she died, but I knew enough not to cross her.</div><div><br /></div><div>We Southern guys like to act tough, but I'm not ashamed to say it: You mess with me, and I'll call my sister.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Today's Redneck Thought:</span> "I'm gonna show him what little girls are made of/Gunpowder and lead." – <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Miranda Lambert</span></span>, "Gunpowder and Lead"</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-56151997255535485492009-06-22T22:15:00.003-05:002009-06-22T22:39:39.382-05:00A Love Rekindled; or, One More ShotCurse you, golf, you incorrigible tease. I take you on for a one-time fling – our first since ending an on-off, love-hate relationship more than seven years ago – and I'm unable to extricate my heart from your clutches.<div><br /></div><div>Hey, I was on vacation, wanted to have some fun. So I joined my father-in-law and brother-in-law for 18 holes at this little nine-holer just west of Branson on Friday. Teed off before 8 a.m. My first shot set the tone – a severe hook that was headed into the next county (argh!) and then caroms off a tree back into the fairway (sweet joy!).</div><div><br /></div><div>By the turn, the pattern was clear. The seventh hole, a par-5, was typical. I killed the drive – held my pose on the follow-through, savoring it – and had a five-foot putt for par. I three-jacked it. Next hole, four-footer for par … choke. That's the closest I got to par all day. As for my chipping, I couldn't have pitched it into the ocean at high tide.</div><div><br /></div><div>My final score is irrelevant, except for the fact that it was about what I used to shoot. (I do not care to divulge it here.) I lost only two balls and took just one mulligan. I hit just enough good shots, and made a couple of really good putts, to make me want more. I have neither the time nor the money to take it up again, so hopefully the ache to play will fade like my father-in-law's 1-wood.</div><div><br /></div><div>Problem is, we only actually played 17 holes, due to time constraints. It was an incomplete experience. I need to finish what I started. Then, I swear, that's it. Seriously.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then again, golf likes to keep giving me mulligans, and I'm a sucker for it every time.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Today's Redneck Thought:</span> "Golf is a good walk spoiled." – <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Mark Twain</span></div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-13944095263612276372009-06-17T22:07:00.005-05:002009-06-17T22:56:18.576-05:00A Redneck and His ($400) iPhone; or, Crap!Remember <a href="http://bradlocke.blogspot.com/2009/05/fancy-hay-hauler-or-leaving-our-mark.html">this blog post</a>? Yeah, well, I've got more proof that rednecks just shouldn't own nice things.<div><br /></div><div>So we're on vacation in Branson, Mo., which is like Disney World, the Grand Old Opry and a county fair all rolled into one. Good clean family fun. Only, Sunday pretty much blew chunks. First, one of my contact lenses mysteriously disappears – more on that later – and then later on I go swimming … with my iPhone. My $400 iPhone (first generation).</div><div><br /></div><div>See, I'd put my trunks on that morning and stuck my ($400) iPhone in one of the pockets. At the time I thought to myself, "Boy, sure would stink if I was dumb enough to forget this ($400) iPhone was in here and went swimming." Then, after a couple of times down the tube slide and 10 or 15 minutes frolicking with my son in the pool, I was talking with my wife's grandfather when I suddenly realized that I had a waterlogged ($400) iPhone in my trunks. "You've got to be kidding me!" I yelled, no doubt confusing my grandpa-in-law as I dashed off to examine it.</div><div><br /></div><div>All efforts to revive the ($400) iPhone have failed. There will be a memorial service some time next week. I hope they can recover all my phone numbers and notes and other stuff I can't live without. Otherwise, somebody better hide my belts. On the upside, looks like I'll be getting one of the new (cheaper) iPhones, which come out Friday. I obviously haven't learned my lesson.</div><div><br /></div><div>As for the contact lens fiasco, I was supposed to have a replacement shipped by Tuesday, but the geniuses at 1-800-CONTACTS couldn't figure out how to make my debit card go through. So it's either A) wear one contact and go around squinty-eyed, or B) wear my smashed-up glasses that I sat on a few weeks ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>They were nice glasses, too, before I got a hold of them.</div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3523177350634532316.post-30194609811469664692009-06-15T13:26:00.004-05:002009-06-15T14:25:32.603-05:00Page 2:Lakers & Haters; LeBron & Shaq; Fans & DrugsPeople like to say it's "easy" to cheer for a team like the Lakers, because they <a href="http://espn.go.com/nba/recap?gameId=290614019">win all the time</a>. Easy? Hardly.<div><br /></div><div>First, I've got to put up with people calling me a bandwagon fan. I started pulling for L.A. when I was little, probably because they had <a href="http://i.cdn.turner.com/sivault/multimedia/photo_gallery/0810/nba.best.teams.ever/images/magic-johnson.jpg">Magic</a> and <a href="http://www.lakersuniverse.com/pictures/kareem_abdul_jabbar_skyhook.jpg">Kareem</a> and <a href="http://lakers.topbuzz.com/gallery/d/4311-1/kurtrambis001.jpg">Rambis</a>, the whole Showtime thing. It's not like I had a team nearby to root for. The Hawks? Yikes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Worse than bandwagon fans are the bandwagon haters – those who pull against the Lakers simply because they win so much. There's no logic behind the hatred (is there ever?). I guess it's a compliment, like when opposing fans chant "Beat L.A.! Beat L.A.!" The Celtics don't get their own hate chant, which is surprising considering how many titles they've won.</div><div><br /></div><div>More recently, people hate the Lakers because of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Kobe Bryant</span>. And most of that dislike is a product of that <a href="http://www.thedenverchannel.com/sports/2314127/detail.html">incident in Denver</a>. Frankly, I've gotten to the point where I don't base my rooting interests on the personal misdeeds of athletes. If I did, I'd have nobody to cheer for.</div><div><br /></div><div>With all that said: Go Lakers.</div><div><br /></div><div>• How about Southern Miss reaching the College World Series? I know, it's college baseball, so most people are like, So what? This is like George Mason reaching the Final Four, the Arizona Cardinals almost winning the Super Bowl, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Sarah Jessica Parker</span> convincing millions that she's sexy. USM to Omaha – just shouldn't have happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Speaking of things that shouldn't happen: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Shaquille O'Neal</span> <a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/news/story?id=4260855">to the Cavaliers</a>? Really? So instead of trying to make the frontcourt younger and tougher, the Cavs have decided to make it older and overrated? The Knicks <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2008/nov/30/sports/sp-heisler30">are rejoicing</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>• The Rockies have won 11 straight, which makes me feel not quite so bad that they swept a four-game series from the Cardinals recently. This after they fired manager <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Clint Hurdle</span>, who led them to the NL pennant just two seasons ago. Yeah, dude forgot how to manage. Those owners are <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">so</span> baseball savvy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Quick hitters:</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Manny Ramirez</span>, despite serving a 50-game suspension for a failed drug test, was in the running for an All-Star Game selection. Looks now like he won't be voted in, but it raises the question: Should they start drug-testing the fans?</div><div><br /></div><div>• The Penguins beat the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup Finals in what was an amazing series, I'm told. After losing Game 5 by a 5-0 count, the Pens were dead in the water, so I've heard. With this victory – which avenged last year's Finals loss to the Wings – Pittsburgh's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Sid "The Kid" Crosby </span>now sits atop the NHL, a step above Washington's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Alex Ovechkin</span>, who apparently might be a slightly better player, I read somewhere. Believe me – or at least the people who told me – this was a historic deal.</div><div><br /></div><div>• That last item wasn't very quick, was it?</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Roger Federer</span> finally won the French Open.*</div><div><br /></div><div>*–<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">But he didn't have to face <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Rafael Nadal</span></span></div>Brad Lockehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396881793963831237noreply@blogger.com0