Deep South Thoughts

A Clean-Shaven Start; or, Every Whisker Counts

2011-02-18T23:29:00.003-06:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

What's in a Town Name? Or, That Cutoff Joke Was Too Easy

2010-11-15T20:40:00.004-06:00

The South has a rich literary history, and that's reflected in something you might not realize – town names.

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.

Some personal favorites, most of which I didn't have to look up (unincorporated towns included):

• Cuba, Ala.

• Noxapater, Miss.

• Rolling Fork, Miss.

• Cutoff, La.

• Dry Prong, La.

(Those last two remind me of a Lorena and John Wayne Bobbit joke, but since this is a family blog...)

• Coffeeville, Miss.

• Denmark, Miss.

• Oddville, Ky.

• Gu-Win, Ala.

• Bald Knob, Ark.

• Green Frog, Tenn.

• Kiln, Miss.

• Toad Suck, Ark.

• Turkey Scratch, Ark.

• And my personal all-time favorite: Smackover, Ark.

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.

• Cuba, Ala.: Obviously Fidel Castro'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.

• 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.)

• Denmark, Miss.: The first and only Danish settlement in Mississippi is still a thriving community of tasty pastries.

• Bald Knob, Ark.: [CENSORED]

• Toad Suck, Ark.: You don't wanna know. Let's just say it's derived from some weird local custom involving warts.

• Kiln, Miss.: Originally named Crucible, then later Induction Furnace, and finally Kiln.

• 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.

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.)

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.?

Is 'Greatness' Big? Or, Astronauts Are Overrated

2010-04-29T19:35:00.005-05:00

My 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.

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 Ben Franklin to Andrew Carnegie to Neil Armstrong to Bill Gates. 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?

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.

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).

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.

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.

Today's Redneck Thought: "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." – Montgomery Gentry, "Something to Be Proud Of"

Understanding True Blessings

2010-02-18T18:27:00.003-06:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

Saints in the Super Bowl; or, It's Snowing in Hell (or New Orleans, Same Thing)

2010-01-24T21:52:00.004-06:00

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 Brett Favre "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.

This is almost like the Cubs winning the World Series, except that's actually been done before. So this is more like Paris Hilton grasping the Pythagorean theorem, or Uncle Kracker putting out a song that doesn't make me want to rip out my eyeballs, or Mark May making a valid point, or Miley Cyrus winning an Oscar, or Phil Fulmer 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.

This is the team that normally turned in the kind of performance that once caused former coach Jim Mora to go off like this. 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.

Then Sean Payton came to town, and then Drew Brees, 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.

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'.

Following the game, Saints running back Reggie Bush 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.

Drew metro

2010-01-16T21:22:00.001-06:00

Redneck Toys; or, Getting Unstuck

2009-11-27T11:25:00.005-06:00

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)

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.

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.

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!"

Hey, toys are fun.

Today's Redneck Thought: "What do you call a bunch of tractors sitting outside a McDonald's in Arkansas? Senior prom."

Don't Flaunt It; or, Redneck Fail

2009-10-26T21:02:00.006-05:00

There'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.

I was driving up Highway 45 this afternoon when I passed a nice white minivan. And on the trunk were a pair of mudflap girl 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.

Speaking of Epic Parenting Fails, here's one. And another one. 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 Billy Ray Cyrus. Might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, "Howdy, I'm just a dumb ol' redneck! Shoot!"

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.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Son, don't pistol whip your sister." My wife, to our 5-year-old son

A Tight Spot; or, Just a Little Mud

2009-10-11T16:57:00.004-05:00

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.

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.

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 Charlie Daniels song, 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.

I mean, aren't some of the best Southern stories about being in a pickle? Like Jerry Clower and the coon huntin' story. Or Ron White getting literally thrown out of a bar in New York. We just have a knack for getting in a "tight spot," to quote Ulysses Everett McGill.

But as long as you come out the other side with no more than a little mud on you, I guess you're OK.

I Hate Walmart; or, No Smiley Face Here

2009-10-02T16:44:00.004-05:00

I 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."

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.

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).

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.

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 come up with. It's a dull, depressing place to me. It's where Collin Raye's subject in "Little Rock" went to start over while rehabbing.

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, www.peopleofwalmart.com, is devoted to documenting the odd assortment of folks who darken Walmart's automatic doors. Frightening stuff.

So I'm with my wife. We need a Target here.

A Redneck and His CrackPhone; or, Crap Again!

2009-09-01T13:43:00.003-05:00

Further proof that rednecks just shouldn't have nice things. 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.

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 drown this one. 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 old school Nokia.

*sigh*

Gut Check; or, the Southern Male Physique

2009-08-08T16:18:00.004-05:00

I'm kind of ticked off. Used to be, the beer gut was the exclusive domain of redneck men (and a few redneck women). 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 Time to Kill" – they have our stomachs protruding from underneath a wife-beater.

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.)

Anyway, now that America is as fat as ever, the beer gut is as prominent as ever – especially in Mississippi, where we're No. 1! There should be a distinction, though: Just because you're obese doesn't mean you have a beer gut. This guy has a natural beer gut. This guy 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 Calista Flockhart. I'm pretty sure those kind of people are aliens. Flockhart is for sure.

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.)

I should probably stop fighting it. And finish this Samuel Adams before it gets warm.

Today's Redneck Thought: This.

What's in a Name? or, Spellbound

2009-07-18T17:11:00.005-05:00

My 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.

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."

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.

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 for a girl.

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.

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.

Today's Redneck Thought: "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!" – Johnny Cash, "A Boy Named Sue"

A Redneck Easter; or, Making Do

2009-07-15T21:47:00.002-05:00

I 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.

Here it is. Good grief.

Women & Guns; or, Don't Make Me Call My Sister

2009-07-05T14:15:00.003-05:00

Growing up, I would sometimes get into a tiff with my younger sister, Rachel. Yes, shocking, I know. But she always started it.

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 is 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Today's Redneck Thought: "I'm gonna show him what little girls are made of/Gunpowder and lead." – Miranda Lambert, "Gunpowder and Lead"

A Love Rekindled; or, One More Shot

2009-06-22T22:15:00.003-05:00

Curse 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.

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!).

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.

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.

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.

Then again, golf likes to keep giving me mulligans, and I'm a sucker for it every time.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Golf is a good walk spoiled." – Mark Twain

A Redneck and His ($400) iPhone; or, Crap!

2009-06-17T22:07:00.005-05:00

Remember this blog post? Yeah, well, I've got more proof that rednecks just shouldn't own nice things.

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).

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.

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.

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.

They were nice glasses, too, before I got a hold of them.

Page 2:Lakers & Haters; LeBron & Shaq; Fans & Drugs

2009-06-15T13:26:00.004-05:00

People like to say it's "easy" to cheer for a team like the Lakers, because they win all the time. Easy? Hardly.

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 Magic and Kareem and Rambis, the whole Showtime thing. It's not like I had a team nearby to root for. The Hawks? Yikes.

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.

More recently, people hate the Lakers because of Kobe Bryant. And most of that dislike is a product of that incident in Denver. 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.

With all that said: Go Lakers.

• 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, Sarah Jessica Parker convincing millions that she's sexy. USM to Omaha – just shouldn't have happened.

• Speaking of things that shouldn't happen: Shaquille O'Neal to the Cavaliers? Really? So instead of trying to make the frontcourt younger and tougher, the Cavs have decided to make it older and overrated? The Knicks are rejoicing.

• 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 Clint Hurdle, who led them to the NL pennant just two seasons ago. Yeah, dude forgot how to manage. Those owners are so baseball savvy.

Quick hitters:

• Manny Ramirez, 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?

• 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 Sid "The Kid" Crosby now sits atop the NHL, a step above Washington's Alex Ovechkin, 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.

• That last item wasn't very quick, was it?

• Roger Federer finally won the French Open.*

*–But he didn't have to face Rafael Nadal

A Man and His Vacation; or, Low-Falutin' Holiday

2009-06-14T13:39:00.004-05:00

I'm a simple man. I don't need much to make me content. For instance, right now I'm sitting on the couch with a Corona watching some baseball – in a condo in Branson, Mo., which means I'm miles away from my daily worries.

For me, this qualifies as a high-falutin' holiday. If my father-in-law were not kind enough to foot most of the bill, I'd have to settle for something less falutin', but that'd be OK. I don't need a yacht or a private beach or a masseuse. Those would be great, but I don't require much.

All these celebrities, and other super-rich folks, like those things. That's cool. This resort I'm at is pretty nice, though: three pools, a big ol' lake, a small basketball court, free wi-fi, a playground for the kids. That's plenty.

My wife makes an annual trip with her mom and sisters to exotic destinations like Puerto Vallarta and Jamaica. Really nice resorts with lots of perks and free drinks and whatnot. I've never even been out of the country.

Heck, don't know what I'd do in that kind of setting. Probably just find a couch, a Corona and a baseball game. And maybe a massage.

Today's Redneck Thought: "I took everybody in my family to Hawaii, 13 people, thinking this would be the vacation of a lifetime. It ended up being, 'The Clampetts Go to Maui.'" – Jeff Foxworthy

Lift the Shades; Bluegrass Blues; Junior Underachievement

2009-05-28T22:31:00.004-05:00

Page 2 time again, even though I oughta be in bed.

• During Wednesday night's Nuggets-Lakers playoff game, ESPN's cameras did the obligatory star shots – Jack Nicholson, Hugh Hefner, Zac Efron. Speaking of Mr. Efron, the 20-something high schooler was looking dapper in his pretentious casual dress and $300 sunglasses. That's right, sunglasses. Guess it was so bright with all those stars in the house.

People wear shades indoors for only two reasons: 1) Their eyes are extra sensitive to light, or 2) they're trying way too hard to be cool. Efron falls in the latter category, as I suspect most people do. Seriously, I once saw a guy eating in Old Country Buffet with his '90s-style Oakley wraparounds firmly planted on his shnozz. Dude, you're eating at Old Country Buffet. So was I, but at least I took my shades off. The fluorescent lights aren't that bright.

It should be noted that Donald Sutherland wears those huge grandma sunglasses to Laker games, but he's weird anyway, and he's old, so he gets a pass.

• Been a tough week for the University of Kentucky. A tough Wednesday, in fact: former basketball coach Billy Gillispie sued the school, which has since countersued; new coach John Calipari's old team, Memphis, is in hot water with the NCAA (which 167.22 million people predicted would happen); and blue chip recruit John Wall pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor breaking and entering charge. All this after three players left the team, which will conveniently help the Wildcats stay within the scholarship limit.

Ah, college sports, that pure respite from the corruption and cynicism of the real world. Pass the Kool-Aid.

• Poor Dale Earnhardt Jr. is struggling, which means it must be Tony Eury Jr.'s fault. Earnhardt's crew chief – and cousin – was let go by Hendrick Motorsports on Thursday, marking the second time the two have split up. Surely this is what Junior needs to become a NASCAR champion. First it was his control-freak step-mother and the second-rate resources at DEI holding him back; now it's his crew chief. Fact is, Junior's racing for the best team in NASCAR, and he's still stinking it up. Yeah, maybe it's you, Dale.

Quick hitters:

• It mystifies me that a spelling bee warrants coverage by the sports media. Some girl whose last name I can't even spell won it this year. Kudos to the always hilarious D.J. Gallo for trying to make it sportsy. Don't get me started on dog shows.

• Hey, Fran Tarkenton, welcome back to the spotlight. Good to see folks still can't pin you down.

• By the way, the Red Wings and Penguins are playing in the NHL Stanley Cup Finals – for the second straight year. That's be really fascinating if I gave a crap about hockey.

Cubs' Banks (Not Ernie); Sox Peav-ed; Satan on Ice

2009-05-21T23:16:00.004-05:00

The Page 2 column is back. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about, so a quick review: My first few years at the Daily Journal, I wrote a freakin' hilarious column about the national and international sports scene. I now have to focus my efforts on covering the Mississippi State Bulldogs.

But, I've had an itch to revive the column, and this is a good place for it. Perhaps it doesn't quite fit with my blog's theme, but it's my blog, dangit. Deal with it. On with the show.

• A potential buyer for the Chicago Cubs has lined up three banks to finance the deal. Gotta make you feel secure, Cubbie fans. Maybe your team will get some sort of government bailout, in the form of a bye into the World Series. Not that it would help. By the way, Cardinals rule, suckas.

• The Twins dropped 20 runs on the White Sox on Thursday night, just hours after San Diego ace Jake Peavy turned down a trade to the South side. It was such a bad day, Ozzie Guillen actually ran out of curse words. Pretty sad. He ended the postgame press conference by saying, "Just a flippin' crappy day, dangit. Kiss my buttocks, Peavy."

• You seen these Kobe/LeBron muppet ads? Pretty funny. There was also a Kobe/LeBron documentary that aired on ESPN on Thursday (I missed it). The Lakers and Cavaliers are still in the playoffs, and many experts expect them to meet in the NBA Finals. All this Kobe/LeBron hype makes me wish I was one of those loser NBA conspiracy theorists, because this would provide tons of ammo. Truth is, these are the two best players in the game, they're the past two MVP winners, and they're both Nike guys. And after watching Nuggets-Lakers Game 2, the refs are definitely not trying to help Kobe and L.A.

• I accidentally caught part of a hockey highlight Thursday night and noticed Satan fighting. Oh, that's Miroslav Satan, of the Penguins, and it's pronounced "Shu-TAHN." (Note his ID number in the url; coincidence?) Dude's gotta officially change the pronunciation, because you just don't cross-check Satan.

Quick hitters:

• Worst opening pitch … ever. He throws like my (lovely, beautiful, sweet, talented) wife.

• Michael Vick is finally out of Leavenworth. Had a tough 19 months there, but thankfully he retained his ability to avoid being sacked, if you know what I mean.

• Poor, misunderstood Ryan Leaf is at it again, facing drug and burglary charges. Worth noting: Unlike Vick, Leaf was not an elusive quarterback. Just sayin'.

The Ultimate Mullet; or, A Piece of Art

2009-05-17T16:47:00.003-05:00

While cruising the Wal-Mart parking lot today – these days I do that while waiting for my wife, not as a Friday night social activity – I saw a mullet. Yes, I know, that's like saying I saw a raving drunk at a Kennedy family reunion. But this was no ordinary mullet. It almost defies description, but I'll try.

It was jet black, wavy and wide, and reached down at least a couple inches below his collar. It was so thick and greasy, I think it could have deflected hollow-point bullets. It almost looked fake, except that its owner was thinning just a bit on top. He was a homely man with a white-specked beard. He must've been coloring that mullet with motor oil. Kind of reminded me of the old Elvis' do.

I wish I had taken out my phone and snapped a picture to share with y'all, because this was easily the most spectacular mullet I've ever seen. When I saw it, I told my kids, "That's the most spectacular mullet I've ever seen." They asked me to turn up the radio. Kids just don't appreciate art these days. And this was redneck art at its finest, a thing of beauty. I hope I see this fella again. Maybe I'll pose for a picture – with the mullet. And maybe he'll let me touch it. OK, that'd be a little weird. But this piece of work was like its own entity, and the man was no more than a host.

That mullet puts to shame the one I tried to grow in ninth grade. It was weak, and I now understand why it took me so long to talk my mom into letting me grow it out. And after seeing this guy's mullet today, I know now I was trying to reach an impossibly high standard.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Business up front, party in the rear." – Classic description of the mullet

Piece of Meat; or, The New Sexyburger

2009-05-13T16:31:00.005-05:00

I could be wrong here, but I don't think food is supposed to be sexy. I've seen it dressed up or arranged in an artistic manner by those big fancy chefs, but I've never found anything seductive about grilled salmon or cauliflower (especially not cauliflower). Apparently Hardee's thinks otherwise.

The burger chain has a (short) history of airing racy ads – like the infamous Patty Melts spot – clearly aimed at playing on the raging hormones of males aged 13-106. (Yeah, once you hit 107, the fire's gone.) The latest Hardee's ad features another saucy, cleavage-bearing vixen chowing down on a Western Bacon Thickburger. I have two problems with this ad: A) It's oversexed, and B) it's false advertising. People who look like her do not eat Thickburgers. If she did, she would not be allowed to wear that dress.

Sure, it's a fantasy combination for many guys – a hot burger and a hot chick – and I guess that sells. But hamburgers are not sexy. Sure, they're tasty, but they're also greasy, fattening and did I mention, NOT SEXY! They're food. They come from cows. You cook 'em, eat 'em, and – pardon my French – crap 'em out. Fully digested ground round – not sexy.

Today's (Somewhat Related) Redneck Thought: "I'm not certain in which book it appears, but I know that somewhere in the Bible it says, 'Thou shalt not put mushrooms on no cheeseburger.'" – Lewis Grizzard

Fancy Hay Hauler; or, Leaving Our Mark

2009-05-02T18:11:00.004-05:00

Boy, we rednecks sure know how to put our stamp on even the nicest things, don't we? I was reminded of this earlier today when my father, who used to run amok in Lafayette County, Miss., was trying to figure out how to clean the hay out of the trunk of his Mercedes.

Granted, it's an '85 diesel beast, goes 0-60 in 3.5 days. And it has large trunk capacity, for your luggage, camping gear or dog house insulation. Nevertheless, when the fine German engineers slapped this one on the bumper and saw it off the assembly line, I'm pretty sure they were expecting their vehicle to find a more distinguished role, especially late in life.

That's the thing about my dad, though: He's practical. He didn't buy it just because it's a Benz – he's not into labels – but because he got a good deal on a reliable car (he also once owned an '82 Benz diesel). He has a truck, so I'm not sure why he put the hay in the Mercedes, but I'm sure it was done for the sake of convenience.

My father is not alone in putting his redneck mark on otherwise elegant items. There are people like me, for example, who download fart apps to their iPhone. (Entertains the kids for hours.) And there are people, usually teenagers, who purposely rip holes in their $80 designer jeans. And then there are those who mock the geniuses behind Microsoft. At least we didn't make Jeff Foxworthy a prophet during the 1996 Olympics.

Fancy things and rednecks just don't mix. I recall accidentally breaking a commemorative plate of some sort that was hanging above our kitchen doorway, and my mom all but said, "We just can't have nice things!" No, no we can't, because we don't know what to do with them. I'm shocked my iPhone has survived a year-plus – I did try to leave it on the ground next to a football practice field – but I'm sure it will eventually wind up in a discarded bag of pork rinds. An unbefitting fate, indeed, but not unexpected.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Between New York and LA, there's 200 million people that aren't hip, and they don't want to be hip." – Jeff Foxworthy

Thinking Small; or, My Kind of Place

2009-04-24T18:15:00.006-05:00

This is going to be kind of stream of consciousness thing, but I just had to post. As I type, I'm sitting on a bench outside the Union County Courthouse in New Albany, just before sunset. Just soaking in the small town atmosphere, something that can get lost even in a place like Tupelo (a Certified Retirement Community, yawn). This places is pretty much dead, except for a few cars coming through, a sparsely populated coffee shop, and the Fred's (which is where I walked to get the Mountain Dew I'm now drinking). A soft breeze is cooling me.

Shoot, if this soda bottle were glass, I might feel like I was back in the '50s or something. And if I wasn't getting wi-fi on a MacBook.

Small towns tend to get a bad name, even from those who live there. They can't wait to leave, and they talk about people getting "sucked" back into it when they try to. Always something bigger and better out there, I suppose. Having been around a few years – 33 is enough for me to have a well-informed opinion on this – I might have to disagree on that one. Maybe it's because small towns fit my personality – they're quiet, laid-back, and don't seek attention, but they're dang proud of what they are and what they stand for.

I'm staring at a war memorial, the inscription of which reads, "In memory of those who gave their lives to safeguard the principles of justice, freedom and democracy." And listed on both sides are the names of those who left this little town behind and died on some foreign battlefield, from World Wars I & II to Korea to Vietnam. I'm sure big cities have such memorials, but except for The Wall, who pays them much attention? Can't help but notice this one, which reminds folks of the past, one of many things that distinguishes small towns from big cities. Another is the intimacy of the place – I didn't see many people waving at each other in downtown New York when I was there last summer.

Big cities and towns are fine, and necessary. I've got nothing against them or against those who live there and like living there. But I'll take this right here any day: An evening whose silence is broken only by the small sounds of a small town and the whispers of its past.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Everybody dies famous in a small town." – Miranda Lambert

Accent on Intellect; or, I Ain't Dumb

2009-04-18T00:25:00.005-05:00

Jeff Foxworthy has this bit in one of his old routines where he laments how the Southern accent doesn't jive with, say, brain surgery. "I used to say that whenever people heard my Southern accent, they always wanted to deduct 100 IQ points," he said. Indeed, Jeff, indeed.

The Southern accent apparently makes a person sound uneducated and/or dumb. It's a persistent stereotype, and it's part of the reason, I'm sure, that modern-day radio and TV announcers tend to have cookie-cutter voices that make you wonder if they're from anywhere at all. It ticks me off. (And how scary is this story?)

We've got our share of dim bulbs, but the South has produced some pretty sharp folks. I could produce a long, mind-numbing list, but I won't. Instead, I'll provide a handful of quotes – courtesy AllThingsSouthern.com – that illustrate just how insightful and intellectual we can be. To wit:

• "A nation which does not remember what it was yesterday does not know where it is today." – Robert E. Lee

• "The man who doesn't read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them." – Mark Twain

• "People generally see what they look for and hear what they listen for." – Harper Lee

• "There is as much dignity in plowing a field as in writing a poem." – Booker T. Washington

And in a moment of self-indulgence, I'll offer a couple of my own sayings, which I'm sure is just a rephrasing of others' wisdom (they always enter my brain after I've observed something):

• "A measured risk isn't much of a risk at all."

• "You can never see the devil coming when you're walking in the dark."

I think part of the problem is that Southerners are dang funny. We mistakenly tend to separate sense of humor and intelligence – the unsmiling Ivy League professor vs. the goofy-grinning, overall-wearing redneck. But the two can co-exist. In fact, the best humor is informed by a sharp mind and observant eye. Foxworthy's a perfect example, as is the late great Lewis Grizzard. The thing is, the Southern accent lends itself to slow talking, which a fast-talking Yankee will equate with a slow mind. Couldn't be less true. Doris Betts put it perfectly: "If you are going to be underestimated by people who speak more rapidly, the temptation is to speak slowly and strategically and outwit them."

So to Hollywood, ignorant Yankees and anyone else this pertains to: Stop making every dumb character in movies and TV shows have a (bad) Southern drawl. Stop calling us "stupid rednecks/hillbillies" whenever you don't agree with our political or social views. Stop mocking country music without first trying to understand its subtle complexity and its tangled roots.

Because chances are, we're smarter than you.

Today's Redneck Thought: "The fear of God makes heroes, the fear of man makes cowards." – Sgt. Alvin C. York, a very smart Tennessean

What's In a Word Up? or, The (Grammatical) Wackness

2009-04-12T19:30:00.004-05:00

Being a Grammar Nazi, I'm highly critical of people abusing and manipulating the English language, or just being ignorant of the basics. Peepel who right leik this realy anoy me espeshully when they dont puncuate properly. What differance does it make? A lot, because one's command of the English language reflects on their intelligence.

However, I feel there is an equal but less disparaged linguistic offense being perpetrated: White people using urban slang. It's pretty wack, yo. Sometimes it can be funny, but usually, it just makes you cringe (this examines the difference). Like the time this elderly lady on a local department store's informercial said, "And just look all this bling-bling." Who let that woman watch "Yo! MTV Raps"?

That's what we white folks do, though. In our pathetically desperate attempts to be crunk – augmented, no doubt, by some lingering racial guilt – we hijack all urban terminology that we think will somehow disguise our intrinsic dorkiness. Oh, how often we go way too far. Fo shizzle, homeskillet, we honkies can be off the hook (or is that a good thing?). Not only do we hijack the words, we run them into the ground and keep using them years after their crunk rating has diminished (has crunk's crunk rating diminished yet?). This is similar to what we do with certain types of music once popular among black people.

I'm all for cultural understanding, but we can appreciate the creative lexicon of others without, you know, using it. Some of us – TobyMac, Eminem, Weird Al – can pull it off. I choose to embrace my white awkardness, because that's who I am. Just keepin' it real, yo.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Word to your mother." Translated: "How's your mom 'n them?"

The Noisy Minority; or, Idiot Fans

2009-03-21T21:05:00.004-05:00

There are few things about my job that I hate, but near the top of the list would be idiot fans. I've got some behind me as I type this (at the NCAA tournament in Portland, Ore.). "Call the game fair!" one lady just yelled in a grating tone. Yeah, lady, they're being paid by the other team. Conspiracy! Oh, wait, the other fans are saying the same thing, though.

I'm continually amazed at the general stupidity of some fans. I'm assuming it's only the loud ones that are stupid, because smart people tend to keep quiet. The total lack of knowledge of the sport these people are watching astounds me. They don't know a moving screen from a moving van. And of course, only the most obvious of calls – and sometimes those – aren't derided as the greatest of injustices. How could you, ref? You might as well have blown up an orphanage.

The problem, besides lacking a basic knowledge of the rules, is blind loyalty. I mean, Hitler didn't have followers this deluded. (Bad analogy perhaps, but you get my point.) The funny part is that the refs usually can't hear the fans, and if they could, so what? What isn't funny is that when a player, say, takes a charge, the knucklehead fans don't applaud the player's defensive effort. No, they'll say, "About time, ref! Been doing it all game!"

I feel a kinship with the officials. Like me, their job is to be objective and impartial. And like me, they often are showered with laughable accusations of favoritism or incompetence. Sorry, we're not the idiots.

Portland Hospitality; or, Big City Love

2009-03-18T20:47:00.003-05:00

I am in Portland, Ore., this week to cover the first round of the NCAA tournament, and this fine city reinforces what I've learned about big cities: They're not all bad.

I was, quite frankly, stunned by the friendliness of Chicagoans when my family visited the Windy City in 2006. Nary a grumble was heard when I loaded our huge four-wheel drive baby stroller on the bus. In fact, our kids received smiles and Rachel and I received help in finding places. After we watched the Cubs beat the Cardinals at Wrigley Field, a Cubs fan told me, "Good luck in the playoffs." (A prophet, that man.) It's a cold place, Chicago, but it has not frozen the residents' hearts. My sister-in-law, who lives there, can verify this.

I went to New York over the summer, and it lived down to expectations. And I've figured it out: New York has spoiled it for all the other big cities. I couldn't walk five feet without hearing someone cursing – it's just a part of the casual lexicon up there – and most everyone walked around with ears plugged and eyes looking straight ahead. Being an expert on the finer points of Southern hospitality, I was greatly offended many times over. And NYC casts such a long shadow over our culture, its characteristics become assigned, in the mind of Southerners anyway, to all metropolitan areas.

So even though I'd heard how nice and friendly a city it was, I still wasn't sure what to expect of Portland. I hadn't even left the airport last night before a casually dressed Arab fellow helped me figure out how to buy a ticket for the Light Rail. As I type this, I haven't even been here 24 hours, but I've already met a couple of nice shuttle bus drivers and have had no reason not to tip generously.

Portland is indeed a beautiful city. Not that I'd want to live here, mind you. Much as I like nice people, the drawback of a big city is this: There's too many of them.

Spoiled Rotten; or, Stupid Cell Phone!

2009-02-25T08:30:00.001-06:00

This is a lazy blog, nothing more than a YouTube link. But Louis CK says it so much better than I ever could. We're basically a bunch of spoiled losers, aren't we?

Here it is: Everything's amazing, nobody's happy.

Time Marches On; or, The Persistent Pendulum

2009-02-10T22:26:00.004-06:00

It has been 17 days since my last blog post. Unacceptable, I know. But trying to keep up with time is like trying to catch a butterfly in your bare hand. Reminds me of a line from a poem I once wrote (unpublished, of course): "As I chase the elusive days/The years slip unseen out the back door."

I know I've written on this topic before, but it never ceases to astound me how elusive time can be. I always feel behind, and when I do get a free moment, it's not when I need it. It's usually when I'm waiting on a coach or someone to call me so I can finish a story, dangit.

Time used to move more slowly around here, or so I'm told. Now it's gotten so where I feel like if I'm not moving, then I'm not being productive. It was Andrew Jackson who said, "Take time to deliberate, but when the time for action arrives, stop thinking and go on." That's a two-fold lesson: Don't act without thinking, but don't think without acting. Hey, I think I like my version better. Anyway, I've been doing too much of the former – plowing on without taking time to think things through and educate myself.

Today at work, I actually had a rare chance to slow down and read through a basketball periodical I receive each month. Nothing in it related directly to the Mississippi State beat, but I think it was beneficial just to read some good writing and broaden my understanding of the basketball world outside my area of intense focus. It's easy to get wrapped up in one's own little world and forget that it exists in the context of a much larger one. Then you look up and realize you've missed a lot.

Like Tracy Lawrence sang, "Time marches on." I hope to learn how to keep up without having to march double-time.

Today's Redneck Thought: "The graveyard's full of folks that didn't have time to die." – Tim McGraw, "Nothin' to Die For"

His Name is Mudd; or, The Great Divide

2009-01-24T14:56:00.002-06:00

Someone needs to stand up for Mark Mudd, a Kentucky redneck who might not be a great singer, but he's no psychopath, either. Were you to believe the idiot American Idol judges, though, you might think otherwise.

Mudd's Idol audition was televised Wednesday night. It got off to an inauspicious start when Simon Cowell tried to be funny by asking Mudd if the cell phone – with a plainly visible University of Kentucky cover on it – was a gun. I imagine Simon thought Mudd had a large weapons cache back at his shanty. (Note my sarcasm.) Anyway, after Mudd muddled his way through part of a George Jones tune, and after the judges were done mocking him, Mudd moseyed toward the door and said, "Y'all take care and … be careful." Then Paula Abdul says, "Be careful?" To which Mudd replied, "Just be careful in whatever you do." Then Simon chimed in, "That was a threat." Paula agreed. Mudd then tried, vainly, to explain what he meant. Paula said, "You don't say that to people. That's just not a normal thing to say."

Uh, yeah it is, Paula. Forget where you were? Kentucky? Actually, "Be careful" is a common parting expression in the South. Mudd was just wishing them safety in their future travels and endeavors. He was being friendly – graceful I'd say, considering the mean-spirited comments he'd just endured. I say "Be careful" all the time, but I've never had anyone take it as a threat. Maybe because I've never uttered it to a clueless Yankee or an acerbic Brit.

You wonder why Southerners tend to have an inferiority complex? Our normal, everyday behavior is looked upon condescendingly by a group of people who think they're smarter, wittier and more sophisticated than us. And even if they are, that doesn't make them better than us. I'll admit, Mark Mudd looks and talks like a backwoods hick, but guess what? Nothing wrong with that. I could say something about Simon's haircut, but I won't, and his hair is his business.

By the way, fellow judges Kara DioGuardi and Randy Jackson didn't stand up for Mudd. So to all four of them, I say, study a dialect before you deride those who speak it. To my fellow redneck Mark Mudd: Take care, and be careful.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Be careful." – Countless Southerners

Misdirection; or, All En-Compassing Ignorance

2009-01-21T23:49:00.006-06:00

Being a dude, and being a dude who's grown up in the small-town South, I was born with an innate sense of direction. Blindfold me, spin me around 10 times, drop me off 20 miles east of nowhere, and I can find my way home in without so much as a compass. The compass is in my head!

Yeah, really. I just prefer taking the scenic route sometimes. Through the scary parts of places like Cincinnati and Baton Rouge. Hmm.

OK, truth is, my sense of direction is equal to that of a drunken chipmunk. For instance, on my way back from the basketball arena here in Baton Rouge to my hotel, I turned a five-minute drive into 20 minutes. And that was with the GPS on my iPhone. Too … many … turns!

Yes, I'm easily confused, not to mention a habitual second-guesser. Maps are like a foreign language to me – can't read 'em. And forget trying to get myself unlost by using my inner compass. Apparently, that piece of equipment got broke during one of my youthful bike-riding stunts.

A road trip for me is not complete if I haven't gotten lost at least once. Not just a little lost, we're talking spectacularly lost. We're talking a couple of counties over lost. Like when I was in Cincinnati trying to find the justice center, and instead wound up west of town in Scaryville, Ohio. Or when coming back from Tuscaloosa a few years ago and winding back up in Alabama.

I used to think I could get myself around, but no, I can't. I still get lost in Tupelo. Well, not get lost so much as taking wrong turns – often. I still get easily misplaced on the east side of town.

Better get to bed. Coming back home tomorrow, assuming I can find my way from the hotel to the highway just outside my window. No guarantees.

Pansification; or, Chuck Norris and Tutus

2009-01-14T18:02:00.003-06:00

So I'm driving toward Fayetteville, Ark., on I-40 the other day, when I saw something that made both my eyes and my heart hurt. Heading the opposite direction was a Hummer – you know, king of the offroad, toughest vehicle in existence, could tow a tank up Mt. Everest – and it was painted … pink. Bright pink. I'm not a cussin' man, but boy I came close.

Either somebody at Mary Kay had a really bad idea, or somebody else had a really bad idea. I really wish I could've seen who was driving it, though I figure it was some 16-year-old rich girl. A pink Hummer. Wow. That's like putting Chuck Norris in a tutu. Blasphemy. That poor truck will never see a speck of mud. And this was in Arkansas, not New Jersey.

How do things like this happen? What self-respecting automaker would let something so atrocious come off its assembly line? I fear this is symptomatic of a larger problem: The pansification of our culture. (Pretty sure I made that word up, but journalists are allowed that license.)

Hey, I know macho is en vogue again in some circles, sometimes at annoying levels (see: any male deodorant/body spray commercial). But some things really shouldn't be neutered. A Hummer is one of them. Pink?! Shoot, I bet it had a heated steering wheel and no mud flaps.

A lot of things once considered sacred have become pansified: Hamburgers (veggie burgers; yech), coffee (mochas, lattes, etc.; but of course, I'm addicted to them), men's clothing (I will not wear capris, thank you), Mark McGwire (The Amazing Shrinking Slugger!). It's all bad.

If I ever see that Hummer again, I'm going to turn around and chase it. Run it into a ditch and laugh as the driver tries to figure out where the four-wheel drive button is located.

10 Things Not to Do; or, Hang Up Your Skates

2009-01-01T19:05:00.004-06:00

I went ice skating yesterday. Second time I've done so. We're in St. Louis visiting the in-laws, see, and so apparently this is a new annual tradition, to head out to Queeny Park and strap on the blades. Good times, in theory.

Actually, I did have fun, despite dragging my whining son around the rink, twice. But I think he knows something that I should've realized sooner – redneck guys aren't meant to ice skate. No, we're meant to make fun of those who do, except during the Olympics, when all that matters is kicking some foreign tail, even if it's done by dudes wearing sequins. U-S-A! U-S-A!

Anyway, that got me thinking about the 10 things that redneck guys just should not do, ever, even at gunpoint. So here they are, starting with …:

• Ice skate: I only fell once yesterday – on my wallet, thank goodness – but I must've looked like a drunk baby out there.

• Drive a luxury car: I took my father-in-law's new BMW for a spin yesterday, too. Very nice, but I kind of felt like a pig wearing a ballgown. Know what I mean?

• Dance: Don't do it. Ever. No matter how drunk you get. Line dancing? Yikes.

• Use urban slang: "You dis me agee-yin, homeskeelit, and Ah'll dot you in yo' ahball." Please, no. Just punch the offending party.

• Drink wine or champagne: I've tried both, and maybe my palette isn't sophisticated enough, but it seems the redneck's tongue is suited for nothing fancier than domestic beer. And moonshine (which I have not tried; almost ashamed to admit that).

• Be a doctor: Not that rednecks aren't smart enough to be doctors, but like Jeff Foxworthy says, do you really want a guy like this doing your lobotomy?

• Be a lawyer: Because they just don't know when to stop.

• Shop for groceries: Unless your wife and kids don't mind living off Pop-Tarts, Frito sandwiches and Hungry Man frozen dinners.

• Cook breakfast: Like the Hardee's commercial says, "Guys don't bake." Grits from a box is about as much as I'll chance.

• Have nice things: I remember when I was a teenager fooling around and breaking one of my mom's commemorative plates that hung on the wall. She was most upset. Expensive and/or rare items do not mix well with rednecks. I'm waiting for my iPhone to spontaneously combust any day now.

Please, feel free to add your own thoughts on this subject.

"We Know Drama" – Really? Do You?

2008-12-28T10:18:00.003-06:00

So I'm watching TNT the other night, and it ran one of those promos that ends with the network's catchphrase: "We know drama." And for some reason, it made me sneer. (Well, not an actual sneer, because I'm not very good at that facial expression, although I can do a pretty good Elvis lip curl.)

I guess it just underscored how obsessed we are with drama nowadays. Yeah, contrived drama sells, but what it also does is lessen our appreciation for the truly dramatic – the significant kind of drama, the kind that really impacts our lives and makes us think deeply about important issues. After watching a particularly intense episode of, say, 24, does the real fight against terrorism strike a chord with us? Does real pain, real suffering, real danger, move us? Not as much as it should; I think the contrived drama of this age has desensitized us to a disturbing degree. The line between real and imagined is blurred.

On the other side, there is the kind of drama that brings us joy. Countless sports channels give us that, with more and more focus on the dramatic moments than on what led up to those moments. Just give us a the highlights, we say. No time for the meat of the matter.

What's wrong with the "boring" routine of everyday life? We should be satisfied with the small joys, the things that keep our hearts attuned to reality and prepare us to respond to real drama with true emotion – to tragedy, with compassion and hope; to victory, with gratitude and appreciation.

I find myself too often seeking pseudo-drama, and I feel like it sucks something out of me. Nothing wrong with a good movie or an exciting ballgame, but I think I put too much stock in what those temporal things have to offer. When I'm honest with myself, I know I'd rather be taking a walk through the woods, tuning out the world and listening to God.

Today's Redneck Thought: "People generally see what they look for and hear what they listen for." – Harper Lee

In Black-and-White; or, Picturing the Past

2008-12-15T22:03:00.003-06:00

I've got a copy of this picture of my great-great-grandfather, Samuel John Locke. He's 15 at the time, and he's wearing a Confederate army uniform. He's brandishing a large knife and an odd expression – a curious smirk, it seems. (I daresay it was the first time he'd had his picture taken.) I find myself studying the picture, searching his features to find some trace of physical resemblance between he and I. I've not really found any yet.

I also recently got a copy of a picture of my grandparents when they were a newly married couple. Mamaw and Papaw are 88 and 93 now, respectively, and I find it fascinating to compare then with now.

There is something about those old pictures that hold my mind captive. They give a glimpse of a slice of history, and I wish I could climb inside the picture and explore that history. Not having lived back then only heightens my curiosity. And for some reason, black-and-white photos are more engaging. They lack the dashes of color, but the monochromatic suggests a simpler time and a sturdier people. Of course, a student of history will know that there has never been such a thing as a "simpler time," not in this world.

But the view I get through those old photos paints a picture of an unfamiliar, out-of-reach place. I find some bit of my identity in them, because they remind me of my link to a past that's easily forgotten.

I often find myself wishing I could talk with my great-great-grandfather. But that one picture says a lot.

Today's Redneck Thought: "A picture's worth a thousand words/But you can't see what those shades of gray keep covered/You should've seen it in color" – Jamey Johnson, "In Color"

Fakin' It; or, Plastic World

2008-12-07T17:46:00.004-06:00

We put up our Christmas tree last night. It's a fake one. Can't remember the last time there was a real tree in my house at Christmastime. A fake one's more convenient, less expensive in the long run. A good investment, I guess. Plus, the cats don't try to climb it.

But I'm kind of tired of fake. Fake body parts, fake hamburgers, fake people, fake grass. Cars are made of plastic. My "hardwood" floors aren't actually made of wood. Fireplaces don't burn real logs. It's all a bit disillusioning.

Our society's based on fake. "Good works" posing as genuine, unquestionable moral character. Lust posing as love. Ignorance posing as knowledge. Heard something interesting the other day: Yoga doesn't actually relieve stress, it represses it. See, we want easy answers that make us feel better about ourselves. And pursuing a physical remedy for an emotional or spiritual ailment is easy.

It all just makes me want to find a real log cabin in the middle of the woods, where I can cut my own wood, eat fresh venison and not talk to anyone except those who truly love me. But I supposed that's a fantasy. So I'll just keep faking it.

Today's Redneck Thought: "My sister says Southerners are like other people, only more so." – Blanche McCrary Boyd

Last-Minute Shoppers; or, It's Thanksgiving Already?

2008-11-26T20:27:00.004-06:00

All I needed was a bag of pecans and a block of gruyere cheese. That's all. So after parking a quarter-mile away – well, seemed like it – I walked into my local grocery establishment at 5:02 p.m. to procure the last necessary items for our Thanksgiving eve feast. I was in and out in a surprisingly fast 12 minutes, 1.2 seconds. That, despite having trouble finding the cheese and chatting with a fellow church member who had also been dispatched by his wife to purchase some food items.

Thank heaven for self check-out.

Nevertheless, I was amazed to once again witness the phenomenon of last-minute shopping. I know Southerners can move slower than molasses in January, but why do we think it's a good idea to wait until the night before a major holiday to do our shopping? It's not like these things sneak up on us; Madison Avenue makes sure of that. It's one thing if you're grabbing a couple of things, like I did, but you've got people piling up the their shopping carts.

My wife wisely bought most of her Thanksgiving fixings last week – and I must say, it was a feast that can't possibly be topped (turkey, sweet potato casserole, homemade mashed potatoes, cornbread [both sweet and unsweet, to accommodate our respective tastes], corn, green beans and pumpkin pie). As an aside, my wife and kids and I have our own feast the night before, and then we gather with extended family on Thanksgiving Day. I don't even bother trying to count up the calories.

I'm a procrastinator myself, and probably most of us are, but this last-minute shopping frenzy we see all the time befuddles me. Oh well. Time to go eat some pumpkin pie.

Off the Gravy Train; or, An Unstuffed Turkey

2008-11-20T21:16:00.004-06:00

I am at a crossroads. We all know what time of year it is. My favorite time of year, and a big reason for that is all the scrumptious food that I get for free. Just yesterday, I had a Thanksgiving feast at work, and then I had another that night at church. It was pretty much the best day of the year.

It'll be the same at Christmas. And of course there's the non-stop flow of sweets from countless sources. But I'm a conflicted man, because over the past year, I've been working out like I never have before. That's not to say I'm in the gym three hours a day, six days a week. Let's not get crazy. Shoot, I hardly went in September and October. But exercise is something I've had precious little of the last several years, and now I've got a routine going, and it's helped me lose a little weight and get more fit.

These next six weeks threaten to undo all that. Because I have never, ever been able to deny myself at the lunch or dinner table, especially not when it's laden with turkey, dressing (with gravy), sweet potato casserole, fried ham, black-eyed peas, butter beans, cornbread, pecan pie, chocolate chess pie, brownies, chocolate-covered pretzels – you get the idea. When you live in the South, turning down second helpings is an insult to the cook.

But I was kind of proud of myself yesterday. I didn't fill my plate like I normally would. I'm sure I still took in too many calories between the two feasts, but it's a start. I hope I can practice moderation next week when I'm at the family gathering at my grandparents' house.

But with the way my wife makes sweet potato casserole, I can't make any promises.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Don't eat anything bigger than your head: Sound advice, so put down that cheese ball." – Lewis Grizzard

Franken Nonsense; or, Brain Freeze

2008-11-13T18:42:00.006-06:00

If there are any Minnesotans reading this, I have a question for you: What's up with you people? Al Franken? Seriously? He came this close to becoming a member of the United States Senate. And at last report, there is actually a chance that could still happen. Yeah, this guy making big decisions in Washington.

No, Al, you're not good enough, you're not smart enough, and doggone it, most sensible people don't like you. But a lot of folks in Minnesota aren't sensible, I guess. I'm telling you, the cold does something to people's brains.

Did I follow Franken's campaign, study where he stands on the issues, investigate his opponent's qualifications and political record? Of course not. It's freakin' Minnesota, I don't care.

But what I do care about is our society's increasing fascination with celebrity, and the mistaken notion that fame equals competence. Let's not forget who Minnesota once elected governor. And don't even get me started on California.

Some who achieved fame in a previous occupation actually can do well in the political arena: Bill Bradley, Steve Largent, Ronald Reagan. But most aren't qualified. If I should someday become a famous novelist, am I suddenly going to think I'm a viable candidate for office, at any level? Heck, no. I know my limitations.

I mean, when a guy writes this kind of book, you can't expect much partisanship. Now, I'm sure Al's an intelligent fellow, but good grief. If some Saturday Night Live writer hadn't given him that Stuart Smalley character – and I admit, it was hilarious – we wouldn't even know who Franken is.

I mean, at least down here, we elect honest politicians. By honest, I don't mean scrupulous; I mean guys who are unapologetically politicians, and they get there without the aid of fame (though perhaps with the aid of fortune). I think I know why Fred Thompson didn't have his heart in running for president – he knew it'd be pushing his luck.

Chances are, I'll catch heck for this from some smarmy Democrat, from Minnesota most likely. But that's o-kay.

Today's Redneck Thought: Not redneck per se, but still good stuff.

Not Buying It; or, Keep the Change

2008-11-05T23:06:00.002-06:00

Well, here I sit, waiting for things to change. What things exactly, I'm not sure, but if Barack Hussein Obama says things are a'changing, then who am I to argue? He's a polished orator, so he must be right.

But seriously, I'm not understanding the Obamamania. Well, I understand to a degree – I'm certain a few folks voted for him simply because of the color of his skin, not because of the content of his character. They love the idea of a bi-racial president, which means Tiger Woods should start boning up on foreign policy (those knees are going to eventually give out). People don't seem to realize that Obama is not a savior; he is nothing more than the hot politician. Dang hot, yes, but a politician at the core. He makes promises he couldn't possibly keep even if he wanted to, his greatest asset is the failures of the opposing party, and he lacks any real substance.

A lot of people like myself aren't happy with his victory (not that McCain would've been much better). I'm sure there are a few people who, to put it mildly, are not in love with the idea of a bi-racial president. I'm not one of those; Obama's skin color doesn't bother me, but his stance on economic and social issues sure does. I think that's the case with most Southern conservatives, which speaks well of the progress we've made in race relations.

I think it's great that his race wasn't a factor to most people who cast a ballot. I'm glad to see he's a family man, and that he loves sports (always a plus in my book). But all this "change" talk – not buying it. Just more empty words from another politician. Although if there is any change, I fear it will not be for the better, especially with Senate and House Republicans being in the minority.

Change, in the political realm, is good only if it benefits society as a whole. I'll be keeping an eye out for all this promised change. In the meantime, I'll keep living and toiling in the real world.

Today's Redneck Thought: "I tremble for my country when I hear of confidence expressed in me. I know too well my weakness, that our only hope is in God." – Gen. Robert E. Lee

My Civic Duty; or, Voting for Coffee

2008-11-03T21:09:00.002-06:00

Well, time to exercise our civic duty. As I type this, it's the day before Election Day, and I'm watching Saturday Night Live's Presidential Bash. Priceless stuff. Darrell Hammond for president!

But seriously, it's an election like this that makes secession sound attractive. Or moving to Antarctica. Or to the moon. Or far, far underground in a fully stocked fallout shelter.

I can feel the angry white man welling up in me again. In this corner we have the closet socialist, and in the other we have the nominal Republican who's stuck in his past. In other words, I've got no reasonable choice. But to not vote apparently makes you worse than child molesters and poachers. And I've seriously considered not voting, but that seems a copout. I could go third party, like last time, but I've become more of a realist since then.

So I will go to my local voting precinct and cast my ballot. Because I am a man of conviction. And because I want my free Starbucks.

Sick Stuff; or, Can't Believe What I 'Saw'

2008-10-28T06:19:00.003-05:00

Time for me to rant like the old guy that always writes into his local newspaper.

But I want to know: What's wrong with some people? Specifically, what's wrong with the folks behind gore flicks (not Gore flicks – that's another rant entirely) like the Saw series? Saw V was released last weekend, making me wonder if this is supposed to be the Harry Potter of horror films (minus the good script-writing, sharp acting, etc.). The Orlando Sentinel gave it a 1-star rating, yet it still raked in $30.5 million on opening weekend, second only to High School Musical 3 (speaking of movies that make you shudder …).

I used to think that most people had what I call common decency. Even if they weren't church-going, God-fearing people, they still had a basic moral code. Not these wack jobs behind the Saw franchise.

I know of what I speak. During a recent out-of-town trip, I was channel surfing – hint for travelers: Lock it on ESPN and chuck the remote out of the hotel window – when I happened across one of the Saw installments. I watched for a few minutes to see what the big deal was. Didn't take long to figure out the gist, so I moved on when they started drenching this dude in liquefied pig remains.

Yeah, try getting that image out of your head.

Speaking of heads, I do wonder what's going on inside the noggins of those behind Saw. I've seen one of the Friday the 13th movies, and that's nothing more than an undead dude trying to hack up amorous teenagers. But from what little I've watched and from what I've read of Saw, the basic premise is forcible self-torture. Some kind of sociopathic mindset behind it all.

And of course, teens eat up this sort of stuff, which makes me wonder where their parents are. Probably comparing Benzes at some country club social, or whatever it is that rich, deadbeat parents do. Or maybe the kids are telling their folks that they're going to see the latest High School Musical.

Either way, pretty sick.

Nature's Call; or, Rural Ramblings

2008-10-20T20:41:00.005-05:00

I went to Knoxville this past weekend. Had to cover that debacle of a gamebetween Mississippi State and Tennessee. It wasn't pretty.

The drive up and back, though, was very pretty. Spectacular. I wisely chose to go via the Natchez Trace, which takes you as far as Nashville. The wife was with me, so we took our time. Stopped at a few scenic places – right by the Tennessee River, some trails, an overlook. Even though I have lived in the South my whole life – save for a five-month stay in St. Louis when said wife and I were dating – its natural beauty never ceases to amaze me, especially this time of year.

It's hard to describe such beauty, which is why I've included pictures. But there is something revitalizing and inspiring about the sharply colored leaves, the nonchalant flow of streams and creeks, the crisp air, the hills and dales (old-school vocab alert), the razor-sharp thorns of some strange tree (owww!).

I think perhaps the raw loveliness of nature – from the rough-hewn rocks to the cool, gentle breezes – is what reminds us of our humanity. I do pity those trapped in large cities, the dull asphalt jungle surreptitiously draining people of their winsomeness. Whatever that means.

But I do long to live in a more pastoral setting. Tupelo is nice, and it's surrounded by rurality, but I think I'd like to live in, say, Tennessee. Hillbilly country, if you will. For now, I guess I'll have to settle for the occasional visit.

Today's Redneck Thought: "I lived in Chicago for nearly three years. It was very cold there, and the people talked funny." – Lewis Grizzard

My Greatest Fantasy; or, Chasin' a Chevy Dream

2008-10-08T21:58:00.004-05:00

I've got truck envy. I've had it for years. Just ask my wife. After we first met, I described to her in a letter my dream truck. I wrote: "I'd love to have a big Chevy Z-71 4x4 off-road extended cab stepside w/a 454 engine, skid plates, 42-inch Super Swampers (tires), a Warn winch, steel-chrome brush guard bumper, and a rollbar w/ KCs across the top. Oh yeah, and a trailer hitch. And big rebel flag mudflaps. And maybe a couple of 15-inch Kickers being pushed by 2 100-watt amps. But I digress. And glass packs."

Oh yeah, and a lift kit. And I want it in blue. Or silver. But that's all. Basically, I wanted a Bigfoot. (Here is a "lite" version of what I'm talking about.)

While in high school, I was walking to a fine eating establishment in Monroe, La., (Burger King) and saw a truck that fit many of those specifications. I had to suck the drool back in my mouth. To this day, seeing such a truck makes my stomach flip.

Back in the day, I drove my father's Toyota pickup. Couldn't exactly go mudhogging in that, but it got me around. It was a manual shift, and I could bald a tire in second gear. You work with what you've got.

Now that I'm married with four kids, my dream truck would be quite impractical. Not to mention expensive. Yet, when I cross paths with a tricked-out ride, I daydream for a moment. Sitting up high, blowing out windshields when I rev the rumbling engine, splashing through small lakes. Oh, mother, that'd be sweet.

Oh well. My Honda's a good little car. Maybe I could put some spinner rims on it …

Today's Redneck Moment: I was watching my 4-year-old son playing in the house, and his little water gun was sticking out of his back pocket. I don't know, just struck me as funny.

Instant Brad; or, Just Text/Twitter/IM Me

2008-10-02T21:11:00.003-05:00

You want to get in touch with me? It ain't hard. You can text me, Twitter me, chat with me on Facebook, hit me up on AIM, and if I ever used it, Yahoo! Instant Messenger. Or, you could just call me. Or comment on my blog, which I'm always checking. Or write to one of my four e-mail addresses.

It's Instant Brad – IB.

And it's cool. I kind of like it, especially being in my line of work. Comes in handy, whether it's posting quick updates or asking someone a question that I need the answer to now. It's a good way for me to keep up with people and vice versa.

But sometimes, I swear, I'd like to just chuck it all out the window of a speeding car. Because while IB means convenience, it means more pressure. Back in the day, you broke a story in the next day's paper. Today, the progression goes: Twitter, blog, Web site, message boards, newspaper, by which point it's old news.

IB means I'm always on my toes, 24/7. That's part of the job anyway, but now news moves faster, and my life in general moves faster. A brother can't relax on a Sunday, because a football player might have gotten arrested at 2 a.m. the night before for sending his ex harassing texts.

Sometimes IB wishes we were still an agrarian culture, when the only thing 'instant' was a pop-up rain shower, and nobody controlled that. People wrote letters (not typed), traveled less often (and less luxuriously), read yesterday's box scores in the paper, got up early to cook a real breakfast, grew their own food, and talked slower. And I bet they got a lot more accomplished in a day than I ever have.

My wife has sometimes threatened to go Amish. Yeah, but I'm neither a farmer nor handy with anything that doesn't have a keyboard, so we'd be up a creek there. Speaking of creeks, I haven't been near one since college. Used to swing across 'em with my friends on lazy summer days (or sometimes fall in them).

There ain't no going back, I don't suppose. Well, better go see who's on Facebook.

Today's Redneck Moment: Heck, I didn't have time for one.

Brad in the City; or, Where's My Exit?

2008-09-24T22:47:00.003-05:00

I've started what will amount to a Big Cities of the South mini-tour. Went to Atlanta last weekend to cover the Mississippi State-Georgia Tech game. This week it's Baton Rouge for MSU-LSU. In October I will visit Knoxville, and in November Tuscaloosa. OK, Tuscaloosa isn't that big, but it's a college town.

I've been to all these places before – except Knoxville, just through it – but what I'm really looking forward to is taking in the game day scenes and tasting the local fare. Didn't get to do much of the latter in Atlanta, although I found a really good cup of coffee at a place next to the hotel in Buckhead. As for the game day atmosphere, it was pretty cool. First thing I saw when I got on campus was a bunch of frat boys holding a sign that said, "U honk, we drink." I honked.

Baton Rouge should be a much more, um, interesting experience. You start with LSU fans, the most obnoxious fans in the history of sports. They're angry no matter what happens, whether they beat you by 50 or lose in triple-overtime. Any excuse to lob whiskey bottles at you or yell unintelligible insults. I've actually never been to a game at Tiger Stadium, but I've heard countless horror stories and have seen beer flying onto the field on TV.

But I'm really looking forward to eating some genuine Cajun cooking. I have an affinity for it, especially gumbo. I spent nine years in north Louisiana, and while that area is more like Mississippi than south Louisiana, the people there do appreciate Cajun cuisine. So I've been asking around for good places to eat while I'm in Baton Rouge this weekend. Suggestions are welcome.

My main concern isn't the fans or finding good food, but rather not getting lost. I have about as good a sense of direction as a drunk Lindsey Lohan (is that redundant?). I got lost in Atlanta on the way to the game, on the way back to my car after the game (the parking garage was like two miles away), and on the way back to the hotel. And the next day, too, while trying to locate the Coca-Cola factory (it was closed). I still get turned around in Tupelo sometimes, and I've been living here almost six years.

So I'm leaving Friday, which will A) get me in ahead of game day traffic and all those crazy fans, B) give me plenty of time to scope out the restaurant scene, and C) give me a full day to find my hotel.

Today's (Actually Yesterday's) Redneck Moment: My youngest daughter, Trinity, finally lost her first tooth yesterday. But she didn't want the Tooth Fairy to come last night. She had to sleep with the tooth first.

Controlled Chaos; or, Drive Like an NYC Cabbie

2008-09-15T18:12:00.004-05:00

I think it would do all Southerners good to take a trip to New York City. Seriously. Why?

To learn how to drive.

Yeah, I know. They drive like maniacs up there. I didn't actually drive in the city when we visited in July, but I rode in an airport shuttle van, and I learned a new meaning of the word 'fear' and was seriously questioning the integrity of the brakes. The Japanese guy driving was as 'psycho' as any cab driver. Or was he?

While it seemed we were on the brink of disaster every moment, after the ride, and after observing other drivers, I realized that New York drivers have mastered the art of controlled chaos. (That's what that whole city's about, right?) It might appear that these guys are nuts, but I bet they could fare quite well in a NASCAR road course race. Driving a race car is all about deft handling in tight quarters, and that's what I saw in NYC. It's a 'feel' thing.

So, since returning home, I've pulled a couple of New York moves, darting into a backed-up line of traffic or, as on the way home on the New Jersey Turnpike, making multiple-lane changes. Actually, I have a history of aggressive driving, but it was aggression minus intelligence. I've gotten better, honest.

I've actually long admired some of the New Yorkers' driving habits. Like hitting the gas when a light goes green, not when the person in front of you finally decides to go. See, if everybody gets on the gas at once, a lot more cars can beat the red.

Then there's the issue of improper lane usage. My gosh, Southerners can be clueless. Quick lesson: Granny lane to the right, hammer lane to the left. It's simple. If you're in the hammer and I'm coming up on your rear, please move. Every time I have to pass some yahoo on the right, I cast a condescending glare or shake my head.

Then there are those who try to drive like New Yorkers but instead drive like I used to. They tend to have very loud engines, which is supposed to impress me. Yeah, try that junk in New York, Jack. You'll get run off a bridge.

Today's Redneck Moment: My oldest, Deanna, walked in the door today and let out a belch. Just kept on walkin.'

Tall, Tall Weeds; or, Just Can't Cut It

2008-09-05T17:16:00.003-05:00

I have totally lost track, but I think it's been about a month since I mowed our lawn. No joke. I cut it one day, looked real nice, and then it rained for about a week. Since our backyard holds water, I had to wait for it to dry. But before it did, it started raining again, and again. And I had craziness at work with my new beat.

It got to the point where I knew there was no way my little push-mower could handle the tall, thick grass in the back. So I had a guy all set to come out early this week to cut it. And of course, it rains. Thanks, Gustav.

So we've got cattails growing in the front yard, whilst my neighbors have their lawns neatly trimmed. We're white-trashin' it, much to the neighborhood association's chagrin, I'm sure.

Heck, I might as well go all the way with this. Think I'll find an old lawn chair, plop down in it in front of our weed-infested flower bed, and sit out there in my gym shorts and no shirt, with a root beer in my hand (I'm going for effect here, so such props are allowed). I need some cinder blocks to put under my Honda, and a pink flamingo (which they're not making anymore). Drew can run around in his underwear, and Rachel can wear a tight tank top, blue jean cutoffs and mismatched slippers.

Well, maybe not. My wife is gonna kill me for posting this, though.

Grammatically Incorrect; or, She Ain't Speakin' Right

2008-09-04T16:50:00.003-05:00

I'm torn. My inner redneck is throwing down with my inner grammarian – OK, so I don't hide either of those characteristics very well. Dadgummit.

It's my middle daughter, Charlotte. She has learned the word "ain't" and has been saying it like some people say cuss words. "I ain't gonna do that." "This dress ain't clean." "I ain't got no pink socks." Ooh, a double negative. Honestly, I ain't sure what to do.

I'm secretly proud that she's learned how to use a staple of the Southern dialect. I haven't corrected her yet, and I'm not sure I will. Although it should be noted that the late, great Lewis Grizzard's mother, who was an English teacher and hard-line grammarian, despised the use of that word. "Fixing to," though, was just fine.

I do want Charlotte to sound like the intelligent little girl she is, but I can't bring myself to fixing her grammatical errors. Heck, I still talk that way in informal settings, because it comes naturally and provides some level of comfort. Occasionally, I will drop "ain't" or some other dialectal delicacy into my writing, for effect.

I'm not sure where she picked it up. Guess it could've been from me, but since I don't talk much, she probably got it at school. Sad, yes, but she started saying "ain't" about the time school started. I know Charlotte's teacher will correct her if needed, but I think Charlotte is like me and talks that way only in casual conversation.

It could be worse. There is the Southern dialect, and then there is the Redneck dialect. To borrow from Grizzard, some common terms/phrases you'll find in the latter dialect include:

• "His'n" (his).

• "If'n" (if).

• "You got air asack?" (Do you have a sack?)

• "I ain't got nairn." (No, I'm afraid I don't.)

Also:

• "I don't reckon. (I think not.)

• "Nekkid" (Naked).

• "Buck nekkid" (Naked and drunk).

• "Possum" (As in, "Possum more beer in my mug, honey.")

There is a place for proper grammar and elocution. There is also a place for speaking in a natural manner. But Jeff Foxworthy is probably right: When we get to Heaven, St. Peter will say, "Y'all git in the truck, we goin' up to the big house."

Today's Redneck Thought: "She taught a love of words, of how they should be used and how they can fill a creative soul with a passion and lead it to a life's work." – Lewis Grizzard, on his mother, Christine

Making Change; or, Embracing the Unfamiliar

2008-09-01T21:59:00.002-05:00

I don't like change. It's scary. The fear of it is in my blood. Like those who came before me, I prefer the way things used to be, whenever that was. I wish things were like they were 20 years ago, and 20 years from now, I'll say the same thing.

But I know that change is often necessary. Time moves forward with an annoying persistence, no matter the happy or tragic circumstances. Time has no feelings.

Change can be good, if you embrace it. I've had to do that this past week. I moved from covering high school sports to Mississippi State athletics. Yeah, cool job, but it was one of the hardest decisions I've ever made. I was comfortable where I was. I knew what I was doing. I wasn't nearly as visible as I am now, which meant less pressure.

Change meant confronting the unfamiliar, and with football season here, it meant tackling it head on. No time for dancing in the backfield; that's a good way to get flattened. So I've plowed forward.

Everybody tells me I'll be fine. Deep down, I know they're right, but I've never been a self-assured sort. Insecurities have plagued me as long as I can remember. That's another reason I don't like change – I think it will overwhelm me, or expose me as a fraud.

I need change, though. We all do. Without change, nothing ever gets better.

Football Time; or, The Bear is Smiling

2008-08-24T14:06:00.003-05:00

Wow, so it's been how long since I posted something? Yeah, well, this past week was crazy busy. I was finishing up our 56-page preseason football magazine. Somehow I got stuck with most of the writing and most of the layout. Now that the football season starts in full this week, things will get even crazier. Yay!

But I do love football season. I don't give it the kind of reverence that many Southerners do. I would disagree with the late Bear Bryant – both in principle and theologically – who said, "If you want to walk the heavenly streets of gold, you gotta know the password: 'Roll, Tide, roll!'" That's actually three words, but Bryant also said, "It's kind of hard to rally around a math class." Or a grammar class.

Nevertheless, there is something sweetly sentimental about a Friday night or a Saturday afternoon in the fall. Friends gather, succulent food is prepared – screw the calorie count – and the players trot out in their bright, crisp jerseys. As the weeks pass and the games become more important, autumn continues its slow, cool descent, until it's November and we're washing down those burgers with hot cocoa. The uniforms become dirtied and torn, and the helmets become colorful palettes marking the season's grinding progression.

I've often wondered how football became the preeminent sport in the South (and in other places). It's fun to watch, of course, and whether we are willing to admit it or not, we love the controlled violence of it. But I think the game's popularity can also be traced to the fact that there are only a few games, and teams play only once a week. Every game becomes an event, and the stakes are higher than in, say, a typical baseball game. In football, there are no rematches, no best-of-whatever series. You get one shot, and that's it.

A football game is not just a football game in the South. It is an event not only on the field, but off it. It's a social affair, which partly explains why Ole Miss coeds are bedecked in their Sunday finest every Saturday. I'm not sure I want to know the other part of the explanation.

The high school and college seasons start in full this coming weekend. I actually covered a private school game on Friday, and even though it was muggy and buggy, and the crowd was small (and not paying much attention), it was football. And it was good.

Today's Redneck Thought: "In Alabama, an atheist is someone who doesn't believe in Bear Bryant." – Wally Butts, former Georgia coach

Another Tall Tale; or, A Great Idear

2008-08-15T22:36:00.003-05:00

So some guys in Georgia claim they've found Bigfoot. Well, a Bigfoot. Because they say they saw a whole Sasquatch family. Yeah, they happened upon the beasts during a picnic volleyball match.

The intrepid adventurers held a news conference Friday but didn't bring the corpse with them, or much else in the way of solid evidence. So this is looking even more like a sham. I'm the least shocked person.

Let's think about this. Rednecks and tall tales go together like butter and grits. Over the years, the fish we've caught grow to enormous proportions, the deer we kill keep gaining extra points, and Bear Bryant is a minor god. I suppose those are more examples of hyperbole than flat-out tall tales, but we're good at taking an event or person and stretching the truth beyond the bounds of exaggeration. This is what's probably happening here.

See, these fellas were hiking through north Georgia when they came upon some badgers kicking around a pine cone (you might not know that this is a common badger game, and it helps explain why they're so ornery). Anyway, one of the guys – we'll call him Earl, since I didn't bother noticing their real names – says to Pete, "Pete, what are them raccoons doing?" "Them ain't raccoons," Pets says, "them's badgers." "Oh," says Earl with a blank expression. "Hey, that gives me an idear. Let's take that old gorilla suit I wore to the Christmas party and fool a bunch of cynical journalists and expert scientists into thinking it's Bigfoot." "Shewt, Earl! That's the best idear you've had since you took that deposed Nigerian prince for all his money! By the way, when's that check supposed to come?" "Uh, yeah," Earl says, "I'll go alert the media."

Pretty sure that's how it went down. Bigfoot says he agrees.

Today's Redneck Moment: When I came home at lunch, my wife was sweaty and filthy from pulling weeds. And I thought it was really sexy.

Smashing Moments; or, Eat It, Frenchy

2008-08-12T20:19:00.004-05:00

Did you see the men's 4x100-meter freestyle relay the other night in Beijing? Did you see that Frenchman crying in the pool like someone had just put Tabasco sauce in his bidet? Oh, how sweet it is to shut up a jaw-jacker like that Alain Bernard ("We will smash the Americans."). Jason Lezak, you are forever my hero.

The Olympic Games have never failed to provide indelible moments such as that one. Whether it's Kerri Strug vaulting on one leg, or Michael Johnson blowing away the field in his shiny gold shoes, the Olympics always give me reason to celebrate like the American homer that I am. Am I jingoistic? You bet your sweet sushi I am. It's not politically correct to be so, which is all the more reason to be so.

I would not normally watch a swim meet, but since there's a chance for the U.S. to kick some serious tail I'm all over it. I hope Michael Phelps beats them all. I got so excited when Lezak beat Bernard to the wall, I … well, I can't really tell you what I did. Would've gotten me a night in the can if I'd done that in public.

Heck, I'd cheer like a madman for a Tiddlywinks competition if Americans were involved (although I draw the line at synchronized swimming). This is one of the easiest ways for me to show my patriotism. I don't mean to come off as arrogant – although Americans did perfect the art of arrogance; the French invented it – I'm just very proud of my country and those who compete for it. Any non-Americans who don't like it, guess what: Our basketball team could smash yours.

Frozen Up; or, Cursed Technology

2008-08-10T13:48:00.001-05:00

I have not been meaning to neglect my blog. But my faithful Mac froze
up last Sunday; it's now in a better place. OK, it's actually in our
tech guy's office.

I am supposed to get a new one this week. I've been able to make do at
work, but not so much at home. I'm writing this post on my phone,
which is a very tedious process.

'Tis the curse of our modern blessing, technology. We go as it goes,
for better or worse. Like Bret Michaels of Poison sang so long ago
(1988), "Every rose has its thorn." I often marvel at those who once
had only a typewriter or pen and paper as their tools of composition.

Although I'm sure both methods are faster than typing on a tiny cell
phone keyboard with one hand.

In the Pink; or, Color Me Outraged

2008-07-31T22:27:00.005-05:00

My fellow Southern men are being brainwashed, and something must be done. Just today, I discovered that a co-worker had been victimized. I hadn't the heart to say anything to him; he seemed so happy.

You see, he was wearing … a pink Oxford shirt. He's a good Southern boy from Lambert, Miss., and he should know better. But he's hardly alone.

A basketball coach I know had a pink shirt that he wore throughout the state basketball tournament last year. His "lucky shirt," he called it. Well, his team lost in the championship game. Maybe his players couldn't take him seriously because of the shirt. It's not a tool of intimidation.

I see it everywhere, guys wearing pink dress shirts. Apparently it's the fashion, which means we're letting some Yankee tell us how to dress. The Yankees have decided that pink shirts look good on guys, our wives have somehow convinced many of us that's true, and so we've accepted yet another Northern abomination, one as disturbing as sweet cornbread and Rascal Flatts.

Growing up, I don't recall seeing one male wear a pink shirt, or a pink anything. I saw lots of girls wear them. Because pink is, you know, a feminine color, just like mint green and purple. My daughters wear pink. My son does not, nor will he ever as long as I'm buying his clothes.

You might say colors are gender-less, that my being anti-pink is a sign of my ignorance or poor fashion sense or whatever. I say, some things in life are black and white, and pink needs to stay where it belongs – off of me.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Mashed potatoes from a box. That's what's wrong with this country." – Lewis Grizzard

New York, In Pictures, Take 2

2008-07-26T15:02:00.004-05:00

From top: The scoreboard at Yankee Stadium (we sat right under it); a view from our seats in Shea Stadium; the Today Show outdoor set; my wife looking thrilled at Yankee Stadium; a view from our seats there.

New York, In Pictures

2008-07-26T14:54:00.006-05:00

It only let me upload five images, so I will have to do this in at least two posts. From top: Me at Shea Stadium; the Empire State Building; Brandon driving after we got lost in Newark, N.J.; the intrepid travelers looking confused at Penn Station; Steve and Ryan share an intimate moment.

New York, Day 4; or, What a Trip

2008-07-25T20:04:00.003-05:00

Time: 7:35 p.m.

Location: Home

Day 4 was mostly a travel day. Brandon, Jessica and Steve went back into the city before lunch Thursday, and then we left town about 1:30. Twenty-two hours later, we were home. I took a nap this afternoon, and I'm still tired.

We took our time getting back. Stopped in Hershey, Pa., and toured Chocolate World. I'm pretty sure that place was an actual piece of heaven on Earth. We also stopped at the Crayola factory in Easton, Pa.

Being in the van for so long, I've had time to reflect on the trip. This whole thing came about when Brandon invited me along. Rachel and I had originally planned to go camping in the Smokies this week, because our 10th anniversary is today. I'm glad this came up, and I'm glad my wife was cool with going with all the guys (she committed to the trip before Brandon's wife did).

New York lived down to some of the stereotypes – dirty streets, wacko drivers, wacko Yankees and Mets fans, etc. – but it was one of the most enjoyable trips I've ever taken. We met nice folks – New Yorkers and fellow tourists alike – and got to see some cool things. We went to ground zero, and while there wasn't much to look at besides construction equipment, the more I think about my visit, the more it sinks in how significant 9/11 was to everyone in this country, not just to New Yorkers. While the hustle and bustle surrounding us wasn't my cup of tea, it was encouraging to see that people there have been able to move on and live as normally as they possibly can in the wake of that tragedy.

The main reason I went on this trip was for the baseball. The Yankees and Mets are both getting new stadiums next year, and I just couldn't miss the chance to visit baseball's Mecca. Shea Stadium was a sweet bonus. It was nice to see where the Cardinals beat the Mets in the 2006 NLCS. My hope is to someday visit ballparks in all the major league cities. I've also been to both Busch Stadiums (St. Louis), the old Fulton County Stadium (Atlanta), the old Arlington Stadium (Texas), Miller Park (Milwaukee), Comerica Park (Detroit) and Wrigley Field (Chicago). Still a ways to go.

The best part of the trip was the people we went with. To review, it was Brandon Speck, his wife Jessica, Steven Criss, Adam Gore and Ryan Whittington. Rachel and I shared a room with the Specks, which was real interesting the first two nights in that one-bed room (had to get a rollaway). Rachel and Jessica had met once, briefly, and really hit it off. Adam, Steven and Ryan all work for WO7BN, the Bruce TV station, so I knew them (not as well as I know them now). Ryan's also an Ole Miss student, and he was the one who kept us laughing most of the time. I misstated earlier when I said none in the group had been to NYC before; Ryan had come twice, Brandon once, I believe. They did a good job getting us around. Rachel said before the trip that we'd either become great friends with these people or hate each other when it was through. The former held true.

Only so much can be said with words. I will soon post some photos here, if I'm able, as well as on Facebook for those of you who are my "friends." Now, I must go watch some movies with my wife. And I should probably begin planning that 20th anniversary trip to Ireland.

New York, Day 3; or, Crazy Trains

2008-07-24T00:52:00.003-05:00

Time: 1:52 a.m.

Location: Days Inn, Newark, N.J.

Wow, I spent way too much time on the trains today. It took Brandon, Steven and I five hours just to come to the Newark airport, get something out of the van, check into the new hotel, and get back to the city.

Back in the city, Steven and I got separated from Brandon and took the wrong subway. We wound up walking 22 blocks to find everybody else. We made our way to the World Trade Center and were rather disappointed, to be honest. I feel bad saying that, but it was just a big hole under construction. Some of the group wanted to skip the Mets game and do more sight-seeing, so Rachel, Ryan and I hustled over to Shea Stadium. By hustled, I mean we took the 4 train to the 7, which was not as bad as John Rocker described it but was packed like a sardine can. We got to our seats in the bottom of the first inning.

These were actually better seats than at Yankee Stadium: upper deck, front row, a few yards outside the left field foul pole. Great view, and we thought a better atmosphere than the previous night. Jose Reyes' three-run home run keyed the Mets' 6-3 win over the Phillies. I believe that tied the teams for first in the NL East.

The game was easily the best part of the day. It's weird. You hear about and see things about these places like New York, and they don't seem to live up to the hype. We swung by the Today Show, for instance, and it was cool, but nothing spectacular. Al Roker is really short.

We leave Thursday (today, technically). I will reflect on the trip soon, with pictures included, I hope.

New York, Day 2; or, Yankee for a Day

2008-07-22T23:40:00.004-05:00

Time: 11:07 p.m.

Location: Same as yesterday

I'm pretty sure I heard angels singing when I entered Yankee Stadium tonight. Yes, I'm a Cardinals fan, and yes, I technically hate the Yankees. But I am first and foremost a baseball fan, of both the game and its history. So that's why I felt no guilt when I bought a replica Lou Gehrig jersey (well, considering the price, perhaps some buyer's remorse).

Our seats were in the next-to-last row in the outfield bleachers, right below the scoreboard in right-center. Not great seats, but I didn't care. I had a seat in the House That Ruth Built. Since they don't allow beer in the bleachers, the fans were relatively tame. Although when some genius decided to wear a Jonathan Papelbon jersey, the fans around us serenaded him with a vulgar cheer expressing their collective opinion of the Red Sox.

So I got to see Jeter, A-Rod, Damon and the rest of them. Bobby Abreu homered, and the Yankees beat the Twins 8-2. About the seventh inning, it finally hit me where I was. I just sat there and soaked in the atmosphere and history that surrounded me. Yes, I'm a big-time romantic when it comes to baseball.

The day began more routinely. Steven and I had to go to Newark to move our van from Penn Station to Newark International. That's where we'd intended to park Monday, but thanks to my expert navigational skills, we missed our exit.

We're getting pretty good at navigating the city via the subway. Not as scary as I thought it might be. We've run into some nice people, and some rude ones, too. I met a couple from Corinth on Monday night at the ESPN Zone, and they advertise with the Daily Journal. Sheesh, I'm turning into my dad.

My wife is mad at me because I forgot to bring the Yankee Stadium cup our Coke was in. But she still loves me, and she's having fun, too. Our plan for Wednesday is to stand outside the Today Show and get on TV (I'll probably do the full goober routine - talking on my cell to someone and telling them to turn the channel while I wave and smile like, well, a goober). Then a change of hotels - got that part of the reservation screwed up, too - some sight-seeing and the Mets game. And if we're lucky, a seat in the Ed Sullivan Theater for Letterman.

New York, Day 1; or, "He Is Not Seriously Pulling Us Over!"

2008-07-21T23:06:00.003-05:00

Time: 11:04 p.m.
Location: Room 417, Latham Hotel, E. 28th St., New York City

I'd have posted something earlier, but my phone wouldn't cooperate. Turns out that was the least of my problems.

Our trek to New York City - me, my wife and five friends - began about 8:15 p.m. Sunday. We were packed into our minivan like the Clampetts. Five guys, two gals and luggage. My knees are still sore and I've been awake since 9 a.m. Sunday. But I can't wait until we watch the Yankees on Tuesday, the Mets on Wednesday.

Our first hint of trouble came around Selmer, Tenn. When I took a curve a little hard, it felt like the van was sliding beneath me. "Jerry, we're loose in the turns. Give me a wedge adjustment next time in."

I told Ryan, who was to drive the next leg, to play close mind to how the van drove. But before we even got on the highway, Crossville, Tenn.'s finest pulled us over on the on ramp. "He is not seriously pulling us over!" exclaimed Ryan. Got busted for a busted taillight. Some red tape solved the problem.

The van gradually got worse, to the point that after eating at a Waffle House in Virginia, it was sliding around like a slalom skier.

We pulled off near Dublin, Va., and thanks to my expert navigational skills, we wound up five miles back down I-81. We finally found a Wal-Mart - should've turned left off the ramp the first time - and were directed from there to a local garage.

Smilin' Jack Akers - said so on his purple custom pickup - was an elderly mechanic whose hearing aid was working about as well as my van. He determined that a radial belt had come apart in the right front tire, so back to Wal-Mart for new treads. Back on the highway, and it's still sliding, though not as violently. Still, I figured that was $65 down the drain.

Still not sure if it was. But when we stopped for lunch, I checked the air pressure and found my rear tires were both about 14 pounds low. Problem solved, thanks to my expert mechanical skills.

To summarize the rest: We parked at the train station at Newark, took the train, found the hotel, went to eat at ESPN SportsZone (*drool*), Brandon's wife Jessica got sick, and we finally got back to our tiny little room at 11. Oh yeah, me and the wife are bunking with Brandon and Jessica, and the hotel screwed up our reservation, meaning our friends are sleeping on a fold-out bed.

Good gosh and good night.

Road Trip; or, New York City?!

2008-07-19T23:02:00.002-05:00

As I write this, my trip to New York City is less than 24 hours away. I'm preparing for my visit by walking briskly and avoiding eye contact with strangers.

I admit to feeling some trepidation. I'm just a simple redneck who abhors crowds, filthiness and nasally accents. I'm afraid that even in New York, I will be easily spotted as an outsider. I might as well wear a T-shirt that reads, "Where's the closest Wal-Mart?"

I'll have six other people with me, none of whom have been to New York, so that'll scream, "Tourists!" But I do feel safer in a group of familiar people. After riding with them 18 hours in our minivan, I imagine I'll be real familiar with them. No Taco Bell on this trip.

If I'm going to stick out, I might as well make the most of it. You know, try to educate and enlighten the Yankees. How could I do that? Let me count the ways:

• Teach them the proper use of the term "y'all" and where to place the apostrophe (it's not "ya'll").

• Throw a bonfire party in Central Park.

• Introduce them to my wife's sweet tea (I'll tell them it's herbal or something).

• Show them how to amble (and if I have time, how to mosey).

• Direct them to this blog and other ones like it.

It's a start. Best go to bed now. I've got a busy week ahead of me.

Stay tuned for updates.

End of an Era; or, Crying with Yankees

2008-07-15T22:11:00.002-05:00

I'm sitting here watching the Major League All-Star Game, and I'm feeling a little sad. Why? Because it's being played at Yankee Stadium, which is in its final days. A new stadium is being built right next door.

Yes, I find it odd to be empathizing with New Yorkers about anything. I have in the past referred to New York City as a giant rat hole. I would never, under any circumstances, want to live there. Many of the people who live there are condescending toward my kind. But there are times when one must put aside regional differences.

The New York Yankees have long been the kings of baseball. It's the cradle of our national pastime. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Reggie Jackson, Derek Jeter – you know the names. Twenty-seven World Series titles. The pinstripes. And if you don't love 'em, you hate 'em.

An era that began in 1923 is coming to an end this season. The House That Ruth Built is shutting down, and it's a shame. Fortunately for me, I'll have the privilege of attending a game there next week. As a baseball fan, it'll be an awesome experience.

We all rallied around the Big Apple on 9/11, and while Yankee Stadium's closing does not approach that event in terms of its impact on our nation, it's significant nonetheless. Especially if you're a baseball purist like myself. It's the end of an era, and all that other mushy stuff.

The Yanks are playing the Twins the night I'll be there. I won't be rooting for either team, I'll just be soaking up the atmosphere and history. I'll be saying hello and goodbye. Don't tell anyone, but I might even shed a tear.

Southern Confinement; or, Where's the Carburetor?

2008-07-13T13:21:00.003-05:00

My lovely wife and I had a nice talk last night about what it means to be a Southern man. I was lamenting the fact that I am neither a handy person nor have ever killed a deer. My wife assured me that providing for my family and being a good husband and father was what defined my manhood, Southern or otherwise.

She was right, of course. I sometimes feel trapped by the expectations we Southerners have created for ourselves. I think we limit ourselves when we try to conform to a preconceived cultural standard. Nothing wrong with hunting, woodworking and having intimate knowledge of car engines, but I need not feel a lesser man for not being proficient in those activities.

I embrace certain aspects of the Southern mindset. I try to be courteous, hospitable and loyal. I think Southern food, and our version of tea, is the best in the world. I love country music.

But I also realize that we don't have a monopoly on the aforementioned friendly qualities. I appreciate good food no matter where it's from (love Italian). My musical tastes are eclectic – I can go from George Strait to The Police to P.O.D. to Mozart. If it's good music, it's good music.

One thing I know I can do is write. Being from Mississippi, I feel an obligation to be very good at what I do, even if I know I'm not in the league of Faulkner or Welty. I could easily fall into the trap of thinking I need to write about the things they wrote about, which isn't a bad idea, but I must remember to find my own voice and let that guide me.

It's what a man must do.

Today's Redneck Thought: "The government is not best which secures life and property. There is a more valuable thing – manhood." – Mark Twain

Clean Living; or, Muddied Memories

2008-07-06T12:10:00.003-05:00

I used to love the mud. I'd play football in it, work in it, drive in it. I embraced wet dirt in all its filthy glory.

Something about getting muddy was beautiful to me. I remember after a day of mudhogging during high school, the entire front half of my buddy Scott's truck was caked in mud. I'm getting a little teary-eyed just thinking of it.

I can't recall the last time I got so down and dirty. I've become a bit of a neat freak since I got married and had kids. I wigged out the other day when my dog got his muddy paws on me (hey, I'd just put them on and was fixing to go to work). I find myself telling my kids to stay away from mud puddles. I'm an almost obsessive hand-washer (always have been, though).

I've wondered what's gone wrong with me. I feel like I'm collecting dust (but if you threw some water on me …). I'm going to assume this has some deeper meaning, so bear with me.

We've become a society where Hummers, the best off-road vehicles ever made, are driven by soccer moms and other people who don't know what mudhogging is. A clean Hummer is an abomination, right up there with sweet cornbread and the DH.

We don't like to get our hands dirty, do we? We miss out on a lot of fun, and on chances to help others. I admit to also being guilty of avoiding figurative filthiness, like trying to help a person through a big problem.

Being a Southerner, one whose ancestors always had dirt or mud under their fingernails, I feel a measure of shame about this. Southerners aren't supposed to be afraid of getting dirty, literally or figuratively. Shoot, my dad once ate dirt off a car bumper when he was little (which explains a lot).

I'm not sure how to remedy my problem. I can't go mudhogging in our minivan or Honda. I don't have time – or enough friends – for a good game of mud football. I work at a newspaper, so the only time I get muddy on the job is when I'm interviewing a football coach on a rainy Friday night.

I'm all clean on the outside, but my avoidance of mud makes me feel a little dirty on the inside.

Today's Redneck Thought: "You got to get a little mud on the tires." – Brad Paisley, Mud on the Tires

The Southern Dialect; or, You Ain't From Around Here, Is Ya?

2008-07-03T00:18:00.003-05:00

We Southerners have a unique way of talking. You know, colorful metaphors, colloquialisms, compound words that weren't meant to be compound words in proper English. And I'm pretty sure "ain't" is exclusively ours, along with "y'all" and "nairn." (Example: "Y'all ain't got nairn.") But make sure you place the apostrophe correctly in "y'all." It ain't "ya'll."

Lately, I've come to treasure the uniqueness of the Southern dialect. It seems to be disappearing, and I'm pretty sure it's because there's a sinister plan to make us all sound like newscasters. I mean, when was the last time you heard Brian Williams close NBC Nightly News with, "I reckon that's all for tonight. Y'all have a good'un."

I'm all about good grammar and whatnot – I am a journalist with a minor in English – but I can do without it in an informal setting. Talking like a Southerner means you're talking honestly, and the conversation feels authentic, even if it's small-talk. "Hey, fella." "Hey, what ya know good?" "Nothin'. How's ya mom and them?" "Fair to middlin'." See what I mean?

Some of my favorite Southern phrases:

• "I'm fixin' to tan your hide, boy!"

• "Now you're cookin' with grease!"

• "She's easy on the eyes."

• "Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's rainin'!"

• "A'ight." (All right)

Then there are phrases that I'm pretty sure no self-respecting Southerner has ever uttered, but Hollywood or someone has made up:

• "I do declare!"

• "Y'all come back now, ya hear?"

• "Possum on a gum bush!" (Enos, from Dukes of Hazzard)

Speaking of Hollywood, don't you hate it when they cast a non-Southern actor to play a Southerner? Ugh. I still haven't forgiven Susan Sarandon for Bull Durham (she's from New York). Now Reese Witherspoon, there's a true belle (New Orleans).

Anyway, enough of that rabbit trail. I just always try to make sure my words, both verbal and written, retain the richness of the Southern dialect. If I had my druthers, everyone would talk like me. But we ain't all perfect.

Today's Redneck Thought: "What in tarnation was he talkin' about?"

Bagged Blogs; or, Barack Off

2008-07-01T23:31:00.003-05:00

For further proof that liberals don't generally like for people to have opinions different from theirs, check out this story about how some Barack Obama supporters tricked Google's blog-hosting service – the one I'm on, blogger.com – into shutting down several anti-Obama blogs.

I guess some folks think Obama is unassailable, because he's such a charismatic orator. And he's a black guy running for president, which means we have to like him. I actually saw an editorial cartoon that depicted Martin Luther King Jr. thinking about a black man someday running for president, and in the thought bubble was Obama. Um, maybe not.

You see, I don't think King would support Obama, for the same reason I don't: He doesn't share the Christian values that King held and that I hold dear. Some people have called the anti-Obama crowd racist, which is absurd. I don't oppose him because he's black, I oppose him because of what he believes in (not that he's really addressed the issues). Am I supposed to vote for the guy because of some residual Southern guilt passed down from my ancestors?

I don't think many liberals believe Southerners like myself can support a candidate on the basis of something besides color or party affiliation. They're wrong, of course, and they never stop to consider that they're as blindly loyal to the Democratic party as any conservative might be to the GOP. So happens I'm of a third-party mindset.

John McCain? I don't support him, and he's an old white war hero dude. I don't expect his supporters will try to shut anyone down, though.

Unwittingly Healthy; or, Say Nofu to Tofu

2008-06-27T22:00:00.003-05:00

I can't say I'm proud of what I did. I vowed I'd never do it, so diametrically opposed to my worldview was it. I wouldn't call it a despicable act by any means, but just a strong preference.

If it helps, I was tricked.

Shortly after arriving to the in-laws' house in St. Louis tonight, I snapped up a freshly cooked meatball from a plate. It tasted OK. I didn't spit it out. Turns out it wasn't a meatball.

It was a tofu ball.

Tofu. The ultimate vegan food, the health food so often targeted in jokes about non-meat-eaters. Tofu. Ech. But I ate another one, just to make sure I hadn't fooled myself the first time (my wife said after she learned what it was, it didn't taste as good). The second one was barely warm, which didn't help its cause. I concluded that, in this form at least, tofu wasn't as evil as I'd previously thought, but it wasn't something I'd eat again.

I looked it up, and I'm glad I didn't know this before I ate: Tofu is essentially coagulated soy milk. Mmmm, chunky fake milk. Pile it up!

I view this as a reminder to be grateful for the Southern diet I have become accustomed to. Who cares if it's not all healthy. Man, I'm hungry. Somebody get me a biscuit.

Today's Redneck Moment: My son Drew keeps insisting that he "needs" a bigger General Lee car. He might be right.

Lining Up for Thrills; or, Manufactured Fun

2008-06-22T23:38:00.001-05:00

We got back from vacation in Branson on Saturday night. It was fun – so fun I'm worn out. This seems to happen every year.

I suspect my exhaustion can be traced to the unspontaneous fun I had. Specifically, going to the water park twice. I was whipped last year after two days at Silver Dollar City, so I'm starting to see a common thread.

Theme parks are a product of capitalism, which I've got no problem with. The problem is that they've become products, period. You have to pay a lot of money just to experience a day full of fleeting thrills. Most of the time, you're walking across the oven-hot pavement and then standing in line 30-45 minutes for a 15-second ride.

Our fun, especially when on vacation, is manufactured. It's handed to us in a neat and expensive package. While it is indeed fun, it doesn't feel authentic. I remember as a kid taking a three-week vacation out West. We visited no theme parks, saw no shows. We would drive, stop at a camp site for a few days, and entertain ourselves (and that often involved – gasp! – mixing with strangers).

At home, I'd do things like play ball in the yard or swing over a creek or go bird hunting with my BB gun (shh! Don't tell my mom!). I engaged the world around me. Going to a place like a theme park, while entertaining, feels more like an escape into an isolated world. It has positive aspects – who doesn't like to escape the world for a while? – but I prefer a less rigid, more spontaneous approach to fun.

The most fun I had in Branson? Tossing the baseball around with my brother-in-law, and shooting hoops at the resort where we stayed. Pretty basic, but pretty satisfying. And it didn't cost me a thing.

No Boundaries; or, Redneck Relatives

2008-06-17T09:14:00.003-05:00

I'm on vacation this week in Branson, Mo., with the wife and kids, the in-laws, and several relatives from that side of the family. And as I'm reminded whenever I'm around Rachel's relatives, redneckedness knows no geographical boundaries.

In fact, my wife has been comparing and contrasting Mississippi rednecks, such as myself, to Pennsylvania rednecks, such as her aunts, uncles and cousins. They don't have the accent, she noted, and they're still technically Yankees. But we have much in common.

Cousin Frankie – who couldn't make it this year – is a mechanic and Dukes of Hazzard fanatic. Uncle George works 12-hour days in a foundry. The other Uncle George, who I think was raised in Colorado and New Jersey, got in last night after a long trip and promptly downed three beers to take the edge off.

Then there's my father-in-law, Frank, who has been fishing most every morning since we've arrived. He's a big-shot executive, but he's as down-to-earth as they come. Being grounded has long been an admired redneck quality.

Frank's lovely wife, Elvesta, is from Oklahoma (as is my wife, though she grew up in St. Louis). That's the home of Garth Brooks, who still sometimes pretends he's a redneck.

So, being here in the Ozarks, just a few yards from a big lake, and surrounded by loved ones who are more like me than they'd probably be willing to admit, I feel right at home.

Cultural Richness; or, Of Ghosts and Tire Irons

2008-06-11T00:17:00.002-05:00

From my perspective, Southern history and culture have always been colored by legend and intrigue. I find myself most fascinated by such things as French Quarter ghosts, Civil War what-ifs and the psychological footprints left by our many famous authors.

Growing up around here, you hear all kinds of stories from generations past. Like my great-great-grandfather joining the Confederate army at age 15. Or my grandfather, who at one time drove a bus for the city of Memphis, shooting at a thief through the front window of said bus. Or my dad's friend having a paranormal experience in a cotton field.

My life, however, has been devoid of such adventure. The best story I could tell you is when I thought my best friend and I might get beaten to death by a drunk dude with a tire iron. Actually, that's a pretty good story.

We were at a friend's house one night just outside West Monroe, La., when we heard what sounded like a gunshot followed by squealing tires. My buddy, Scott, and I ventured outside and found a guy standing by an old Camaro, which had spun out and come to rest in the neighbors' driveway. He was clearly inebriated, and while he was nice to us, he kept cussing his car and flogging it with the tire iron, putting several holes in the hood and making Scott and I very nervous.

The police eventually came and took both him and his car away.

Anyway, living in a time when the mindless culture of personal celebrity has robbed us of real characters and real stories, makes me feel like I've missed out on something. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong generation. I'm all about indoor plumbing, but I think life was richer when you had to do your business in an outhouse.

Who knows, maybe one of these days I'll write a book about all the cool things in Southern culture that I've missed. That way, they'll never be forgotten.

Today's Redneck Thought: "The education of a man is never completed until he dies." – Robert E. Lee

Outdoor Fun; or, A Big Ol' Front Porch

2008-06-06T22:33:00.004-05:00

The wife and I went to the annual Elvis Festival tonight in downtown Tupelo. After a couple of hours of enjoyment, it dawned upon me that a good time in these parts is best had outdoors.

In the city, or where it's always cold, folks go to clubs and bars and domed stadiums or coliseums for entertainment. Sure, you've got that to some degree here, but Southerners have always known how to utilize what God gave us.

Rachel and I sat on a bench for a while, listening to bands on the stage behind us as we watched kids play in the fountain. We people-watched, and visited with the ones we knew. Later on, a friend took us up to the roof of a restaurant, where we could lounge on couches or lean over the railing to watch the festivities from three floors up.

As the sun grudgingly dipped below the horizon, a cool breeze took the edge off the lingering mugginess. No loud drunks or loud music up there, just a couple dozen people enjoying a Friday night in Tupelo. We didn't want to go home.

It's like we were all sittin' on a big front porch. The city folks ought to try it some time.

Today's Redneck Thought: "If the world had a front porch like we did back then/We'd still have our problems, but we'd all be friends." – Tracy Lawrence, "If the World Had a Front Porch"

Mississippi Misconceptions; or, Better Than Advertised

2008-06-03T22:13:00.002-05:00

My wife recently blogged about how enlightened she's become about Mississippi since marrying me and moving here.

"Learning about Mississippi from the outside, you never get the whole picture," she wrote. "There's a lot about Mississippi you are not taught in school, which tends to focus on the negative."

No joke. Bill Cosby once said that when he heard Mississippi mentioned, all he thought of was dirty pickup trucks. The Magnolia state regularly fights Arkansas and Louisiana to stay out of the economic and educational cellar. We are No. 1 in something – obesity.

I could go off on a tangent about how many of Mississippi's problems – many of the South's problems – are the heavy residue of Reconstruction. But I'm here to focus on the positive, people.

Bo Diddley just died. OK, that's not very positive-sounding. But the McComb native is one of several musical geniuses from this state. B.B. King, Robert Johnson, Elvis, Tammy Wynette, Conway Twitty, Jerry Lee Lewis, Marty Stuart, 3 Doors Down – we've produced them in all genres. Except New Age.

Athletes? Jerry Rice, Walter Payton, Archie Manning, Brett Favre, Chris Jackson, Ruthie Bolton, etc.

Writers? Oh man. Faulkner, Grisham, Welty, Foote, Locke (ha!).

We are a gifted bunch, and we're smarter than we get credit for. Ole Miss churns out Rhodes Scholars like MSU students churn butter (sorry, couldn't resist). And our women are stunning.

Do we have dirty trucks? Of course. And many of them have really big mud tires. The better to run over Yankee snobs.

Asphalt Islands; or, Bypassing Home

2008-05-29T22:49:00.002-05:00

This might seem odd, but when I'm driving on a four-lane highway, I notice old road beds. They fascinate me, these abandoned stretches of cracked, overgrown asphalt. Most of the time, it's a small strip of road, where the new bypass veers off.

You see a lot of bypasses around here. They give drivers quick passage around small towns like Pontotoc, Houston and Nettleton. Instead of having to battle that traffic snarl at Main and Fifth, we can whiz around all that, with nothing to slow us down but the occasional deer or possum darting out of the ditch.

I'm a typical guy, I like to make good time. But I think we've lost something in our haste. I know downtowns have lost valuable business dollars, especially the gas stations and what few mom and pop eateries remain. I wasn't around in the pre-bypass era, but I imagine downtowns were a lot livelier than they are now. When my route takes me through one, I don't see much happening, no matter the day or time.

We're losing much more than money, though. It's like we're trying to bypass a whole part of our culture and heritage. I have my suspicions why we're doing this, but that could take days to dissect.

When I see those vanishing roadways, which normally are on an island between the bypass's new direction and where the old road picks back up, I feel like I've lost something I never had. It's like the route home has been torn up, and we eventually forget that the road, and what's at the other end of it, was ever there.

Today's Redneck Moment: My two oldest daughters were trying to out-burp each other at the dinner table. *sniff* I'm so proud.

Driven to Distraction; or, Thoughts on Thinking

2008-05-22T23:46:00.002-05:00

I think I've forgotten how to be alone with my thoughts. Or maybe I'm just too scared to be.

And these days, there are plenty of ways for me to distract myself: my phone, my computer, the TV, a magazine, etc. Most of the time, those distractions are time-wasters. When I get spare time, which is rare, I have trouble making it productive. And if I have nothing pressing to do, I have a disturbingly strong urge to busy myself with pointless activities.

This is especially troubling for me because I'm a writer. I believe writers do their best work after ruminating in solitude, letting life's experiences, both the fantastic and the mundane, percolate in the mind and reveal their little wonders. I feel my writing has suffered lately because of my diminished ability to just sit and think, to just be.

There is one time when all distractions are absent, when my mind has my full attention. It's when I'm in bed, about to go to sleep. It's then that I often find my creative juices flowing, which means I probably ought to keep a notebook next to my bed. But I usually stay up so late – as I've done tonight – that sleep cuts short my creative stream.

Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong generation. I often have a longing for days I have never known, when life moved more slowly and men were expected to sit and think. I imagine William Faulkner spent a lot of time with his own thoughts. I hope I can reacquaint myself with my own.

Worth the Money; or, Good Food, Good People

2008-05-20T14:24:00.003-05:00

I ate at a cool little deli today in Pearl. Frisco Deli it's called, tucked behind a Texaco station. While it's not southern cuisine, it's good eatin'. I'm not such a Southern snob that I think all non-Southern foods are inferior.

I had the house burger, which comes on a kaiser roll. De-licious. The sweet tea was a tad too sweet, but it was good. What gave the place Southern charm was the people. It was a diverse group behind the counter and in the kitchen – black, white, young, old, heavily tattooed, not tattooed – but they provided something I see very little of at the Burger Kings and Subways and KFCs: friendly service. And it's sincere, not just the product of some corporate mandate.

I told the cashier, a middle-aged black gentleman, that I got the burger. Before I could tell him what else I'd gotten, he'd rung it all up: $7.67. "Just get me started," he said with a grin, "and I'll come up with a total." Or something to that effect. The man exuded friendliness, which made me feel guilty for having no cash for the tip jar.

It's these kind of places that give you your money's worth. We ate with my parents at a mom-and-pop eatery in Houston on a recent Sunday – I forget its name – and I enjoyed some good old home cooking. The place had atmosphere, too, which is something else those cookie-cutter chains lack.

Next time I'm in Pearl, I'll probably visit Frisco Deli again, or some such place, where the people and the food both are genuine.

Today's Redneck Moment: I visited the Bass Pro Shop's Outdoor World that's here in Pearl. Frickin' huge. I go in every time I come down here. It's basically Redneck Heaven.

Shootin' the Spit; or, Artful Drooling

2008-05-17T09:01:00.003-05:00

Well, this blog has come to a screeching halt. I must do better. My inability to post regularly makes me spittin' mad.

Speaking of spitting, that's one of my nasty habits. Ever since I learned from my cousin Kelly how to hock a loogie, I've been a spitter. I don't know why; it's easier just to swallow one's saliva, but where's the fun in that? A nice thick spitball can travel yards, and if no one spat, we wouldn't have spitting contests. (Of course, those contests usually involve watermelon seeds or cherry pits, but still …)

Expectoration has a long history, and it's not all bad. Spitting on someone has always been considered the ultimate insult, but Jesus used his spittle, plus a pinch of dirt, to heal the blind. Many a pact have been sealed by a soggy handshake. Gaylord Perry owes his career to the spitball … OK, maybe that doesn't fall in the good column, unless you're Gaylord Perry.

Spitting is not very sanitary, which is why I have stopped doing it on sidewalks and in parking lots. I try to keep it in the grass or the bushes. And for some reason, I've always thought it blasphemy to spit anywhere on church property. I'm pretty sure somebody told me that when I was little, and it stuck with me.

Spitting is an art form. You have to ball up the loogie with your tongue, or if you want to get cute, you can "skeet" or "gleek" – send a shower of spit through your teeth. I've never mastered that, thought I've done it on accident quite often.

That's right, accidental spitting. I must be a redneck.

Today's Redneck Moment: My youngest daughter hocked a good-sized loogie out my car window. I was so proud.

Staying Busy; or, No Time to Kill

2008-05-09T18:40:00.004-05:00

My, what a week. Swamped at work, and now I'm down with strep throat. That's why I haven't blogged for six days. Shame on me.

I often find myself tethered to an unbending schedule, and with my job and having four kids, it's usually a crazy, unpredictable one. And me not being the most time-efficient person doesn't help matters. I have been known to forget to pick up kids from school.

Used to be that only the big city was a place of bustle. The South was a culture not necessarily of leisure – I think Southerners are the hardest-working folks out there – but of timelessness. I don't see many people swinging on their front porch drinking sweet tea. Shoot, I don't have much of a front porch (although my wife makes awesome sweet tea). We seem to have forgotten how to relax and stay in tune with each other.

I like small, sleepy towns. I'm sure they're still out there, but in fewer numbers. Someday when I'm old and the kids are gone, I want to find one of those sleepy towns and sit out on a porch swing, sipping sweet tea, watching the lightning bugs and listening to the critters singing after the sun sets, waving and calling to neighbors as they stroll past.

That's many years away, of course. Hope I haven't died from stress by then.

Redneck Thought of the Day: "I'm in a hurry to get things done/I rush and rush until life's no fun/All I've really got to do is live and die/But I'm in a hurry and don't know why." – Alabama

Two Is Better Than One; or, Double Dog

2008-05-03T21:27:00.002-05:00

We got a dog. Again.

Last week we acquired Rascal, a chow/shepherd mix. Then on Friday, we got Mackinaw (more on that in a moment), a.k.a. Mack, a yellow lab. He's much, much more docile than Rascal – and twice as big – but they took to each other immediately. Can't hardly separate them.

I'll be honest, they're not the kind of dogs we had in mind all those years. Rachel wanted a black lab, me a chocolate lab. It's a typical case of fantasy vs. reality, like when a guy imagines marrying the homecoming queen but winds up with a girl from St. Louis. And you then realize how lucky you are.

We love the dogs, and they love us, so I think it'll be a long, loving relationship. One with lots of poop-scooping, but still.

Oh, and the name Mackinaw? We were driving back from Chicago a couple of years ago and crossed the Mackinaw River. I liked the name and thought it would be a good dog name. I think it fits.

Just a Trim; or, The Kindest Cut

2008-05-02T22:30:00.002-05:00

There is something timeless about a barber shop. I don't mean those places like Supercuts, I mean places like the ones I grew up with. Sitting in one today feels just like it did then.

When I was living in Oxford as a child, my dad and I frequented Don & Dale's Barber Shop, which is still there and, I believe, still run by Don and Dale. I remember the smell and feel of the hot shaving cream on the back of my neck; dozens of magazines strewn about the chairs; Ole Miss wallpaper; sucking on a Sprite (in a green glass bottle, of course) as men talked about what men talk about in small towns.

Since I keep my head shaved, my wife is my barber, but now that I have a son, I've had the pleasure of reliving a part of my youth. I've found a good barber shop here in Tupelo, one that has magazines strewn about the chairs and is decorated with Ole Miss and Mississippi State paraphernalia (mostly the latter, I'm afraid).

I enjoy just sitting there as Drew gets his hair trimmed, as he did today. Men will walk in and exchange friendly greetings with the father and son proprietors, Bill and Dennis. The atmosphere is tinged with that subtle Southern charm that's harder and harder to find these days.

There is no old-fashioned Coke machine with glass bottles, though. I'll have to ask them about that.

Today's Redneck Moment: A young fella getting his hair cut today told of a recent fishing trip with his friend. Both were getting lots of nibbles but no bites. His friend, in frustration, grabbed his bow and arrow and "caught" a 7-pound bass.

Staying Manly; or, Do as Chuck

2008-04-30T23:33:00.003-05:00

Fellas, tell me, do you ever look at your life – the naked Barbies strewn about the living room, the festive flower bed, the box of tampons that falls out of the bathroom cabinet every time you open it – and feel emasculated? Me, too.

Fear not, macho dude. Here are 10 small ways you can retain your sense of manliness every day.

1. Don't shave. I only shave about twice a week, and nothing says macho like a scruffy face. And when you do shave, for Pete's sake, no aftershave, you pansy!

2. Get sweaty. In my case, I work out about five days a week, but some days I'm too busy for that. Solution: Think about how close your 11-year-old daughter is to hitting puberty.

3. Listen to Brad Paisley's "I'm Still a Guy." He's a wise man.

4. Wear a baseball cap backwards. It's like you're in college again, even if you don't realize how big a goober you look like.

5. Get a dog. I like cats, but overexposure will decrease your hormone levels.

6. Watch ESPN. The trick is finding the time between helping with your kid's school project and cleaning up the dog's poop.

7. Slap your wife on her rear. Be sure you have your running shoes on.

8. Read and memorize Chuck Norris facts. A sampling: "The quickest way to a man's heart is with Chuck Norris' fist." "Chuck Norris CAN believe it's not butter." "The grass is always greener on the other side. Unless Chuck Norris has been there. In that case the grass is most likely soaked in blood and tears."

9. Watch "Walker: Texas Ranger."

10. Eat gristle. Chuck Norris does.

Today's Redneck Moment: I overheard a conversation about mullet-tossing, and I thought they were talking about chucking long man hair.

Race Day; or, Dega-bound

2008-04-28T18:21:00.002-05:00

I was slow coming around to NASCAR. My two best buddies in high school were into it, though, and they soon had me hooked. Now I love it.

I love going to races, too, when I can. Tupelo isn't really close to any tracks, but it's only three hours from Talladega. I've gone to the last five races there, I believe, and I've gotten to where I don't get lost once I make it on the property. One time I missed the credential office, and when you miss a turn, there's no going back. Seriously. One-way traffic in there. I had to park with the general public – as opposed to the infield; yeah, poor me – and hoofed it halfway around the track to get in. Wore me out.

I've seen some good races there, but Sunday's was the best thus far. There were 52 lead changes among 20 drivers, and during a couple of stretches guys were trading the lead nearly every lap. Then a rookie, Michael McDowell, spins on the white flag lap, and Kyle Busch (gag!) wins under caution.

I was in the press box, of course, which I feel sort of guilty about. Real NASCAR fans get a seat, a set of headphones, and scream their lungs out. Well, I did find myself standing up on several occasions, so exciting was it. But hey, I had a job to do (some "job").

I've never really had the full Talladega experience: the Saturday Nationwide race, the Saturday night parties, camping out at the track. Not that I feel I'm missing much. I'm all about the racing. And Sunday, it was good.

Today's Redneck Moment: Actually occurred Sunday. Sooo many choices. But I'll have to go with the guys sitting in front of the press box. One was drinking his beer through a funnel, while the other was wearing a giant checkered flag like a cape. Both hung around long after the race ended, with funnel boy screaming "Whooo!" at no one in particular.

My New Best Friend; or, Stupid Cute Puppy

2008-04-25T17:55:00.002-05:00

Behind every good Southern man is a good woman … and a good dog. Right? Well, I've had the good wife. Now I've got the dog. I'm withholding the positive adjective for now.

Said wife brought home a puppy yesterday. We'd been threatening for years to get a dog, and now we're having to back up the talk, or something. We named him Rascal, in honor of a dog my family had when I was a kid.

The first night was kind of like having a new baby. He kept us up all night whining (we're keeping him in our bathroom). Of course, he's impossible to stay mad at, even though we've nicknamed him ID (Idiot Dog). Anyway, lacking a picture, I'll try to describe his cuteness.

He's very fuzzy, and his fur is a subtle black-and-brown mix, with white streaks down and around his snout and around the bottom of his neck. He has white paws. His rather short tail curls up over his back.

He rode in my car with me today. Propped his head up on my e-brake and dozed as I drove. After that, I'm afraid there's no getting rid of him.

Today's Redneck Moment: I thoroughly enjoyed having my – um, our – new dog ride in my car.

Finding Culinary Common Ground; or, My Kids Hate Grits

2008-04-23T15:08:00.003-05:00

As I wrote the other day, I'm trying to cut back on some of the fattier, greasier foods I've so long enjoyed. Southern cuisine is not always the healthiest, but it's what I love.

I want my kids to learn to love it, too. This morning my youngest daughter, Trinity, volunteered to try grits. She didn't take to them, but I think that's because I prepared them a tad too soupy and without enough butter. This is the same daughter who liked sweet tea as a baby – her great-Aunt Marie would dip Trinity's pacifier in it – but she no longer drinks it.

Only one of my children likes sweet tea – my 3-year-old son, Drew. Loves it. And we have it quite often because my wife makes it. She'd never had sweet tea until we got married, and now she has to have it more than I do.

For the most part, though, my kids aren't big on Southern cooking. They don't appreciate black-eyed peas, or unsweet cornbread, or sweet potato casserole. Now, my wife is a great cook, but she didn't grow up on my kind of food, so our suppers are more a mixed bag (she has learned to make a few of my favorites, like the sweet potato casserole). My kids tend to be choosy of her menu, too, because they're a bit spoiled. Curse McDonald's!

So much of today's food is over-processed and, well, fake. Take Pop-Tarts. Can't stand them. Refined sugar oughta be illegal. I'd rather my kids eat a pound of grits than that junk.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Anybody who puts sugar in the cornbread is a heathen who doesn't love the Lord, not to mention Southeastern Conference football." – Lewis Grizzard

Off the Beaten Path; or, Backroadin'

2008-04-21T22:55:00.002-05:00

Like most men, I like to make good time when I drive somewhere. "I went from Tupelo to Oxford in 45 minutes! Yes!" I'm often in a hurry because of my job or my kids or whatever. It's times like that when I'm glad we have four-lane roads and interstates.

Down deep, though, I'm a backroad guy. I love driving them, but only when I have the time to enjoy them. Because driving a backroad should be savored. Every twist and turn, every rise and drop of the road, the towering pines or oaks overlooking the winding narrow path of asphalt.

When I was a teenager in Ruston, La., I knew the backroads of Lincoln Parish – and some of the other parishes – like the back of my hand. I could get to Monroe in 30 minutes on I-20, but it was more fun to hit Highway 80 for a few miles and then wind my way through the countryside on roads with more than two numbers.

I've already found my favorite backroad around here. It's actually between the Natchez Trace – a beautiful route in its own right – and the tiny town of Houlka. It's called Devil's Tail Road, and that should be all the description you need. It's even more fun to drive at night, when my headlights will catch a thick group of white oaks straight ahead, meaning another sharp curve is fast approaching.

I love backroads because they're lonely, uncrowded. You can escape the real world for a while, where people speed past you, unless you're caught in a construction zone. And the rougher the backroad, the better. I'm all for those substandard roadways. I can identify with them, because they're scarred, uneven and honest.

Too bad they're either disappearing or getting paved over. There's always a quicker way, and while I will often take the faster route, I won't enjoy it that much.

Redneck of the Day

2008-04-20T22:49:00.003-05:00

Here I am slacking off again on this blog. Hey, my sinuses knocked me on my rear this weekend. Anyway, we had a garage sale Saturday, and this guy pulls up in a Lexus. With a trailer hitch. Sad thing is, I know the guy.

Redneck of the Day

2008-04-17T21:09:00.002-05:00

Sorry this is all I can post today. Feeling a bit under the weather. At least I didn't wake up with a knife in my back, like this guy. Just goes to show, redneckedness knows no particular nationality.

Warm the Globe; or, Thaw Yourself Out

2008-04-16T06:35:00.003-05:00

It's early in the morning as I type this, and there's frost on the roofs of our vehicles. In mid-April. In Mississippi. Where's global warming when you need it?

Actually, I say, Bring on global warming! This country, along with other parts of the world, could use a more subtropical climate. It's good for the body and soul. Why do you think so many Yankees keep moving down here?

To quote the late, great Lewis Grizzard: "I certainly understand why somebody from the land of freeze and squeeze would want to seek asylum here." As can I. How anyone can stand to live in a place like New York or Maine or Chicago – Grizzard lived in the latter city for a short while, and hated it – where you have to thaw out your car and your brain each morning? Who wants to run up their heating bill in May? I was in St. Louis on July 4 one year for a night baseball game – my first date with the woman who's now my wife – and I had to borrow a sweatshirt to keep from freezing my grits off.

Sure, the summers down here can be tough, if you're not used to them. That's why God gave us air conditioning and cold water. And how many places up North can you play golf in February?

I could go on, but the biscuits are almost done. To quote Grizzard once more: "I'm American by birth, but I'm Southern by the grace of God."

Today's Redneck Moment: I believe quoting Grizzard qualifies, thank you.

My Bloggin' Wife

2008-04-14T20:43:00.002-05:00

My wife has finally, if tentatively, joined the blogosphere. So please visit Sweettea Mom. She said the name was inspired by her two greatest passions: sweet tea and motherhood.

My lovely bride is 29 years old (and having a hard time coping with her impending 30th birthday in August) and the mother of our four young'uns. She works a couple of days a week at a church preschool, where two of our kids attend, but is otherwise a stay-at-home momma. We've been married almost 10 years (come July), and I can't begin to tell you how much she means to me. I doubt those dating services would have matched us up, but God did, thank goodness.

Anyway, she's a little nervous about this whole blogging thing. I'm glad she's doing it, and I hope y'all find it enjoyable. Please leave her a kind word of encouragement.

Redneck of the Day

2008-04-14T18:51:00.002-05:00

It seems Hillary can't let Bill out-do her in anything. The possible First Gentleman – *snrkk* – was honored in this space the other day. Now the former First Lady gets it for her un-ladylike night in an Indiana bar. She's from Chicago, but obviously all those years in Arkansas had some affect on her. At least it wasn't moonshine.

Cutting Back; or, No More Grits, Thank You

2008-04-14T06:49:00.003-05:00

I have managed to drop 11 pounds since December, and I'll tell you a big reason why: Cutting back on rich desserts, grease-soaked fast food and sodas. And it's also meant eating some of my favorite Southern dishes in moderation.

That goes totally against my nature. I grew up on fine Southern cooking – my mother, her mother, church dinners – and I often helped myself to seconds and thirds (and sometimes fourths). When it comes to cornbread or sweet potato casserole or grits or chocolate meringue pie, how could I not? An empty plate seemed an insult.

With my lovely wife being from St. Louis, she doesn't specialize in Southern cooking, which is OK (though she does make a mean sweet potato casserole, with nuts mixed in and a marshmallow topping … mmm … oh, sorry). She makes good food, and I've had to discipline myself to decline that extra helping, or lay off the brownies.

This is not easy for me. Southerners have a passion for food, which is why we're the fattest state in the country. I guess we all could stand to have a little less of a good thing. Much as I miss those second helpings of flank steak – actually, I did have seconds the other night; naughty boy! – I don't miss my fast-vanishing gut.

Today's non-Redneck Moment: I had shredded wheat cereal and Vitamin Water for breakfast. I admit, I'm addicted to the latter.

Redneck of the Day

2008-04-11T08:19:00.003-05:00

Actually, this occurred yesterday. I was sitting in the office at my daughters' school when a boy came in. He was about 20 minutes late. The reason: His dad had gone turkey hunting that morning. Hey, gotta have priorities.

Earthy Days; or, Gettin' Dirty

2008-04-10T20:11:00.004-05:00

I felt kind of manly today. Redneck-ish, if you will. I mean, all I did was mow and weed the yard, but I got really dirty doing it. Grass-stains-on-my-skin dirty.

I admit I'm a bit of a neat freak. If I come into contact with something that might have germs on it, I'll wash my hands. Even the smallest stain on a shirt or pants drives me crazy. (So you'd think I'd wash my car more often.)

Today reminded me how much fun it is to be dirty. I've had several Great Dirty Moments in my lifetime, mostly as a child.

There was the time when, as a 4- or 5-year-old, I kept getting this streak of dirt on my face, in the same spot, every single day for like a week.

In college, I was working on a grounds maintenance crew, and we had to dig a trench during a monsoon. I took an odd pleasure in that.

My high school buddies and I went mud-hogging on several occasions, either in their trucks or on four-wheelers. There are few things more beautiful than a pickup coated in mud. But getting one unstuck ain't much fun.

The all-time dirty moment came in high school, when my youth group played a game of mud football. I got spectacularly filthy.

Earthiness can be a virtue. It reminds us where we came from, for one. It also keeps us grounded, pardon the pun. I mean, how many ditch-diggers and miners have big egos? Getting dirty is often humbling; just watch Mike Rowe's "Dirty Jobs" show. Scraping out the inside of a concrete mixer or cleaning up toxic bird poop will remind a man of where he stands (and to watch his step).

I'm not going to give up my cushy writing job, mind you, but I need to make a point to get dirty more often. It cleanses the soul.

Redneck of the Day

2008-04-09T22:23:00.002-05:00

I won't disclose his name, but I was doing a quick interview today with a kid who'd won a state championship in powerlifting. First I asked him what enabled him to set a state record: "Hard work." OK. So then I asked how it made him feel to do that: "Very happy."

A man of few words. But I wasn't going to push him – he weighs 322 pounds.

Sticking Together; or, Go, Memphis!

2008-04-08T23:37:00.002-05:00

Let's see: Its coach is a certified Yankee; only three of its players hail from Tennessee; and its best player is from Chicago.

And yet I found myself pulling hard for Memphis during Monday's NCAA Championship game against Kansas. I also found myself hurting for coach John Calipari and his Tigers, who blew a nine-point lead in the final two minutes and fell to the Jayhawks in overtime. Calipari is from Pennsylvania and previously coached at UMass, and when he came to Memphis, the cynics saw it as a perfect marriage of giant egos.

Well, for the record, both coach and team handled themselves with class after the crushing defeat. That's what you'd expect of a team from the South, right? That only made me more sympathetic toward them.

That's kind of how it is down here. We sports fans may have our big rivalries – and Memphis has always been a hated Ole Miss foe – but when one of those rivals steps on the national stage, we tend to pull for them. It's why I quietly rooted for Mississippi State's basketball team when it reached the Final Four in 1996. It's why I pulled for LSU to beat Ohio State in this year's BCS title game.

Southerners stick together, even if the main characters aren't actually from here. That's what keeps us connected in a society that's become increasingly fractured by crumbling morality, wrecked homes and technological distractions. Let's be honest: If the North had wanted to secede back in 1861, do you really think everybody up there would have gotten on board? I don't know if there would have been a Yankee version of Robert E. Lee, whose allegiance to Virginia superseded all other allegiances, and who could so galvanize a large group of people.

As far as I'm concerned, Calipari and the rest of the Tigers were Southerners on Monday night. They represented us well.

Today's Redneck Moment: I ran to town to buy my wife a sweet tea for supper. This happens often, and it's further proof that she's turning into a redneck.

Playing Nice; or, Just Go Already!

2008-04-07T16:21:00.003-05:00

It happened again the other day. I pulled up to a four-way stop about the same time as an older gentleman, and I waved him on through. Then he waved me through. I huffily heeded his prompting.

This happens quite often, although sometimes the other driver and I keep waving at each other, back and forth, until we've both got carpal tunnel. I just want to yell, "Go, you idiot! You beat me to the intersection by a full second! I'm being nice here!" Usually, I'm the first to crack, and I'm pretty sure the other driver snickers as I pass him or her.

It's like there's a competition to see who's nicest, which is so typical of the South. Up north, it's every man for himself. Stick your nose out there and claim that piece of asphalt. I lived in St. Louis for five months, and good luck making a left turn up there. And that's just St. Louis, not New York or L.A. I swear I'll never drive myself if I have to go to a place that big.

Down here, we're nice to a fault. We want to give charity, but we want no part in receiving it. How many times have you heard an exchange like the following: "I'll pick up the check." "Oh, no, allow me." "That's quite all right, I owe you for last time." "No, that was nothing. This one's on me." "See, I've already got my wallet out, so …" "I said I'll pay, dangit! I am the morally superior one here!"

Or if we do accept niceness from another, we feel obligated to decline. I suppose that's just good manners, but if I wave you through an intersection, just go already. I'm probably in a hurry.

Today's Redneck Moment: I reviewed my 3-year-old son on his college allegiance. Me: "What do you think of the Bulldogs?" Drew: "Phbbbt." Me: "What do you think of the Rebels?" Drew: "Yay!"

What Not To Do; or, "I'm Still a Guy"

2008-04-05T21:00:00.004-05:00

You can call me old-fashioned or say I'm promoting stereotypes, but I'm sorry, there are just some things a good God-fearin' Southern man should not do. It's like the great Brad Paisley sings in "I'm Still a Guy": With deep spray-on tans and creamy lotiony hands/You can't grip a tackle box.

Now, I'll lotion up my knuckles when the skin starts flaking off, and I've even filed my heels at my wife's behest. But the following 10 things you will never, ever see me do. Ever. I'd rather watch "The View." ~shudder~

1. Exfoliate.

2. Freak out when my dress socks don't match my slacks.

3. Go to a tanning bed.

4. Watch Lifetime.

5. Believe anything Oprah says.

6. Wear black socks – any socks – with sandals.

7. Point my thumbs forward when placing my hands on my hips.

8. Drive a Saab.

9. Wear a pink button-down shirt (I don't care if it's in style).

10. Eat yogurt.

There are so many more, but that'll do for now.

Today's Redneck Moment: I laughed, once again, at the Bud Light "dude" commercial.

Lewis Grizzard Wisdom

2008-04-05T00:50:00.000-05:00

If you ain't the lead dog, the scenery never changes.