Salute

We Americans might forget how sweet our freedom is, and how lucky we are to be protected by the men and women of our armed services. This Memorial Day weekend, I’m not forgetting. Thank you, all current and former members of the U.S. military.

Heroin and Champagne

I used to write NASCAR stories for a magazine called Track Record and found myself in Charlotte one Memorial Day weekend to cover the Coca-Cola 600. Photographer David Mudd and I made the trip for three days of interviewing, photo-shooting and story-writing, and the temperature each day was an unbearable 100 degrees with high humidity. I was a moving puddle whenever I stepped outdoors.

An early-afternoon Saturday assignment had David and me hiking about a half-mile from the track to an interview/shoot, and I started feeling woozy once we arrived. I immediately told David that I needed to leave, then embarked upon the sweaty, laborious walk back to the track with a goal of ultimately reaching the air-conditioned media center.

But that second half-mile hike in roasting conditions caused me heat stroke, and I was in trouble. Without hesitation, I weakly entered an infield care center where doctors quickly hoisted me onto a bed and placed a dozen ice packs on my neck, shoulders, chest, stomach and wrists.

But only 10 minutes into my incoherency, I suddenly heard a burly bear-of-a-guy on the next bed violently vomiting into a bucket. After his fifth gut-wrenching heave, I wearily hoisted my head and glanced at the guy, and he stared at me.

He was about 6 feet tall, 300 pounds, had a long ZZ Top beard, big beer belly, a multi-stained muscle T-shirt, filthy blue jean shorts and a pair of flip-flops that exposed toenails that hadn’t seen clippers in months. Then he retched into the bucket one more time.

“Too many Budweisers?” I asked, believing that I guessed his correct beer brand.

“No, man,” he answered nonchalantly. “Too much heroin and champagne.”

Heroin and champagne? What? At a NASCAR race?

We never spoke again. With every subsequent throw-up, he just got messier than an unmade bed, while I personally continued to sizzle like a T-bone steak.

The Big O

I honestly never watched a second of Oprah during her 25 TV years, but I do have a slight connection to her. My niece and nephew were both in her Chicago audience in September 2004 when Oprah gave away 276 cars.

The cars were sporty Pontiac G-Six models that stickered for around $28,000, but my niece and nephew had to sell both vehicles because they couldn’t afford the taxes. Oprah didn’t foot that part of the bill, and the tax on each car was around $6,000. Still, my niece and nephew came out of that experience with a nice chunk of change.

Oh, one more slight connection with Oprah and me. She actually started her TV career in my home city of Nashville. Way to go, O.

Grubby Hands

I’m whiney because of a diet I’m two days into, so this blog could sound cranky today. Turn back while you have the chance.

Gogh Away, Kid

I can barely draw a stick man, so I greatly admire the master artists. My favorite has always been Vincent Van Gogh.

I saw a couple of his paintings online yesterday and it reminded me of an incident about a year ago that involved both VVG and me. I was viewing a special exhibit at Frist Arts Center in Nashville and found myself alone in an open room with one of Vincent’s early works.

But I quickly realized that I was actually close enough to the painting to touch it if I wished, because the area wasn't condoned or roped off. I was literally inches from a Van Gogh creation that I could have done anything to.

I mention this because I walked away to look at another piece but happened to look back at a grubby-handed boy – probably 4 or 5 years old – who walked up to the Van Gogh and rubbed his nasty little fingers over the canvas. Then the kid's mother walked up with a smile and didn’t even scold her son.

I darted to find a security guard who hustled to the room and politely admonished the mother and child, then ultimately set up a roped area so nobody could get within six feet of the valuable painting. But I couldn’t help wonder why Frist officials didn’t barricade the painting in the first place.

The whole incident was so strange – kind of like playing darts with spaghetti. It made no sense whatsoever.

Fast Food Funk

When giving me my change, why don't fast food cashiers hand me the coins first and then the dollar bills, instead of first handing me the dollar bills and then balancing the coins precariously on top of the bills?

And also, does any customer ever answer “yes” when fast food employees on the drive-thru intercom ask you to order something just introduced on the menu?

“Would you like to try our new oatmeal and crushed walnuts cereal this morning?” they might ask.

“No,” I will always answer. Those poor employees might have to ask 500 consecutive motorists if they want to try the new oatmeal and crushed walnuts cereal, with every motorist answering “No.”

It's no wonder there’s always so much turnover at fast food restaurants. If I had to ask 500 motorists that kind of question 500 consecutive times, I would bolt from that job faster than a chicken being chased by Ronald McDonald.

The Latter

Should I post the link? Should I not?

I blogged a month ago about my home city of Nashville getting inundated every 13 years by millions of cicadas that look like locusts, and a discussion in my Journal Communications office led to the topic of how much money it would take for someone to actually eat one. The responses weren’t surprising.

“I’d do it for $1,000,” said one.

“Yeah, $1,000,” agreed another.

“It’d take $500 for me,” said a third.

Then, my turn.

“I’d eat one for 50 bucks,” I said foolishly. “It’s no big deal.”

Well, everyone attacked that assertion and word quickly reached our company owner, Bob. He ultimately pledged paying me the $50 himself if I ate a cicada on video for a http://cicadacentral.com website.

Journal writes and produces magazines and websites, among which are agriculture-based Tennessee Home & Farm and Illinois Partners. Jessy, one of our social media whizzes, created http://cicadacentral.com to educate those readers about the 13-year cicadas that swarm the two states for about five weeks.

Anyway, I agreed to cicada-dine and really wasn’t thinking about posting the link or writing about this today, but several people bugged me to do it. I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed. Probably the latter. Here it is on YouTube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tqt7vXBQuCQ

Diploma at 6

My six-year-old, Jenna, was part of a graduation-from-kindergarten event yesterday that had as much pomp as a commencement ceremony at West Point. She received a very professional-looking diploma and I bought my little girl a small bouquet of flowers to congratulate her on the achievement.

I am amazed what kids learn in kindergarten these days. Jenna already has a huge start on reading, can count by twos to 100, loves music, enjoys computers – plus likes just hanging with her friends and being a kid. Thank you, Mrs. Miller, for all you did for Jenna this year.

BTW: What a difference kindergarten is today compared to yesteryear. When I attended, I would pretty much pass kindergarten if I took a two-hour nap every afternoon and if I didn’t mess in my pants too many times during the year.

My mom told me that because of the latter, I barely graduated.

George Strait

I woke up Sunday morning with a post-it note stuck to my forehead. There was no message on it – it was just stuck to my forehead.

My wife and kids were out-of-state at my nephew’s high school graduation, and I stayed home to catch up on writing. I was on the couch Saturday night with laptop and notes when I fell asleep around 10 p.m., then slept non-stop until 8 a.m. Sunday.

Ten hours of sleep, which is unheard of for anyone anymore. Although, I do remember a friend of mine going to bed after a bad drunk one Friday night and sleeping for 36 straight hours. He finally woke up as bitter as a hermit is poor when he realized how long it took him to get sober.

Air Apparent

My family returned home from their trip Monday night and I picked them up at Nashville International Airport, where I found myself proud of my local airport. I walked into the terminal and heard live music coming from a lounge near the front entrance, and apparently a variety of bands perform at the Music City airport most days from 11 a.m. to about 8 p.m.

Then I heard, “This is George Strait. Welcome to Nashville,” piped over the airport’s public address system. Supposedly several country stars have taped various messages to welcome visitors, and those messages are played every 15 minutes or so. 

Nashville Airport plays well on its Music City theme, kind of like how Las Vegas has slot machines in their airport terminal. Experts say the first impression most people get of a city is the airport, and people walking through Nashville’s on Monday night looked happier than birds eating from a fresh-cut lawn as they passed the live-music lounge.

One more nice aspect of Nashville Airport: The rental car lots are only about 50 yards from the front terminal entrance, so you can simply walk to the cars. No long bus trip is needed to transport you to-and-from rental car lots, which is the case in most cities.

But for all their clever thinking, not everything at Nashville Airport is as sweet as Carrie Underwood’s smile. The airport has long been undergoing a large renovation project, which seems to be evolving slower than a twangy bluegrass ballad.

Seeds the Day

A little garden got planted by me this week next to the backyard patio, and it has promise. The garden is as colorful as a Jackson Pollock painting thanks to tomatoes, yellow peppers, strawberries, lettuce and even a sunflower for flash.

However, a total city boy am I, as evidenced by a corn-growing incident two years ago. A small plot got planted and grew fabulously – 10 feet tall – but the city boy in me didn’t know that there is corn for human consumption and there is corn for cattle.

I mistakenly planted cattle corn from seeds purchased at the local co-op, and cattle corn is so hard that it can’t be eaten by humans. Bulls and cows eat the entire ear – cob and all – by crushing and chewing everything with their powerful jaws and teeth.

That was a big growing mistake, but it won’t be my last. Gardening to me is odd but interesting. It’s kind of like banjo music, but I don’t know beans about banjo music.

Sweet Slaughters

My all-boy Andrew has me watching animal slaughter TV shows, and I must admit that the violence is riveting. Sharks, hawks, bears and cheetahs overcoming their prey is blood-pumping action, but there’s nothing like the savagery of crocodiles to get my juices jumping.

We watched two nights ago a strange, annual pilgrimage of thousands of antelopes that eventually arrive at a narrow river in Africa, then cross it to access vegetation on the other side. Only one problem: Waiting underneath the water’s surface are hundreds of ravenous crocodiles that want nothing more than to rip apart a helpless antelope or two or 50, then blissfully gorge on the meaty beasts.

Ticketmaster should sell tickets to this thing, for spectators to see it live. I would pay $300 for a couple of front-row seats to witness this astonishing spectacle of nature. It sure beats growing cattle corn.

Novel Approach

No word yet on two scripts I’ve mailed, although another agent in Hollywood asked yesterday for the first 50 pages, so I’ll head to the post office after I e-mail this blog to my niece to post. I’m surprising myself by not getting too high or too low with any of this publishing process. Must be the Libra in me.

Mac and Gak

I had a nice meal with family and friends a few weeks ago at Applebee’s, and probably sampled eight or nine different foods thanks to many appetizers we all ordered from the menu.

Once the waitress brought a dozen appetizers to our table of 10, the conversation oddly turned to foods in the world that we don’t like, and it was eventually my turn to answer.

“There’s only one food I don’t like,” I said. “I like broccoli, cauliflower, liver, limburger cheese – bring it all on. But I can’t eat macaroni and cheese. I just can’t, and I won’t eat it for the rest of my life.”

Oh, the dirty looks I got. I felt like a fat kid in dodgeball with everyone ready to throw.

“I love mac and cheese – what’s wrong with you?” barked one guest.

“Everyone in the world loves mac and cheese – yeah, what’s with you?” chimed another.

My dislike stems from eating mac and cheese basically every day as a starving college student, and the only thing that got me through was smothering the gooey, yellow mess with packet after packet of ketchup. I promised myself that once I graduated from college and made anything of myself, I would never eat mac and cheese again.

I haven’t to this day and maybe it’s mushroomed to a psychological thing, because even the smell bothers me now.

No Panama

I heard yesterday that Prince recently sold out 21 consecutive concert nights at the 15,000-seat Los Angeles Forum. Good luck ever doing that, Justin Bieber.

I once attended a great concert and a horrible concert all in the same night, and with the same band. I drove from Detroit to Cleveland to catch my all-time favorite rock band – Van Halen – and my anticipation level was through the roof once I made my way to a fourth-row seat.

But the entire 2-hour show featured VH playing none of their mega-hits. I never heard Panama, Jump, Hot for Teacher, Runnin’ With the Devil, Dance the Night Away – nothing.

I eventually found out that the concert was a promo for their new album coming out a week later, and everyone in the audience seemed to know about it ahead of time except me.

But still – a Van Halen concert without Panama or Jump? That’s like going to a Hanson concert and they don’t play MMMBop.

Mac and Gak

I had a nice meal with family and friends a few weeks ago at Applebee’s, and probably sampled eight or nine different foods thanks to many appetizers we all ordered from the menu.

Once the waitress brought a dozen appetizers to our table of 10, the conversation oddly turned to foods in the world that we don’t like, and it was eventually my turn to answer.

“There’s only one food I don’t like,” I said. “I like broccoli, cauliflower, liver, limburger cheese – bring it all on. But I can’t eat macaroni and cheese. I just can’t, and I won’t eat it for the rest of my life.”

Oh, the dirty looks I got. I felt like a fat kid in dodgeball with everyone ready to throw.

“I love mac and cheese – what’s wrong with you?” barked one guest.

“Everyone in the world loves mac and cheese – yeah, what’s with you?” chimed another.

My dislike stems from eating mac and cheese basically every day as a starving college student, and the only thing that got me through was smothering the gooey, yellow mess with packet after packet of ketchup. I promised myself that once I graduated from college and made anything of myself, I would never eat mac and cheese again.

I haven’t to this day and maybe it’s mushroomed to a psychological thing, because even the smell bothers me now.

No Panama

I heard yesterday that Prince recently sold out 21 consecutive concert nights at the 15,000-seat Los Angeles Forum. Good luck ever doing that, Justin Bieber.

I once attended a great concert and a horrible concert all in the same night, and with the same band. I drove from Detroit to Cleveland to catch my all-time favorite rock band – Van Halen – and my anticipation level was through the roof once I made my way to a fourth-row seat.

But the entire 2-hour show featured VH playing none of their mega-hits. I never heard Panama, Jump, Hot for Teacher, Runnin’ With the Devil, Dance the Night Away – nothing.

I eventually found out that the concert was a promo for their new album coming out a week later, and everyone in the audience seemed to know about it ahead of time except me.

But still – a Van Halen concert without Panama or Jump? That’s like going to a Hanson concert and they don’t play MMMBop.

Dad Sad

This week I’ve been as miserable as a dog in the rain, thinking about my deceased father.

My dad passed away May 7 one year ago today, plus his birthday was May 4, so I’ve been sad much of this week. But I don’t want to bring anyone down, so I’m not going to blog today.

“I hope Papa has a happy birthday today in heaven with Jesus,” my six-year-old, Jenna, softly told me the morning of May 4.

“I wish I could visit Papa in heaven for just one day and play – just him and me,” added Andrew, my seven-year-old.

Then first thing this morning, Jenna approached me in the kitchen.

“Daddy, can we go to Target and get a balloon that we can take outside and let go, so it goes up to Papa?”

I’m heading right now to Target with Jenna, and just can’t blog today. Although, maybe I just did.

Miss ya, Dad.

1-1 in the 9th

I’m not going political or religious with the whole Usama bin Laden thing, because it’s already been done to death. Pun intended and good riddance, UBL.

But thought I’d point out a bit of irony regarding how I heard the great news on Sunday. Some of you might have had the same experience watching ESPN’s Sunday Night Baseball game between the New York Mets and Philadelphia.

Ironically, it was New York and Pennsylvania that were two of the three 9/11 terrorism sites, with D.C. being the other. When the 45,000 Philadelphia fans at Sunday’s ballgame started receiving the UBL news via texts and tweets in the 9th inning, they spontaneously stood and began cheering “USA, USA” over and over again with unbridled glee and pride.

But besides the NY-Pennsylvania irony, also ironic was the score of the game at that moment. It was 1-1 in the 9th – or 9/11.

445 and Losing

Here’s to a friend of mine who six months ago was 445 pounds and is now 290. Up until late 2010, he would just joke to me about his steadily increasing heft.

“When I read about the dangers of overeating, I gave up reading,” he once quipped.

“If I can’t eat in heaven, I’m not going,” he joked another time.

I saw him last week for the first time in three years and he’s starting to look healthy again. Good luck on that ultimate goal of 222.5 pounds – thereby losing 222.5 pounds, or exactly half your starting weight.

It’s This Sunday

To guys mostly, since guys are known for occasionally forgetting important dates – don’t forget that Mother’s Day is this Sunday. I totally messed up a past Mother’s Day by forgetting to buy a card or gift, and not even remembering a phone call to Mom. I mention this because it happened about five years ago, and I think my mother finally stopped crying…yesterday.