Month: March 2016

Good morning, y’all. Clear and cold. So much for our first day of Spring 2016. I guess we’ll have to wait to see if the “April Showers” will bring May flowers. There has not been much rainfall in March to speak of. I hope we haven’t angered the Whiz O Meter Gods. I suspect they are a vengeful Gods.

Speaking of God, Mulva didn’t have to shake me awake twice today. After last week’s performance/service at The Full Gospel Original Church of God, I was up and at ’em at first light. I can’t remember when I’ve been this excited to attend services on Sunday. To be truthful, I was not excited enough to go to church to ride in with Mulva, but I wasn’t too far behind. I’m still maintaining my independence by us taking two cars. Who knows, this week’s service could be standard issue, plain vanilla, straight from the evangelical handbook. I hope not. I’m driving separate from Mulva just in case.

Well even though I arrived earlier than last time, I had to park further away than before. In spite of the cold there were folks milling about all over. A large number of people were crowded about the Channel 99 remote broadcast truck in the parking lot of the Crystal Palace. I assumed they were watching Channel 99’s programming prior to the cutover to the live feed of the services at The Full Gospel Original Church of God. I was surprised to see that the big screen on top of the truck was showing Channel 11 from Atlanta. I was about to hurry past the screen, lest any of my weather presumptions become tainted by the exposure to the Whiz O Meter. To my surprise, there was a discussion of the new “Georgia Religious Freedom Restoration Act” in full force on the screen.

For you folks unaware of the latest insult to our intelligence propagated by the Georgia Legislature, some nitwit has designed a bill that says “if I feel my religious freedoms are being violated by some everyday thing, I can refuse to do that thing and not be prosecuted for being a bigot, homophobe or racist”. This being the Georgia Legislature, the bill’s author found a bunch of other nitwits who agreed to sign on. Now the bill just awaits Nathan “Can We Make A” Deal’s signature before being the rule of our state. From the sounds of the discussion on the TV, Nathan is going to have a tussle with this one. You see the core issue is that some preachers don’t want to marry gay couples. We already know that bakers don’t want to bake for gays, and florists don’t want to be a part of gay weddings.

The bill hopes to immunize these “true Christians” from having to do what they would normally do for anybody else, if their “religious feelings” might get hurt. It is easy to see where some holier than thou twit will not serve blacks in his restaurant and feel he can do it legally if this bill passes. Extrapolating that a pharmacist might refuse to fill prescriptions for birth control pills or plan B because of his “religious feelings”, is not that hard to do. I’m sure that the ones who profess to “love others as they love themselves” will come up with dozens of ways to discriminate against folks that I never dreamed of.

What the “good Christians” didn’t anticipate was the backlash from the only people Nathan Deal cares about, the rich and powerful. The NFL has already notified Arthur Blank and the Falcons that there will be no Super Bowl if the law goes through. Is a billion dollar stadium really worth a billion dollars if no one wants to play in it? Would the new stadium become a Dustbowl so that some twits can exercise their hateful religious freedoms? The new stadium is just the tip of the iceberg.

What would the financial impact to Atlanta be if the SEC championship moves to a more tolerant area like Birmingham? What if the Final Four decided that the participating schools would be happier playing where there was a little more religious tolerance? What if Coca Cola and other world wide corporations felt like their brand was tarnished by being affiliated with a backwoods state? All burning questions that Governor Deal will be sleeping on while tries to make up his mind as to what is best for all of the people of Georgia, and his friends with money.

Mean time, I’ve cut my entry into the church as close as I can. I make it to my seat while Channel 99 is running the commercials that precede the live telecast. Mulva gives me about a six on the stare meter and I concentrate on the stage. That’s where it’s all happening. 

More later.                      

Good morning, y’all. Well, the skies are still blue, but so are we. It’s cold again and the wind is making it worse. We didn’t get a drop of rain from the promised typhoon that was supposed to deliver inches of rain. It’s gotten to the point that I can’t even watch Channel 11 and the Whiz O Meter without verbally responding to the TV. “Yeah, right”, is my most frequent response. At least the one I can reprint.

Well, since the weather was dry, I took the opportunity to spread mulch and pine straw on the assorted flower beds here at TackyToo. I took my Walkman along to keep me company. I brought along some of the classic ’70’s cassette tapes I found last week. I was counting on the earbuds to keep the wind out of my ears. I was also counting on the music to liven up my mood and to make these old bones feel younger. Song selection is very important.

While I had a passel of tapes to pick from, I only chose the tapes that I knew would put a spring in my step. As it turned out, I only needed to bring one tape. I started my playlist with “Bat Out Of Hell”, by Meat Loaf.  I got into such a groove after the first playing that I just kept looping it for the next two hours. It was the music, and the words, and the memories of when I first heard the songs. I know I appreciated the words back in the ’70’s, but I might have not “heard” them as well as I do today. As much as I enjoyed “Paradise By The Dashboard Lights” back then, I marvel at the almost operatic telling of the classic teenage love story played out in the front seat of a parked car. It was such a terrific album, with no “throw away” songs. I appreciate the consistency of quality even more today. 

Now, I know the first question everybody asks is, “who names their kid, Meat Loaf?” No one actually, but Marvin Lee Aday was nicknamed “Meatloaf” by his abusive father. Apparently Meat Loaf got his size from his Dad and his singing ability from his Mom. His Mom was in a gospel group and appears to be the influence behind Meat Loaf’s gospel like sound and performances. While he was still a teenager, Meat Loaf’s abusive father drove Meat Loaf from home, never to return. As the story goes, Meat Loaf bought the next place ticket out of Dallas, and it didn’t matter where it was going. Turns out it was going to Los Angeles, where Meat Loaf and his group found plenty of work opening for other musicians.

When not performing, Meat Loaf and his good friend Jim Steinman wrote songs in hopes of selling them to a record company. The songs for “Bat Out Of Hell” were rejected by multiple recording companies before finally finding a believer in Cleveland International Records. What a break for all concerned. “Bat Out Of Hell” has sold more than 43 million copies since its release. After almost 40 years, the album still sells an estimated 200,000 copies a year. It is one of the best selling albums of all time and has been ranked by Rolling Stone as number 343 in their top 500 albums of all time. Not too bad, for a singer whose stage name comes from his Mom’s favorite food.

Well, I don’t know if I can pick a favorite song on the album, they all strike a chord with me in some way. I guess I’m real partial to the trilogy on side two where the female lead asks for a  commitment of undying love “until the end of time” in return for her “favors”. Meat Loaf relents and promises to love her “until the end of time”. In the last song of the trilogy he is praying for the end of time so he can “end his time with you”. I mean that’s some high quality story telling that you won’t find in a “Led Zeppelin” album.

I may have to put the DVD “Bat Out Of Hell“ set on my Christmas list this year.

Good morning, y’all. It’s been such beautiful weather that I am reminiscing about the old days when we couldn’t wait for Spring so that the Drive In movie theaters would reopen. Most of the Drive Ins would close in this area for the Winter, and with the advent of Spring, they would reopen with a flourish.

Sometimes the Drive Ins would reopen with a quad feature to get folks interested in coming back in. The Drive Ins wanted everyone to reestablish the habit of coming to the Drive In at least once a weekend. Some folks, I’ve heard, would go to the Drive In twice in a weekend. I presumed at least once was to watch the movie.

There is a rumor that the reason Drive In movies were not up to the par of the “mainstream” movies was that “no one was watching the movie anyway”. I don’t doubt that that was true for some folks. All I can say to rebut that theory is that a lot of folks got real famous making “Drive In” movies. Roger Corman comes to mind, and he is famous for launching the careers of main stream directors Francis Ford Coppola, Ron Howard, Martin Scorsese and James Cameron. To rebut the quality of the films shown, I watched “Star Wars” on a Drive In screen. The local movie theater didn’t feel like it would attract a big enough crowd to warrant a showing, so everyone in our neck of the woods camped out at the Drive In to watch the blockbuster.

Well, long story short, I wanted to get out for Date Night, but I didn’t feel like driving over to Blue Ridge to experience the thrill of a Drive In. Maybe when it gets warmer. Mulva and I don’t generate as much body heat as we used to. I blame global warming.

Anyway, we headed into town to watch what appeared to be the only quality show on at the Bijou, “10 Cloverfield Lane“. I used its rating of PG13 to get Mulva past the posters promising a “tense thriller”. As I’ve explained before, Mulva does not like violence of any kind, and absolutely no blood should be spilled while Mulva is in attendance. I think I can only recall one time when Mulva didn’t hide her eyes when violence was being telegraphed in a movie, and that was the “swing away Merrill” sequence in the “Signs” movie. Maybe because the scene was setup a hundred miles or so before it happened, Mulva took it as a foregone conclusion. Believe me, I’ve seen her turn her head at far less violent scenes.

Before we get into the movie, let me point out how good theater popcorn tastes to a man released from house arrest. I know that it was popped a couple of days ago, but it still tasted of something special. Something special that the bags of Pops Rite done in our microwave didn’t have. Could it have been the taste of freedom? Maybe. Even at $4.50 for a “medium” bag, I felt it was a bargain. We’ll see if I still feel that way in the weeks to come.

Well, bust my suspenders, the Bijou has redecorated. It’s got new Barcalounger type seats in the auditorium that have adequate room for my expansive girth. There is even a foot rest so I can lean back. Holy cow, how can this experience get any better? With an excellent movie of course. I didn’t know what to expect from the movie because I had not read any reviews, so the whole plot was unveiling fresh in front of me. I like John Goodman, and I figured he’d be worth the price of admission even if the movie was a stinker. It wasn’t.

“10 Cloverfield Lane” melds a couple types of horror/suspense genres together which was novel for me. The movie keeps the audience on the edge of the seat guessing as to what is true, and what is a red herring. I could give the movie away by saying it’s all true, or it’s all false, but I won’t. You must go see it for yourself. All performances are excellent, and John Goodman is superb.

Mulva hid her eyes a lot. I expect I’ll pay the price of her bad dreams for a few days. If it gets too bad, I’ll go sleep on the sofa. “10 Cloverfield Lane” was worth it, for me, anyway.

Good morning, y’all. Gorgeous weather with rains predicted for the weekend. Rain on the weekend doesn’t hurt my feelings like it does some people. Being “self -employed”, everyday is a potential workday, or an off day. If I have to work all weekend snaking somebody’s drain, you better believe I’m going to take Monday off. I, like millions of others, strive for the perfect “work-life balance”.

While finishing up the painting of the Rec room, I caught a news blurb that got caught in the back of my brain. I kind of let it marinate there and went on about my business. My guess is that it would have died of loneliness, like most of my thoughts, but then it popped up again on CNN, and then The Daily Show. Once I saw it on The Daily Show, I knew it was legit.

As the story goes, The Donald was asked what his thoughts were about a brokered convention, should he not gather enough delegates to secure the nomination in the primaries. The Donald is quoted as saying, “There could be riots”, if the Republican party does not give him the nomination, even if he falls short of the votes needed. It is The Donald’s contention that since he is so far ahead of the other candidates that the nomination is his, even if he doesn’t have the required votes. In fact, The Donald’s supporters might be so disturbed at the lack of reverence shown to The Donald, that they may have to riot to show their displeasure. Really.

As being one who was able to do a fantasy in my head that involved a backroom deal between Trump and the Clintons to destroy the Republican party forever, I’m now reassessing my thoughts. In defense of my Trump-Clinton theory, let me point out that their daughters are BFF’s and the families do socialize. The Donald once was a Democrat and has espoused liberal views at times. It seemed a plausible theory, and as Kevin O’Leary has pointed out, it can’t hurt the Trump brand.

In my mind, the Republicans should have a candidate that said out loud what all of them are thinking. No more double speak, no more Newspeak, just come right out and call a spade a spade. Lose the “47%”, “welfare mother”, “welfare cadillac”, references to the minorities and go ahead and call all non-whites murders, rapists and welfare cheats. Much to my surprise, The Donald got the ball rolling by calling all of the Hispanic immigrants rapists and thugs and suggesting that Mexico should build a wall to protect us from their citizens. In truth, I thought this was so over the top that the world would quickly see through the sham and the Trump-Clinton theory would be exposed early on. Imagine my surprise to find that the neo-Republicans had found a new savior. A savior who would say mean, hateful things at the top of his voice on a daily basis criticizing the people who were not “like us”. Blaming “them” for all of the world’s shortcomings.

In “Trump World”, The Donald doesn’t have time to be politically correct, he’s got deals to make. Besides, his followers shouldn’t be required to have to translate to get the message. After all, thinking is real hard, and considering all arguments before making a decision requires the intellect to navigate a two step process. It appears that there are not many intellectuals at Trump rallies. If so, they are standing off to the sidelines directing the Schutzstaffel in their next moves. I don’t think that all actions at a Trump rally are orchestrated. I suspect the old dude sucker punching the protester being led out by the police was totally knee-jerk. Old dude was 78, so he was running on half of his half wit.

I don’t think the same can be said for the other Trump supporters using violence to get their message across. I think Trump is calling for violence from the lectern, and the reference to “riots” is a threat to the hierarchy of the Republican party. Sadly, I also believe it is a call to the Trumpites to respond with violence to any slight they might feel.

This could get ugly folks. The Chicago riots in 1968 were college kids upset about segregation and the war in VietNam, among other things. The Cleveland riots of 2016 could be because some little rich kid didn’t get his way. And let me remind everyone, the Trumpites are armed to the teeth.

Good morning, y’all. We’re experiencing just gorgeous weather here in the mountains. I noticed that the dogwoods and cherry trees are starting to bud on the drive into Blairsville. I guess the pear trees can’t be far behind. The forsythia and the jonquils are already in full bloom. Spring is in the air, along with the pollen from a thousand varieties of trees and bushes.

It’s scary to think that the green stuff accumulating on all surfaces is also getting breathed into our lungs. Although I’m reasonably sure that the conditions in our bodies would not be conducive for growing pine trees, apparently the conditions in our lungs are fertile grounds for peas. Reading that story made remember about the time my brother got a bean stuck up his nose from a bean gun. While it was causing him a great deal of discomfort, he feared the embarrassment of telling everyone what he had done even more. I guess everyone has items locked up somewhere that they’d rather not share with everyone.

The reason we were headed to Blairsville was to visit the reverend Helen Handbasket. The reverend is still recovering from her big fall this past weekend. I think the physical issues are just about mended. I hear her psyche is not even close to recovering. The reverend is absolutely mortified that she lay on the floor of the church with her robes completely over her head for a good thirty seconds. I think the fact that she was clad in a matching set of red Victoria Secret underwear speaks more highly of her than if she had been in some mismatched Fruit of the Looms with holes in them. Now that’s just me, though. It seems like the reverend’s Mama taught her like mine did, “always wear good underwear, you never know when you might be in an accident”. 

There is nothing that can be done about the TV audience that witnessed the reverend’s over-exposure during the live telecast. I think the reverend has to let go of her concerns about the TV audience, and maybe she has. I hear the reverend is deeply concerned about the number of folks with cell phones that might have taken advantage of the moment. Even though the sanctuary is supposed to be a “cell phone free zone”, we know everybody has got one at the ready. The reverend is worried that someone might post her embarrassment to the internet, and that it would live there forever. An internet file forever linked to her name and outstripping (pardon the pun) all of her other accomplishments. I see her dilemma. I do not see her solution.

First off, how do we know if anyone took pictures? Would it be up to the Elders of the church to ask any picture takers to come forward? If someone did take pictures, would they not be the property of person that took them? How do you get the picture takers to reveal themselves and then to voluntarily part with their property for the purpose of alieving somebody’s discomfort? Do you wait until the next service and then confiscate all phones as the congregation enters the chapel? Would you then have the reclaim process require the parishoner to show all of their photos to redeem their phone? Sounds a little draconian, doesn’t it?

I can see real parallels here in the current battle between Apple and the Federal government. The Feds want Apple to create a “backdoor” in all of their phones and give the Feds the key. Apple has taken the position that what is stored on your phone is yours, just like it was stored in a closet at your house. The Feds need a specific warrant to look in your closet, and Apple believes that the files stored on your phone should be treated the same way. I agree. If I’ve done something that warrants a warrant, then the Feds should be able to see whatever I’m up to. Other than that, it’s my business. Allowing for a universal key into cell phones is just madness in my opinion, and could backfire on the Feds. What if all of Justice Scalia’s phone messages, pictures, etc. were able to be hacked using the universal key? Might that prove more damaging to the American empire than the contents of a suspected terrorist?

Hang in there Apple, the people are behind you.

Good morning, y’all. Although Spring won’t be here officially for another two weeks, the weather is doing about as fine an imitation of Spring as you’d want to see. Now, we are supposed to get some cold temps this weekend, but not enough to dampen my enthusiasm for the weather. I might even give the Channel 11 Whiz O Meter a pass for a few days.

Speaking of passes, there is a condition in America that needs to be addressed that the issuance of a “pass” or a pardon would correct. I’m talking capital punishment, or more literally, murder that is sanctioned by the state. I’m against it, as are most of the civilized countries of the world. While a lot of the countries still have death penalties on their books, most have given up the practice. Of the 35 countries in the North and South American continents, 19 have the death penalty, but only 2 of them, the U.S. and St. Kitts, still execute people. Of the 49 European countries, only one country, Belarus, has the death penalty and executes. It would seem that the more secular European countries are more forgiving than their Christian cousins in the Americas. I am at a loss as to why.

We know that America always wants to be number one, and currently we’re number five on the execution hit list behind such widely regarded human rights advocates, China, Iran, Saudia Arabia, and Iraq. That list is from 2014, and, who knows, a President Trump might feel the need to “Make America Great Again” by using the gas chambers. After all, if you look at what constitutes a capital offense in some countries, you could see how a President with a complete disregard for the rights of the individual might react. Some capital offenses in other countries are: homosexuality, drug trafficking, apostasy, perjury, corruption and adultery. I suspect that a President Trump might let the last two slide, but, it could be a matter of “do as I say, not do as I do”. Which I guess brings me around to my point.

For a supposedly “Christian” country, we ignore the teachings of Jesus a lot. I mean, “Thou Shalt Not Kill” made number one on the list of things that we’re not supposed to do if we expect to wind up in Heaven. There were no qualifiers to the commandment as I recall. No exceptions carved out for killing for your country, or allowing the state to punish by using the death penalty. “Thou Shalt Not Kill”, simple, straight forward, to the point. In fact, the sentiment is further reinforced in the Bible in Romans 12:19 “Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” Now from that verse, it’s pretty clear to me that the Lord is saying, “Don’t worry about it, I got it”. Sure as heck works for me.

I mean we’ve experienced “Death Race 1998” when George W. Bush raced to outdo his brother Jeb in extracting vengeance for the people of their respective states. W put to death 152 prisoners for the people of Texas, while Jeb contributed 21 for Florida. W did not allow any clemency hearings during his term as governor. W declared that he was not smart enough to overrule a jury, no matter how compelling new evidence of innocence might be. I hope someday that the Bush family faces a judge with the same sense of fairness and compassion that they have exhibited to others.

The “compassionate conservative” could not even be dissuaded from his role as God’s executioner by arguments that capital punishment actually costs the state far more than keeping the prisoner locked up. How easy is that? Keep a commandment and costs down at the same time? Seems like a no-brainer to me. But then, I don’t claim to hear God talking to me. Maybe that’s the issue. People that hear God’s voice should be eliminated from making capital case decisions.

Good morning, y’all. A clear and beautiful day here in the mountains. Temperatures are flirting with the 80’s which does not bode well for a mild Summer. I may have a very narrow time frame to get my planting and sprucing up done before it becomes too hot to work. Gaining a huge respect for Mother Nature is one of the things you gain by aging. That, and the healing powers of ibuprofen.

In fact, I bet right now there is a certain reverend of The Full Gospel Original Church of God that is gaining mad respect for ibuprofen, and whatever other pain killing substances she can secure. I’m getting ahead of my self a little bit, but being sore all over was a nice segue into finishing up my story about the christening of the new church in Blairsville.

When we left the story yesterday, Mulva and I are sitting third row center right when the reverend Helen Handbasket enters the stage from somewhere. Honestly, I didn’t see any curtains parting, any rustling stage right or left, it just seemed like, “poof”,  she was there mid stage. She is wearing white robes with some sort of sash trimmed in gold like you’d think a priest would wear. Her fiery red hair is “styled” in an unmanageable Afro. Her hair is slightly puffed, and when it catches the light just right, it gives off a kaleidoscope effect of color about her head. As the reverend Helen Handbasket walks to the pulpit, her head appears to have a halo about it from the stage lights striking her hair at odd angles. It’s a darn good effect, and one that is far better in person than on TV. Not that the boys from Channel 99 in Blairsville aren’t doing their best to capture the show for the viewers at home.

The camera crew has tripods setup on either side of the altar with an overhead camera mounted in the ceiling above the first row. A crew man with a handheld camera is capturing shots from the center of the floor between the first row and the altar. I can only imagine how his knees must feel at the end of the day having to squat and crawl around like that to get his shots. Another candidate for ibuprofen for sure.

Well, the reverend Helen Handbasket is not unaware that this is her “national debut” and is bringing the heat with her sermon. She has decided to take on the role of politics in our lives this week. With barely a nod to “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s”, the reverend ripped into folks who were obsessed with the current political scene. She mocked the demagogues and the shills for the oligarchy. She dismissed the candidates who could not conduct themselves in a civil manner as buffoons. The reverend Helen Handbasket then really got wound up when she touched on the profanity and crude innuendo employed by some candidates. It is the reverend’s stated belief that the debates should be something that could be shown in a high school civics class and discussed as a living history lesson. When the reverend allowed as to how these debates weren’t worthy of being shown to “pigs in a sty”, she stepped into no mans land.

The audience collectively gasped and it took several seconds for the exhale. The reverend Helen Handbasket was too possessed by her own thoughts at this point to notice that she had all but lost her audience. The revered had already allowed the “spirit” to take hold. She was starting what I call the “tap dance for Jesus”, that is common to evangelical preachers. Tradition dictated she would move from the stage to the floor in front of the altar to begin the testament of faith and the call for souls. Her transition from the stage would take place while “tap dancing for Jesus” and speaking in tongues, if the spirit moved.

Well, in her altered state, the reverend Helen Handbasket apparently had forgotten what three coats of polyurethane and two coats of wax will do to a hardwood surface. As the reverend moved from the stage to the first step, she lost her footing and treated the audience at home, and in the church, to a show not seen since the last Victoria Secret’s Fashion Show. Her legs flew up, as well as her robe. It was perhaps thirty seconds before anyone could gain the presence of mind to avert the cameras and cover up the prostrate reverend.

Well needless to say, the altar call and testament of faith were cancelled, but I don’t think anyone felt cheated. The reverend Helen Handbasket was carted to the Blairsville Hospital’s emergency room where she was treated and released. I imagine she is dosing up today on the ibuprofen to ease the pain of her bruised body. I don’t know what you take for a bruised ego.

And to think I’ve been dreading going back to church.

Good morning, y’all. The rumors of torrential rains were just that, rumors. We got a few sprinkles, and then the sun came out and made a perfect day. Well, weather-wise a perfect day. If I’m telling the absolute truth, I was hoping to have the torrential downpours. I was going to invoke the responsibility of “Park Manager” to avoid the trip to Blairsville to the grand opening of The Full Gospel Original Church of God. With all of the scenes of trailer parks underwater in Louisiana and Texas, it would have been an easy sell to say my services were more needed at TackyToo than at church. Unfortunately, Mother Nature and the Channel 11 WhizOMeter let me down.

I did manage to convince Mulva that we needed to go in separate cars. Mulva goes early and stays late. I didn’t want to be that person saying “can we go now?, can we go now?, can we go now?” until I finally pried Mulva loose. Mulva’s got responsibilities with the church, in addition to the fact that she just plain enjoys the company of the other folks. I’m not a big “mixer”, and I’m certainly not a big church goer. I can generally find a couple of folks to talk to for a few minutes, but by and large, it’s not my crowd.

Since I’m not allowed to discuss religion with anyone, most especially the Elders or Preachers, I kind of just come to see the show. Once the show’s over, there’s no need for me to hang around. I generally head over to the IHOP for lunch before heading back home. This probably sounds like a weird arrangement to most folks, but what can I say? All marriages make compromises and this is one of ours. I get four hours a week to worship my Bulldogs, and Mulva gets four hours a week to do her worshipping. I don’t remember any marriage vow that said we had to worship the same things.

Well, I pull up to the house of worship and you’d have thought Georgia was playing Alabama in Athens. The parking lot was past full. There were cars parked up and down the streets for four blocks in every direction. After I park, I walked to the parking lot where I found the Channel 99 in Blairsville truck commandeering a huge amount of space. They had five or six people milling around the truck and more on the inside. They had setup a big screen on top of the truck and there were a hundred or so worshippers gathered around watching the service from the parking lot. As tempting as it was to watch the service in a less claustrophobic setting, I headed inside. I knew Mulva was waiting for me and had saved me a seat. I hope she saved enough room.

I found her sitting third row on the right, on the aisle, same as always. Seats in church are sort of handed down from generation to generation. Your pew assignment is generally a sign of the social status of your family within the church. The holiest of the holy/ big donors are in the rows closest to the altar. The holiness/contributions of the families diminish as you go away from the altar. Being in the front rows also makes it easier for the preacher to recognize you to the congregation for your latest contribution. Now, if you’re one of the high up muckety mucks, you don’t have to sit in the front row. In fact, you can sit anywhere you darn well please, and that will be your spot forever. It is just that generally folks like to be “moved up”.

I could see that the pecking order from the old church was going to be preserved in the new “Crystal Palace”. Mulva’s spot in the third row was plenty close enough for me. In truth, I prefer to be a member of the faceless crowd rather than to have the preacher look me directly in the eye when they delivered a point. I’m sensitive that way.

I’m also sensitive to loud music, and whoever was working the sound system must have been deaf. The notes of “Holy, Holy, Holy” were about to break the stained glass windows when they suddenly stopped and the Reverend Helen Handbasket appeared on the stage. Now I would get to see for myself what all of the fuss has been about.

More later.

Good morning, y’all. Another beautiful day in the mountains with temps reaching up into the ’70’s. Of course, if it’s 70 now, the 80 degree temperatures can’t be far off. I have a self imposed rule about working outside when the temperature gets up in the ’80’s. I don’t do it. When the temperature hits 85 or so, I’m done for the day. I refuse to give my neighbors the opportunity to watch me stroke out in the heat of the day. It’s just not dignified.

So I took the opportunity today to catch up on a “Honey Do” item from my list. My list could alternately be used as a yard stick, if a yard stick were not handy. I’m not saying my list is long, I’m just saying that if there is a “hereafter”, I’ll have plenty to do for the duration. My task today was to clear up the storeroom in the Rec room. Sounds simple enough, right?

My directions are that all items are to be placed into two piles, we’ll call then “trash” and “treasures” for now, and then those items will be further sorted by Mulva. Mulva’s discerning eye will be looking for those “treasures” that can be donated to The Full Gospel Original Church of God’s raffle. I can not get into the wisdom of folks that will take junk from one spot, raffle it off to folks, who will take it home and then create a new junk pile at their house. My brain delights in the possible scenarios of items that I’m picking going off to new owners, changing hands a dozen times, only to be repurchased by Mulva a decade from now to return back here to TackyToo.

I’m really enjoying my little “Twilight Zone” episode in my head when I happen across something of real value. Up in the far corner of the storeroom, I uncover two plastic racks filled with cassette tapes from the ’70’s. OMG!, OMG!, OMG! All work is suspended until I can find my Walkman and fill it with batteries. Where do I start? I mean, I am a collector with a very discriminating nature. I’ve got The Who, George Harrison, Richie Havens, Elton John and Meat Loaf. I’ve even got the “Best of The Ventures” which would probably require a lot of explaining to people under sixty. Where do I start my odyssey back to a time, that, while it might not have been a “more simple time”, sure as heck had a better soundtrack to it?

Well, work can’t stop because I’ve stepped through a time portal, so I decide to get the concert started with “Eat a Peach” by the Allman Brothers. They’ve always been my favorites anyway. One of the reasons for my undying love of the Allman Brothers is that they got the ball rolling with free concerts in Piedmont Park in Atlanta in the early ’70’s. Let me qualify. I do not add points to their music because of their free concerts, I add the points earned for the free concerts to their souls. Their music stands alone at the top of the Southern Rock charts for me.

Since I’ve stepped through this time portal, let me recount that during the ’70’s, Atlanta was the second coolest place in America to be. Only Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco had a higher population of flower children. Cruising down Peachtree Street from 10th Street to 14th Street was the place where you could let “your freak flag fly”, and not be out of place. Setting up free concerts in Piedmont Park was not only a cool thing to do, but marketing genius. Soon other bands like “The Marshall Tucker Band” and “Wet Willie” were joining in the fun. The crowds became huge, but were never out of control. I can not recall any incidences of violence at any of the concerts I attended. I would hope that if something like this were even possible today, that the followers of the music would act as respectively as we “dirty hippies” did, back in the day.

Well, I’ve got a spring in my step as I boogie through, “One Way Out“, “Little Martha“, and, “Mountain Jam“. I know these cassettes are going somewhere safe until I can get them converted to CD’s. By safe, I don’t mean the “treasure” pile. The Full Gospel Original Church of God’s raffle will have to get by without my memories to fill their coffers. By the way, ever wonder what Piedmont Park looked like with ten thousand people who weren’t there for the Peachtree Road Race? Take a look at this photo taken by Butch Trucks, drummer from the Allman Brothers Band. I borrowed it from his blog.

Good morning, y’all. Another beautiful day in the mountains. So beautiful in fact that I didn’t mind accompanying Mulva on her daily pilgrimage to the Walmart. We were lucky enough to be babysitting little Trey today. We took him along to see if there was some new goo gaw or bauble that he might be interested in. His birthday is just around the corner.

There’s nothing like enjoying the wonder of Walmart through a toddler’s eyes. Trey’s mouth was open so much of the time I was afraid he’d catch a fly. I bought him a licorice stick to help him keep it closed, at least part of the time. I caught the dickens for the mess it made of his outfit. When we got back to TackyToo, Trey got to run around like “Tarzan” while Mulva washed his clothes. Mulva always likes to leave things better than we found them, and Trey was looking a little ragged.

In my defense, Trey was having trouble helping me concentrate on the movie selection for this week’s date night. The $2.99 movie barrel was picked over again, and I had to continue to “dumpster dive” the various price points until I found a winner. Finally I found a movie in the $9.99 bin that I thought would be a sure thing. I chose “12 Years A Slave“. Mulva raised an eyebrow in my direction as the checkout girl stopped checking us out to read the cover of the movie. In  these parts you don’t know if someone is interested in a movie about slavery as a historical reference, or a “how to” documentary. Since the checkout girl had two pink stripes in her hair, I was guessing she was interested in the movie for its artistic merits. She checked us out without comment, so I guess we’ll never know.

“12 Years A Slave” did not play at any of the theaters in our neck of the woods. We would have had to drive to Gainesville or closer to Atlanta to see the movie on the big screen. I can’t say that the owners of the Bijou in Blairsville did not select the movie for showing because they felt like it would only attract a black audience. Only one percent of the population of Union county is black. Maybe it was that the Bijou owners felt like the movie was too controversial. Most of the folks in this area think that if “reparations” are to be paid, that it should be the slave owners receiving payment for the loss of property, not the slave for the loss of their freedom.

I don’t know how folks can look at their children or their grandchildren and not get the horror of slavery. The horror of this incidence of slavery is compounded by the fact that the hero, Solomon Northup, was not born into slavery. Northup was a free man, living in Saratoga Springs, N.Y, earning his living as a musician. He was enticed to play music in Washington, D.C., where he was kidnapped by slave traders and sold down South to a plantation in Louisiana. All of his protestations only heaped more pain on his existence, and so he learned that he had to “go along to get along”. Hiding intelligence is a very hard thing to do, and Northup was repeatedly punished for outshining his captors. Eventually Northup is able to get through to a visitor to the plantation that he, Northup, is not where he’s supposed to be. Help finally arrives and Northup is returned to his family, after twelve years.

Northup’s true story became the book that led to the movie. Research done by the film makers proved the historical accuracy of the book. It is a compelling story that underlines the old saying, “There but for the grace of God, go I”, which Northup never had to question in his old life. I wondered quite a bit in the movie if Northup had thought about his life in New York in contrast to the slaves in the Southern states. Did he identify at all, or did he think the slaves were “them”, and not “us”. I may have to re watch to satisfy my curiosity.

“12 Years A Slave” was financially and artistically a major success. It won three Academy Awards, Best Movie, Best Director and Best Actor. The movie boasts a cast of fine actors, both newcomers, and established stars. Oh, and Brad Pitt is in it.

Based off of current events, what with the racism at the Trump rallies and the elimination of slavery from our history books, maybe “12 Years A Slave” should be required viewing for middle schools everywhere. It might help dispel some of the propaganda being spewed now. Just a thought.