tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2540732075590796622012-02-16T12:54:38.688-05:00Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.comBlogger2901100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-24819788444487343082012-02-16T12:54:00.001-05:002012-02-16T12:54:38.692-05:00

This morning I’m in the kitchen and remember to get something from the bedroom. It takes maybe 10 seconds to get there. Then, I find myself turning in circles, trying to remember why I’m there. Frustrated, I retreat to the kitchen, trying to get a thought re-run. Nothing. I retrace my steps, the book I’m reading, the cell phone, eggs I’m cooking. Yes, the same eggs which now are…

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-63038713873714899482012-02-09T16:13:00.000-05:002012-02-09T16:13:31.595-05:00

“…for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.” Matthew 12:34 If nature abhors vacuums, it should feel right at home with Americans. No, this isn’t about the chorus of chatter from the current parade of presidential candidates, as vacuous as it might be. It’s about my own disconsolate dilemma. You see, I’ve discovered just how much I talk to myself. I hear you laughing

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-55904998807968408052012-02-02T13:07:00.000-05:002012-02-06T13:11:04.001-05:00

It’s 10:30 on a Friday night. The football game is over, the crowds disperse. Some boast, some lament. Another contest is beginning, this time on a dark and deserted road that pierces through miles of cotton fields. The fields reflect a soft glow in the moonlit night. They sit in the cab of Robert’s ’58 GMC pickup on the shoulder of the road. The truck is a souped-up, modified version

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-40436916051208707692012-01-26T12:55:00.000-05:002012-02-06T12:59:53.057-05:00

Life is…. Confusion and conflict consume us. Don’t take my word for it. Look around. Cognitive thought has capitulated. We’re in the abyss of digital arcana, home to no human voice. Computers control everything. Mattresses even play music. We’re hopelessly lost. Recently we purchased a wire holder for office files. Ripping the box apart sapped the strength of two stout men.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-49705794913724627392012-01-19T11:08:00.000-05:002012-01-23T11:09:03.958-05:00

“I’m digging up bones, I’m digging up bones, exhuming things that’s better left alone…” Randy Travis A few days ago I woke up inside of a headache. It happens every year. It’s caused by accountants who are in complicity with the IRS. Everything must balance, all must reconcile. It’s a sickness. They’re obsessive tyrants inflicting punishment with each errant check written. In 2011

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-31517098560302890002012-01-12T13:01:00.000-05:002012-02-06T13:07:01.387-05:00

Almost to the top…just one more limb, Roy Junior thought. The allure of the Titan of all oak trees tempted him. He overstretched his reach, ignoring the risk. His hand grasped a brittle branch, and his footing slipped on the green mossy limb. He swung out into the empty air and dangled there. His feet kicked, treading the nothingness beneath. His 10-year-old life hung

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-11357987998481226272012-01-05T15:17:00.000-05:002012-01-10T15:32:17.813-05:00

“…They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved…who…burn, burn, burn…” Jack Kerouac, On the Road In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth, and for entertainment threw in a genus of humankind

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-57378800061215395492011-12-29T17:14:00.001-05:002011-12-29T17:14:05.819-05:00

“One can resist the invasion of an army but not the invasion of ideas.” Victor Hugo This year, 2011, is long in the tooth. It’s on life support. The ring-in-the-new-year crowd is queuing up its cortege. Fireworks and debauchery will accompany its demise. The wizened Father Time will deliver the eulogy. Inebriated chorales will sing incoherently the traditional requiem of Auld Lang Syne.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-34732316326214208902011-12-23T09:39:00.001-05:002011-12-23T09:39:51.179-05:00

“…and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.” Matthew 2:9 Over 2000 years ago some wise men from the east came to Jerusalem. They inquired, “Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.” So reads the second chapter of St. Matthew. Herod

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-37005532916140419182011-12-15T16:55:00.002-05:002011-12-20T09:49:08.643-05:00

It’s 3:00 on Christmas Eve. He sits alone at his desk. The empty office echoes. The holiday cheer evaporates. The scent of wine lingers longer. Everyone’s gone. The hum of his computer is the only sound he hears. He looks at his shopping list, a white sheet filled with names. So many names, no gifts. He taps it with his pen, chews his nails. His watch reads 3:05. No more procrastination.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-35188701133148277012011-12-08T16:25:00.000-05:002011-12-12T09:22:00.074-05:00

Definition of Euphemism: A figure of speech in which the severe asperity of truth is mitigated by the use of a softer expression than the facts would warrant…a verbal evasion. The Devil’s Dictionary The Associated Press article read: “Scientists find monster black holes, biggest yet.” Each is 10 billion times the size of our sun. Black holes are so dense that nothing, not even light, can

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-43980368891563621002011-12-01T16:47:00.001-05:002011-12-01T16:56:06.183-05:00

I write this, fresh from having Thanksgiving in my small home town with assorted kin whose unabated appetites have added to their ample girths. Ah, the small towns of youth…freedom and innocence! We had it made. Until…. My wife and I shared a small room in the local Inn, a quaint Victorian retro, and a bed somewhat smaller than the front seat of my car. Country boys are

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-38235628411985623142011-11-23T15:03:00.000-05:002011-12-01T16:53:34.184-05:00

"There’s nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor…that it was from the hand of God.” Ecclesiastes 2:24 Thanksgiving…the very concept conjures up evocative nostalgia. A silent bell tolls in our hearts, reviving the infused pilgrim spirit inherited from the Plymouth Plantation. Tradition is dusted off and Norman

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-64126673879441116902011-11-17T16:16:00.000-05:002011-11-18T14:14:12.666-05:00

I am a turkey, born, or rather, hatched…a freak of nature. Not of choice, mind you, for who has a choice? These things happen. This is my story of Thanksgiving I hatched in 28 days like the others. But I suspected something was wrong when I heard my family wailing and gnashing their beaks, “What went wrong, mama…have you been tom-turkeying around the barnyard? Is it a rara avis? Let’

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-5714675438793120332011-11-10T14:34:00.001-05:002011-11-18T14:13:52.608-05:00

I’m in the doctor’s office again. We review the X-rays. Bad news.“How do I stand, Doc?” I say. “Mystery to me,” he says. I ask what the problem is. “Square peg in a round hole.”I ask why. Says I’m old. That explains nothing, yet everything.I ask if it’s serious. He says only if I have plans to walk.He gives me a brochure. A sailboat, a couple in love, dancing, drinking.I take the bait. Cha-ching.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-45408204122770331922011-10-20T16:02:00.001-04:002011-10-20T16:04:34.717-04:00

Wednesday, 9:50 PM Last week I was lazy and sent to you a 2008 re-run, “The Fortune Cookie.” It got mixed reviews. In ‘08 the US financial system was collapsing. It’s still getting mixed reviews. I feel affirmed. A new beginning, a new direction, or at least a stiff drink was needed. I looked for my direction in a fortune cookie. My pal, Sam, a brilliant lawyer, responded. Three words

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-12680968713824641532011-09-21T12:32:00.001-04:002011-09-21T12:40:13.180-04:00

The back door opens, closes. Whoosh. Stifling heat follows him. “Whew! Damn, it’s hot!” He says. Words more wheezed than spoken.His breath hisses like exhaust from a balloon let loose.Sweat bubbles up, rolls from his face, falls to the floor and fractures.“I need a drink,” pushing his cap back, looking into the mirror.He grabs a towel, mops his head and tosses it into the sink.She hears him,

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-48510782728766069452011-09-15T16:10:00.002-04:002011-09-15T16:13:47.804-04:00

This morning I stagger from bed to bathroom, flick on the light and look in the mirror. Horrors! “Damn, you’re ugly,” I shout. “Takes one to know one,” it responds. So begins another day with Body Dysmorphic Disorder, a life-long love/hate relationship with mirrors. Oh, the furtive glances we make at our reflections, the inordinate time spent in front of mirrors, prepping to meet a

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-48744733252391121372011-09-08T17:03:00.002-04:002011-09-08T17:07:08.909-04:00

Metter, GA, Sunday, heat index 112. Henry promised to introduce me to Willie, his brother. Locals call him The Knee Jerker. He’s now a Prophet. We finish the fried chicken from Edenfield’s Buffet, grab a tooth pick and leave. Willie lives where he works, in the annex behind the Tabernacle of The Absolute Rapture. The Tabernacle, painted a brilliant red, reminds me of a Twilight Zone

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-7032724435129864202011-09-01T14:26:00.003-04:002011-09-01T14:30:23.329-04:00

Some things never die…they just change application. Mule blinders are one of those things. I came by a much-used set last Saturday. They were hanging as a wall ornament in a beer and hamburger joint in Woodbine, Georgia. It’s a disgrace for a venerable, utilitarian device to be relegated to such a low-rent status. Age feels its pain of irrelevance. The owner gave them to me.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-37715942126945293102011-08-18T16:06:00.002-04:002011-08-18T16:12:04.211-04:00

An August Sunday in Metter, Georgia, heat index, 112. I’m sitting on a bench under an ancient oak tree in front of Edenfield’s Buffet, waiting for my run at the lunch feedbag. It occupies a nondescript building mid-block on Main Street. It’s a 1950’s left-over. I watch the after-church crowd come and go. The screen door flaps and slaps as it closes, reminding me of biscuits and gravy

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-21653588432952794942011-08-11T16:31:00.002-04:002011-08-18T13:13:38.531-04:00

Harvey is a friend of mine and his ears no longer work. He made a choice some years ago and closed his ears to life. It did no good to beg and plead, his friends could not prevail. So now his ears are vestiges, their doors are bolted tight. He didn’t from youth start out that way, it built as he moved along. He heard the noise the world sent out and the torment caused him pain. He feigned at

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-15349736727280744162011-08-04T14:13:00.000-04:002011-08-05T14:14:32.599-04:00

It’s been a long few weeks. I feel brutalized, tormented and disgusted as I watch our Congressional delegates wrangle endlessly on C-Span, Fox News and CNN. They should be banned and substituted with the Three Stooges. At least we could get a laugh. With a dark perspective we can get laughs from this congressional circus. Take from context some of the ranting by California Crown Jewel, Nancy

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-54720260189444771682011-08-03T11:02:00.003-04:002011-08-04T14:44:22.373-04:00

It’s her fault. Well, sorta. She calls. But I answer. She’s my editor. “How’s my favorite writer? Whatcha doin’?” She says. Honey drips from her voice. I sense a verbal flogging in the making. “I’m playing hide and seek in Winn Dixie, looking for a can of tomatoes,” I say. “Been here for hours.” “Are you lost again?” she snickers. I tell her it’s because my only clue was a vague

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-3679875749755136702011-07-28T12:27:00.004-04:002011-07-28T12:31:49.337-04:00

It seemed a reasonable trade: South Georgia for Provence in July. It was. Provence is easy. A throng of tourists and a lot of lavender. A perfect place, until I reached the Hertz counter. I wanted a Hummer (don’t all Americans?). I rented a BMW. The natives speak French. I got the guy with the big smile who “No parlez Inglis.” He spoke fast and figured numbers faster. I understood

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-20721707881725262832011-07-07T12:56:00.001-04:002011-07-07T13:01:06.150-04:00

Charles is a childhood friend. He called recently, lamenting the drought. Said Spring Creek was almost bone dry. Said he was ‘dunked’ in it for baptism. I asked if it took. He said, “Yes…so far.” Strange comment for a pecan farmer. I have another friend. His name is Charlie. He’s a lawyer. We call him ‘The Master of Equivocation.’ Perfectly normal for a lawyer. He should meet the pecan

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-51678128216706257622011-06-30T16:22:00.003-04:002011-06-30T16:28:12.848-04:00

***** Firecrackers & Freedom *****“And it shall come to pass afterward, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions…” Joel 2:28 The Spirit of Freedom will sparkle again on Monday. Our land will light up with firecrackers in celebration of a dream come true…Independence Day. It

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-73519676040416307952011-06-23T14:30:00.001-04:002011-06-23T14:31:39.247-04:00

It’s early morning. I boot up the computer, click on Internet. Nothing.A blank screen appears. What’s this? I ask my dog. He snores.Then words appear, “This Page Cannot Be Displayed.”The screen mocks me. I curse it, call Comcast.A mechanical voice answers, “Listen up, moron, our options have changed.”I select 1 for English, queue in a cyber-line. I listen. I wait. Hours pass.Canned Comcast music

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-31461362377117605332011-06-16T17:04:00.002-04:002011-06-16T17:11:35.368-04:00

Shopping in supermarkets sucks. Like most male shoppers, I linger, helpless and hopelessly lost. The groceries play games with me, like hide and seek, or Survivor. My buggy blocks the aisles…people curse me. Some utter ridicule. Others snarl. Especially ‘Her,’ the Island Gossip. She stalks me relentlessly. Today I wander aimlessly, seeking instant gratification. The pickles are perched

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-54213198707007902762011-06-09T16:14:00.001-04:002011-06-09T16:17:48.855-04:00

He comes home from work. His wife is standing in the carport. The car trunk’s open. She has in her hands a measuring tape, a calculator and a list. “Hi, whatcha doing?” he says. But he already knows. She’s preparing for their trip. She answers, “I’m computing the cubic feet of this trunk to see if our luggage will fit. Based on my metrics, you’re pretty much outta luck. There’s no

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-70801619000142449032011-06-02T16:25:00.001-04:002011-06-02T16:28:04.787-04:00

Neptune Park, St. Simons Island, Georgia, May 30, 2011. It’s a magnificent Golden Isles afternoon. What appears to be a couple thousand of us are here in remembrance of Memorial Day. We’re here to pay tribute to those who have died in wars, present and past, and in service to this mighty nation. “In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-64108398286165413732011-05-26T12:02:00.001-04:002011-05-26T12:17:48.299-04:00

Strange things happen on Sundays. Especially in Methodist churches. Last Sunday I heard a voice in my head. It competed with the preacher’s words of warning. Scary to hear ‘voices’ in church. I was born into the Methodist denomination. Like being born itself, I had no say in it. But I knew every door of the church. I memorized the times they opened and closed. Why? Because when they opened,

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-74971886535395101142011-05-19T13:14:00.003-04:002011-05-20T10:28:35.508-04:00

The morning is quiet, uneventful. We sit at the table having coffee, savoring the day's slow beginnings. With decaf, I’m an eternity away from being awake. Her head is invisible, buried inside the newspaper. A pleasant day. So far, that is. Then, out of the blue she hurls the question, “What IS it with men?” The question flies across the table, smoking hot, like a Wainwright fast ball. It

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-21375270138227377832011-05-05T14:27:00.001-04:002011-05-05T14:30:23.003-04:00

"...they also serve who only stand and wait." Sonnet XIX, John Milton The revolving door opens into a doctor's waiting room. It’s full of sick people. It’s a desolate place. We’ve all sat in these rooms before. It starts early in life, this waiting. Our parents waited for our birth. They were shocked to see a red, shriveled, screaming organism. As years progress, we keep

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-28127699813947896672011-04-28T15:40:00.001-04:002011-05-02T15:42:29.754-04:00

This is all you need…more news commentary from a thoroughly unauthenticated source. Horror and humor lie buried beneath everything you see, read or hear. The trick is to ruthlessly rip it to shreds. The real news crouches in some dark corner. Good news is a slow seller and hides somewhere out there. It’s difficult to discern. Use your imagination, or talk to your spouse. They have comments

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-80666131422049191852011-04-21T09:30:00.003-04:002011-04-22T09:36:38.320-04:00

“Then the eleven disciples went away into Galilee, unto a mountain where Jesus had appointed them. And when they saw Him, they worshiped Him…but some doubted.” Matthew 28:16 Easter is almost here. Nature is alive again in full bloom. Holy Week church services prepare us for the drama and pageantry of Easter. Perhaps no greater mystery exists than that of the resurrection of Jesus.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-4624826959133000442011-04-14T16:16:00.001-04:002011-04-14T16:18:02.963-04:00

The cell rang early today. Problems always ring early or late. My assistant’s shrill voice blasts in my ear, “There’s an accident on the causeway, traffic is hung up, kids are late for school. I need an escape before I explode.” Wow! Wonder how many other frustrated carpoolers have uttered this. Have you ever thought of the many ‘escape hatches’ we have available? I remembered a

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-39045482484494676592011-04-08T10:47:00.002-04:002011-04-12T10:50:03.606-04:00

“But O, for…the sound of a voice that is still!” Tennyson It’s early summer, and the Island Choir is tuning up. “Get out, get out,” it sings. Movement is everywhere. It mingles with morning walkers, joggers and bikers. The beach teems with teenagers, small children and exhausted parents. The sun and the water offer them relief from the past pressures of life. Colorful

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-70295618890730029562011-04-07T12:35:00.001-04:002011-04-07T12:37:37.438-04:00

Only the intrepid would dare touch the subject of polygamy. Just to utter the word in mixed company chills the atmosphere. Scattered on our kitchen table are days of unread newspapers. They lie there because I have good intentions of reading every word…sooner or later. Yes, you’re right…my wife is away, leaving only the dogs and me, neither of whom are particularly concerned with table

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-78754644678780391842011-03-24T13:14:00.001-04:002011-03-28T14:54:08.402-04:00

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.” Robert Herrick 1591-1674 The gnarled vines like nooses climb to the top of the pine in our yard. Twisted and contorted, they grip the hapless tree with unyielding choke-holds. Lavender bouquets of wisteria hang on frail stems from these ancient vines. The morning

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-47320021562845980912011-03-17T17:23:00.001-04:002011-03-17T17:23:28.372-04:00

“There comes a time in the affairs of a man when he must take the bull by the tail and face the situation.” W. C. Fields On Saturday I had big plans to attend the Evans County Rattlesnake Roundup in Claxton. So much for best-laid plans! I walked out, fresh and full of expectation. A black cloud moved in and sunk my spirits. I saw a red chalk mark on a front tire. I looked closer.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-33247919099120342172011-03-10T14:23:00.000-05:002011-03-10T14:24:46.734-05:00

I wake up this morning feeling that something’s changed. My recent age, 69, is new. One thing for sure is that I am no longer a10-year old being chased by the police chief from the dark corridor of my home-town city jail. Jails seem to entice children. Such remembrances pop up from dark pits. And who can fathom such phantasmagoric figments that a mind can assemble from its uneasy dreams? I

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-84546568492833875952011-03-03T11:28:00.001-05:002011-03-03T11:30:23.880-05:00

“Yet man was born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward.” Job 5:7 Famous words of one Alfred E. Neuman, a role model for children of the 50’s. This grinning, snaggle-toothed idiot with jug ears and a crooked eye graced over 500 Mad Magazine covers dating from 1954, when I discovered him. Or, he discovered me. I was 12, covered with zits, buck-teeth, and grinned like a goofy country boy

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-20927708468825446872011-02-24T15:16:00.000-05:002011-02-24T15:18:09.636-05:00

I risked sanity recently by shopping at the Mall. Like most men shoppers, I have my mind made up long before entering the circus of strollers, slackers and model wannabes who wander the cavernous halls of consumerism America. I said ‘most’ men, because if only men shopped, Fruits of the Loom, beer and Brookstone’s vibrating chairs would be in short supply. Of course, there is a genre of men

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-28620392750002896372011-02-17T09:55:00.002-05:002011-02-21T09:58:48.936-05:00

Sometimes I think if it weren’t for mules, men might be the dumbest creatures on the planet. At least mules have not been known to lose their PJ’s. Let me explain. Somehow my favorite pajama bottoms disappeared. I discovered they were MIA from their regular place in the closet. Where are they, I wondered. I looked everywhere, the dirty clothes hamper, washing machine, dog’s bed and rag

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-19721508308623506622011-02-10T10:39:00.001-05:002011-02-11T10:54:02.748-05:00

My bed loves a submissive attitude. I begged it again last night.It argues the cliché, Early to bed, early to rise. I don’t listen.What does it know about exhaustion? I crawl beneath the comforter.It’s usually correct. Four AM is an inhumane time to begin the day.I lie there, half asleep, like you, thinking in the shrouded void of darkness.What good is thinking at this early hour, I question?

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-1450993818332865802011-02-04T15:35:00.001-05:002011-02-04T15:38:44.015-05:00

“There comes a time in the affairs of man when he must take the bull by the tail and face the situation.” W. C. Fields I once had a friend named Sugar Boy. I say once, because nobody knows what happened to him. Last we heard some state boys showed up in his back yard, strapped a straight jacket on him and hauled him off for ‘examination.’ He’s been missing ever since. It was bound to

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-23522770475197084372011-01-27T16:48:00.003-05:002011-01-28T16:53:57.469-05:00

I was commanded to make a reservation for four. I did. We show up at seven, me from the gym and three women, bridge addicts, who are intoxicated from the tournament. We sit at a table in the middle of a local bistro. Conversation begins. With three women, conversation always begins. They rehash each and every bridge hand played. They ignore me. I become a Teflon frying pan where sausage

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-6774430700039450312011-01-20T14:50:00.001-05:002011-01-27T14:52:35.051-05:00

Aliens have invaded my office. Two of them. Things are not the same! Until their arrival, my office flourished in chaos. Men are anarchists at heart and thrive in disorder. Ask any woman, especially a wife. Aliens disrupt the unstructured order of men. Men are basically slobs at heart. I remain under this indictment after almost 45 years of marriage. Women howl, “Why would any woman put

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-48986116102979022892011-01-13T12:46:00.001-05:002011-01-15T12:50:21.810-05:00

In a Bad Mood“I see the bad moon arising, I see trouble everywhere. I see earthquakes and lightenin’, I see bad times today.” Creedence Clearwater RevivalI came home last night in a bad mood. My black cloud follows the moon.I slam the back door. My wife knows the clue: Bad mood.She gets the Lysol, sprays the house. Bad moods stink.I sit down, slide into the chair. She hands me a Balvenie 12 and

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-3928716452748091092011-01-06T14:34:00.002-05:002011-01-07T16:39:14.847-05:00

Lazarus is a skeleton. Some say he’s my alter ego. He sits at the head of the office conference table. He reads Rolling Stone. He’s looking for a resurrection. I found Lazarus sitting underneath an ancient oak tree on my land. Judging from his smile, I assume he is a former real estate tycoon. He apparently ate his own flesh for the last few years, waiting for the market to return. He’s

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-45706107683363748492010-12-30T10:55:00.002-05:002010-12-30T10:56:57.936-05:00

A new year arrives. It hobbles in on last year’s crutches, admonishing us to make new ‘resolutions.’ Oh, please, spare us from this self-flagellation. Resolutions are a relentless pursuer. Like an itinerate evangelist passing out salvation tracts, it knocks on my door. It interrupts my fried egg and country sausage sandwich, lathered with mayhaw jelly from the swamps of South Georgia. (‘South

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-69421400846454839642010-12-22T13:58:00.001-05:002010-12-22T14:00:06.093-05:00

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6 Pixie Dust I talked to my daughter yesterday on the cell while driving down I-95, using my knees to steer. That’s because I had a cell phone in one hand and a

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-65340783974227444242010-12-10T11:01:00.002-05:002010-12-10T11:04:23.922-05:00

Oh, the myths of childhood. What great places in which to live. Last night I sat in our house lit only by tiny lights on our Christmas tree. It doesn’t seem to mind its size. Being small is not necessarily a bad thing. It occupies a prominent place atop a table by the window. From the street it appears much larger than it is, making it illusory. It prefers this. There are advantages to

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-60893638976304997822010-12-08T17:05:00.000-05:002010-12-10T11:01:01.623-05:00

They arrive on a motorcycle, approach her father and ask permission to be married. Say they’re in love. Love? How quaint, he thinks. He knows about love. He’s a divorce attorney. He contemplates their naiveté. It’s a miracle…finally! He questions the man’s sanity, but dismisses the thought when they promise never to move back home. He asks if the man has a job and money. The answer

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-57466934354615286262010-12-03T13:38:00.001-05:002010-12-03T13:39:33.955-05:00

The Christmas season is here. Men are in a sweat. Panic grips them. It’s the same every year...what to give a woman who has everything. We’ve had 364 days to come up with an idea. We’re still clueless. Men have always had this problem. It’s because they have a wild and aberrant gene when it comes to Christmas shopping. They may run huge corporations, but they freeze when faced with the

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-50834165482219096332010-12-02T17:45:00.001-05:002010-12-02T17:45:58.835-05:00

On Tuesday Renn, Tom and I had lunch in the men’s locker room at the Lodge. It’s not your normal place for lunch since, well, you know what to expect in men’s locker rooms, right? But it is a place we can go dressed inappropriately, jeans and such. They have a special entrance for people like us…the back door. We dodge golf carts and walk on a well-worn mildewed walkway into the rear of the

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-91943014921549359212010-11-18T15:52:00.002-05:002010-11-23T14:17:14.466-05:00

She cooks. He washes. Division of labor. That’s the deal. It works. No discussions, no excuses. Everybody’s happy. The marriage remains blissful. But that’s not how it started. It’s not how anything starts. Now, men, this is not about us being God’s gift to women. So put away your childish ideas and egos and face the cold, hard facts…we drive women crazy! To validate the point, let’s visit

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-87228811149373364332010-11-15T15:35:00.002-05:002010-11-15T15:38:08.347-05:00

There’s nothing like a South Georgia Thanksgiving. Our family members came like migrants for the annual tradition. We looked like a motley crowd of emaciated refugees on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Not that Colquitt, Georgia is Mecca, though some have held the town to be the intellectual center of the South. It seems that everybody who’s smart leaves. Nevertheless, in terms of relevance, Colquitt

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-45253789498350184122010-11-11T10:45:00.000-05:002010-11-12T10:47:18.075-05:00

The worthless pulp arrived yesterday. The mail. The assortment contained the usual crap that clutters mail boxes. But this rubbish does create jobs. Jobs are important in this depression. In the Brunswick post office, the clerks perpetuate their jobs in a unique way. They have a dance, ‘the mailman shuffle.’ You’re familiar with this, right? It’s found in most government offices where

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-14735092174753534722010-11-04T13:34:00.000-04:002010-11-05T13:34:52.516-04:00

She trashed me again today. These things happen. She says I have it coming. Says she’s tired of looking at my face, decides to do something about it. This is how I end up in the trash can. American trash cans everywhere now overflow with garbage from Washington, DC. They reek with the stench of politicians ejected from comfy confines and sent home to reality. They deserve it, too. Maybe they

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-5522332679209059212010-10-28T14:04:00.001-04:002010-10-28T14:09:14.035-04:00

Gordon calls, wants to have lunch. I’m all over the idea. Food is one of the few pleasures left to old men. He suggests Goldberg’s Deli. Says he’d kill for a corned beef on rye. Says he’ll buy, says I bought last time. He forgets…he bought the last three times. We avoid score cards and rely on brains. Only fools use sieves for the repository of such profundity. I avoid confusion and agree.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-44472166020846665912010-10-25T17:14:00.002-04:002010-10-25T17:22:02.629-04:00

Justine walked into the office carrying Saturday night’s baggage of memories and unanswered questions. Depression followed her like a bad perfume. She had that awful feeling that this Monday would not be her best day. She was wrong.An ornate mirror hung from the office wall. It attracted everyone’s attention. It was said to have been stolen from the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. But Sotheby’s

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-86654787097887712192010-10-21T16:00:00.001-04:002010-10-21T16:02:16.604-04:00

The phone rang but the caller ID failed me. I took a chance and answered. This level of extreme bravery should not be attempted unless you already have an exit strategy. I didn’t and paid for it later. Sometimes I enjoy these calls. Often it’s some poor schmuck chained to a chair in Bangladesh enduring dog cussing and insults about his mother, all the while getting a continuing-ed degree in

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-49379893040850012962010-10-14T12:59:00.002-04:002010-10-18T13:05:47.140-04:00

His wife took up the habit of golf a couple of years ago. She’s improving (on some days). It’s a work in progress. Like all golf habits, on any given day progress can back up on you. It’s not difficult to figure out how the game went when she gets home. (Did I hear an ‘Amen’?) It’s also a dead giveaway on how the remainder of the day will go. Today she came in with a smile…a good sign.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-9549800538692085382010-10-13T12:52:00.003-04:002010-11-15T14:54:10.240-05:00

Narcissus fell in love with the wrong person…himself. Bad choices make for unhappy endings. His did. He tried but couldn’t breathe life into his image. Grief stricken, he plunged a dagger into his heart, ending the torment. He exhaled, “Alas! Ah, youth, beloved in vain, farewell.” So much for an unrequited love affair with himself. Only a flower bearing his name remains. So the myth goes.

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-68773630948988098032010-10-07T12:45:00.002-04:002010-10-18T12:48:06.197-04:00

Land speculators have a saying, “You’re only one deal away from poverty or prosperity, and you never know which.” It’s a hellish way to live. It’s what I do. Monday night I had a rezoning in Kingsland, Georgia. Here’s the story. The cell’s ring tone blasts out “Bad Moon Rising.” The dogs bark, my wife covers her head with the pillow. I rub my eyes, sit up. The clock winks, 5:43 AM. Aghhh. “

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-26511179586115906712010-09-30T12:34:00.002-04:002010-11-03T12:35:26.945-04:00

The searing pain in my hip shut down my mobility. Fix me, the nerve said. Which explains why I sit in the reception room of the Pain Clinic, waiting my turn.Pain and mostly old women fill the room, waiting also for relief.A man with Einstein hair sits across from me, unkempt, grimacing. The nude on his large silver belt buckle smiles. His wife is having a bad hair day.She might have washed it

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-74195847145378305912010-09-16T13:23:00.003-04:002010-09-20T11:22:22.958-04:00

“The best laid plans of mice and men oft go amiss, and leave us naught but pain and grief for promised joy.” Robert Burns, Poet No genius is needed to arrive at a simple conclusion: Things don’t always work out according to our plans. Which gives some credence to the philosophy that if life weren’t so serious, it’d be a joke. That in itself begs the question: What if life were intended as

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-68367426225317845962010-09-09T16:14:00.001-04:002010-09-14T16:16:04.725-04:00

Some believe in the fairy tale of ‘once and for all?’ Do you? If so, check your birth certificate to see if it lists State of Delusion as your residence. Who but an utter fool or lunatic would believe such utopian nonsense! I’ll prove it. We came home last night from dinner. The foyer was dark. We always leave our shoes at the back door and go barefoot inside. Our daughter, the poster child

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-6987309077864079712010-09-02T11:56:00.001-04:002010-09-07T12:20:16.893-04:00

“A great man is one sentence.” Clair Booth LuceIt happened at the dinner table, his favorite place. Overhead a solitary light hung, lighting the room, the house otherwise dark. They sat silently, conversation sparse, their thoughts kept secret. He looked up slowly, dropped his fork and fell from the chair.Death claimed him on the way down to the cold terrazzo floor. A simple, easy, quick, sudden

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-65062126395075082162010-08-26T14:25:00.002-04:002010-08-28T13:14:11.251-04:00

We sat in oak rockers on his back porch and watched the August sun descend into the haze. A South Georgia sunset, along with a cold, long-neck beer, helps one’s perspective. So does the smell of fried chicken. His name is Billy Parks, but folks call him B.P. He’s a South Georgia cowboy who looked like he had walked out of a Ralph Lauren catalog…lean, square jawed, faded Levi’s, a sweaty

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-59545727247485754962010-08-20T14:20:00.002-04:002010-08-20T14:23:34.501-04:00

“He’s a man out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake…and you’re finished.”Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman SoHo, in lower Manhattan, is home to some strange places. The Ear is a favorite of ours. Its official name is The Bar, but part of the blue neon sign has flamed out, rendering it The Ear. A small thing, but

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-80019182710390035672010-08-12T13:26:00.002-04:002010-08-16T11:57:10.641-04:00

“In the end all we have are the stories.” Burt Reynolds in “Burn Notice” He is a legendary CIA spy, a black ops bad-ass. He tells spell-binding stories… gripping tales of subversion, political assassinations, banana republic coup d’etats, infiltrations of drug cartels, sultry women of intrigue and double-crossing friends. But that was then, this is now. Today he's just some washed-up

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-3841318984496522012010-08-05T10:44:00.002-04:002010-08-09T16:43:13.737-04:00

“Dirty little secrets, dirty little lies...we love to cut you down to size, we love dirty laundry.” The Eagles Who’s satisfied with just the news? We want more…to know the inside scoop, to voyeur into the world of dirty laundry, to visit ground zero after the bomb has exploded. Let’s look behind the scene, starring into the arcane world of the Crime Report, published daily in the local

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-12433231591372278982010-07-29T15:49:00.000-04:002010-07-29T15:50:08.810-04:00

Nothing quite like getting robbed first thing in the morning. It kinda sets the day’s tone, wouldn’t you say? At least we weren’t mugged. After all, it was only a lone thief. It was just petty thievery, not grand larceny. The amount stolen was of small value. Our thief was frugal, taking only what could be easily toted. Anyway, we didn’t miss it all that much. It was bound to happen. It’

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-63140335633791324682010-07-22T15:10:00.003-04:002010-07-26T15:13:25.584-04:00

The night was unusually dark. Paul’s hand gripped my shoulder like a vice as I stood in the food store checkout line. He whispered furtively, “Have you ever had any Claxton moonshine?” I answered, “No, why do you ask?” “Meet me in the parking lot,” he said. I found him in a remote parking space, bending over an opened trunk. “Here,” he said, handing me a small Mason jar of amber colored

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-40290244807415151022010-07-15T14:37:00.001-04:002010-07-15T14:39:09.142-04:00

This morning my wife pulled a new carton of strawberries from the refrigerator and opened it. She stood stark still, hands on hips, looking at the plump berries. Something is never right when a woman has both hands on her hips. Men learn that lesson the hard way! They looked OK, except for a strange green alien that’d taken up residence. Mold. It happens, especially on things with a short

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-7812219547297598632010-07-08T17:08:00.001-04:002010-07-08T17:10:01.263-04:00

“God won’t look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars.” Elbert Hubbard The Collision was violent. The bodies of two women lay sprawled upon the grass, writhing in pain. Bikes, twisted and scattered, lay in a disorderly array. Another body lay unconscious, his pooling blood a crimson contrast upon the sidewalk’s white concrete. That’d be me! Like most, this accident was

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-72569736814236664192010-07-01T11:28:00.001-04:002010-07-01T11:29:36.300-04:00

“Eternal vigilance is the price of Liberty.” Patrick Henry Thomas Jefferson penned what each American should memorize: the Preamble to The Declaration of Independence. He was 33 years old. Part of those famous words that undergirded the Constitution of the United States was: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-845135775221770762010-06-24T14:49:00.002-04:002010-07-26T15:08:13.854-04:00

Arnold is an old friend of mine. He’s an alcoholic. He calls himself “a dumb drunk.” Being a dumb drunk is how he’s stayed sober for 25 years. I learned a valuable lesson from him. I re-learned it again this week. I spent the week as a pro bono instructor for the Southeastern Writer’s Association, a venerable group that puts on workshops for writers, both professional and novices. For the

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-48630267343933711072010-06-17T16:46:00.002-04:002010-06-17T17:09:06.819-04:00

“All we are is dust in the wind….” Kansas Shrinkage…it happens. I know what you’re thinking…that scene in Seinfeld where George experiences the ultimate consequence of frigid waters. But that’s just the tip of the shrinkage iceberg…read on. Shrinkage is a fact. My wife, Carolyn, and I were dining at a local restaurant. We ordered the same entrées. They arrived, monumental portions,

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-25873058281989439582010-06-10T15:59:00.001-04:002010-06-10T16:01:51.083-04:00

“…(watermelons) are what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took, we know it because she repented.” Mark Twain It was June, 1955, watermelon season in Foley, Alabama, then the melon capitol of the South. Prodigious quantities of enormous melons were brought to market in this gnat-infested crossroads of South Alabama known by some as Hell’s Waiting Room. Weeds wilted

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-36579021661877244072010-06-03T14:47:00.001-04:002010-06-04T14:50:51.457-04:00

“For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” Mark 8:36-37 Days often begin at my house with a question. Today it was, “Have you seen my glasses?” my wife asked, even before I’d poured my coffee. Sleep-drugged, I sarcastically replied, “Where did you leave them?” Such provocation is not good in

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-8270350430340851072010-05-27T13:46:00.003-04:002010-07-12T16:08:37.538-04:00

Women have finally said, “No More!” They’ve revolted. Legions of liberated feminists have abandoned kitchens across the land. Men are starving and Alka-Seltzer sales are soaring. Husbands arrive, exhausted and ravenous. “Honey, I’m home…what’s for dinner?” Commanding voices answer, “Whatever you’re fixing…girls’ night out.” From the TV room mournful lamentations groan, “What about me?”

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-87760768745142717632010-05-20T14:32:00.001-04:002010-05-20T14:34:24.166-04:00

“This is no longer a vacation. It's a quest, a quest for fun. I'm gonna have fun and your gonna have fun.” Clark Griswold Perhaps no greater affliction has been visited upon Americans than the torment of a family vacation. It’s now that time of year... let the torture begin. Remember when the family would make its annual pilgrimage to the coast, or the mountains, or, God forbid,

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-81863621990041167982010-05-13T14:51:00.001-04:002010-05-13T14:53:26.180-04:00

“Some things look better, baby, just passing through…” Elton John High School…a prison with a mandatory four year sentence, no parole, for the reformation of teenagers in preparation for future class reunions. It’s merely an endurance of passing through and passing on. It’s that time of year when previous Glee Club members plot a reunion of the former inmates. The result is a synod

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-19657159202782328302010-05-06T14:25:00.002-04:002010-05-06T14:30:42.318-04:00

“Mama said there’ll be days like these, there’ll be days like these my mama said…” The Sherilles My mama talked in idiomatic riddles. She’d use them to confuse, chastise and discipline my younger brother and me. Life was confusing enough without adding to it. I internalized many of them, but understood few. Young boys have a strange learning curve. I once had a friend,

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-11861717500053831132010-05-05T12:50:00.001-04:002010-05-05T12:51:32.103-04:00

The roulette wheel spun like a carnival ride, reflecting the flashing neon lights of the Beau Rivage Casino. A black marble whirled in its opposite peripheral circuit, soon to separate the winners from the losers. Harlan was there. A crowd encircled the table. Casino chips lay scattered on green felt among the colors of red and black, and the numerical potentials for joy or heartbreak. The

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-82878903739725363112010-04-29T14:49:00.004-04:002010-04-29T14:50:46.949-04:00

“Life is a gamble with incredible odds; if it were a bet, you wouldn’t take it.” Wisdom from a Fortune Cookie There is an evil under the sun common among men. It’s called “second guessing,” a useless exercise. We all do it, but one gender has elevated the trait to an art form, while the other writhes in remorse at the repercussions. Which would pose interesting speculations best suited at

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-52052345409243128222010-04-22T16:38:00.002-04:002010-04-26T09:49:39.995-04:00

“He had tried all forms of escape from life, finally reverting to the final refuge of delusion…” AnonymousDelusion is irrefutably a refuge from reality. We’ve all resorted to this fortress at one time or another. Many live there permanently. Why? It’s a comfortable place where we’re not assailed by actualities. While it may be a Five Star resort, the price of the stay is steep.My old running

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-1170356737385650962010-04-16T15:21:00.001-04:002010-04-16T15:22:56.396-04:00

I was never a long-term memoirist, or keeper of diaries. I did that once, some 35 years ago, when I was trying to find out who I was. A box of yellow pads later, I was no closer to a discovery than when I had begun, so I abandoned that particular search and moved on with life. Life always reveals more about ourselves than the dredging up of memories and bones out of the past. As promised, I

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-54628390462520161762010-04-01T15:41:00.003-04:002010-04-01T16:02:35.836-04:00

“…that men may rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.” Tennyson, In Memoriam The Imagery of Easter…in what ways is the pageantry understood, how do we wrap our arms around it, understand its message, its power? Can we, with finite minds and feeble hands, grasp the reality of resurrection? We each have our own

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-62511033575695666262010-03-25T15:55:00.001-04:002010-03-25T15:57:39.059-04:00

“Historic,” it’s called. This new Dictate of Reform has now become the law of the land. Relief from years of inability to gain access to paid medical attention, millions now have the opportunity to have subsidized health care, lavishly doled out, courtesy of 219 “progressive” politicians somebody elected. The early-morning lines for Wal-Mart bargains are shifting to the local hospitals, and

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-5900913927953583522010-03-18T13:28:00.002-04:002010-03-18T13:39:03.112-04:00

“The lunatics have taken charge of the asylum.” Richard Rowland I ran into a doctor friend at lunch, pulled up a chair, sat down. He was reading three newspapers and slapping his palm against the table and muttering things. “What’s up, Doc?” I asked. “Back on your own pills again?” “March madness, that’s what…pure bedlam out there,” he said. “Don’t you read? The world’s gone mad.” That’

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-34120608224617045182010-03-11T13:21:00.002-05:002010-03-15T15:22:47.243-04:00

“The ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully…” Luke 12:16 Religious tracts are not quite my forte, I prefer land tracts…big ones. But since it’s Lent, I dug around in my Bible looking for some clues God left lying around that might offer some direction out of this real estate mess. I came across this allegory of a rich man. This particular fellow was surely a real

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-18690838106330188692010-03-09T13:44:00.002-05:002010-03-09T13:59:02.429-05:00

Wayne jammed the breaks of the old pickup truck. It swerved and skidded to a sudden stop in the soft sandy back road of Atkinson County. “What the…?” I yelled. “Look,” he shouted, “there, through the oaks. See ‘em?” Barely visible through the thick undergrowth, a pair of black, accusatory eyes stared at us as if we were two desecrators violating the sanctity of a place occupied

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-50973647957603444752010-03-04T11:32:00.002-05:002010-03-04T11:37:41.959-05:00

“I am not here to think, but to be, feel, live!” Johann von Herder This may strike you as strange that I would include a letter from Aunt Mabel, but I felt obliged to do so. Humor will have to sit in the back of the bus today. Times are complicated now that the world is inter-connected. But it was not always so. There was a time when things were simple, decisions easier to make,

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-21107206788580746682010-02-25T14:41:00.006-05:002010-03-01T11:30:23.429-05:00

“It is impossible that the whisper of a faction should prevail against the voice of a nation.” Lord John Russell, English Prime Minister On Saturday the KKK mouse crawled out of its hole and roared on the courthouse lawn in the desolate hamlet of Nahunta, GA, population,

Mister Irrelevanthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17047381857341419955noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-254073207559079662.post-53907174445974918322010-02-18T11:12:00.002-05:002010-02-18T15:38:16.590-05:00

It wasn’t a divorce, at least not yet. Nor was it one of those knock-down, drag-out brawls couples sometimes have. They just needed a little time apart. Things usually sort themselves out when left alone. There were issues, yes, but not the usual suspects, like mistresses, alcohol, football or leaving the seat up. The issue was simple, one of them just did too much talking! So they parted

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