Friends: State of Denial…
Well, here we are, having arrived at that weekend on the Georgia Coast where the University of Georgia and the University of Florida meet in Jacksonville at what was once billed as the “largest tailgate party in the world,” or something like that. This year the Dawgs hope to defeat their arch-rival Gators for only the 3rd time in the last 18 years…I think my stats are correct, but the source was a man with a withered arm and may not be reliable.
“Hope” is the operative word here, and it is always helped along by an abundance of alcohol. Already, the university gang is arriving, and at last check there was no more ice on the island, and the beer trucks were lined up five-deep on the Causeway to the island. Of course, we more moderately disciplined and mature among the celebrants, and certainly the more decorous, have private affairs planned where more mature subjects other than college chatter is held in hushed and silent whispers: “What was your golf score,” or “Where is your latest ache,” such stuff as that. About as meaningless as the crowd in the Village hanging out of the convertibles and off the motel balconies chanting oms or other indecipherable chants and rituals of passage, which has of course passed us by long ago! Ugh.
The term “State of Denial” could apply to some attitude, or in this case to the state of Georgia as a whole. We’re denying a whole lot of things this weekend…like drinking water, for example. Reservoirs are bone dry and laded with red mud, fish lie rotting on the shore, and lip service is what the Gov is proclaiming…cut down on your showers, save a little water. And the City of Brunswick is trying to curtail the look of baggy pants and underwear that shows…denying the future leaders of the State their rightful expression of rebellion. But most of all we are in a state of denial that the point spread on the game if just 8 points…that’s right, folks, just 8 points.
But, Hey, denial has always been with us. Richard Jenkins writes a poem, some of which I excerpt for you to meditate on:
“…..Well, how else are you to live except by denial,
By some palatable fiction,
Some little song to sing
While the inevitable,
The black and white blindsiding fact,
Comes hurtling toward you out of the deep?…..”
Jenkins has to my knowledge never been to this island on GA/FL day, but it might do us good to remember that no matter what the outcome of the game Saturday, or the nonsensual things committed without regard to the consequences, anesthesization and denial are good remedies for whatever occurs here…and as usual, “what happens here, stays here.”
Bud
October 25, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Angola State Prison Rodeo...An Extreme Parody
Friends: Angola State Prison Rodeo….an Extreme Parody
Sunday, October 14th, Angola State Prison, Angola, Louisiana. The “Notice” read: “You are about to enter a penal institution….” We all puckered up!
Eight Intrepid Voyeurs in a white van entered through rolls of concertina wire the gates of this prison to watch, of all things, a prison rodeo. Orchestrated by George, there were Rocky, Adam, John, Ed, Tommy, Duane and myself… you know these fools, but last names are omitted to hold down the ridicule.
Warden Burl Cain welcomes us by a massive sign, warning that should we want to ever leave the premises we should keep all alcohol, guns, knives and contraband in our vehicles. None of us wanted the body searches promised to perpetrators.
The “games” began on a football-sized arena of plowed dirt smelling of excrement, urine and fear. The crowd, some 10,000 spectators, who, remarkably, bore familial resemblances to the inmates (mostly locals, but atavistically related….obesity being a kind word). The prisoner “cowboys” were corralled in a wire cage located just under the “executive viewing stand,” where Warden Cain and his invitees viewed the carnage to come, and could easily poke the prisoners with sharp sticks to keep them attentive. At a distance it was not easy to confirm, but I’m quite sure the “Cowboys” bore bodily evidences of floggings, burns and electric shock used to encourage them to “volunteer” for these games.
The “events” seemed to have originated with Caligula but embellished by fiendish manipulation. There was no way for the participant to “win” except by death, which seemed a hellish, psychological price to pay, since it reaffirmed the participants’ view of themselves as “losers.” But hey, this is Louisiana, where the hole in the wall of the State Capital, created by the bullet that killed Huey P. Long, is still enshrined and worshipped.
Space here prohibits a full recounting of the spectacle posing as a “rodeo”, but one event is worth noting: a red card table was set up in mid-arena, 4 “cowboys” in flak jackets sit at it playing poker. The 1,800 pound bull – one mean sucker – is released. He charges the table, bodies fly through the air, landing with loud thuds in the soft urine-soaked dust, unconscious and awaiting an exit on stretchers. Two remain seated at the “site” – the bull charges again with a snorting rage, his horns like swords flashing an ominous glare, and narrowly misses the two remaining players who are frozen by fear. Buzz --- time’s up. These two dodge death and share the $200 purse!
This display of human degradation continued for another two hours, punctuated by wild screams of approval from fat-intoxicated spectators gorging themselves on fried pig cracklins, chitlins and pig tails. The only break in the tense drama of death and mayhem was the Elvis-dressed dude with 3 sheep dogs ridden by little monkeys wearing cowboy outfits and chasing wild goats. The short hilarity of it all was almost too much to bear and some became incontinent in the constrained effort of containment.
Finally, our adrenal glands could take no more of the brute amusement, and in a long parade of vehicles we made our way out into the humid dusk of a declining Delta day, heading back to a more rational way of life --- but all the while, riding in the silent darkness, wondering: “What was this all about?”
Bud
October 18, 2007
Sunday, October 14th, Angola State Prison, Angola, Louisiana. The “Notice” read: “You are about to enter a penal institution….” We all puckered up!
Eight Intrepid Voyeurs in a white van entered through rolls of concertina wire the gates of this prison to watch, of all things, a prison rodeo. Orchestrated by George, there were Rocky, Adam, John, Ed, Tommy, Duane and myself… you know these fools, but last names are omitted to hold down the ridicule.
Warden Burl Cain welcomes us by a massive sign, warning that should we want to ever leave the premises we should keep all alcohol, guns, knives and contraband in our vehicles. None of us wanted the body searches promised to perpetrators.
The “games” began on a football-sized arena of plowed dirt smelling of excrement, urine and fear. The crowd, some 10,000 spectators, who, remarkably, bore familial resemblances to the inmates (mostly locals, but atavistically related….obesity being a kind word). The prisoner “cowboys” were corralled in a wire cage located just under the “executive viewing stand,” where Warden Cain and his invitees viewed the carnage to come, and could easily poke the prisoners with sharp sticks to keep them attentive. At a distance it was not easy to confirm, but I’m quite sure the “Cowboys” bore bodily evidences of floggings, burns and electric shock used to encourage them to “volunteer” for these games.
The “events” seemed to have originated with Caligula but embellished by fiendish manipulation. There was no way for the participant to “win” except by death, which seemed a hellish, psychological price to pay, since it reaffirmed the participants’ view of themselves as “losers.” But hey, this is Louisiana, where the hole in the wall of the State Capital, created by the bullet that killed Huey P. Long, is still enshrined and worshipped.
Space here prohibits a full recounting of the spectacle posing as a “rodeo”, but one event is worth noting: a red card table was set up in mid-arena, 4 “cowboys” in flak jackets sit at it playing poker. The 1,800 pound bull – one mean sucker – is released. He charges the table, bodies fly through the air, landing with loud thuds in the soft urine-soaked dust, unconscious and awaiting an exit on stretchers. Two remain seated at the “site” – the bull charges again with a snorting rage, his horns like swords flashing an ominous glare, and narrowly misses the two remaining players who are frozen by fear. Buzz --- time’s up. These two dodge death and share the $200 purse!
This display of human degradation continued for another two hours, punctuated by wild screams of approval from fat-intoxicated spectators gorging themselves on fried pig cracklins, chitlins and pig tails. The only break in the tense drama of death and mayhem was the Elvis-dressed dude with 3 sheep dogs ridden by little monkeys wearing cowboy outfits and chasing wild goats. The short hilarity of it all was almost too much to bear and some became incontinent in the constrained effort of containment.
Finally, our adrenal glands could take no more of the brute amusement, and in a long parade of vehicles we made our way out into the humid dusk of a declining Delta day, heading back to a more rational way of life --- but all the while, riding in the silent darkness, wondering: “What was this all about?”
Bud
October 18, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Lookin' At Trains and Other Anomalies
Friends: Lookin' At Trains and Other Anomalies
I told y'all you might not get the Friday Forum emails. Lynn is gone, and I "sent" it last week. But, alas, many said they didn't "get it" which, knowing this group, could mean they didn't "receive it" or they couldn't "get it." Admittedly some of my mental flushes are profound, but they are designed to get you to looking on "the other side" of things. So this week, Julie is going to attempt to send it. Hope you get it.
Yesterday I pulled up at the Okeefenokee Restaurant, you know, that local trans-fat joint where the locals congregate, to meet a fellow and try to beat him out of some of his real estate. When I got in the parking lot, I knew I had "arrived," seeing as this big lady was changing the diapers of some infant on the hood of the car, being supported by two loggers. Where else but in Folkston, Georgia would this happen?
His real estate was out past the cemetery, where I noticed they are now not only putting benches out by the graves, but small mail boxes as well. Go figure. The real estate was not spectacular, so we headed back to town.
"Hey James, I said, what's with that there platform with all them people on it?" (you have to talk local so as not to be spotted as some "Slick" from the islands. I blend in well in Folkston). "Oh, them's 'train watchers', and didn't you know that Folkston is the 'Train Watching Capital' of the world?"
"You must be pulling my leg," I shouted over the roar of the train and the maddening screaming of the onlookers. There seemed to be a frenzy going on at the platform, which overlooked the tracks. "How come them folks are watching them trains go by," I asked, "it's too early for them to be drunk."
He said seriously, “Well, see that there little house over by the tracks ("little" is an understatement. It was about 12' X 20' and was situated right next to the twin tracks), I own it and it's been rented for 75 straight nights to folks from as far as Ireland. They come to watch them trains, and the cops have to patrol the area pretty close all day and night. When them trains come by whistling and rumbling, them folks come streaming over to the tracks, hollering wildly, and it's pretty close to a wild orgy of excitement."
There you have it folks. Just 45 miles from here the "Train Watching Capital of the World." And you can bet your little caboose the Friday Forum will soon get a day trip up to witness this spectacle of life. And heck, you can do things with impunity on the hood of your own car, too, if what I saw yesterday is any example. You can blame it on the trains and not the alcohol...Now, I remember the hood of my old car one night down on the farm many years ago...Oops, that's another story….
Bud
October 11, 2007
I told y'all you might not get the Friday Forum emails. Lynn is gone, and I "sent" it last week. But, alas, many said they didn't "get it" which, knowing this group, could mean they didn't "receive it" or they couldn't "get it." Admittedly some of my mental flushes are profound, but they are designed to get you to looking on "the other side" of things. So this week, Julie is going to attempt to send it. Hope you get it.
Yesterday I pulled up at the Okeefenokee Restaurant, you know, that local trans-fat joint where the locals congregate, to meet a fellow and try to beat him out of some of his real estate. When I got in the parking lot, I knew I had "arrived," seeing as this big lady was changing the diapers of some infant on the hood of the car, being supported by two loggers. Where else but in Folkston, Georgia would this happen?
His real estate was out past the cemetery, where I noticed they are now not only putting benches out by the graves, but small mail boxes as well. Go figure. The real estate was not spectacular, so we headed back to town.
"Hey James, I said, what's with that there platform with all them people on it?" (you have to talk local so as not to be spotted as some "Slick" from the islands. I blend in well in Folkston). "Oh, them's 'train watchers', and didn't you know that Folkston is the 'Train Watching Capital' of the world?"
"You must be pulling my leg," I shouted over the roar of the train and the maddening screaming of the onlookers. There seemed to be a frenzy going on at the platform, which overlooked the tracks. "How come them folks are watching them trains go by," I asked, "it's too early for them to be drunk."
He said seriously, “Well, see that there little house over by the tracks ("little" is an understatement. It was about 12' X 20' and was situated right next to the twin tracks), I own it and it's been rented for 75 straight nights to folks from as far as Ireland. They come to watch them trains, and the cops have to patrol the area pretty close all day and night. When them trains come by whistling and rumbling, them folks come streaming over to the tracks, hollering wildly, and it's pretty close to a wild orgy of excitement."
There you have it folks. Just 45 miles from here the "Train Watching Capital of the World." And you can bet your little caboose the Friday Forum will soon get a day trip up to witness this spectacle of life. And heck, you can do things with impunity on the hood of your own car, too, if what I saw yesterday is any example. You can blame it on the trains and not the alcohol...Now, I remember the hood of my old car one night down on the farm many years ago...Oops, that's another story….
Bud
October 11, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
The Ladder to Nowhere
The Ladder to Nowhere
Well, here goes ... hope this email reaches you since Lynn is off doing God's work in Godless Russia. I've been left with 3 pages of instructions, so maybe we'll get lucky ... or you will get lucky if it doesn't make it.
In the middle of the grass in my back yard stands a shiny aluminum14 foot ladder. I have no clue why it is there, and it certainly looks out of context to say the least. Every morning I camp out on the back porch and do my reading and meditation ... sometimes I even pray for some of the more twisted souls in our Friday Forum group, although some of you may be beyond help. I can't get away from staring at that ladder. Why is it there? What could it mean?
I finally ask my daughter, "What's with the ladder in the back yard?" Her only reply is, "One day, Pop, you'll understand … . just meditate on it for a bit longer." I hate answers like that, don't you? Yesterday, curious beyond the capacity to contain it, I go out there and climb up on it to see if that might offer some clue to the dilemma. It got pretty wobbly as I got to the top, and it felt unnatural to say the least. Yet I remained up at the top long enough to look around for some clues. I found none. I came back down to earth.
I called my daughter over and asked, "Look, I've stared at that ladder for a week now, even climbed it this morning, and I'm no closer in discovering its significance than at first." She just laughed and left. Then I got to thinking about the ladder, remembering in years past how I couldn't wait to climb ladders, the higher the better ... hell be damned ... youth is always looking to get into the stratosphere, and the ladder is one way. And I also remembered that many of the business ladders, although fun to climb to these heights, led to nowhere ... the joy was in the climbing, not in the peak achievement. I remained at the top of these ladders for only a short time, and even while there life was pretty precarious at that altitude.
I once owned a number of trailer parks. I had a fellow named Steve who was a pretty good maintenance man, and he had no fear of ladders. One day he had a 40 footer propped up against a trailer and was at the top. "Hey Steve, if you keep up that work ethic you'll keep climbing that corporate ladder with me.” He wasn't impressed with this cheap accolade, and replied, "Well, Bud, I always want to know what my ladder is leaning on.” And in this case, as I later learned, trailer parks are bad investments and are a weak reed for leaning purposes. While Steve was a good maintenance man, he had a nasty habit of wife-beating, and it just didn't set well with me to see her all beat up and roaming around the park collecting rent. It seemed against nature, so he had to leave.
Now, I don't know if that tall ladder accounted for Steve's proclivity, but it might have. But there is a parallel in that story, if you can get it: Excessive heights produce excessive egos, or something like that ... maybe that's what my daughter was trying to say to me. And I'll repeat it to you ... he who hath ears, let him hear!
Bud
October 4, 2007
Well, here goes ... hope this email reaches you since Lynn is off doing God's work in Godless Russia. I've been left with 3 pages of instructions, so maybe we'll get lucky ... or you will get lucky if it doesn't make it.
In the middle of the grass in my back yard stands a shiny aluminum14 foot ladder. I have no clue why it is there, and it certainly looks out of context to say the least. Every morning I camp out on the back porch and do my reading and meditation ... sometimes I even pray for some of the more twisted souls in our Friday Forum group, although some of you may be beyond help. I can't get away from staring at that ladder. Why is it there? What could it mean?
I finally ask my daughter, "What's with the ladder in the back yard?" Her only reply is, "One day, Pop, you'll understand … . just meditate on it for a bit longer." I hate answers like that, don't you? Yesterday, curious beyond the capacity to contain it, I go out there and climb up on it to see if that might offer some clue to the dilemma. It got pretty wobbly as I got to the top, and it felt unnatural to say the least. Yet I remained up at the top long enough to look around for some clues. I found none. I came back down to earth.
I called my daughter over and asked, "Look, I've stared at that ladder for a week now, even climbed it this morning, and I'm no closer in discovering its significance than at first." She just laughed and left. Then I got to thinking about the ladder, remembering in years past how I couldn't wait to climb ladders, the higher the better ... hell be damned ... youth is always looking to get into the stratosphere, and the ladder is one way. And I also remembered that many of the business ladders, although fun to climb to these heights, led to nowhere ... the joy was in the climbing, not in the peak achievement. I remained at the top of these ladders for only a short time, and even while there life was pretty precarious at that altitude.
I once owned a number of trailer parks. I had a fellow named Steve who was a pretty good maintenance man, and he had no fear of ladders. One day he had a 40 footer propped up against a trailer and was at the top. "Hey Steve, if you keep up that work ethic you'll keep climbing that corporate ladder with me.” He wasn't impressed with this cheap accolade, and replied, "Well, Bud, I always want to know what my ladder is leaning on.” And in this case, as I later learned, trailer parks are bad investments and are a weak reed for leaning purposes. While Steve was a good maintenance man, he had a nasty habit of wife-beating, and it just didn't set well with me to see her all beat up and roaming around the park collecting rent. It seemed against nature, so he had to leave.
Now, I don't know if that tall ladder accounted for Steve's proclivity, but it might have. But there is a parallel in that story, if you can get it: Excessive heights produce excessive egos, or something like that ... maybe that's what my daughter was trying to say to me. And I'll repeat it to you ... he who hath ears, let him hear!
Bud
October 4, 2007
Search for the Perfect Holy Grill...An Allegorical Phantasm
Search for the Perfect Holy Grill ....
An Allegorical Phantasm
What I needed was a new and more predictable cooker, a perfect grill that did not require supplemental fire Insurance, and by golly, I was intent on finding one before the odds totally ran out! Atlanta was the place to start, so I began to plan for the trip.
That was several months ago, and like most things, I had not gotten around to it. The possibilities for the perfect grill formed flawlessly in my vision ... however; tonight I was stuck with the old TEC with its incendiary proclivities. Good-looking T -bone steaks were sizzling on it, waiting for some special guests. Sitting on the lounge next to the grill with the dog and a cold beer, I began to think about the "perfect grill" I was going to find as the late summer heat stultified my senses. Predictably, I drifted off at some point into that nether world where fantasy and reality coexist.
An Allegorical Phantasm
What I needed was a new and more predictable cooker, a perfect grill that did not require supplemental fire Insurance, and by golly, I was intent on finding one before the odds totally ran out! Atlanta was the place to start, so I began to plan for the trip.
That was several months ago, and like most things, I had not gotten around to it. The possibilities for the perfect grill formed flawlessly in my vision ... however; tonight I was stuck with the old TEC with its incendiary proclivities. Good-looking T -bone steaks were sizzling on it, waiting for some special guests. Sitting on the lounge next to the grill with the dog and a cold beer, I began to think about the "perfect grill" I was going to find as the late summer heat stultified my senses. Predictably, I drifted off at some point into that nether world where fantasy and reality coexist.
Some details of the afternoon remain foggy, yet the horror of the nasty spectacle remains vivid in my recollection. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first rule of shopping is never to go alone ... so I enlisted a likeminded outdoor cooking companion to assist me on the adventure, a prominent attorney of celebrity status, who abundantly attaches the term "Esq." to his signature ("Esquire" of course is the term all lawyers use to elevate status and to justify exorbitant fees!). Since the meter with Ed was not running on this trip, we proceeded to organize our search for the Perfect Holy Grill.
Methodically we began the process of elimination from the most likely sources: the Internet, Ace, Wal-Mart, Lowes, Home Depot and sundry specialty shops. As you might suspect, there were multiple possibilities, all promising to be the perfect grill, but missing the cut. By the third day we were running low on ideas and energy, and our time in the city was almost up. We needed to come up with something fast, so we resorted to extreme measures in the search.
We pulled out our best disguises: Ed, with his urban assault camouflage suit and red sun glasses, and me with my best hippie attire, complete with beads. We wanted to blend in well without calling undue attention to ourselves. The neighborhoods of nouveau riche huntsmen in red velvet jackets produced nothing, so we moved on to the derelict places of Atlanta, the dark alleys, the darkened doorways, vacant warehouses, burned-out houses, railroad gulches, expressway overpasses--places where disenfranchisement and lunacy live hand in hand. One often has to resort to the edge of madness to find something perfect, you know. People who live in these environments have to make-do with creative devices to survive ... a perfect place to search for the grail.
It was a hazy dusk as we approached a railroad trestle over the river. We saw what appeared to be a treacherous and unstable convocation of hobos, winos, bankrupt deal junkies, washed up athletes and derelicts of all sorts gathered around a large smoking fire. And there in their midst It was, right on the banks of the river and next to an abandoned boxcar, exactly what we had been looking for: the Perfect Holy Grill. It defied description, but it met all of the criteria for the "perfect" status: cheap, versatile, adaptive, mobile, sturdy and unpretentious. But how would we get it away from such a crowd of human ugliness? And why was such a pearl of perfection to be found in this strange and seedy world of misfits, drunkards and failures? These things cannot be explained by logic!
But sometimes things can go sideways on you without warning. In our exuberance caution was abandoned … we were soon spotted and things began to turn nasty. The horde went all to pieces turning into an angry mob… escape was impossible. With the animus of a crazed pit bull, Ed began to scream, "Back off, back off, I'm an important lawyer ... I have connections," to no avail. .. the mob was in no mood for idle chatter. He snarled and hurled his title, Esquire, at them like a crucifix, but even that was not able to save us from the brutal onslaught. No, it was too late; the fat was in the fire.
They swarmed upon us from every side with clubs, bricks, chains, whips and other medieval devices ... the dust roiled as a frenzy of mayhem and disaster enveloped us. They began to savagely beat us as they flew upon their spoil. Things were moving faster and faster, noise and confusion reigned. Out of the corner of one eye I glimpsed Ed in a dead sprint for the river. .. the pounding was taking its toll on me as things began to get fuzzy. Ed faded out of my sight, disappearing in the dark shadows that began to surround me. Caught in a desolate vortex of descending darkness, I saw only shadows and strangers in slow motion with wild, glittering eyes, smoke filling my nostrils as oblivion descended upon me with these final words swirling around in my brain:
" ... To die-to sleep-to sleep!
Perchance to dream .. for in that sleep of death
What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil ... "
After some moments I was suddenly awakened by a violent pounding upon my chest, punctuated by a shrill voice, "Wake up, wake up ... what kind of cook are you?" my wife kept screaming. "I trusted you with $100 worth of steaks, and you get out here and fall asleep while they cook. The steaks are charred and the dog is wobbling incoherently since he drank your beer. What will our important guests think?" The smoke was thick about us; guilt hung heavy in the humid afternoon air and there was little I could do to rescue the steaks at this point... these things happen. Backup plan: Pizza!
Somehow the evening passed without further incident, although a chill permeated the air around the home place for a few days. I thought it best to remain out of sight and in hiding until the whirlwind had passed. Since then I have had time to ponder this somnolent adventure. Was it was a chimerical fantasy, prophesy or a dream? I can't say. Yet in each of these there is some hyperbolic exaggeration that leaves deep impressions. There is nothing "perfect" in this life except what we "see" in our minds. When taken outside of that context, its application is seriously flawed.
I've lived long enough now to know life is not perfect either, yet we seem to continue to search and hope for whatever perfect grail we envision ... and perhaps it's the journey that justifies the price of admission, I'm not sure. Just Buy the ticket, Take the ride.
Searching for the Perfect Holy Grill flash-backed these words I read somewhere:
"Oh, the Prison of Perfection,
The Freedom of Just Good Enough. "
So lest a worst thing occur, I think I'll risk incineration and be content to stay with the grill that's just good enough, at least until something better shows up.
Ed's been pretty hard to find these days ... can't blame him. He's probably polishing up his image and hanging with a better elegant island living crowd. But as for me, you can be sure that I won't go to sleep again while cooking T-bones, and I promise you I'll keep a better eye on the dog! And, Oh, by the way, if you happen to see Ed around the island, tell him all's forgiven and it's safe to come back around ... steaks are on the grill. .. No more pizza!
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