...About Westport

I am a Southern boy. I was born and raised in Birmingham; I've lived in several other areas - all in the southeast; have been in south-central Alabama for the last 20 years; and will, one day, move to Florida. I lived in Memphis for 2 years, which was as far north as I've ever lived - probably will always be the case. I've traveled to many areas across this great country. I've been fortunate enough to visit places like Miami, and Atlanta, and New York City, and Nashville, and Idaho, and Utah, and Hawaii, and Dallas/Ft. Worth, and Louisiana - and a bunch of places in between. But, I've always liked the South. Specifically, I've always liked Alabama. I've always found it to be home in spite of all the bad press we get. "You know the best thing about Alabama? It ain't Mississippi!"  That kind of thing.  "You know why birds fly upside-down in Georgia? 'Cause there ain't nothin' worth crappin' on in Georgia!"  Yuk it up, boys. For those of my friends who are not from this part of the world, you need to know there truly is a difference between a Good Ol' Boy and a Redneck. A Good Ol' Boy is an easy-going, sometimes slow-talking, mostly well-mannered-'cause-Granny-would-get-a-switch fella who will help pull your car out of the ditch.  A Redneck is generally the same - EXCEPT - he will call you stupid and make fun of your Yankee butt for not knowing how to drive and getting your car in the ditch in the first place! Both will say, "Gimme a beer and let's get this done."  At least that's MY many years of experience. I get along with, and am friends with both. You just have to know which one not to piss off!  (It won't take long to figure out which is which!)  But...... I digress! 

As I have told you before, my wife is originally from way upstate New York. Specifically, she is originally from Westport, NY.  Now when I say Westport is way upstate, I mean WAAAAY upstate! Downtown Westport is 63 miles from the Canadian border. It sits on Lake Champlain and you can spit across the narrow section into Vermont. ["See that over there? That's Vermont."]
Last summer, there was a huge reunion. It started as a Class of 1976 Reunion, but because everyone from the area was so close - across the age-barriers, it became a reunion for all the classes of the 1970s... and everyone else in the world. Now realize that the area is quite small, and all the classes of the 1970s combined would only be several hundred people. My wife and a handful of her friends put together a massive campaign to get everyone to come. And they did - from all over the country! There were a couple of hundred people there - many of whom hadn't seen each other in 35 years or more. There were classes represented from the 50s (YES! the 50s!) all the way to the 80s!! There were a couple of teachers, too! It was a magnificent event, of which I was honored to be a witness. People screamed, and then hugged, and then cried. It was beautiful.

The City of Westport sits on beautiful Lake Champlain, nestled in the Adirondack Mountains. In Florida, they think Alabama has mountains. Here, we think Tennessee has mountains. Up yonder, they got real-live, honest to God mountains. And they are stunning. Driving south along 9N, on the way to have famous "Gene's Hot Dogs," you have a sheer cliff wall on your right and a drop-off into Lake Champlain on your left. To say I had my breath taken away many times is an understatement.

And the stories you hear these people tell of their childhood together is great. Pete, Ike, Jon, Reggie, Tim ("Chug" for obvious reasons!), Wanda, Steve, Denise, Barry, Debbie, Nancy, Judy, Laura, on and on and on - these people showed such a love for each other - AND shared that with an ol' boy from Alabama who'd never imagined this type of Norman Rockwell existence. Snow many feet deep, the lake frozen solid, a sled on the hill above the Library, and FLYING down the hill (mountain), dodging trees most of the time, out onto the Lake at somewhere near 200 MPH - depending on who you talk to. Breakfast is an absolute must at "Me and My Girls" restaurant. The coffee, the pancakes with REAL, local Maple syrup, and the stories flow from the moment you walk in until you waddle your over-stuffed butt back out. We were fortunate that a wonderful childhood friend of theirs, and now a dear friend of mine, Jon allowed us to stay with him. Hour after hour, day after day of fellowship and adventure. Sadly, all good things have to end, and we headed home.

There are so many, many more stories. So many, many wonderful people I'd like to name. But suffice to say, I was glad to get home. Home - where the sun is hot, the humidity is high, and we all have air conditioning! Up there, NO ONE has AC. There were 2 days of record heat and humidity while we were there. Upper 90s and medium-high humidity. They asked us, "How do you guys live in this?"  Our answer was simple - "Down there, we ALL have AC!"  They were finally in awe of us. 

As I said before, it was beautiful there. They are wonderfully sweet people, and I love them. But I love the south. I love being in the heat, because I love being in the pool. I love that they have many feet of snow and are home-bound for long periods, and we don't have to endure it. I want to go back, but always only to visit. 

I mean REALLY!  Those people leave their keys in their vehicles and don't ever lock their house doors... damn Yankees!

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...About Chipmunks

Got up early Sunday morning. One of those where you wake up, lay there for several minutes and realize you're done. You could enjoy dozing back into the world of warm covers, but, you're done. It ain't gonna happen. So you get up and toddle off to the kitchen and some coffee. Generally, my wife gets up before I do. She was in the office on the computer. I was on the couch watching through Headline News. I get up to get another cup of coffee... then I hear it. *chikachikachikachikachika*  What in the world was that???   *chikachikachikachikachika*   What IS that???  *chikachikachikachikachika* 
About that time, my wife was coming into the kitchen. I'm in the hall.  "Honey, come here!"  She comes into the hall.  "Sshhh, Listen............ "   *chikachikachikachikachika*  "Hear it????"  *chikachikachikachikachika*  If you could have this vision of my wife and I standing in the hall, looking at the ceiling and rotating our heads like a lighthouse, eyes squinted to hear better........  *chikachikachikachikachikachikachikachikachikachika*   She says, "Are you kidding me!!!!??  It's damn squirrels... or something!!!!"  I had pretty much accepted "squirrels" - and would've done fine with "chipmunks."  But I hadn't really thought much about the possibility of anything that might be classified as "or something."  What might that be? A bat? A bird?  What if it's Sasquatch??!! *chikachikachikachikachika*  Whatever it is - it has to go!  *chikachikachikachikachika*  From one end of the house to the other, and we, like crazy people, running along underneath it trying to... what? What the hell were we going to do? We are in the house, it/they/he is in the attic. *chikachikachikachikachika*

We went outside and determined they - cause by now we've decided there must be easily 200 of them - are running along the length of the house along the vinyl siding-covered soffets. *chikachikachikachikachika*  "Over here!"  *chikachikachikachikachika*  Smart me, right? I take the handle of the rake (left there from another blog!) and poke the soffet where they're sitting. I suppose I think I'm going to make them disappear by poking them with a rake handle. BONK! *chikachikachikachikachika*  BONK!  *chikachikachikachikachika*  NOW I'm just herding cats.  BONK!  *chikachikachikachikachika*  And mind you, they are going nowhere NEAR any opening through which they can leave! *chikachikachikachikachika*chikachikachikachikachika*

Our large patio has a roof over it that is built onto the house. A full gable that has storage all above the ceiling. Being connected to the house, with lights and ceiling fans mounted to it, there is a hole where wiring and they have come from the house out over the patio. The access is a pull-down panel with one of those folding wood ladders mounted to it.  Being intelligent humans, we decide to open that and look up in there. She decides she's going. She goes up the ladder, pokes her head around, and THERE THEY ARE!  Three chipmunks. One over there, and two over there! *chikachikachikachikachika*  "Quick! Gimme the BB gun!"  I don't really know why, but I gave it to her.  POP! *bink  bink  bink* (Ricocheting!)  *chikachikachikachikachika*  POP!  bink  bink  bink*  *chikachikachikachikachika*  I swear, we are something out of the black & white silent movies!  POP!  *bink  bink  bink*  *chikachikachikachikachika* 

Now remember, my wife is no pansey - not at all. She is a farm girl raised in way upstate New York and she ran large horse farms for many years. She's the kind who will pick up a dead roach with her fingers to put it in the trash... not me. That kinda thing gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it. I can't stand anything with more than 2 legs. I'm not a girly-man. I just don't particularly cotton to things what crawl around and crap on your food. But... I digress!

Well, we chased the damn things around for the better part of 2 hours, and made about as much positive progress as I made with the rake handle. *chikachikachikachikachika*   After a while we decided we would leave the access panel open and the ladder down, and if they didn't decide to chika-chika down that ladder and leave, the next day was the pest control guy.

Now, all of that is not the funny part. Here it comes...

Later that afternoon, my wife was sitting on the patio talking on the phone. I was in the kitchen at the table, typing on my laptop. She's *chikachikachikachikachika*  telling Kay about the chipmunks and the aggravation of *chikachikachikachikachika* having to listen to that all day. *chikachikachikachikachika*  I can only begin to imagine the horror in that chipmunk's mind when he hauled ass across that floor once again - and there suddenly was NO FLOOR!  Weeehooo!!  Out that access panel he flew like Rocky the Flying Squirrel - headed RIGHT AT MY WIFE!!  Cheley (pronounced Shellie) screamed like a 6 year old and did one of those dances like she's either gotta pee, or something's flying at her face!!  That little dude hit the floor right at her feet, looked her in the eyes, I think he pee'd a little, and ran like hell to the other end of the patio!  By that time I was out the door and we wrangled him out the patio door into the yard. She said she was looking at the opening when he popped out, and that he came at her with this terrified look on his face - arms stretched out wide, mouth open, and eyes as big as Double-Stuff Oreo cookies!

Now I don't know if chipmunks have little two-way radios, or telepathy, or what. But I DO know this - we haven't heard the FIRST sound since! 

My wife and her screaming dance are available for birthday parties and bar-mitzvahs.

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...About Quarterbacks

Never, have I ever seen anything as ridiculous as the quarterbacks in the NFL these days. They have become the biggest bunch of pansies I have seen in quite some time. You put on enough pads to increase your footprint to about the size of a Volkswagon van, run onto the field of battle to trounce your opponent into a quivering heap, and whine like a 2 year old everytime somebody touches you. Really? REALLY?

"Well, Michelle, we know it's gonna be a tough fight, but we've studied them carefully and prepared all week for the kinda grind-it-out game this always is. They're a tough team who likes to hit hard, and we've gotta be tougher and hit harder, if we're gonna make it to the next level."  
Followed on the field in the next little bit with, "C'mon, Ref, how 'bout some roughin' (the quarterback) here! He's hittin' me pretty hard!"  Again - REALLY? 

Unfortunately, the referees and the NFL listen to it. It's a damn shame that, because he couldn't take the hits, there became a "Brady Rule" in the NFL. Don't get me wrong -- though I, personally, don't like Tom Brady, he's a very good quarterback. He's one the best ever at putting a ball through the eye of a needle. But he is the WHINIEST guy I think I've seen in quite some time. Anybody gets close - he's at the referee demanding a flag. "That's a late hit!  "He's grabbin' my face mask!"  "He didn't use the right deodorant!"  Man, just shut up and play football!  I actually saw a referee point a finger at him once and say "Back off!" You could read his lips as plain as day. "Back off!" 

Now, don't get me wrong. There are some quarterbacks who are the toughest people in the world. Aaron Rogers, Drew Brees, Big Ben (I call him Big Ben mostly because I can't spell Rothlisberger). Big Ben has a broken nose and 2 broken fingers and plays. He has a badly injured ankle and plays - and I mean plays hard. Gets mad at himself because he made a bad throw because his ankle stopped working - that's a tough dude. If Drew Brees turns to a referee looking for a call, he's probably got blood running out of some opening. Aaron Rogers waited so long to get to play, he just wants to play.   And there are many others. MANY others.

You wanna see some hard-hitting quarterbacks? Watch college football. Those guys haven't got time to be pansy-ish. They've got a job to do, and if they can't get it done, they've got a coach who will yank 'em out and run another one on.

Many, many years ago, Andy Griffith was a young comedian before he was Sheriff Taylor. One of the earliest skits was called "What it Was, Was Football."  If you can find it, listen to it. It is hilarious. One of the funniest lines from that story was about how hard-hitting the sport was: "They run up and down that cow pasture and hit one another, and smashed one another, and run over one another; and as fast as one of 'em would get hurt, they'd tote him off and run another one on!"    But... I digress! 

College quarterbacks haven't learned how to whine yet. And so the sport is, in my humble lopsided opinion, much more exciting to watch.  I think there must be a "course" during the pro football combine that teaches quarterbacks how to do it. Eli certainly carries the whiny baby look well. Drop a pass? Here comes the head roll and the "aw, man, why didn't you catch it?" look.

It must be difficult these days to be a defensive player. When rushing the quarterback, you cannot hit him above the chest or below the knees. You cannot make contact with his head, which is covered by a helmet, when attempting to deflect the ball. You cannot make contact with him after the ball has been thrown or handed off to another player. You cannot untie his shoes or say his name under your breath 3 times.

Instead of crying like some Academy Award-seeking actor because somebody looked at you the wrong way, maybe you need to put on your big-boy panties and play football.  C'mon, Man!


HERE IT IS!! Andy Griffith's original skit - What It Was, Was Football  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNxLxTZHKM8

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...About Glitter

In my lifetime, I would really appreciate the opportunity to meet the guy who invented glitter. Holidays are made more festive; Birthday cards are more appealing; toys for small children are more eye-catching; Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without glitter-covered candles, and wrapping paper, and cards, and garland, and what-nots, and things, and stuff, and everydamnthing you ever owned. EVERY.DAMN.THING.YOU.EVER.OWNED!  Covered, I mean absolutely COVERED in damn glitter. And I'm not talking rhinestone kinda glitter. I'm talking glitter the size of an amoeba! The tiniest particles known to exist in the great and vast universe in which we carry on this meager happenstance we call "life."  (That's pretty good, huh?)

I am married to the greatest woman I could hope to find. She is vastly talented. She can use post hole diggers and set 8' 4x4s perfectly straight and plum in concrete, vacuum the pool, build a pantry in the kitchen, make a wedding cake from scratch that is to die for, wash a load of clothes, and make a perfect souffle -- all before lunch! She can take 2 bobby pins and some double-sided carpet tape and make a pot roast! We looked at replacing the Formica counter tops in the bathrooms with granite. HA! $$Cha-Ching$$!  She added moulding to the fronts and did a faux painting job that looks so close to marble, that my buddy put his nose on it trying to see the difference. It is really beautiful.   But... I digress!!

Man, when she decorates the house for the holidays, it is a magnificent work of art! And guess what one of the main ingredients would be. You guessed it - ANYTHING smathered with glitter. Oh, it's a beautiful thing to see, don't get me wrong.  Let me put it this way...... She decided to take it all down and store it; it's time. Today, I stopped her at a point and said, "Here, honey, let me have that vacuum, and I'll do that for you. You can move on to something else. I got this."  [*ahem*]  WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??!!"  All she decorated this year (with the house for sale) was the mantle over the fireplace. I have worked for almost an hour trying to get all the glitter cleaned up. [I say "have worked" because I'm not finished yet - I was so aggravated, I stopped to write this blog!!] Every time you move the slightest amount, the light catches another crystal of red, or green, or blue, or clear. BAM! Hit that thing with the vacuum head! "Die, you gravy-sucking pig!"  I caught myself bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali trying to hit the light just right to see the next one. This may take forever.

I say that I'd like to meet the guy who invented glitter. Read that as, "I'd like to punch the guy who invented glitter in the schnozola!" I would just about bet that he was Chinese. I don't mean that in an ugly way. Everything we have now was made in China. I think it is the great plan the Chinese have for taking over the world! When they have everything ready, they will wait until about the first weekend in January and make their attack. They know that every male will be doing the right thing by helping their "other" clean the glitter. Chinese glitter. We will all be so aggravated and woozy-eyed that we'll never see them coming. Attack complete, take-over accomplished, and not a shot fired!

I think what I'm gonna do is mandate to my wife that she can NEVER AGAIN use anything with glitter. 

As my buddy Mark says, "Yeah, OK, Paul. Let me know how that works out for you." 

Uh, oh. Here she comes. I gotta go. 

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