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Like Huey Lewis, I want a new blog.
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Saturday, August 2, 2008
Friday, July 4, 2008
Overheard: Inflight between Houston and Memphis
“My brother Frank was born with a birth defect, but at age 11, he was hit by an ambulance in a freak accident. Yeah. I know. So, he’s mentally handicapped. I ask him every day, ‘Frank, do you want barbecue or Salisbury steak?’ That’s all he eats.
But I couldn’t ask him at 6:45 in the morning yesterday when I was leaving, because he was still sleeping. So, I finally got home at 6 last night. He’d been sitting there all day in front of the T.V. That’s pretty much all he does. Yeah. Watch T.V.
So, he’s hungry. The home nurse tried to get him to eat, but Frank said no to everything. He does this all the time. He only eats what I prepare. So, I go straight to the freezer for the Salisbury steak.”
—I never got a good look at the woman recounting this anecdote. She was sitting in the row in front of me on a Continental flight from Texas to Tennessee. The man she was talking to nodded his head numerous times, actively listening. She talked to him like they were strangers.
But I couldn’t ask him at 6:45 in the morning yesterday when I was leaving, because he was still sleeping. So, I finally got home at 6 last night. He’d been sitting there all day in front of the T.V. That’s pretty much all he does. Yeah. Watch T.V.
So, he’s hungry. The home nurse tried to get him to eat, but Frank said no to everything. He does this all the time. He only eats what I prepare. So, I go straight to the freezer for the Salisbury steak.”
—I never got a good look at the woman recounting this anecdote. She was sitting in the row in front of me on a Continental flight from Texas to Tennessee. The man she was talking to nodded his head numerous times, actively listening. She talked to him like they were strangers.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Gusty Is the Wind
Speed west of Weatherford, Oklahoma on I-40, and you'll notice the superslab hemmed by a couple of nondescript two-lanes.
On the north side runs famed Route 66, occasionally marked by historic signs. A thumb-thick split, patched with stubborn grass, scores the yellow lines.
On the south side--in the direction of the tiny town of Corn--a frontage road anchors gated pull-offs to grain fields swaying in the ubiquitous breezes. This region cannot elude the wind. The Public Service Company of Oklahoma harnesses power via 71 rotating turbines, like Star Wars Lambda-class shuttles rotating against the wide-open sky.
In the late afternoon light, their arms' shadows race after each other--an endless tail-chase--across the ground.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Overheard: NYC
From my buddy, David Fleenor, who overheard this on the Big City subway:
Woman 1 (in scrubs and Crocs): "Men can only really do two things: barbeque and cook eggs. That's it!"
Woman 2 (also in scrubs and Crocs): "I can't even barbecue. Geez, I'm less than a man."
Woman 1 (in scrubs and Crocs): "Men can only really do two things: barbeque and cook eggs. That's it!"
Woman 2 (also in scrubs and Crocs): "I can't even barbecue. Geez, I'm less than a man."
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Overheard, er, Texted: Natchez, MS
12:09 a.m.
"At under the hill. There's a woman singing 'these boots are made 4 walking.' She's barefooted."
Well, considering I've written about a floor-dwelling drummer, a head leprechan, and a suspected vampire in previous posts involving Natchez, this communique should come as no surprise.
I got this text from a good buddy of mine, Doug Hosford, who owns High Cotton down on Main Street.
He's the one who first took me to the Under the Hill Saloon. It's a sacred place.
"At under the hill. There's a woman singing 'these boots are made 4 walking.' She's barefooted."
Well, considering I've written about a floor-dwelling drummer, a head leprechan, and a suspected vampire in previous posts involving Natchez, this communique should come as no surprise.
I got this text from a good buddy of mine, Doug Hosford, who owns High Cotton down on Main Street.
He's the one who first took me to the Under the Hill Saloon. It's a sacred place.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Gusty. Like the Wind.
Gusty Crunkleton's son, Adam, says his mom's name ain't short for nothing except the wind. He stretches out (giant arms) then claps (giant hands) as he yells a loud 'Ha!'
I choose to forego alerting Adam that his joke doesn't make a damn bit of sense.
My argument addressing how adjectives and abbreviations are different animals seems unneccesary as I watch him fiddle behind the bar at Bon Appetit in Clayton, GA. Wiping down surfaces. Tightening already-tightened tops. Shifting weight foot to foot. Okay, maybe he isn't fiddling. With his crew cut, broad shoulders, and middle linebacker frame, it's more like he's blitzing.
"I carry Stella for one customer. And you're him!" Gusty is faux-berating the regular named Mark who has an affinity for the Belgian beer.
I like the tough love in this place.
If she had been slumped in one of the booths, I would have easily placed her just shy of 70. But her flexibility throws me. She stands stork-style behind the bar with one leg hiked up, knee cap to left ear. She planted the ball of her foot on the bar-length, Bacardi-embossed strip of rubber. The one that keeps the shakers from sliding.
She managed restaurants off and on for years, but Bon Appetit is the first one she has owned. Needed to keep making cash even after she and her husband, John, sold the broom factory.
"You can tell housewives don't design brooms," she says. "They just want plain wooden handles. No colors." When a red broom slides against a white wall, it leaves a red mark.
Adam sweeps in and pops another Fresca for John, who has his own stool at the bar.
I like the family feel of this place.
That's what he mixes with his Canadian Club. I'm betting they carry those blue cans only for him.
So Gusty's not short for anything?
"Nope. Just Gusty." She emigrated from Leipzig, Germany when she was 15. Her aunt was a famous actress over there. Augustina.
"Her nickname was Gusty," she says. "I'm named for her nickname."
I choose to forego alerting Adam that his joke doesn't make a damn bit of sense.
My argument addressing how adjectives and abbreviations are different animals seems unneccesary as I watch him fiddle behind the bar at Bon Appetit in Clayton, GA. Wiping down surfaces. Tightening already-tightened tops. Shifting weight foot to foot. Okay, maybe he isn't fiddling. With his crew cut, broad shoulders, and middle linebacker frame, it's more like he's blitzing.
"I carry Stella for one customer. And you're him!" Gusty is faux-berating the regular named Mark who has an affinity for the Belgian beer.
I like the tough love in this place.
If she had been slumped in one of the booths, I would have easily placed her just shy of 70. But her flexibility throws me. She stands stork-style behind the bar with one leg hiked up, knee cap to left ear. She planted the ball of her foot on the bar-length, Bacardi-embossed strip of rubber. The one that keeps the shakers from sliding.
She managed restaurants off and on for years, but Bon Appetit is the first one she has owned. Needed to keep making cash even after she and her husband, John, sold the broom factory.
"You can tell housewives don't design brooms," she says. "They just want plain wooden handles. No colors." When a red broom slides against a white wall, it leaves a red mark.
Adam sweeps in and pops another Fresca for John, who has his own stool at the bar.
I like the family feel of this place.
That's what he mixes with his Canadian Club. I'm betting they carry those blue cans only for him.
So Gusty's not short for anything?
"Nope. Just Gusty." She emigrated from Leipzig, Germany when she was 15. Her aunt was a famous actress over there. Augustina.
"Her nickname was Gusty," she says. "I'm named for her nickname."
Friday, May 30, 2008
Overheard: Terrapin Creek, Piedmont, AL
"You ain't got a hair on your ass if you don't flip it."
-Terrapin's a slow float. You can rent canoes and kayaks from an outfitter, the Terrapin Outdoor Center, whose #1 rule is "If you wanna float it, you gotta tote it!."
But the truth is that all you need is an inner tube and a ride home when you get off the water.
Last sunny Sunday, slap in the middle of Memorial Day Weekend, we shared the creek with lots of other small boaters. Some were proficient with paddles, like the guy who yelled the above overheard. Some weren't, like the guy he was yelling at who was trying futilely to bale water out of his canoe.
-Terrapin's a slow float. You can rent canoes and kayaks from an outfitter, the Terrapin Outdoor Center, whose #1 rule is "If you wanna float it, you gotta tote it!."
But the truth is that all you need is an inner tube and a ride home when you get off the water.
Last sunny Sunday, slap in the middle of Memorial Day Weekend, we shared the creek with lots of other small boaters. Some were proficient with paddles, like the guy who yelled the above overheard. Some weren't, like the guy he was yelling at who was trying futilely to bale water out of his canoe.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Overheard: The PIT, Pawleys Island, SC
“I’ve got your KY in my pocket.”
-If you’ve been to the Pawleys Island Tavern more than once, you know it by its abbreviation, The PIT. It used to have a sign, but according to Mary Margaret Chambliss and Jason Rogoff, my friends who overheard this delightful line, the sign is gone. Taken down because it had been put up on someone else’s property.
Now you know you’re there when you see the mailbox with the letters PIT painted on it. Or you know it by the old wooden floors, dollar bills tacked to the walls, and the patrons dousing themselves with bug spray. “It’s kinda in the swamp,” says Mary Margaret. The bugs might get you when you’re listening to live music on their outdoor stage.
Speaking of abbreviations, I don’t think the above speaker was referring to Kentucky.
-If you’ve been to the Pawleys Island Tavern more than once, you know it by its abbreviation, The PIT. It used to have a sign, but according to Mary Margaret Chambliss and Jason Rogoff, my friends who overheard this delightful line, the sign is gone. Taken down because it had been put up on someone else’s property.
Now you know you’re there when you see the mailbox with the letters PIT painted on it. Or you know it by the old wooden floors, dollar bills tacked to the walls, and the patrons dousing themselves with bug spray. “It’s kinda in the swamp,” says Mary Margaret. The bugs might get you when you’re listening to live music on their outdoor stage.
Speaking of abbreviations, I don’t think the above speaker was referring to Kentucky.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Overheard: Liberty Tap Room, Columbia, SC
“If I would have killed her when I met her, I would be getting out about now.”
-Photographer Gary Clark overheard* this uttered by someone in a wedding party in the Liberty Tap Room in Columbia, SC. Interesting. I overheard a gem at the Liberty Tap Room in Myrtle Beach. Connection?
*I sure ain’t the only one overhearing. When you happen to find yourself the indirect recipient of a nugget of brilliance, please tell me about it.
tannercl77@aol.com
I’ll post it and enter your name into a drawing. I like to do drawrings.
-Photographer Gary Clark overheard* this uttered by someone in a wedding party in the Liberty Tap Room in Columbia, SC. Interesting. I overheard a gem at the Liberty Tap Room in Myrtle Beach. Connection?
*I sure ain’t the only one overhearing. When you happen to find yourself the indirect recipient of a nugget of brilliance, please tell me about it.
tannercl77@aol.com
I’ll post it and enter your name into a drawing. I like to do drawrings.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Dancing Leaf: Summerton, SC
"You want to see the most beautiful thing I've ever filmed?"
Thus begins the famous scene from American Beauty where the character of Ricky shares his footage of the plastic bag dancing in a swirling wind.
I was reminded of it while walking a trail that skirted the edge of Lake Marion in the Santee National Wildlife Refuge in Summerton, SC.
A leaf was spinning in the air right in the middle of the trail. Dangling from a long, near-transparent strand of a spider's silk.
It was one of those natural moments you pine for when you're traveling. The bird chirps. The shadowplay on the ground.
In the movie, Ricky goes on to explain how the video of the bag helps him remember that, "sometimes there's so much beauty in the world." I won't bow out tritefully and say I had the same thought. But I did think this was pretty cool.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Overheard: Town 220 Bistro, Madison, GA
“Let me finish, because this is how I feel.”
If I’m directing the film starring this couple, a man and woman I'd clock in their 60s, I open with a tight shot of the woman's hands. Especially the right one. Makes a fist; clinch, release. Then she pinches her ring finger; middle; fore.
Repeats the cycle.
The audience only sees hands, but it hears her voice shake as she reaches the summation.
“I can’t focus on your interests for hours. For one hour, maybe, but not for hours.”
I saw them smiling at each other when I first sat down. Two glasses of pinot noir deep, and she starts winding up. As she gets more direct, he delicately lays down his fork. Wipes his mouth. Crooks his right arm and rests his cheek on his knuckles. He is a poised cat. Tail slowly swaying. Patient. When she makes her definitive statement--her plea--and winds down, he raises his head from his knuckles, uncrosses his legs, and leans in.
While he talks--a monotonous mumble--she resumes eating. Darting her eyes from peas to him to steak to him and back to peas.
Repeats the cycle.
If I’m directing the film starring this couple, a man and woman I'd clock in their 60s, I open with a tight shot of the woman's hands. Especially the right one. Makes a fist; clinch, release. Then she pinches her ring finger; middle; fore.
Repeats the cycle.
The audience only sees hands, but it hears her voice shake as she reaches the summation.
“I can’t focus on your interests for hours. For one hour, maybe, but not for hours.”
I saw them smiling at each other when I first sat down. Two glasses of pinot noir deep, and she starts winding up. As she gets more direct, he delicately lays down his fork. Wipes his mouth. Crooks his right arm and rests his cheek on his knuckles. He is a poised cat. Tail slowly swaying. Patient. When she makes her definitive statement--her plea--and winds down, he raises his head from his knuckles, uncrosses his legs, and leans in.
While he talks--a monotonous mumble--she resumes eating. Darting her eyes from peas to him to steak to him and back to peas.
Repeats the cycle.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Overheard: I Could Overhear Her All Day
"I'm gonna drop him like a sack of potatoes down a hillside. He is like a grandpa. I may not have any money, but I have my pride."
-Disgruntled employee of the half Sam Adams, half Nathan's hotdogs stand near Gate C37 in the Tampa airport. This is a groundbreaking, slightly controversial Overheard in that I'm including a picture of the speaker. To preserve some ethical integrity, I won't reveal which woman I heard. But she has a small audience, and in the span of 7 minutes, she also dropped these gems.
"We know you love food more than your girlfriend, don't you. You can live without a girlfriend, but you can't live without food."
"I eat 24 hours a day, and I am still hungry. I am still this size. I have been this size forever.
"I may work out in other ways, but I don't go to the gym." (She gets a 'That's right' and 'mmm hmm' from the small congregation.) "I still sweat and burn calories--mostly at night--but you won't find me on no treadmill."
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Knights In Sanitary Service
I see a bowl scrubber, a roll of tp, and four pairs of eyes staring at me. The black light in the bathroom at the KISS Coffeehouse gives them an eerie glow. Can't quite make out the black toilet, but I feel around until I know where I'm aiming.
The Myrtle Beach coffeehouse is the latest in a long line of Gene Simmons-thrusted marketing ideas to keep the 70s rock band relevant 30 years after their heyday. (While the KISS Kasket is no longer featured on their website, you can sample a bottle of the KISS cabernet, uncharacteristically spelled with a 'c.')
My photog buddy, Art, shot KISS a few times in full regalia.
The closest I've gotten to them was the Karamel-flavored frozen Rockuccino that set me back almost six bucks.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Overheard
"All my friends are hairdressers."
"That's funny."
"No, seriously. All my friends are hairdressers."
-Liberty Taproom, Myrtle Beach
She had long blond hair and a few tattoos. If you're keeping score at home, you might deduce from one of my previous Myrtle Beach Overheards that this town--full of neon and all-u-can-eat seafood buffets--wears its own superficial mask as comfortably as one of the Conquistadors from the late 80s WWF. But I assure you that Myrtle Beach still grasps multiple redemptive qualities, including the ever-present roll of the Atlantic Ocean onto its beaches.
"That's funny."
"No, seriously. All my friends are hairdressers."
-Liberty Taproom, Myrtle Beach
She had long blond hair and a few tattoos. If you're keeping score at home, you might deduce from one of my previous Myrtle Beach Overheards that this town--full of neon and all-u-can-eat seafood buffets--wears its own superficial mask as comfortably as one of the Conquistadors from the late 80s WWF. But I assure you that Myrtle Beach still grasps multiple redemptive qualities, including the ever-present roll of the Atlantic Ocean onto its beaches.
Unintentionally Unisex
I pulled into a Pilot truck stop off I-85 yesterday to use the bathroom. The door was propped open, so I peeked in, and a woman was there cleaning. She said, "Oh, come on in." So, I did. But she never left. I stopped and looked at her for a second, so she motioned back to the stalls with the doors. She said, "You can use those." I really had to go—could no longer suppress the bottle of water from a few hours before—so I went.
She was still in there sweeping when I walked out.
Cleanest bathroom I used all day.
She was still in there sweeping when I walked out.
Cleanest bathroom I used all day.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Now He’s Relaxed
“Are you okay?”
The TSA ID-checker in the Philadelphia airport, his long, braided hair cinched by a rubber band, noticed the young woman’s red, watery eyes.
“No. Not really.”
“What’s wrong?” He looked at her boarding pass then glanced over his glasses at her face. “Are you leaving someone you don’t want to leave?” A question he believed he knew the answer to. I’m sure he’s seen plenty of teary girls kiss their boyfriends goodbye.
“My father died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I was eavesdropping, and she sensed it, so she looked at me. I gave her what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. Something I thought to be appropriate, because I didn’t know what to say. I hoped to communicate two things with that gesture, though. First that I was sorry about her loss. But I was also sorry to have intruded into her business.
She sniffled and attempted to smile back. The edges of her mouth fought their way up against the rest of her face; her furrowed brow, her quivering lips. She understood. She accepted my sympathy and apology.
But the security line crept with small steps. Short starts and long stops. And I felt compelled to add an audible leg to our silent exchange.
“Had your father been sick?”
“Yes. But now he’s relaxed.”
She had a strong Spanish accent. Relaxed. I’m not sure why she chose that word. Maybe the translation tripped her a bit. Maybe that made sense; “relaxed” was the perfect descriptor for his situation. Maybe I was glimpsing her raw and honest state of shock. Witnessing that period after a loss when one says the real things before one settles into the death march of rote expressions such as “He’s at rest” or “Now he’s at peace” or “He lived a good life.”
“Did he live a good life?” I took my place in the march.
“Yes. He did.”
I nodded and looked away. Knowing that’s really all I could offer.
She looked back over her shoulder and waved slowly at a young man just beyond the security entrance leaning on the wall. The ID-checker was correct. The woman was leaving someone she didn’t want to leave.
After the metal detector, she gathered her bags from the belt, looked up at me and said, “God bless you.”
I said, “You too," although I thought to myself, “He has.”
The TSA ID-checker in the Philadelphia airport, his long, braided hair cinched by a rubber band, noticed the young woman’s red, watery eyes.
“No. Not really.”
“What’s wrong?” He looked at her boarding pass then glanced over his glasses at her face. “Are you leaving someone you don’t want to leave?” A question he believed he knew the answer to. I’m sure he’s seen plenty of teary girls kiss their boyfriends goodbye.
“My father died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I was eavesdropping, and she sensed it, so she looked at me. I gave her what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. Something I thought to be appropriate, because I didn’t know what to say. I hoped to communicate two things with that gesture, though. First that I was sorry about her loss. But I was also sorry to have intruded into her business.
She sniffled and attempted to smile back. The edges of her mouth fought their way up against the rest of her face; her furrowed brow, her quivering lips. She understood. She accepted my sympathy and apology.
But the security line crept with small steps. Short starts and long stops. And I felt compelled to add an audible leg to our silent exchange.
“Had your father been sick?”
“Yes. But now he’s relaxed.”
She had a strong Spanish accent. Relaxed. I’m not sure why she chose that word. Maybe the translation tripped her a bit. Maybe that made sense; “relaxed” was the perfect descriptor for his situation. Maybe I was glimpsing her raw and honest state of shock. Witnessing that period after a loss when one says the real things before one settles into the death march of rote expressions such as “He’s at rest” or “Now he’s at peace” or “He lived a good life.”
“Did he live a good life?” I took my place in the march.
“Yes. He did.”
I nodded and looked away. Knowing that’s really all I could offer.
She looked back over her shoulder and waved slowly at a young man just beyond the security entrance leaning on the wall. The ID-checker was correct. The woman was leaving someone she didn’t want to leave.
After the metal detector, she gathered her bags from the belt, looked up at me and said, “God bless you.”
I said, “You too," although I thought to myself, “He has.”
Overheard #15
“I don’t see how Bob--you know, St. Louis Bob--does it. He’s always out drinking at sports bars until late. Then he’s up and roaring the next day.”
—woman in her 40s donning a navy blue business suit speaking with a man in his 40s in a white button-down and a bolo tie at a gate in the Houston Love Field airport
—woman in her 40s donning a navy blue business suit speaking with a man in his 40s in a white button-down and a bolo tie at a gate in the Houston Love Field airport
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Blame Your Parents
Palace Florists, right off the Dupont Circle Metro stop in D.C., has a name game. If your name is Veronica on Veronica Day, then you get a free flower. I walked by there two days in a row, and the sandwich board out front read "Veronica" both days. Now, either some petunia pusher inside is slacking, or the "game" is not really a game, but a pull-you-into-the-shop gimmick based on probability laws. I mean, how many rose-loving Veronicas could there be?
And how successful is this marketing strategy? Florists surely can't thrive on impulse buyers. "My name is Veronica, and I came in to get my free rose! Hmmm. While I'm here, I might as well stock up on vases. And I need a spare oasis."
Their website has a link to their Name Game and as of this post, today is Kristy Day.
Kristy with a "K." Brilliant move, Palace. Brilliant.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Overheard #14
"Dude. You have to get some mustache wax for that thing. They sell it at CVS. It's not hard to find."
--The outdoor tables at On Tap sports bar in the Lakeview District of Birmingham. I agreed with the speaker. The dude in question had an enormously long mustache that lacked a certain style.
--The outdoor tables at On Tap sports bar in the Lakeview District of Birmingham. I agreed with the speaker. The dude in question had an enormously long mustache that lacked a certain style.
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