District 9, the Cleveland Indians, Armyworms

Saw District 9 yesterday afternoon. I, along with 5 or 6 others, patiently awaited the "manual" selling of tickets due to a computer crash at the theater. The young staff tried for 15 minutes to get their computers up, then resorted to physically tearing tickets from a roll and counting out change. The horrah! My ticket was $6.75. I handed the young lady $7. SHE USED A CALCULATOR TO DETERMINE MY CHANGE!!! I am serious. What have we come to?! We then entered the dark hallway with the theaters to each side. I asked a popcorn seller where District 9 was showing. "Number 11," came the response. Uh...there are no lights, no numbers. "Oh, man. Try the second one on the left." I asked if the projection might be a problem. "Nah." Luckily, that was under control.

I thought I was going to have the entire theater to myself, but, eventually two couples and a single girl also entered. So I put my clothes back on. Hey! I wanted to be comfortable. I can't recall seeing a movie alone before, but I probably have. On this occasion, my wife was out of town and she had zero interest in this flick anyway, so what better way to spend a dreary, rainy afternoon? Hmmmm...actually I can think of a much better way to spend the afternoon, but I've been good thru this marriage, so why blow the ol' trust thing now?

The movie: Other than a few moments of rough CGI, District 9 is pretty damn good. Occasional cartoony moments aside, especially when one considers the minimal budget for this movie, it's not a bad film. WARNING: SPOILER ALERT The premise that the fluid the Prawns (derogatory term for the aliens) need to fuel their craft is the same liquid that melds humans and aliens stretched my limits of believability. Duh! It's science-fiction, yes. But conceivability is critical to good sci-fi...at least to me it is. I also found it difficult to enjoy watching the main character. For some reason, he bugged me throughout. But that may just be a deep-seated psychological problem that I may or may not have.

The movie touches on racism and apartheid without ever being heavy-handed. The fact that it takes place in Johannesburg, South Africa adds to the viewer's feel for the Prawns' plight. The Prawn father-son relationship would be touching, except for the fact that the young Prawn looks so cartoonish that you lose all empathy. Overall, a bit cartoonish (have I used that term before?), but a decent movie. Better than watching Sportscenter repeat itself all day.

My beloved Cleveland Indians are suffering through another disastrous season. All the pieces seemed to be in place two years ago for another sustained run of division-contending years. Injuries and horrible pitching (other than Cliff Lee, who was traded, of course) did the Tribe in. You can win a lot of games scoring 10 runs a night...but not if you give up 11. The trading of Lee was inevitable, I guess. Last year they traded C C Sabathia, after he won the Cy Young the previous year. I guess Lee's taking the 2008 AL Cy Young meant the end of his days in Cleveland were near. He's now dominating National League hitters for the Phillies. He's 4-0, with 3 complete games. The trade that killed me, though, was letting Victor Martinez go. It may turn out to be a great move for the Indians, but that man was a hitting machine and the most solid of all their guys. Starting over with young arms and bats again. Siiiiigh

On Sunday I went to war with armyworms in my backyard. I spotted a couple of brown spots in the gorgeous flowing greenery that this summer's rains have helped create. Having dealt with the little bastards a couple years ago, I knew what to look for. Yep, there they were. Green and yellow striped creepy-crawlin' sumbitches. Rushed up to the local hardware place. Nothin' there. The elderly salesguy tried to convince me to buy a chemical that didn't specify armyworms on the label. If he'd been a little more sure of himself, I mighta gone for it. But I knew what I wanted and he was waffling. Outta my way, old man! Off to Tractor Supply. Bought two quarts of Agent Orange and covered the backyard and myself with enough chemicals to ensure that I'll never be able to count change at a theater. (When spraying chemicals you're supposed to wear longsleeves, long pants, goggles, air filters, boots, etc. so I always wear shorts, no shirt and go barefooted). I needed two more quarts for the front and outside the privacy fence. Damn! That was $60 I wasn't planning to spend on worm genocide. But I got 'em all. The yard appeared to be undulating. Was I experiencing a flashback from my wild youth? Nope. There really were that many worms squirming about in their death throes. Cool.

Wednesday I spotted the worms in my neighbor's yard. She handed me her credit card, and off I went to the store again, buying a couple more quarts of wormkill. While she sat on her patio and watched, I sprayed her yard (and myself again). Many dead worms later, she plied me with beers while I sat babbling incoherently as she and one of her girls ate dinner. I could blame the effect of the spray on my brain for my rambling, but I've been speaking nonsensically waaaaay too long. It turns out that the entire neighborhood has been invaded by these worms. It seems that over the years man has eliminated their natural predators...apparently wooly mammoths and pteradactyls...so these critters attack lawns like Prawns attack garbage heaps.

I have the greatest neighbor anyone could ever ask for. She's funny, has two great daughters, and they usually have beer. The beer's a bonus. They're great people. Bless their hearts. I love 'em.

RIP Jim Dickinson

I've always belittled the morons who slap 'RIP Dale' on the back window of their pickup truck. Seems ridiculous to me that anyone would honor a total stranger rather than memorialize a family member or friend. You know damn well that redneck SOB has lost a parent or an uncle or somebody closer to him than freakin' Dale Earnhardt! Then again, maybe public displays of love for deceased family members is crass as hell. Everyone's lost somebody dear to them. I know I don't want to cheapen a loved one's memory by sticking decals expressing my love for them on my vehicle. So perhaps I've been too hard on the owners of the many trucks I see down here slathered with tributes to Mr. Earnhardt. I doubt I'll ever use this forum to express deep feelings for ones I love who have taken the ol' dirt nap. Family, friends, pets all leave us. I can't say anything that would come close to what I feel when death occurs, so I won't try. All that said, allow me to mention a stranger who passed away Saturday morning.

I picked up my Sunday Birmingham News as per my usual weekend morning behavior. I read the sports, did the crossword puzzle (kicked its ass!), then turned to the real world shit. Oh man. Jim Dickinson was gone. Mr. Dickinson was the man behind a crapload of great albums. You've no doubt listened to stuff he did, but you probably never paid attention to his name. He produced, played on, or was involved with albums by the Stones, The Replacements, Aretha Franklin, Bob Dylan, Ry Cooder, and many, many other artists, prominent and not so prominent. I first noted the man in the early 70s when I bought a 1972 LP of his. On Dixie Fried he covered Paul Siebels' 'Louise', so I had to have it, as I love that song. I liked the album a lot and still have it (it and some 500 others).

Much later in life, I was doing my little bit to help promote a North Mississippi Allstars show at the Blount Shakespeare Festival facility in Montgomery, Alabama. The Allstars had just released their first album. I remember that the band was blown away by the beauty of the building...they mentioned how nice it was several times. After the concert, I spoke briefly with Luther Dickinson, the band's guitarist. Seemed like a very nice kid. His brother Cody plays drums and Chris Chew plays bass in NMAS. One of R.L. Burnside's sons, DeWayne, (I think I've got that right) played guitar with them that night. Great concert.

Years later, on a trip to Memphis, I dropped some friends' CD off at Ardent Studios, in the hopes it would find its way into the great Jim Dickinson's hands. I don't guess it ever did 'cause I never received my $1,000,000 check as the band's manager.

Anyway, in June of 2006, my wife and I met my brother and his wife in Memphis again, as we had begun doing a couple years previously. After devouring a pile of ribs at Blues City Cafe, we made our way down Beale Street. When we got to the New Daisy Theater, I saw that Jim Dickinson and the NMAS were playing that evening to celebrate the release of Jim's new album. I asked some guy at the theater if any of the band was around and was told they were doing a soundcheck. After bullshitting my way in, I saw Dad Dickinson and his sons onstage with Chris Chew and some roadies. I meandered down there and mentioned the Montgomery concert to Luther. He remembered it well. He still seemed quite impressed with that building. I asked if I could shoot some photos and he said sure. When I walked over to the elder Dickinson, seated at his keyboard, I told him that I owned a copy of his 'Dixie Fried' album. Without looking up, he muttered, "So you're the guy who bought it."
Since that first album of northern Mississippi hill country blues, I've been a fan of the North Mississippi Allstars and their side projects. Their's and their dad's music is real...not over-produced crap as so much of what is passed off as music is now...just good in the gut real music. Rest in peace, Mr. Dickinson.

http://www.zebraranch.com/

I'M BACK!!! (and offensive as ever)

I felt awesome! I was back to being me again!

Today at lunch, I went with a friend from work and we picked up her friend, who I'd met once before. Very attractive and cool.

We're sitting at lunch and the friend said her first child had medical problems that doctors couldn't diagnose for months. She said he cried for four months non-stop. I asked what was wrong. She said he had gallstones. Hmmmm...I asked what caused them? She answered that it was her breast milk. I immediately responded, "It'd be worth the risk."

They fell out. I'm back in the saddle again. Inappropriate and offensive. YES!

And she didn't hit me.

See This Movie

The wife and I had seen the previews and thought it might be okay. So we asked a friend if she wanted to meet us at The Capri to see Away We Go Saturday evening. I wasn't excited about it, but I figured it would be tolerable. It looked like, if not a full-blown chick flick, at least a chick-ish flick. IT WAS GREAT! Funny as hell. John Krasinski from The Office and Maya Rudolph and Jim Gaffigan (funny dude, small part) and some actress I wasn't familiar with, but who was hilarious. The music was incredible, too. Not a bad moment in the soundtrack.

Woodstock this weekend and Gimme Shelter after that. Looks like a Capri-athon for me. My wife and Woodstock are about as estranged a pair as Mel Gibson and kosher food. She won't be attending. Looks like a guys' night out unless I can find an old hippie girl to drag along. I can't believe Mrs. Taterhole doesn't want to see it. Yes I can. Mud, music, long hair, drugs. That's 4 things she was never into. Probably not her kinda flick.

Rain, Biscuits, BBQ, Quebecans(?) and More Rain

My son and I attended a Montgomery Biscuits game Thursday night. Not much offense, a good bit of rain, a 9th inning RBI single, and the Biscuits beat the Huntsville Stars, 2-1. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. My boy had never been to Dreamland BBQ (a terrible failing on my part...I was a bad dad) so we shared some ribs before the game. He's now a Dreamland fan.

Are these Abrams tanks? Or some other armored, propelled gun on the train behind the left field fence?



Yesterday, the wife and I took my son, his wife and my gorgeous baby granddaughter to The Shed in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. We met some family and friends there and chowed down on a ton of great food.

The trip down to the coast was nasty. Heavy rain would blast us every 15 minutes or so like clockwork. We stopped at one point to rest a minute and I told started walking over to some motorcyclists to see where they were heading. My wife told my son that I do this every time I see bikes. After meeting the riders and thoroughly enjoying my conversation with Marie, I told my wife, "That's why I always talk to folks. You never know what you might miss if you don't speak to people."

Marie, 2nd from right, told me they were riding from Quebec to New Orleans. They had 14 days to travel and had been riding a rain-soaked Blue Ridge Parkway the day before. Marie was riding a Kawasaki, her dad and mom were on a Yamaha FJR, and their friend was riding a new Harley. Only Marie spoke English. As I failed to notice the Quebec license tags when I first spoke to them, I had been a little confused by the fact that no one spoke, other than Marie. They just smiled a lot. Marie served as interpreter and I enjoyed every minute of our conversation.

I felt terrible that they were encountering so much rain, since, prior to this past week, we'd had so much beautiful weather. We discussed the merits of different rainwear and the failure of her dad's rainsuit to do its job properly. I have yet to test my new Frogg Toggs suit. I finally got fed up with the heavy suit that I'd had (you tend to sweat so much in most bike raingear that you may as well not wear anything), so I bought a Frogg Toggs set. I'd met a couple on a Gold Wing years ago who had on these light, thin suits and they told me they worked well. They were FTs, so, when Bass Masters had a sale, I grabbed a suit. Guess I need to head to Tampa or the mountains soon and give it a workout.

After parting company with my new French-Canadian friends, we continued to plow through torrential rain. The 4Runner was packed to its limit, with baby, mom and dad, my wife, and the rear loaded with baby's needs. We had a good time the whole day, in spite of the rain. Arriving at The Shed, just off I-10 on Highway 57 in Ocean Springs, we saw that we hadn't been lied to by friends who'd been there before. The place is a conglomeration of tin, scrap wood, and Christmas lights! Cool as hell. And Buddy Guy will be there next month (or Sept?)as part of a Shed Bluesfest. I may have to go back. Especially if this employee is working:

We ordered a huge pile of food and went nuts. My wife and I shared a slab of babyback ribs slathered in a sweet, brown sauce. Actually, shared may be the wrong term. She ate a couple of ribs. I ate the rest. A Red Sox fan at another table gave up trying to eat all of his order and gave me his unopened baked beans, cole slaw and potato salad to add to our feast. Hell yeah!