Well, I'll be damned...

 I can still access this sordid clambake!  I may have to start relaying my thoughts to the desperate masses again.  We shall see...

At the Risk of Making Myself Look Less Than Brilliant...

I've never had a problem with making fun of myself if I think it will make someone smile.  That hasn't worked out so well as far as my "career"...or my life in general.  That being said...

 

My back has been wrecked for the last week. At times I can barely walk. I had to cancel my ride to Tampa knowing that, even if I made it there without crippling myself, I'd be miserable company for Josh's family once I arrived. That said, I felt better this morning, so I decided to ride to work.,..to see how my back felt on the bike.

Had my thick lined jeans on over my slacks, heavy leather jacket, winter gloves...all my riding crap...when I decided to adjust the throttle rest thingie that FINALLY arrived from China* yesterday. I had put it on the throttle grip this morning. It was positioned slightly askew, so I grabbed it wearing my thick gloves and wrestled with it. I had cut the bike off, of course, so as not to rev the engine to a level that would wake any unemployed denizens of Millbrook. When I punched the starter button after my adjustments were done....nothing. I got lights on the dash...but nothing. Okay. This happened once before. Loose battery cable, no doubt. Shit. I had put the rear seat and backrest on for my now cancelled ride to Tampa. Can't get to the battery without removing the seat. Can't remove the seat without removing the backseat. Take off backseat. Take off seat. Stash screwdriver in mounting hole for rear seat. Grab screwdriver to take off CPU and battery cover. Something drops into tiny crevice. What was that?! I know I need it whatever it is. Crap, it's the little threaded sleeve from the hole to mount the backseat. It stuck on the screwdriver when I pulled it out to tighten the cables...that didn't need tightening. Dig it out in abject fear of it slipping thru cracks and winding up god knows where.  Battery cables are fine...tighten them anyway. Must be a fuse. Take off side cover. Pull fuses one by one and check them. All look fine. Confusion reigns. WTF is going on? I push bike from behind wife's Pilot in case I have to leave it 'til I get home to check things again. Shannon's standing out there freezing while I'm sweating. I stare at bike for long time. I have allen wrenches and screwdrivers all over the driveway, seats tossed here and there. I look at throttle grip. Holy f*#k! My kill switch is on. With my heavy gloves on, struggling to adjust that $2.00 part, I had pushed the killswitch on. Flip it off. Bike fires right up.

I've spent 45 minutes laboring over the damn thing, when all I had to do was flip the damn switch. ALWAYS CHECK THE OBVIOUS FIRST.

On the positive side, I don't have to be concerned with my battery cables loosening for quite some time and I know all my fuses are happy little fellas. And my chiropractor will repair me Friday.

*Ordered this thing on ebay and was assured it shipped on Oct 11th and would arrive before Oct 25th, in plenty of time for my trip. When it hadn't shown up by the 25th, I contacted the seller and was told it shipped on Oct 17th and might take 25 working days because of "customs problems". Asking for patience, the seller assured me, his "dear friend", that I would be compensated my $4 if the chunk of plastic failed to arrive within next millenium. As I said, it arrived yesterday, in time for the since cancelled ride to Florida. Oh well.

Bruce In His Element

It appears that I can no longer add to the original piece about ol' Bruce, so, as I find photos, I guess I'll just add them in new posts.

This is the perfect shot of Bruce...at his stereo, surrounded by his music, CD in hand, about to put on some tunes as we either play ping pong or thump football.  Seems like every time I went to his house, he was either sitting at the stereo or, in later years, at his computer fooling with the music.  He's wearing one of the Grateful Dead shirts I used to sell.  Often, when he wore this Jerry Garcia shirt, people would ask him why he had a pic of himself on his shirt.  When that hair was long and going wild, he damn sure did resemble Garcia!

I see a Treat Her Right album in the background, a Gate Band CD, a blues collection on top of one stack of CDs, and a Blind Boys of Alabama on top of the middle stack.  These old eyes can't make out anything else.

Let's see...open his door, "Whatcha doin'?", "Got a beer?",  "Let's go ride around."

Good times.

Wagner, ODU, EQT

http://grooveshark.com/#!/s/Tannhauser/2KmC7q?src=5 Other than cartoons, this piece was my introduction to classical music back about 1970 or so. Lee Pratt played this for me and Bruce at Lee's brother's house (the brother who later taught at Old Dominion...to whose home we hitchhiked thru the Smokies.) Same day I was made aware of Eric Quincy Tate.

In View of the Bobby Petrino Fiasco...

...and all other instances of football coaches, politicians, and other men in positions of power getting into trouble with hot, young girls...

I just wanna say I appreciate every POA I've ever gotten. Not a single one of you girls could have possibly assumed I had any money or power!

Posters From My Younger Daze

This Zappa poster came with the LP. Still have it framed and hanging in my "shed".

Last time I remember seing this great poster it was hanging in my "hobbit house" on Paterson Road. I need to look for it.

Not sure if I still have this one. It was huge.

Thought this was so cool. Shook folks up. I found one last year to replace my original.

Still have this one, too. My copy is more light orange.

I FOUND IT!

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/albumreviews/black-sabbath-vol-4-19721207?print=true

I've always recalled the reviewer's line about "Quaalude popsicles". That sums up Sabbath, doesn't it?

What a review! I doubt this guy was ever published again...but he probably didn't care!

Damn, Rolling Stone! Spent more time in the AUM library reading it than I did studying. And here I am today! All that wasted brilliance! "You're gonna be an engineer." "You'll be a great writer." "You're gonna go far, young man."

BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Black Sabbath, Vol. 4

Black Sabbath

by: Tom Clark

As the Sabs poured into "Wheels of Confusion" like giant gobs of wet cement gushing from the heavens in the never-ending sameness of a taffy-pull performed by mutants, people began pouring into my house. One by one they instantly began digging the Sabs, nodding, heavy dudes one and all. Everyone picked up that old Sab neck-wobble trip where your head sort of rocks back and forth on your neck python-fash, right? Where the organ comes in over the big slow power chords; no it's not an organ, call it a component, yah, straight out of the Middle fucking Ages! Sorta walks right on out. Like some giant prehistoric plant learning how to walk ... right over your house ... so boogie while you can. But you can't lose that dyno chthonic zoomout riff 'cos it's right there in the middle of the next song, "Tomorrow's Dream," which got us so zonked we felt absolutely heavy. The cat did too. Then on into a foxy sorta Carole King piano folk song or something, whew, "Changes," kind of David Bowie we guessed, hey orchestra right? What? Went its evil way? Ooh. The room got kind of deep and spacey, brown all over, and the notes then sounded sorta while coming out of that ... y'know? Like a snowfall? It went on forever. We could dig it. Like we dig chewing gum made out of caulking compound. Right? So then can you conceive of a piercing tone followed by reverberating percussion noises called "FX," huh, that was the next tune, then we got tight with some heavy familiar Sab vibes again, swimming right up there to deep space where nothing hears or talks, right? "Supernaut." My sister had a vision of electronic buffalo ranches on Uranus, so help me. The drum solo in this song did it to her. Also, my watch stopped. But the Sabs didn't. Who needs a watch? I ripped it off my wrist & stomped on it. Slowly. Crunch. Side one groaned to a close, but soon side two followed it, without delay adhering to the walls of one's septum — the total "icicles in my brain" riff — right — "Snowblind," no less — climbing those big staircases made out of vanilla fudge, right up into your mind — so feed your nose, hey? God's a Fuzz Tone, right? The Abominable Snowman? Hey. La Fucking Brea! The tar pits was a heavy scene, right? Ask Freud or Dave Crosby. What a streaming feast of nerve gobble anyhow! But on with the snow, I mean show. Time for a Pez break. Whew. Monster slowness of the unelusive strikes again: "Cornucopia." I about fell out. Ten-ton dogs snarled in the mouth of the volcano. Storms of liquid metal blasted their way into the soap factory. Soaring zoos, etc. Then on to babies' time; breakfast on a sleigh in Hawaii with violins, titled "Laguna Sunrise." All sweet lime stripes across a popsicle spiced with Quaaludes, right. A million artichokes can't be wrong. Dreaming in the sun with their eyes open? Sweet music must end. Grunting, we tumble on into the new dance craze, you guessed it, "St. Vitus Dance." You drive me nervous. Pieces of hair got into my mouth during this one. Same old power saw on Venus move, lovely. "Under the Sun" starts out slow, like dinosaurs yawning, then it speeds up a little. Or does it? I can't tell. Fantastic four-second guitar solo by a gorilla in there somewhere, right — beautiful — gorilla! The Sabs pour it on, man, it's right near the end of the record now and here's a great three-second drum solo by a polar bear, no shit! Put mud in my ears if I lie! I can dig it! Great buncha chords there too, I couldna chose better myself, whew, we're thudding down toward the ultimate rip chord now. Gotcha. Over and out. Molten rocks hurtling across space imitating the origin of the universe, you dig? Ah, lay those chord slabs on my grave ... whew.

Update on Mole Relocation/Extermination Process

I use the term 'relocation' because the plan for this coming spring is to kill all the grubs, thus depriving the molemen of their food source. I assume once the food supply is cut off, the moles will see fit to move on to a neighbor's yard where they can tunnel their little asses off for all I care.

In the meantime, that damn worthless mole trap's kill count remains at 1. However, on a potentially promising note, two months ago we procured an insane half beagle/half Tasmanian devil puppy who appears to be fond of mole pursuit. To my knowledge she hasn't caught any of the critters yet, but she has turned my backyard into an almost exact replica of the World War I Battle of Passchendaele. Her trenches are quite accurate from what I can ascertain looking at old maps and charts. On more than one occasion, I've seen what appears to be troops moving through the labyrinth. This is a photo I took in the gray of morning the other day.

IDing Song Drove Me (and a few others) Freakin' Nuts

Sent a song to a pile of friends recently. It was on a CD I'd made of various and uh sordid artists some time back and I couldn't recall who it was. So I enlisted the aid of twenty or so friends. I'd done the ol' lyrics search and come up empty. Had someone with that Shazam app hold their phone up to the speaker to nail it down...crappo! Nuthin'. How can that possibly be in 2011?! I mean you can find anything on the interwebbies!

Well, at 3:52 this morning (which coincidentally is one digit higher than the incredible 351 Cleveland engine that was in my father's 1970 Mustang Mach I) it came to me and I sat up in bed, startling Chloe (new pup) out of her snoring stupor. I knew what that damn song was! It's a song by the Dawn Barham Band. I met Dawn at the Howlin' Wolf Museum fundraiser I attended several years ago in West Point, Mississippi. She was at Harrell's Barn milling about with all the West Point upper crusts...and me. How the song's lyrics escaped all the lyric searches I don't know. You'd think either the lyrics would show up somewhere on the internet or Shazam woulda nailed it, but who GARA now!

Dawn's band now is the Juke Joint Gypsies and you can check them out on ReverbNation if you are so inclined. (I have no idea what the angle you are at has to do with any of this...)

I'd like to express my sincere thanks to everyone who made the effort to ID the song. William Mc and Bill S in particular. I know that Willie Mac went to ridiculous lengths to ascertain the artist's name, even ruining his weekend by devoting 24/7 shifts to the task. I can't replace the time he lost, but I will buy him some wings...someday...maybe...probably not. But I do appreciate the work he put in.

What a past week. Tim Tebow walks on water, drones turn themselves in to the Iranians, someone named Newt threatens to become president, and I finally remembered the performer of that song.

Cool.

There's One Less Mole in the World - FINALLY!

His new tunnel was at least my 15th target. I'd moved the trap just yesterday to a brand new pathway and, by god, this time I won! You see, the little bastards have no idea how persistent their pursuer is. The damage these guys are doing to the lawn had to stop. I wasn't quitting. The trap had sprung once before, but when I pulled it from the tunnel months ago, it was bereft of mole. Not this time. You goofed, you little POS.

I was playing with Turd Ferguson this morning. It was chilly as a blast of Yankee air came visiting last night. I love the cold and Turd was bouncing around like a puppy when I let her out. On my days off, I generally either get out on the bike real early or, after feeding Ferg, I wander the backyard, picking off the spent rose heads, saying hello to all my plants and flowers, and stomping down mole tunnels. It's what old farts do. I'm sure the neighbors hear me muttering about the tunnels and giving Turd tips on how to kill moles. She used to at least attempt to nail them, but, after digging many unsuccessful holes, she gave up.

As I neared my shed on the last leg of my backyard rounds, I saw that the trap was sprung. It's a strong trap. When it slams shut, it slams hard. But, looking at its design, it's always appeared to me that as a mole pushes upward and triggers the thing, at best, the mole would be momentarily trapped between the two ends of the contraption. A quick side dig would allow the mole to carry on his merry way. As I pulled the trap from the ground this time, my heart fluttered a bit as I tugged at the earth. I see grass...sand...dirt...MOLE! HOLEY MOLEY! There's a damn mole in the trap! A certain trap owner who'd written glowing reviews of this trap on Amazon (I'm sure he must be the owner of the company that produces them) had recommended having a shovel nearby, as oft times the varmint will not be dead and can escape as you pull him out. So I was ready, but this li'l mole had the misfortune of the trap snapping his spine. He was a goner. He was cold and he wasn't going anywhere.

I dusted some of the sand from his little face. Moles ain't cute. Well, they have little pink feet and a pink tail, but their lack of eyes somehow makes me feel less evil for wanting them to die en masse. It's not that I want all sightless creatures to perish, but the wee fellow simply had no personality. And I think that's partly due to his lack of eyeballs.

So finally, after 4 months, I have my first trophy mole. I have 6 more regions/districts (I'm not sure what the moles call them) to purge of the little bastards. As sad as the recent photos of all those beautiful tigers and lions lying together dead in Ohio were, I'd love to see 6 or 7 moles laying side by side breathing no more. I'm not optimistic, but I'm going to ride this high for a while and get really aggressive. I may hang this one near a highly populated area so the others can see their impending fate. Wait, they can't see. Hmmmmm...I could put Braille notes in all the tunnels...

My young neighbor has never seen a mole and has been anxiously awaiting this moment. I've emailed her that she can finally gaze upon the rarely seen critter when she gets home this evening.

I am crossing this subterranean ghost off my list of seldom seen monsters: the yeti, Nessie, the chupacabra, and Phyllis Diller remain, but at least one mole has been spotted, knocked off, and will destroy that section of my yard no more.

Riding Yesterday

Sometimes in life you hit that spot where everything falls into place and is absolutely perfect.

I fixed the problem with my bike the other day. Spark plug wire problem. I'm not a mechanic (far from it!), so I was real proud of actually getting in there, digging around under the seat and tank and correcting the skipping I'd been occasionally experiencing. It's now running so strong that it's ridiculous. Yesterday I rode EVERYWHERE. The last part of my ride was down this road toward Hayneville that we rode a million times as high schoolers to a friend's farm to party. It's got lots of curves and undulations ... swoops ... areas where the dips are long and smooth. A coworker I described this road to called me and my bike an "asphalt dolphin". It's almost orgasmic in the spacing and feel. I wasn't even "of the earth" whilst flying through there yesterday. I don't guess that woulda worked out so good if a pickup truck had pulled out from a side road, but things went well. Perfect day, perfect temp, and the bike running so well. Nothing could mess it up...except I kept being pissed at Bruce for not being around to ride in the truck and listen to music with me! He and I had ridden the roads I was on so many times...

Anyway, I rode the interstate home...making sure everything was running right up to 90 mph and then back down. Aaaah....perfect. Got home, parked it, and stepped back to admire the beautiful machine that had transported me to an ethereal place just moments before...and saw a f**king nail in the rear tire!

Gotta get something done about that. Shit.

Moles, You Are Gonna Die!

I am beginning a new stage in my mission to destroy the mole/vole population in our yard. They are waaaay outta hand at this point. The front is currently under assault, and that's the last straw. I've worked too hard creating a beautiful lawn to put up with this shit any more. I've spent mornings and evenings crushing tunnels out back. I mashed at least 30 feet of tunnels just this morning in the backyard where the little bastards have run wild for months. It's over. They are going down. In the recent past I've run a hose from my truck's exhaust pipe into tunnels to no avail. I have poured gas into them. I have flooded them with rushing torrents of water. I can't use bait out back for fear of harming my dogs and it's failed miserably out front.

After exhaustive research I have ordered this product: Mole trap Amazon

Read some of the first review of this product. The guy is hilarious. But more importantly, it appears this trap will get the job done. The reviewer has become a mole serial killer. I wanna be like him. I wanna be the John Wayne Gacy of mole killers. The Ted Bundy. The Henry Lee Lucas. If I fail to wipe out our clan, I will hire that guy.

It's on, folks. The moles are going down.

Stay tuned. I will report on the efficacy of this trap. The Ray Charles, Jose Felicianos, and Stevie Wonders of the undergound are doomed.

Running the Stadium Steps

Ford must be proud.

Stanhope Elmore's mascot.

The new fieldhouse from the stadium.


About two weeks ago, I embarked on a serious exercise program . The purpose is to see if I can muster the discipline to stick with anything long enough to actually see some results. I'm doing 600-1000 of my modified crunches daily and I run the stadium steps at the nearby high school as often as I can get over there. On the second day that I ran I saw a guy in the school's tee shirt mowing the football field. I figured I should ask him if it's alright to be running up his stadium's tiers. He said, "Sure, knock yourself out." I told him that was exactly what I feared most.

Yesterday, I pushed it. I know it doesn't sound like much, but there are 34 steps which I take two at a time in my rush to the top. Generally after 4 trips, I can lean on the railing at the top and feel like I'm going to either explode or flip over the top. Look, I'm freakin' 56, almost 57, and I spent a lot of years abusing every organ, muscle, and joint in my body. Well, yesterday, I made 6 trips to the top row.

I woke up in a crumpled blob this morning. I was laying at the bottom row of the upper level of the stadium. Apparently I fell and passed out. No one spotted me, or, if they did, they laughed at the old man and went on their way. I was awakened by a chicken. It licked my face, I got up, ran the steps again, and hustled home to shower and get to the office.

It seems that, in the short time I've been doing this new batch of exercises (as well as eating so much lettuce that I crap every 15 minutes) my belt has already moved over a notch and my jeans are saggy. Between the crunches and the steps and the salads, I may get rid of this gut. I thought I saw a muscle in there this morning, but it must have been the outline of my liver throbbing from past abuse.

Barney and Mom and Horst

I believe it was around the time of my dad's death that I became aware of Barney Cargile. Mom must have shown me his gravesite in the small, rural cemetery where we buried my father. Turns out Barney was the love of my mother's life (I found this out years later.) They grew up near one another and were crazy in love with intentions to marry when he got back from the war. I found a few pics of Barney a long time ago and became interested in him.

Just recently I found a nephew of his. I sent the pics to him and he responded with a few shots of Barney's funeral. He knew very little about his uncle and nothing about Mom. Barney had attended school at Auburn and done officer training at Notre Dame and Columbia. Apparently he was a pretty sharp dude. On Barney's headstone was a ship and mom told me he'd been killed in WWII off Anzio during the invasion of Italy by the Allied forces. His ship was actually an LST, which sailors said stood for 'Large Slow Target'...and it was an easy mark for the Germans. 

Noting the headstone's ship had a number on it, a friend and I wondered if it was actually Barney's ship designation or maybe a generic image used on lots of sailors' headstones. Simultaneously we Googled the info and were stunned with what we found: scads of information on the sinking of the LST, the rescue of survivors, and the German sub that sank her.

On the 20th of February 1944, Barney Cargile's LST was about 44 miles off Anzio when a German sub commanded by Horst Arno-Fenski fired a torpedo at 1:57 a.m. The torpedo ripped the bow off the ship. A second torpedo 20 minutes later split the LST in half and she sank to the bottom. 24 men on board died...Barney among them. Most of the 75 or so survivors were badly burned..

So the man my mother intended to marry wasn't going to come home. Since mom's death I've learned of how severely this affected her life. I guess we all wish we'd known more about our parents when we could have talked with them. Regardless, Barney's death apparently was absolutely devastating to my mother. 

Now the part of this story that gave me chills: when I was checking out info about the submarine commander, Horst Fenski, who sank the ship and killed my mom's husband-to-be, my eyes bugged out when I saw where he was born: Konigsberg, East Prussia. That's the home of my granddad. My father's dad came from there. The city is now known as Kaliningrad and is part of Russia.

Let me make this real clear: the German who killed the man my mother was to marry was from the same town as her future husband/my father's dad. At 2 in the morning, in the dark and the cold, a German who was from the same town as my dad's dad was slipping around under the waters of the Mediterranean Sea and torpedoed the ship that my mom's husband-to-be was on. Clear?.

Holy smokin' penguin balls! How the hell does something like this unfold?!?! Now, do I owe a debt of gratitude to Fenski? If he hadn't killed Barney Cargile, I wouldn't be here. Yet I have this admiration for Mr. Cargile.

http://www.wrecksite.eu/wreck.aspx?13741

https://uboat.net/allies/merchants/crews/person/24171.html

https://www.tracesofwar.com/persons/30106/Fenski-Horst-Arno.htm

Horst Fenski.

Fenski's sub in northern Italy.

Barney (right) and his brother, Robert.

Fenski (center), 25 years old...captured.

Location of sinking off Italy's coast.

Fenski's U-Boat.


Barney's LST.

Potential Demise From Food Tampering

Not that the cereal itself isn't capable of causing a painful death (or at least so many bathroom visits that you'd wish you were dead), please be aware of the following incident:

I grabbed my just purchased box of Kellogg's Fiber Plus Berry Yogurt Crunch about 30 minutes ago. Upon opening the cardboard box's sealed top, I noted that the inner liner bag was wide open. There was/is an odd crumby patch at the top on both the front and back of one corner. Hmmm...I suppose the prudent thing to do would be to return this to Wal Mart. However, the line at the customer service area is generally 20 deep and populated by people returning everything from Kleenex to lawnmowers to DVDs they've just finished ripping. Screw it...how much cyanide could someone dump into a box of cereal when Wal Mart's aisles are teeming with munchkins knocking box after box of Froot Loops onto the floor? So, after debating: painful cyanide death/going to Wal Mart...I opted to risk death.

I sampled a flake. The cereal was perfectly crunchy and fresh, so I ate two large bowls of my possibly tampered with Fiber Plus. So far, so good. However, if anyone finds me writhing in torment on the kitchen floor, please either drag me into the bathroom...or call the morgue.

NOTE: As I am adding this info today, apparently the tampering involved either a very slow-acting agent...or there was no tampering at all. I have survived and will continue to chow down on the contents of the box.

Bruce

Bruce's favorite pic of him and Stephanie. Jennifer got this to me.


Bruce let me paint a huge "walking eyeball" on the roof of his VW bug. This was the Beetle with the hole in the floor, Donna.


Capitol Oyster Bar. I believe Delta Moon was playing this night.

Prior to Bruce's 1st wedding.

Tuscaloosa. Shannon, Debbie (Cook) Poe, Bruce, Jimmy Shashy, and George Poe. Debbie and George came in from Oklahoma for the OU-Bama game.

Lane Young, Bruce, and my beloved Bronco II. We were on one of our excursions into Lowndes County.

Donny Johnson, Bruce, and me at BG's 2nd wedding.

Bruce and Steve Richardson when we played on the 5 Kings softball team.


That's Jake in the foreground with Jack at our Posey's Crossroads place. Bruce, Bobo Arrighi and Billy Weldon under the tree.

Bruce and Donnie at Bruce's house. We did enjoy a cold Bud from time to time.


Brad Richardson, Steve R, Jimmy Bowles, and Bruce.

Josh (background), Ray Ledford, and Bruce at Donna's house.


Brew Pub.


Gail visited a few years back.


When we went to Cincinnati.


Peter Shashy, Sherry Case, Doug Brown, Bill Pepper, me,and Bruce.


Shannon and BG.

Bruce and Derilyn at Marc Yeoman's farm maybe fall 2009(?).

Deri, Marc, Bruce, and Alex.

This was my first visit out to Marc's new place. Derilyn, Bruce and I rode out to see him.








There's no way I can sit down and transfer to this blog all the things flying around in my head about ol' Bruce right now. I have yet to accept that he's really not gonna be there when I pull up in his driveway or when I call to see if he wants to get out for a while to listen to music. What I'm going to do is post pics as I can. I may never be able to post the things that need to be said about him. I don't know if this format trivializes a life that was so important and so good. For now, the photos will have to suffice. If I ever get to where I feel comfortable writing about the guy, I'll do so. Right now, his death seems completely surreal and impossible to comprehend. He deserves more than a piece in a blog. He deserved far more than he received at his funeral. Those who knew Bruce...aka "Goose Burley" aka "The Gurley Mon" (my sons liked to call him that) aka BOG (Big Ol' Gurley as Lane and I called him), enjoy the pics for now.

He was my best friend for nearly 40 years. He was my big brother. He was a month younger than me, but he was my BIG brother! No telling how many times he got my stupid ass out of a crack. He was supposed to always be there. No way he was going to be the first to go. We talked about being old men sitting around some restaurant bitching about sports, music, and women. I take that back. Bruce was always a gentleman when it came to women. He would never say anything personal about a girl he cared about. He was decent when the rest of us were animals. He cringed when I was crude in the presence of ladies. Or if a girl was being " discussed", he'd defend her virtue. I never heard him say anything off color about a woman. Never! In 40 years!

I wish I had a photo of the look on his face when I told him our destination had changed for our trip to sell the tee shirts I designed when the Bengals were playing the 49ers in the Super Bowl. The original plan was to sell shirts in Miami, where the game was being played. But, unbeknownst to Bruce, I decided we would go to Cincinnati instead. He came to his door in shorts. I suggested he grab a coat. In Cincy, I stood in snow blowing sideways with my shirts while Bruce, wearing several tee shirts and sweatshirts, glared at me from our rented van.

When we'd come across some awesome music, we'd call each other and jump in the car to ride around and check the new stuff out. Between the two of us, we figured we had virtually every album, tape, and CD ever produced. I imagine we've contributed mightily to the gas problems we're about to face. There's no telling how many miles we logged out in Pike Road and Lowndes County and out Butler Mill Road, Hickory Grove Road, Hillabee Road, Ada-Union Academy something or other road, out toward LeGrand and Grady and Petrey. And now...how am I gonna ride those roads without him sitting to my right?

We must have played a billion games of ping pong and thump football over the years. I can still see Bruce ducking as I fired a ping pong paddle toward his head after a particularly intense game when I lived in Shopton...down in Bullock County. The paddle went through a rather expensive piece of glass in the front door of an old plantation house I was renting. Bruce was really quick back then..the big guy could move.

We used to "argue" about WWII a lot, too. His mom is British and my dad was German. We'd get into it about the Battle of Britain and the whole Brit-German aspect of the war. It was always me saying "We'd have kicked your ass if the oil and steel hadn't run out." Bruce always grinned and got the last word: "Who won?"

This is awkward. The thought of this being on the internet is at once, both wrong and right. He was a very private person and I don't feel comfortable discussing him in such a public arena; yet he was such a great human being...which was barely mentioned at his funeral (partially Donnie's and my fault, because, when asked by Stephanie if we'd like to say something, neither of us felt we could get a word out without breaking down)...that maybe this is the only way to allow folks a glimpse at the gentle, caring, big-hearted, giving man he was. Jake and Josh always considered Bruce their uncle. I told him a million times I wish I'd been 1/10 the father to my boys that he was to Stephanie. Anyway...I feel extremely privileged to have been a friend of Bruce's.

As I said, I'll add photos as I come across them. I don't have a ton, though. Hopefully, other friends will post pics or get them to me to post. I'll note where they came from if they're not mine.