Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.
I’ve decided that I’m allergic to my facial hair. And that, in and of itself, is an odd thing to know about myself, because for years I couldn’t stand facial hair. Not a goatee, not a moustache, not the hint of a 5 o’clock shadow. It seems that, without even realizing it, though, that I’ve changed my mind on the issue. Out of nowhere it seems I sprouted a full beard, and kept it. Until it started itching, and I had no choice but to shave it. When I did, I realized why I’d allegedly grown one in the first place: I was fat. Somehow,...
After that, I ate my chocolate cobbler in silence.
This past Sunday, my youngest nephew, Wynn, who by the way is a few months shy of three and has already rightfully earned the nickname of “Chunk,” turned to me and asked for coffee. “What…did you…say?” I implored of him. “Coffee,” he responded, and then with a nod of the head as if recognizing that he’d forgotten the magic word, added, “pease?” It’s always precious when the little ones remember that fading concept known as “manners.” But, precious aside, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I went in search of his mother. She wasn’t a bit thrown off by what I felt had...
“I’m the freaking boss of TV, just so you know.”
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, family, humor
I’ve made no little secret about the fact that growing up, as I did, the television was not the center of the universe. Not in our house. It was carefully guarded: it and all its wonders of delicious and suggestive programming. The only television station that I was allowed to watch, almost entirely on my own and un-chaperoned, was good, old PBS. And, oh, how I watched it: Letter People, Clyde the Frog, Voyage of the Mimi, and one of my all-time faves, Read All About It. Even learning, early on, how to convince U.L. that some shows were appropriate—How could they...
Nothing but the blood: GamVa.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, humor, life
So, keeping with my character sketches, how about I talk a little about the “partly-fictionalized” portion of my family tree? There are quite a few branches there to be sure, of mismatched friends and who-not I’ve come to claim as family, but it starts further down, at the root, and trust me, it is one hell of a strong one. Her name is GamVa. Short for Grandma Virginia. Who isn’t actually my grandmother. She’s not even really related to me. Not even a little bit. But that doesn’t make her any less “blood” in my eyes. She’s been as indelible a mark in my...
Nothing but the blood: Tigi
Filed under: Deep South, faith, family, humor, life
Kirby thinks I ought to pen a few character sketches for you. He and I were talking the other day and he said it’d be nice to explain who some of these people are that I keep writing about. He said it’d increase reader-interest if I described in some detail the repeated members of my sweet, dogged family I refer to so often in my memoir-esque blog. I think that’s a great idea. For several reasons: first, it’ll certainly help those precious few of you who read this thing with any regularity to have some reference points, and secondly, it’ll be a...
It’s no Gashlycrumb Tinies, but the point is I wasn’t going for that, anyway.
I’ve been having the most interesting, intriguing, and ridiculous dreams lately. Last night, and I was medicine-free, mind you, I dreamed that I was a poet, of sorts, and that I was neighbors to a house. Well, I should say, House. Because this House was alive, a real, bona-fide living House. In addition to that, this House lived in an envelope. That’s right. An envelope. (It is a buyer's market, right?) At any rate, I’d been out of work for some time, and as a favor, the House had hired me to paint a new coat for its exterior. Except, instead of paint, the House had...
Phenergan’s Wake
Filed under: Deep South, faith, family, food, health, humor
I’ve had an ill-behaving stomach, as of late. Which has kept me up at nights, uneasy and nauseous. I couldn’t eat much of anything yesterday; I had to practically force myself to eat the leftover cheese sticks, a bowl of soup, and half a chocolate bar (with hazelnuts). So, I did. But, I couldn’t bear to go another night with fitful sleep; so last night, to combat this, I took a Phenergan. It’s a pill prescribed for upset stomachs, etc. We fear I might have IBS. (That’s quite a conversation-starter, there, is it not?) It took a couple of hours, but it did the...
Pointing, by the way, is not polite.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, food, health, humor, life, theatre
I’ve become a little too close to the janitor, at the college. And it’s not that I mind, not one bit; it’s how we’ve become close that I find amusing and uncomfortable. It involves Miller Light. Sort of. Before I go any further, I want you to be plainly aware that this is not about an academic caste system. And I have a previous story to prove it. Though I rarely tell this story from my Disney Days, prior to having the high-class job of character entertainment and the allure of being an Attractions Host at Disney Studios, I will come clean and tell you that...
Five foods that made me who I am.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, food, health, humor
I’m still stuck on the potato log. Meaning, since confessing to you about my lust and love for the said potato log, yesterday afternoon, I’ve not been able to think about anything else except food. And so, at the risk of offending some of you, I feel I’ve no choice to move myself past this obsessive food-thinking other than to write about it. So, I’m going to spend the next few moments with you, making one confession after another about a few dishes, recipes, snacks, and various other, sundry foods that I not only grew up with, but that, I feel, have defined who...
So, you know…I really like a potato log.
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, education, family, food, health, humor
Is there anything, even remotely, more wonderful than a gas-station-deep-fried potato log? I don't think so. No. I. Don’t. Think. So. I am, personally, mad-dog in love with the potato log. I look upon its tasty goodness as a drowning man would a life raft. (I wrote that and then had this visual of being a drowning man and seeing a life raft and then, in that life raft I saw, like, hundreds of potato logs and my heart started beating really fast and I almost had to take half a Xanax). So, you know...I really like a potato log. It has taken a place of supreme...
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