Where No Man Has Gone Before (My Physical)

The late Lewis Grizzard used to differentiate between being naked and being nekkid. Naked, he said, meant you had no clothes on. Being nekkid meant you had no clothes on and were up to something.

It made for a cute saying, but it ain’t true. You can be naked anywhere, but if you live in the South, and you are not wearing clothes, you’re nekkid. It’s just the way most of us say that word.

So here I am. Nekkid. And for some reason, my doctor has chosen this moment to expound on his son’s college education. Being naked in a doctor’s office means one thing: my annual physical.

So here is a soft-in-the-middle, slowly-balding, pasty white guy just standing there with no clothes on, trying to pretend I’m not uncomfortable while he talks about the cost of education, housing, etc.

I can’t get dressed. There are a couple of things left for him to do that require my nakedness. I once suggested that he let my wife administer the testicular cancer exam. He didn’t go for that.

Frankly, my wife didn’t care for that idea, either.

My physical is otherwise going well. I’m a healthy dude. Sort of. When something goes wrong, I tend to go big: colon cancer, heart disease. Otherwise, my numbers are typically quite good: cholesterol, sugars, heart rate, blood pressure. This visit is no exception.

The doctor is pleased, though he casts a skeptical eye my way as he tells me my liver numbers are perfect. It’s almost as though he suspects I slipped somebody else’s blood in for the screening. Score one for drinking the good stuff, I say.

I am starting to get a little anxious. There’s only one procedure left, and it’s the part I dread the most. In fact, I went so far as to tell my doctor that insurance no longer covers it.

He is unfazed. “Then this will be pro bono,” he says as he puts on the rubber gloves.

I used to complain about this part of the exam when I got home. Apparently, women have their own challenges when it comes to being examined. “Cry me a river,” she said. Believe me, if I thought it would get me out of this, I would.

There’s a lot of science I don’t understand. By pushing a button on my phone, I can ask my cell phone the time, date, stock prices, kickoff time for my favorite team, and what started World War II. Why can’t it tell me how my prostate is?

I ask my doctor that. He agrees it would be helpful but suggests that’s probably not a place I want my cell phone to be.

That’s a really good point.

Facing The Music

There’s something about musicians. We treat them differently. The sins of musicians seem exempt from the scorn and contempt that is heaped upon every day folk, and especially, politicians.

Consider the case of Jared Fogle, the seemingly wholesome (former) Subway pitchman. Jared and his boyish face became an advertising fixture with his claim that he lost gobs of weight eating Subway sandwiches. One day, we wake up to hear that ol’ Jared has some issues.

Subway has fired him, and some rather serious federal charges are still pending.

Those charges – including - possession of inappropriate material involving children – seem to merit his dismissal, but I can’t help thinking, would it be different if he was a musician?

There seems to be compelling evidence that Michael Jackson had at least one inappropriate relationship with a child. Yet, we still play his songs on the radio. Marching bands perform grand choreography while playing his songs at halftime. Indeed, there is still demand for his tunes in advertisements. Michael Jackson is revered as one of the greatest of a generation. Why do we choose not to hold his past against him?

Gary Glitter, same thing. Gary Glitter’s song, “Rock and Roll Part 2” is alive and well at sporting arenas across the U.S. and Canada. You may know it as the song where you shout “Hey!” every so often. Bands love to play it, and loudspeakers blare it to keep the crowds amped up.

Gary Glitter has been convicted and served time for sex crimes. And there are additional similar charges against him even now. Yet, even my beloved University of Georgia still pumps out that song he co-wrote back in the 70s. Billboard magazine estimates that the song still earns around $250,000 a year in royalties, almost all of it from sports venues.

Every problem involving a musician is not pedophilia, of course. And granted, all crimes are not equal. Paul McCartney was arrested in 1980 for bringing weed into Japan. He spent eight nights in jail for that. These days, most of us don’t think marijuana possession should be a crime, so that seems pretty easy to blow off.

George Michael. Arrested for both drugs and “engaging in a lewd act” (albeit with an adult). The drug was pot, and he claims the other charge was the result of being lured in by an undercover police sting. Do we care? Nah. He may not really be our “Father Figure”, but we know all the words to the song.

James Brown. Arrested several times: theft, drugs, assaulting a cop, resisting arrest. Spent time in jail at least twice. We have no problem playing his classic songs. His arrests are viewed now as just part of his persona.

‘Musicians that have been arrested’ is an interesting Google search to kill some time. Justin Bieber, Merle Haggard, Rick James, Ozzy Osborne, David Crosby, Lil’ Kim, Peter Yarrow, Bobby Brown, Kid Rock, Rick James, Phil Spector… the charges run from peeing in public to murder.

Jim Morrison, front man for The Doors, was arrested five times. At least one of the charges was for dropping the F-bomb on stage. That right there is public obscenity, my friends. Or at least that was the charge. I’m trying to imagine a rock concert now without the F-bomb.

Dying appears to help your cause. James Brown, yeah, he had some issues but, man, could he sing. And bust a move! Jim Morrison was a drunk. In death, he is a rock god.

How about Rick James? Forget the draft dodging, kidnapping, and crack-piping. He’s the king of punk funk, dude. Somebody put on “Super Freak” and let’s turn this place out!

So poor ol’ Jared will live in our memories as a guy who rose to stardom for eating fresh and losing weight, then crashing and burning in the shame of the charges he now faces. Can’t help but wonder if it would be different if he had a few hits songs under his belt.

My Press Conference (I Did Not Inhale!)

Thanks for coming to this debriefing on my west coast trip. Some of you are not real journalists, so I’ll start by calling only on credible reporters. Brian?

Brian Williams: Is this your first west coast trip?

Me: No.

Brian Williams: What was different this time?

Me: Weed is legal up and down the west coast. That’s two questions from you. Next?

Dan Rather: Cannabis is only legal in California for medicinal purposes, you know.

Me: True. But from what I observed, 98% of the state’s population suffers from glaucoma.

Maury Povich: Do you have any past relationship with cannabis?

Me: To quote a great American, Lamar Odum, “there’s a lot I don’t remember.” You with the double-wide, you have a question?

Kim Kardashian: Why are the Doobie Brothers called the Doobie Brothers? They aren’t brothers and none of them are named Doobie.

Me: Umm, are there no other ‘real’ journalists here? Go ahead, mustache…

Geraldo Rivera: Since recreational pot is legal in Washington and Oregon, did you buy any?

Me: To paraphrase a great American, Bill Clinton, I went into the store, but I did not buy.

Hillary Clinton: My husband is a liar!

Me: That’s not a question. You, with the cool hair…

Snoop Dogg: I once whizzled on a tizzle in a drizzle.

Me: Fo’ rizzle?

Snoop: Fo’ shizzle, my pizzle.

Me: Next? You back there playing with your tongue…

Miley Cyrus: Back, like, when I was, like, a little girl, my daddy, Billy Ray – did you know my daddy was Billy Ray? Anyway, like, Billy Ray would sing this song to me called, like, Puff The Magic Dragon, and like, it was all cute and whatever. But I got to thinking about it a few years ago, and like, I’m wondering if I should tell him it’s not really, like, a kid’s song or whatever.

Me: I wouldn’t. It would break his achy hea…

Miley: Stop! Like, don’t even! Like, I hate that ******* song!

Me: I miss Hannah Montana. She didn’t have a potty mouth.

Miley: Hey, I offered to keep doing the show, like, if they would let me, like, evolve as a character. Like, changing my name to Hannah Colorado or whatever. That way, I could, like, do grown-up stuff and whatever.

Me: And move in with John Denver.

Miley: Who’s that?

Me: You know, Rocky Mountain High?

Miley: Exactly! Duh!

Kim Kardashian: Can I ask another question? My mom used to listen to this Paul Simon song about when he stepped outside and smoked himself a ‘j’. Does that mean he smoked with Jay Leno? Because Ray J wasn’t alive then, I don’t think.

Me: Anyone else?  You, homeless guy in the back…

Willie Nelson: My tour bus is outside. What say we get outta here and go for a ride.

Me: Got Doritos?

Willie: Bags.

Kim Kardashian: Hey, wait! Before you go, let ask you something. When Kanye says he’s going to roll a fatty, where’s he rolling me to?

Me: Thanks for coming, everybody!

Enjoy Your Flight!

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard. We know you could have flown on any other airline, but that would have cost you fifty cents more, so thanks for choosing us.

And before you blame us for today’s miserable flying experience, isn’t getting there as cheaply as you can the game you play when you spend all those hours on Orbitz and Kayak and Travelocity? We’re simply helping you win that game!

A special shout out to those of you that paid extra money for comfort class. Oh sure, there’s still not enough space to get up and go potty without everyone else on your  aisle getting up too, but there’s room enough for your knees! Think of those poor chumps in the back that will be sitting catty-cornered for the next 5 hours!

Also, a special welcome to those of you that are First Class, Second Class, Gold Plated, Free World, Unified, Dignified or Petrified Club members. And if you’re a Medallion flyer, be sure and upgrade to our Swinging Medallion Club status. That ensures you’ll get a seat on the plane where the headphone jack actually works, and you can listen to music!

Get it? Swinging Medallion… music…? No?

By the way, coming soon is a new class of service called R&R. The first ‘r’ is for ‘rest’, and the second ‘r’ is for ‘room’. Ahhhh, some of you have already guessed it, it’s restroom seating. Scoff if you wish, but it will offer way more seating room than you have right now.

For those of you that aren’t already members of our frequent flyer program, we encourage you to sign up. Every time you fly, you’ll get points you can redeem for stuff. Sometimes. Not always. I mean, you always get points; that’s our way of thanking you for your loyalty. It’s that we don’t just let you use them. Think of it as our “thank you” but with strings attached.

How many points, you ask? It’s difficult to say. Corporate likes to change the rules when it looks like you may actually be getting some benefit from them. But it’s always to your advantage!

For example, we used to offer one point for every mile flown. So if you flew from Atlanta to LA, for example, you would get around 2000 points. But now, we offer you one point for every dollar spent. So if you bought your ATL – LA ticket for $800, you’ll get 800 points. That cheap Priceline-ing rascal next to you that only spent $350 will get only 350 points. See? The more you spend, the more you benefit! You win again!

We do encourage you to buy as many tickets as possible as quickly as possible, as we’re changing our rewards program again next week so that you will only get points for the minutes you spend online booking your flight. But - pssst! - here’s an industry insider secret: type your information in s-l-o-w-l-y. That way, it will take you ten minutes – earning ten points – instead of just five minutes, earning only five points.

Don’t let me catch you sharing that on TripAdvisor!

We will be offering cabin service today. If you’d like a drink , we have those little bottles you pay $1.50 for at the liquor store. We’re selling them for $8. If you’d like food, we’ll sell you a 1-oz. bag of potato chips. Water and napkins are free. We don’t give you extra napkins if you eat the first one.

But hey, whatever you do, please don’t fuss at your flight attendant. You think this is any fun for us? Working those 6-inch wide aisles, pushing that cart saying, “watch your elbows, watch your shoulders, watch your knees” with every step?

Cramped for you cramps us, too. That’s our unofficial slogan.

Besides, they’ve cut our pensions and extended our hours. We’re here to serve you only because McDonald’s isn’t hiring this week.

Hey, but enough about us! This is about you and your experience with us. To help you enjoy that experience, we remind you this is a no smoking flight. Oh sure, there are some ashtrays onboard, but that’s just an indicator of how old this plane really is! Seriously, who remembers when you could smoke on a plane?

While this bird may be old, though, she has been retro-fitted with new seats! As a means of helping get more people to more places and spending less money to do it, we’ve installed narrower seats and added more of them. Now, this will leave those of you with aisle seats tending to lean out into the aisle as a means of grasping for enough space to be comfortable.

Don’t do that. There are people walking sideways trying to get to the bathroom.

Instead, overlap your shoulders with the person sitting next to you. Heck, you’re practically sitting in their lap already. Go ahead and get intimate! Sure, it squeezes you a little but takes the squeeze off our bottom line! Ha ha! A little corporate humor there!

Speaking of corporate humor, a special welcome to those of you that once owned stock in our airline. You know, before we went bankrupt, declared your stock worthless and issued new stock. In a few minutes, our CEO will appear on the screen to tell you how much you mean to us and how much we care.

Enjoy your flight.

A Friend Indeed

Recently, I was recognized for my too-many years on the radio. It’s an annual affair that honors a handful of folk that were incapable of holding down a real job, and therefore, opted to settle for a low-wage gig that made us feel important.

From a post on social media, I learned that Kim was coming.

Kim and I worked together for a few years, but that was probably twenty years ago. During those years, we were decent friends. Not terribly close, but I recall sharing a beer together a couple of times, and we always got along well.

As Kim left the radio station and moved away for a career in something more meaningful, she pretty much slipped off my radar. That happens a lot in radio; people move in and out of the business, often, in pretty short order. Some of those you remember, some you don’t. I wouldn’t forget Kim, but we didn’t stay in touch. We just weren’t that close.

Still, because Kim took a job with a large charitable organization, and my radio work sometimes partnered with her charity, we would bump into one another occasionally. Kim’s smile is 10-feet wide, so it was always nice to see her. We’d hug big, I’d ask how she was doing, she’d ask how I was doing, we’d ask how each other’s spouses were doing, and that would be it for the next five or ten years.

As social media became a gathering place for former cronies to come together, I would occasionally see a post from Kim. They usually involved her dog, but I tend to zone out on dog/cat/hamster/wolverine posts, so I didn’t pay much attention.

But now we have this upcoming event, and Kim was coming. Since she is no longer in radio, I couldn’t imagine why she would be attending, but it made me happy. It would be nice to see her again, and it meant there would be someone to pal around with at this event where I would not know many people.

My wife and I greeted Kim and her husband as they took their seats next to us in the auditorium. I was anxious to know why she was there.

“What’s your affiliation with this event?” I asked.

“You,” she said. “You’re being honored and we wanted to be here for it.”

Hm. Wasn’t at all expecting that.

Here’s someone I’ve seen maybe three times in the last two decades, buying tickets (that weren’t cheap!), driving in from another city, all just to be there to show support.

Hm.

It was a fun night. Besides catching up with Kim, it turns out there were several people there I knew, and we made a few new friends.

I was grateful to be nominated for recognition by the Georgia Radio Hall of Fame. It’s nice to be honored for your work, even if it probably is just because you were able to stay with it for so many years. But the highlight of the night was getting absolutely schooled in what it means to be a friend.

I hope that lesson sticks with me.

There She Is, Miss America!

On the title song of her recent album, Pageant Material, Kacey Musgraves sings about being a southern girl who won’t compete in beauty pageants.

And it ain't that I don't care about world peace
But I don't see how I can fix it in a swimsuit on a stage

It’s a light-hearted song that echoes the sentiment of 99.9% of the female population that feels like they couldn’t win a beauty pageant if they tried. So they joke about them. Heck, we all joke about them.

Some of the ridicule heaped on beauty pageants is deserved. The reality show, Toddlers & Tiaras, was a joke. Oh, the pageants are real, but I’m guessing Honey Boo Boo will have a standing date with a therapist for years to come.

We were channel surfing we when happened up on last weekend’s Miss America pageant. In our twenty-five years of marriage, we’ve never watched a single minute of this parade, yet here we were. Seeing the pageant was down to its final half-hour, we settled in for the finale.

Bonus: Contestants from Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Louisiana were all finalists. It seemed a good bet that the new Miss America would be a Southern girl.

Double-bonus: Miss Georgia Betty Cantrell was a former 4-H’er. As I’ve written before, my wife is a former director of Georgia’s Cooperative Extension Program that oversees 4-H and, she remains passionate about its mission. For that reason alone, Betty Cantrell had to win. She must represent!  

You likely know by now that she did. But let’s double-back to the lighter side of pageants.

“It’s not a beauty pageant, it’s a scholarship pageant.” Many years ago, that line became the pillar and the defense of the Miss America pageant. “This isn’t just about parading beautiful girls across the stage, it’s a display of talent and knowledge, as well.”

Give the contestants their due. Indeed, it takes a fairly well-rounded young woman to compete on the national level. Much work and prep goes into getting your face on national TV. And the stakes are high. As the new Miss America, Betty Cantrell won a $50,000 scholarship.

But while pageant contestants may be the subjects of songs, sitcoms and silly movies, it’s the pageant – the show itself - that’s the real joke.

This year’s Miss America pageant officially apologized to former title-holder Vanessa Williams for stripping her of her crown over thirty years ago after some nude photos of her were published. Good for her that she went about her life, becoming an enormously successful entertainer (with her clothes on), but why the apology? I suspect if similar photos of the new Miss America were to surface, they would again snatch away the crown.

I also suspect that the reason they apologized to Vanessa, gave her a new crown and made her lead judge for this year’s pageant is because she won, anyway. They took away her crown, but she grabbed the brass ring. She succeeded despite the scandal. She became bigger than Miss America or ‘former Miss America’ and the pageant felt it could benefit from her star power.

Questions from the judging panel were off-the-chart odd.

To Miss Georgia: did Tom Brady cheat?

Huh? Does Miss America need to have an opinion on Deflate-gate? I don’t even have an opinion on that, other than, of course, he cheated.

To Miss South Carolina: do you support a ban on military assault weapons?

If I’m Miss South Carolina, I’m thinking, “Whoa. I’m about to lose the Miss America title because I do - or do not - support someone’s right to own an assault rifle.” That’s pretty heady stuff for 20-year old college students.

But hey, it’s not a beauty pageant, it’s a scholarship pageant. One that big chicks cannot win no matter how smart they are or what instrument they play. One that assumes you need scholarship money because that really cute bikini you wore on stage didn’t come from Macy’s, honey!

I like that Miss Colorado thought Ellen Degeneres should be the face on the $10 bill. I like Ellen. In fact, I could support any Ellen: Degeneres, Pompeo, Page, Barkin. If you’re named Ellen, you’re pretty, apparently. Though I realize it’s not a beauty contest.

Damn Yankees!

From somewhere behind us, a golf ball came sailing past as we waited for the green ahead of us to clear. We were on a part of the golf course where you always need to ride up and take a look before hitting your next shot.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pete bellowed to the offending golfer as he approached.

“Sorry, I thought you had moved on,” he responded.

That wasn’t the way Pete saw it. “No, you didn’t! You’ve been pushing us all afternoon. Can you not see that we are waiting on golfers ahead of us?”

The older gentleman who hit into us was playing alone and indeed seemed to want us to let him through, but there was simply no place for him to go. Several holes earlier, he had pulled up to us while we were teeing off, something most golfers do not appreciate. Pete had warned me that if it happened again, he was going to ask the guy to leave.

I suggested to Pete that if it happened again, he should let me handle it. He knew why. He knows he’s a bit ‘direct’ in such situations.

This is not a story about golf. It’s a story about Yankees.

It’s about people who have migrated to the South, yet retained their northern mannerisms: curt, terse, blunt. Because Pete knows he’s a little of all that, he laughed when I tried to call him off. He knew I would handle it more passively.

So why didn’t he let me? Because he’s a Yankee!

Southerners, in general, like to avoid conflict. Sure, you’ve got your factions of fighters, like drunken rednecks. But even they tend to soften up when they sober up.

Northerners, by contrast, almost seem to enjoy being combative. It’s like their way of life is to snipe at one another.

If you are born and raised in the South, identifying someone from this country’s unloved-by-God regions is simple. Just a few words from their mouth, and you’re thinking, ‘you ain’t from around here.’

And manners? Fuhgeddaboudit!

As an example, another golf story (my group has a lot of migrants). Chuck hits an exceptionally good tee shot. “Great shot!” I shout to him. He says nothing as he reaches down for his tee, so I follow-up with some gentle instructions.

“Chuck, this is the South. When someone compliments you, you say ‘thank you.’”

Chuck responded, “Why should I have to thank you for stating the obvious?”

I took out my 9-iron with the intent on teaching Tiger Woods yet another lesson but was held back by others in the group.

The word we’re missing here is ‘genteel.’ It’s a general term for being polite, respectful, graceful, refined.

Know any genteel Yankees?

It’s all about your upbringing. Just as a Southerner can thank his or her mama for raisin’ them properly - with manners, Yankees can blame their mamas for raising them to be social misfits in any place south of Virginia.

That attitude would probably lead some to think us’ns in the South are a clique, but I would argue that we are in fact different, that our interaction with others is handled in a gentler, more respectful way.

I do think Chuck learned a lesson that day: that disrespecting someone who is being nice to you can cause you to have a flat tire. Or two.

Being raised in the north almost seems to somehow corrupt the mind. It’s like they were never taught to play nice. And that never leaves them, no matter how long they live in the South. It’s ingrained.

I have a friend who has lived in Georgia for well over fifty years. He claims that after that length of time, he should no longer be considered a Yankee. Spend five minutes with him, though, and… ‘he ain’t from ‘round here.’

Wesley Snipes’ character in “White Men Can’t Jump” pretty much nailed it: "You can put a cat in an oven, but that don't make it a biscuit."