Category: Commentary

Caption This

One of my favorite bloggers, Ellen Hawley (Notes from the U.K.), recently posted a quirky photo and solicited captions for it. Here’s the link to Ellen’s post: http://wp.me/p4FooO-kN

I submitted a caption, but a winner had already been declared. Story of my freaking life. But two, or two hundred, can play this game, and I vowed to find a photo worthy of captioning. 

I give you:

  
So submit your caption, and we’ll decide on a best one and maybe honorable mentions. There could be medals or trophies or something. 

Criminal Animation

On a typical Saturday morning one would usually find me wandering around Tallahassee or neighboring communities while Studly plays eighteen holes at Southwood Golf Club. I had planned to explore the annual LeMoyne Chain of Parks Art Festival this morning, but a bulging disc (not nearly as glamorous as it sounds) and the threat of rain have kept me homebound. Maybe tomorrow….

I’ve had a couple of cups of coffee enhanced with Irish cream, and a protein bar for breakfast. The forest in my backyard is bathed in that processed chrome lighting that accompanies cloudy days in the Florida panhandle. It looks as though a fae clan might emerge at any moment to dance around the toadstools growing beneath a magnolia tree. I keep watch, just in case.

I’m doing laundry and watching Saturday morning cartoons, and I have a complaint to lodge. Namely, whoever the hell is doing the animation for the cartoon Alvinnn!!! and the Chipmunks should be arrested posthaste and forced to serve a life sentence watching the original series. Maybe he/she/they would learn what Alvin and company should look like and draw them accordingly.

My years spent sitting enraptured by Saturday morning television surely qualify me as an expert in the field of cartoon esthetics, and what I’ve witnessed this morning is a disgrace. So, how do I report this travesty? The chipmunks look like sleazy rodents instead of clean cut, chubby cheeked faux-teenagers. 

Flipping through the channels I find that few of my other cartoon favorites have fared any better. They’re either so heavily computer-generated that they look nothing like the originals or drawn so poorly that their original animators must be rolling over in their respective graves.

Today’s children, though, have been raised on this second-rate fare, plus, they have so many more choices than my brothers and I had with our three channels (ABC, NBC, CBS) that I suppose they don’t realize what they’re missing.

But I do, and it makes me sad. 

 

Now.
 
 
Then.
 

Peace, people.

To Wine or not to Wine

For awhile I gave up wine and took up the drinking of beer. But the really good beer is so high in calories and my waistline was growing at such an incredible rate that I had to follow Nancy Reagan’s advice and just say no.

For about ten minutes I considered completely eschewing alcohol in the pursuit of clean living. I actually went two weeks with nothing more potent than a splash of mouthwash. Unfortunately Listerine doesn’t come in a Cabernet Sauvignon or a Chardonnay. 

For the first time since beginning my blog I stumbled headlong into a mild case of writer’s block. Then I ran across a really profound quote:

 
 I wasn’t doing it right! I was writing sober and left with absolutely nothing to edit.
Good old Papa. He also said:

  
Needless to say I’ve begun having a single glass of wine in the evenings. My doctor says it’s fine. I’m finding things to write about again. Life is good.

  
Peace, people!

Just a Scary Night in Jacksonville

Studly Doright and I drove over to Jacksonville last Thursday afternoon to purchase a 2010 Honda Goldwing he’d found on Craigslist. Even though Jacksonville isn’t terribly far from Tallahassee, Studly arranged to take Friday off from work so he wouldn’t be driving home from Jacksonville on an unfamiliar bike after dark. 

Craiglist purchases always make me nervous. After all, there have been cases in which the person placing the ad just wanted to murder and rob someone by luring them to a meeting spot. As a proactive measure once we got to the designated location I stayed in the running car with my finger poised to dial 9-1-1. Studly shook his head and laughed at me. I get no respect.

Once we had the bike and title in hand, I set the car’s GPS for our hotel address and with Studly following on the Goldwing we set off across Jacksonville. Studly had instructed me not to worry if we were separated, assuring me he’d find the hotel on his own if necessary.

As soon as we got on the interstate a car cut in between us and in spite of Studly’s instructions I slowed a bit to allow him to catch up. Before long I spotted him in my rear view mirror making a move to catch me. Unfortunately, the driver of the car fell victim to a bad case of road rage and I watched in horror as he attempted to intimidate Studly.

Now, my husband is a former motocross racer. His reflexes and instincts are still sharper than those of most people I know, but this angry driver was incredibly aggressive and determined to teach Studly Doright a lesson.

When our exit popped up I hoped this person would stay on the interstate, but no, he came off right behind my husband. We immediately hit a stop light, and the driver stopped beside Studly. I was watching intently in case I needed to intervene. Studly was nodding. The driver was yelling; although, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. 

Apparently, the angry man finally felt vindicated and took a left turn as soon as the light turned green. Studly and I made it to our hotel without further incident. 

Once in our room I asked Studly what had happened. “Oh,” he said calmly, “he threatened to shoot me.”

My knees buckled. To think I’d been so concerned about the Craigslist seller and only mildly worried about the road rage guy. I didn’t sleep well that night. 

In the morning we left the Goldwing at the hotel and headed to a diner for a great breakfast. Much to my surprise Studly suggested we find a beach, so we followed the signs to Hanna Park, a gorgeous two mile stretch of powder soft sand. The tide was out, and we plucked a handful of delicate, intact shells from the beach.   

   
The walk and the clean tang of salt and sea cleared my head. All was right in the world, and I banished the potential violence of the night before from my mind. After taking Studly back to his bike we parted ways for the rest of the day. I drove down to St. Augustine to see what the outlet stores had to offer and Studly headed home to Doright Manor.

I hope that stupid driver came down with a bad case of diarrhea followed by extreme constipation and excessive gas. Otherwise, I wish him well. 

Peace, people.

  

Talking to Myself

Have you ever completed a story or poem and thought to yourself, “Wow! That’s really pretty?”

And then responded, “Thanks!”?

I might’ve just done that.

  
Peace, people!

Take That, Emily!

I went out to fetch our mail last Thursday afternoon enjoying the brief walk up our driveway. We had one catalog and a bit of junk mail in the mailbox. No bills were in the mix, and that’s always a good thing. 

The melodies of dozens of birds mingled on the breeze, and I spoke to a squirrel. They seldom speak back, yet I never give up hope. 

As I headed back to the house I noted a curious clicking noise, perhaps one squirrel scolding another. Instead of going in through our garage I walked around the back of the house, hoping to surprise whatever critter was click clicking. 

The instant I turned the corner I realized what was going on. A big, fat black snake slid away from me, and the birds had been warning one another. I should learn to speak Bird.

For the first time in my life I did not jump or squeal at the sight of the snake. Shouldn’t there be a medal for such an impressive show of bravery? Or at least a round of applause. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Oddly enough I’d had Emily Dickinson’s poem, Snake on my mind this morning, so I snapped a photo of it from the website online-literature.com.

  
I will never be Ms. Dickinson’s equal in the art of poetry, but I calmly faced a snake. Take that, Emily!

The visitor looked much like this guy.  I believe he is a Black Pine snake. Handsome, isn’t he? And quite polite. 
Peace, people!

Sweet Weekend, Part 2

I had so much fun bumming around the Word of [South] festival on Saturday that I couldn’t wait to return on Sunday. Pre-festival I stopped in at one of my favorite eateries, the Crepevine for breakfast and then once at Cascades Park I was immediately handed a free mimosa. Life was good!

Part of me was a little nervous that Sunday wouldn’t be able to compete with Saturday, but that free mimosa totally erased my doubts. I’m uncomplicated that way.

My first stop was to the stage where an act billed as The Sonnet Man was already in progress. http://www.thesonnetmannyc.com  

This young man has set Shakespeare’s sonnets and soliloquies to music, creating “Hip-Hop Shakespeare Fusion.” He was incredibly fun. I loved watching the kids in the audience head bobbing to Sonnet 130. 

Next up on the same stage was musician Jim White, whose debut album, The Mysterious Tale of How I Shouted “Wrong-Eyed Jesus” was the inspiration behind the 2003 doucumentary “Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus.”

 http://www.jimwhite.net 
I became an instant fan of Jim White who bills himself on his website as “songer/songwriter, author, fine art photographer, crackpot philosopher, folk artist, record producer, film maker, dad.” He’s quirky, immensely talented, and might be a little addictive.

  
Jim’s set made me thirsty. There might’ve been alcohol involved, but I had decisions to make. Did I want to listen to Grant Peeples and Tom Franklin or Chatham County Line? Ultimately I flipped a coin and ended up at Grant Peeple’s gig. 

Pictured below is Grant. He’s the bald guy. I didn’t catch his guitarist’s name. A self-described “’vegetarian that watches NASCAR, and tree-hugger with a gun below the seat,’Grant Peeples is known for his axe-sharp socio-political tunes, raucous humor and heart-gigging ballads.”

Watching the crowd as Grant performed, it occurred to me that many in attendance weren’t quite grasping that his lyrics were hitting close to home. He poked pointed fun at the GOP, racists, homophobes, etc., and they loved him. 

http://grantpeeples.com
  
Trading off with Grant was author Tom Franklin, who read aloud excerpts from his novel, Smonk. https://g.co/kgs/uCw4M

I didn’t get to the book tent in time to purchase his book, but it quickly was added to my wish list on Amazon. He writes the south as he sees it, and he sees it clearly. 

Next on my impromptu itinerary was author Adam Johnson. Adam is an FSU graduate with some serious writing credentials. According to Wikipedia “Adam Johnson is a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist and short story writer. 

“He won the Pulitzer for his 2012 novel, The Orphan Master’s Son. He is also a professor of English at Stanford University with a focus on creative writing.”

 
Adam read his short story, Nirvana, and had the audience in the palm of his hand. Check out this man’s work. He is amazing. https://g.co/kgs/ZdTev

You’d think I could’ve gone home happy after all I’d experienced, but like a glutton I stayed for one more author, renowned columnist Leonard Pitts, Jr. Having read Mr. Pitts’s column in the Miami Herald for years I could scarcely believe I was sitting just a few feet from him as he read excerpts from his latest novel, Grant Park.  

  
I was in awe, and pray that I didn’t sit there on the front row with my jaw hanging open like a beached fish during his talk. He also offered his keen insights on the current political climate in the U.S. and accepted questions from the audience. 

As soon as the applause died down at the end of the presentation I sprinted to the book sellers’ tent and bought a copy of Grant Park. 

 
Best of all, I made him laugh when he signed my book. Leonard Pitts, Jr. has a great laugh. Here’s the link to his website:

http://www.leonardpittsjr.com
What an awesome day. I cannot wait to dig into the books I purchased, and I’m already looking forward to next year’s festival.

Peace, and happy reading, people.

Sweet Weekend, Part I

If days were desserts this past weekend would have been a fresh slice of orange sponge cake, piled high with luscious red strawberries and topped with cream cheese icing. It was that good.

After a ridiculously pleasant night’s sleep Friday night (thank you Tempur-pedic!), a refreshing shower, and a hearty breakfast I dressed and headed into Tallahassee on Saturday for the Word of [South] Festival of Literature and Music.

This marks the festival’s second year. I was in La Antigua de Guatemala last April and missed out. Not that I’m complaining. My week in Antigua was the experience of a lifetime. And from what I hear the festival saw its share of rain in 2015.

There was not even a hint of precipitation this time around, though, as authors, musicians, and artists from all over the country shared their time and talents with those of us in Tallahassee. There was something for everyone, from gospel, folk, soul, rock, and jazz on the musical spectrum and every imaginable genre on the literary side.

Cascades Park hosted the event and one had only to walk from one venue to another within the park to experience a completely new vibe. And did I mention that with the exception of two concerts  the event was free of charge? Sweet!   

I wandered aimlessly for a bit before finding a schedule of events for one of the stages.

  
The Biergarten stage was just one of five venues featuring performers. Seeing Rita Coolidge’s name on the list I hurried over to grab a seat. I had no idea who Leslie Poole and Paul Garfinkel were, but I arrived as their set was in progress and fell in love with their words and message.

  
Ms. Poole, the author of several books about Florida, read from her most recent published work, Saving Florida. I’m not a native Floridian, so learning about the efforts of women on the front lines of environmental activism in the Sunshine State was an eye-opening experience. 

Mr. Garfinkel’s engaging folk songs woven around Florida’s delicate ecosystem bestowed even greater weight to Ms. Poole’s vignettes as the two traded places in the spotlight. Their performance was a lively, thought-provoking give and take.

Leslie Poole, left, Paul Garfinkel and his accompanist.

Then the beautiful Rita Coolidge took the stage.

   

Rita, a graduate of Florida State University, read from her memoir Delta Lady, and entertained the crowd with tales of her bohemian days as an art major here. 

Rita, like all of the artists and authors, signed books after her presentation.

 

My friend Julie and her lovely mom enjoyed Rita’s talk with me. We hadn’t arranged to meet at the event; it just happened. Sweet, right?

After Rita’s presentation I had lunch at the Edison and ran into yet another friend, Cathy, who made room for me next to her place at the bar. We then hustled over to another of the stages to hear Diane Roberts read excerpts from her book, Tribal: College Football and the Secret Heart of America.

  

Having grown up in Texas, I could completely relate to Diane’s college football obsession. This woman, a professor at FSU, is hysterically funny. If you have any love for the game you need this book. Even if you despise the game you need this book. 

I knew Studly would be getting restless, so I headed home shortly after having Ms. Roberts sign my newly purchased copy of her book. When I got home he was chomping at the bit to take the Goldwing out for an evening drive, so we suited up (“all the gear, all the time” is our motto) and rode over to Havana for a meal at a local Italian restaurant, providing the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Tomorrow I’ll share photos of Sunday at the festival. I’m still on an intellectual and emotional high after my experiences. 

Peace, people!

New Addition to the Family

We’ve been blessed by the arrival of a new family member–a beautiful 2010 Honda Goldwing:

  

The red bike in the background is my Yamaha Majesty. For the past couple of years it has led a sad life, sitting for months on end without any meaningful trips outside of our garage. Oh, Studly starts it up periodically and takes it for spins around the neighborhood, but the poor dear was languishing for lack of attention.

It’s not that I don’t still adore the bike. She’s taken me on some epic journeys, including a solo trip from Illinois to Texas and back the year I turned 50. But ten years later I’ve noticed that my reflexes aren’t as sharp as they once were, and while I’ve never been a fearless rider, I now find myself a jumpy one. That’s not a good characteristic for a motorcyclist to have.

It seems we’ve come full circle, having had a Goldwing many years ago and selling it when I declared I wanted to be in the driver’s seat on my own ride. It really is all about me. 

Studly is going to sell one of his bikes, and I’m going to sell my Majesty. We’ll still have a small stable of dirt bikes and his beloved Ole ’93.

 

Ole ’93 is Studly’s project bike. He’d part with me before he’d part with it.
  
A couple of our dirt bikes.
  
Studly’s VStrom will also be going to a new home.
 
I’m typing this while drinking a beer and watching Studly check over and polish the Goldwing.  

 I can hardly wait for our first adventure.

Peace, people.