Help Tucker He Knotted His Tie Too Tight

When a pundit starts a phrase with, I’m a Christian, watch out here it comes.

“I’m Christian. I’ve made mistakes. I believe fervently in second chances. Michael Vick killed dogs in a heartless and cruel way. I think, firstly, he should have been executed for that. The idea the president of the United States would be getting behind someone who murdered dogs is beyond the pale.”

Tucker Carlson, on Fox News, sitting in for Glenn Beck.

Wow, I think Mr. Carlson knotted his bow tie too tight and it’s cutting off the air to his head, oh if the problem were that simple. In one breath Carlson believes in second chances, deplores the killing of dogs and promotes the killing of human beings and claims that he believes in the redemptive foundations of following Jesus Christ.

In the quote Tucker is talking about the Philadelphia quarterback, Michael Vick who served prison time for dog fighting, a horrible act by any stretch and president Obama’s praise that he, Vick was given a second chance; something else that Tucker claims to believe in.

So, I’m left wondering, what Bible does Carlson read, and what is really behind his statement of cultural cannibalism, could it be that Carlson has a far more prejudiced agenda at work here? One can’t help but wonder. Perhaps Tucker would like to sit down with me for a bit o' Bible study.

Snakes, snakes, snakes, snakes.

The tone of her voice wasn’t a quite a shriek, but there was definitely a panic like edge to the tone.

“Do you know what was on the deck today? A snake, a serpent was on my deck right in front of the sliding glass door for the living room.”

And so the saga of the spring time Rat snakes began.

For weeks the phone calls bounced between the antics of the snake or snakes that had taken up residence upon or under Marmy and Daddy’s deck and the biddy baby birds that were beginning to hatch also in residence on the deck and the pergola covering said deck.

When I’d tried to point out that birds, especially supple, delectable baby birds bring snakes, that fact didn’t really seem to register or if it did, it didn’t matter.



Of course living in the marshy, humid, sub-tropical climate of eastern North Carolina doesn’t help the snake situation either. The swamps and marshes of the down east empire present a Valhalla for reptiles. The bird, snake situation is further exacerbated by my Marmy, who makes a habit of feeding the birds every other day, so her yard is a veritable Audubon spectacle of avian busyness.

Is it no wonder that word spreads throughout the reptilian community that there is a birdie buffet on East City Road.



Such was the lead up to my Memorial day break at the house on East City Road 2010.

My first morning there was spent in cautious trepidation. As we sat on the deck, looking at the water, watching all of the birds, talking and drinking coffee; I kept one eye peeled for snakes. I inherited Marmy’s phobia of snakes, or so I thought.

The morning passed quietly and peacefully with no serpentine interlopers. Marmy, Daddy and I retired to the kitchen to make our lunch and whilst inside the decision was taken that we’d nosh while sitting upon the deck.

My food was prepared first and as I exited the house through the sliding glass door something liquid like started pouring down the left front post of the pergola.

It smelled rancid and in an instant I saw a huge snake on top of the pergola and it was voiding itself of mostly digested baby birds. Oh you vile cur, you horrible creature, I thought.

“Snake,” I announced.

Marmy was right behind me and in peering over my shoulder she quickly determined what the snake was doing.

“Where? Oh, gross…oh goodness…oh Larry, there is a snake on top of the pergola. Michael don’t go out there. Oh Larry it is crapping all over the place, ew, gross, oh how horrible, oh ew.”

By this time I’d put my sandwich down and had grabbed a broom and made my way to the deck. Daddy was right behind me with one of his canes and we attempted to get the snake off the lattice on top of the pergola. The problem was that the snake was HUGELY bloated in its middle after having feasted on some biddy baby Mockingbirds and eggs. Thus, we couldn’t get the hugely engorged serpent through the holes in the lattice. We had to bat at it with the broom and cane hoping to dislodge it.

My mother gave a running commentary at full speed while we worked to remove the snake.

After what seemed like an eternity the snake fell to the ground. Maybe it jumped, the poor thing was most likely weary of being hit with a broom and poked with a cane and perhaps weary too of my Marmy’s vocal antics.

While daddy and I were torturing the snake, Marmy’s running commentary went something like this…

”Oh gross, ew, Larry, oh yuck, oh it crapped all over the deck, oh God, Larry oh Michael, there is crap all over the post and the lattice and the rail. Oh gross, ew, oh yuck, kill it, oh careful, kill it, kill it. Don’t step in it, careful, don’t step in it you’ll fall, you’ll track it all over the place. Oh, gross, ew, kill it, kill it…KILL IT.”

You get it?

So the snake finally fell or jumped to the ground and decided that there was most likely safety under the deck, away from the maniacs with a broom, cane and anxiety filled running commentary.

I don’t know why, but I took off after the snake, my phobia all but slithered away.

The commentary continued, “Michael, you don’t have shoes on, Michael come out, oh gross, Larry he’s under the deck with the snake. Michael it’s going to bite you, oh Larry make him come out. Larry make him stop. Michael come out. Larry make him.”

Daddy ended the diatribe with the command to Marmy, “Go get my gun.”

“Which one?”

“The rifle.”

“Where is it?”

“In the case.”

All of my dad’s guns are always in the safe, locked up and well…safe.

Maybe it was the drama of the moment, but Marmy asked, “Where’s the key.”

At moments like this my Daddy gets such a wonderful wounded look. I didn’t see it but I sensed it because I was still under the deck with a broom and the snake. Marmy disappeared to get the rifle and I managed to get the snake onto the lawn.

“Here Larry, here’s the gun, Michael get back. Larry shoot it, oh gross, oh God, Larry kill it. Kill it, kill it, shoot it Larry.”

Marmy was clearly undone.

At this moment I had the oddest thought and I said, “Daddy either shoot the snake or shoot her. One way or another we have to shut her up and calm her down, if we don't she's going to have a stroke.”

Daddy pointed the gun at the snake and said, “She’s a pretty good cook, so good bye snake.”

Daddy aimed and with one shot, the snake was dispatched. Daddy is a great marksman.

That done, we went inside to eat our lunch, we cleaned up the mess on the deck after we ate....inside the house. The snake carcass was gone by coffee time, it was most likely taken away by a large bird of prey or a Turkey vulture or perhaps a fox.



The next day, after church there was another snake on the deck, most likely the mate of the now dead deck defiler, we however didn’t kill the new snake. We stunned it, dropped it into a five gallon bucket, and Marmy and I took it to the park and released it. All three of us felt guilty and sad after killing the first snake. They are vital and have their place but better to shoot the snake than shoot Marmy.

Billy Elliot and the infantile eating machine

Billy Elliot

Oh, I’m sooo excited, finally I get to see “Billy Elliot.”



Living in the south has its advantages, long summers, short winters, beautiful scenery, lovely beaches and nearly three fourths of the year very tolerable weather wise. There has been a downside, no theatre to speak of until recently, a cultural desert aside from some fairly decent community and collegiate theatre, but no real first run kind of stuff.

My beloved Durham got smart and built the DPAC, or Durham Performing Arts Center. I was so giddy that my friend Ray and I immediately purchased season tickets.

In season one there was a feast of shows, “Mamma Mia,” “Wicked,” and others, oh I had fallen in love again. Go figure....I love musical theatre.

Season two has a bit of a different flavor in its line up. “Billy Elliot,” Shrek,” and other features that might encourage the attendance of...

CHILDREN.



And...

THEIR PARENTS, folks who don’t realize that just because a show features children that the show is appropriate for children to sit and watch.



In season one, we sat way up high, but for season two, my friend Ray and I decided that we’d really treat ourselves and move down to orchestra level AND center section. We’re not complete snobs so we didn’t spring for way down center; more of a modest, self-congratulatory center.

Showtime.

Ahh, we’re early, we can settle in, read our programs and eagerly anticipate a good show.



Things went well until about two minutes into act one. Then from behind us a commotion, “Excuse me. Thank you, no um, move over one, that’s right, right there.”

“Here mommy?”



Yes, dear, there, do you want a treat now? I know you must be hungry.”

“What?” he chirps out in all but a roar.

“Do...you...want...a...treat...now? Or...do...you...want...to...wait...?” mommy answers in perfect theatrical diction.

“Now.”



Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp. “Mommy, what’s happening?” comes a mouth full question in a stage whisper.

“What’s that dear?”

“Mommy what’s happening?”

I’ve already had enough so I turn and I give the third grade teacher evil eye hoping that my dissatisfaction and powers of mind control will settle this situation down and bring the center section of the orchestra seating back to civilized dignity.

Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.



Those noises are like daggers through my heart.

Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.

If this continues I’m going to loose my mind.



Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.



Those sounds, they’ve invaded my head. I can no longer hear the singing on stage, I can no longer hear the dialogue, and I’m being consumed. My head is going to explode.

“Mommy what’s happening?”

“Billy is dancing dear. Would you like a soda dear? After all of that salt and sugar you must need something to wash it all down.”

“What mommy?”

“Shhhh, keep it down, would...you...like...a...drink?”

“Yes.”

Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp, glug, glug, glug.

Focus Michael, concentrate on the show. Let the antics behind you fade away. Focus, focus on the show. That’s it, breath, focus in, find your che.


Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp.



Nertz, it is no use. Oh if only I could summon some super powers. Some eyes in the back of my head that shoot X-Rays that would evaporate the people behind me, not charitable I know, but oh would it be effective.

Perhaps I could summon Super Mike and maybe he’d gag mother and the infantile eating machine.



Rustel, crinkle, rustel, chew, slurp, belch.

Maybe, my infantile eater will become so sugared up that he’ll bounce off the walls, brining a flurry of diligent ushers and usherettes to escort the eating machine out of the DPAC.

Perhaps the audience around them will become so fed up that they’ll grab pitch forks and run them out to the lobby and burn them at a stake as a mob of angry villagers might.



Nope, they stayed until the end, eating, slurping, chewing, belching, talking and picnicking so that all of us sitting near them could share their Billy Elliot experience and oh, the infantile eating machine, he could have cared less about the show but I was reduced to an emotional heap of protoplasm.

Splish, Splash, Splish

I’ve known for a few weeks that I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts. My body has felt kind of off my game, a little shaky and just kind of spastic.



Perhaps it was the ten days in Rome and the monkey wrench of time zones and jet lag?

Perhaps is was an hour fall back a week after returning from Rome, and just as I was finally becoming acclimated to U.S. daylight time?

Perhaps it has been trying to launch a new division in my business all the while keeping up with the stuff that I’ve done for seventeen years.

Perhaps it was a trip to Smyrna at the beach and back for Thanksgiving? Nope it couldn't be that.



Or...

Perhaps it is just the way I am.

Today as I was making my morning rounds of email, Facebook, WRAL.com, CNN.com and a variety of other online morning diversions, a voice kept calling out to me from the half bath.



“Michael,” was the sweet siren call.

“Michael, come in here, I need attention, you don’t want guests to come round and see that I’m nasty and then by default see that you're nasty, do you? Huh, do you, huh?

It couldn’t be. The toilet in the half bath needs cleaning again I thought. Didn’t I do that before I went to marmy and dad’s house for Thanksgiving? I know that I did. Still once that voice gets into my head, there is no fighting it.

Out comes the comet and out comes the magic toilet brush, a good one that really gets in there and gets the job done.

But wait, as I approach the vile cur there is something stuck to the bottom of my slipper and although the lid to the porcelain throne is open. I must stop what I'm doing and inspect the bottom of my bedroom shoe.

I don’t know how it happened, but my slipper did just that, it slipped and splash right in the drink.



Now I must clean the toilet and wash and dry my slippers because there ain’t no way that shoe is going back on my foot until it has about thirty minutes interaction with some Tide.

The Chairman's Voice

Chairman Meow’s Little Red Book

He, Super Mike, is away; oh the bombastic notion of being super, albeit tongue in cheek; and to add insult; leaving one’s blog open, thank heavens. But oh the humiliation I feel, for me to read and to learn of my gastrointestinal distress in print.


Yes, on Monday I did have a minor upset stomach caused by my ingesting copious amounts of my own fur. What else was I to do but hack it on the floor? Does he think that this was a pleasant experience for me? Well it wasn’t. I suppose I could have gacked on the wood flooring, but it would have blended in and been difficult to see.

Plus, you can just imagine the abuse he’d heap upon me if I should let my lustrous black and white suit get tatty.

I lost my breakfast too boot and had to wait a full eight hours before my moist supper arrived. Why I thought that I’d perish and all the while he was sitting and tippety, tapping on that box thing AND making light of my infirmity. Oh boy, there are things that I could and should tell you about…him.



First my name, it is Chairman Meow Tse Tung or Fez, that’s it, one formal and one informal name, but he uses these only about fifty percent of the time and often calls me by other monikers when we’re alone together and rarely when others can witness the insult.

He sometimes refers to me as Nebuchadnezzar or Little Nebby. Let me be clear, I am only like Nebuchadnezzar with respect to my wisdom and Little Nebby is just plain foolish.

I'm called Baby too. I am not and never was a baby; I was a kitten of the cutest kind and have grown into a full grown tom who knows how to cherish his pride.

He is good to me. My litter box is cleaned daily, I get two helpings of wet food and clean water and kibble are always waiting for me on the floor.

He is sometimes loud and when home alone only with me will sing at the top of his lungs.


Or talk to himself.

Or laugh uncontrollably at seemingly nothing.


Still, he allows me to puddle up on the bed with him and purr to my heart’s content.

And when the monsters come to the house, I can manage to open the closet doors and find a dark quiet place to hide.


I do not however appreciate him making light of my gentle constitution.

Q

I love the game. I love the excitement, but seriously, something happens to my manners and decorum as I watch.



Perhaps it is the bouncing ball. The constant thud on the hardwood flooring causes me to leak I.Q. points and forces my sensibilities as a southern gentleman to ebb.

At the ACC tournament three years ago my dear friend and fellow big mouth Dee taught me how to scream, “Sit down coach.”

Dee directed her howl at a well known and respected ladies coach from Chapel Hill.

Oooo, I loved the way it sounded as it echoed off the hardwood floors at Greensboro. “Sit down Sylvia!” Oh my, it had such a ring to it. Perhaps I loose so many I.Q. points during games that I lack original thought or the ability to adequately filter.

So in Raleigh, last night watching my team play Old Dominion University, I tried my version, “Sit down coach.”


She didn’t and I doubt that she heard me. Ten minutes later and in the second half, I bellowed again. Bear in mind that we were now some thirty minutes into play and I’d leaked a whole lot of I.Q. points and my sense of decorum and manners was all but gone. Why I’d venture to guess that perhaps I was half a generation out of a cave.



Similarly, it would never occur to me that my mouth, petite as it is, might bother a fellow fan and especially one pulling for my beloved Wolf Pack Ladies.
But oh the agony, Super Mike was wrong, I know perish the thought, Super Mike ruffle feathers, no way; especially not a kindred spirit, a fellow woolfie; a pack follower. Alas I was wrong or perhaps she was just a witch who’d infiltrated our ranks; a woolfie who turned and scolded me with the look and demeanor of an angry third grade teacher.


“Are you serious?” she asked.


Holding my gaze with a very accusatory look and repeating her question with a look of disgust and disdain. Just like my third grade teacher.

She went on, pointing at our beloved coach and stating, “She stands the whole game. So, are you serious?”

I weakly apologized stating that I didn’t mean to offend. Still her look of disgust held until she turned to her companion and related to her what an uncultured, oaf and buffoon I was and that I was in fact lower than a one eyed snake belly.


I was cut to the quick, mortified and humiliated by the fact that I’d caused a fellow fan distress and angst. I remained silent for the rest of the game. I clapped and I threw my arms up in the air, when we finally pulled it out at the end, but alas there was no more bellowing in Historic Reynolds Coliseum; well there was bellowing but my voice didn’t join the chorus. Lesson Learned.

You can't defy physical science

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I love my morning coffee. I will sometimes get up early to start my day with a nice strong cuppa. If I miss my cuppa or two, or three or heck…the whole pot; well then I can get a wee bit cranky.

This morning I awoke to Chairman Meow gacking all over the house. Thankfully my first appointment wasn’t until ten am so I had time to seek out and clean up vile hair balls mixed with Meow Mix. Oh what a foul cat I have. Toxic waste comes out both ends.

After clean up and removing my hazmat suit I even had time to languish over an extra cup or two of piping hot, sweet, creamy coffee. I can write my blogs, I can surf the net, I can read other blogs and the news all whilst sitting in my jammies; watching the sun come up and sipping on coffee. Life couldn’t get much better.

But, my coffee maker doesn’t always get my coffee as hot as I like it.

And…

The light on my microwave oven that displays the numerals is, well, on the fritz. I have to kind of guess at the cook time I’ve punched in. Typically a minute thirty seconds does the trick for heating up my coffee but this morning I must have punched in four minutes thirty seconds. Way too long, too long I tell you, but easy to do, the numeral one sits directly atop the numeral four. Plus, I have huge fingers, kind of a handicap when it comes to mashing buttons.

My coffee was boiling; but stopped bubbling as I carried it across the kitchen.



Intellectually I know that adding Splenda to very, very, very hot coffee lowers said liquids boiling point. This morning however, I'm Super Mike and the laws of physical science shall not defy me for I have cleaned up massive amounts of toxic cat waste.



I couldn’t.



My coffee exploded all over the kitchen with just one itsy, bitsy spoonful of Splenda.



Maybe its time for a new microwave oven.