Archive for July 13th, 2006

Pardon Me Sir…Did You See What Happened?

Patrick saying “Don’t Look Ethel” to me today got me thinking about something funny. I think it’s funny, anyway.

Mr. Smiff is from a little town in North Carolina called Reidsville. It’s about 30 miles out of Greensboro, a hop, skip and a jump from the Virginia line. It’s a sweet little town, somewhat Mayberryish, full of really good, hard working people. Lots of those good, hard working people are of the church going lot. Most of them work at one of the nearby hosiery mills, Miller Beer or one of the ciggarette factories. Father In Law Smiff retired from P. Lorillard and now spends his time playing music in his old-time string band.

Reidsville boasts a great little barbecue joint, that’s been there forever, called Short Sugars. Upon arrival when they go back “home”, one of the first things the In Law Smiffs do is head to Short Shugahs to get their barbecue and Chili/Cheese Dog fix.

Probably the most excitement that’s ever hit Reidsville is the time, way back in the 70’s that they had Santa Claus parachute in to the parking lot of Pennrose Mall (everything in Reidsville has the “Penn” name attached to it. I’m guessing the Penns were a rich bunch). While Santy Claus was aiming for the parking lot, he missed and hit the bank and broke his leg. No doubt that traumatized lots of little children who are still recovering from that.

You catch the drift…Reidsville is a fairly quiet, little southern town. This is why I was so shocked to discover not long ago, that there is a nudist camp there. A nudist camp with nekkid people running all over the place.

In Reidsville, of all places. The Bar S Ranch is the place to be, if you live in the Piedmont area and wish to disrobe and participate in various leisure activities. Why, in just a couple weeks, they are hosting their annual 5K cross country race. Who knew there was such a thing as nude running? Where do they put their race numbers???

This ain’t the first time there’s been people running around Reidsville nekkid. Back in the 70’s, a 16 year old Mr. Smiff, Cousin Danny (now a mortician), Cousin Bobby and Cousin Alan O’Bryant (now of the Nashville Bluegrass Band) with Brother In Law Smiff driving the get away car…they decided they were going to get in on the streaking craze.

They didn’t just streak the Hardees,with shouts of “Don’t Look, Ethel!” by the patrons…no, they went into one of the nicer restaurants in town, proud as they could be of their anatomies, moving on to the Holiday Inn, where they waited…and waited on Cousin Bobby as he made his way through the lobby. They thought for sure he’d been caught when here he came hollering “The security guard’s after me!”

The final streakin’ stop was the home of Bill Monroe’s older brother, Charlie. He was pretty elderly at this point and knowing he wouldn’t appreciate such foolishness, Cousin Danny got up on the porch, dancing around in all his glory. They noticed the blinds being peeked through and then they heard the howl of hound dogs. Charlie had sicked (sp?) his dogs on the juvenile delinquents…as he should’ve.

Life in a small town….

Lunch at Logans

Some work friends and I hauled it down to Logans today. Work friend Jeff took it upon himself to invite this other former co-worker without first consulting former co-worker Patrick and myself if it was ok if this other guy came. Now, this guy is not a bad guy. He has a good sense of humor and is pretty funny. Thing about him is he is a Conversation Hijacker, in fact, I think he got a degree in it. He’s notorious for it and it’s aggravating.

Sitting there in Logan’s, Conversation Hijacker holding court and the boys are discussing audio/visual stuff (that’s what they do). I was bored. In my boredom, I noticed songwriter Dennis Morgan came in and sat in the booth behind us.

Dennis is something of Nashville songwriter royalty. He’s a member of the Nashville Songwriter’s Hall of Fame and wrote a lot of Ronnie Milsap’s hits (my favorite “Smoky Mountain Rain”) and he wrote “I Was Country When Country Wasn’t Cool” and a butt load of other songs you would know if I listed all of them here. (Oh yeah…he wrote “Nobody” that Sylvia had a huge hit with back about ’82))

I’m pondering the many hits written by Mr. Morgan when I look up at the tv and my attention is caught by ESPN’s coverage of Nathan’s Famous 4th of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest. I have to tell ya…as All -American and great as this annual event is, it is not the most appetizing to eat by. I don’t see how in the world these people don’t choke to death stuffing those hot dogs in their mouths like there is no tomorrow. It is not purty.

It was a fairly close race between Joey Chestnut and title defender Takeru Kobayashi. The most interesting thing about this whole thing is the method’s these “Competitive Eaters” use to gorge a record number of wieners into their mouths in 12 minutes. Mr. Chestnut has a way of shoving his in that cause him to go into something of a convulsive state and it appears he’s demonstrating the proper way to…um…perform oral sex on a feller. This whole thing got me really tickled. I mean, REALLY tickled. When I get really tickled, that’s pretty much all she wrote. You just have to wait til it passes. Before long, my A/V lunch companions had abandoned the discussion on sound systems and looked at the tv.

I’m still laughing painfully and getting pretty teary and it appeared Dennis was pretty sucked into the whole thing. Patrick kept saying “Quit looking.” Like an accident or a fire, you can’t help but look. My laughter continues and Patrick hollered out “DON’T LOOK, ETHEL!!!” Too late….I’m already doubled over. I hope ESPN runs this again. You gotta see Joey do his thing. No wonder he’s a world record eater and makes his living shoving crap down his mouth at a high rate of speed.

I think Dennis kept a straight face through the whole thing and probably wished I’d have hushed my laughing so he could eat and ponder his many dollars in his bank account.

Be On The Lookout…

My friend, the Old Fart In Training, has a nice post about his first car “stereo” that he had in his Monza (I forgot about those) today.

When I think about my first car stereo, I have to giggle. One, it was most likely a crappy stereo, but, it played cassettes nicely. Speakers? I could hear just dandy. The car itself was a jewel among jewels in the car world….a maroon, 1979 Grand Am. Yee haw.

When I was in high school, I came out to my car one afternoon and noticed something was amiss in my grand vehicle. Somebody had done broken in and tried to abscond with my awesome stereo!!!

I summoned the law. The law showed up and did a report. Our tax dollars at work and surely they would capture the mongrels that attempted to take my fine specimen of a stereo.

The next week, in the Police Blotter of the Review Appeal (or was it The Williamson Leader?) they told of how “Sista Smiff’s car was burgalarized in the parking lot of Franklin High School. The victim reported her knobs had been stolen.” It did too say that.

Last I heard from my Franklin Detective friend, Detective Becky, 20+ years later and the Franklin Police force is STILL on the case.

A Thursday Morning Ponder

I’m beginning to think that Christie Brinkley is turning into something of a Liz Taylor or a Tammy Wynette. She and her fourth husband are splitting up and one begs the question: What’s the problem here? Is she just chronically prone to picking the wrong guys? Is she too high maintenance, difficult to live with?

Here you have a very attractive, succesful woman. It would be assumed she’s doing ok financially with that pretty lucrative supermodel career she had, alimony from Billy Joel, and that thing she sells with Chuck Norris and all. She appears to be somewhat intelligent. She is kinda like Lorrie Morgan and has a big ol’ throwdown wedding everytime she walks down the aisle. Maybe she gets bored with them?

Everybody’s entitled to make some marital mistakes. We learn from those mistakes, yes. But after four husbands, I just wonder what her deal is. I won’t lose the first bit of sleep over it. Just typical of things I waste my time pondering.