Beanpole Twist ‘n’ Shout

Lord, have mercy, it was a fun time last night.

Smacking boot heels on old wood floors.

Accordion, washboard, guitar, drums, bass…like an ol’ bayou Saturd’y night getdown.

‘Memberances of N’awlins, crawfish boils, jazz fests, New Year’s Eve on the Riverwalk, ESPN settin’ up for the national championship.

Louisiana hot sauce or, when that’s not available, habanero squeezin’s on the chicken sandwich at Beauregard’s, the ever resourceful Antonio givin’ us the extra onion rings.

Dance lessons a’fore hand – “just remember, it’s not the exact steps that counts, it’s keepin’ time with your partner that makes it zydeco!”

One, two, three four.  Five, six, step back.

My partner – my rational, logical engineering wife – dissecting the steps ’cause we already know how to keep time.  This ain’t work, honey, it’s the weekend!  😉

Sippin’ whiskey from a flask – Bushmills Black Bush.  A little Sprite for the missus.  A swig of ginger ale for her male.

My, oh my, does the zydeco bring out the bee-yout’uhful ladies?!

Like the cream o’ the crop, they were, a’dancin’ with their beaus or choosin’ more experienced partners to learn a new move or two to spice up their relationship on the dance floor and off.

I felt like someone wound my clock back, and we were back at the ol’ Chicken Shack down by the river, a jug of hooch bein’ passed back and forth while bodies spun ’round and ’round like the storm clouds that swept past over and over again.

Lightnin’ never strikes the same place twice unless the dance floor’s on fire, my grandpappy used to say.

Reckon he’s right.

Zydeco lessons at the Eagles Club tonight, folks.  Don’t miss it!

A nod to Jessica at Arby’s, the behind-the-scenes folks at Lowe Mill, and Yuri Ozaki, whose quiet happiness blesses us all – may your country find peace during this difficult recovery period.  Cat, we’ll fill up on Happy Tummy the next go-round.

Take a day off, then my wife and I are hittin’ the dance floor again, this time shufflin’ our feet to swing music.

No offense to you bowling fans but between drinkin’ beer at the bowling alley or hoppin’ on the dance floor with my wife, I’ll take the parquet.

Or is it butter?

One day, our dancing will be as smooth as such.

More Unintended Consequences

From Ralph Nader’s suggestion for eliminating athletic scholarships to those who consider initiating an unprovoked attack on Libya is full cause for impeachment proceedings, the 1,000-year view will give you what you want, as always.

Herding cattle or herding our species, the Committee takes nothing personal.

Should the organisation of a government (which, remember, is little more than another form of business) be heavily weighted toward one branch or another?

Some of the next few decisions are not easy for me to make because they do affect me personally.

Leadership can be fun but changing the lives of others drastically against their wishes is not the part I consider to be fun.

Just like they told me, “We wish a third party candidate would win control to prove the system is greater than ideology.”

Seven billion views that differ except for the fact they belong to beings that all lived, no matter how their definition of normality can or can’t compare…

A personal journey I asked for and a personal journey I got, where I often don’t get what I wish for but always get what I basically need…

Tree leaves grow bigger every day as the ambient temperature generally increases.

Waves of denser air push water droplets to the ground gravitationally, flooding big creases and low-lying areas in the landscape.

14,286 days – where does the time go?

Oh well, just stay focused on saving the species and/or the ecosystem to which it belongs.

Having grown up in one dominant subculture and used to responding to the habits of those within that subculture is a curious phenomenon to observe while knowing that subculture nor any other is the best one for nurturing children.

Yet, it shares features with other successful childrearing subcultures that are worth preserving.

Features that are shared across species and with all living things, too.

Not to forget its relationship to states of energy.

Will we see our planet is a relay beacon before it’s too late?

I used to ask about how we keep theists, atheists, extraterrestrialists and everyone else happy in their beliefs while putting them to work on a big project that is neutral about human-based belief systems.

Then they put me in charge of the Committee so I would set aside conjecture and get busy with the task the Committee members saw was the most important of all the tasks assigned to us.

It’s really up to me how much I want to get involved in the local/regional a/political activities of my species now that I know how much/little those activities in/directly impact the task at hand.

The simple fact is the easiest to explain – every individual must be given a feeling of being involved in its life, which can include the feelings of being in control or out of control of one’s life.

We can force people’s beliefs in one direction or another or we can lead by example.

Some subcultures use thought police and some use peer pressure.

Some celebrate every ability to excel, regardless of gender, and some separate skill/talent development by gender.

I am 100% a member of my species, at least as much as we understand the composition that states of energy constitute.

I defend all our actions as the ways in which we define living, regardless of how little I can justify what many of us do.

In 2011, I am learning to identify the worldview that I built to justify my actions on a daily basis as well as learning that a universal view can include an absence of not only my species but life as we know it on this planet (it can also include a reconfiguration of what I think is a universe).

In 1,000 years, how will this 1-acre tract of land I call my own have changed?

It is no longer a part of undeveloped country or land on the edge of farm fields.  It is an established portion of the suburbanised landscape, evidence of increased population density by my species.

We build and rebuild and rebuild urban population centers, finding many ways to justify their existence – increased efficiency, the interconnected sets of idea generation, glorious architecture, etc.

We hypnotise and mesmerise ourselves with our cleverness.

As we attempt to find the next superbrain construction means that is sustainable, many parts (e.g., urban centers) have failed and more parts will fail.

Do we step out of this moment and into the future by admitting nothing is permanent and our structures should be put together on the assumption we’ll need to take them apart and recycle the components for the next round of temporary construction?

How can we convince all seven billion of us that life is sustainable engineering?

If my regional government, the state of Alabama, is too backward to recognise the need to set aside undeveloped land for the future of its citizens, should I care if its existence is temporary, and its leaders, no matter how filled with self-importance they may be while they pursue lucrative business relationships in their brief lifetimes, are quickly forgotten and their fortunes quickly dissolved because of their short-sightedness?

Whether we came from the cosmos, lightning striking ocean goo, or melding volcanic spew, we are here together.

Together, we make a difference.

The power of suggestion is a tool few use wisely.

That’s why I’m returning to my task of turning the planet into a relay beacon, letting the Committee, the programmers/scientists on retainer and other members of my team keep our species and our daily lives running on automatic, repeating cycles that intersect spirals they don’t remember seeing generations ago.

If I don’t keep us on schedule, who will?

If the FCC and regulators won’t put the consumer’s interest in the forefront of the at&t/T-mobile profit-making business megamerger, who will?

Steppin’ Razor

Dripping gutter drumming out a reggae beat.

Wondering why it takes so long to train one species to see clearly.

‘Tis what is – no need to worry.  Everything is gonna be all right.

A word of remembrance to Don Hill, pillar of his community and of his time.

Do we know the impact our outreach makes on those we never meet again?

In Gettysburg, “the enemy was defeated here.”  Defunct golf courses are put to rest.

Do you see strange bumps and places on your body/face that happen to coincide with tiny particles of radioactive material blowing across the globe?

What if we produced for you a conservative, compassionate, female U.S. presidential candidate who is one-third European*, one-third Native American* and one third Hispanic*?

[*Exact location of genetic heritage to be decided by polling and popular vote]

Would you accept a genetically-arranged test tube baby trained to understand all aspects of life, from haute couture to subsistence farming, who exhibits the perfect traits of a humble yet politically-savvy candidacy and will ensure that 7+ billion of us are given equal opportunities to succeed, however we wish to define the pinnacle of success for our capabilities, without taking from the selfish haves to feed the selfish have-nots?

What if we figured out a way to turn every member of the species into a caring, socially-aware, fully-assimilated being?

Well, let’s wake up from that dreamy scenario and look at real life.

Let’s look into vehicles with blacked-out windows.  Let’s examine the contents of rental trucks.

Let’s see what’s really going on.

And have fun in the process.

This blog entry brought to you by members of the Subcommittee On Compliance, Kickbacks, Irrigation, Toxicity, Terraforming, Oncology, Mememaking and Entertainment (SOCKITTOME).  “Iliad Dusk” just didn’t sound right.

Now, back to the game currently in progress.

Fee-Free French Philosophy in the Fiefdom of Fyffe

“Today is my ‘usband’s birfday.”

“Hey, congratulations…uh…”

“‘is name is Benjamin.”

“Happy birthday, Benjamin!”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, class, let’s sing the song for him.  Fast, then slow, then fast.  Ready?!”

“Are you guys coming to tomorrow’s night dance?”

“No, we are going to Versailles.”

“Forsythe?  As in Forsythe, Georgia?”

“No.  Versailles.”

“Fyffe?  Isn’t that where they saw those UFOs?”

“Perhaps.  But we are going to Versailles.  Not Fyffe or Forsythe.”

“I see.”

“Oui.”

“Seems like I remember something about Benjamin Franklin living in Versailles.”

“You Americans are so obsessed wif thez Benjamin Franklin.”

“I wouldn’t say obsessed.  Benjamin, you are his namesake.  Are you obsessed with him?”

“I was named after Benjamin Spock, not Benjamin Franklin.”

“How old are you?”

“30.”

“Oh, well, that explains a lot.  I thought you were 24 or 25 and your wife here’s 21.”

“Oh, non.  I would never want to be 21 again.”

“Why not?  Young, ignorant, ready to conquer the world…”

“You Americans and your obsession with conquering the world.  No, I would not be 21 again because I would still be married to my first ‘usband.”

“Well, it sounds like an interesting story, I’m sure, but hadn’t we return to our lessons, class?”

“‘arold, this iz important, n’est pas?  Americans have a simple view of world affairs, all because of their pure and tan hysterical religious obsessions.”

“Don’t you mean historical?”

“No, I mean they way you divide the world into ebony and ivory when it is a prism of possibilities.”

“And this relates to your “‘usband,’ how, exactly?”

“‘e was French.”

“Did he see the world through a prism or rose-coloured glasses?”

“Oui.  ‘e was greatly influenced by your American points of television viewership.  ‘e thought life was a matter of cowboys and everyone else.”

“Benjamin, how about you?  You been watching too many ‘cowboy and everyone else’ movies?”

“No.  My parents were part of the diplomatic corps.  I didn’t know a television was a box you could sit and stare at until I was 10 or 11.  Even then, my parents restricted our time to watching sports that my father hadn’t been invited to attend.”

“Well, Benji, happy birthday.  Let’s get back to dancing, shall we?  You want to look your best when you’re in Versailles tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Mais oui.  As they say here in America, to be ‘right’ means holding an unchanging conservative point of view.  To be ‘right’ in France is the exclusive privilege of women.  Men get whatever’s left over.”

Chemistry of the Chimera

First cross-reference of the day.

Have you ever watched the slow progress of skin cancer and you’re not telling anyone because you want to see what skin cancer is all about, taking the risk of metastasising states of energy taking over the rest of your so-called body?

Did your spouse die on your watch and now you’re trying to convince your spouse’s mother to move in with you but she’s hesitant because everything about you – you, your house, your lifestyle, your town (maybe even your own children (i.e., her grandchildren, except for her nonblood relations, a grandson in-law and son in-law)) – reminds her of her dead child and she’s too old/frail to have/want to relive those memories, including an upcoming wedding that to her will dredge up the old memories again?  Are you willing to face those facts and let sleeping dogs lie?

Have you realised your joyous anticipation of your spouse’s out-of-town business trips is telling you something you’re trying not to think about?

Do you save an organisation for your own enjoyment by getting rid of people in the organisation who are opposed to you and/or your subcultural icons?  Or do you throw the baby out with the bath water and move on to some other form of enjoyment that your subculture has created for you, even if it’s not exactly what you want?

Am I afraid to speak to myself in specific terms here because, although I know no one reads these words, it feels like others misinterpret what I say for their personal agendum/agenda that conflict with the big picture that I and the Committee are painting?

I volunteered to take on the job of sacrificing billions of my kind for something that has an infinitesimal chance of success and which none of us will know if we succeeded.

I also know that when you start destroying whole subcultures for the sake of the culture, you create a subclass of anarchic saboteurs who may or may not get funding from out-of-favour aristocrats wanting to force their agenda back into the limelight.

I realise that some of those on the Committee are the very same aristocrats who fought their way back into a position of power, thinking they’re getting what they want, and me knowing that they’ll ultimately fail, so we throw them a lot of high-profit business their way that has no strong effect on the big picture (although it does drag its progress back in time slightly) and keeps them preoccupied with fanning their vanity.

I once believed a Committee membership was a position of purity and sanctity.  I strived to cleanse the main path of my thoughts of signposts pointing to side trails I took to entertain myself.  That way, I would be fully focused on my Committee membership and nothing else.

As if the Committee was composed of godlike beings, not another person like me who is full of conflicting wants and needs.

I don’t crave power.  I have one simple want and need – freedom for freedom’s sake alone.

Along the way, my domesticated, caged states of energy hypnotised themselves into believing freedom is real.

It’s all relative, I suppose.

The “I” that doesn’t exist fooled itself into existence and now is struggling to free itself from staring at its false sense of self in the vanity mirror.

2011 is a tough year, indeed.  So many more millions of people to let die or kill for a purpose I can’t guarantee myself is worth the cost.

Billions in the longterm.

If you only knew what was really going on.

The rest of the Committee laughs whenever they hear me struggle to explain to you the unexplainable, the ultimate nondisclosure agreement.

Giving me the leadership of the Committee was a cruel joke.

I wish I could share the punchline with you – it’s the funniest one you’ll ever hear, making anything else that seems humourous impale your comparisons.

Kentucky Borderline

A clean bill of a healthy state of mind.

Thoughts drifting.

Sitting on the elementary schoolyard swing set again, singing “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” with my two schoolmates, Renée and Rita, while we saw who could swing the highest without getting the teacher’s attention.

After recess, returning to the fourth grade classroom and hanging out with the guys who challenged everyone to memorisation games, using pulldown maps of countries, states and land features.

Talking about a new literature one of the guys had discovered, called “science fiction.”

Passing love notes to Renée in class, getting caught and reprimanded by Mrs. Tallman, who threatened to tell my mother, a first-grade teacher in the same school, down in the modern pod section where the open classroom concept was being tested on teachers and students, whether they wanted it or not.

Renée dead a year later from a blood disorder that I assume was leukemia.

Some thoughts repeat themselves, overshadowing memories that might have been important at one time, including spelling, grammar, math, history, social studies and geography.

How many politicians who want to make teaching a minimum-wage job with no benefits have children in public schools?

Could you be convinced to vote for a real person like yourself whose lifestyle matches most of the ones in your voting district and is not tempted by wealth?

That is, if you have the right and privilege to vote, which you exercise, seriously considering the ramifications of your decision.

If such a person would register as a candidate for public office.

Renée’s lively personality left my life when we were ten, 20.8% of my current life.

Now, news of friends’ parents dying is growing common.

In middle age, these are the days of my life.

My parents just called to inform me Mrs Abernathy had died.

John, Carol, Beth and Don – my thoughts and prayers are with you as you begin the grieving process for the death of your mother.  She was a sweet lady, the consummate Mom for all children, loving the neighbourhood kids, church kids, and school kids without showing favourites.

I sit here, remembering her influence on me as I grew up in Colonial Heights – hosting church youth socials in the backyard, supporting Sing Out Kingsport and school musicals – knowing Renée never had the attention from Mrs. Abernathy that I enjoyed throughout my teenage years.

Neither will I have been the type of parent to provide that community support for my children and their friends/schoolmates.

From one end of life to another, death is a constant.

Yet, as much as we know about the whys and wherefores…the loss, the end of forming new memories and absence of wisdom, love and insight from deceased family and friends, young or elderly, change our perspectives.

How does it change my perspective?

Renée has been gone almost 40 years.  Mrs. Abernathy just died.  Mr. Guinn died 10 days ago.  At least one of my schoolmates is dying of metastasised/terminal cancer.

Where is my sense of humour today?

It showed itself in the gift I made for and gave to Dr. Brown this morning, an electronic “Cat of the Year” calendar/video of our cat, Merlin, who has recovered from dental surgery, thanks to the professionalism and joy that Erin and her staff bring to their veterinary occupations.

Humour is an outlet for pain, among other expressions of relief from daily concerns, frustrations and ennui, including relief that pain/worry has ended.

Humour is what I pretend to believe that defines a separation of me from everything else (although I know I am a combination of everything that has passed through this dense set of states of energy called me in this moment).

Merlin ran out of the cage when we got home and looked for dry food to eat, the sign to me he was ready to get away from wet food after a week of healing sore gums.

Debbie and Neal plan to be grandparents in June.

Our oldest nephew marries in July.

Chestney graduates from high school soon.

Our days are numbered – we count up because we never know when to start the countdown.

Renée died at a point that I called 100% of my life up till then.  When I die, I will have lived 100% of my life.

Math.

I will have died somewhere.

Geography.

I will have lived with others in a specific time period.

History.

My name will be recorded in both official birth and death certificates.

Spelling.

I might get an obituary to go along with my birth announcement.

Grammar.

I contributed to sub/cultures during my life and learned from others’ sub/cultural clues.

Social studies.

That’s all I know.

All I need to know.

The rest is a joke waiting to be told from a curious perspective while walking down that Blue Highway I call my life.

Title? What title?

Boom, boom, yeah...

The Joy of Socks!

Jameson and pistol tattoos - bam!

Neal, Ginger, Debbie, Janeil: Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Well, time for inventory, lads!

Jameson & ginger? Check!

Irish root beer? Check!

Irish car bomb (Irish-American version of a boilermaker)? Check!  Check! Check! Even one with Ginger.  Check!

Guinness? Check!

Free shots of Jameson, courtesy of the Jameson girls and the fellow who looks like a leprechaun and is losing more and more hair every year? Check!

Thanks to Team Apache and Southern Jamm Security.

Out at Mason’s Pub on a warm spring evening, even if the featured band played British tunes (Beatles?) on St. Paddy’s Day.

But Jocelyn took good care of us on a crowded night, looking herself like Andrea Corr of The Boys & Girls of County Clare.

What, with David Bjorne, Elizabeth Neely, Ginger (but not Maryanne) and Debbie and Neal Redmond adding friendly conversation, I felt like I was home.

Or maybe at Dromoland Castle with a company Christmas party back in 2005, a fellow company man and his beautiful girlfriend sharing a ciggy or fag on a night of drinking and dancing where what happens in Ireland stays in Ireland.  But now he’s permanently livin’ in the States.  Too bad the band tonight wasn’t playin’ Irish fiddle tunes again, eh?  I sure miss his girlfriend but the secret stays with me, doesn’t it?

The Greek invented everything, did they?  What of Duke’s Malibu?

Have you ever worn beer Jameson goggles glasses?

What if your six-year old looked like your hubby but acted like you, your four-year old looked like you but acted like your hubby, and your two-year old was in-between but seemed like one of her grandmothers?  Could I inspire Ginger and her hubby to have a fourth child?  At 40, my dear, you still look and act like you’re 21.  Your husband’s still a lucky man.

Just like Debbie looks like she’s 35 although she’s about to be a grandmother.  Neal, I’m envious.

And Michael of Booz Allen fame from the UCP event showing up again tonight.  Coincidence?

Top o’ the mornin’ to you.

…and the balance of the day to yourself…

I’ve me wife.  G’night.  Hope you had a good day wearin’ green.

Are you prepared to go?

News of my high school/college/fraternity/sorority prom date’s father’s death:

Two people killed in 3 car accident

A nod to my new facebook friend, Rhonda Vincent, who, like her contemporary, Claire Lynch, has provided many an insightful moment of joyous bluegrass music.

I contemplate my mortality on a sunny Wednesday – nothing but blue skies, temp in the mid-50s (Fahrenheit), cats asleep on the bed.

I guess the last time I saw Monica was at her wedding in Kosciusko, Mississippi, many years ago.  Since then, her two children, Christy and Jeremy, have grown up, and her facebook update indicates she and her husband are contemplating a move to Singapore.

She and I shared a near-fatal car smashup with two other secondary schoolmates.

And now her father is dead, his last moment alive spent in an automobile.

This is a day when the intersecting cycles and spirals of life put me in a blue mood.

Sure, I’m healthy and happy for my age and physical condition.

Going to the fan pages of musicians may divert my attention but my thoughts wander away.

Of what worth am I if I can find no comforting words to give what for many years people considered my closest friend and girlfriend?

Monica, I don’t know what to say.  Our paths diverged so long ago that I’m not sure who you are anymore, although you seem to have lived a good medium-to-upper middle class life raising two good kids.

Your father sat down with me and had a serious discussion of the possibilities of he and I being father and son in-law.

He honestly told me that some of my immature actions when I was younger had caused him to wonder about the relationship between you and me, but he trusted you, and he had watched me mature into a good, young man.

He advised me to look around his house and see if it represented the kind of lifestyle I would expect if I married you or someone like you because, after all, it was the lifestyle to which you had grown accustomed.

He wanted grandchildren one day and would expect his son in-law to go deer hunting with him on occasions, although water skiing was a good substitute (his joking reference he made to the summers we skiied on the lake at your family’s lakefront property).

Other than that, he hoped I’d focus on my university studies and choose a good career to support a family, no matter who I decided to marry.

Good, solid advice.

Here we are, 30 years or so out of secondary school and now he’s gone.

You and I are middle-aged, your children making adult decisions of their own at about the age your father gave me sage wisdom.

That’s all I know.

All I’ve got to offer.

Your legacy is secure.

More than plenty.

I’m happy for you.

We’ve had good lives.

I celebrate your father’s life, knowing your children will talk about the wisdom and advice you and Dean gave them and their future spouses, because they had your father in their lives, gently guiding them in the right direction.

Not that I’m suggesting anything…

While putting together the script to top all scripts about college basketball, I’ve considered sharing some of the images with you:

  • A college fraternity sneaking into the gym at night and changing out banners, with new ones containing small but perceptibly clever anagrams that are not obvious to the casual viewer.
  • A few students from the computer science/engineering department coordinating with students from the electrical/mechanical engineering departments to turn basketball goals hanging from the ceiling into mechanical dancers, or…
  • The same and more students turning the basketball goals into mechanised dragons and/or bats hanging from the ceiling.
  • LED light bars hidden in the rafters and turned on after the championship game to spell out a message, depending on the winner.
  • The same for the basketball court, using mesh-networked, battery powered miniLEDs inserted between the hardwood strips or on the gym walls.
  • School team coloured fog pouring out of the air vents after a big event.
  • A remote-controlled, programmable variable delay in the PA system – nothing like an announcer who hears his/her voice microseconds later than she/he expected, especially as the delay and/or compression varies in length while the person is talking, without the crowd hearing a pitch change.
  • Creating an alternative to the official event program, with whatever the creative minds in the art/literature department can come up with, distributing free and/or placing in the stands.
  • Reprogramming the security guards’ 2-way radios to pick up a music station in a foreign language at odd intervals.
  • Soap, paper towels and toilet tissue in the bathroom that change into the school colours as they get wet, the colour being semi-permanent and nontoxic.
  • Changing select sections and bars of music scores in the pep band’s music holders.
  • Replacing slides in brass/wind instruments to a slightly shorter/longer length and smaller/larger diameter; putting remote-controlled, programmable passageway restrictions deep down inside the slides; wind instruments with reconfigured fingering.
  • The team jokingly sending out fake players onto the field for practice before the game.
  • The referees wearing white-and-black striped shirts instead of black-and-white striped shirts.
  • Referee whistles that sound like foghorns or train whistles (again, programmable).
  • Home team fans/students sitting on the visitors side, filling up the seats before the doors are opened.
  • A referee fan club cheering every time a foul is called, with signs held up showing the referee’s name in large letters; the fans cheering, “run, referee [or referee’s name], run!,” every time the team ball possession changes.
  • The announcer calling out a different foul than the one indicated by the referee.
  • The foul shot shooter insisting on shooting from the top of the three-point line, with the coach running out and arguing for an extra point when the ball goes through the hoop.
  • The hoop/goal a large electromagnet programmed (again, remotely) to repel/attract the official game ball, which is actually a fake one lined with a metal mesh inside.
  • Both teams secretly agreeing to walk to the wrong side of the court for a foul shot.
  • Harlem Globetrotters appearing in one or both teams’ uniforms during halftime warmups and acting like nothing’s the matter but slowly swapping out with the real players as the Globetrotters take the other team’s sideline seats – a joke on the coaches.
  • Coaches encouraging the other team’s players and screaming at theirs – wait, they already do that, don’t they?
  • Fans/students clearing the gym just before players appear for halftime warmups.
  • Videographers’ cameras programmed to record in reverse/negative or some effect like magnifying soap bubbles.
  • Photographers forced to sit in the upper deck.
  • Reporters told obvious lies by players/coaches/fans/administration, all of the interviewees maintaining a straight face.
  • Fans running up to NCAA officials and asking for their autographs and photos with the family.
  • Gym lights briefly going out (or for lights that need warmup time, getting covered) during an official timeup, leaving only black light bulbs illuminating the gym for a couple of seconds.
  • Opposing pep bands playing a song round-robin style.
  • Renumbering the seats in opposite order, right-to-left or left-to-right (same for rows and section numbers).
  • Swapping out Pepsi-Cola and Coca-Cola labels to see who notices the difference.
  • During the game, announcing the scores of a completely different sport in a country that has maybe one or two players in the current game who get the joke.
  • The school mascot wearing an altered headgear, or one programmed to change shape throughout the game.
  • Cheerleaders jumping up and down and making mouth/facial expressions without saying anything audible.
  • Cheerleader megaphones with voice changers.
  • Folding bleachers that slightly move forward, backward, left or right throughout the game (millimeters, not inches).
  • Seats/bleachers that randomly make loud groaning sounds or aahs whenever people sit down or stand up.
  • A fan that belches loudly throughout the game.
  • A family that sits and reads some obscure literature during the game, discussing fine plot points no matter what’s going on on the basketball court.
  • People hidden under the bleachers who take, move or swap out whatever people have placed beside their feet.
  • Students holding up tablet PCs that spell out phrases, either scrolling or static.

Those are just a few of the images the script will display to the reader, including the usual clever wordplay, innuendos, misunderstandings and inside jokes we’ve come to expect.

Let the games begin!  The best teams win.

Thanks to my friends who attended such pranksterish schools as CalTech – your stories from the ’80s inspire me to this day.

A shoutout to Dr. Dalle Ave for his…well, his reputation (or lack thereof?) of kind elderly customer care.  The word is out, dude.  As the UAH students say at basketball games, “airball, airball, you suck!”  [I don’t think their cheer of “Ug-ly play-er” during a foul shot applies here, though.]  Thank goodness, my mother in-law has kids, grandkids and in-laws who care about her as a real, living, loving person.

Sympathies to the family of my high school/UTK mate, Monica.  Your father was a great man – Eastman chemist, Amway star, lakehouse chaperone, road runner, deer hunter and wise advisor to teenagers.  You, your siblings and children are wonderful examples of your father’s ability to raise well-rounded kids.  He died much too young but he’s with you in spirit the rest of your days.