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2008-02-29T10:32:00.003-05:00

If you've stumbled onto Rapid Eye Reality here and are looking for fresh content, you will find it at Rapid Eye Reality. If you would like to update your RSS feeds, the sparkliest feed can now be found at http://www.rapideyereality.com/feed.

--Otis

Getting screwed: The Live Blog

2008-02-19T09:37:00.006-05:00

9:00am: Two days ago, my wife told me both of our uptairs toilets had problems. By problems, she meant they were flushing, but doing so all over the damned floor. I accused her of being unlucky and told her to buy some Drano. No Home Depot product worked. A day later, she called the plumbers. I started to get cranky.

9:20am: The plumber arrived. I am already disappointed because the guy is not fat and I doubt there will be any butt crack joke availability. In fact, he's thin, fairly good looking, has a stylish haircut and makes a point of covering his shoes before he walks on my floors. He smells like chewing gum and cigarettes. I fear I might be headed toward some sort of alternative lifestyle fantasy fodder, so I'll leave it at that.

9:28am: I take the guy on a tour of the upstairs. The wife has cleaned up, I guess just in case we want to impress the plumber. I tell the guy the toilets won't flush. I don't think he's listening.

9:32am: Here are a few of the quotes from the plumber over the past few minutes.

"You really want to stay away from toilets with rounded fronts."

"You really want to stay away from Drano. There's acid in that. Not a lot. I mean they can sell it at Home Depot. But there's acid in there and that can cause you problems."

"You really want to go for a toilet with a square front. They are a bit enlongated and, if you know what I mean, a little more man-friendly."

Yeah, I don't know if he was hitting on me or not.

9:34am: Wow, why the hell didn't I see this coming? You call a plumber to fix your toilet and he tries to sell you a new toilet? Really? This happens? Now, I'm no fan of my cheap toilets. I'd even buy some new ones to replace these if I thought it was going to save us any time and plumber fees. So, this guy thinks I'm buying what he's selling. And I'm probably going to make the purchase until Mr. Man-Friendly tells me the new johns are going to run me more than $600. Apiece.

9:35am: Using smelling salts and a few kicks in the ribs, Mr. Man-Friendly gets me up off the hardwoods. I try to find a way to play off my lack of consciousness. "And, so how much just to fix the ones I have?" I ask. And then I get it. They try to sell you on the NASA Space Shuttle toilets and quote you the price. So, when you get the actual quote for the repairs, you are actually happy about what would normally be sticker shock. In fact, by now, I am downright excited to spending $400 for what is certainly a couple minutes of witchcraft and probably some generic Drano. And somewhere along the way, I buy the Ben Franklin service plan, titled cleverly enough, "The Ben Society." A stich in time and all.

9:41am: I leave the guy to "snake" my toliets. The "snake" looks more like a military-grade weapon. It sounds like it, too. What's happening upstairs sounds like the plumber destroying everything on the second level of my house. I hear running water and a lot of banging. Before this is over, I feel certain I will need a new toilet after all.

9:57am: Man-Friendly is really putting on a show. He's made more noise than any service person in the history of our house. I've heard the two upstairs toilets flush three or four times apiece. Somehow, I feel certain, the guy is going to come down and tell me, despite his best efforts, he's going to have to sell me some $600 toilets.

10:00am: I think this guy actually hates my family. As he comes downstairs, he quietly says, "They are unclogged." The sound in Man-Friendly's voice sounds like a guy who just watched five of his buddies die in battle. He has a 1,000-yard stare and quietly says as he goes to his truck, "No more baby wipes."

10:02am: I actually feel bad for Man-Friendly. "I've never pulled so many out," he says. I'm sort of glad my kid isn't here, because the guy will realize the boy is now three years old and ask why there are still baby wipes around. I protest briefly, "They are called flushable wipes." Man-Friendly responds, "They are not."

10:09am: The guy seems to have come back to reality. "I think they call them flushable just so they can sell more of them. They don't disintegrate. Anything they can get hung up on, they will." I am actually disturbed by the concept of what the wipes could possibly get hung up on. I find myself actually happy writing a check for $400.

10:20am: Mr. Man-Friendly is gone and everything seems to be in working order. I'm pretty sure that means we're going to have a major plumbing disaster in about six hours.

Thank goodness I joined the Ben Society.

Porn

2008-02-17T14:11:00.008-05:00

I am not on a diet.

I probably need to be. Beginning in early July, I started to notice that my lifestyle (fast drinks, fast food, no exercise, etc.) was starting to manifest itself in tighter pants. Those once roomy blue jeans started to feel a tad tighter around the man-parts.

I am loathe to exercise, though. I don't mind getting exercise by accident, but making myself sore for the purpose of making myself sore just doesn't jibe with my generally lazy attitude toward life.

The wife, however, is more than a tad into a new self improvement program. The early results are fairly striking. I don't dare go into specifics, but suffice it to say that the other night I felt like I was cheating on her when I stole a peek as she was getting ready for bed. Who is that woman?

The upshot of all of this is that I haven't been eating much either. Our frequent trips to the local Mexican joint have been cut back to almost none. Take-out? Haven't seen it. A huge meal slathered in butter and bacon from my devil-may-care hands? Haven't cooked one. What's more, I've had a grand total of four beers in the past 23 days and I've gone out to play cards once. Finally, I've reduced my diet soda intake by 80%.

Combine all of that with the fact that my buddies have either been ill, busy, or, in one case, caring for a newborn, and you have an Otis that has not been tending to his hendonistic side.

Frequent readers will note that my hedonistic side is, in a word, significant. I like huge, fatty meals. I like to take a drink or six. I like to be...okay, I'll say it. I like to be irresponsible. The combined factors above, however, have led me to a rather quiet lifestyle that, albeit healthy, leaves me wanting. For everything.

So, take a trip into my bedroom, if you will. The hard wood floors are shiny. The bed is soft. The pillows are feathery. The TV, while inadequate, is packed with hundreds of channels of DirecTV goodness. On any given night, I have choice upon choice of what I can watch before I go to sleep.

Every night I settle on pornography.

At first, I didn't think my wife would be interested. That kind of programming has never really suited her more delicate side. When I first turned it on, I expected her to sigh, roll over, put on a sleeping mask, and go to sleep. Instead, she grabbed my hand and squeezed. A small gasp escaped her lips.

"I want that," she said as a man with nimble fingers worked on TV.

I didn't respond at first and just watched her watch the TV. It was sexy and dirty and touched off every unsated nerve in my body. I heard her breathing quicken and had to steal a glance for myself.

Sure, Alton Brown was no John Holmes, but he would have to do.

For the past three weeks, the Mt. Otis television sets have been filled with little other than food porn. From Anthony Bourdain's exotica to Alton Brown's Dr. Ruth-style science, we have lapped up every bit of it. We've watched chocolate sculpting, how Pop Rocks get made, and reruns of Iron Chef (during which I developed an inexplicable crush on Iron Chef Cora as she berated her help for not removing the scales from a sea bass). If it weren't for an active Netflix account (make me your Netflix friend by clicking HERE) and an ongoing love affair with the Coen Brothers, we would be watching nothing but food programming.

I know what the experts say. This Food TV is a gateway activity. Before long, my wife is going to find me at 3am, naked in front of the fridge and eating sticks of butter whole. But I can't stop. Not right now.

I think Julia Child is coming on.

She gets me so hot.

The marriage bed

2008-02-14T10:55:00.004-05:00

My wife and I have a problem in the bedroom.

I've slept in more places than I can count--from five-star hotels to hammocks, I've seen it all. I've woken up on bare mattresses in houses I didn't recognize, in a bed with two other guys in New Orleans, and once or twice on a bar stool. I've slept on waterbeds, car seats, futon mattresses, and sleeping bags. For going on 12 years, I've shared these surfaces with the same woman.

My wife put up with my sleeping choices for a long time. I'm one who objects to change for the purpose of change. For the first few years of our marriage, we slept on a bed I bought in college from my then-bed-salesman buddy. He told me a got a "deal" on it, but I'm pretty sure I just paid enough commission for him to buy a dime bag. Regardless, since I dropped the cash, I figured to be buried with the mattress.

Several years back, my wife started complaining about quality of our sleeping surface. She begged me to actually buy a big boy bed. I fought her for months, but finally acquiesced after waking up impaled on a bed spring. It was time. The new mattress was perfect. I kicked myself for not giving in sooner.

The bed has served us well, as evidenced by the kid who runs around the house singing about the condition of his underwear and calling himself Mr. Incredible. Recently, though, superhero performances between mommy and daddy Incredible have been a bit off-kilter. As I said, my wife and I have a problem in the bedroom.

Across the fruited plains, couples will use this Valentines Day to celebrate the fruits of their marriage. Some might even do it with fruit. For many folks, this might be one of a few times they get it on all year long. Some of the more adventurous couples might get a hotel room, park bench, or back seat of a Chevette. Most people, though, will light a few Polo cologne scented candles, break out a can of Redi Whip, and head to the marriage bed.

I'm no engineer. My bedroom activity is more art than science. So, I don't know what's wrong. For whatever reason--excessive use, neglect, tectonic movement--the Mt. Otis bed is an unsafe place. The danger doesn't lie only in the freaky-freaky times. My wife and I can be sitting quietly in bed watching Alton Brown and, without notice, the mattress will fall off the bed rails and crash to the floor. When it happens during Good Eats, it's annoying. When it happens at other times, I almost feel the need to say, "I don't know what's wrong. This has never happened before."

There is a sound that perfectly describes the moment. While hard to put into words, imagine a trombone playing three descending notes of dispair. Wonh, wonh, wonnnnnnnnnh. If there ever was a picture of bad naked, it's me struggling against the weight of a giant mattress while trying to re-adjust the box springs in just such a way that the sleeping surface will not slip off the rails and crash to the floor.

The problem has been going on for a few months now. We tried everything to fix the problem. We employed our deepest knowledge of physics, our most spiritual pleas to higher powers, and--just once--called a shaman in to chant over our love nest. The bed would hold for days at a time. Then, at the most inconvenient of times, it would tilt, slip, and collapse like a house of cards.

My wife and I are adventurous to a degree. I mean, we've not yet joined a swingers club or anything, but we don't mind sleeping on a semi-dangerous surface. However, when the bed hits the hardwood in the middle of Good Eats, I stand a good chance of missing once of Alton Brown's witticisms. Nobody wants that.

In the spirit of Valentines Day, I trudged up to the bedroom this morning and wrestled the mattress and box springs off the bed frame (I was fully clothed this time). I opened my tool box, broke out the socket set, and prentended I knew what to do with with man-things. Thirty minutes later, I was jumping up and down on the bed, daring the mattress to collapse. It appears, for the moment, I have fixed the problem. However, with issues like this, the more you think about it, the bigger a problem it becomes. So, I'm trying not to think about it.

My wife and I made a deal for this fake holiday. No gifts, no flowers, no candy, no cards. We only plan to spend the evening together and, maybe, watch the decidedly romantic "Miller's Crossing" in bed. And I swear to Gabriel Byrne, if the bed hits the floor in flagrante delicto, I'm going to cry. Like a little baby.

Barack Obama: A different kind of popular vote

2008-02-13T12:22:00.002-05:00

I come from a generation of people who immediately disregard anything that gains any popularity among the general public. It's cool until other people like it. Then, "It's played, man. Played." These are the kind of people who support the Electoral College because they don't want to get caught supporting the popular vote. My, wouldn't that be embarrassing.

The only way for my generation to like something past its peak of favor is to hope for its death. If the anti-popularity crowd feels comfortable that which they like can be martyred, they won't feel embarassed about supporting it. There's no chance the object of their affections will sell out (see Kurt Cobain circa the Buckshot Overdose Years).

Hence, if something--anything--stays around too long, it runs out of cool fuel. A priest told me the other day (me and about 50 other people, but still) that we live in a throwaway society. Most of the things we like these days are disposable. We have neither the patience nor the will to make a commitment to something that will be around for longer than Britney Spears' sense of self worth.

Columnists with hipster backgrounds have started using perjorative words like "cult" and "religion" to describe what is happening in our nation. It is hard for a culture that eschews anything popular to accept what's happening to the Barack Obama campaign.

I understand this. Even I, a fairly reasonable guy, tend to disregard Oprah-picks. I, like most people, don't like being told what I should like and what I shouldn't. And really, when somebody suggests I'd really enjoy a Nicholas Sparks book, I have a hard time taking the recommendation or person behind it seriously.

That's what makes what's happening right now so important and interesting. This is something we 18-35 year olds (admittedly, I'm in the long-tooth end of the curve) have not seen our our lifetimes and something we likely won't see again. If Obama can find a way to court the important Old Racist and Institutional Washington voting blocks, he could very well be the next President.

Yeah, it's odd. It's strange to see people crying and falling out when Obama speaks. We, as a country, are naturally skeptical when people talk about being "inspired." We expect those folks to start speaking in tongues or bombing abortion clinics. Because "inspiration" too-often translates to "fanaticism." Fortunately for all of us, Obama isn't running with Eric Robert Rudolph. He's simply speaking a language a lot of us want to hear--and not in tongues.

If Barack Obama told me to put on a pair of Nikes and off myself, I'd say no. If Obama suggested it would be a good idea if I killed Sharon Tate, I'd say no--after reminding him the poor lady has had enough killing in her life. Hell, if Obama had an open house in Waco, I probably wouldn't attend.

But, if Obama suggests he will be the candidate who seeks to change the Washington paradigm and be a candidate for a generation of people who have never believed in anything, well, the guy has my vote.

Hermit crab

2008-02-12T10:48:00.000-05:00

I've left the house four times in the last sixteen days. I went to a Mexican restaurant with my family where I was mean to the boy. I went to my accountant's twice. I'm pretty sure I was mean to her as well, especially yesterday when she told me what kind of check I would be writing this year. Last night, after two weeks of being a hermit and rather crabby about it, I ventured back out into the world of other people for a weekly poker game. I was crabby there, too.

That, hopefully, serves as explanation for my lax posting schedule and general tone. It also, hopefully, explains why I have a hollow look in my eye and have grown a beard. If not, I have come up with a list of excuses.

Top 6 Reasons I Have Grown a Beard

1. I'm trying to teach my kid what strangers look like
2. I'm going undercover at a porn convention
3. I've started noticing changes in my body and hair in places I'd never had it before. Otherwise, I have no explanation.
4. I'm upping my efforts for Locks of Love
5. I misunderstood my gay friend when he said he needed a beard
6. I'm adding spice to my marriage by teaching my wife what strangers look like

I've actually taken to the hermit lifestyle very well. I have several manifestos in the works. I've researched mountain cabins where I can wait out the government. I've also started making a list of people who deserve to be poor and embarrassed.

Stephen Glass

James Frey

Laura Albert

Ruth Shalit

Jayson Blair

Can we all agree that fictionalizing one's life or the lives of others and passing it off a nonfiction is the cheapest form of art?

The easiest way to get people to like something is to tell them it's real. I really liked the movie "American Gangster." I probably would not have liked it any less if I'd known the movie was about 95% fiction. However, being told it was a true story and then learning it wasn't leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I am endlessly fascinated by people who pull off grand hoaxes. I am not, however, impressed by people who decide their real writing and real life are too boring, so they create a fictionalized world and pass it off as reality. If caught, they call it performance art or a dramatization.

I'm on the rant now because of 90 Day Jane. Google her if you like, but I'm not linking. The concept behind the blog is Jane, a skinny, bob-headed twenty-something who quotes Fight Club, is going to kill herself in 90 days. In the meantime, she's blogging her daily exploits for the masses and making You Tube videos of her picking out her "death dress." My favorite crime blogger, Steve Huff is also a bit of a web sleuth and is pretty good at solving web mysteries like this. In this case, unlike the case of John Twelve Hawks, I don't give a diddly damn.

Oh, screw it. Hereya go.

I've spent the past two weeks working my way into a local cult that believes dentists are evil and the only way to defeat them is growing a beard and brushing our teeth with OCD regularity. There are two end-game scenarios within the cult. One, we all kill ourselves with sharpened toothbrushes and try to pin it on the dentists. Two, we all get our own reality show on FOX.

Either way, it looks like we're gonna be famous.

Take a letter to Kublai Khan

2008-02-08T11:10:00.000-05:00

I hate it when I get like this. It's nothing I can define outside of "uninspired." Even that isn't entirely true. The best word is "blank." I am 100% blank right now. It's one of those times where just about nothing sounds like fun and all my normal distractions (movies, books, poker, music, etc) lose their luster way too quickly.

If I were to write right now, it would be about the following things.

Sixty seconds away from my brother's house in the tony community of Kirkwood, Missouri, a guy walked in to a city council meeting and started killing peoople. Before he was done, he had shot seven people, killing two police officers, as well as some city council members and other members of city government. A reporter and the mayor of the city were also shot. At the very same time this was happening, a sugar refinery not too far from here in Savannah, Georgia blew up. At the time, the casualty numbers seemed astounding. I started flipping between every major cable news network. Here's a rundown of what they were showing:

FOX News: Britney Spears coverage
CNN: Britney Spears coverage
MSNBC: A pre-packaged hour-long bio on Hillary Clinton (funny enough, the DirecTV guide showed the program listing as "The Mind of Manson.")

I mean...come on.

I'm not a big Phish disciple, but I found this article absolutely fascinating. Probably something about being an aging husband and father with a wild and crazy history. Via Coventry.

My friend E asked me to write a guest post for her professional blog. She's a political reporter out of Austin who is getting ready to see the onslaught of national media and candidates in Texas. She asked for some advice she can pass along to her colleagues. My only regret is the censors cut out the only really funny thing I put in there. It involved the word genitalia. Regardless, you can find it HERE

Finally...the other day, I was perusing plastic surgery websites in preparation for a rant about the industry. I came across a doctor who specialized in...wait for it...vaginal reconstruction. I suppose I should've assumed there would be such an area of expertise. I didn't realize, however, how popular a surgery it is. Among the specialities within the specialties is labiaplasty. I'll admit, I looked at pictures, because...well, really, who doesn't want to see before and after images? Let me warn you. This is absolutely Not Safe For Work. Do not open this link if anyone else is around. I feel a little weird linking it at all. However, science is involved and I think we can all stand a little enlightenment. NSFW.

Yeah...let that carry you through the weekend.

Poultry Primary sees winner and running mate

2008-02-07T13:45:00.000-05:00

DATELINE: TYSON FARMS -- Even the memory of Colonel Sanders couldn't save the one-time Poultry Party golden child from the deep frier. After a campaign that lasted through six months of egg collection, Buffalo Wing has claimed victory over Chicken Fingers in the 2008 Poultry Primary. Wing will face Beef Party candidate Bone-In Ribeye in the November general election.

Super Tuesday saw Deep Fried Turkey suspend his campaign after a weaker-than-expected showing in southern states. The big bird's Wing endorsement all but locked up the nomination for the bite-sized appetizer. Chicken Fingers made a last minute appeal for votes, most notably trotting out the great newphew of Colonel Sanders himself for an endorsemnt. Poultry Pundits say Cappy Sanders ended up doing more harm than good when he had a heart attack on stage and attributed it to years of eating fried chicken.

Buffalo Wing did not waste any time after his landslide primary victory. Saying it was time to start looking toward November, Wing chose a running mate and began courting the swing state beef voters. Despite Wing's strong finish, many analysts say the choice of a running mate harkens back to a 1980s political disaster in the Presidential race. Bone-In Ribeye has already quipped, "I've met your running mate, Wing, and, sir, he is no Jack Kennedy."

Super Wednesday

2008-02-06T09:18:00.000-05:00

Poultry Primary to continue as two-bird race

Within a period of one hour last night, Blogger ended my 16-hour Super Tuesday blog, my kid woke up with some sort of freak-out, and a friend showed up at my front door. He shoved his daughter into my living room, held up a video camera, and said, "Full documentation." He got his wife to the hospital just in time to have a second little girl, this time with no time for happy drugs.

I made it to sleep by about 4am and have risen to realize the Democratic race is only now about to get exciting. More on that soon. However, I also realized that the Democratic primary was not the only contest left unfinished. As I said in the waning moments of the Super Tuesday Live Blog, Bone-In Ribeye won the Beef Primary. The Poultry Primary, however, is still going.

Despite a late surge, Deep Fried Turkey said early this morning it will end is candidacy. "I think I probably failed to realize how fickle the American public can be. Come Thanksgiving, everybody will want a piece of me. Unfortunately, Thankgiving comes after Election Day. America is just not ready for the whole bird." Before leaving the stage, Deep Fried Turkey offered his endorsement to Buffalo Wing. "When it comes down to it," DFT said, "we're pretty close to the same thing. Except, Wing goes better with beer." DFT then left the stage, his security detail and a huge bottle of peanut oil close behind.

This morning, the spin from the remainining candidacies has been hard to follow. Here are just a couple of snippets from each candidate's campaigns.

My friends of a feather, I ask that we come together in the spirit of unity. Ribeye has been chosen to represent the Beef party while we sit in the coop undecided. Ribeye is a good steak. It is hearty and satisyfing, no doubt, but it does not represent what the American eating public is about. It is not the food of the common man, sitting in front of his TV during the Super Bowl, the World Series or the NBA finals. It is not being served with pitcher of beers but with fancy wines. It is not representative of what the working man can afford to eat during their sporting events.

It is time to get out of the henhouse and into the smokehouse. It is time for us to fully endorse the Buffalo Wing to be our candidate!

The Buffalo Wing has a history of uniting the people. It was in the early days when the wing itself teamed up with the drumstick to become one. Now, the breaded and naked come together, as do the sauce and sauceless. Hooters, Buffalo Wild Wings, and KFC are united in the backing of the wing as our candidate.

Buffalo Wings are a nation's food. Easy to prepare, affordable, great with beer, it is a food of the people. Whether a busty babe is setting a platter of 911 breaded wings in front of you or the BW3's girl is serving those tasty spicy garlic drummies, it is the chicken that goes with everything.

And we don't offer empty slogans. We offer the truth. Hooters make you happy! Are we wrong? NO! We need your vote today. BW3's sums it up, You Have to Be Here!

Back us today, Buffalo Wing for the Poultry Party!

--StB, campaign manager for Buffalo Wing

Some have said we were afraid...chicken even...to run in this election. But we are not afraid. We are here to ruffle feathers. We will not waiver against these Turkeys. Make no bones about it, buffalo wing supporters. We are letting our Fingers do the walking...all the way to the White House...because no matter how many bad eggs are out there...the CHICKEN...COMES...FIRST!

Richard Cluck (P), Tennessee (aka Uncle Ted), state campaign chair for Chicken Fingers

With two candidates left, it is up to you to decide who will face Bone-In Ribeye in November. Polls are open. Vote in the comments now. Polls close at 9am Thursday.

Super Tuesday Live Blog

2008-02-05T08:29:00.000-05:00

12:42am--Of course, Blogger sticks it to me in the waning moments...

12:27am--CNN gives Missouri to McCain. President McCain...still getting used to that one.

12:25am--CNN gives California to Clinton and McCain. That's not how I wanted to end the night.

12:21am--Damn, that was fast. NBC calls Californa for Clinton.

12:14am--Clinton wins Arizona, but the story is in Missouri. With 98% reporting, Obama has a 5,000 vote lead out of nearly 800,000 votes. The Associated Press has called the race for Hillary, already. So, I'm confused. Regardless, how the hell about it?

12:11am--Ari Fleischer just said on CNN that Republicans would kill to run againt Hillary and the tight race tonight is ideal for Republicans because Obama and Clinton will have to tear each other up in the net several weeks.

12:04am--Huckabee wins in Tennessee

11:45pm--Highlights from Obama's speech. And damn it, I'm still inspired.

Also sends thoughts and prayers to tornado victims, then takes a shot at federal government response times

"There is one thing on this February night to know. Our time has come Our time has come. Our movement is real and change is coming to America."

"We are more than a collection of Red States and Blue states. We are and always will be the United States of America."

"We don't have to settle for politics where scoring points is more important than solving problems."

On this Tuesday in Feb...what began as a whisper in Springfield has swelled to a chorus of millions....This time can be different, because this campign for the Presidency of United States is different. It's different not because of me. It's different because of you."

"In this election, at this moment, you are standing up all across the country, not this time, not this year, the stakes are too high and the challenges are too great to play the same Washington game. This time must be different."

Conciliatory marks about Clinton

"This fall we owe the America people a real choice. We have to choose between change and more of the same. We have to choose between our future and our past."

"Our party must be the party of tomorrow, and that is the party I intend to lead as the President of the United States of America."

11:40pm--McCain speaks in Arizona: "Tonight, I think we must get used to the idea that we are the Republican Party frontrunner...and I don't really mind it one bit."

And thanks to Pokerwolf for the invite. I could use both.

11:33pm--Rapid Eye Reality is ready to make a projection. Taking an astounding 95% of the vote, Bone-In Ribeye has clinched the Beef nomination. Analysts say Ribeye not only ran a good campaign, but had the funding that Hamburger and Philly Cheesesteak couldn't pull together. Even after a last-minute push poll from Cheesesteak suggesting Ribeye preferred to be served with A-1, Ribeye managed to reach the table in perfect medium rare form. Left unanswered tonight, which of the Poultry candidates Ribeye will face in November. Ribeye said tonight, "Poultry? Are you kidding me? I come from a cow. Have you seen what a cow can do to a chicken?"

11:29pm--Huckabee! Huckabee, you dog. You BULLdog. Going and winning Georgia tonight. How adorable.

11:27pm--Damn, Missouri is tight. Obama is closing in. May end up to be a 1 percent difference when it's all said and done.

11:22pm--On a personal note, I could use: A massage, a six pack, a plate of steak and eggs, and some Visine. Maybe a box fan.

11:20pm--CNN exit polling data out of California is pretty damned interesting. Obama is carrying the black vote by a huge margin. He is also winning modestly in the white vote. On the same hand, Clinton is killing Obama in the Latino and Asian vote.

11:18pm--Re: the previous entry, ABC news differs a bit.

11:13pm--On the delegate count, G-Rob sends along this witchcrafty news from the Obama campaign. The upshot is Obama's people believe they've got the lead.

11:11pm--Romney wins Minnesota.

11:07pm--CNN is finally showing me what's going on in Missouri. As expected, Obama is winning in the cities. Outlying KC areas and St. Louis city are still out. It's tight, but Obama has to crush the above areas to win there.

11:00pm--Mitt wins North Dakota.

Also polls have closed in CA.

10:57pm--So much for the 100th comment. And hey to the new folks!

10:55pm--Hillary is speaking. I'm...meh. Here are a few clips of the soundbites and thoughts of the night from Hillary Clinton's speech in New York.

"Tonight we are hearing the voices of people across America...those who aren't in the headlines but have always written America's story."

Prayers go out to people in Arkansas in Tennessee where tornadoes touched down.

"Tonight is your night. Tonight is America's night."

"Poltics is not game. It's about your lives and your futures."

10:54--Who is gonna get the 100th comment?

10:48pm--Bless G-Rob. Here's the laugh of the hour via IM:

Brian Williams is now reporting that after his speech in Boston, Mitt Romney turned back into a cassette playing boom box and headed to his meeting with Optimus Prime.

10:44pm--Garth asks in the comments, "Is it just me, or is Huckabee a more effective speaker than Romney?"

We were just talking about that here. Huck can give a speech. It can be a bit cheesey at times. However, that's Republican speech writers for you. Regardless, the guy had great delivery and will make a great ambassador someday.

10:41pm--McCain wins Arizona. I also got me kid to tell me he loves me tonight.

10:38pm--I think there's baseball reference to be made vis a vis Obama playing small ball to Clinton swinging for dingers. I saly know fuck all about baseball, so I'm going to leave it to somebody else.

10:33pm--"One thing thats clear is, this campaign is going on." That from Mitt Romney just now. "It's not all done tonight. We're going to go all the way to the convention and win the White House."

In other news, I'm going to win Powerball tomorrow night and have a nice steak dinner with Dorothy Mantooth. She's a saint, you know.

10:32pm--Obama wins Minnesota, CNN projects.

10:29pm--Huckabee says Roll Tide and then wins 'Bama.

10:25pm--G-Rob, my friend, live blog producer, and eternal optimist when it comes to things he wants, is back online and reminds me the overall vote is not nearly as important as where those votes are coming from in terms of Congressional districts.

In many cases districts have say 4 delegates and they'll each get 2. The key is districts that have an ODD # of delegates. Obama, thanks to some DAMN SAVVY campaigning, is doing VERY well there. Therefore he'll pull a massive delegate margin out of IL and GA. Whereas Hillary crushed him in TN but will only beat him by a net of 8 delegates.

10:21pm--Two more for Obama. Kansas and Connecticut.

10:13pm--I'm not entirely sure why the networks aren't calling my home state of Missouri for Clinton yet. I haven't seen what precincts are out. I can only assume they are waiting on St. Louis and Kansas City. Otherwise, Clinton beat Obama's ass. Obviously, I'm missing something.

10:08pm--Here's Mike Huckabee's soundbite of the night: "Over the past few days, a lot of people have beenn trying to say that this is a two man race. You know what? It is. And we're in it." He just said it in Little Rock as his...beautiful wife Janet stood behind him. He started talking about spiders and rocks shortly after that and I got confused.

In related news, my wife just told me Huckabee was born in Hope, Arkansas just like Bill Clinton.

10:06--Obama picks up North Dakota. In other news, I just picked my foot up off the ottoman for a couple seconds. Both have about the same amount of meaning.

10:04pm--Sooners like McCain. He's going to win the state by a fairly narrow margin. President McCain? How does that sound?

10:00pm--The 10pm projection from CNN:

Romney: Utah. No! Really?!! His supporters in Boston look like they are cheering for a 10-year-old kid who is playing on a losing soccer team and is running around the field in a leg brace.

9:56pm--Expect to hear the following talking points from the Obama folks in the next little bit.

They are winning states by a dominant amount and losing by smaller margins.
Wait for the caucus states - their organization is better there.
She should be winning her home state by more. The margin is comparable to her margin in Michigan.

Via Politico.com

9:50pm--Hillary wins New Jersey.

9:45pm--CNN finally went with NBC on the Clinton wins Massachusetts projection. Politics really are more fun when you don't give a damn.

9:41pm--Double bubble? Really? Really.

9:36pm--More national exit polls...

Democrats Top Issuse:

Economy 47 percent
War in Iraq 30
Health care 19

Republicans Top issues:

Economy 38 percent
Immigration 24
War in Iraq 20
Terrorism 15.

Via ABCnews.com
9:30pm--Obama, as expected, wins Alabama.

Meanwhile, my wife has joined me in the Obama slump funk and sends the link that asks if Chelsea Clinton might have bungled some election laws.

9:26pm--Funniest comment of the hour comes by way of the on-the-road CC.

Reporting from London, Ontario. All of Canada seems to have shut down as everyone watches Super Tuesday to learn the names of the different states that don't border Canada.

9:22pm--If I were Mitt Romney...I'd be a Mormon. And better looking.

Beyond that, if I were Romney, I would've spent a few of those $35 million bucks to frame Mike Huckabee in a Larry Craig wide-stance situation. Just sayin'.

9:20pm--McCain takes New York, CNN projects.

9:15pm--NBC news is calling Massachusetts for Clinton. CNN isn't committing yet. Writing seems to be on the wall, however. I need a shot of adrenaline. Or just a shot of something.

9:09pm--I think we have already seen what tonight is not. Tonight is not an embarassment for Hillary Clinton. Whatever bounce Obama got out of South Carolina is not going to take him high enough to walk away tonight with a sense of confidence he'll get the nomination. California, of course, is still the big state in play. It looks like conventional wisdom will win again and we'll still have no idea in the morning who the Democratic nominee will be.

Obama's crew obviously knew that before today. This morning, they were working hard to reduce expectations going into tonight. I can't help but feel, however, that Hillary avoiding getting embarrassed tonight is exactly what she needed. She didn't need to nail Obama to the wall. She needed to have a good showing. So far, she is. That may be all she needs to take it to November.

9:08pm--Obama takes Delaware.

9:00pm--Here come the 9pm projections...

Clinton--New York, a state should couldn't lose.

....and that's it.

8:45pm--With fifteen minutes until the big 9pm closings, the networks are projecting John McCain will win Delaware.

8:33pm--CNN says Hillary Clinton to take Tennessee.

8:32pm--Can you imagine being Mitt Romney tonight. Dude spent $35 million of his own money on this campaign. Buyer's remorse, anyone?

8:30pm--No big surprises out of Arkansas. Hillary Clinton, one-time first lady, will win the most Razorback delegates. Same goes for former Governor MIike Huckabee.

8:24pm--A couple of not-so-noteworthy oberservations...

Barack Ombama's supporters cheer very well. That said, someone needs to handle them better. When networks take live shots and the supporters cheer so loud you can't hear the reporter talk, you're sort of defeating your purpose.

Also on reporters...earlier today I questioned which SNL cast members were working on their Presidential impressions. Something else to consider is that the reporters who are embedded with the candidates have no small amount at stake in the outcomes. The reporters who are covering the candidates now stand to be the White House reporter for their network if their candidate wins.

Not a bad gig...

8:13pm--Now 12 hours into this live blog, we are nearing 80 comments. I've put down about eight Diet Mt. Dews and a couple Excedrin. Rapid Eye Radio is running somewhat smoothly. Still, I have an ugly feeling. Not sure what it is. It would be a lot easier, I guess, if I didn't care.

8:08pm--CNN projects John McCain will carry New Jersey.

8:00pm--CNN projections from Central Time and 8pm closing ET states:

John McCain wins Connecticut, Illinois
Romney carries home state of Massachusetts

Barack Obama takes home state of Illinois
Hillary Clinton wins Oklahoma

7:44pm--Politico.com gives us a sneak peak at what we'll be hearing from Clinton supporters tonight re: her loss in Georgia. These are the talking points.

Unlike the Obama campaign, the Clinton campaign never dedicated significant resources to Georgia.

Sen. Obama spent over $500,000 dollars on ads on television and radio; we never went up on TV

The Obama campaign has 9 offices in Georgia. The Clinton campaign only has 2.

Sen. Obama has had staff and significant campaign operation across the state for 8 months. Sen. Clinton only deployed staff to the state in the last couple of weeks.

Polls have consistently showed Sen. Obama with wide lead over Sen Clinton. That lead has only widened over time.

Translation: We knew we had no chance there, so we didn't even try. So, don't hold it against us.

7:36pm--Tornadoes in Arkansas and Tennessee touch down while polls are open. Reports of damage, but no word on casualties yet.

7:26pm--Interesting exit numbers based on all our talk today about experience. Democrats most important attribute in choosing their candidate

Bring needed change: 52 percent
Best experience: 23
Empathy: 13
Best chance to win: 9

Via ABC.

7:18pm--Drudge has some early exists across the nation. These should not be seen as anything but really early projections...

OBAMA: Alabama: Obama 60, Clinton 37... Arizona: Obama 51, Clinton 45... Connecticut: Obama 53, Clinton 45... Delaware: Obama 56, Clinton 42... Illinois: Obama 70, Clinton 30... Massachusetts: Obama 50, Clinton 48... Missouri: Obama 50, Clinton 46... New Jersey: Obama 53, Clinton 47...

CLINTON: Arkansas: Clinton 72, Obama 26... California: Clinton 50, Obama 47... New York: Clinton 56, Obama 43... Oklahoma: Clinton 61, Obama 31... Tennessee: Clinton 52, Obama 41...

7:12pm--It appears we've been relieved of Richard Quest on CNN's California primary coverage. While an entertaining Brit, the guy has no place in serious coverage. Whoever thought he could be trusted should be fired.

7:05pm--Holy schnikes. G-Rob reports MSNBC exit polls are showing Obama wins 86% of black voters in GA and 43% of white voters. Black voters made up more than half the voters in the primary. In a word...mamacita.

7:00pm--Easy win for Obama in Georgia. Still waiting to see the breakdown. That may take a bit. Still a three-way race for the GOP.

6:58pm--Georgia results coming in shortly. In the meantime, I'd like to see your answer to Andy's comment...

I can't feel good about voting for any candidate based on what they say they will do, or how they stand on "the issues."
in the last republican debate Ron Paul said he agrees with Bush....or at least how Bush ran in 2000. this is because Bush ran on many things in 2000 which he didn't come though on. what candidates promise to do is pointless, it's just words. they don't have to stay true to them one their on office.

also, and in my opinion more importantly, the "key issues" that are facing us now will most likely not be the most important thing this president will have to deal with. we're not electing this guy/gal for 6 months...a term is 4 years people. thngs change. when Bush ran in 2000, the key issues everyone asked about was not Terrorism, not Iraq, not our borders, not how our rights would be treated. However, now, 8 years later, those few issues are the big issues that defined George Bush as a president.

I don't see how I can vote according to the issues of today when most likely the most important thing this president does is on a subject that hasn't come up yet. I think the only way to vote is by Character, by how good of Leader he/she will make. I need someone I can trust to make good decisions for 4 years, EVEN if that means I don't agree with them on medicare, or social security, or Iraq.

thoughts?

6:46pm--Alright. Forget it. Was trying to set up a voting system for the beef and poultry. First ad had a milfhunter ad in it. The second was ugly. You want you food, vote for it in the comments. I'm going to change out of my cranky pants.

6:17pm--Well, if things are going to happen, they are going to start happening soon. Polls in Georgia close in less than an hour. Chaos has overtaken Mt. Otis. I'm going to stop this until it quiets down in here. Back in just a bit.

5:54pm--The sure sign someone is losing? When you start hearing, "My opponent isn't playing fair."

Here's how it went down in West Virginia today. In the first vote of the Republican Convention there, it looked like Romney had a good shot. It further looked liked McCain didn't stand a chance. Because no candidate got more than 50% of the vote, convention delegates had to vote again. McCain's camp decided to make a play and, knowing Huckabee is no threat to win the primary, asked its voters to vote Huckabee. So, they do, McCain gets next to no votes and Huckabee takes the majority over Romney. All delegates go to Huckabee and Romney...well, he cries. Hic campaign manager said, "Unfortunately, this is what Senator McCain’s inside Washington ways look like: he cut a backroom deal with the tax-and-spend candidate he thought could best stop Governor Romney’s campaign of conservative change."

5:46pm--Presented without comment.

When I am this party's nominee, my opponent will not be able to say that I voted for the war in Iraq; or that I gave George Bush the benefit of the doubt on Iran; or that I supported Bush-Cheney policies of not talking to leaders that we don't like. And he will not be able to say that I wavered on something as fundamental as whether or not it is ok for America to torture — because it is never ok… I will end the war in Iraq… I will close Guantanamo. I will restore habeas corpus. I will finish the fight against Al Qaeda. And I will lead the world to combat the common threats of the 21st century: nuclear weapons and terrorism; climate change and poverty; genocide and disease. And I will send once more a message to those yearning faces beyond our shores that says, "You matter to us. Your future is our future. And our moment is now." --Obama, November 10, 2007

Via Wil.

5:41pmBest headline I've seen today:

Huckabee scores first in West Virginia, presumably with a relative

Well, yeah. It was from Fark.

5:33pm--Rapid Eye Radio is back online. Looking like the next few hours will have some Widespread, Uncle Tupelo, Ben Harper, YMSB, Scott Miller, Donna, Cigar Store, and other fun stuff. Enjoy. Or don't. [link corrected]

5:24pm--First exit polls in...not at all surprising.

In the Republican vote, most people voting for Romney and Huckabee call themselves conservative. Only half of McCain voters call themselves conservative.

Among Democrats who make up their mind in the last three days, the vote was split evenly between Obama and Clinton.

5:19pm--CNN is reporting exit polls coming soon. That should be interesting. Oh, did I ever mention that if I ever just give up on life, I'm going to open an adult video store and calling it "Coming Soon" ...?

4:58pm--Via CJ via MSNBC...

Romney releases statement saying McCain cut a backroom deal with Huckabee to keep Romney from winning West Virginia. Huckabee releases a statement basically calling Romney a whiner.

5:54pm--Apparently it's not just the folks in Virginia who are a little confused. KSAT reports the good people of San Antonio are wondering why thier polls aren't open. Something, yada yada, Texas not having a primary, something or other.

4:43pm--Hey, who is gamblin'? Crack producer G-Rob ships these lines from Slate.

Democrat lines

Republican lines

4:34pm--Somebody called Madonna. Via G-Rob, the silliest thing I've heard yet, this one from New York magazine.

The "Evita factor" could make all the difference on Super Tuesday, says New York. Hillary Clinton has a major advantage over Barack Obama among Hispanic voters, which will be crucial in large states like California. One theory holds that Latinos are more willing to embrace Hillary because of precedence in Latin America for strong women who rode their husbands' coattails into power

Um...yeah. Let's forget the nation's largest Spanish language newspaper endorsed Obama.

4:31pm--One interesting thing I'm noting among all of comments so far is how adamant everyone is that we shouldn't vote for a candidate. I'd be interested to hear from anyone who is actually for a candidate and why.

4:28pm--On the subject of grassroots campigning in the digital age, G-Rob forwarded me this recent e-mail from the Obama campaign:

Friend --

Today, nearly half the nation will have the chance to join you in saying that we are tired of business-as-usual in Washington, we are hungry for change, and we are ready to believe again.

Twenty-two states across the country are holding their primaries and caucuses, and you can help Get Out The Vote in these crucial contests.

Use our online calling tool to reach out to fellow supporters. Encourage them to send a message that America is ready for a new kind of leadership and a new kind of politics.

Make calls using our online calling tool today:

http://my.barackobama.com/feb5calls

You can make a big impact -- the more calls you make, the more people will take part in their state's primary or caucus.

Thanks for everything you've done,

Barack

4:21pm--In all this political talk, the other races of the day are getting lost. As I mentioned at the top of the day...

On the Beef Ticket, voters have three choices: Hamburger, The Philly Cheesesteak, and The Bone-In Ribeye.

On the Poultry Ticket: Chicken Fingers, Deep Fried Turkey, Buffalo Wings.

At this hour, it appears the Ribeye is going to win in a landslide. Polls actually open HERE at dinner time. Stay tuned and campaign away!

4:16pm--Rolling Stone reports John Mellencamp is tired of John McCain using his songs at rallies. Discuss among yourselves.

3:50pm--CJ asks in the comments, "Would support John McCain, then? During their time in the Senate, who showed a better ability to reach across the aisle and get tough legislation passed, John McCain or Barack Obama?"

Would I support McCain? Good question. He is, by far, the best Republican candidate running for the nomination. I think he has a lot of talent in reaching across the aisle. If he weren't so hawkish, I might be able to support him.

Also in the comments, Uncle Wilco reiterates, "The question was what would you change? Health Care? Taxes? Economy? How are is candidate going to do that?"

Here is a little background on where I'm coming from. I spend as much per month buying private insurance for my family as I do paying my mortgage. That insurance doesn't cover much of what a normal family has to deal with on a regular basis. Do I think a change in the healthcare system is necessary? Yes. Do I think socialized medicine is a great idea? Maybe not. However, I have many friends around the world who don't have any problem with the level of care they get under such a system.

Under a Republican administration, I've spent more in taxes than I ever have. Meanwhile, my government is engaged in a war with my money...a war that many of us agree should never have started.

Today, we are seeing the worst sell-off so far this year. The economy is in shambles. My portfolio (nothing but blue chips and purchased eight years ago) is worthless.

Add to all that, a small subset of the Republican party pretty much turned my professional life upside down about 18 months ago.

Do I think Obama is the perfect candidate? No way. Do I think he will fix many of my issues? I don't know. I do know, however, he is speaking my language.

I'm no spring chicken. I have barely participated in national politics in my adult lifetime, largely because I could never support a canadidate even 75%. I don't know what will happen if Obama is elected. This time, however, I've decided to care. It may come back to bite me in the ass. Naive and idealistic? Sure. It may be time for that. I'm sick of being a fatalist.

But, if it's wrong to wish for the nation to not be at war, to hope for people to work together to fix a broken economy and healthcare system, and to believe there is someone who actuallly want to make that happen, then color me wrong. Dead wrong.

3:46pm--Quote an interesting discussion getting going in the comments. Take a look if you have the inclination.

3:26pm--Uncle Wilco asked in comments, "Since I hear a lot about the need for change I have a question for the people out there looking for change. What are you hoping to change (besides Iraq?), and exactly how are your canidates going to do that?"

I think by asking about Iraq parenthetically you diminish how important it is. That may not have been your intention, but to ask what we want to change besides that makes me wonder how many people don't see it as the single biggest issue in the past thirty years.

That aside, what change? It's a change in the way America thinks. I know it sounds naive. I hate to sound naive. Regardless, I know how America has operated in my adult life. It's been an environment of hopelessness. When it comes to matters of policy, few if any candidates are speaking about changing through unity rather than battle.

If I want America to talk rather than fight, is that wrong? I don't know if anybody has the ability to repair a fractured country, but I'm inspired by someone who wants to try.

2:58pm--My buddy, E, is laid up with the flu. That sucks for her, as she would rather mainline political coverage than any other drug. She is a junkie unlike anybody I know. She actually gets paid to do this stuff, so she's in quarantine and live blogging from her bunker in Austin. You can find her HERE.

2:53pm--A lot of you reading types are poker fans. If you're not one of those people, you might not know that 1) Obama enjoys a good game of cards and 2) Jim McManus is probably the best poker writer to emerge in the last ten years. My buddy Iggy posted this enlightening McManus column.

2:43pm--Dr. James Dobson, Focus on the Family honcho, took a huge shot at John McCain today, writing, "I cannot, and I will not vote for Sen. John McCain, as a matter of conscience." And if McCain gets the nomination? "I believe this general election will offer the worst choices for president in my lifetime."

I'm trying to think of another way to say "fractured party..."

2:38pm--CJ points out via IM that what looks like a McCain slaughter in WV is actually gamesmanship in play. Looks like McCain's supporters went Huckabee to keep Romney from winning. That's cute.

2:33pm--Rapid Eye Radio is taking a brief nap. Like a damned teenager after a roll in the hay. Or something like that. Back up shortly.

2:23pm--Huckabee wins West Virginia. Go figure. That's 30 delegates that will be doing something else come convention time.

2:15pm--From Politico.com vis live blog producer G-Rob, re: Dole pile Romney stepped in...

Mitt Romney just tried to give Bob Dole a quick call from his campaign plane in West Viriginia.

He got Dole's secretary and left a message.

2:06pm--Looks like West Virginia Republicans are rocking and rolling again. We;ll see if they can make up their minds this time.

1:45pm--Drudge is reporting "The board of elections failed to deliver voting equipment to polling places allover Los Angeles." That can't be good.

1:41pm--Robocall! Robocall! This hit Arizona phones this morning.

This is Ann calling on behalf of Hillary Clinton for President. Hillary Clinton has been a tireless fighter for seniors [unintelligible]. Barack Obama has said when it comes to Social Security all options should be put on the table. That includes raising the retirement age and cutting benefits. He has even proposed raising Social Security taxes by a trillion dollars. Hillary Clinton stood up to Bush’s plan to privatize Social Security and is against raising the retirement age. When you go to the polls tomorrow cast your vote for the Democrat committed to protecting Social Security as we know it: Hillary Clinton.

Via The Hotline

1:35pm--Why is CNN's fashion and lifestyle reporter doing election coverage?

1:20pm--This is pretty neat. It's a Google and Twitter thingy that is showing Tweets from voters around the country and world related to today's primaries. You can find it HERE.

1:08pm--As I told G-Rob a few minutes ago, I would rather be sitting around with everyone listening to music, watching returns, drinking beer and arguing. Since that's not going to happen, I scrounged around for a way to play some music to background this today. You can find it at Rapid Eye Radio.

It doesn't require any downloads or anything. Just hit play on the linked page. There is a java-based player that kicks off with a promo for the site and then the station should kick off.

The next little bit will feature the Jerry Garcia Band, Donna the Buffalo, Cross Canadian Ragweed, the Beatles, and some other stuff.

1:01pm--Via G-Rob and CBSNews.com...it is getting more than a little ugly between McCain and Romney. Apparently Bob Dole wrote a letter to Rush Limbaugh stating...

McCain is a friend and I proudly wore his P.O.W. bracelet bearing his name while he was still a guest at the ‘Hanoi Hilton,’" Dole writes. “I believe our major candidates are mainstream conservatives and that our nominee will address our concerns..."

How does Romney respond? He says of Dole, "[He is] probably the last person I would have wanted to have write a letter for me."

Yeah, that's the way to win friends and influence people. More at CBS.

12:54pm--Romney wins 41% of vote in West Virginia Republican Caucus. Because no candidate got a majority of the vote, a second round of voting is coming up.

12:34pm--The weather is somewhere between 65 and Awesome degrees here in southeast. G-Rob reports big turnout in Georgia and predicts we'll see an Obama landslide called before my kid is in bed.

12:25pm--I have no idea how I got on Mike Huckabee's e-mail list, but it's proven to be rather entertaining over the pas several weeks. One of my favorites came in overnight.

We just finished a campaign event here in Arkansas. The crowd was great and very enthusiastic. Arkansas will lead the way for us tomorrow as we begin to add to our delegate count. Polls in Missouri, Tennessee, Georgia and Alabama also show this race too close to call. We are in the middle of the fight for the Republican nomination and our hopes are running high.

What we need to do tomorrow is turnout every Huckabee supporter we can. Last minute reminder calls and messages to voters are going to be critical. Every vote counts. To help fund this effort in Tennessee, Missouri, Georgia and Alabama we are relying on you to help us close the gap. We are $215,000 away from reaching our midnight goal of $1,000,000 for get out the vote efforts.

Will you make an immediate contribution of $25 or more?

Please help us reach our goal. I will make a final decision on how many reminder calls we will make tomorrow based on the financial resources we have available at midnight. Reaching our goal will give us the resources we need to win in the states we are targeting.

I am counting on you so please consider making a contribution immediately.

Anyone feeling like re-arranging deck chairs on the good ship Huckabee?

12:15pm--Does anyone find it even vaguely amusing that even Rush Limbaugh is having a hard time getting behind the likely Republican nominee?

11:48am--And it's time for the conservative voice. CJ, a longtime blogging partner at Up For Poker, decided we neeeded a little more Elephant on this side of the blogosphere. Here's his take. I'm sure we'll see him in the comments later.

As the conservative talking heads continue to cry about John McCain not being a "real conservative," I challenge them to tell me who in the race really is. Mitt Romney? The one-time liberal governor from the most liberal state in the nation. The guy who fought to separte himself from Ronald Reagan in the 80s? Is it Mike Huckabee? The tax-raising governor of Arkansas? Sure, he's got the religious folks behind him, but he's not conservative. Was it Rudy Giuliani? Pro-choice, anti-guns. Need I go on? This race had one true Reagan Republican, Fred Thompson, and no one wanted to vote for him. Forgive me for borrowing from Donald Rumsfield, but you go to the election with the candidate you have, not the candidate you want. If conservatives want higher taxes and socialized medicine and a surrender mentality in foreign policy and up to three new liberal members of the Supreme Court, then all means ignore John McCain and support the Democratic nominee in November.

11:39am--Oh, and Perez Hilton supports Hillary. We gotta pull this out of the gutter.

11:30am--Here's a question...of the current Saturday Night Live cast, who gets which candidate? I have to imagine, they are all already practicing and probably basing thieir hopes and dreams on who wins.

11:02am--If you haven't been keeping up, here's a look (Courtesy CNN Politics) at the states in play today.

10:55pm--If you're the kind of person who looks to celebs to give you a heads-up on your voting choice, George Clooney is backing Obama. So is Bobby De Niro. So are three members of the Grateful Dead. Ugly Betty of ABC fame is Clinton supporter. Rambo loves John McCain. Chuck Norris, who apparently can't cure cancer with his tears and has no sense of humor, likes him some Mike Huckabee.

10:52am--A brief aside...why is there no Windows-based program out there that allows me to easily create a quick pirate radio station and stream directly from my iTunes? Sorry about that, but it's become a bit of an obsession. Back to the politics.

10:18am--In the interest of fairness, I should point out the extended Otis family is quite divided on this race. My brother, known as Crazy Smart Guy among his friends--mostly because he's a lot smarter than me in most academic arenas--is no fan of Obama.

I'm a doctor. The only thing I know more about than the average Joe is
Healthcare. On this issue, Obama is a fool (or should I say the people who wrote his "plan" to save healthcare are fools).

...

Basically, he wants to create a national health insurance that ANYONE and EVERYONE can purchase at a rate that is on a sliding scale based on what you earn, etc. Employers will be REQUIRED to either offer private health insurance or contribute more payroll taxes to the government plan.

There are MANY more insane details that are completely impractical and don't even BEGIN to address the REAL issues related to the healthcare crisis.

BTW, it's going to cost about $65 billion dollars (and that is the CAMPAIGN ESTIMATE). I'm sure the actual cost would be easily 2-3X's that amount. Also, he plans to pay for it by increasing taxes on those who make over $250,000. Sounds like a great idea. Why don't we raise taxes on doctors who already pay nearly half of their salaries to the government to fund poorly-run programs? And if you think that doctors make too much anyway, you should know that physician salaries make up only 8% of healthcare costs.

I could go on and on, but that is just ONE reason to not vote for Obama.

Obama Healthcare FAQ (PDF)

9:51am--At G-Rob's urging, I went all grassroots yesterday and sent an e-mail to friends and family in Missouri and Colorado asking them to vote. In particular, I tried to sway them toward my candidate of choice. One of my buddies--one I didn't expect to take heed--sent me a nice reply. I'll let him take credit for it if he wishes. Regardless, yea grassroots.

You, sir, now have my promise. I was on the fence, could vote for him with a quite-clear conscience if only he wasn't for letting or keeping every illegal immigrant in, but I like most of the other stuff he is for, and if his weakness is his lack of experience, well, it very well could be his strength in that he would be less likely to be beholden to the political machine and good-'ol boy network that has ruined the world for the last decade. Enjoy. Voting for him shall likely be the highlight of my day...

9:30am--You know what makes me giggle? Conservatives who break the 11th commandment. If you're not familiar with it, it's the unwritten rule that a Republican does not speak ill of another Republican. Now, here we are on the most important primary day in history and great thinkers like Pennsylvania's one-time Senator Rick Santorum are saying things like, "John was very rough in the sandbox. Everybody has a McCain story. If you work in the Senate for a while, you have a McCain story. He hasn't built up a lot of goodwill." That one, coming from a guy who fought McCain on immigration and same sex marriage issues, is cute. This one, though, is a downright kick in the ass to the 11th commandment. It comes from Senator Thad Cochran, a guy who used to be my Senator in Mississippi... "The thought of his being president sends a cold chill down my spine. He is erratic. He is hotheaded. He loses his temper and he worries me."

9:16am--Obama wins! In Indonesia. In a Dixville Notch-ish round of early voting, expats in Indonesia, a place where Obama lived for several years as a child, went to a hotel to cast their votes. Early counts show Obama winning...which should do him a helluva lot of good come convention time.

9:01am--Polls are stupid. G-Rob sent this poll data along this morning. The Reuters/CSpan/Zogby poll has Obama up +13 in California. SurveyUSA has Clinton up +10. As G-Rob points out...both polls were conducted on the same day. Statistics...

8:52am--Happy Mardi Gras, by the way.

8:30am--I've asked myself several times why I'm going to bother doing this. I'm not CNN, Politico.com, or even Gawker. I'm just one of the hundreds of other people doing this. I'm a niche-less blogger with more time on his hands than good sense.

That said, I have some experience in the world of politics and news. I have developed a passion about this race. I need to find someway to help me wrap my head around what happens today. And like John Gorka once sang, I tend to make my mistakes outloud. So, here it goes.

I decided that I'm going to do live blog Super Tuesday for the same reason that I did it on Election Day in 2006. I'm doing it because this is a night I would like to be sitting in a bar with my closest friends and family and watching our nation change. This, quite frankly, is better than watching the Super Bowl. Today means something. I want to share it with you folks.

So, the comments are open. Use them as your playground.

Today is the closest the United States has ever come to a national primary. Two dozen states will be voting or caucusing.

David Axelrod, Barack Obama's main man in the trenches--the guy who got him elected to the Senate in 2004 and has helped shape the Obama image since--summed up how today is expected to go. Yesterday he told Politico.com's Ben Smith, "Sleep late."

Why?

California.

With conventional wisdom saying this primary might not be decided by tomorrow, what happens in California late tonight will be more than important. Hillary Clinton was the favorite in that state until just a couple of days ago. As such, Axelrod seemed more than a little concerned about early voting and how that could affect Obama's chances there.

I have no rules for this blog today. It will go where it goes. I may give up and hide in a closet by news time. As a one-time registered Apathist, I am now a Barack Obama supporter and make no apologies for it. If today goes as I want it to, Obama will have a strong showing and McCain will lock up the nomination.

Finally, some of you may remember the other race run in here in November 2006 between Hamburger and Chicken Fingers. There were some passionate supporters of both candidacies. As this is primary season, we'll be looking to nominate a candidate from both parties.

On the Beef Ticket, voters have three choices: Hamburger, The Philly Cheesesteak, and The Bone-In Ribeye.

On the Poultry Ticket: Chicken Fingers, Deep Fried Turkey, Buffalo Wings.

Four conversations

2008-02-03T10:47:00.000-05:00

Conversation with my son just now:

"There's a man in my sack with the corn." He says this while holding a corn-filled heating bag.

"The man in the sack said 'everyone attack' and he's sitting in the sack with your corn?" I ask. The kid does not get the Ballroom Blitz reference and moves on.

"Yeah, there's a man in the sack. I cut him up. His head and his feet. They're in the sack with the corn." The kid looks as angelic as the day he was born. On neither that day nor this one did I hear Ave Satani in the background.

"Well, that's sort of strange," I say.

The kid doesn't blink. "Yeah, it's strange." And he goes walking off with his sack, which may or may not have a dismembered guy in it.

***

Conversation with the media

Last week, the TV station I used to work for ran this story in the first block of news at 11pm. If you don't have time to click through, it's about a car vs. deer wreck.

Yeah. Complete with repeated images of the dead deer hanging out of the windshield of the car.

This is quote from the story is about the lady who was injured in the wreck. It pretty much sums up how classy my old haunt has become.

Cardell Lindsay, said, "They were saying she was real bloody, but they think most of that blood came off that deer because that deer came through the windshield. He's dead. I seen him."

Five years ago, the deer story never would've made it to a photographer's tape, let alone on the air...let alone on the air for a full minute and half with "Exclusive" stamped on it.

Exclusive? Really?

For most people who read across the country, this may seem par for the course. This particular station, though, was long considered to be protected from and above the FOXification of America. It was a bastion of real news. Now, it's running "Exclusive" stories about something that happens every day. And they are showing pictures of dead animals on TV.

What sucks is, I know the guy who had to produce the story. He came along after I left, but I've met him since and I think he's a helluva good reporter and a nice guy. I can only guess he was forced to do the story. I can only hope, anyway. The station used to be managed by people who respected their viewership as much as they respected the profession of journalism. Now, it is the same station that recently ran a series titled, "Are You Too Fat For Your Car?" and has semi-regular reports on the status of Britney Spears' collapse.

Hell, it's like watching someone you love die in the hospital. It's sad, sick, and painful. I still have many friends there who I'm sure wish they were able to do the kind of work they did a few years ago. My hope for them is the station's ownership realizes what they've done to what was once one of the most respected local news stations in the country.

Or, if I need to speak a langauge that might be understood...

"Journalism at that station is dying. I seen it."

***

A conversation with security

I hate the fucking circus. I really do. I only go because I don't want my kid killing some guy and putting him in a sack full of corn because I didn't take him to see the elephants.

The only good thing about the circus, as far as I'm concerned, is it is great fodder for my Flickr account. My buddy CC bought me a Flickr PRO account recently and I was looking for more good material. So, as I have for the past three years, I walked up to our local arena with one of my Nikons hanging from my shoulder.

At the door, several security guys were half-heartedly wanding the crowd. Had I wanted, I could've smuggled a kilo of blow, a machete, and a howitzer in my pants.

"Is that a detachable lens?" the security guy asked.

I was already a little cranky anyway. I've been on the wagon for a week and work is a little stressful. All I wanted was to have a nice afternoon with my family and maybe get one or two good pictures.

"Yeah, it is."

I knew what was coming at that moment. I remembered the same conversation playing out at the World Series of Poker. There, the exclusive media provider (read: we pay money to be the only people allowed to properly cover this event) established a rule that forbade cameras with detachable lenses.

"I've never had a problem with this before," I told the security guy.

"Every circus is different," the guy shrugged. "You can walk it back to your car or we can have someone escort you guest services."

My car was less than five minutes away, but I couldn't resist actually being escorted by security to make sure I didn't get my 18-70mm lens in any clown's face.

To his credit, my escort was a really nice guy who tried to make me feel better about the entire thing. "It's a copyright thing," he said while steam rose off my forehead.

I wanted badly to launch into a PETA rant about abused elephants and how the tigers should eat the ringmaster. Instead, I took a valet ticket that read "#285" and watched the show without taking any pictures.

I hate the fucking circus. More.

***

A conversation with you

About fifteen months ago, for lack of something better to do--and because I was very excited about the day--I live blogged the whole of election day. At first it was just a way to keep myself occupied. Eventually, it became a conversation with you. After more than 14 hours of live blogging, the post had 113 comments and was a great conversation to boot.

Super Tuesday is going to be another one of those days. I'm going to be fabulously preoccupied with the goings-on around America and I'm planning to live blog the day. If any of you folks would like to join me, the comments will be open.

See you then.

TMZ, McDonald's, Circuit City, and nipple slips

2008-02-01T09:48:00.000-05:00

"Schadenfreude is the greatest joy."

Americans, perhaps, caught on late to the concept of schadenfreude. We arrived so deep into the game of reveling in others' misery that we who speak English don't even have our own word for it. Maybe it was because, in the early days of colonization, we were too busy actually building a country to make fun of the fact John Smith had syphilis. Or, maybe our Western wit had failed to sharpen to the point needed to truly take pleasure in other's misfortune.

Today, though, it is fair to say America has embraced the concept of schadenfreude. Or, in the spirit of many American "creations," we stole it from somewhere else, bastardized it, and made it trite and disgusting.

In 2005, TMZ.com did not exist. Today, it gets millions of hits per month and is used as a source by major news networks. Its popularity has grown to such a degree, TMZ advertisers have included McDonald's, Kraft, Proctor and Gamble, and Circuit City.

To be fair, who among us hasn't enjoyed seeing Paris Hilton be a celebitch? Who hasn't taken a little pleasure in seeing some of the world's biggest stars without make-up? It diddles a little spot in our brains to see the ivory tower of celebrity is often made of soap. I look at TMZ and its ilk like I would porn--alone and mildly embarrassed about it.

Embarrassed, however, can quickly turn to disgust. In the few years since TMZ sprang up from the gutter, it has devolved from reporting celebrity news to exploiting such laugh-a-minute subjects as drug abuse and mental illness. One need look no further than the last few months of coverage of Britney Spears.

In 2006, TMZ head honcho Harvey Levin, the one-time television b-lister and People's Court hack, told the New York Times, "Britney is gold, she is crack to our readers. Her life is a complete train-wreck and I thank God for her every day."

Levin must have been on his knees a lot in recent months, because Spears has gone from flashing her netherparts to full blown mental destruction. In just the past couple of weeks, Spears has twice been sent to psychiatric facilities against her will. According to TMZ, Spears has recently been declared "Gravely Disabled," meaning she is now a candidate for involuntary commitment.

Pretty damned hilarious, no?

TMZ and Levin will claim they are only reporting the news as they find it. It makes no difference to them whether Spears' bipolar disorder is "news" per se. It makes no difference whether the reporting of a quick mental decline and the family strife it causes is gross and exploitive. It makes no difference if TMZ mixes its "reporting" with descriptions like "popwreck." TMZ will report it because people read it. Nay, people enjoy it.

It would be easy to let TMZ slide as the slumlords of celebrity entertainment industry. It is usually within its legal rights and, apart from not giving a damn who it hurts or destroys, it can be commended for its dogged determination to sniff out every detail about what Brad Pitt wore to dinner Friday night. What's more, it's getting paid...and big time. So, who can blame'em, right?

Most readers of TMZ probably don't know that it only exists because of the ownership and funding of media giant AOL/Time Warner. Indeed, the same people that give you CNN, Time Magazine, HBO, Court TV, Sports Illustrated, and the Cartoon Network give you TMZ, home of the exploitation of mental illness and pictures of celebrity's nipple slips. If not for the backing of one of the world's biggest media companies, some people might be able to lose their minds without having millions of people watch it happen. But, really, who can blame AOL/Time Warner, right? If there is money to be made and readers to satisfy, who cares if it helps the nation poke fun at bipolar disorder? In the long run, it's all about profit.

The profit is there. It's not the readers sending in contributions. It's not subscription fees. It's advertising and lots of it. Take a peek at just a couple screen shots from this week's coverage.

If you don't care to click through to see the larger images, what you're looking at there is McDonald's sponsorship of the announcement that Britney Spears has been declared "Gravely Disabled." The one below that is Circuit City's sponsorship of TMZ's "Nip Slip" page, an entire section dedicated to nipples that have somehow made their way out of celebrity's shirts.

Here should begin a long lament about the downfall of American culture. Here should start the waxing nostalgic about a time when human decency rose above corporate profits. Here should be the part where we ask "At what point did exploitation and prurience become the stuff of corporate sponsorship by the likes of Ronald McDonald?"

Indeed, it should be the point we ask that. However, it likely won't do any good, if there is any good to be done in the first place. Ronald McDonald probably thinks he is being a good corporate citizen by not having TMZ TV streaming in all locations. If McDonald's can sell a McRib because you wanted another look at Britney Spears going nuts, then all the better. The good thing about it is that we won't have to blink when pictures of Britney Spears' suicide appear on Circuit City TVs and are accompanied by a Happy Meal toy.

This is not a defense of Britney Spears. It's a defense of human decency.

What makes schadenfreude the lowest form of humor is its complete lack of effort and creativity. America's schadenfreude artists wait for someone else to create something and then eagerly dissect it for a cheap laugh and a feeling of personal or corporate worth. It's such an easy buck that an entire industry has built itself on making the world's lamest of spirits feel better about themselves.

Perhaps the worst thing born from this cultural enlightenment is the ability to become famous through failure. One only need watch American Idol to see that failure is a quicker road to fame than talent. The shortsighted fail to see their fame will last just long enough to make them a little money and the subject of ridicule for the next several years. After that, it's back to failing on a smaller scale.

Just about every major language has a way to describe schadenfreude, that funny little word with no English equivalent. Similarly, just about every major language has a way to say "Schadenfreude is the greatest joy."

In every culture but our own, that final quote is meant to be ironic.

Of best chances redux

2008-01-31T11:47:00.000-05:00

"We're not voting for inspirational-speaker-in-chief."
--CJ, in the comments to Of best chances

The people who don't want Barack Obama to be President of the United States are united in their message: He has done nothing, he has proven nothing, and his inspirational kumbaya speeches are just a clever throwback to forty-some years ago. These same people will have you believe that their candidate is better suited to solve the problems of our nation because they will fight, fight, fight against the opposing party, against the terrorists, against the people who seek to destroy our way of life, moral fiber, and old ladies. Obama, they say, lacks the experience necessary to be the leader of the free world.

It's a pretty strong argument. So strong, I'm not going to spend a great deal of time trying to fight against it. It stands to reason, if I hire the most experienced babysitter to look after my kid for four hours, I should hire the most experienced person to babysit my nation for four years. Right?

Well, maybe. When I go looking for a babysitter (or, if you think I'm being too glib, extend the argument to anything for which you hire based on experience), I have a wide variety of people who have actually been babysitters before from which to choose. When I'm electing a President, the pool isn't very big. In fact, unless I want to re-conscript Jimmy Carter or George H.W. Bush, I've got nobody I can put in office who has the kind of experience everybody is looking for.

The simple fact is, the training ground for being a President really doesn't exist. The closest anybody comes to being prepared for the Presidency is being Vice President. I'm not saying that any of the remaining candidates aren't prepared for the job. I'm simply arguing that when it comes time to take the oath, anyone elected will be entering uncharted personal waters. That's why they have advisers, a Cabinet, and a system of checks and balances.

But, the Governors! Think about their experience. That's what Proto said in his comment. "Governors usually make better executives than senators or congress folk," he wrote. Historically, he may have an argument. I'm not goingg to fight on that. If we're to go with Governors this time, though, it's Huckabee or Romney. I do hope you'll pardon me if I discount both candidacies out of hand. I could spend a few hundred words explaining how those gents are not aligned with my way of thinking, but I think most of you know me well enough to know I ain't gonna be voting for either of them. What's more, I've known enough Governors in my day (Mel Carnahan, Kirk Fordice, Ronnie Musgrove, Jim Hodges, and Mark Sanford to name the ones with whom I spent the most time) to know that, while good men and decent leaders, they are no more qualified to run the nation than Governor George Bush was.

With experience being a non-factor in my decision, I am forced to look to policy, leadership skills, and personality. As I wrote in the previous post, no one candidate combines all three to my satisfaction. I can't imagine, unless one of my best friends decided to run for office, that I'll ever find anyone who is the perfect candidate.

And so, I look for inspiration. I look for a message that meshes with what I hope for the country. I look for someone who has vowed from the outset to do his best to unite a very divided country and work toward a greater good on which we can all agree.

CJ wrote, "We're not voting for inspirational-speaker-in-chief."

I, for one, hope to. If Obama can inspire a guy this jaded and cynical, he stands a good chance of inspiring a nation.

It may sound like a lot of feel-good, smile-on-your-brothers, hippie drivel, but I want to live in an inspired country. In inspiration, hope springs.

And in hope, there is often peace.

I'll take that any day.

Of best chances

2008-01-30T11:30:00.001-05:00

I do not talk about a lot of things with people I care about. I avoid confrontation at most times and it takes a lot to push me to the point at which I start running my mouth. Among the things I usually don't discuss: abortion, religion, and politics. I have recently, though, crossed the line and started discussing politics in places I normally would not. I guess if I can admit it to the people I care about, I can admit it to the world at large.

I want Barack Obama to be the next President of the United States.

A bit of disclosure: I have never voted for a Democratic Presidential candidate. In fact, I haven't voted in a Presidential race in years. In the 15 years I've been allowed to vote, I have never been inspired by a candidate or what he represents. Whether it is just great marketing--and I think a lot of it is--or it is the real deal, Obama offers me that kid of inspiration.

In an interview with CNN last night, Hillary Clinton made a lot of sense. She said her first days in office would be dedicated to putting together a plan to bring America's troops home fast. She would overturn a number of Bush's Executive Orders that have infringed on our civil liberties.

Maybe it's lip service. Maybe she wouldn't do any of it. Regardless, it's what I want done. The war, the bad beat on civil liberties, and the collapsing economy are among the first things I need to see fixed before I start believing our country is headed in the right direction again.

So, why, if Clinton is promising to do the things I want am I supporting her opponent? It's pretty simple: Clinton represents in word, action, and symbol everything that has made me hate politics and the process for as long as I can remember. She stands for fighting the Republicans at all costs. She believes any means is appropriate to her end. I can't look at her without thinking "gridlock." I think she probably stands for the the right things, but I don't think she stands on a foundation that will support the weight of her dreams.

Obama's biggest critics cite his inexperience in leadership as a reason to discount his candidacy. I long ago rejected this argument. We elected George Bush after he governed one of America's biggest states and had the benefit of being the son of a President. I don't think I have to re-create the laundry list of how that experience has turned out. Hillary Clinton's brief experience ~~running for President~~ serving as a New York Senator and America's most pitied first lady doesn't really count--at least in my mind--as the kind of background I'd put above many other people.

I will be the first to admit, the Obama marketing machine is a damned good one. The people who have spent their time working to inculcate the parallels between he and JFK are really smart. They are smart because they are speaking to my generation and the generation before mine. We are people who want change and people who have seen how change can affect a nation. If it's all one big commercial, well then I'll be the first to congratulate the ad wizards. You got me.

Obama does not represent everything I want. In fact, I'm at odds with him on several issues. Frankly, I don't care. I have either fallen victim to his marketing machine or I am duly impressed with a man who speaks about working together, getting rid of the old Red State/Blue State BS, and serving as one people to reunite a country that has spent way too long divided.

I will be voting in this year's general election. And I hope I'll be voting for Barack Obama.

The bon temps

2008-01-29T09:56:00.000-05:00

"I don't want this to sound as morbid as it will," I said to my wife.

We were one of less than a dozen people in a bar as a long-haired country singer named Corey Michael sang on stage. We sat at the corner sipping our drinks and exhaling after two days of driving.

My wife raised her eyebrows and expected the worst. When I start getting morbid, she tends to laugh. It's a defense mechanism, I guess.

Around the corner of the bar, a guy with a sleeveless t-shirt and five o'clock shadow ordered a shot of Goldschlager, seemingly for no other reason than the bartender had a bottle. He turned up the drink and walked out alone a few minutes later.

This was the first time I'd been to New Orleans since Hurricane Katrina. In fact, it was the first time I'd been since 1998. I didn't know what to expect. I found that the original Tropical Isle was moved across the street in 2004, complete with a jazz funeral. I found that all the buildings looked newer than they had in the past, likely the result of a post-hurricane paint job. I discovered that Hand Grenades still taste the same, there is still a Lucky Dog vendor on most corners, and that there are still guys there who will try to run the old "I bet I can tell you where you got those shoes" con. It was, in short, a freshly painted version of the same place I'd been so many times before.

Corey was more talented than he should be, especially to have been playing in a bar on a Wednesday afternoon. The rumor had it that he had done some sort of American Idol work before moving to the Quarter to play five nights a week for $20 a set plus tips. I guess there are worse jobs. Before we left, we tossed a sizable tip in his jar and wished him well.

We would see similar stories up and down Bourbon Street. Our last stop of the night, in fact, we listened to a rather good funk band until they closed up shop. When the set was over, I felt compelled to buy the guitarist a beer. Color him unsatisfied with the gig. It was just a way to make money. The next night, he was sitting in at the House of Blues for a band I'd never heard of. That's the thing about New Orleans. Whether it was a classic rock cover band, a funk crew, or a lonely singer song writer, everybody there is better than the best bar bands of just about any city you go to.

Throughout what would prove to be a fantastic five days in southern Louisiana, I saw much and ate more--countless sausages, crawfish, gulf shrimp, a 20 oz. bone-in ribeye, shrimp and grits, gumbo, etouffee, jambalaya, you name it. I had some good New Orleans coffee, which I miss when I'm not there. Hell, my buddy Uncle Ted even sweet talked a waiter at Dickie Brennan's into giving up his "Otis" name tag. It was a nearly perfect trip.

That made what I said just a few hours into it all the more strange. My wife sat at the corner of the bar, her shirt the same color as her drink. She sipped and started taking on that smile-laced glazed look that lets me know she has relaxed. No, I didn't want to make it sound as morbid as it was going to, but I didn't have much choice.

"If you ever decide to leave me and take everything that means anything to me," I said, "this is where I will probably come to drink myself to death."

She shook her head in a way only she can.

Yeah, it sounded more morbid than it should've.

Done riding
More photos from the trip on my Flickr page

Dateline: New Orleans

2008-01-23T20:37:00.000-05:00

I couldn't get comfortable.

Something was wrong. We crossed Lake Pochatrain and my wife pointed out how bad the railraod bridge looked. I was dealing with spitting rain, bad traffic, and a bad case of tension. The city felt sterile and too new. I wanted to turn around.

Ten minutes later, we drove underground at the Royal Sonesta and found a parking spot that beat me like no other. I tried five times before giving up and moving somewhere else. This wasn't the laid back New Orleans I knew.

Finally, we walked for half an hour and reacalimated ourselves to the city we once knew as our own. When the Tropical Isle was on the wrong side of the street, I nearly suggested we go home. We learned later that it moved, complete with a New Orleans-style jazz funeral, in 2004. That made me happier than I'll be able to express right now.

I thought the city had given me up after my nine-year absence.

It only took three hours before I walked down the street with the feeling like I'd lived here for years. I've only been in town for five hours, but I'm 100% at home. As for why, that's a story for another time.

Tonight, we dine on nostalgia at NOLA. It was the place we ate when I got my first TV job. Tonight, we'll eat with the knowledge that television is long behind us. Better yet, our life is ahead uf us.

With lots to say and still lots to do, I'm not going to spend a lot of time on the wax tonight. Suffice it to say, we're in New Orleans and we're home.

Deep South Run: The Live Blog

2008-01-22T13:01:00.000-05:00

Scroll down for updates.

ANDERSON COUNTY, SC--Interstate 85, the major artery that runs from Atlanta, GA, through Upstate, South Carolina, and into to the northern reaches of the Southeast is a wet mess today. It is Mad Max dangerous, despite it running slower than it usually does. Nine years ago--back when I lived in this county, the stretch of four-lane interstate was home to the worst car wrecks I ever saw. It's not a backwoods county, but it was good ol' boy enough that I, for better or worse, ended up too close to the accident scenes. The most vivid memory is standing over a body bag as it was opened up. Inside was the top half of a human body, burned down to the bone. It was a kid on his way to college at UVA. His mom died in the same wreck, despite being in a different car. I still can't stop seeing it. It's been nearly a decade. Worse, though, I think was the girl who nearly had her head cut off by a car that crossed the center divider and went airborne. I spent a lot of time on invesitgations into why the state hadn't installed cable barriers in the too-thin medians. Eventually, after I saw more than my share of dead people, the state got its act together and installed cable or cement carriers for most of the length of this interstate in South Carolina.

Today, we denizens of Mt. Otis are on I-85 in Anderson County and headed south. My mobile work station is set up in the passenger seat, allowing me to maintin an online presence for my employers while still making tracks. It's a double-edged sword, this ease-of-working set-up. While it allows me to get some work done, it also puts the wife behind the wheel. She's a relatively safe driver, but also likes to nararrate the drive. We're seeing the same thing out the windows, but...well, we'll leave it at that. I'm tired and cranky and probably not the best traveling companion right now, either. Regardless, it's snowing now. Snowing chicken feathers, anyway. You'd have to see it to appreciate it.

Indeed, every breathing thing in the house came with is. The wife is decked out in a velour PokerStars jumpsuit. I'm in cargo pants and a two-layers of t-shirty goodness. The kid is kicked back in his car seat and watching The Incredibles. The dog, Scoop, is stoned out of her damned mind on tranquilizers. We won't be in Anderson County for long. Our journey is a week long and will take us through every state in the Deep South (unless you're one of those people who considers Florida part of the Deep South). Georgia is less on my mind than on the horizon.

More from there in a bit...(1:00pm ET)

HART COUNTY, GA--It's 92 miles to Atlanta and I'm hoping I've accidentally been knocked unconcious before we get there. Despite being the capital of the South and one of the most--if I dare say it--cosmopolitan cities within 600 miles, it's still Atlanta, which means it sucks sideways when it concerns anything involving travel. We have timed this trip to avoid anything resembling a rush hour. Still, we will slow down to a mere crawl when we pass through around 2:30pm. I know this because it's part of Atlanta's city charter.

So, why would we do this? Why would we load the car on a Tuesday and decide to travel across four states and back in a week? Why would we do this just a couple weeks removed from a ten-day work trip in the Bahamas. Well, it's a few things, really. First, I spend a few days every Janaury in Mississippi. Usually, I'm in Tunica playing poker. This year, circumstances made it such that that poker trip isn't happening. Still, the wife's family lives there, a scant few miles from where I used to live. Our first stop (not counting the six or seven bathroom stops we're sure to make) will be Jackson, Mississippi. That is about an eight-hour drive from Mt. Otis. After that, the wife and I will head down to New Orleans and hole up in the Royal Sonesta on Bourbon St. while we wait for several friends to make it in from out of town. After that it's marriage for one of our closest friends.

That's the real reason we are navigating through a rainstorm in 33-degree temperatures. When we left the house, it was 35 degrees outside. Now, it's 33 and threatening to drop more. The only thing hot in this county is the TOPLESS, TOPLESS sign as you cross the border. The locals love that one. But, really, in an area of the country where bare knees can sometimes be seen as too titilating, a topless diner was really a stroke of genius. Pun not really intended, but I'm leaving it there anyway.

Despite working on just a few hours sleep, riding with a headache, and having to work from the passenger seat of an SUV, I'm actually really excited about making it to the Big Easy. Outside of places I've actually lived, New Orleans is top of the list in memories. From bignets at Cafe Du Monde, to the food/drink at Fat Harry's, to a big mess of crawfish on my buddy Al's back deck, New Orleans used to be the place I went when I was looking for a place that wasn't home, but welcomed me like like I was a native son every time. (1:41pm ET)

SUWANEE, GA--I can smell Atlanta.

Actually, I can smell the remains of the fast food we picked up on the way out of G-Vegas, but it's close enough. Sprawl means you can smell and feel Atanta a good 45 minutes before you get there. I sort of feel guilt for making the wive drive the first leg of this journey. If I were officially off work, I'd be driving all of it. So, now, I'm fielding instant messages and offering snide opinions that are probably ill-advised.

I should have better memories of Atlanta. I've spent many a good night there. Saw the Braves make the World Series one year. Saw the Cigar Store Indians play with the Reverend Horton Heat while simultaneiously challenging people to play pool for money and picking a fight with a dwarf in a leather jacket. Once sat around a bonfire for ebout eight hours playing guitar when it was 40 degrees outside.

Despite all that, my best memories of Atlanta have been on nights I didn't actually go there. Really, the best things about Georgia don't happen along I-85. To feel really at home in Georgia, one has to go to Athens. Or, better yet, go to Savannah and cross the bridge to Tybee Island. There you'll find a place you can call home, if even for a weekend.

I find it a little odd that I'm nostalgic for a place I've not yet left. I consider the Southeast my home and, when and if I leave, I'm gonna miss it.

All of it except Atlanta, anyway. (2:00pm)

ATLANTA, GA--Gotta find a way to distract myself from this for a few minutes. How about you meet Al?

Al was the first Jewish guy I knew--or, at least, he was the first guy I knew that I knew was Jewish. After meeting Al, I had a hard time understanding what all the hubub was about.

Al was from New Orleans, but was attending the University of Missouri when I got there. He was a year older than me, but took me under his wing quickly. With a deep New Orleans accent--the first I could really indentify as such--Al led me to my first Mardi Gras in Febraury 1993. I occasionally look back at the pictures at the 19-year-old version of me--slicked back hair, denim shirt, no wrinkles, 15 years younger and more naive than seems possible. Naive in New Orleans is better than you might think. You never expect the trouble you're about to get into, so you don't know to be wary of it.

I won't wax forever on that trip. Suffice it to say, it was a series of firsts for me. It was the frist time anyone had walked up with a paper grocery bag and dumped five pounds of crawfish in front of me. It was the first time--and certainly not the last--that I pulled the crawfish tail out with my teeth, then crushed the head between my fingers while sucking the juice into my mouth. It was the first time I saw girls randomly taking their clothes off for no good reason. It was the first time I--a guy who had never even seen illegal drugs--saw somebody fashion a pipe using nothing more than a pencil and a roll of tin foil.

Al took me back to New Orleans again after that and I owe him big for introducing me to one of my favorite places in the world. We lost touch about ten years ago. I don't know what happened to him or his other running buddies, G and Sal. Damn, but we had a good time together.

I've been to New Orleans a lot of times since then. It has never been as good as that first trip. In fact, a couple of times, it was downright bad. However, a majority of my time in one of America's greatest cities was perfect. I am having a hard time not getting overly excited about it.

It occurred to me last night, though, that this is the first time I've been married in New Orleans. My love and I have been there together before, but never as a married couple. Shouldn't be too diferent, should it? (2:20pm)

TALAPOOSA, GA--Well, Atlanta wasn't as bad as it could've been. There was only one tragic SUV rollover accident and we only slowed to 25mph twice. Now, we're back on fast highway. It's I-20 for us now all the way to Jackson. Apart from being exceedingly boring, I-20 is a very reasonable stretch of road. We pick it up in Altanta and will run it all the way across the Alabama border. From there, it's pine forests, the Talledega Speedway, a sleepy little town where--as a one-man-band TV guy--I once chased a cop killer, Birmingham, steel towns, the Mississippi border, lumber yards, and finally Jackson. On the scale of interestingness, it's way the hell away from driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, but a sight better than driving across I-70 from Missouri to Colorado. You can trust me on all three of these. No drive compares to the PCH for beauty. The only thing I've ever seen that comes close is the Blue Ridge Parkway in October. And nothing is more boring than driving across the Kanas Plains.

It appears now, as well, that we no longer have to worry about the weather. The sun is coming out and the temperature is up to 41 degrees. I figure we'll hit Jackson by 7pm CT. That's not too bad.

As the pine trees plow by, or we by them, I find myself thinking about the worst thing I ever saw in New Orleans. I'd just left the Tropical Isle on Toulouse and ended up in the midde of a massive street brawl. It was Mardi Gras 1994 and it was so crowded that any fight between two people was going to turn into a riot. I was happy to escape with no blood on me. I turned the corner onto Bourbon and walked a block or two up. I didn't have to worry about toppling over due to intoxication. The last few days before Fat Tuesday meant the streets were filled to capacity. Like always, I followed the crowd's cheers and gaze. Nearly everyone on the block was looking up at one balcony. That usually means there's a girl taking her clothes off. I stopped and looked up...just in time to see a guy climb up on a balcony rail and scream "Woooooooooooo-hooooooooooooooo!" And then, completely against his will, and in line with how gravity usually works, the guy fell off the second story balcony and to the ground. I don't know how the crowd hushed quick enough for us to hear the guy hit the ground, but it did. If you've heard the old saying about a sack of potatoes...well, that was what it sounded like.

The guy was alive when the dragged him by me. His eyes were open anyway.

For the first time ever or since, I sobered up immediately. You just don't see something like that every day.

I walked a couple more blocks down when a girl ran full-chest into me.

"I'll kiss you for those beads," she said, pointing to one of the 100 strands I had around my neck.

I shrugged. "Okay."

"But," she said, "No tongue. I don't want to get AIDS."

I shrugged again. "Okay."

And then the girl stuck her tongue in my mouth anyway. (3:15pm ET)

TALLADEGA NATIONAL FOREST, AL--What sucks about Alabama is...well, that's just the start of the joke I'm not prepared to tell. Alabama gets a bad rap. I think it's guilt by association, what with it being so close to Mississippi and all. Alabama is actually a really pretty state. It would, however, be a lot prettier if it managed to keep its roadsides free of litter. We're now doing 75mph through the Talladega Natonional Forest, specifically, just crossing the border into Calhoun County and we're seeing a lot more trash than one should see. Here in just a bit, I'm going to take over the wheel and barrel as fast as is safe toward Jackson. The quicker I get there, the quicker I make it to Louisiana.

The previous entry here paints New Orleans with a rather ugly brushstroke. It's not always that way. Mardi Gras, I assume especially in the days before Hurricane Katrina, is an insane time in the French Quarter. It's no place for a kid and it's not really a place for anybody over 40. It's easy to get hurt. The rest of the time, though New Orleans is a place where one can lose himself temporarily or permanently, and do so quite happily. If you ever go, here's your must-do list:

See the Preservation Hall Jazz Band

Have a sandwich with extra debris at Mothers

Have bignets at Cafe du Monde

Drink at least one hand grenade at the Tropical Isle

Watch people sing karaoke at Cat's Meow

Have real New Orlean's BBQ shrimp

Eat oysters

Have a poboy

Go for a wash and drink at Checkpoint Charlies

Bonus points:

Spend an hour in Oz

Spend 15 minutes in The Dungeon

Spend half an hour in a Bourbon Street strip club

Sadly, I'm already regretting how little time I'm spending in New Orleans on this trip. I'm also already a little hungover from the bachelor party I'm attending...on Thursday. 2:41pm CT

EMBRY, AL--I don't get motion sickness. While that's not entirely true and a few guys who were on a North Sea ferry with me in 1997 might have a couple of stories, I don't get motion sickness. I've ridden in cars, trucks, planes, trains, boats, helicopters, and, verily, blimps and I've never thrown up.

Right now, that could change.

Alabama's road contractors decided to see if they could come up with a notion that overstepped failure. You know that motorboat sound you make if someone does the chop suey massage on your back? That was the noise we made for five miles while trying to talk. I feel like hell.

The road leading to Pell City and Birmingham has finally smoothed out, but I've lost my desire to look at a computer screen for a while. I'm going to fight for the steering wheel. If I succeed, I suspect the wife will take over the live blogging duties over at In Search of Walden. Note: Walden is most certainly NOT in Alabama. If she decides she'd rather listen to more 80s music, you'll hear from us again on the other side. Later, all.(3:05pm CT)

Prosecutors set to unveil evidence in Devon Epps case

2008-01-21T11:24:00.000-05:00

It's been nearly three months since Greenville County's top lawman said what most people already suspected:

"Amanda Smith is responsible for the death of her son."

With those words, Sheriff Steve Loftis prepared the community for what is sure to be an exceptionally long and drawn-out legal battle. The process begins this week.

Wednesday, Solicitor Bob Ariail and his team of prosecutors will go before Greenville County's top magistrate, Diane Cagle, and lay out the evidence against Amanda Smith. Or, in reality, Ariail will lay out just enough evidence to convince Cagle to bind the case over for trial.

It is, in short, more ceremony than battle. I have watched more preliminary hearings than I can even remember, a majority of them in front of Cagle. Never has there ever been a question whether a case of this magnitude would go to trial. It's just gotta be done.

The reality of this week's proceedings is that the public will get its first taste of Amanda Smith, defendant. We will also get a chance to hear the basic outline of Ariail's case.

I always loved prelims because they were usually short, but chocked full of information. I had been looking forward to this one for two months. Alas, this hearing is happening on a day I'm going to be on the road. I cannot cancel this trip and will have to rely on the good folks at Greenville Online to get my fix.

Ariail, to the best of my knowledge, has yet to announce whether he intends to seek the death penalty against Smith. I would still bet he does not, but Ariail has surprised me before. Regardless, the trial itself is probably still a good year away.

I remain disappointed I can't be in court on Wednesday. If any of you good e-mail buddies hear anything before I do, shoot me a note.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death
Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news
Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?
Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print
Devon Epps: Waiting
Devon Epps: Pictures
The Missing Memorial Page
On Being Devon Epps' Mom
Amanda Smith arrested in death of son Devon Epps

Gary Michael Hilton and Jason Knapp

2008-01-17T09:57:00.000-05:00

The arrest of Gary Michael Hilton for the alleged murder of Georgia hiker Meredith Emerson should not have brought back any memories for me. However, now that investigators are connecting Hilton to the murder of North Carolina hiker Irene Bryant and the disappearance of her husband John, people are starting to use words "serial killer." The talk only gets more pointed when investigators continue to list Hilton as the primary suspect in the death of Cheryl Dunlap in Florida.

If you draw a line from northeast Georgia where Emerson died to Transylvania County, NC where the Irene Bryant died, you are going to cross a place called Table Rock in Pickens County, South Carolina. Though it's not yet being reported in the national press, investigators in Pickens County are doing preliminary work to see if Hilton might have had any role in the disappearance of Jason Knapp in 1998.

Knapp, at the time a student at Clemson University, was a model student and member of the Air Force ROTC. He disappeared in April 1998. Investigators found Knapp's car, a Chevy Beretta, at Table Rock State Park. Table Rock is a popular hiking and outdoor area in Upstate South Carolina. It has a number of interconnected trails, a couple of which reach to the top of Table Rock.

Despite massive search parties and an exhaustive investigation, no one ever found Knapp or his remains. Everyone has been left to assume he either fell off one of a bluff or, worse, ran into a drifter the likes of Gary Hilton. It's impossible to say. From the perspective of a clumsy writer who has hiked the Table Rock summit, it would be very easy to fall. If one were alone, there would be no calling for help, especially in 1998 when cell phones were a little less common.

Still, because of Knapp's disappearance and several unsolved murders and disappearances around the same time, investigators in Pickens and Oconee Counties (the two counties on either side of Clemson University) have never let go of the idea that Knapp might have been the victim of a killer. To wit:

In 1992, Norsaadah Husain was stabbed in a Cleamson-area laundry, kidnapped, killed, and later dumped in a forest within a half-hour's drive of Table Rock. No one ever found in the killer.

Brooke Holsonback was found murdered in Lake Hartwell near Clemson University in February 1997. Though the case has focused largely on two of her male schoolmates, the case remains unsolved.

Sheila Carver disappeared in June 1998 from the same area and was never found.

Add to that Knapp's disappearance in April 1998 and you have...what? Well, you have a bunch of cases in a two-county area that remain cold 10-15 years later. Because each of the cases is so dissimilar, investigators long ago gave up on the idea they are connected by anything other that geographic area. These same stories and memories pop up every time there is a high-profile case in the area, like when Tiffany Souers was murdered in her Clemson-area apartment in the summer of 2006.

This year will be the ten-year anniversary of Jason Knapp's disappearance and presumed death. I know this because I spent many a year thinking about the case and dealing with its primary investigators. What's more, I spent more than a little time with Knapp's mother, Deborah Boogher.

Deborah was a mother in much the same way I suspect mine would be if I fell off the face of the planet. Though she lived hundreds of miles away, Knapp's mother made regular trips to South Carolina to check in on the investigation and conduct a few of her own. One cold March morning, I joined her and a psychic on a trip to Table Rock State Park. My late partner and friend Chris, a photographer, and I spent the better part of a day on the trails around Table Rock. Never much of a supernatural guy myself, I had a hard time getting into the spirit of things. Still, I couldn't help but be touched by how desperate Deborah had become. She was willing to try anything if it meant finding her son.

At the time, I wrote:

Boogher stood in the middle of the parking lot waiting for the psychic to begin. "I know people think it is crazy but I've been to other psychics over the years," she explained, "They've all basically told me that Jason has died, but they've also told me they can't find him because they are not what they call an investigative psychic."

Cheri Mancuso, a short woman with a shock of dyed-red hair, bills herself as an investigative psychic. "We don't know what to call me. There aren't too many people that really do what I do," Mancuso said.

The psychic stood quietly for a moment, her eyes closed, hands wrapped around a picture of Jason Knapp. She explained that if she started to move, the group should follow. Mancuso explained that she had a vision about Knapp a full year before she met Boogher. She said she saw the letters J and A and prophesied that she would soon learn of a missing college student. She later interpreted the J and A to be the first two letters of Jason's name. Mancuso said she had more visions later. She said she saw Jason's car parked next to an old, red pickup truck. She said she saw two girls driving a convertible around in the Table Rock parking lot.

She said she believed someone was hunting Knapp and that Knapp was scared. "I saw him huffing and puffing and he was out of breath," she told the group. "I felt him just running and running and running and finally I just felt him collapse. Somewhere, Jason lies on a trail."

It was a desperate day that ended and resulted with no resolution. The Gary Hilton case will likely result in the same, because, if everyone is being honest with himself, the connection is tenuous at best. There exists an almost ten-year span between the recent deaths and Knapp's disappearance. All of Hilton's alleged victims or suspected victims have either been women or, in the case of John Bryant, in the company of a woman. Furthermore, the trails at Table Rock are rather self contained and not a vital part of a larger trail system.

Still, when hope and time are all investigators and a mother have, Hilton is the closest thing anyone has had to a suspect in years.

And it never hurts to look.

*Hilton photo courtesy CNN

Tom Cruise Scientology Indoctrination Video transcript

2008-01-15T20:47:00.000-05:00

The following is a transcript of the Tom Cruise Scientology Indoctrination Video that circulated on You Tube and various blogs this week. Reports say the Church of Scientology issued takedown orders to sites that chose to broadcast the video. For the sake of posterity (and as a cure for an hour of boredom), I threw on my Bose headphones and transcribed the video as seen HERE. While I have done my best to reproduce the video in its entirety, I'm sure I've missed a few "you know"s and, likely, some Scientology phrases I simply don't understand. The following is offered without bias or comment.

Here is a quick glossary to help you through the transcript:

KSW: Keeping Scientology Working

SP: Suppressive Person

Org: Presumbly synoymous with Sea Org, as described on the Scientology web site as "religious order for the Scientology religion and is composed of the most dedicated Scientologists in the world—individuals who have dedicated their lives to the service of their religion"

David Miscavige: Chairman of the Board of Religious Technology Center (RTC), a non-profit organization formed in 1982 to preserve, maintain and protect the Scientology religion. (From Scientology web site)

Out-Ethics: The opposite of Scientology's version of Ethics, the main tool used in practice of Scientology.

LRH: L. Ron Hubbard, Founder of Church of Scientology

Tech: A form of written instruction/courses provided to Scientology followers

IAS: International Association of Scientologists, the official membership organization of Scientology

---
(Music)

Announcer: Tom Cruise on Tom Cruise Scientologist

Cruise: I think it’s a privilege to call yourself a Scientologist and it is something that you have to earn, and…because a Scientologist does. He, or she has the ability to create new and better realities and improve conditions. Uh, being a Scientologist, you look at somebody and you know absolutely that you can help them. (cut)

So, for me, it really is KSW, and it’s just like, it’s something that, uh, I don’t mince words with that. You know, with anything (unintelligible), but that policy to me has really has gone , boy, there’s a time I went through and I said, “You know what…” When I read it, I just went (noise that sounds like poof), “This is it. That’s exactly it.” (cut)

Being a Scientologist, when you drive past an accident, it’s not like anyone else. As you drive past, you know you have to do something about it, because you know you’re the only one that can really help. (cut)

That’s…that’s what drives me, is that I know we have an opportunity, and uh, to really help for the first time effectively change people’s lives, and uh, I’m dedicated to that. I’m gonna, I’m absolutely, uncompromisingly dedicated to that. (cut)

Org are there to help, okay, but we as (unintelligible) the public, we have a responsibility. It’s not just the Orgs, it’s not just David Miscavige, you know, it’s not just me. It’s you, it’s everyone out there, kinds re-reading KSW and looking at what needs to be done and saying, “Okay! Am I going to do it or am I not going to do it?” Period. Am I going to look at that guy or am I too afraid because I have my own out-ethics, put in someone else’s ethics. That’s all it comes down to. (cut)

And I won’t hesitate to put ethics in someone else, because I put it ruthlessly in myself. And I think that I…uh…I respect that, you know, in others. And, you know, I’m there to help, and we’re here to help, and my opinion is is that, look, either you’re on board or you’re not on board. Okay, it’s just, if you’re on board, you’re on board just like the rest of us. Period. (cut)

We are the authorities in getting people off drugs. We are the authorities on the mind. We are the authorities on improving conditions. Criminals, we can rehabilitate criminals. Way to happiness, we can bring peace and unite cultures, uh, that once you know these tools and you know that they work, it’s not good enough that I’m just (doing okay?)

Traveling around the world and meeting the people that I’ve met. Talking with these leaders in various fields, they want help, and they are depending on people who know, and who can be effective and do it, and that’s us, that is our responsibility to do that. (cut)

It is the time now. Now is the time, okay? It is, being a Scientologist, people are turning to you, so you better know it. You better know it, and if you don’t, you know, go (sound deleted, appears to be “fucking”) learn it. (Laughs) You know? But don’t pretend you know it and, or whatever. It’s like, we’re here to help. (cut)

If you’re a Scientologist, you see life, you see things the way that they are. In all its glory, you know, all of its complexity. Uh, the more you know as a Scientologist, you don’t become overwhelmed by it. (cut)

(Laughs) And uh, they said, “So, have you been an SP” (big laugh) I looked at them and I thought, “What a beautiful thing,” because maybe one day it will be like that, you know? You know what I’m saying. Maybe one day it will be that “Wow, SP, they just read about those in the history books.” You know? (cut)

I just got through that tech, and it’s literally…it’s not how to run from an SP. It’s (acronym of some sort), how to shatter suppression, confront and shatter suppression. You apply it, and it’s like, boom. (cut)

Because, they don’t come up to be and do that. They don’t do it to me. Not to my face, or anywhere in my vicinity where they feel they can confronted, you know. They just don’t do it. (cut)

I wish the world was a different place. I’d like to go on vacation and go and romp and play and just do that. You know what I mean? I mean, that’s what I want it to be. That’s how, there’s times I want to do that but I can’t because I know. I know. So, you know I have to do something about it. It’s not, you know you can sit here wish it was different and then you look at it and you go “Okay, this is it.” You know, I have to do something, don’t I? I have to do it, because I can’t live with myself if I don’t. That really is it. (cut)

I don’t care if someone thinks it’s hard or easy. You’re either helping and contributing everything you can or you’re not, okay? Because I’m carrying my load, okay? And as much as I’m carrying, I still feel like I have to do more. Alright? There is still a thing of, let’s go. (cut)

You can just see the look in their eyes, you know the ones that are doing it and you know the spectators, the ones who are going, “Well, it’s easy for you” or “What am I doing” and it’s just, that thing is, I’ve canceled that in my area (laughs). It’s like, man, you’re either in or you’re out. That’s spectatorism, and it’s something that we have no time for right now. (cut)

So, it’s our responsibility to educate, create the new reality. We have that responsibility to say, “Hey, this is the way it should be done, because we do it this way and people are actually getting better.” (cut)

And let’s get it done. Let’s really get it done. Have enough love, compassion, and toughness that you’re going to do it and, uh, do it right. (cut)

And I have to tell you something. I really, it is, it’s rough and tumble. It’s wild and wooly. It’s a blast. It’s a blast. It really is fun, because damn it there is nothing better than going out there and fighting the fight and suddenly you see things are better. (cut)

I want to know that I’ve can everything I could everyday and I think about those people out there who depending on us. And I think about that. And it does make me feel like, (laughs) we’ve got more work. I need more help. Get those spectators—you’re in the playing field or out of the arena. (Laughs) You know, really, that’s how I feel about it. (cut)

I do what I can and I do it the way I do everything (laughs). There’s nothing part of the way for me (laughs).

Music: Mission Impossible

Announcer: A Scientologist can be defined by a single question: Would you want others to achieve the knowledge you now have. In answering that question, Tom Cruise has introduced LRH technology to over one billion people on earth, and that’s only the first wave he’s unleashed. Which is why the story of Tom Cruise Scientologist has only just begun.

Graphic: Tom Cruise, IAS, Freedom Medal of Valor, Winner

First Bar

2008-01-14T16:25:00.000-05:00

Pardon the moment of fiction...

Rocky’s ass hurt.

He realized this at irregular intervals between drinking beer in big gulps and chain smoking the cheap cigarettes he bought at the bodega on Second Street. It was his tailbone, he decided and attributed it to slipping on the kitchen floor a few months before. That’s what he got for hiring the Mick without any references. Boy sure could work the knives, though.

“Unoriginal sons of bitches.”

That was the old man behind the bar. He’d been serving Rocky beer for as long as either could remember. The wrinkles in Newt’s face had grown deep and in concert with his resentment for First Bar’s neighbors.

“Second Bar?” Newt asked himself. The bar rag in his hand was soaked in stale beer and ammonia. “Sons of bitches.”

Two months before, an enterprising young entrepreneur had happened on the idea that he could open a bar on the next block and piggyback on Newt’s history on First Street.

“In all fairness,” Rocky said, “it really hasn’t cost you much of your customer base.”

Newt’s lip curled up. “You know, Rock, it only takes you three beers to start sounding like a Jap again.”

Rocky shrugged. “No offense meant, I’m sure.”

“Fuck you, Rock.” Newt refilled Rocky’s beer and walked to the other end of the bar.

Rocky had worked long and hard to sound like an American ever since leaving the name Hiroaki at home. But Newt was right. After a few beers, Rocky started sounding like he did before he went Anglo. America did that to people, he decided. And, really, who was he to complain? America had been good to him so far.

Rocky turned his eyes away from First’s worn bar and down to the man at the end. He had long hair and a calm face. He drank a glass of red wine and kept quiet. In the face of Newt’s grumbling, quiet was usually better than the alternative. The man only barely turned his head when the bell over the door dinged.

The Russian wore a ragged white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans that hung too low over his boots. The barbed wire tattoo around his arm was as pronounced as always. When the Russian walked, it was as if he led with the tat. If Rocky hadn’t heard the story so many times, he would’ve had to count the ten barbs on the wire. Rocky had tried to seem impressed when the Russian—Yuri, if anyone cared—told him how he made the ink and cut himself with a sharpened spoon.

“Burned the sole of my boot,” the Russian had told him, “and mixed the ashes with my own piss. Stung like hell.”

The Russian took a seat next to Rocky and waited for Newt.

“Who’s the long hair?” Yuri said.

Rocky shrugged. “Newt’s allowed a new customer from time to time.”

“Probably not cutting his hair until Kennedy rises from the dead,” Yuri muttered. He said things like that. “Fucking hippies.”

Rocky did the math. “I think a couple of years is too long to be dead. Jack isn’t coming back.”

“You sound like a Jap tonight,” Yuri said before turning to Newt and ordering his drink.

Rocky let Yuri and Newt bitch at each other and allowed his thoughts wander with his eyes. The restaurants were doing well and he was still young. People still saw him as a Jap, though. No matter how successful he might become, nothing was going to change that. Supermodel for a daughter, CEO for a son, millions of bucks. No matter what happened, he would never really be Rocky. For now, his ass hurt and he wanted another beer.

“It’s a bastardization,” Newt said. “You know how long, I’ve been here? I opened this place with my dad. We were the first bar here. It was only a fucking coincidence we were on first street.”

“Happy coincidences,” Yuri muttered and fingered his tat.

“And now, this son of a bitch decides he’s going to open a place on Second and call it Second Bar. A bastardization.” Newt threw his rag at the mirror behind the bar. It left a long streak as it slid down behind the bottles of booze.

“You should have Yuri kill the guy,” Rocky said, then immediately regretted it. Despite his bigger-than-normal frame, beer still worked its way into his body too fast.

“I’m not adding any more to this,” the Russian said, thrusting his arm in Rocky’s face. “Why don’t you do it? We can put a little thorn on that red rose on your arm.”

Rocky wished he’d never compared ink with the Russian. “It’s not a rose. It’s a safflower.”

“Whatever,” the Russian said, and finished his drink in a gulp. “Benihana mother fucker.”

Newt retrieved his rag from the back wall and rinsed it off in the sink. “Should kill the son of a bitch. Really should. I mean, what’s next? Third Bar? Fiftieth Bar?”

Rocky pointed to his glass. “Nothing stays new forever.”

“Bastardization.”

Two drunk toughs stumbled out of the bathroom in a cloud of smoke and laughter. As they walked by the bar, one stopped. His voice was louder than anything else in the room, including Pat Boone singing “Ain’t That a Shame” on the jukebox.

“Hey, man! I’ve got one just like that!”

Before Rocky or Newt could stop him, the kid was pulling up his sleeve and showing Yuri a barbed wire tattoo. “Got it last week, man! How long have you had yours?”

Rocky stole a glance at Yuri and wondered how it would end. Yuri, however, didn’t move. He looked at his own face in the bar mirror and didn’t turn around. Newt managed to catch the kid’s eye and give him a look that said, “If you want to walk out of here, now would be the time.” The kid took the hint and moved.

The three men sat in silence for the next few minutes. Newt finally broke the spell by dropping a bottle of wine. As he crouched to pick up the glass, he muttered, “Second Bar. Jesus Christ.”

At the end of the bar, the long-hair smiled.

“Been there, man,” he said.

Despite it all...

2008-01-13T13:46:00.000-05:00

I'll admit, my first and final post from the Bahamas was a bit bleak. It was one of those times when I should've just hit delete and waited until I got home. However, I use this blog to help me remember the high and low points in my psyche, so it remained. Thanks to all the people who e-mailed pep talks.

Despite it all, though, there were more than a few interesting things that happened while I was gone. I don't even know if I feel like writing about them. Here are just a few highlights to help me remember that, if anything, this life introduces me to some very interesting and fun people.

***

The lounge is no more than a hotel bar during most weeks. This week, however, it is home to some of the most ridiculous gambling and drinking in the world. I made it my home away from home in the few hours I wasn't working. One night, I sat with my friend B.J. and several other friends. B.J. had been given an uninflated soccer ball and was trying to inflate it with his mouth. I offered him 10-1 on $50 that he couldn't blow it up enough to make it roll across the floor. He didn't take the bet...and then proceeded to blow up the ball with his mouth. In this case, I got lucky to not lose $500, while still seeing the feat performed. I'll just let you guess how he did it.

***

It was going on 2am and I was standing on a balcony overlooking a harbor full of yachts that cost more than my entire neighborhood. I was talking to two guys, neither of whom are American or live on the same continent. As you might guess, the subject of obscene wealth came up. We wondered aloud how we would handle ourselves if we had enough money to buy and maintain one of the yachts. One of the guys said that his aunt and uncle had become unexpectedly very wealthy and later wished they had not.

"If you don't mind me asking," I said, "how did they earn their money?"

"They invented Trivial Pursuit."

***

For the first time in seven days, I was sitting down for a real meal. My wife and I had been invited by a friend and his girlfriend. They were a good couple. I'd known the guy for a long time, but was just getting a chance to chat up the lady. As the conversation wound through every topic you might imagine, the subject of musical festivals and hippies came up. The girl revealed that she had spent the first five years of her life on The Farm, the nation's longest-running hippie commune. I couldn't help but be a little surprised. I might have even been an little incredulous. By the end of the night, however, I was not. By the time the wife and I were wiping the sand off our feet and changing clothes for the night, I felt better about the entire week.

Despite it all--the long hours, thankless work, and obscene disregard for money--I get to meet and hang out with some really interesting people.

And sometimes I think it's all worth it.

Death of the Arcade

2008-01-12T13:51:00.000-05:00

My buddy T is one hell of a photographer. I think I've said that before.

A few weeks ago, T invited me to join him at a video game auction a couple of minutes from my house. I didn't make it, but he did. That's the thing about T. When he wants to do something, no late night or general malaise will keep him from going.

If you ever wonder what happens to the Ms. Pac-Man games and KISS pinball machines when they leave your local pizza parlor or arcade, this might be somewhat enlightening. Regardless, it's fun.

Visit T's slideshow at Death of the Arcade.

Bahamian nightdream

2008-01-10T01:42:00.000-05:00

It's nearly 2am in Nassau. I'm sitting in a room full of poker players. Fifty yards away, poker's version of soccer hooligans are chanting. They're fueled by a multi-rum drink and the local beer, Kalik. Unmentionable amounts of money are sliding back and forth across green-felted tables. For the week, I have a Bahamian work permit. It prohibits me from doing anything stupid or enjoyable. So, I sit and stare.

I realized today that I have spent a grand total of ten minutes outside in the last six days. Every one of those minutes was spent under the moon. There is no day and there is no night. It's all inside. Most people think freedom turns people wild. Not so. Structure turns me into an animal.

I'm an animal right now.

The worst part is, I'm an animal that can't write. Whatever visceral experiences I'm enduring right now are either so raw or so boring that they don't fit into words. It's such an odd fucking world. The only thing that's made sense in the past six days is when my phone rang late last night. The voice on the other end said, "Blue Horseshoe Loves Anacot Steel."

It was my buddy Pauly calling. I was in the Bahamas, he was in Australia. I hadn't talked to him in a month. We spoke for 25 seconds. It made me feel better for a few minutes. Today, as I thought about it, it reminded me of another quote from the same movie.

"The main thing about money, Bud, is that it makes you do things you don't want to do."

I am in awe of the people who love me. There are more than I can count, and I struggle to understand why. There are many people who tell me to stop thinking so much about the why and spend more time just loving people back. Those people are right, but it's harder than it should be. And I don't know why.

It occurs to me that I am probably on the edge of falling apart. I keep listening to the same song over and over.

"Sunday, Sunday lying in the grass, laying on my back and thinking about the past, Nothing to but sit around all day, getting used to this, it's gonna be that way for a long time."

A couple of nights ago, somebody I know here got drunk and kept repeating something over and over again. "I am worth something. I want to go home."

That's all we want, right?

We want to be worth something and we want to go home.

Best of Rapid Eye Reality 2007

2007-12-29T21:13:00.000-05:00

I struggled with whether to do a retrospective, a best-of, or a "State of the Otis" post to end the year. Because I've already written a 2500-word retrospective for another site and I'm feeling lazy, I won't be doing that here. Because I rarely have any idea of my current state (least of all now). That left me with a best-of. It sounded exceptionally cocky to me, until I realize that there is always a best-of something, even if it's the best kid in a classroom full of morons or the best prisoner in a pen full of murderers. So, here's the best post and best picture from each of this year's 12 months.

January

Otis and the Magic Door..."when a large, dark, Bahamian man confronts you when you're alone, the first thing you do is swallow your balls out of your throat and remember you're actually in what at least reports itself as a five-star resort. Chances are you're not about to get rolled."

The wife and I on New Year's Eve and getting ready to tackle 2007 -- taken by my friend, T

February

Lapsed--"Scissor-cut the sides and back pretty short, the top not as short, but still short, take most of the bangs off, bring the sideburns most of the way up," I said. With Michael just a few feet away, it was like directing a stripper--or worse, a prostitute--while my wife was watching.

This picture was actually taken in 2006 by my friend Pauly, but it got posted this year as a look back at the past few years of my professional career. This picture captured my professional life since 2005 better than any other

March

Timeless--"My wife and I have occasional discussions about how we're becoming more summer than spring chickens. Ten years ago, we had our lives ahead of us and could afford to be bohemian and lazy. Now, it feels like each month slips away a little bit faster. We've managed to succeed on a lot of fronts. We're financially comfortable. We have a beautiful son, a home, a dog, two cars, and very little debt. It is the American Dream...which we managed to accomplish in spite of ourselves."

I took this photo a few days before I left for an international work trip. It till reminds me how sweet and perfect my family can be

April

Jungle--"we recognize that we're in the jungle and it appears to be the only jungle we have. And that's what makes our eyes sad. When people look at us and say, "Dance, monkey," we can choose not to. However, that doesn't change the fact we're pretty much trapped."

My dad and my kid, taken at the zoo.

May

No post this month. Even in a best-of, some months are going to be stinkers. So, two pictures instead.

My friend asked me to take some pictures of his kid playing ball. This was my favorite

Dinner in the Dark...I was in Missouri visiting my family. Twenty minutes before we sat down to eat, a typical Missouri storm blew through and knocked out the power. We ate by the remaining sunlight and flickering candles.

June

Sick Boy--"(Las Vegas, NV) She's an Asian woman who doesn't speak a ton of English, but I imagine her conversation in the housekeeping room of my floor goes like this.

Housekeeper #1: The boy in 012, he sick boy. He have problem.
Housekeeper #2: It's Vegas, everybody has problems.
Housekeeper #1: No, he sick boy! He masturbates! He cokehead! All day long!"

I took this picture in June, but it didn't appear on this blog. I've taken a lot of pictures of Isabelle Mercier in the past few years. This is one of my favorites from 2007.

July

The Devil and Mr. Otis--"I remember the slightest of chills. The guy was probably in his mid-20s, but his eyes said he was a thousand years old. When we got on the elevator together, he stole a brief glance at my Nikon.

'You getting some good pictures?' he asked.

Those were the first words the Devil ever said to me."

No picture this month.

August

No key to the gnocchi--"...There's nothing I can't do with a potato..."

A photo I took in 1997 of my buddies in Scotland...posted this month to mark the end of one of their bachelor lives

September

Suburban Landscapes--"Corner Bastard lives up the street and around the corner of my little cookie cutter neighborhood. He drives perfect little cars, has perfect little bushes, and has a lawn of green fescue that not only is the pride of the neighborhood, but has managed to emasculate me in such a way that I can barely drive by without reminding my wife that I was "man enough to give her a baby, so stop looking at the damned grass like you want to have sex on it.""

No photo.

October

Lifespan--"Ray wore sunglasses, a work hat, and a stained shirt. His hands bore all the signs of a career in manual labor. He worked with a silent deliberation. I stood on the sidewalk and wished I'd worn something different. I was in a pair of jeans--a little too tight--a graphic tee and a pair of Ecco shoes. To anyone driving by, I was that guy from the nearby suburban neighborhood where men don't change their own car batteries. I was about to stick my head under the hood, too, just to keep up appearances, when Ray emerged."

Kid Hero--My boy on Halloween

November

Amanda Smith arrested in death of son, Devon Epps--"It has been determined that Devon Epps death did not occur in the manner in which it was reported by his mother," Loftis said. "Amanda Smith is responsible for the death of her son."

I sent one of my guitars to a buddy in Iraq.

December

Afflicted--"Daddy, I am making the perfect drum," he said, as if it were the most natural goal in the world.

"Who told you to make the perfect drum?" I said, making sure the roux wasn't sticking to the pan.

"God."

My son, just a week ago

Sleigh bells ring...

2007-12-25T14:22:00.000-05:00

I was a good daddy. I only drank three beers while assembling the Thomas the Tank Engine Trundle Table. I was in bed by 11:30 and asleep by 12:30. Still, the boy's early rising meant I was a stumbly mess come Santa time.

Before we let the kid out of his room, I staggered downstairs, grabbed a Diet Coke, and found the video camera. As an afterthought, I decided to turn on the Christmas tree lights. We got a bigger tree than usual this year and getting behind it to plug in the lights is a challenge. What's more, we have child-proof (and sometimes adult-proof) electrical outlets in the house. Without impediment, the process of inserting plug is rather simple. When a giant evergreen is poking me in the belly and jingle-jangling with all its holiday might, the process is decidedly more difficult. When I'm barely awake and trying to hurry, there is bound to be more than a couple four-letter words. When an ornament fell off and hit me in the head, I uttered a couple of words that, if had Santa heard, would've landed me on the naughty list for the next couple of years.

Finally, though, the tree was alight and I was on my way back upstairs to retrieve the boy and his mom. Once there, we spent a few minutes looking at the note Santa had left for the boy on a magnadoodle and looking at the mostly empty plate of cookies. Just as we were getting ready to go downstairs, it happened. My fat body ramming into the tree had loosened the hold of a ball-shaped bell. Further, this ball-bell had decided this was the very moment to fall and make noise all the way to the floor.

After several weeks of preparing for the perfect day, my fatigued mind saw this as the first sign we were headed on the road to disaster. This feeling lasted for all of one second. Then, the boy's eyes lit up and he exclaimed, "Santa!"

My loving wife looked at me as if it to say, "How did you do that?"

I shrugged and gave her a look back that said, "That's just how Santa rolls."

By the time we made it downstairs, Santa had made it outside. We just missed him.

Despite all my cussing, beer-drinking, and tree-abuse, I guess I never made it to the naughty list this year. I got the best gift of all.

I got to see my kid's eyes light up on Christmas morning.

Winter's nap on Mt. Otis

2007-12-24T13:19:00.000-05:00

Let's be honest with ourselves here. I've woken up in a really ugly mood for the last few days and had no real excuse for it. Today, I woke up at 7:45am when my kid decided it was time to play drums. I figured it was time to wake up in a bad mood again.

And then I didn't.

And so begins the next 36 hours of holiday goodness. I've started getting gifts together. I have a turkey ready to brine and a ham ready to glaze. I'm going to make some bisque for dinner tonight before I settle into Santa assembly-mode (which reminds me, I need to chill some beer).

So, enough for the blogging for a few days.

I'm ready to see some eyes light up.

Giuliani’s Headache

2007-12-23T16:42:00.000-05:00

It's always fun to figure out what "flu-like symptoms" really means.

If you missed it, Rudy Giuliani was admitted to Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis last week with what was initially described as flu-like symptoms. Now, he says it was a headache. This is what Giuliani told ABC's George Stephanopoulos this morning, with my emphasis in bold.

"It got really bad at night, when I was speaking to a crowd and did a press conference," said Giuliani. "I got on a plane -- I imagine what happened is the pressure of the takeoff made the headache worse than I've ever had."

Giuliani was given a clean bill of health...by his campaign. We're still waiting to hear officially from the doctors. We should also remember, Giuliani is a cancer survivor, having--as far as we know--kicked prostate cancer in the ass.

What I find interesting is that no one has asked him so far about that headache. See, having some experience in this area, I know what "the headache worse than I've ever had" is synonymous with in the medical world. Patients suffering from subarachnoid hemorrhage due to rupture of a cerebral aneurysm routinely refer to the feeling as..."the headache worse than I've ever had."

We can feel pretty confident Giuliani is okay. Otherwise, he wouldn't be out of the hospital right now. Still, I have to wonder about those final few minutes before his campaign plane turned around on its way out of St. Louis.

There are a ton of hospitals in St. Louis. I have no way of knowing which hospital was the closest to his airport. What I do know, however, is that Barnes-Jewish has the best neurologists and neurosurgeons in the entire state of Missouri. That's not to mention, it is one of the top ten neurology and neurosurgery service hospitals in the country, according to U.S. News & World Report.

None of this is scandalous, by any means. There is nothing political about Rudy Giuliani not having a ruptured aneurysm. What is interesting, however, is the lengths to which the campaign is going to not discuss it and not use the phrase "feared ruptured aneurysm."

Weakness, even weakness that doesn't exist, is a killer in politics, and no hospital in Missouri or anywhere else can fix a public perception that a candidate might be too fragile for office.

So, in this case flu-like symptoms was almost certainly fear of a ruptured aneurysm.

Better than herpes, I guess.

Holiday groceries

2007-12-23T12:26:00.000-05:00

I always park near the cart corral, no matter the weather. It usually means a longer walk into the grocery store, but it means less time finding a place to put my cart when I'm done with my shopping. I picked the Bi-Lo today, because it was closest and I'm feeling mentally and physically lazy.

Bi-Lo is really a terrible grocery store, but I'm not in the best of moods anyway, so it followed that I'd fit right in. Back in the days of Melrose Gulfman, a heady time when my late friend was planning his next move from a dark little apartment on Haywood road, the Long Island native would spend inordinate amounts of time pouring over the Bi-Lo ads for the best deals. As I walked into the store, I thought about how I missed my friend and his "not from 'round here" phrases. He was the only guy I knew in these parts who would start a sentence with words like, "I went food shopping and was standing on line..."

Cold drizzle made psychedelic runners of road oil in the parking lot. I looked like a dandy as I jumped over the puddles and made my way inside. The shopping carts were all wet and soaked my list before I had time to memorize it. It was too hot inside and I regretted wearing a sweater. I settled into a familiar path around the store, paying less attention to what I was knocking into my cart than the people around me.

Grocery stores are different in the last few days before Christmas. The people inside are not normal shoppers. They are holiday food gatherers, on errands, on last-minute runs, on missions of escape. On the eve of Christmas Eve, the holiday get-togethers are starting to gather steam. Families have now spent a couple of days get used to being around each other again. The shopping for the holiday meals needs to get done.

I first noticed the blonde mother who couldn't stop smiling. She was tall, thin, and walking with a sense of such gleeful purpose, I was sure nothing would stand in her way. She had given up the cart in favor of her more useful and expedient arms. The loaves of bread and cans of food were certainly items she had either forgotten or decided later she would need. Now that her boys were home for Christmas, she would cook a big meal in celebration. She never stopped moving and she never stopped smiling.

In another aisle, I spotted another blonde mother. This one moved slower. She was tall and large and didn't crack a smile. She paused in front of the shelves and looked without aim. I didn't look in her cart for fear of seeing something depressing--a frozen dinner, maybe. Her face told most of the story anyway.

A three-year-old kid bounded out from behind a display. If I had been moving any faster, I would've run over him. As I maneuvered around him, I looked down the row. His dad was there on what was certainly an errand directed by a harried wife. The dad, despite having to corral his kid, looked thankful for the relative quiet of the store.

Two forty-something men in plaid coats and blue jeans walked together. I knew in a second that they were brothers. Their scruff and gait were the same. The smiled and laughed as they walked. No doubt, they haven't seen each other in a while and are getting together at their folks for the holidays.

In the beer aisle, men lingered. It was here that they did their only real thinking. Some of them wondered how much they would have to drink to get through the weekend with their family. Others wondered how much they would have to drink to get through the holiday alone. Two other brothers took a different tact. With huge smiles, they grabbed case after case of Bud Light and piled it into the shopping cart. When they were finished, the beer was stacked four feet out of the cart, not to mention filling the bottom rack and in the child's seat section. It took both of the brothers to get to the cashier. I didn't bother trying to guess. I was just glad I wasn't going to be with them on Christmas morning.

As I made my way to the cashier, I heard a familiar voice and followed the sound up to the face of an old friend. She was on the phone and looking in another direction. For a reason I still don't fully understand, I ducked down another aisle and turned my back to her. I had no reason to avoid her, other than I just didn't feel like talking.

Maybe I didn't want her looking in my cart and trying to figure me out.

Outside, it was still drizzling. I threw the bags in the back of my car as fast as possible. When I was finished, the cart corral was right there.

Holiday trickery

2007-12-22T20:47:00.000-05:00

It's downtown Greenville on a cold December afternoon. A magician has worked up a sweat, torn off his coat, and is working the crowd to a wash of smiles and belly-laughs. It looks like a carnival shell game, except he's not fleecing anybody of anything except their disbelief.

When the trick is complete, the crowd applauds and the magician throws his coat back on against the cold air. As he re-organizes, someone tells him they know how he did his trick.

"That's why you shouldn't stand behind me," he says.

Later, we leave a toy store and find ourselves in a sudden snow storm. While it's cold outside, it's not cold enough to snow. It takes little investigative work to determine that a local gallery owner has decided to add to the holiday cheer with a soap-sud snow blower. Perched in a second-story window, the snow-machine is making one quarter of a city block look like New England on Christmas.

Because I'm a jaded adult, I'm finding more to watch in the red-eyed homeless guy and throngs of holiday shoppers. The boy, however, is wide-eyed and screaming. To his three-year-old mind, it's a sign that everything good about the holiday can't get better.

"It's Christmas Eve!" he screams to everyone and no one in particular.

He can't hear me when I tell him Christmas Eve is still a couple of days away. Even if he could, it wouldn't matter anyway. For him, a few cents worth of soap and a snow-making machine are all he needs to be happy for an afternoon.

I can't say anything else. I simply look at him through a lens and wonder if I'll ever be so innocent again. I'm reminded later that because I'm jaded and paranoid doesn't mean I should deliver the mental tension of the father on the son. I try to remind myself of that and hope for the peace to do so.

Because, when I see this kind of joy, I should want to do nothing but make sure it lasts forever.

More from the holiday camera at my Flickr account.

Glory be

2007-12-22T12:32:00.000-05:00

When my wife answered the phone, I let loose a string of profanity that made even her blush. This is the woman who uses four-letter words in job interviews and to describe puppies.

"What? You've been in a wreck?" she said.

I was about to run my car off the road, but I hadn't crashed yet. Instead, I had just discovered that one of two listenable radio stations in G-Vegas (96.7 WBZT, The Buzzard) was about to switch formats. The jock sounded like he no longer need a strap and was promising that the big news was coming on Christmas day. Despite the fact that the station was biding the time in the interim by playing the Pointer Sisters, I knew what was coming. Indeed, I checked an industry message board when I got home.

Inspirational Top 40? When was the last time anything in the Top 40 inspired you?

I discovered demise of decent free radio as I drove around on one final Christmas shopping run. It occurred to me when I left that Christmas time would be a very easy time to engage in adultery. This morning, I was able to leave the house without telling my wife where I was going or when I would be back. When she called to inquire about lunch, she told me what she'd like to eat. "But that's probably not convenient to where you are," she said, obviously looking for a little hint. I didn't give it up.

When I got home with her sandwich, I told her about my adultery theory.

"I'm glad you've thought this out," she said.

Obviously, my attempt at holiday humor was lost. I really should get in the spirit of things here. And what better than Inspirational Top 40, right?

While eating my sandwich, I perused the news and discovered that Texas has gone and done it again. The legislature is about to impose a $5 per customer charge on strip club patrons. Now, I haven't been to a strip club in years (except to play poker, of course), but this seems a little more than unconstitutional to me. Like most sin taxes out there, the revenue from this one is going to a good cause--in this case to help rape victims. Still, it's really dangerous to start legislating morality, and further punitively taxing that which the lawmakers can't eliminate. The story linked quotes a constitutional expert as saying, "Laws like this would expose any unpopular industry to punitive taxes. It could be abortion clinics."

Well, that would be a really solid argument, but for the fact that many people who don't approve of strip clubs would probably be behind the taxation of abortion clinics as well. Perhaps a better way to test it would be to assign a $5 surcharge to listeners of an Inspirational Top 40 station.

Either way, I'm certain of this: The music in the strip clubs is better.

And you want to be my latex salesman...

2007-12-20T01:44:00.000-05:00

It's a smoky room with a big screen TV, leather couches, and a poker table. It's where I spend one night a week with a collection of salesmen, developers, engineers, retirees, and dentists. It is where, if only for a few hours a week, we are men. It is a place where we can tell dirty jokes, sling some cards, and talk about the one guy at the table who once hired a hooker and ended up giving her a massage.

Deep down, though, we are romantics. The married among us talk about our kids, our wives, and how we do our bests to be good husbands. Take for instance the one man who bought his wife a laundry list of Christmas presents that ended with, in his words, "A new set of tits."

You know, romance.

"Quite a gift," I said, "I only bought my wife new eyes." Then I made a self-deprecating comment about how my wife can now see how inadequate I really am in the bedroom.

The host sought to comfort me. "She already knew," he said.

I am happy with the more intimate side of life with my wife and can't ask for anything more. She doesn't need any plastic surgery help and she is as forgiving as any woman can be when it comes to having to spend the rest of her life with my mess of a body. Still, I often wonder how long a woman in her thirties will put up with my aging, wrecked form.

That's my way of explaining how I--out of sheer, morbid curiosity and nothing more, I assure you--I ended up clicking through a web ad and running into Dr. Al Sears. I'm not even 100% sure what he has to offer, because I barely got past his header graphic.

Dr. Al Sears has his own website and seeks to instruct men over 40 how to reclaim their manhood. Whoever is behind it, whether it be Al himself or some other ad genius, is spending no small amount of money to pimp this plan online.

I ask this: If Dr. Al had spent $10 more on his ad campaign, would somebody have told him that the first step in selling his product is taking his picture off the web page. Or, at the very least, shave the damned 'stache.

Now, I'm no Adonis. I'm barely good looking enough to get my kid to give me a goodnight hug. The dog only licks my face if I've shaved. I'm brazen enough to put my picture on the top of this web page, but I'm not going to tell you I can help you make your sex life better. Even if you put M.D. behind my name, people are not going to buy into my inverted pile driver experiments. And yet, Dr. Al is spending untold amounts of money to put his face on a web page that promises to allow you to "have enough stamina to play golf in the morning, go for a jog in the afternoon... and still make love to your wife or lover at night!"

I wouldn't trust the guy to change my oil, let alone talk to me about my dipstick.

Dr. Al should take a page from the Oprah-iffic success of the guy in the picture below, self-reported badboy Steve Santagati. Even if he is full of mincemeat, he's going to sell his book because he is attractive enough to make my wife shift around under her laptop.

Mind-blowing as it is, there are people who will get past Dr. Al's face, scroll down through his page, and eventually buy his books and self-improvement plan. Still, I can't get over the belief that the last time Dr. Al had sex was the early 80s blockbuster, "White Bun Busters."

Regardless, I'll have something to talk about at the next poker game--as long as my copy of "12 Secrets to Virility" gets here in time for Christmas.

What the Huck?

2007-12-19T11:58:00.000-05:00

Let's forget for a moment that one of the most important elections in our lifetime is eleven months away. Let's forget that the amount of money being spent on the campaigns could feed the homeless for untold months. Let's even forget whether we are Republicans, Democrats, Independents, or from Bob Jones University. Let's just ask ourselves for one moment, "What the Huck is going on?"

I'm no expert on the subject of media manipulation, but I have some history in its analysis. As you might know, the biggest television honor I ever received during my time in the business was a Best of Show at the National Headliner Awards. During that time, I spent more than a few hours talking with the people who make it their jobs to manipulate what you see and hear on television during campaign seasons. These people are exceedingly smart when it comes to understanding how to twist the common mind into believing something that either isn't necessarily true or needs a lot of reaffirmation. I usually started my analysis with the belief that the people behind the campaigns were full of hooey and worked up from there.

The most fun of the entire gig was not the wide recognition or appreciation for the work, but the daily battles with the people in campaigns that you never see--the producers, the fixers, the managers. They are professional manipulators and watching them work is a thing of sick beauty. They know how to manipulate the public. They know how to manipulate reporters. They even know how to manipulate other campaigns. It's game theory, politics, and war wrapped into one overwrought mind.

That is a very long way of saying that what you see on the web, on TV, and--if you still actually read one--in newspapers is more often than not the product of someone with an agenda sitting in the war room of a campaign office. While I don't pretend to know much of anything of substance about this current election, I do know what to watch out for in terms of plants, misinformation, and trickery. At times it makes me feel like a fruitcake conspiracy theorist. Thing is, that's all campaigns really are. They are one big conspiracy designed to get their candidate in office.

Here are a few fun things to munch on.

E.F Hutton and the Clinton campaign response--When Bill Shaheen speaks, he doesn't do it lightly. When he speaks to the Washington Post and makes comments about Barak Obama's drug use, it is no accident. Shaheen has been a major player in this business longer than most reporters have known what a Democrat is. Most people would have us believe Shaheen's comments were offered without the full knowledge that he would soon be removed from the Clinton campaign, that they were remarks made unilaterally. If it had been a twenty-something campaign staffer who said it, I might be inclined to believe it was a simple mistake. Bill Shaheen, however? No way. Here's the fun part: Because it was Shaheen and because he is no longer with the campaign, the story has twice the legs it did before. What might have been an up and down story is now more than a week old, and nearly every account includes mention of Obama's teenage drug use. Even this one. Well played, folks.

Huckabee? Really?--In one month, the former Arkansas Governor came back from a nearly 20-point deficit in national Republican polls to tie Rudy Giuliani for the horse race lead. From this we can learn two things. First, polls are, by and large, worthless. John Edwards could announce today that he cured cancer in his basement and not make up an 18 point deficit in the polls. For Huckabee to rise that fast means something is going on and it ain't Huckabee on his own. Second, Huckabee is capital P perfect for both the Democrats and Republicans. He is an evangelical Christian who once hinted that AIDS patients should be quarantined. Democrats are banking on the hopes that America won't elect another evangelical to the Presidency. Republicans--especially the ones like Divorced Rudy Giuliani and Mormon Mitt Romney--need a "hey, look over there!" guy. Enter Huckabee. When people refer to a meteoric rise, they often forget to mention that the end of a meteor's rise is a quick descent. Thanks for playing your part, Huck. I'm sure there will be a good ambassadorship available to you in a year or so.

It was a book shelf!-- My goodness, I love this Huckabee campaign ad. It is everything and nothing in one ad buy. It gives Huck a chance to talk about how he's not like the other guys and how he loves God. Further, it gives the libs a chance to laugh what looks like a floating cross in the background. Huckabee half-heartedly protests that the cross is actually a book shelf. Even better, that's the truth. But please. Please. Unless you are John Edwards and buying ads in South Carolina, you are spending massive amounts of money to produce and distribute campaign ads. Like I mentioned above, there are no mistakes. Now, with demo-pundits making asses of themselves for insulting religion and Huckabee putting it all out there, nobody gets to win, except maybe the people who are getting paid to produce the ads in the first place.

Edwards' love monkey-- I've spent the past 12 hours or so trying to figure out the motivation for the hit piece in the Enquirer about John Edwards' alleged love child. His candidacy doesn't pose much of a threat to anybody as far as I can determine. Maybe it is just The Enquirer being the Enquirer. Any thoughts?

Afflicted

2007-12-18T01:44:00.000-05:00

I am afflicted.

I have tinnitus. It's only in my right ear. Despite its constant manifestation, it doesn't bother me that much. I'm to blame for it, almost certainly. Countless live shows, too much time standing in front of giant amplifiers, too much caffeine. They can all cause it. I don't care. It's not going to kill me.

I notice it most at times like this, when the house is quiet. The hum of the fridge, the occasional drip in the faucet, and a near-constant ringing in my ear. They are all signs that the kid, the wife, and the dog are nestled in quiet slumber while I sit in front of an artificial world. The ringing reminds me that only part of what I see is real. It doesn't, however, tell me which part.

When everything is noisy and active, it's easy to ignore the ringing. This afternoon, the wife had gone to work out. I stood watching my roux turn from white, to blond, to brown. My whisk didn't stop moving. Fear of a burned roux was the only thing keeping me going. All the while, the boy pounded with a wooden spoon on an overturned pot.

"Daddy, I am making the perfect drum," he said, as if it were the most natural goal in the world.

"Who told you to make the perfect drum?" I said, making sure the roux wasn't sticking to the pan.

"God."

It's easy to get caught up in the noise. It's so simple to ignore the constant ringing in favor of sounds that make us feel better. When the back beat is perfect, tapping one's foot is almost involuntary. It is as if we're being led somewhere. It's so much easier, and frankly, so much more fun to just roll with it. I like living in that world. It's comfortable and had led me to more beautiful places than I ever thought I'd know.

Now, though, it's quiet. Everyone is asleep. The music isn't playing. All I hear are the clicks and clacks of my keyboard and a constant ringing in my ears. I know for sure that one of the noises means nothing.

As for the other, only time will tell.

Where normal meets life

2007-12-17T10:17:00.000-05:00

Once returned from Las Vegas, the everyday activity between waking and sleeping seems quite ordinary. This is the way it happens every time. There is relief at being home, followed by latent endorphin withdrawal, followed by sense of contentment at the normal things in life.

And it is quite normal. Friday night was a ridiculous evening of bar hopping with my fellow thirty-something married male friends. Saturday night was date night with the wife (Portafino's chicken marsala was good, "I Am Legend" was about what you'd expect). Sunday was making ziti, taking the kid to "Alvin and the Chipmunks," and then watching "Good Night, and Good Luck."

You know, normal.

In fact, apart watching my wife jump out of her seat during "I Am Legend," the most significant event of the weekend was the arrival of my first-ever Netflix DVDs. Sure, I know I'm late to the game. In the past, I had a hard time justifying the cost of the service. Even I couldn't understand my resistance to the service. I mean, I spent $20 in a jukebox battle on Friday night, but 'm not going to spend $15 a month to get unlimited movies? I didn't make sense.

A few nights ago, however, I figured it all out.

I have had HBO for as long as I have been an adult. With DirecTV, HBO cost me $13 a month. The wife and I also spend about $12-15 a month renting DVDs. Once "The Sopranos" went off for good, I realized that HBO had nothing more to offer me but Inside the NFL and Real Sports. I decided I could live without those shows, canceled HBO, and signed up with Netflix.

The decision turned out to be pretty easy. I signed up for the plan that gives me unlimited DVDs (two at a time) and unlimited streaming movies on my laptop. Within a week, the subscription has already paid for itself. I've been a little giddy over the service and spent more than a little time setting up my queue of films. Any recommendations?

Normal life is a pretty comfortable thing. It rarely lasts as long as I'd like, but when it happens, I tend to enjoy it. If my calculations are right, this normalcy should last about two weeks before life gets odd again.

I'll take it while I can get it.

An introduction to Rapid Eye Reality

2007-12-11T19:55:00.000-05:00

Rapid Eye Reality is the personal blog of Brad Willis, a semi-pro blogger and freelance writer who is sometimes known as "Otis." Any questions not answered below can be e-mailed to editor@pokerpapers.com.

Who is this Otis character?

Between 1999 and 2004, I was a reporter for the then #1 television station in Upstate South Carolina. I served as the chief crime, political, and investigative reporter for many years. In 2001, I started this blog as an anonymous outlet for my non-television personality. As some of the stories here can be a bit blue and not necessarily in line with TV reporters' morality clauses, I needed a pseudonym to protect my identity. I picked one of my many nicknames and stuck with that. After giving up the TV life for something a little more adventurous, I realized that many people knew me only as Otis. So, for better or worse, the pseudonym became more of a second identity. I'll answer to my real name or Otis.

How do I find those old stories?

All of the archives of this blog are available in the right sidebar. I've not deleted anything from the old days. I won't necessarily point you to the incriminating evidence, but it is there if you want to find it.

So, you're not in TV anymore? Is it because you were a bad boy?

Not bad so much as listless. The thing about TV news is that it is not nearly as glamorous as you might think. The pay stinks, the hours suck, and, more often than not, the reward for work well done is more work. I treasured the people I met during my time in television and still miss it from time to time. Hell, I may even go back one day. For the time being, though, I'm focusing on other things.

Other things? Are you one of those people who claim to be an actress but is really a waitress?

Maybe. I don't even know. The long story won't fit in this post. The short version is this: This guy recommended me for a freelance job covering a poker tournament in the Bahamas. At the end of one week of work, the people running the tournament asked me to cover poker tournaments in a lot of different places. I quit my job two weeks later and flew to Copenhagen, Denmark. Since then, I've been to tournaments all over Europe, America, and in the Caribbean.

They pay people to write about poker? You have to be kidding?

I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but no, I'm not kidding. Since quitting TV, I've written for a few different publications and web sites. I also do a lot of writing at a web site titled Up For Poker.

Do you play poker, too?

It depends on how you define the word "play." But, yeah, I spend a lot of time at the card tables. I make a few trips to Las Vegas every year and, before the cops and robbers started getting frisky, spent many an hour in the underground poker scene in Greenville. For a short look at what that scene was like during its heyday, check out The Last Poker Game.

So, you're a degenerate gambler. That's just great.

There might have been a day in which that phrase fit, but not so much anymore. I still play a lot of poker, but not so much that it will get me in trouble. I have focused my efforts in other areas. And if I am a gambler, I come by it honestly. Read: Grandpa Was a Gambler.

Likely story. So, what are these alleged other interests?

For the past three years, I have functioned as a pro blogger. That is, I get paid to write on blogs. I make money in other more boring ways, too. When I'm not doing that, I blog here for fun. Rapid Eye Reality is where I tell the back stories that take place around everything else that happens in my life.

Like what?

Well, first and foremost, I am a husband, father, and suburban warrior. To get a glimpse at my more mundane side, read Suburban Landscapes. Sometimes, it's hard to maintain both sides of my life, but I manage best I can, as told in Timeless. I am also an amateur photographer. That means I have an eye for photos, but not much real technical skill. However, I do get some good ones from time to time, like these in Boys of Summer.

Seems like you aren't really a news blogger. In fact, you don't have much of a niche at all.

Odd, huh? When people ask me how to have a successful blog, I tell them to be themselves and find a niche. I only do half of that right. I've never been much of a niche guy. I try, but I find that so much of life's interesting parts cross the lines from niche to niche. Plus, I get bored easily. Still, I have a few niches here that some people have found interesting. For instance, I wrote quite a bit about the death of a local boy named Devon Epps and the murder of Clemson student Tiffany Souers. I also have a history with such dignitaries in South Carolina as Ronnie Sheppard and Kevin Geddings. So, I get sort if niche-y from time to time.

That all? Because I have something on the stove.

Sure, you run on. If you feel like coming back, there is a ton here to read. Some of it is good, some bad, and some downright depressing. The good thing is, I don't get paid much to write here, so it stays fun most of the time.

Here are a few posts from the past few years that might give you a slightly better idea of how I spend my time.

The Steve Earle Guitar

Otis and the Magic Door

The Swiss Cheese Incident

True Romance

Lapsed

Mr A. in the Big A

Wrinkled in Europe

Stuck in Monte Carlo

A night at Jimmyz

Walking in Deauville

Home

2007-12-11T14:16:00.000-05:00

When I got out of bed at 4:45 last Thursday morning, it was freezing outside. I was headed to Vegas, so I didn't bother wearing a heavy coat. When I returned yesterday morning, I was wearing a fleece jacket. I stripped it off when I realized it was in the high 70s and sunny.

This afternoon, I am already almost recovered from my four-day jaunt to Vegas (full stories will be chronicled over the next few days at Up For Poker). I've settled into work catch-up, playing with my new iPod, and wearing no shoes or socks. I have the back door of the house wide open. It's still like late summer outside and can find no reason to complain.

I spent the last few days talking to writers and computer geeks about my future. No fewer than three people cornered me and said something along the lines of, "You are going nowhere until you tell me what's going on in your life, Mr. Mysterious." At least one loosened me up with free beer.

The silly thing was, I don't even know what I am doing with my life, so I had a hard time explaining it to others. Hopefully, by the next time I see these friends I will be able to say, "Yeah, I'm doing X and loving it."

In the meantime, I'm going to sit back and enjoy the warm weather while it lasts.

Zicam in a foxhole

2007-12-05T09:27:00.000-05:00

I'm currently involved in medicine's version of finding Jesus in a foxhole. Last night saw me use the swab and spray version of Zicam. I also pounded a glass of Airborne. Do I think these remedies work. No. Am I willing to believe they work as long as they don't keep me from getting sick this weekend? Absolutely.

This will be the fourth consecutive year I've taken this trip. In 2004, I had a ball. In 2005, I didn't feel so great. In 2006, I got "just kill me now" sick. This year, I'm doing everything I can to get back as close to 2004 standards as I can.

If you're not a parent, you might not understand how hard this can be. The boy brings home two or three monkey viruses a month and between October and February remains in a semi-constant state of Centers for Disease Control attention. I thought I was in good shape when I got sick earlier this year. You know, antibodies and all. However, and maybe it is just my imagination, but I'm feeling a little stuffy, little scratchy, and a little bleh. Therefore, I'm in my foxhole and drinking zinc gluconate by the gallon.

Further compounding the problem, I am not at all focused on tasks that need attention. As a traveling companion wrote me this morning of his anticipatory glee, "I'm like a kid on Christmas eve. With ADD." Regardless, I am a year older today and am trying my best to act like the responsible human being I am supposed to be.

I'm going to be semi-off-grid for the next four or five days. Any news from the trip will take place in the Twitter feed to the left or, in the event of cell phone pics, in the Buzznet feed at the bottom-left.

I leave you with nature's birthday gift to me. For exactly three minutes yesterday, the sky was exactly as you see it below. Not so bad at all.

Cleaning house for the aged

2007-12-04T00:45:00.000-05:00

"I'm going to clean out my closet," I said.

G-Rob replied, "Is that a metaphor?"

After nearly eight years of friendship, this guy knows me way too well.

"Yeah, probably," I said. "But I really am going to clean out my closet."

In the south, we grow kudzu, not because we want to, but because we have no choice. Someone brought it here and now it's going to grow regardless of our wants and whims. Same goes for my closet. It became my closet and now it is going to be messy.

I took three thrash bags with me and filled one with garbage before I reached the floor. I found bills for cell phones I haven't owned in four years, flight coupons for trips I don't remember taking, and a stack of business cards that I never actually carried for fear of being arrested. It all went in the bag. Other stuff sat to the side, like the monogrammed flask (hall full, no less) and the various and sundry items surrounding my career in television and media: three IFBs, two or three reporter notebooks, and countless press passes (including, but not limited to a badge granting me access to John Edwards in 2004, two or three presidential address Secret Service badges for both Bush and Clinton, and one I actually stole from the Grosvenor Victoria Casino in London, England).

I filled the second bag with clothes to give away. Five pairs of black dress shoes, two or three pairs of pants, a few shirts, and some giveaway items that I have collected over my years for working for a client.

Finally, I headed to some drawers where I keep underclothes and such. One drawer was so full that I could barely open it. There was a time, see, when I wore a white t-shirt nearly every day under my work clothes. Because of that and the fact that I hate doing laundry (the wife has taken over the duty in the house, only because it won't get done unless she doesn't), I had more than 20 white undershirts. I stacked five of the cleaner ones to the side and prepared to throw the rest away.

As I was about to throw one in the bag, I notice black Sharpie on the collar. I took a closer look and noticed my father's name written in my mother's hand. It was a shirt I'd somehow picked up when my dad was in the hospital and rehab center during and after his three brain surgeries. I rarely consider myself much of a man, but whatever maturity I have started forming around that time in 2003. I retrieved the shirt from the throwaway pile and tucked it back in the drawer.

Cleaning or no, we all need to keep some reminders.

(Upon re-reading the above, it sort of makes it sound like my Dad died. He will tell you that he's doing just fine, thank you. He just should've died. Like three times. Instead, he's playing the best golf of his life and not doing much else that could be considered work. All in all, not so bad for a guy in his 60s.)

***

I see Uncle Ted every couple of months. He speaks his mind. He's like that.

He came over a couple of weeks ago and wasn't in the door 30 seconds before he broke into a chorus of, "Gray, gray, gray, gray!"

I didn't have to ask what he was talking about. I think I muttered something profane and shuffled away to look for my walker.

The aging man's lament is so trite that I dare not repeat it this year. On my birthday last year, I talked about the choice I made. This year, I'm letting the day slide by with little fanfare. I decided to let this happen when I discovered, for the first time ever, I not only look a year older, I feel a year older.

This is not to say I mind. After I get through this awkward old man's adolescence, I'm going to be well on my way to Distinguished. That should be a good time. Of course, if the books tell us anything, it's a short road between being becoming distinguished and having someone feed you your soup. In that case, my wife and kid got me some fantastic German steel knives to mark the occasion that could probably put a quick end to it all.

If no marketing genius has come up with this yet, I think there is probably a great advertising campaign for knives aimed at seniors: "We'll still be sharp when you're not!"

The Steve Earle Guitar

2007-11-30T10:40:00.000-05:00

Several years ago, I sat in a renovated mill in downtown Greenville at a charity auction held by the local classic rock station, Rock101. It was a time I didn't have a lot of money in my pocket and probably shouldn't have been bidding on anything.

I didn't need another guitar. I have my old Alvalrez acoustic/electric I've been playing since I was a teenager. I have a beat-up Peavey T-60 I've been playing since then, as well. What's more, I would soon have a 12-string and a mandolin. The last thing I needed was the guitar that sat on the stage. It wasn't an expensive guitar and had nowhere near the kind of tone I would want. Still, I bid, bid again, and bid again. I took it home with me that night knowing I bought it only because it was signed by one of my songwriting heroes, Steve Earle.

That guitar has been here ever since and took on the likely name "The Steve Earle Guitar." It got played, to be sure. It usually came out when I had friends over and we took to musical silliness. The best night I remember was a Bradoween celebration. My cousin, a friend named Kebin, and I all sat in my driveway for way too many hours and traded songs.

That guitar isn't here anymore. It's now somewhere where it's going to get played all the time. I bought a hard shell case for it so it would survive the trip and had a packing company send it off. To the credit of the U.S. Postal Service, the entire journey took less than a week and the guitar arrived in one piece.

That guitar and its future are now in the hands of a friend. I know it is in good hands. I sent along only one request: Make sure the guitar stays there until everybody gets to come home. I know my friend, known to many as Dr. Chako, will make sure that happens.

For more, visit Dr. Chako's website.

Rudolph and bloody marys

2007-11-28T10:44:00.000-05:00

The boy is loud.

Give him a guitar and he will rock out with his blocks out. He's currently working on a Ramones-style version of Billy Jonas' "What Kind of Cat Are You?" It's sure to be a hit with the under-five set. Drum sticks? Yeah, he has a pair, and when he's not threatening the dog with great canine injury, he's turning any of about a dozen home decorations into his own personal snare.

All of this is an ad for Tylenol Parent and makes me only mildly insane. Most of the time I am more proud than I am wishing to stuff my ears with my own brains. There are times, however, that are so sweet and endearing that I'd cut off my arm if it mean my son could drum a few more minutes before bedtime.

As the holidays approach, Mt. Otis is taking on a distinctly cheerful aura. A wreath went up on the front door, other decorations are waiting in the wings, and my boy is requesting I play Jingle Bells instead of "I Gotta Get Drunk." Merry Christmas, one and all.

Last night, we went for a drive and "Little Drummer Boy" came on one of the five XM stations playing holiday music. The boy stopped his mindful screaming and settled into a quiet, make-you-wanna-cry "Rum-pah-pum-pum." I almost had to pull over.

I really don't like Christmas music, and I certainly don't like it for 30 straight days. Most of the time the music comes across like a Sweeny Sisters orgy if Bing Crosby and Johnny Wadd showed up. In fact, about the only time I really enjoy holiday music is on the actual holiday. I have a couple of cousins who have angelic voices and occasionally treat us to perfect-pitch harmony on Christmas Eve. Then, I can listen to it. Otherwise, it feels like I'm main-lining simple syrup laced with shut-the-hell-up.

The dilemma is pretty clear. The kid loves him some Rudolph, Frosty, and Santa songs and notices when I switch it over to "Daddy's on Parole This Christmas." I don't want to discourage the boy from enjoying traditional holiday fare, but waiting around for Frosty to come on the radio and listening to a scat version of Jingle Bell Rock is quickly going to turn me into Ebenezer Scrooge on meth.

I haven't quite figured out the solution, yet, but I think I'm getting close. I just bought a $4 Willie Nelson Christmas disc off Amazon that might be a happy compromise. I'll be able to stomach hearing Christmas music for another four weeks and, if I'm lucky, I might be able to slip "Bloody Mary Morning" into the rotation. It's either that or I'm going to have a lot of those mornings myself between now and the time Christmas rolls around.

Black leaves fall

2007-11-25T19:38:00.000-05:00

The dog is getting old. She has gray around her muzzle and gives up the fence-row race with the neighbor mutts a lot quicker than she used to. Most people don't like my dog, and I don't care. She's a constant companion and likes me when most people don't. We were alone in the house for an hour today. She nuzzled quietly into a blanket and left me be. I acted in kind, save the blanket.

I hear fairly well and have near-perfect vision, but I didn't notice what was happening outside before the dog. She let loose a small yip that seemed to come from nowhere. I assumed she had woken from a dog a dream, one where two squirrels were screwing on the back deck and offending the dog's moral sensibilities. I paid her little attention until she barked again.

Like my wife's bemused expressions, the dog has a different bark for different occasions. It's always in the interpretation. The staccato yip usually means, in dog shorthand, something ain't right. It's not a meddlesome squirrel. It's not a neighborhood teen punk. It's the dog's alert that something quite off has crossed the property line and threatens to upset the normal order--or disorder--of our home.

I looked up and out the window. I saw what appeared to be an inordinate amount of leaves falling from the giant four-trunked sweetgum in the front yard. We're nearing that point in the year when the final leaves let loose of their annual hold and fall onto our half-acre. Nothing new. Nothing uncomfortable. Simply seasonal changes in how we process our lives.

The dog yipped again and the sky rained black. The fire-colored leaves were falling, but something else was there, too. The sky was voiding itself of color and the dog was nonplussed. Unsettled, I stood and walked slowly toward the window. The dog did not follow.

My eyes registered the sight before my mind woke up. The front yard--no small amount of space--was nearly black with birds. Dozens of giant crows had landed within a couple of seconds of each other and turned my manicured lawn into a Hitchcockian horror show. I turned my head to look for my camera. It was across the room.

I took one step and the birds rose en masse into the air. I was behind a pane of glass and more than 20 feet away from the nearest beak, but they knew. Chaos choreographed broke into the sky and hung there, a black mass working in confused and unsure unison. The flock knew it had to move, had to do something, had to get away, but--for one tenth of one second--didn't know where. The birds spoke to each other in a silent alarm. Like the dog, it was if they knew something wasn't right, but were unsure what it was.

I continued to move toward the camera and grabbed it. When I returned, the birds had lit in a neighbor's yard, out of my lens' range but within the bird's danger instinct. I cracked the door and the birds again took off. This time the birds had no question. Danger was here and they knew they had to be gone. I turned my lens toward the black mass and fired three unfocused shots. The birds dodged and disappeared as if they were from somewhere else--somewhere meant to be unseen, imagined, storied. Evidence of their appearance was beyond inappropriate. It was verboten.

They were gone. The dog was quiet. I looked at the LCD screen on my camera and saw the black blur. It was not half as remarkable as what I saw, what set the dog on edge, what actually happened in my front yard. It didn't happen slowly enough for me to register good or evil. It was spine-chill quick and away.

Tonight, the reasonable side me assigns no value to the moment other than a brief whisper from nature. That's what I tell myself.

The curtains, however, are now closed.

Today, tomorrow, a lifetime of Sundays

2007-11-21T15:54:00.000-05:00

I live in a place of four seasons. Today was clearly autumn, but a warm wind pushed red and orange leaves through the air like driving snowstorm. Leaf drifts piled up on the curbs and covered the newly raked grass with each gust. My son stood in awe, amazed and yet sweetly naive about how beautiful it really is. To him, it's normal because it's new. My wife has a spark in her eye. It peaks out from a place where her three-year-old spirit hides. It makes me feel as warm as the day.

I count friends on both coasts and smattered in the middle of the country. They are people who choose to believe in me when either I won't or fail to give them good reason. They offer me opportunity when I don't ask for it and encouragement when I need it. Though hard to accept, it's a safety net I could never bring myself to request. I know if I fall, they will be there to catch me. Some of these people are as much brothers and sisters as they are friends. Having such an extended family--the kind that gives without expecting anything but friendship in return--makes every reunion as sweet as if it has been 20 years since the last.

My dad didn't realize he was dying until he was already living again. It took him a couple of years to realize he wasn't dead or about to be. Now, four years later, he is shooting in the low 70s on hard courses. My mother nearly cries with joy every time she sees my son. It seems she has found new purpose. If I have given my parents nothing else, I have at least produced something that makes them smile. In a couple weeks, I get to see my brother again. The only thing that compares with having a brother for a best friend is being able to spend time doing things we both love on regular basis.

I need for nothing else. I have a healthy son, a beautiful wife, the best friends I could ever want, and a family that has given me all I have ever needed or wanted. The only thing I lack is a sense of confidence in myself, and I know that no one else can give me that. Better though, I feel like I may be close to finding it or something close enough. With that will come peace. However slow it comes, though, I know I am the luckiest person I've ever known.

For these things and more, I am thankful today, tomorrow, and a lifetime of Sundays.

Dream Solider

2007-11-20T12:52:00.000-05:00

Despite the fact this blog began six years ago as a dream diary of sorts--an experiment that didn't last but a week or so--I don't like to write about dreams. They are like pets and kids--only interesting to the people to whom they belong. However, as I'm now back into recurring dream land, I need to purge. The past two nights have been on the same dreamscape, followed the same themes, and have been as vivid as any dream I've had in months, if not years.

The hardest part was the waiting.

We were barracked in a long, skinny industrial dorm. The concept of "we" was loose, in that our unit was no more than a ragtag band of novice soldiers--professionals, laborers, slackers, and pretty lesbians. The only real military men among us were the commanders, a surly collection of impatient and tired mercenaries.

A volunteer army it was not. While we were all sure of the coming invasion, we were conscripts, forced to leave our families, and laboring under the assumption that there was no way we could win the inevitable war. I spent my hours wandering the complex and trying to find a way to get in touch with my wife. I had a phone card and managed to find a payphone in a dark hallway.

The phone rang and I heard her voice say, "Hello."

The Soma-calm that came with the sound of her voice was short and cut off by an operator telling me the phone card was out of minutes. I had no money, no more phone cards, no cell phone, no way to get home. I was trapped inside a dark and wet building, surrounded by a razor wire fence, and under a blanket of such fear and doom that no amount of sunshine could set optimism alight.

Men and women were housed together here. The unmarried soldiers in the group were treating their confinement like a doomsday party. On my many walks, I wandered by the group showers and found my fellow American service men and women naked, groping each other, and fucking their way to oblivion. They knew we weren't going to win. They knew how it was going to end.

The commanders turned a blind eye to it all. I learned after a while that they were only responsible for keeping us in one place. They didn't care that the lesbians had started a Dorm B fantasy camp, removed their bunks from the wall and started sleeping in a mass of naked flesh on the floor. The officers didn't care that I spent most of my time huddled in a small lower-tier bunk wondering if I could escape, and, if so, how.

The enemy was the oddly-named Caspians. Their uniforms were blue and fashioned much like the Russians in the old video game Rush 'N Attack. When they landed--much like a scene of out Red Dawn--we didn't have any guns. There was no shooting. The commanding officers disappeared. If it wasn't clear before, it quickly became so. We weren't meant to fight.

As we were all rounded up and put on a caravan of buses, I wondered about my wife and child. There was nothing I could do for them. I'd held out hope that we might fight and win, that I could someday return to my family.

I don't know where they were taking us. It's a looped scene that changes in the exposition but ends the same every time. The Caspian is firm but not violent as he leads me by the arm onto the bus. His face is emotionless and he doesn't say a word. I don't struggle. Instead, I let myself be put into an aisle seat on the bus. I can't see out the window and don't bother looking to see who is on the bus with me. It's clear that while the dream will start over at some point, it will never really end. Isolation and defeat are all I know until I force myself awake.

Naked swordfights, pitbulls, and pregnancy

2007-11-19T16:19:00.000-05:00

I look at most stories and think, "Well, if it had a little something extra, it would be really interesting." This story, however, needs nothing else. If I were sitting around coming up with my dream story for a Monday, this would be it.

A Greenville man was arrested Sunday night after police say he and his pregnant live-in girlfriend were scuffling naked in the street, with a plastic sword and an unleashed pit bull nearby. [Full story]

As it is the perfect story, I have nothing to add...except to say, this wasn't my wife and me.

She's not pregnant, anyway.

Booked

2007-11-18T09:47:00.000-05:00

The best thing about having a large circle of friends who do a lot of reading and writing? I almost never want for a book. Thanks to a sense of optimism and a number of gifts from generous friends I am currently five books behind on my reading list for the year. However, I'm still gettting a lot of reading done and have read some great stuff this year.

More on that in a second. First, while I'm on the subject of books, I haven't taken the opportunity to publicly congratulate my friend Wil on publishing his third book, The Happiest Days of Our Lives. He's been selling the paperbacks for weeks now and doing very well. Today (for what I can only assume will be a one-day offer) he will be issuing a limited-run hardback/signed edition. He only has 300, so I doubt he makes it through the day without switching back to paperbacks. That's success for ya. I'm happy when 300 people read this blog in a day. Congrats, Wil, on another great effort.

I was all set to get into a George Singleton marathon when Pauly shipped an old copy of Another Roadside Attraction. Now, I'm knee deep in that funny business and loving it (not to mention being quite surprised I'd never read it before).

I've not done as much reading this year as I hoped. What I have read, however (along with some very, very quick reviews) is on the 2007 Reading List and Mini Book Reviews page. Here's the quick list of my 2007 reads to date.

Kitchen Confidential--Anthony Bourdain
The Making of a Chef--Michael Ruhlman
Dogrun--Arthur Nersesian
Pastoralia--George Saunders
Blackwater--Jeremy Scahill
Sick Puppy--Carl Hiaasen
Bigger Deal--Anthony Holden
Blaze--Richard Bachman (Stephen King)
Nasty Bits--Anthony Bourdain
Looking For Jake--China Mieville
A Dirty Job: A Novel--Christopher Moore

Now, back to the books.

Patriots with broken thumbs

2007-11-17T11:43:00.001-05:00

I was questioning my own patriotism. I wasn't sure a red-blooded American would've had a spinach fish wrap for lunch on Veterans Day. Yet, as planes flew overhead and the small town parade inched its way down the main drag, that was what sat in my stomach. The least I could've done was have a meal with red meat in it. Maybe a rare burger or something. And I called myself an American.

Sated, though, I stood on the sidewalk and watch the parade pass by. Grizzled Vietnam vets rode on Harleys. World War II soldiers sat in the back of convertibles. Girl Scouts walked to their cadence. Each passing group got a round of deserved applause as it passed. I stood with my back against a storefront and thought about my friends. One of them drove humvees through rainstorms of gunfire. Another, a doctor, is there saving lives. One good buddy is on his way back to Iraq for yet another in an endless series of increasingly dangerous tours.

A high school marching band played "Tequila" and I thought about how I could use a shot myself. I wondered about my dad's buddies. They were Vietnam-era fighters. One drank, the other did not. In more than 30 years of knowing them, I never once heard them talk about their time during the war. There was a time I thought about asking. Now I know that people are quiet for a reason.

A few weeks before, I had taken my son on a hike through the woods. It was a tricky trail, tangled with tree roots and jutting rocks. My son is three and I have eleven lifetimes on him. Neither of us had an easy time standing up. Along the way, we passed a man who could not have been younger than 85. He and his wife moved slowly along the trail. I wondered how they could manage the hike. We stopped to talk and I noticed the man's cap. He was a veteran, as well. He didn't talk about his service and I didn't ask. Instead, he complimented me on getting my boy outdoors. As we walked away, the old man called, "Keep that boy in the woods!"

The parade was nearing its end when a group passed by on foot. The group was made up of of young and old, male and female, and just about every other descriptor you could come up with. They held signs that read, "Support the troops. End the War."

I nodded to myself as I heard applause begin to rise from the streetside crowd. I was impressed and held a moment of hope that we were all going to be okay. I pushed myself off the wall and headed farther onto the sidewalk. That's when I saw the 70-something lady a few feet away. She was waving? No, her hand was in the air in motion that is almost universally known to mean, "Get the hell out."

"Grandma's a war hawk," I muttered and started walking back up, almost in step with the "Support the Troops" group. I hadn't walked a block before I saw another lady--this one closer to 60--literally standing on her chair at a corner restaurant. Her hand was in the air and jerking. Her thumb was pointed toward the sidewalk. That is how some people recognize and honor our veterans. They boo the people who want the war to end.

The parade wasn't over, but I saw little reason to stay longer. I turned and walked down a side street. If supporting the troops and wishing for an end to war is a reason to boo, I am obviously in the wrong place.

Technological Breakdown

2007-11-16T02:33:00.000-05:00

I, for one, believe we aren't all that stupid. Oh sure, there are those among us who still die in lawnchair accidents or end up in the ER because they "accidentally sat down" on the remote control. Those, however, are the exceptions. If we human types weren't that smart, I wouldn't be able to digitally record my favorite programs while holiday shopping online and IMing with my wife from across the room. These are the things--not to be mention the artificial heart and and Platinum Coil Embolization technique--that let me know I live in a society that has a future. Hell, I just learned a few minutes ago that there is a service that will let everyone who knows me know where I am at any given second. That sounds like a real treat.

And yet...

My laptop battery (less than one year old) is completely shot

My wife's laptop battery (less than one year old) has somehow fried her touchpad and keyboard

Guitar Hero 3 users are saying en masse that their controllers don't work right

Vista sucks even more balls than I thought it did

American Airlines computer system and employees have the same amount of intelligence (tonight I asked for my boarding pass for the third time and the gate agent--a fifty-something lady--muttered mysteriously "Oh, shit" before sending me away for a couple of minutes)

Every DVD player I have ever purchased has died or bugged out on me

These are just things that I have come up with off the top of my head. I'm too fried right now to get into this too deeply. Hell, if I did, Blogger would probably eat my post.

Techno-tilt sucks.

Six thing learned in six days

2007-11-14T23:03:00.000-05:00

1. There is a big difference in doing something because you want to and doing something because you have to.

2. There is a nearly equal difference between Johnny Walker Red and Macallan 18.

3. Some people are just assholes and losers. Time taken to remind them of both attributes is time well-spent.

4. Farm-raised sea bass is not always the same thing as Chilean sea bass. Also, cous cous is sometimes the size of a peppercorn.

5. You might not think honey and coconut milk would be part of a good meal, especially when combined. You'd be wrong.

6. When you hear your kid talk about the size of his excretions and it makes you a little misty, it's time to go home to the family.

I'm headed back to the fort in about 14 hours. It's been a good and revealing six days of solitude. For those who have asked...

a) No, I'm not converting to Scientology
b) No, I'm not yet gay
c) No, my wife has not yet figured out how smart it would be to divorce me.

All is well and getting better every day.

Gone Again

2007-11-09T14:10:00.000-05:00

Going off on a trip that only a few trusted souls know about. Will be semi-off-grid for the next week or so.

Updates along the way? Doubtful, but you never know.

The face of Amanda Smith

2007-11-07T11:13:00.000-05:00

Among the greatest topics of speculation since August 12 is how Amanda Smith has spent her time. In the run-up to the arrest, I held back information I had been given for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to how it might affect the investigators' efforts.

Now that Smith awaits a bond hearing on her murder charge, I suppose it's now open season and it's fair to reveal Smith's apparent obsession with maintaining an Internet footprint, most notably on the social networking site MySpace. Smith has bounced all over MySpace, dodging reporters and websleuths while still attempting to keep up with a new cadre of friends and people who were willing to believe her or turn a blind eye to the seemingly inevitable arrest. Since Devon Epps' death, Smith has maintained no fewer than three MySpace pages.

Today, a valued source slipped me some pictures that, should Smith end up in a sentencing phase at trial, will undoubtedly be shown to a jury. In most cases, we have no idea when these pictures were taken. As such, they are presented without comment. However, two of the pictures are dated in mid-October of this year. The grief on Smith's face is obviously well-covered. Save that fact, they too are presented without comment.

Who is Amanda Smith? I'm not really sure anyone knows. As I've said before, there are enough unflattering pictures of me out there that I feel obliged to point out that a picture doesn't always tell the whole of a person's personality.

That said, I think some of these new pictures are telling. In the end, it is not up to me to decide, however.

Unless I get picked for jury duty.

A few notes before we get to the pictures.

First, apart from the date-stamped photos, I have no idea when they were taken. Many of them appear to be self-portraits. Second, I have obscured the faces of the people in the pictures out of respect for their privacy. Beyond that, the pictures appear in their original unedited form--or at least as original as they appeared when given to me.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death
Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news
Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?
Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print
Devon Epps: Waiting
Devon Epps: Pictures
The Missing Memorial Page
On Being Devon Epps' Mom
Amanda Smith arrested in death of son Devon Epps

Amanda Smith arrested in death of son, Devon Epps

2007-11-05T18:20:00.000-05:00

The incident report for the the night of August 12, 2007 reveals little about that night and what light it does shed is fractured by the passing of the past two and half months. When the Greenville County deputies responded to the intersection of Jacobs Road, Amanda Raegan Smith gave them a story that seemed so implausible, it didn't even make it to the print version of the deputy's public incident report. The "Incident Type" field is blandly marked with the words "Death Investigation." The rest of the documents list Smith's address, her grandparents' phone number, and a vague suspect description.

By now, most people who care about the case know what Smith told investigators. She said she'd been sitting at the intersection when a man forced her out of the car, jumped in, and smothered her son with a pillow. Smith told investigators they should be looking for a man in his late 30s or early 40s with a red, graying beard and wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans. He had a knife, she said. Her 2000 black two-door Honda Civic was impounded and handed over to forensics investigators. Smith walked free. The next time a public document came out, it would be her murder warrant. [Read' Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news ]

This morning, a Greenville County Magistrate named James Hudson sat in his small chambers inside the county Law Enforcement Center and signed the warrant. That document is just as vague. The investigating officer offered just enough to get the warrant. Among the few words in the affidavit are these: "Forensic crime scene investigation reveals facts consistent with the defendant's guilt and inconsistent with the defendant's version of events."

That much we knew already. An autopsy revealed that seven-year-old Devon Epps had been not smothered, but strangled. No one could ever find who forum-posters began calling BHS, the Bushy Haired Stranger. Beyond that, though, rumor and innuendo ruled the day. Nearly everyone saw what was coming, but no one knew what would happen. [Read: Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death]

This afternoon, as news of Smith's arrest surfaced, 13th Circuit Solicitor Bob Ariail put it all in perspective. "The community wants a quick answer," he said, "but the community wants the right answer."

Greenville County Sheriff's Office investigators took two and half months to bring Smith in on murder charges. During that time, they chased 60 tips and leads. All of them led to dead ends. Or, they led back to Smith.

Sheriff Steve Loftis stood, as usual, stoic in front of the assembled media today. Interviews and forensics he said came in "in bits and pieces." Despite what many people in the community thought, there was no case-breaking piece of physical evidence that led to today's arrest. The totality of those bits and pieces led to Smith's arrest.

"It has been determined that Devon Epps death did not occur in the manner in which it was reported by his mother," Loftis said. "Amanda Smith is responsible for the death of her son."

Just like that, all the speculation and rumor turned into an official statement. With the county's chief prosecutor standing behind him, Greenville County's top lawman called Amanda Raegan Smith a murderer.

Inside the magistrate's chambers, Smith looked pudgy, pasty, and emotionless. Her face was broken out and plastered with with makeup. Her hair was tussled. She wore a black graphic t-shirt that was mostly covered by a zip-up black fleece jacket. Her jewelry consisted primarily of a silver set of handcuffs, tight around her wrists, and a stark contrast to her long, manicured fingernails.

***

After so many weeks of waiting, there is now a renewed public urgency for the next step. It will not be fast. If people had a hard time waiting two months for the arrest, waiting for ultimate justice will be a lot more tough. If history is any indication, Smith will remain in the Greenville County Detention Center on no bond until such time as her attorney can get her a bond hearing. That process usually takes a week to a month. In many cases these days, the defendant is not physically present for the hearing. It happens via video conferencing. As to whether she will get bond, it's impossible to say. Most hard core murderers are held without bond until trial. However, every judge is required to consider a reasonable bond. It will be up to the judge to decide how much of a flight risk and danger to the community Smith might be. If bond is forthcoming, it will be very, very high.

After that, many more weeks, if not months, will pass before a preliminary hearing. That will be the public's first opportunity to hear the prosecution's case. Usually, Ariail puts the lead investigator on the stand and walks him or her through the case. Then we will learn at least some of the evidence Ariail plans to use to put Smith away.

Then, the long wait happens. Most big murder cases in this county take at least a year before they go to trial. The timeline will largely be affected by whether Ariail decides to seek the death penalty in the case. One of the many aggravating factors in South Carolina that allow for a death penalty prosecution is the murder of a child under the age of eleven. Ariail has sought the death penalty in most of the high-profile murders in his circuit. He has been successful in almost all of those prosecutions. At the same time, Ariail is a prosecutor that absolutely despises losing and is very reluctant to take a case before a jury if he thinks there is a chance he won't win.

A big part of his decision will be based on things we don't know right now. Consider this: the highest profile murder in Upstate South Carolina in the pasts several decades was committed by a woman named Susan Smith. She admitted to drowning her two sons and then telling investigators she'd been carjacked. The prosecutor's case was ironclad and he tried the case in a part of the country that is very pro-capital punishment The jury gave Susan Smith life in prison with an opportunity for parole after 30 years.

Ariail was predictably reticent today. In all the years I've known him, he has never given away his intentions regarding what kind of penalty he expects to achieve. At this point, I'd have a better chance at flipping a coin for an answer than guessing what he will do.

I can feel confident of this, though. Ariail is sure he's got the goods on Amanda Smith or we wouldn't have heard from him today.

***

Right now, Smith is likely in a jumpsuit and sitting in the women's wing of the GCDC. Many people believe she has spent the last two months working at Zaxby's during the day and partying with friends at night. She will be among the most famous women in jail tonight. A dubious honor, to be sure, but one that may fit her very well.

At Jacobs Road and Frontage, there hung a picture of the old suspect on a tree near the crime scene. One of my more regular e-mail friends I've developed as sources since this case broke sent this message this evening: "I drove to the place where it happened and tore down the poster of the BHS (Bushy Haired Stranger). Wish I had one of Amanda Raegan Smith to replace it with." [Read: Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?]

On the outside, Devon Epps father is saying out loud what many people have been thinking. Devon Epps is gone forever, but there is still time for justice.

"It's not going to bring him back," Chad Epps told WYFF, "but at least she has to suffer for it now."

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

Devon Epps: Waiting

Devon Epps: Pictures

The Missing Memorial Page

On Being Devon Epps' Mom

*Photo courtesy GreenvilleOnline

Devon Epps Case Breaks

2007-11-05T15:43:00.000-05:00

Word is just now coming out of a break in the Devon Epps case. A live press conference is slated for 4pm.

Somehow, I think I know what's coming. Blogger is having some publishing problems. Not even sure this will get out.

3:52pm--Word just in. Amanda Smith, Devon Epps mother, has been arrested. News conference coming soon.

4:19pm--A quick news conference revealed few new details, but it gave everyone the one they wanted. Amanda Smith has been arrested and charged with murder in her son, Devon Epps, death. Here's a Cliff's Notes version of the newser:

A judge signed the murder warrant against Smith this morning and she was arrested this afternoon. Video showed an emotionless Smith being led into the Law Enforcement Center judicial chambers where she was made aware of the charges against her and told she will be held without bond in the Greenville County Detention Center.

Sheriff Steve Loftis said that the night of the murder, Epps was found with his mother outside the car. He was unspresponsive, take to Greenville Memorial Hospital, and declared dead.

Investigators followed more than 60 tips in the case and never found another viable suspect.

"It has been determined that Devon Epps death did not occur in the manner in which it was reported by his mother," Loftis said "Amanda Smith is responsible for the death of her son."

Loftis said Smith was "cool and calm" upon her arrest. He said that there was no one piece of evidence that cracked the case, but rather a lot of small "bits and pieces" that led them to the arrest.

Amanda Smith is eligible for the death penalty in South Carolina. There are several qualifying factors in this state for death penalty eligibility. The murder of a child under the age of eleven is one of those qualifiers.

The usually reticent 13th Circuit Solicitor Bob Ariail commented on the duration of the investigation by saying, "The community wants a quick answer, but the community wants the right answer."

More to come.

Get in my pants

2007-11-02T10:21:00.000-04:00

I have a hard time believing there is anybody out there who wouldn't enjoy spending some quality time in my pants. My wife's facial muscles are sprained from the amount of eyebrow raising she has done on the subject. Chagrin might begin to explain it, but it comes nowhere close to ending the subject. Simply put, I've got a great pair of pants and I'd be happy to invite anyone to get in them for a test drive.

Perhaps some background is in order.

A couple of years ago, I picked up a pair of jeans on a whim. I don't buy clothes very often, and when I do, it's usually a ten-minute aisle-sprint that ends in me buying a bunch of muted colors and things that are more comfortable than they are stylish. These particular jeans, however, were perfect. They hugged the parts that needed to be hugged without squeezing the parts that shouldn't be squeezed. They looked worn, but not worn out. Best of all, they were comfortable enough to make me wish I never owned another pair of jeans.

I went out a week later and bought another pair of jeans.

The exact same style, size, color, and everything. Even I couldn't tell the difference between the two pair. That's actually where I made the first mistake. I should've put one pair in the fire safe. Instead, I wore one pair until it was time to wash, and then put on the other pair. Rinse and repeat for two years.

I guess it has something to do with the amount of time I spend on my knees in front of my employer, wife, and the poker fates. Regardless, the knees of my jeans are always the first to go. No big surprise, the knees of both pair of jeans blew out within a week of each other.

"Honey," the wife said one day, "I think it's time."

The wife is immeasurably understanding when it comes to my indiscretions and eccentricities. She puts up with me looking like a slob most of the time. However, there reached a point with both pants that I looked...well, I'll say it: stupid. Somehow, though, I couldn't let go. When you have something that spends that much time protecting your junk from public view, it deserves a little respect. I mean, these jeans have covered my ass in several countries and I'm supposed to just throw them out because of a couple holes? Nuh-uh.

I went with iron-on patches. For a mere four bucks, I got about two dozen patches of several different colors. The idea was to turn the jeans inside out, hold the raggedy parts together and fuse them back together from the inside. The first time I did it for both pair, you could barely tell there was a patch involved.

The fourth and fifth times I did it, however, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. I was like the guy who doesn't realize when it's time to put his dying dog out of its misery. One day, one pair of jeans blew out again, this time in a huge rip down one of the legs. Faded denim hung like ripped flesh. There would be no putting those jeans back together. I considered burning them and keeping the ashes in a mug on the mantle. Instead, I tossed them in the trash and cried for a couple minutes.

That left just one pair of jeans raging against the dying of the light. My irrationality headed into overdrive. I went to the same store and couldn't find anything close to the same style and size. I went online and started searching--everywhere from the store's web site to eBay. Nothing. I might as well have been a junkie on a desert island with the last of my H dripping out of a hole in my arm. The laws of supply and demand only hold up when a supply exists.

So, I went to work. I identified every weak spot in the aging denim and patched it from the inside. Turned inside-out, my jeans looked like something out of a Ozark Mountains craft fair. Worn correctly, though, they look like...well, they look a pair of jeans that has been patched seven or eight times from the inside. Still, I can't stop myself from wearing them. My wife has stopped rolling her eyes and started averting them. Either that, or she covers them when we're in public together.

As I type, I hear the Friday arrival of the local garbage collector. It would take me all of two minutes to walk upstairs, grab the jeans, and run them out to the curb. But I can't. And I won't.

Not until the last shred of denim is hanging from my sentimental and quite happily covered ass.

Kid Hero

2007-10-31T21:09:00.000-04:00

A couple of pictures from Halloween night from my Flickr account.

Saving the world, one suburb at a time. Also, as I wrote on the Flickr description, for a kid who gets next to no sugar, Halloween night for my boy was like a fallen priest spending a night in a brothel. Or something like that.

Peaking out

2007-10-30T14:21:00.000-04:00

My Internet footprint is bigger than it should be. I write regularly on three blogs. I have Flickr, Buzznet, and Twitter accounts. I have a MySpace and Facebook pages (both, grudgingly). All of that, combined with an increasingly active offline life, means I sometimes neglect this, my oldest and favorite place to hide on the Internet.

The past week has seen me writing a lot more on Up For Poker. Recent events, not the least of which was yet another poker game robbery here in G-Vegas have kept me pretty busy.

The last couple of weeks have been exactly what I needed on the offline front. I've seen a ton of live music, including Tony Trischka, Fishbone, Michael Franti, and the Black Crowes. Tonight I'm going to see They Might Be Giants for the first time in nearly a decade.

I also am planning a post with the working title of "Get in my pants" which I'm sure everyone is just dying to read. Or something.

A weekend as a single dad, followed by a personal/work project in the following week, followed by Thanksgiving, a trip to Vegas, the holidays, the Bahamas, and a wedding trip to Louisiana should make for a lot of good blogging fodder in the next few months.

If I can only find the time to sit down and write about it all.

Well, (apple) butter my muffin

2007-10-28T00:29:00.000-04:00

I was about to go to a Halloween party that required a costume for entry. With my work schedule now a little lighter, I took an afternoon trip to Target with my wife.

"The adult costumes are over here," she said. She knows these things because Target calls her every morning and lets her know how the bottom line is looking and whether they need a Mt. Otis funded bail-out.

We turned the corner and I saw my choices. I could either be a strand of metallic garland or a sprig of greenery. I stopped at the end of the aisle and muttered something obscene. Christmas? I looked at the old stock lady with a look that I hoped conveyed, "I'd sooner buy your damned Christmas decorations in October as I would give you a hot oil massage in front of my mother."

I muttered some more and went to what was serving ineffectually as the clearance aisle for the Halloween stuff. As I turned around, I swear the old lady was pulling an Easter bunny and some chocolate eggs out of a box.

The pickings for Halloween costumes were pretty slim. I initially planned a medical/army theme and figured to go into the party as a Five Star Surgeon General. I ended up changing my mind and pulling together a black Medusa dress, an old lady wig, and a fake butcher knife. I was going to make a great Norman Bates' mother.

I ended up missing the party and was left with my old lady wig and a sense of confusion about what time of year it is. Are we really so damned rushed that we have to start buying Christmas stuff before I get a chance to get my "Mother!" on? I know it's trite to bitch about how early the Christmas junk comes out, but, holy, holy, holy, my pumpkin isn't even rotting yet.

See, we even delayed our trip to the pumpkin patch by a week or so. Why, rush it, you know? Last year, we had to throw elbows in a crowd of a hundred or so in the patch. This year, we were literally the only customers there. Everyone else must have shown up in July. The patch had been picked over and looked more like a Civil War battlefield if Robert E. Lee and Wade Hampton had been commanding pumpkins.

The peace and quiet was welcome, though. Instead of fighting pumpkin patch commercialism, it was like we were on our own farm, the slim pickings notwithstanding. I stood at the counter inside the barn and talked to the lady at the counter.

"Sorta quiet here," I said, disregarding my son's baby chick mimicking across the room.

"Everybody showed up the day we opened," the lady said. That was in mid-August. Back then, it was 100 degrees outside, the leaves were all still green, and Father Halloween was still making wooden toys at the South Pole. Still, people had to buy their pumpkins in time to start saving for the Christmas presents they were going to buy in October.

We picked out two pumpkins, a couple bear-fuls of local honey, and some sodas to cut through the Autumn humidity.

"Hey, hon," I said. "Grab some apple butter." The stuff we'd bought at Nivens Farm last year had been really good.

I'm not sure how many parts of the country enjoy apple butter. As far as I know, it's a national spread. However, if you live somewhere that doesn't celebrate harvest with apple butter, you are really missing out. Imagine spreading an apple pie on a buttered biscuit on a cold Autumn morning and you'll start to see where I'm coming from.

My parents were with us and I saw my mom's wheels start to turn. "Why don't we just buy some apples and make it?" she said. Five minutes later, she was explaining the difference between a bushel and a peck and we had a bag of locally grown apples in our car.

That night, after the boy was in bed, my wife, mom, dad and I stood in our kitchen and peeled apples. As my mom worked like an industrial peeling machine, the rest of us laughed while we massacred our fruit with paring knives. Over the course of the next three hours, we made and canned four jars of Mt. Otis Apple Butter.

My mom worked the recipe from memory, calculating cups and teaspoons in her head and measuring them with her hands. It was something she'd been doing her entire life and watching her work with--if you will--careless precision was something as beautiful as she is.

At 11:30 pm, we made toast and topped it with butter and our labor. The next morning, my wife made biscuits and we had the apple butter again. I don't think I have to tell you, it tasted better than anything we could've bought.

It's very easy these days to get treble-hooked by work, consumerism, and mass marketing. Before we know it, we're being dragged through the holiday waters and ending up filleted for Easter brunch. As a father of a kid who gets more mature every day, I'm learning that, holidays or not, life just moves too damned fast. Sometimes we just need to listen to our moms and slow down.

You can learn a lot from apple butter, you know?

I'll be happy to share some of mine with you if you wanna come down for my Fourth of July Party.

It's next month.

Good show, Boss

2007-10-26T09:26:00.000-04:00

There have been few people in my career who I actually set out to impress. There have been few people who have actually given me chances I didn't deserve. There have been fewer still I looked up to like a father, but was still able to consider a friend. Andy Still is all of those people.

Andy was my boss from 1999 until early 2005. We parted ways amicably when I discovered a new direction and golden parachute. Since then, I've been able to watch Andy's work from a safe distance and wished for him a graceful exit whenever he chose.

Last night, the wife and I went to Andy's retirement party, a real-life "This Is Your Life" for him--and, frankly, us, too. Andy is giving up his role as News Director and heading off to a life of music, writing, and travel. All of it is more than deserved.

There are so many things that are wrong with television news these days. Anymore, it is a place where mediocrity isn't merely accepted, it's almost championed. Andy and the people who worked on his staff didn't believe in that. Andy and the people he trusted really believed in capital "N" News. The business wasn't all about money, how fat you were, or how good looking you could be. The business was telling stories. It was about giving people the news they needed in a way they could understand. If you entertained them along the way, even better.

I have many a rant on this subject, but those will have to wait for another day. Today is the day we recognize Andy's last hours on the job. If you have ever wanted to believe in the profession of journalism or wondered who among the fourth estate you could trust, Andy is your man. And, as we all agreed last night, Andy is more than just a newsman. He is simply a fine human being.

Congrats on a great career, Boss. More than that, thank you for giving us a reason to believe.

Rubber Band Man

2007-10-23T11:31:00.000-04:00

It was a tight night at The Royale. We'd walked through one of the first chilly nights in St. Louis and the bar and fire-dotted patio were packed with drinkers. I stood in a line of people and could see my friends at the first table inside the door. My beard was graying, my hair was salt and peppery, and the wrinkles around my eyes were deeper than the last time I'd been to a bar in The Lou. When I saw the doorman ask the lady in front of me for ID, I figured it was because she could've passed for 21. I, however, could've passed for 41, even in the soft light.

"ID?" he said to me as I stepped into the warmth.

I probably rolled my eyes as I reached into my pocket and fumbled for my South Carolina drivers license. It's always easy to find, what with the magenta strip of color across the top and bar code on the back. And yet.

"Um," I said, feeling like a 19-year-old Otis using the expired ID of a guy named Steve Ball to get into Shattered or get a drink at The Blue Note. "I guess I don't have it."

As it happened, a friend of mine knew the owner and I was sitting at the table with a hefeweizen in a matter of minutes.

"I think I lost my drivers license," I said over the din.

My brother feigned shock. "No!" he said, mouth wide open and a mocking hand covering it. "How could that happen?"

***

I think that most men have accepted that a wallet is merely a man-purse that can screw up the lumbar region. It's a receptacle for everything that Joe Average encounters in a given day--receipts, small bills, membership cards to the local warehouse store, small animals, and, if you're still single, phone numbers you will never call. The age of the Crackberry and PDA, however, have rendered much of the wallet's utility useless. We can collect things digitally now, and that means the days of Costanza Wallet should be behind us.

I gave up the wallet years ago, remarkably on my brother's suggestion. He carried a money clip and I saw no reason not to do the same. At the time, I wore a suit five days a week and my giant leather wallet had a hard time staying in the pants pocket. Moreover, I slung my jacket around enough that keeping a big wallet in the breast pocket was a no-go. At the time, it was difficult to pare my life down from everything I kept in my wallet to what could fit in the single pocket of a money clip. It took me nearly a year to get used to it. Eventually, though, I was a convert.

That's when I entered the poker world.

The poker world does not operate like much of polite society. One clear difference is the amount of money you have to carry at any given time. In polite society, if you were asked, "How much do you have on you?" you might say, "Twenty." For your future reference, saying that in the poker world means something other than it does standing in line at Wal-Mart. It's a world where twenty dollar bills are cumbersome and fifty dollar bills are unlucky. People routinely borrow hundreds if not thousands of dollars at a time on only a handshake. That is a long way of saying, when you're walking around Vegas, you're likely carrying more money than fits in a standard money clip.

Enter, the rubber band.

Now, maybe I started doing it as an affectation. However, I was carrying a lot of money at any given time and it was true that the amount wouldn't fit in the standard money clip. What's more, it was more money than I was going to carry in my back pocket where any pickpocket could snatch it. Regardless, before long, even when I wasn't carrying much money, I had resorted to using nothing but a rubber band to carry my cash, drivers license, and credit cards.

I liked it for so many reasons. Unlike a money clip, bills never slipped out. The roll fit perfectly in my front pocket and was always secured by the rubber band. If the rubber band broke, I simply got a new one for a cost of around ten cents. When playing poker two or three nights a week, it was easy to just throw my poker roll around my regular cash and be done with it.

My wife, however, hated it. At first, it was because I would often forget to take my poker money off the roll and I would end up pulling too much cash out of my pocket when were out and about. That was justified. However, her disapproval developed into a full-blown disdain even after I reduced my walking around money to a couple hundred bucks at a time. She hated the rubber band, and, if I was catching her drift, everything it represented. She found a companion in my brother, who upon the loss of my drivers license launched into full mocking mode. "How could it happen?" he would say. "You have such a great system going here!"

It was, in a word, disheartening.

***

It may have been denial, but I delayed going to the DMV to get a new license. Every once in a while, I would stretch the rubber band out and peek inside the cards for the tell-tale magenta strip. Of course, it wasn't there. In fact, the last time I could remember seeing it, I was in the line for security at McCarran International. They let me on the plane, so, I guess I had it long enough to make it to the terminal. After that, however, it was MIA and no amount of rubber band stretching was going to change that.

And so, for the better part of two months, I walked around without a drivers license. When going somewhere where I thought there would be a chance some young punk would try to card me, I would carry my passport.

"That is so pretentious," the wife said to me one night as we prepared to head out to American Grocery. She refused to explain herself any further, but merely looked on me with bemusement when I put my passport in my pocket.

After dinner, we headed out to Liberty Taproom for a drink. Sure enough, two guys with a great future as security guards stood sentry at the door.

"ID?" they said.

I handed them my passport and said, "My wife thinks this is pretentious." They waved me in, and I swear, as the door closed behind me, I heard them laughing.

***

Late last week, I sucked it up and went to the DMV for a new license. Technology, such as it is, allows for me to get a duplicate license without having to pose for a new picture. The lady at the counter reached across with a picture of a younger me. It was a guy who still carried a money clip, who didn't have graying hair, and who didn't have as many wrinkles around his eyes.

"Didn't you used to be on TV?" the woman asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I did, but that was a long time ago."

But now, I am the Rubber Band Man, I thought, and walked toward the door. As I stepped into the sunlight, I slipped the drivers license into a fold of bills and protected it with a perfect, soul-soothing snap.

Home again

2007-10-22T11:40:00.000-04:00

Well, I sure needed that.

More to come when I again start thinking like a person from the real world.

Mountain retreat

2007-10-18T09:13:00.000-04:00

There are two hard things about the Lake Eden Arts Festival.

The first hard thing is the getting there. The actual road trip is easy. From where I sit, it's only an hour and half drive, most of it on interstates. Camp Rockmont (which, despite the sound of its name, is not a place where people are regularly massacred by serial killers or a place where 18 year-old girls in white cotton panties experiment with some crazy new interests) is a simple little place on a simple little mountain lake.

The hard part is the anticipation of getting there and then fear of not getting a prime spot next to the lake. That is my job today. The wife and I are the first wave of The Advance Team. The job we have chosen to accept is that of scout and flag-planter. I should remember that in nine years of LEAF-ing, we have never failed to get a good camp site for this four-day event. Yet, I always worry. I'm sick with it right now. I'm leaving two hours before I really should in some false hope that it will make me feel better. When we get there, it will be a mad dash over a split-wood fence and to the lake. There, we will begin forming the Tent City U for a party of around 20 people (a small year in comparison to the 32 we had last year). Within a few hours, we will be joined by the rest of The Advance Team, Jane, T, and Ted. They will help us build Tent City and make it our weekend home. By 8pm, we will be finished and drinking beer. The hard part will be over.

The other hard part is the leaving. Sunday morning, we will all wake up up. More than half of our group will be hung over. Everyone will be tired. No one will want to spend three hours breaking down Tent City and cleaning up our site to leave the land as we found it. But everyone does.

Those are the two parts of LEAF that I hate. If those were the only things I knew about LEAF, I most certainly would never go. Thing is, everything else in the middle of those two times is easy. Beyond easy, really. A picture T took last year pretty much sums up LEAF in October.

I could spend a couple hours writing about how much I enjoy this weekend, but I don't think most people would get it. I've spent years trying to convince people why it's fun, and nobody has understood it...until they have joined me. I think in our group's LEAF history (which pre-dates the Otis clan by several years), only two people have joined us at LEAF and not liked it. Dozens of others have vowed to come back as often as possible. And they have.

So, it's off the grid for me this weekend. I'm not simply setting an away message on my computer. I'm turning the damned thing off.

I've never been one to run away, but this weekend, I'm retreating and not feeling the least bit bad about it.

Seeya next week.

Lifespan

2007-10-15T07:42:00.000-04:00

"I'm an import killer," Ray said through a cloud of blue dust.

Ray had two packs of menthol cigarettes shoved in the front pocket of his work shirt shirt. At mid-afternoon on a sunny Friday, it was his job to be under the hood of my foreign, gas-guzzling SDV (Stripped Down Version). I didn't envy him the work. An hour before, I'd thrown up the hood and looked down at the battery. The positive terminal was hidden underneath a crust of blue-green corrosion that looked rather alien. I actually said aloud, alone in my driveway, "Woah, that's not good."

I had some suspicion my SDV's battery was on the wane. A couple of nights before, a beer run had nearly been cut-off when my vehicle almost refused to start. Then, sensing how cruel it would be to keep me from beer, the engine turned over. I took that as a sign to completely ignore the problem.

Then Friday afternoon came and I had four errands to run before a friend was scheduled to be at my house to pick me up. After working for about 35 straight days and nights, I was going to take a night off. Out to the driveway, I hopped in Emilio (see if you can figure out why he's named that) and turned the ignition.

Everybody knows the sound. It's a low, halting, groan that ends with the dome light extinguished, the radio channel pre-sets erased, and the car making no other noise. I wasn't even sad. I looked back through my mental maintenance file and recalled that since I bought the vehicle in November 2001, I have never changed the battery. It's a rather amazing feat, really. The standard life of a battery is 2-3 years. This one--a factory battery that looked more like something that would fit in the back of a big flashlight--had lasted for six years without ever failing me.

Now, it was dead in the middle of my driveway on a perfect Friday afternoon. My initial intention was to run up to the store, buy a new battery, and change it myself. Then I realized my wife had to use her car to go pick up the boy from pre-school. Thinking quickly, I grabbed some brand new, still-in-the-package jumper cables from the back of Emilio and hooked them up. After checking the connection on my wife's Honda, I went back to Emilio and said it again: "Woah, that's not good."

Smoke was coming off the positive terminal. I'd done my best to remove all the corrosion and produce a clean connection, but something was obviously still quite wrong. I grabbed for the red handle, then realized it was, well yeah, smoking hot. So, I grabbed for the cable and realized the insulation had melted off. Fingers singed, I grabbed the black cable, ripped everything off, and threw the smoking, melted mass as far as I could (incidentally, about four feet).

It was a sign, as far as I was concerned, that someone else should be replacing the battery in my car. While the jumper cables were obviously defective (another set out of the garage worked just fine), I didn't see any reason to press my luck.

And that's how I ended up with Ray the Import Killer.

***

The new battery was $80 including installation. Ray grabbed a red cart stacked with tools and wheeled it out to Emilio. I'd left the vehicle running and Ray took it upon himself to climb inside, turn it off, and get started before I'd even finished paying.

Ray wore sunglasses, a work hat, and a stained shirt. His hands bore all the signs of a career in manual labor. He worked with a silent deliberation. I stood on the sidewalk and wished I'd worn something different. I was in a pair of jeans--a little too tight--a graphic tee and a pair of Ecco shoes. To anyone driving by, I was that guy from the nearby suburban neighborhood where men don't change their own car batteries. I was about to stick my head under the hood, too, just to keep up appearances, when Ray emerged.

"You're going to need a new terminal," he said.

He was pointing to the positive connector. It was sea-foamy with corrosion.

"I'll go get one," I said with zeal. With a task, I felt like I was helping, much like the three-year-old that helps his father clean up autumn leaves, which is to say, not at all.

"It's the band-type with the bolt sticking out of the back," Ray said and ducked back under the hood.

I went in and ran into the woman who sold me the battery.

"I need a new terminal," I said. "Band-type with a bolt sticking out of the back."

Just five minutes before, I'd seen the same woman (a cross between Chastity Bono and Abe Vigoda) run to the store room and pick out an obscure part for a 1978 Cutlass from memory. There was no need trying to deny my emasculation. The new part was another $4. Still, $84 for the pleasure of having a brand new battery is no small price to pay. I mean, this battery came with a three-year warranty, something that would serve me very well if this massive container of acid lasted only half as long as my little flashlight battery.

When I returned, Ray was using a wire brush to clean the negative terminal. The blue-green dust smoked up into the air and blew with the breeze. I wondered how much corrosion dust Ray had breathed in his life. Like my battery, I'm pretty sure Ray was outliving his projected lifespan, despite the career of battery acid bong hits

"This work?" I said.

"Sure," he said. "You're going to need another terminal." He pointed to the black one. "Bolt won't turn."

I ran back inside and pulled the same one Ms. Vigoda had just picked out. In the sunshine once again, I said, "This work?"

"Nuh-uh," Ray said. "You need the one with the band and the two prongs that bend over the wire."

Of course, I do.

I went back inside, found the right part, and brought it back to Ray. That was another $4, bringing the total to $88. I was still okay with it. After, all, Ray was into his work. In all, he'd been going for about 25 minutes, and now he was installing new parts, straining over a pair of channel locks, and breaking a small sweat in the unusually warm October air. I wondered if I could tip him.

See, I spend 30% of my year in places where you tip everybody. Guy opens your door? You give him a buck or two. Dealer pushes you a big one? You throw'em a red bird. Server spends a couple hours making sure your meal is presented as well as it can be? Twenty percent is the minimum.

I've tipped bellmen, gift shop cashiers, housekeepers, concierges, valets, dealers, waitresses, bartenders, floormen, chip runners, deli counter workers, cab drivers, limo drivers, doormen, and cashiers. I have never, however, tipped a guy who installs car batteries. Is there a proper percentage? Is it even kosher?

A bearded man walked out of the store, looked at Ray, looked at my SDV, and shook his head. It was a rueful head shake that communicated all it needed to. The old dude drove a beat up teal Cavalier, but was bemoaning my driving of an imported vehicle. That's what happens in these parts.

He drive away in light cloud of smoke.

Ray looked up and spoke. "He got out of his car earlier, looked at your car, and said, 'You know, that thing will never run right again.' I told him I'm the import killer.'"

I couldn't tell if Ray was defending me or mocking me. Soon, it didn't matter.

I looked down and Ray was on his hands and knees, chipping away with a screwdriver at some corrosion that had formed on what I took to calling "that thingy that makes sure he battery doesn't slide around under the hood." Ray was a true professional and was going beyond the call of duty. I reached in my pocket and pulled out $5. I cupped it in my hand and wondered how one tipped a guy like this.

With doormen it's easy. The bill is folded a couple of times and rested between the tips and second knuckles of the index and middle fingers. It's slid into the doorman's hand with a simple, "Thank you." Card dealer? Just rake your pot and leave the tip on the felt. It's understood. Car battery installer? What do I do? Slip it in his tool box?

I almost changed my mind and forgot the tip, until Ray pulled out some industrial anti-corrosion liquid and slathering it in all the right places. For the past 40 minutes, it had been nothing but wire brushes, likely poisonous dust, new parts, and now lubricant.

With no fanfare, Ray stood and said, "That's it."

Ray probably wasn't more than ten years older than me, but he wasn't going to live as long as he should. I don't know what kind of cancer you can catch from battery acid corrosion, but it seems clear that ol' Ray is going to pick up whatever it is.

I pulled ten bucks from my pocket, walked over to Ray, and shook his hand.

"Thanks," I said and put the ten-spot in his hand.

I couldn't gauge the guy's reaction. "Aw, man," he said. He shut up as I turned to get in my car. I was feeling bad. I'd probably just offended him by giving him something extra for something he would normally do. He's a working man who didn't expect anything more.

"Sir?" I heard behind me. I turned to see Ray. "Thank you very much."

There are people in this world who break things. There are people who neglect things until they break or their own or reach the end of their normal lifespan. I am those people.

There are people who fix things. Ray is those people.

Sometimes, as we all live out our own personal battery life, we must accept our role. It's not always easy, and it's quite often emasculating, but it's life.

There's your tip for the day.

The story I messed up

2007-10-11T02:22:00.000-04:00

Six years ago, I did my job as a journalist. I worked a story hard. I was proud of myself. In the time since then, my life has changed so many times and in so many wonderful ways that I can't count them all.

In that same time, Charles Wakefield has stayed in prison, a place he has been for the better part of my life. Whether he would've stayed there may have not had anything to do with what I did, but, in my heart, I know I played a part in it.

In that same time, I have learned a lot more about Wakefield and how he ended up in prison in the first place. I have learned so much that I don't dare even start writing it here, because, if I do, this blog would be about nothing else.

In that same time, I have tried to atone for my youthful and naive exuberance as a news guy. Still, I have not ever come close to doing what I really need to do. I'm not even sure I ever can.

For now, I can only offer this:

I'm sorry, Charles.

Bedsore

2007-10-07T00:16:00.000-04:00

I did the math.

By the time I get up from this chair, I will have spent the better part of 32 days sitting on my ass and staring at a computer screen. Like, for 12-15 hours a day.

Today, in a brief moment in the car (also sitting on my ass), I taught my kid how to say "atrophy."

I've put on 10 pounds in the past four months.

I lose the chains on October 17th. On the 18th, I'm going to the mountains, where I will likely sit on my ass.

But at least I won't be looking at a computer screen.

Otis Up All Night Theater

2007-10-02T11:24:00.000-04:00

I just spent nearly three weeks on the graveyard shift. You'd really be surprised how dead the world becomes between midnight at 6am ET. People must really like this sleeping thing. By 2am, I'd usually found the end of the Internet and didn't have much else to do but watch TV. Again, you'd be surprised how badly programmed TV is at 3am. I mean, how about a little consideration for the hotel clerks, Taco Bell drive thru workers, and security guards? If advertising is any indication, the only people who are awake at this time are men who would like bigger penises.

Fortunately, satellite TV had some halfway decent movie programming. So, here's a list of what I watched while you were sleeping.

The Weatherman--Nicolas Cage flick that I really thought was going to be a comedy. It. Is. Not. Somehow I couldn't stop thinking about my buddy Uncle Ted.

Deceiver--Tom Roth, Chris Penn, and Michael Rooker. I really like watching all three actors. The movie felt like it was inspired by Usual Suspects but never really got there.

The Untouchables--I'd watch it again right now (for the 97th time) to see Bobby DeNiro do the baseball speech.

Live From Baghdad --I'll admit, I have both a Michael Keaton and Helena Bohham Carter fetish. Different reasons, of course. Because I was a TV guy for a long time (and always thought--before I got married and had a kid--that I'd end up in a war zone), I watch this movie for a little vicarious living. Of course, it's fictionalized to a degree, but I like HBO films and this is no exception.

Singles--Another movie I've seen more times that I should've. If you've ever ever heard me use the phrase, "If you're going to have the operation, have the operation," this is where I picked it up.

Inside Deep Throat--Pretty good documentary on the making and fallout from the most famous porn film of all. Also, rather explicit. If you've never see Deep Throat, this documentary is a good excuse to watch The Scene. "Honey, it's educational! It's a documentary!"

The Omen--It's a really bad day when you realize your son is the Antichrist. At least Damien was adopted.

Sleep With Me--Mid-90s Eric Stolz flick that I had actually never seen before. I thought the movie was terribly miscast, but was very happy to see Parkey Posey half naked.

I Like Killing Flies--This one, I really enjoyed. It was a low budget doc about a famous New York restaurant's closing. The foul-mouthed owner is a cross between the Soup Nazi and an amalgam of your favorite social commentators. If you find the time, watch this one. It is poignant and funny.

Shadow of a Doubt--Old Hitchcock film that I surprisingly hadn't seen before. While a little long, it was really enjoyable. Based on the relationship between a daydreaming girl and her uncle (who may or may not be a serial killer). Movie was just as funny as it was suspenseful.

Call Northside 777--Another old one. While completely inconceivable plot line, it's the story of a journalist's quest to get a good story and simultaneously prove a convicted killer innocent.

Vertigo--Classic Hitchcock.

Black Dahlia--Damn, how many damn movies are going to be made on this subject. Let it die. Only enjoyed this movie because I got to see sweet, sweet Scarlett.

Rank--A pretty good documentary on professional bull riding. Yeah, I didn't think I'd enjoy it either, but I really did.

Friends of God--Alexandra Pelosi's take on Evangelicals in America. About what you'd expect after her Journeys With George doc. Some really funny stuff with Ted Haggard talking about how Christians have the best sex.

Jarhead--I didn't expect to enjoy this one as much as I did.

Die Hard--Yeah. Like every time it's on.

Our Brand Is Crisis-- The War Room re-set in Bolivia.

Swingers--You always double down on eleven.

Broadcast News--A movie my wife and I bonded over about a decade and a lifetime ago.

Serpico--Pacino, Pacino, Pacino. Tough to be a bad cop in a good town. Wait, that's not right.

The Right Stuff--Can you believe I'd never actually seen this one before?

Faking it

2007-10-01T03:20:00.000-04:00

These days, it's rare for the wife and I to go out for a good meal. Unless there is a shark hanging from the ceiling, a hostess with a packet of crayons, or a giant mouse running around the joint, we don't tend to go out for dinner as much as we did in the past. It's hard to enjoy a five course meal and a cup of good coffee while a three year old shoots drinking straw wrappers at the adjacent table.

Saturday, we were able to head out to a place recommended by some fellow bloggers. American Grocery sated our need for something above the traditional fare offered by places with kids menus. I had venison--so fresh and rare, I imagine it was plucked from the nearby woods that morning--in a fig demi glace. I also ate organ meat, but that's another story for a different day.

When time arrived for the dessert course, the wife decided on some homemade doughnuts stuffed with mocha cream. Though our friends were there, talking and enjoying saying panna cotta in a thick Italian accent, it was impossible to miss what started happening to the woman I married. With a touch of mocha cream on her lip, she let loose an ever so quiet moan. Her body shuddered. Her eyes may or may not have rolled up into the back of her head.

Yep, there it was. I privately raised my coffee toward the kitchen and thought, "My compliments to the pastry chef." I didn't learn until later that the pastry chef was named Susan. The implications and possibilities were boundless, but left for another time.

***

Anthony Bourdain once wrote about the--if not always sensual--sexual nature of cooking and eating. By definition, he contends agreeing to eat a meal cooked by someone else is a submissive act, one giving up any illusion of control. You open your mouth and let someone else slip something inside. It's the concession of power for the pure sensual pleasure of letting someone else do while you enjoy.

I like to be in the kitchen. It's a creative and therapeutic outlet. It is especially gratifying when, after a few hours with knives, herbs, and meats, I get to watch someone really enjoy the food. It is akin to the satisfaction of another creative and experimental outlet that takes place in another room in the house. A job well done is a job well done, if you you know what I mean.

Marriage can be a tricky thing, though. After years and years of eating the same meals prepared by the same cook, there is an unintentional routine and expectation that arrives at dinner time. My wife knows the meats, the rubs, and how long it's going to take for the meal to be finished. It's the type of thing that leads a guy to experimentation. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, though, it ends with my wife slowly placing malformed rice noodles onto her tongue and forcing a "this is good, honey" from her abused mouth.

There, dear friends, lies the rub. If cooks are the dominant types, they like to believe they have done good, that they have given pleasure, that their toil and art served some greater good. They like to see animated pleasure, and in its absence, at least like to know they have gotten your tastebuds off. For some folks, it's enough to hear, "This is good." Others, like me, like to really believe it.

Indeed, the routine and familiarity of marriage goes both ways. I generally know whether my wife is enjoying something or merely tolerating it. I use the word "generally," because, despite really enjoying the process of pleasure, I am never 100% confident.

That's right. I never know for sure if she is...faking it.

***

A home eater has to walk a very thin line when dealing with a semi-confident cook. Being overly critical of a meal or the one who cooks it could result in a complete loss of confidence that turns into tentative cooking (a tragedy in itself) or a complete abandonment of the kitchen altogether. However, being too careful about the cook's feelings and feigning enjoyment is even worse.

Let's go back to the bedroom (he says as if we ever really left). I think we can all agree that it's pretty clear when a man is satisfied. Moreover, it's not the hardest thing in the world to accomplish that goal. Give him a big enough burger and a basket of fries, if you will, and by and by, he's going to walk away happy. A woman, however, is a fine diner. Something from the drive thru just ain't gonna cut it. Furthermore, figuring out whether the lady's epicurean needs were met is as difficult as reading a french menu through a napkin. She may have acted like she enjoyed it, but there is always a lingering doubt as to whether she enjoyed it.

There are times, of course, when it's pretty clear. Saturday night, as my wife's mouth slacked and she shimmied in her chair at the taste of the mocha cream, Susan the Pastry Chef had obviously scored one for the good guys. Down the table, however, I couldn't get read on how much pleasure Cheryl was getting from her goat cheese gnocchi. Her husband probably knew whether she enjoyed it, but I was at a loss. When she shared a piece with me, I felt a familiar tingle in the good places, so I had to assume Cheryl liked it as well. She said it was good, but I would never know if she was faking it.

We go to restaurants because there is no commitment. The chefs are the pros. You can usually assume you're going to walk away satisfied, but there is no risk of hurt feelings if you don't like the food. You're only out the cost of the meal, rather than the potential hurt feelings and marital strife of not liking your partner's cooking. What's more, when the server asks if everything is alright, you can fake it without longterm consequences.

At home, though, faking it is the worst possible temptation. In the face of a sub par meal, efforts to make your cooking spouse feel good about what he's prepared can only lead to one thing: more sub par meals. As it is with the time spent in the martial bed, a marriage beset by gastronomic dissatisfaction is not one you want to lead.

So, friends, when you feel the urge to say, "This is a good meal," when, in fact, you'd rather have had KFC, just don't do it. Faking it is the path to a lifetime of of wishing you'd ordered takeout and a couple of items from the Adam and Eve catalog.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run. This is the first night in nearly three weeks that I'll be able to go to bed with my wife and I have to make a stop at American Grocery for some of that mocha cream. I wonder if Susan the Pastry Chef has plans?

Suburban Landscapes

2007-09-27T02:49:00.000-04:00

I'm a fescue man, matured from youth as a fescue boy, a time where I spent summer nights with my bare feet buried in dewy three-inch blades of it. During July days, I'd pick dandelion blossoms from the fescue carpet on Yulan Drive. At night, when the Dukes of Hazzard was coming on, I'd run in with pieces of grass stuck to my feet, the product of youthful carelessness and my mom's afternoon mowing. My parents' grass had roots in the southwest Missouri soil and they somehow wormed their way into how I look at suburban landscapes.

Where I come from, fescue was the thing. If anyone mentioned Bermuda, we thought shorts before grass. It wasn't until I ventured out from the city limit neighborhood that I started discovering that there was a world outside fescue. If it wasn't a shock, it was at least a real kick in the seat of the shorts.

Bermuda. Who would've thought there was a grass that greened only a few months out of the year, barely grew above its roots, and looked like it had always been freshly mowed? It was like a homeowner's dream. Instead of mowing once a week, it seemed Bermuda owners lived a life that began and ended on the 18th green.

I bought my house in 2000, and, no surprise, its lawn was fescue. It was comfortable, if almost impossible to maintain. Once the contract was signed, weeds raised their flags and bare spots spread like red clay oil slicks. The grass was its own thing, and I couldn't control it on my own.

It was then that I looked across the street and saw the neighbor with the Bermuda grass. He was a closet wife beater and wore a walkman and headphones when he trimmed his grass. He sang out loud and off key. For the summer months, when my grass was either sand-brown or uneven with weeds, the neighbor's yard looked like it was maintained by the greenskeepers from Augusta National. I couldn't decide if I pitied him more for how bad he sang or how little effort he really had to put into his lawn.

I developed a theory over time about Bermuda grass owners. I watched them as they tended to their lawns. They did it far more often than necessary, some even clipping small pieces of it with house scissors. They were the people who needed their lives to look perfect on the outside and needed to be seen tending to the perfection. I considered my lawn, misshapen and brown, a proud admission of my relaxed life outlook. And if anyone asked why I didn't have the perfect lawn, I had the perfect excuse: Hey, what can I do? Forget it, Jake. It's fescue.

That's when the Corner Bastard came in and turned my life upside down.

Corner Bastard lives up the street and around the corner of my little cookie cutter neighborhood. He drives perfect little cars, has perfect little bushes, and has a lawn of green fescue that not only is the pride of the neighborhood, but has managed to emasculate me in such a way that I can barely drive by without reminding my wife that I was "man enough to give her a baby, so stop looking at the damned grass like you want to have sex on it."

Corner Bastard blew my Bermuda theory right out of the Caribbean. Never in history has a lawn of fescue been so well maintained, perfectly groomed, and artfully crafted. It's as if God himself came down with a golden John Deere and rode around for seven days and nights.

It didn't matter when I drove by or what the weather was like. The lawn was perfect. I eventually lost my mind. In early 2006, I was on a quest to become an evil-doer and this guy entered into my plan. At the time, when I was feeling a little more rage, I called him PC. You can read about that time in Becoming An Evil-Doer Step 2.

In short, I had long believed I could leave a relaxed life of disorder because that's just the was fescue was. Corner Bastard proved me wrong.

Tonight after dinner, the wife chose a walk over a trip for ice cream. We four, a husband, wife, child, and dog headed up to the park. Along the way we were forced to walk by the house on the corner. I heard my wife before I saw it.

"Woah," she said.

I looked at Corner Bastard's grass. It was long and uneven.

"He must be dead," I said out loud, not bothering to conceal my hope.

We walked on, not saying anything more. I started playing out scenarios in which the guy had become an alcoholic, porn-addict, foot fetishist who got caught doing body shots off his nanny's feet. You can't very well mow the lawn when you're in rehab.

It was a perfect night. The near-waning gibbous moon was still waiting to come over the horizon. The local Hispanic population was playing soccer. My kid was pretending he was a super hero. I was the perfect father and breathing with the breeze.

After a stroll around the walking path, we wandered into the little playground to let the kid climb for a while. I was hidden under a cap and behind sunglasses, so my wife couldn't see my eyes turn to slits.

"We may have to leave," I said.

"Huh?"

I nodded across the mulch.

"Oh," she said, and nodded.

There he stood with a soccer ball in his hand and chatting with another fit, well-groomed neighbor. Me? My hat was frayed, my shirt was wrinkled, and I hadn't shaved in almost two weeks. He? He was the picture of the perfect damned father. Like J.C. Penney catalog perfect. Why was his grass long? Because he was taking time out of his life to be a better father. Suddenly, I hated myself for hiring a lawn service this year.

A gangly kid walked in our direction. There was little doubt he was the guy's son. My boy ran up to him.

"Hi! What's you name?" L'il Otis asked. The kid answered.

"I'm Mr. Incredible," my boy said in response and assumed a super hero pose.

The kid didn't know what to say. He stared for a second and then ran away.

"Looks like he has his dad's social skills," my wife mused.

I'm not sure what it was, but I felt better. I hated the guy less and liked myself more. He didn't have to be an adulterer with a drinking problem and I didn't have to have a green thumb. In our heart of hearts, we were both fescue men.

I do not feel any other kinship with this guy. I still think he spends too much time on his lawn, but, I'm done hating him and hating myself for it. He has his own problems, like teaching his son not to run away from potential friendship.

I have a lawn service, a wife who still goes to bed with me, and a super hero for a kid.

I am a fescue man.

Quote of the Week (circa 1943)

2007-09-25T14:48:00.001-04:00

This week finds me too overwhelmed with make-money work to do the not-make-so-much-money work here. I'm working some odd hours and find myself up late most nights watching whatever I can find on TV. I'm actually planning a post on this subject, but I couldn't let my favorite scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "Shadow of a Doubt" go by. To understand it properly and in context, you should see the movie. Regardless, I find it to be both funny and poignant.

Charlie: What's the matter with you two? Do you always have to talk about killing people?

Joe: We're not talking about killing people. Herb's talking about killing me, and I'm talking about killing him.

Emma: It's your father's way of relaxing.

On being Devon Epps' mom

2007-09-22T00:46:00.000-04:00

The last time Amanda Smith had a birthday party, it was an affair celebrated with three close close friends and a trash can full of booze and fruit. The girls all dressed up, posed for pictures, and acted like silly young women as they drank their "PJ" and celebrated the anniversary of their births. The summer of 2006 was on the wane and, if the pre-party pictures were any indication, life was pretty good.

At the time, as Smith celebrated her 26th birthday, no one said anything about the pictures or said anything about how the lifestyle might have affected her child. Many of us can look back on our lives at that age and recall similar times. In a neighborhood of glass houses, the first order of landscaping is cleaning up the stones. The more forgiving among us believe, as long as Smith provided for her child, she could not be blamed her for the occasional indiscretion.

Even today, one of Smith's close friends (name withheld on request) doesn't see Smith's occasional partying as any indication that Smith was a bad parent. "We had parties on occasion and she drank occasionally on the weekends," the friend told me, "but never in Devon's presence. By no means would I label her as an alcoholic or a drunk."

When a fire nearly killed Epps in May, those friends stood by Smith's side. Her MySpace page was packed with messages of sympathy. Friends from all over offered anything Smith needed to cope with the near-tragedy.

Today, it couldn't be more different.

This week, Amanda Smith celebrated her 27th birthday and the circumstances of the day couldn't be more different. Today, every detail of Smith's life is under scrutiny. Friday night, prosecutor-turned-television-vigilante Nancy Grace piggybacked on the release of an Associated Press article on Epps and dedicated half her show to the death of the seven-year-old boy. Lines like "This story stinks worse than 10-day-old flounder, OK? There's a million things wrong with it" were peppered throughout the half hour.

What was once the subject of local news, crime forums, and this blog had just turned into a national story. If Smith had developed any comfort in the level of coverage, it had to change Thursday night when the AP article hit the wire and Friday night when Grace brought in crime pundits from around the country to ruminate on the story. Smith, now a fresh 27 years old--guilty or innocent--was quickly becoming a national pariah, compared to the infamous Susan Smith.

In this environment, a lot of people would fall back on old friends. Instead, Smith has fallen off just about every familiar radar screen. The last time she surfaced publicly, she was sandwiched into the back of a truck in nearby Spartanburg County. The wreck was cause for even more questions about where Smith had been that night, not to mention what she was supposed to be doing the next day. Not injured badly enough to require hospitalization, Smith faded back into the shadows.

Even a one-time close friend who praised Smith's parenting skills has not shared a phone call with Epps' mother.

"Honestly, I haven't talked to her since she had her wreck, which has been a couple of weeks now," the friend said. "She hasn't contacted me and I haven't contacted her. It's been really hard on [her friends] because of everything that's being said."

Smith's disappearance from her friends' lives (and rumors about what she is doing now) are a strain on many people who know her. The only comments those people can summon with any ease involve Devon Epps himself. Said one friend, "He was the most outgoing, Southern-accented little boy I had ever met. He was kind of mean, but what seven-year-old isn't? He loved sports. He loved his Clemson Tigers. He also loved motorcycles."

But, on the subject of Smith's story--the one that tells of a knife-wielding carjacker in the most unlikely of places and with the most unlikely of motives--even the people to whom the young woman was once the closest can't bring themselves to sign off on it.

When I asked a Smith friend about whether Smith's story was believable, the friend simply responded, "In ways yes. In ways no."

That is as close as Smith's old friends are getting to making a public statement in defense of the now 27-year-old woman.

We have no way of knowing what Smith is doing tonight or if she has a friend by her side. There is no way of knowing whether the mother sat down in front of the TV and cried as she was nationally trashed on Nancy Grace. Until this week, the media had been relatively kind to Amanda Smith. Now, the AP is making connections to Susan Smith and Nancy Grace is on the warpath.

In the face of near-accusations that she killed her son, Amanda Smith is silent.

Tonight, I find myself wanting to tell Smith's story, wanting to know how she's spent the past five weeks, and wanting to know how many friends she has left. No matter how many news stories run and how many pundits talk, Smith's story is the only one that matters tonight.

If only she would tell it.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

Devon Epps: Waiting

Devon Epps: Pictures

The Missing Memorial Page

Jack

2007-09-21T04:19:00.000-04:00

No writing today. No stories. Just an appeal for good thoughts.

Two of my dearest friends are taking their baby boy into heart surgery in just a few hours.

Today is dedicated to Jack, his heart, his parents' spirit, and a doctor's steady hand.

Devon Epps: The Missing Memorial Page

2007-09-19T20:06:00.001-04:00

I've been out of town for a week. Upon my arrival back in Greenville, I discovered that I haven't missed much in the on-going investigation into the death of Devon Epps. The Greenville News has run a couple of stories, but they're basically saying what we already know.

I've been getting a lot of e-mails from readers regarding this case. Thanks for continuing to check in. One reader sent me something I've been trying to find for the past several weeks.

In the hours after Epps' death, his mother's MySpace page switched from a rundown of the kind of drinks Amanda Smith liked to enjoy to a memorial site for her son. A few days later, the entire site was taken down. Some industrious cyber sleuth was able to track down a cache of the page. A reader e-mailed it to me this evening.

**Cached version of Devon Epps Memorial Page**

It begins (note: any spelling and grammar mistakes were not corrected):

Dedicated to DEVON CHAD EPPS... July 12, 2000 to August 13, 2007. You will never be forgotten Son. You left me here alone... but soon I'll with you. Save me a spot! Rest in eternal peace baby boy and look down on us everyday. Keep us safe in this cold, dark world and give us strength on every pathway. Send us angels when we need them most, And be our light from coast to coast.

It continues:

To My Angel: August 14, 2007 My precious baby boy, we mourn you today. We sit here devastated, no words to say. Such an unthinkable act happened to you. So many unanswered questions are still ringing through. With shattered hearts and broken spirits, we try to maintain. Grieving you so deeply, no words to express this crushing pain. We ask God “why?” and “what is you master plan?” He whispers to us “I have you in the palm of my hand”. And so, we try to make it through another day without you. Waiting to see your sweet face again in heaven beyond the blue. You were our love, our life, our very heart that beat. Your smile was so beautiful, you brought joy to everyone you would meet. Your eyes were the window to the pure excitement you were thinking. Your endless energy fueled your spirit, your heavenly little being. Please watch over us in this day to day life we are left to live. Be by our side and in our heart, and strength we pray you give. We know you are waiting to welcome us to the other side, We long for the day we hold you again, and in your presence always abide. Devon, you are my angel. I love you so much and my world is empty without you. You were the driving force in my life and I can’t imagine going on with my life without you in it. The memories you have left me with are so dear to me and I will cherish everyone. I can’t wait to hold you again. I love you my only son and I miss you so very much.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

Devon Epps: Waiting

Devon Epps: Pictures

An open letter to my shadow

2007-09-13T11:33:00.000-04:00

Dear Federales,

I can only guess you didn't care if I noticed. I mean, it was 6am in my little suburban neighborhood. Nobody, not even the old lady who stays up late smoking and drinking sherry, was awake. I was the only car pulling out of the cul-de-sac at 6:13am. So, your man in the black Crown Vic didn't go unnoticed. His black sunglasses in the middle of the night did the rest to give him away. Federales, thinking they gotta look all federal.

So, follow me if you like. We're going to be among just a few cars on state 25 north through the Blue Ridge foothills. If you're confused about my almost immediate stop in Traveler's Rest, it's because none of us have eaten in 13 hours. Sure, we maintain a lot of disdain for McDonald's, but that's not going to stop us from getting a couple Egg McMuffins to fuel us through the mountain drive. Sure, you hang back. I'll pretend I don't notice you. It's too peaceful to care anyway. The sun isn't going to come up for an hour or so, the kid is watching his DVD player, the dog is sedated, and the wife is knocked out on some sort of therapeutic pillow. Me, I'm listening to XM-12 X-Country. I'm not unconvinced that this alone isn't the reason you're following me in the first place.

You, like me, are probably happy we left so early in the morning. It means we're going to miss rush hour in Asheville. Sure, it doesn't seem like it would be a big deal, but the drive on I-26 into the Southeast's coolest city can be a real bear in the mornings. Zipping through there at 7am means we're going to be outside of Knoxville by 8:30. It also means we're going to watch the sunrise in our rearview mirrors. If you struggle with believing in a higher power, as most people do, your first stop should be a sunrise in Appalachia. It's not going to make you believe in God, but it's going to make you wish you did. Oh, yeah. The God issue. That might be the reason you're following me.

I feel fairly confident in my driving as I cross the Tennessee line, but less so after I absolutely demolish a fearless squirrel. Sure, it was just a hapless rodent, but seeing it flatten and spin as it went from the front of my car to the back was a little odd. Being forced to look back, though, I noticed your Crown Vic was gone. A black SUV fell in behind me. Black SUV? Are you kidding me? Are you just trying to be cliche? Should I be looking up for the black helicopters, too? Listen, I'm driving a lot more today. Wouldn't it be easier just to track my cell phone and then fly to meet me? It's not like I'm going to do anything that could threaten democracy, the church, or Haliburton in the next 600 miles. This whole, "Make me feel like Henry Hill with the gravy on the stove and a noseful of blow" bit may be fun for you, but it's a little much for me.

I need gas. And a soda. Halfway between Knoxville and Music City, I pull the family mover into a place call the Bean Pot. At the counter, the lady tells me to have a "super Thursday and a great winter day." I had barely noticed that summer had somehow turned to fall in the last 24 hours. Back on the road, I think I've figured out the federale tail. There are four laptops in this vehicle and explaining all of them to the authorities might be difficult. I remember when the polygamist guru from Salt Lake finally got nabbed, the federales made a big deal out of the fact he had way too many laptops with him. Well, so do I. And that's probably why you're following me. Does it worry you that I've now moved to the passenger seat and have achieved Internet access and have a power source juicing this machine? Yeah, it probably does.

Behind a cattle truck, the wife expresses a little concern for the cows.

"I hope they shoot them up before the put them in there. It's gotta be a little disconcerting," she says.

"I'm sure they get used to it," I say.

"Well, I doubt they ride the trailer more than once," the wife says ominously.

And with that, we're in Music City.

(10:43am CT) -- I am opposed to parkways, loops, bypasses, and the like. However, in the interest of saving time on what is already going to be a long drive, I have chosen to follow a piece of my dad's advice and hopped on Briley Parkway. It looks brand new and, at least in the first couple of miles, is making Nashville look like every other city I've seen.

"Hey, look," my wife says with no small amount of bemusement, "Bass Pro."

Back when I was a kid in ~~Skokie, Illinois~~ Springfield, Missouri, Bass Pro was just a local place with taxidermied bears and a big fish tank (not to mention a lot of effin' boats). Now, you can't go to a major Southern city without seeing a Bass Pro outlet.

This is why I'm opposed to parkways. I just missed seeing Nashville in favor of saving some time. In the long run, I'm sure I'll have the chance again (like, five days from now), but it's this kind of progress that makes America boring. The fact that I'm writing this from said Parkway is probably the reason I can't see you following me anymore. Federale rules, I suspect, mandate covert tailing when dealing with a guy who bad mouths capital P Progress.

To offset the potential Gitmo offense, I make a Monkees joke as we take the exit for Clarksville.

11:19am CT--Now in the Middle of Nowhere, TN, you might think I'd be happy, what with my Luddite tendencies and general disdain for suburban sprawl. However, it's a bit boring. The lack of anything to look at (including your agents--where are They?) have left me to write and send a report for work, send some money I owe someone, and check up on the news. I'm doing all of this from a laptop at 75mph on I-24. While the kid watches "Cars" on the built-in DVD screen. While the wife listens to her iPod on a FM modulating device (Charlie Robison' "Barlight") and the dog sleeps in the backseat.

See, it's not progress that bothers me, Mr. Man. It's your means to this end. Yes, I want economic success. Yes, I want rapidly-advancing technology. Is the current state of America what I have to pay for my little toys and convenience? If so, I'll give it back. Pull me over right now, confiscate my four laptops, my Blackberry, and all of our Pixar DVDs. Leave me with the acoustic guitar in the back and enough gas to get home and we'll be fine.

This technology isn't perfect. Mapquest.com did its best to send me 70 miles out of my way in an effort to keep me off a country road for 20 minutes. Even good progress ain't perfect. Now, when I'm doing the Pee-Pee Dance, I'd kill for...well, I guess since we're doing this little "You follow me and I pretend it doesn't bother me" thing, I shouldn't be talking about what I'd kill for.

12:02pm CT--Very clever, Mr. Federale. Old ladies? I never would've guessed you'd employ some post-retirement chicas to keep tabs on me. Fast food and bathroom stop and I'm barely out of my car when an old lady pops from her vehicle and says, "Do you know how to work this?" I think she called it a grommet. Either I mis-heard her or she mispronounced the name of her GPS navigation device.

"I'm sorry, ma'am" I said, giving her the "I know you're a G-Lady" look. "Our car doesn't have one of those."

The lady looked at my laptop and the obviously working Internet service.

"Okay, then," she said. I get the sense that she has slipped a bug in my car and I vow not to say much until I can sweep it at our next stop.

It makes me feel no better when my wife suggests a few miles down the road that we pull off at Ft. Campbell to protest the war.

"Probably not a good idea," I said, checking in the rearview for the ladies

"Peaceful protest," she said. "Throw some limp french fries at the gate?"

I didn't answer. The wife belched loudly, and then said to herself, "That was hot."

As if to answer her, two helicopters appeared on the horizon, obviously from Ft. Campbell. They're desert camouflaged and have double rotors As I struggled to remember the name of helicopters with double rotors, the dog barked. It was the first angry noise she'd made since we left G-Vegas.

"Helicopters are probably wigging her out," the wife said.

"I can't hear them," I said, thinking and I'm obviously a little sensitive today.

"Yeah, but you don't have dog ears," the wife said. Again, it was logic with which I couldn't argue.

I tried to wrench my son's attention from Toy Story 2. My sudden screams of, "D! Helicopters! Helicopters! Helicopters!" probably sounded worse to the surveillance team than the war protest, limp french fries or not.

12:46pm CT--"I will not be picking up anyone along this stretch of road," the wife said out of nowhere.

We had just passed the Lake Barkley Classic Car Museum aong I-24. It was the first structure I'd seen in miles that hadn't been a rusted or rotten barn. A sign promised Elizabethtown in two miles. As I wondered if the town had anything to do with the movie I didn't see (really, it can't be...who would make a movie about Western, Kentucky?), I wondered why the wife was spontaneously refusing to pick up hitchhikers.

"Prison nearby?" I asked.

"Yep," she said.

By now, we've just about finished our time in Kentucky. As we cross into Marshall County over the Tennessee River, the wife's iPod plays "Livin' on a Prayer" (not my fault--driver gets to pick the music) and the wife mumbles, "I hope this isn't among the 70% of sub-standard bridges in America."

I'm neither killed by the bridge or Bon Jovi. When the wife utters out of nowhere, "My ass is starting to hurt. I have restless leg syndrome!" I know it's about time for me to take over the wheel again. I've lost sight of the federales, if they were ever there at all. I feel better about the idea of driving. Plus, we'll be back to X-Country on XM radio. That's worth it right there. Here in a bit, we're going to cross into southern Missouri. Provided that part of the world has cell towers, I'm going to turn this over to the wife. She or may not begin it with the line she just mutterered too me while pointing at a 4x4 truck driver.

Check in over here in an hour or so.

Wednesday Mental Massage?

2007-09-12T08:05:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. The Mental Massage is supposed to happen on Fridays. I mean, who goes for a mental rubdown on Wednesday? Well, as I mentioned before, this week and the next few are going to be a little odd and more than a little busy for me. At the time I should be mentally massaging on Friday, I'm likely going to be somewhere on I-44. So, just in case I can't make it back to the blogging machine, here's a quickie.

Devon Epps--I really expected to wake up this morning and see a lengthy piece in the Greenville News about Devon Epps. Today marks the one-month mark since the seven-year-old Greenville County boy was asphyxiated. While his mother, Amanda Smith, maintains a knife-wielding maniac sprang from the shadows, forced her from her car, and smothered her son with a pillow, there have been no arrests and no suspects publicly identified. Of course, the one-month mark is rather arbitrary, and in the investigative process means absolutely nothing. However, I think it does serve as a reminder to everybody that this case is still open.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

Devon Epps: Waiting

Devon Epps: Pictures

September 11th--Also missing, I felt, from this week's news at large was much news coverage of the sixth anniversary. Again, anniversaries are little more than a date. However, every time the date 9/11 comes up, I can't help but think that September 11th should receive some sort of recognition. There is no date in my life that holds greater significance and I think that's even more true for many, many more people. Am I wrong to think there should be some nationally recognized day on 9/11? I hesitate to call it a holiday, because it is not a day of celebration. However, if we're going to take a day off to recognize our Presidents, Columbus, and the day or day declared its independence, we might consider federally marking the day the America changed forever.

Truckin'--I simply don't promote my buddy Pauly's literary 'zine here enough. He's been running this thing for what seems like forever and has been kind enough to ask me to write for him. I should be promoting it every month, and not just the months he publishes something I wrote. But, since he published something I wrote...well, here's this month's Truckin' (my piece is a typo-ridden and comma-splicey rumination on why airports sell condoms in their bathrooms).

1. Monk's Siberian Dream by Paul McGuire
Brain dead. Deep into the sixth day of a foggy bender, I had forgotten the day of the week. Frisatursunday? I’d successfully lost time. The demoralizing result was that my conversational skills had dwindled down to a few muttering sentences... More

2. The Rubber-less Traveler by Brad "Otis" Willis
Breathless, confused, and sick to my stomach, I arrived at the British Airways gate and looked at the departure board. The flight was delayed for an hour. This is how I travel. I run to nowhere to fly to somewhere where I see little, do much, and find myself asking questions like, "Why do they sell condoms in airport bathrooms?" ... More

3. It's Not Like I'm Dishonest; Honest by May B. Yesno
I'm a private investigator. A damn good private investigator. I have a wife, a very expensive wife. She likes the good things in life. We're matched. I like good things too... More

4. Coming Home by B Kemp
Some of my former friends think that she is using me for my money. It doesn't seem right to them that a man my age would "throw it all away," leaving my career for a life of unpredictability and adventure. My old friends are naturally suspicious of younger women wanting to spend their money, rightfully so I suppose... More

5. The Confetti of Life by Sean A. Donahue
I read the love letters that my grandfather sent to his wife. I could see the tears in my grandmother's eyes as she read them, touched them for one last link to him. I shed many a tear today, ones that no one saw, because I left the room before they fell... More

Roadie--Not sure what, if any, excitement the pending road trip will offer. Anything of note, interesting or not, will appear in the Twitter and Buzznet feeds. Oh, and because I've turned into a guy who has to be connected 95% of the time, I have outfitted the gas guzzling family mover into a mobile office. I could conceivably travel 100% of the time and never be away from work.

Now, there, friends, is an idea.

Once a year and all the time

2007-09-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

It's a picture I've looked at once every year for the past five years. It means something different every year.

It still means the same thing as the first time I saw it, too.

The Last Sleep

2007-09-10T11:48:00.000-04:00

The New York Giants looked like they might be happier playing beer pong. The wife was out cold. The dog was out cold. With 1:57 left in the Sunday night game, I turned off the TV and fell immediately asleep. I had a dream that the editor of PokerNews had turned me into a sort of money mule and was giving me 5% of the cash I carried. I stuffed $200,000 in my shirt where my muscles should be and then woke up wondering why I bothered. I slept for nine hours and woke up feeling about as tired as I was the night before.

That, I think, was my last real chance to sleep between now and, eh, October. In the next few weeks, I will travel on a hella road trip with the entire family (including the dog), visit my parents, play guitar in a friend's wedding, and then stay up basically all night for 16 days straight. Sleep will likely come between 6am and noon every day. It's a stupid time of year and--with the exception of seeing all my friends at the wedding--I'm not looking forward to much of anything in the next three weeks.

That, I hope, will serve as some explanation for anything odd that may show up here in that time. I don't have anything odd planned, but based on the level of stress and fatigue I expect to experience, you never know what will happen.

Be warned.

Devon Epps: Picture the face behind the name

2007-09-07T11:46:00.000-04:00

While I've never put this little corner of the Internet out as a crime blog, news source, or vigilante-inspiring screed, I do have a background in comprehensiveness...sometimes to a fault.

It occurred to me, though, that one thing has been missing in my ruminations (some would say unhealthy interest) on the death of Devon Epps. While I've gone to great lengths to describe just about anything I know about the case, for whatever reason, I've left out the most important thing.

Most of you don't know what Devon Epps looks like.

I don't think it was a conscious decision at the time, so much as it didn't feel right. Now, it does. So, I spent a little time delving into the recesses of social networking sites and scraped a few pictures of Devon Epps off a MySpace memorial slide show. Despite being messed up by a truly horrible Flash program, the photos give you an idea of what the little boy looked like.

Next week will mark the one-month mark since Devon Epps died. The incoming information has slowed down a bit. The only thing of real importance I've heard in the past week involves the time immediately before and what was supposed to happen the day of Amanda Smith's car wreck. However, as that information comes third hand, it's best I don't start posting rumors.

Here's to a peaceful weekend for those who deserve it.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

Devon Epps: Waiting

Friday Mental Massage: From Fossett to Fiddy

2007-09-07T01:42:00.000-04:00

Some Fridays are a deep-tissue, slow massage that leaves you feeling relaxed. Today's is one of those choppy-choppy make-you-sound-like-a-outboard-motor massages. So, hold on and get ready to get beat up.

Find Fossett--It will not be a great tragedy of searchers don't find adventurer Steve Fossett, because he is a man who has set himself on a course that will eventually end in some sort of rather spectacular demise. If it wasn't going to be his balloon crashing into the Taj Mahal, it was going to be something similar to what we're seeing right now. Still, I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time hoping Fossett is found sunburned and dehydrated, but alive and well. Far too few people (me included) spend their time and money pushing the envelope. Hell, too few people even lick the envelope anymore. Find Fossett and find him alive.

Fiddy's Fibbing--Psssst. This whole 50-Cent vs. Kanye West album sales battle? Yeah, it's a marketing gimmick. I don't advocate pirating music, but if you're going to steal anything, make it these guys' albums. If you can't see them sitting in a hot tub full of money together, drinking Cristal, and laughing at all of the people who believe they really hate each other, then you deserve to spend the money on both albums. There's a reason the word "frenemy" has made it into the marketing industry lexicon and these guys are posing for the dictionary picture that will accompany the definition. Oh, and if you need another reason to look askance at the companies behind the faux fight, check out the date of the release. Says BET executive VP Stephen Hill, "We're gonna have fun on Sept. 11..."

Fred--Happened to catch Fred Thompson's Presidential announcement on The Tonight Show a couple nights ago. Fred beats the "I'm not your normal politician" drum pretty well. It's a bit easier for an actor to do. It's also the only thing a Republican can do to distinguish himself from the pack right now. Oh, wait, Fred. There is one more thing you can do. You could actually agree we're tied up in a real horror show in Iraq and not toe the party line like you're trying to turn on a foot fetishist.

Football--Okay, this is our country, but you don't have to keep reminding me of it. I put up with John Mellencamp's song eight times per game for every game I watched last season. I know we're opening the season in his Mellencamp's home state this week. Let's give it a rest after last night, okay? Even if I have to listen to Stevie Ray's "Pride and Joy" driven into the ground by the advertising industry, at least I won't be hoping to die in a horrible crash on the Dixie Highway back home. I don't even dislike Mellencamp, but to quote The Bottle Rockets, "I'll puke if that jukebox plays John Cougar one more time."

Happy ending--As the week ends, I'm looking back at a week where I accomplished a lot and still have six days before I have to get back on the road. So, instead of doing nothing (which we pretty much did for the Labor Day holiday weekend), we're having some good friends over tomorrow night for some drinks, a friendly card game, and maybe a few rounds of Guitar Hero 2. My kid was good this week, the dog didn't die, and the wife has not suggested life insurance once (a sure sign she's not yet completed her plans to make sure I die an early but unsuspicious death...oh, and if I should die an early death, this is meant as a joke and should not cast suspicion on my wife...unless of course you find her with a bloody knife, a pack of Copags, and a Gin score sheet that shows me winning in five hands).

Devon Epps: Waiting

2007-09-05T09:58:00.000-04:00

"Taking a different way?" my wife asked as I slipped onto a different back road and drove through an old residential area.

We'd been out for ice cream. On the way home, I pulled over the railroad tracks and past an area where victim Francisco Velazquez had been found dead a few weeks before. It was walking distance from our house and a cut-through we used a couple of years ago. It's a product of the no-zoning South, where rough industrial areas rub up against family neighborhoods like a stranger on the subway. Maybe because I am more conscious of crime than I used to be, I recognize the dividing lines better than when I was a kid. Now, for better or worse, I know which intersection marks the point where the wife and kid should turn around and head back the other way on their a pied trips around the neighborhood.

Though Velazquez had been killed so close to my home, my diversion had nothing to do with his death. Earlier in the day, I'd been doing some routine background checks on Amanda Smith and realized that she, too, lived fairly close to me and within walking distance of a friend's house. This was a week ago and there was a sense among all the people following this case that the case was about to move...to do something--anything--to comfort the countless people who have become obsessed with Devon Epps' death.

Smith's residence (apparently on the same property as her grandparents', though I have no independent verification of that) sits on a cut-through street a few miles outside of town It's a road that barely exists and seems only to function as a place to have built a few houses in the past. As I idled down the road, I caught sight of the tell-tale dark blue car. The Greenville County Sheriff's Office cruiser sat parked in a ditch. No one sat inside it. It became pretty clear that Smith's neighbor was a cop, off-duty and not parked across the street from the Smith residence for any reason other than he lived there.

Up Smith's gravel driveway, a work crew wandered around the half-burned portion of one of the home's on the property, presumably the same portion that at one time house Devon Epps' bedroom--the same place he almost died last Spring during a fire of somewhat suspicious origin. There was no sign of Amanda Smith.

I learned later there was a good reason for Smith to not be there. She'd been in a wreck that morning, having slammed her grandparents' Kia into the back of a truck in a neighboring--but not close--county. She survived. The car didn't. She picked up a couple of traffic charges, was released from the hospital, and again faded back into relative obscurity.

My visit to her house last week coincided with the last public mention of the Devon Epps case in the news. Since then, the Greenville News has published one letter to the editor about the case and nothing else. The local crime beat reporters have been forced to move on to the other big cases of the past couple weeks, chiefly the officer-involved shooting of female ex-con Sabrina Parker.

While the traditional news outlets have moved on, the Internet as not. I started noticing a lot of referrals here from the local paper's discussion forum and discovered a ton of people who were participating in 100-page-long forum discussions about the case. Everybody from friends of the Epps family to amateur sleuths were debating the case and its merits. With no real news coming out, my e-mail box started filling up with questions from readers about the case. Just this morning I got an eight-point e-mail detailing some good questions about the case--all things that we might eventually learn when the investigation is complete. There are people Googling all over the country about this case, despite the fact that no national news outlet has bothered to touch it.

No one has asked for my opinion, but I figure I should make an admission. I figured we would've seen an arrest by now. The evidence, or lack thereof, however, seems to be dictating a more patient approach to the case. As has been stated before, there is only one known witness to Epps' death. At this point, Amanda Smith is the only one who can offer information about what happened. Beyond what she says, investigators must rely on the evidence. There are only a couple of kinds of available evidence that will make this case cut-and-dry and I would assume those brands of evidence are unavailable. Hence, making an arrest in a case that will be largely built on circumstantial evidence is a lot more difficult. While I have no direct knowledge of what's happened up to this point, I would bet there have been more than a few discussions with people in Solicitor Bob Arial's office, if not Ariail himself. I've only once seen Ariail go to trial without the goods, and that case was the high-profile death of a Greenville County Deputy. Ariail doesn't talk much publicly, and when he does, it is for good reason. He's not a prosecutor that steps too far out on a limb without a big net of evidence below him. If the Epps case currently rests on no more than common sense and circumstantial evidence, Ariail almost certainly isn't ready to bite.

I hesitate to say it, but it almost feels like this is a case we might have to wait on for a while. There's a lot that the cops know that few other people do, and until the investigators have enough to convince Ariail they have a winnable case, we won't see an arrest. It's the frustrating thing about crime news. This is not CSI. This is not Law & Order. It could be many more weeks before anything else about this case is mentioned publicly. One thing I've found over the years, though, is that quiet can be a good thing. When the cops and prosecutors don't have to spend their time fording the P.R. river, they have time to get work done.

I hope that's what's happening now.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

It's Science

2007-09-04T13:01:00.000-04:00

I think back to the first time I saw my wife. I had this sense that she was it. She was smart, driven, and creative. It only helped that she walked around in clothes that showed off her hip bones and occasionally wore silver necklaces that set off her cleavage in such a way that I spent about nine months trying to make my shower colder (hint: dry ice and a box fan). Eventually, she acquiesced and we became mates for life.

God bless, Science. For, if it had not been for those hip bones and well-accented chest-parts, I probably would've ended up with some By George's bimbo who couldn't diagram a sentence in five seconds. At least, that's what Science tells me.

I gotta hand it to a group of researchers, the Associated Press, and CNN. They have convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt that men prefer hot women over chicks with hairy moles and a club foot. One of the hottest stories of the day on CNN is a rip-and-read from the AP which begins, "Science is confirming what most women know: When given the choice for a mate, men go for good looks."

I applaud the scientific effort. If we are to understand how far we have evolved from monkey-types who will hump a lemur if it winks at them right, we must understand what inside us drives us toward our future monkey-business mates. Sure, there are some people who would say that proof that we focus on good looks only goes to deny our consciousness and lumps us with the atavistic chronic masturbators. Thank goodness, Science is around.

I'll admit. I was curious. After all, if there is something in science that can explain to me why I like to look at hot women, I'd like to memorize it so I can recite it verbatim the next time my wife catches me lingering over the pages of Wicked Chops on a Friday night.

"Honey, pay no attention to Jessica Alba or how cold it must be in that room. It's Science. Just ask CNN."

So, verily, I clicked with all speed onto the headline "Men want hot women, study confirms" on CNN, expecting to find a well-documented, well-researched, irrefutable piece of scientific evidence to explain why I have my Netvibes Google Image Search permanently set to Scarlett Johansson. I was not disappointed. The second paragraph read:

Researchers led by Todd report in Tuesday's edition of Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences that their study found humans were similar to most other mammals, "following Darwin's principle of choosy females and competitive males, even if humans say something different."

I rose in a cheer to celebrate the Darwinian defense. Gotta love me some Darwin. Now, I said to myself, just show me the science!

I am no scientist. My education on the scientific method comes from a real bastard named Richard Summers ("Otis, you are a failure and won't achieve anything.") and a few tired teaching assistants at the University of Missouri. And, to be fair, I wasn't listening very hard. However, somewhere in my learning I recall something about control groups, data collection, and representative samples. Which is why, dear friends, I was a little put off by the data points for the assertion that men like hot women.

The study that has made it into a scientific journal, the Associated Press, and CNN consisted of the following: 26 men and 20 women.

In Munich.

Germany.

Apparently, the white coats put a group of men and women ranging in age from the nubile 26-year-olds to the crotchety 40-year-olds into a room and watched them speed date for three to seven minutes at a time.

In Munich.

Germany.

And thus was born the confirmation that men prefer hot women. Or, at least, that 26 men in one European country prefer hot women when they only get to talk to them for five minutes.

I conducted a couple of similar studies recently and found that men like to gamble (study based on survey taken from 30 men at underground card room), women prefer wine to beer (based on survey taken from two women at a recent BBQ), and all South Carolina women look good in bikinis (based on looking out my window at a neighbor doing yard work several years ago). Not content to focus my study on stateside phenomena, I also branched out to Monte Carlo (all people in Monte Carlo are arrogant) and Austria (all the water in Austria smells like rotten eggs). Under the scientific principles outlined by the above-mentioned researchers, it doesn't matter much that my study was based on four bartenders in Monte Carlo and one small river in Baden, Austria.

There is probably some staff writer at the Tonight Show currently sitting in his office and coming up with lines for Leno like "A study out of Germany confirms that men prefer good looking women. (Pregnant pause to allow audience to formulate their own feeble punchline) Well, duh! Kevin, were you part of this study?"

That's what this kind of news is all about. It's a way to keep junk scientists in good grant money, keep the news stations in fluffy kicker pieces, and keep the late night comedians flush with throwaway jokes to fill 20 seconds of a monologue. Beyond that, it's not going to help me explain to my wife why I don't take off my sunglasses when we go to the pool and why I almost rolled the family car over the other day when driving by Bob Jones University (you wanna talk about hot women...). No, my wife will say, "Twenty-six German men prefer hot women and this is how you expect me to accept the $600 pay-per-view bill?"

No, my wife is smarter that that. And that is why I think she's the hottest chick outside of Munich.

Friday Mental Massage: No key to the gnocchi

2007-08-31T13:41:00.000-04:00

It's a guilty little pleasure, I suppose, my repeated viewing of the movie "Days of Thunder." It's the type of thing I'd never mention in front of my more enlightened friends, but when the NASCAR flick comes on TV, I don't turn it off. When Robert Duval jokes, "We're eating ice cream," I laugh. When he lumbers off into an old man's run at the end of the movie, saying, "I'll race your ass," I can't help but think, "Damn, right!" Like riding mopeds or enjoying the song "Lucas with the Lid Off," we all have things we do that we wouldn't want our friends seeing.

That, I hope, serves as some explanation for what ran through my mind last night as I stood in the kitchen with my hands buried in a giant bowl full of dough. Everything in my amateur culinary mind screamed, "This is going to be a disaster. Abort! Abort, you arrogant son of a bitch!"

But, on a more subconscious level, I heard the voice of Tom Cruise as Cole Trickle. It said, "There's nothing I can't do with a race car."

I didn't consider the Dianetics involved or whether I was under the influence of a psychiatrist at the time. Instead, I thought to myself, "There's nothing I can't do in the kitchen."

In reality, I know this to be untrue. It's not been six months since I made an uneducated and overconfident foray into the world of Thai food. My noodles ended up looking like something that came from a monkey's skull. A couple of years ago, I tried to experiment with a chile pepper and incorporate it into fairly simple Mexican dish. We ended up ordering a pizza.

Still, for a guy who is so afraid of failure, I have a bit of hubris when it comes to things involving pots and pans. I received an early education from my mom and grandma, two women who I still consider to be the best homestyle cooks I've ever known. Since then, I have spent countless hours reading, practicing, experimenting, and believing that, indeed, "There's nothing I can't do in the kitchen."

I know people who cook better than I do. I don't think I'm the best by any means. For instance, when we invited my friend Shep on an annual camping and music festival trip we take, I was only looking forward to his company. He showed up and built a mobile kitchen. He ended up cooking two meals a day for 20 people, all of whom raved--after the food was gone and there was nothing left to shove in their mouths. No, I am not the best, but cooking is something at which I am competent. I am not afraid to cook for people. In fact, I enjoy it.

That's how I ended up covered in flour and using a particular twelve letter phrase indicating Oedipal lust.

Some time within the last year, I developed a fascination with gnocchi. For those who don't know, gnocchi are small Italian dumplings. They're made with potatoes, wheat flour, or bread crumbs. The recipes for gnocchi are as varied as you could ever want. I chose to go with the potato variety.

There's nothing I can't do with a potato.

If there had been a camera on me and a camera on my food, they would've shown two different things. Over the course of an hour, the bowl went from filled with boiled potatoes to full of the most perfect looking dough you could ever want. The dough formed into balls. It morphed into perfectly sized snakes and then into small, fork-pressed dumplings which eventually found their way into a boiling pot of water.

During that same time, the camera on me would've been something that would show up on You Tube...a sweating, cursing, flour-covered thirty-something man shoving raw dough into his mouth and shaking his fist at an unseen culinary deity. I think I knew halfway through the process that I was going to fail. However, I couldn't admit it to myself. There's nothing I can't do with a boiling pot of water.

Duval's character would've finally had it up to his trucker hat with me. As I constructed my sauce, sauteed shallots and garlic, and tossed it all with with some shrimp, I could almost hear the disembodied voice of Harry Hogge saying, "I can't talk to that son of a bitch. I really can't."

I looked at the clock. The dinner hour had passed. Hell, the dessert hour had passed. My kid was in bed, the dog was sleeping, and the wife was starting to look ill. I strained the gnocchi from their watery grave and popped one in my mouth.

I muttered that twelve letter phrase and forced myself to swallow the lump. Something was wrong.

I grabbed another dumpling and swirled it in some Extra Virgin and herbs. I can't remember what bad word I used then, because I was too busy forking a third dumpling and dunking it in a pot of Mornay sauce. It was like the moment Cole Trickle just couldn't take it anymore, jammed down on the clutch, and blew his engine. I couldn't decide if I hated myself more for blowing the gnocchi or spending my time making a Mornay. What in the hell was I thinking? Mornay with a dumpling? I might as well have fed my wife Elmer's Glue Soup with a giant matzo ball.

In any amateur cook's life, there is a visible moment of concession that usually begins with a resigned sigh and ends with the sound of a whirring garbage disposal. In between, for me, was a trip to the pantry where I pulled out a half-full box of Spaghetti Rigati and threw it at the boiling pot of water. I can't even remember how I plated the food. I only remember my wife saying, "This is good," and me wanting to ask her how often she lies to my face. I was afraid to go to bed with her for fear of being lied to there as well. An hour or so later, my plate was sitting--still full--on the counter. My wife's was empty in the sink. Her lies, apparently, extend to the ability to hold down my culinary missteps.

"Days of Thunder" ends with Trickle in victory lane. My day ended in a two pound lump at my curb. The trash man had a little extra weight to carry this morning. Me? I carry the burden of knowing that there are things I can't do in the kitchen, and apparently making gnocchi is one of them.

RER Devon Epps coverage makes it to print

2007-08-30T11:14:00.000-04:00

I awoke this morning to find that the local alternative weekly, The Beat, has decided to reprise some of the Devon Epps coverage from the ethereal pages of this blog. The editor of the paper and I actually go back many years and have covered many of the same stories. I get the sense he's as conflicted about this particular case as I am.

If you'd like to take a look at the online version, you can find it here:

SHANNON’S LAW: Yet Another American Tragedy

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?