Unappreciative 'Companion'

I like Garrison Keillor, but it's obvious the guy just doesn't appreciate nice gifts.

This just in ...

ST. PAUL, Minn. (AP) — Garrison Keillor, host of public radio’s ‘‘A Prairie Home Companion,’’ has dropped a restraining order he had obtained against a fan after she agreed not to contact him again.

Keillor had accused Andrea Campbell, 43, of Hawkinsville, Ga., of stalking him by making unwanted visits and sending him bizarre gifts, including a petrified alligator’s foot, dead beetles and poems.

A hearing on Campbell’s appeal of the restraining order was canceled. It had been set for Monday.

‘‘The parties mutually agreed to dismiss based on Ms. Campbell’s commitment not to have further contact with Mr. Keillor,’’ said his attorney, Mary Stumo.

‘‘I guess he felt he couldn’t defend what he had put in the affidavit, and I guess he realized it was all just a big misunderstanding,’’ Campbell told the St. Paul Pioneer Press for a story to be published Tuesday.

Campbell said she ‘‘held a space of love and forgiveness and just let the universe work its magic, and I think his conscience got to him.’’

While she said she has no intention of contacting Keillor again, she told the newspaper she is working on a book about how she believes she and Keillor influenced each other’s creative processes.

Great news!

A great headline from today's Washington Post ...

Asteroid to Miss Earth Tonight

Read the story by clicking here.

Apparently this 300-yard asteroid is going to miss us by 334,000 miles. That means I can go back to writing my Sunday column now. It'll be about Super Bowl Sunday. I'm rooting for the Giants. I like the way the Patriots play, but I think Belichick is a jerk. And I can't root for a jerk. And while I like Tom Brady, he's already got three Super Bowl rings and one of the world's most beautiful women. Time for the man to share the wealth.

By the way, I can't write about asteroids without thinking of the classic exchange from "National Lampoon's Vacation."

Rusty: Hey, ya' got Pac Man?

Cousin Dale: No.

Rusty: Ya' got Space Invaders?

Cousin Dale: Nope.

Rusty: Ya' got Asteroids?

Cousin Dale: Naw, but my dad does. Can't even sit on the toilet some days.

Vacation, All I Never Wanted ...

My first vacation of the year was actually a rollover week that I couldn't manage to fit into 2007. We went to Gatlinburg, which I was less than thrilled about beforehand and hated much more when I got there. The town had no charm, was too crowded, with too much traffic, too many tourist traps and too many people offering you free this and that to get you to hear time-share sales pitches. If you took everything you don't like about Panama City and chilled it down to 20 degrees, you've got Gatlinburg.

Oh, and pancakes are a big deal up there. One pancake house much have had 150 people lined up outside in 12-degree temperatures one morning just waiting on tables to clear. It would have taken them hours to get their pancakes. We're talking about pancakes. It's just food people.

The only reason we went was because we thought Saylor would have a chance to see snow. He saw snow flurries that Saturday. Of course, that same day it snowed over 2 inches at Pine Mountain, just a half-hour from our house.

And we got one last chance to get ripped off in Gatlinburg as we got hold of some bad gasoline at a station before leaving town. Fortunately, that watered-down gas lasted all the way through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and all the way home. Watered-down gas gets good mileage apparently, despite the funny noises.

Fortunately, I was able to continue my vacation writing at a cabin back home. I also got to eat at the world's greatest restaurant, Troy's Snack Shack, and the Mennonite restaurant outside Montezuma. And when I wasn't eating, I was writing. So, the part of the vacation in Georgia was OK. I have no urge to travel north of LaGrange ever again. Or anywhere cold.

I can't say that it was the most relaxing vacation ever. But Saylor thinks Gatlinburg with its tourist traps and many ways to spend money is the next best thing to Heaven. Here he is in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which was beautiful.

Old school

This week's column will be about old school buildings. I realized what a shame it is that they tore down the old Macon County Elementary School in 1999. It was built in 1921. I'm sure they had their reasons, but still it's a shame. My son goes to a school for the gifted on Tuesdays that was built in 1930. It reminds me a lot of that old building back home. I also hate that the last house I lived in back home (built around 1900) is falling down. Thank goodness for the historic preservation folks around here.

Jenny, I got your number ...

It's been over 25 years since Tommy Tutone got Jenny's number off the wall and into my head. Now, I've got pin numbers at the bank, a dozen personal Internet passwords, 20 more passwords at work, and every year when it's time to renew my health insurance, I have to request my forgotten password. Yet, I'll never forget 867-5309, as I discovered when I heard that song for the first time in years this morning.

Pharewell, Phil

My good friend and co-worker Philip Wartena is packing it up and heading back to California. Something to do with a chick, I understand. Phil's the most talented photographer with whom I've had the pleasure of working. We've also had a good time and a few adventures outside of work. He shares my philosophy that life ought to be fun and that 99.9 percent of people in the world are waaaaay too uptight. Happy trails, buddy.

Check out Phil's unbelievable work at his blog, The Visual Burn.

Geography lesson

Today at breakfast, my 7-year-old son Saylor was asking about which states I've been to:

"Ever been to Washington?"
"Yes."

"Maine?"
"No."

"Vermont?"
"No."

"New Hamster?"

The Onion & Landover Baptist

For those of you who still grasp the concept of sarcasm, you need to visit the online sites of The Onion and Landover Baptist Church ("Unsaved unwelcome"), two of my favorite online sites. The Onion report on alleviating traffic congestion is awesome. Not all of this stuff is appropriate for kids, but the traffic congestion report definitely is.

I didn't know my son was THIS smart

I have a few books by Dr. Wayne Dyer, who's sort of a new age, let's all be happy spiritualist. One is called "Wisdom of the Ages" and has writings and sayings from some of the all-time great thinkers and philosophers including Buddha, Jesus, Omar Khayyam, Donne, Milton, Goethe, Gandhi, Thoreau and Emerson to name a few. Add to this great list my son, Saylor. I opened the book again today and on the title page it reads, of course, "Wisdom of the Ages." Under that, in ball-point pen ink, it reads, "By SAYLOR."

A shout out

Thanks to my friends Jamie and Mary Ellen Peaster (the dancer in the green sweater here) for inviting us to their New Year's Eve throwdown back home in Oglethorpe. They live about 100 feet from the haunted house in which I last lived in Oglethorpe. We had a blast!

Redneck street cred

You know how rappers actually add to their street cred by getting arrested? I added to mine last weekend by partying in an abandoned chicken house back home in Macon County with a few hundred folks who were there to celebrate Patrick Petroski's birthday and hear local band and friends Gravel Road. I'll write a little about the experience in this Sunday's column. Gravel Road is pictured here performing Saturday night. Jason McKinney, pictured at center, is an old friend and the lead singer. Scotty Layfield, a kid I've known for a long time and covered as a sports writer, is the drummer. I called the baseball coach at Valdosta State years ago and encouraged him to give Scotty a shot. Scotty excelled and made it all the way to AAA in the Cardinals organization before arm problems cut his promising career short. I think their music is more about having fun than becoming superstars, but that's a good thing.

OK, I'm back

I've been admonished by a few folks for sort of abandoning my blog lately, so I resolve to pay more attention to it in 2008. It is 2008 right? Expect more short notes and a little more personal stuff and very little of my writing craft here. Between my Friday night TV commentaries on WLTZ (click the link to see some) and my Sunday columns in the Ledger-Enquirer, my creativity's tapped out. Some might argue my creativity was tapped out long before. But there will be a lot more blogging here now, I promise. Of course, I also promised to give up caffeine in the new years (and a dozen previous new years), so take that for what it's worth.

Football and more football

For more than a decade, I've been meeting friends from back home for the Georgia High School Association football semifinals at the Georgia Dome in Atlanta. Here are some scenes from 2007:

From left: Thad Green, David Green, me and Danny Blizzard

The cavernous Georgia Dome dwarfs the crowds for the first game: Class A Wilcox County's win over Athens Academy.

Carver-Columbus and Chamblee meet on the field after Carver's amazing 26-24 come-from-behind win in Class AAA on Friday. Carver scored three touchdowns in the last six minutes to rally from a 24-6 deficit. One of the best finishes I've seen in the Dome.

Worst thing about 2 full days of football? The food, such as Thad's Box-O-Cholesterol that cost him roughly $100 and future heart problems. I like to call this photo "Cause & effect."

This man robbed me by charging more than $4 for a fountain drink, and he seemed proud of it.

Not to reinforce any racial stereotypes or anything, but I definitely enjoy watching predominantly black high school and college marching bands. They're just more fun. Carver and Tucker rocked the Dome.

Northside-Warner Robins gets ready to charge the field en route to its 29th straight win. Right after Carver's thrilling comeback, the Eagles rallied from a 28-7 halftime deficit to earn a third straight trip to the Class AAAA title game. Four of my cousins graduated from there, so I've got to root for them. I'm convinced they're the best team in any of the state's classifications.

David and Thad were happy that I made sure the entire fourth floor of our hotel was vacant except for us. We stayed at this same hotel three years ago, and a "party girl" named Peaches had a big ol' party in the next room, keeping us awake all night. David and I spent the next day calling and asking for Peaches' room to make sure she didn't get a good morning and afternoon of sleep. These boys are just over a year apart in age and were my next-door-neighbors for much of my childhood. We played backyard football and basketball roughly 300 days a year way back when.

I told these security guards to look mean after they searched my bags.

Unfortunately, they had a hard time keeping their "mean" faces.

I didn't quite make it through all 10 games. I drove back Saturday night and watched Lowndes (I had the Lowndes beat as a sports writer in Valdosta) blank Camden County for their third trip to the Class AAAAA title game in four years. I traded my 40-and-over friends for a lighter one from the under-8 crowd and a more comfortable seat.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Here comes Bubba Claus

Note: This column was orginally published in 1998. There are now a gazillion plagiarized version on the Internet. I didn't think it was that great, but I reckon a lot of folks disagreed.

-----------------------------------------

An open letter to the citizens of the Bi-City area from Santa Claus:

Dear ya'll:

I regret to inform you that, effective immediately, I will no longer be able to serve your area on Christmas Eve. Due to recent changes in my union contract renegotiated by North American Fairies and Elves Local 209, I now serve only certain areas of northern Wisconsin and west Michigan. I also get longer breaks for milk and cookies.

However, I'm certain that your children will be in good hands with my replacement, my third cousin from the South Pole, Bubba Claus. He shares my goal of delivering toys to all the good boys and girls, but there are a few differences between us, such as:

• There is no danger of a Grinch stealing your presents from Bubba Claus, who has a gun rack in his sleigh and a bumper sticker that reads: "These toys insured by Smith and Wesson."

• Instead of milk and cookies, Bubba Claus prefers that children leave an RC and pork skins on the fireplace. And Bubba doesn't smoke a pipe. He does dip a little snuff, though, so please have a spit can handy.

• Bubba Claus' sleigh is pulled by floppy-eared, flyin' coon dogs instead of reindeer. I loaned him my reindeer one time, and Rudolph's head now rests over Bubba's fireplace.

• You won't hear "On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen ..." when Bubba Claus arrives. Instead, you'll hear, "On Earnhardt, on Wallace, on Martin and Labonte. On Rudd, on Jarrett, on Elliott and Petty."

• "Ho, ho, ho!" has been replaced by "Yeehaw!" And you also are likely to hear Bubba's elves respond, "I heard that!"

• As required by Southern highway laws, Bubba Claus' sleigh does have a decal depicting "Calvin and Hobbes" comic strip character Calvin relieving himself ... but not on a Ford or Chevy logo. His decal shows Calvin going wee wee on the Tooth Fairy.

• The usual Christmas movie classics such as "Miracle on 34th Street" and "Ernest Saves Christmas" will not be shown in your area. Instead, you'll see some lesser-known movies about Bubba Claus made in the late 1970s. Many feature Burt Reynolds as Bubba Claus, Jackie Gleason as a Grinch who says "You scumbum!" a lot and dozens of state patrol cars crashing into each other.

• Bubba Claus doesn't wear a belt. I'd turn the other way when he bends over to put presents under the tree.

• Lovely Christmas songs have been sung about me, including Elvis' "Here Comes Santa Claus" and Madonna's remake of "Santa Baby." Until this year, songs about Bubba Claus have been played only on AM radio stations in Mississippi. They include such classics as Mark Chesnutt's "Bubba Claus Shot the Jukebox," David Allan Coe's "Willie, Waylon, Bubba Claus and Me," and Hank Williams Jr.'s "If You Don't Like Bubba Claus, You Can Kiss My Icicle."

Go fetch, Hog!

After Thanksgiving dinner at my family's cabin in Macon County, Ga., several cousins and I went for a stroll down a dirt road to check out a place of two from our childhoods and see how far they'd fallen in or if they were even there anymore.

My wife shows up a little while to make sure we haven't fallen through the floor of some old house or something (because accidents follow me) and says, "Did y'all see that giant hog in that yard back there?" We didn't, but vowed to check it out.

Now, it's not unusual to see a hog in a yard back home, provided it's penned up and gonna be breakfast someday. But this wasn't that kind of hog. It was giant. I mean we're talking Hogzilla Jr. here. It looked like a wild boar, but was just chilling in front of the house. It was so big that I didn't think it was real until it turned its massive head toward me. I've known wild boars to be pretty mean sometimes, but this one seemed awfully calm.

Upon returning to our cabin, I asked my Dad about it, and he said he'd seen it plenty of times. It's because it's the family's pet. "They said it's a family pet and asked me not to shoot it. They said he thinks he's a dog."

This definitely deserves a follow-up next time at the cabin. I'll try to get the story on the Hog Dog next time and report back.

Waaay-back Wednesday: 1621 revisited

As we prepare to welcome families into our home for a feast that will leave us thankful when they're finally gone until at least Christmas, this is the perfect time to revisit the day that started it all — the first Thanksgiving.

My ancestors came over on the Sunflower, which was a little party barge, complete with radio and beer cooler, that followed the Mayflower over to Plymouth Rock from the Old Country. At the top of our family tree is Cousin Eddie, who spent most of the voyage across the Atlantic jumping over waves left in the Mayflower's wake.

Cousin Eddie kept a journal that was handed down from generation to generation in my family and includes accounts of such historic events as the signing of the Mayflower Compact and the Indians' sale of Manhattan to the Dutch for just a few trinkets and Knicks season tickets. And, of course, it has the following account of the first Thanksgiving:

Hi. Cousin Eddie here. Me and the other folks around Plymouth had ourselves a big ol' meal last week. You see, Ebeneezer, Josiah and me scored big on our latest hunt. Killed a whole bunch of deer and wild turkey. Of course, if we hadn't killed off all that Wild Turkey, maybe Josiah wouldn't have fallen off the four-wheeler and broke his leg.

Anyway, we brought back all the dead animals, and the women folk — Sarah, Priscilla, Abigail and the gang — whipped up some side items, although Priscilla and Abigail got into it over the whole dressing or stuffing debate. "Getting ready for the Salem Bitch Trials a little early, ain't ya?" Abigail commented at one point.

We were gonna have a nice quiet dinner but then found out Jedediah invited the Indians over, too. He's been hanging out with the Indians a lot lately. I think he's having an identity crisis. Last month, he was running around with Old Mr. Samuel's slaves and asked us to start calling him "P. Doody."

Most of the Indians were pretty cool, but there's always that one you invite only because somebody's related to him and you'd feel guilty if you didn't. I didn't think Chief Full of Bull would ever get off that whole we-were-here-first, stop-calling-me-an-Indian kick.
But the food totally rocked, Pilgrim. Turkey, corn, potatoes and pumpkin pie. Of course, Prudence and her boyfriend, Crazy Jacob, got there late because they had to stop and buy a box of chicken fingers.

Anyway, we all went back for seconds and several of us had to kinda recline on the picnic table and undo those tacky Pilgrim belt buckles while we watched some Cowboys and Redskins throw this leather sack back and forth.

Meanwhile, the ladies cleaned all the dishes themselves and made plans to go shopping the next day, while the children played some popular games here in the settlement — such as marbles, leapfrog and Grand Theft Auto III.

When our dinner settled, Jedediah suggested we all go throw around a leather sack, too. However, the game ended far too soon as we realized that we were extremely white and British and the Indians all ran off when William lined up in the shotgun formation.

Hunting advice

I'm not much for hunting, but I have invented a wonderful new weapon for hunting deer. Check out my television commentary during Friday's 7 p.m. newscast on WLTZ Channel 38 to learn exactly how it works.

No. 1 in the Outdoors

Just wanted to make sure y'all knew this Friday has been declared "No. 1 in the Outdoors Day" in Georgia by Gov. Sonny Perdue, the same guy who thinks praying for rain is sound environmental policy. All males in Georgia are asked to do all their peeing outdoors on Friday to cut down on toilet flushing and water usage. The effort is expected to save Georgia 5 million gallons of water. Let's just hope it ain't cold.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Better than Wimbledon

You'd have to try pretty hard to be any geekier than I was 16 years ago.

I was all set to become a computer programmer as I mastered the ins and outs of my high-tech Commodore 64, which had 64 — yes, a whopping 64 — kilobytes of memory. I had quit baseball because I was convinced I had simply forgotten how to play. Turns out I was dang near blind and had to get glasses — as if I needed an accessory to go with my mom-styled bowl haircut.

But I wasn't a geek at heart. I was Casanova at heart. At least, I was in my dreams — though even in those dreams I somehow kept winding up late for algebra class in my underwear. Then, and only then, did the girls at school notice me. Then I'd wake up and be invisible to them once again.

So, at 14, I had pretty much decided that I would never, ever get a French kiss from a girl. Unless you count that one unexpected encounter with a female giraffe at the zoo.

And with baseball out of the picture, I had to choose another sport. Either that, or stay at home and subject myself to such horrors as mowing the grass and washing Dad's truck. I chose tennis. Why? Two words: tennis skirts. Of course, the high school coach told me I'd have to wear regular white shorts. Oh, well.

I went to a crash course in tennis, a summer camp at Florida State University. In June 1985, FSU's Cash Hall played host for a week to high school participants in baseball, football and basketball camps. All the camps mingled some around the courtyard pool, but players of each of the sports had to retreat to their unisex dorm floors at night — except the tennis players. Our camp was so small that the guys and girls shared a floor. And my life would never be the same.

We were all geeks, with the exception of one wild 15-year-old girl from Thomasville, Ga. As sweet goddess Fate would have it, we were paired in the mixed doubles tournament.

I don't remember exactly how it happened. It was about midnight, and we were sitting on the floor at the end of the dormitory hall. I'd been avoiding the inevitable all day long. I knew I'd have to kiss her at some point, and I knew I'd screw it up. It would be just like the giraffe experience, only she'd wind up throwing peanuts at me. Finally, she gave me a subtle come-on:
"Are you gonna kiss me or not? I'm getting sleepy!"

I knew it was now or never, or then or never since this is past tense. I lunged in, mouth open and tongue flying around like a retriever hanging his head out a car window. I was in panic mode. What if my tongue started going the wrong way? What if she caught me peeking? What if she thought, "Man, this is like kissing a retriever."

By the time the kiss ended, about 2 a.m. in the same spot at the end of the hall as our counselor, a 21-year-old player on the college tennis team, stepped over us as if we were a ripple in the carpet, my mind was at ease. Of course, my tongue was tired.

We finished second in the mixed doubles tournament, by the way. We each got awards. But as far as I was concerned, it wasn't for second place; it was for first base.

TV stars

The Ledger-Enquirer and WLTZ officially launched their joint-effort newscast this week. They air at 6 p.m., 7 p.m. and an 11-minute version at 11 p.m. on Channel 38. Look for commentaries during the 7 p.m. show from my colleagues Dusty Nix on Tuesdays, Tim Chitwood on Wednesdays, nightlife diva Sonya Sorich on Thursdays, and look for my commentary on Fridays.

This, of course, means that I'll have to start shaving before taping my commentaries and I'll look 12 years old again. Although, I won the battle to keep me from having to wear a tie on the air.

Vote today

Don't forget there's an election in Columbus today. Turnout is supposed to be light with about .0001 percent of the voters (some guy named Earl) in Muscogee County expected to cast ballots. That's because the only item on the ballot is the TAD. I don't know the TAD and don't know what he's running for, so I'm abstaining. But there's now way I can support a guy who puts a definite article before his name and puts his name in ALL CAPS.

TV puts Week in Review on hold

I'm putting my "Week in Review" on hold now that I've accepted an opportunity to do a commentary on WLTZ's 6 o'clock news every Friday. The Ledger-Enquirer and WLTZ have teamed up to present the newscast. Look for me every Friday. The scary part is that I must now shave my face instead of having my scraggly half-beard on TV. Yep, I've gone over to the dark side. I'll keep it light and I'll eventually loosen up in front of the camera. See ya on Fridays.

Waaay-back Wednesday: A picture worth saving

My wife ordered me to clean my room last night. "My room" is the spare bedroom where I keep my computer, books, old trophies, various sports memorabilia and "tacky" art such as the $2 print of dogs playing roulette.

I like my room just the way it is. I can find all my old papers amid the 10 gallons of trash covering my 1-gallon trash can. And there's a unique sense of order, mostly maintained by an array of spider webs.

I decided to shift the trash around a little to appease my wife and even made vacuum cleaner noises when she walked past the door.

Among the many items I discovered while climbing over the trash pile were really bad stories I wrote in college, photos of people I don't know but probably am related to and various woodland creatures.

Most of this junk found its way into a trash bag after all. Then I came across an item worth saving — my fifth-grade class photo.

I've seen only a handful of these boys and girls in the past decade. Most seem to have fallen off the face of the earth. Very few stayed home.

Of course, there's me, the class clown, sitting up front with my bowl haircut styled by Mom. I was also the kickball king, spelling bee champ and elementary school Valentino. I married every girl in the class at least twice in playground ceremonies. Gee, I hope those weren't official; I can't afford the alimony.

There's Paul on the left. The whole schoolyard circled us one day as we fought over a ponytailed cutie named Paula. Because we were friends, we never landed a punch. Dennis, the class tyrant, was so disappointed no blood was spilled that he told on us for fighting in the first place. Ten years later, Paul was a groomsman in my wedding. I don't know where Dennis is, but I bet the mafia or FBI does.

There are the teacher's pets — Darrell and Angela. I've seen Darrell once since high school. We played golf when he flew home on a break from his doctorate studies in Native American literature in New Mexico back in 1996. Angela is a well-paid geologist with a dog that goes to a pet psychiatrist. I hope I never get that rich and successful.

There's Stephen, the outcast no one played with, on the right. He went on to become a football star in high school. A couple of weeks before graduation, he and some buddies were goofing off in a hot rod when he lost control and crashed. He was paralyzed from the neck down. Last year, he decided he'd had enough of this world and rolled his wheelchair off a fishing dock at his college.

Even without the photo, I'll never forget Robin. With bright blue eyes, long blonde hair and a Texas accent, she's still the cutest 10-year-old girl I've ever seen. She was my first crush and my first heartbreak as she moved back to Texas before sixth grade began. I wonder where she's at. I wonder where they're all at.

I should clean my room more often.

Week in review

• President Bush approves a $285 million package for Mongolia, the latest country to receive U.S. aid in exchange for committing to democratic reforms. In a related story, Chris Johnson applies for a democratic aid package after letting family vote on whether to have fried chicken or hamburgers for dinner.
• The Dalai Lama is formally installed as a professor at Atlanta's Emory University. The exiled Tibetan Buddhist spiritual leader, whose face is recognized around the world, now is the bearer of a faculty ID card. However, in a surprise move, the school announces that the Dalai Lama will be teaching introductory volleyball and sports appreciation.
• Author and radio host Garrison Keillor gets a restraining order against a Hawkinsville, Ga., woman he claims has sent him explicit e-mails, telephone calls and disturbing gifts, including a petrified alligator foot and dead beetles. I like Garrison Keillor, but it's obvious the guy just don't appreciate nice gifts.
• Civilian deaths are down for the second straight month, meaning the surge is working ... or Iraq's running low on civilians.
• China launches its first lunar probe. However, moments after the Long March 3-A rocket soars into outer space, it is recalled when it is revealed it's a piece of junk like everything else made in China.
• Despite the recall, the lunar probe reaches the moon. In a phone call to Earth, the man in the moon notes that the probe is uncomfortable.
• The United States puts renewed pressure on Cuba to push away from communism ... while continuing to gladly hand its jobs and economic future to communist China. But that's completely different, right?
• America, the nation that has raised gluttony from sin to glory, sees competitive eater Joey Chesnutt set a new record by downing 103 Krystal burgers in eight minutes in the Krystal Square Off in Chattanooga. Chesnutt wins $10,000, but immediately invests $9,900 of it in toilet paper.
• The number of vacant homes for sale rises in the third quarter, according to the government. The Census Bureau report puts the number of vacant homes for sale at 2.07 million in the period, up about 2 percent from the second quarter, and 7 percent above year ago levels. Of that number, approximately 2.06 million are in Columbus, Ga.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Don't trust those cows

Last week I had business back home, which meant a long, lonely drive down two-lane roads through the countryside.

The sun was shining, and I decided to roll down the window and breathe some of that fresh country air shortly after I left Buena Vista on Highway 41. I rolled it up two seconds later ... in a hurry.

I had forgotten what we country folks mean by the term "fresh country air." There's no such thing. It's an inside joke we country folks play on city slickers. We enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of city folks when they come to the country and take a big whiff of "fresh country air," better known to us as cow poopee.

It was the first time this year I'd seen cows. Living in the big city of Columbus, you don't see many cows, front porches with swings or drivers who use turn signals. I miss all of them.

But I still think cows are up to something. Every time I passed a herd, they all looked up at me very suspiciously. I'm sure as soon as my car was out of sight, one of the cows would say, "All right, roll the nuclear missile back out from behind the haystack and let's get back to work."

Intelligence-wise, cows are the most underrated animals on the planet. Sure, you think that all they do is lie around all day, eat and pass gas — kinda like your typical married man. But when you look into a cow's eyes, you can tell it is deep in thought — totally unlike your typical married man.

When I look at cows, I always think they're talking about me. Or maybe I'm just paranoid because I carry a leather wallet.

"Hey, Betsy. Moo. See that redneck over there? Moo. I think he tipped me over once while I was sleeping. Moo."

Yes, I admit it. I used to go cow-tipping. We small-town folks didn't have racquetball and we were too poor to play golf at the country club, so for recreation we piled into a pickup, crawled through a barbed-wire fence and tipped over sleeping cows ... and prayed we weren't in a bull pen.

These small-town Saturday nights have led to the formation of such crazy groups as FACT (Friends Against Cow-Tipping). They even have an Internet site with a link to a cow-tipping alternative for animal lovers — online electronic cow-tipping. They even moo when you push them with your mouse.

Some of you city folks also may think cow-tipping is cruel, but they get their turn. Each year a bunch of bulls chase humans who loiter in the streets of some podunk town in Spain to a stadium where a guy in a funny hat and tights (called a matador) dances around as bulls chase him and Spanish folks in the stadium shout "Ole!" which in English means, "Hey you idiot in the funny hat, look out! There's a bull behind you!"

Now, that is cruel. Cow-tipping is harmless fun. The only cruel thing about cow-tipping is what happens to your clean sneakers. And you thought your mom got mad when you tracked mud across the living room carpet.

A little perspective

Many Monday mornings when I come to work, there's a voice mail waiting on me from one of my most loyal readers. He never leaves his name or phone number and has been calling me for a few years now, usually leaving his message around 5:30 a.m. on Sunday mornings. He reads my column on the National Federation for the Blind Web site ... well, it's read to him by the computer anyway. He's always got a compliment and usually has a little advice, too. This week, after I wrote a column about riding bicycles, he left a long voice mail. Here's an excerpt:

"As you know, I am blind, and one of the biggest disappointments of my life was when I wanted to buy me a $5 bike to play with in the backyard and my mother talked me out of it. I could have never learned to ride it, but I could ride it enough to enjoy it. And I've often wished she hadn't talked me out of it."

He advised me to get on that bike and ride it just as long as I can. The old man always puts things into perspective. Thanks, old-timer.

Week in review

• Under pressure from the FDA, the makers of Viagra, Levitra, Cialis and other ED drugs agree to label the possible side effect of sudden hearing loss. So, now, not only can men have sex whenever they want, but they don't have to talk afterward. The Man Club meets and unanimously votes these as the best drugs ever!
• Republican presidential hopefuls have their umpteenth debate with each trying to establish himself as the most conservative of the bunch. Mitt Romney wins the debate when he announces he doesn't even get naked to take a shower and anyone who does is a pervert.
• Solidifying his status as the king of white trash, Kid Rock is arrested after getting into a fight outside an Atlanta Waffle House in the wee hours of the morning.
• The World Bank announces the impact of recent turbulence in financial markets on developing countries has been limited ... due perhaps to the fact that the Third World is now worth an estimated 12 cents.
• A second-grader's drawing of a stick figure shooting a gun earns him a one-day school suspension.
  Kyle Walker, 7, was suspended last week for violating Dennis Township Primary School's zero-tolerance policy on guns, the boy's mother, Shirley McDevitt, told The Press of Atlantic City. Lest you think this was an another overreaction by our paranoid authority figures, it should be noted that the stick figure has a history of mental problems and has been arrested several times.
• "Harry Potter" author J.K. Rowling tells a group of fans that Albus Dumbledore, master wizard and Headmaster of Hogwarts, is gay. She makes the announcement after Dumbledore is arrested for soliciting sex in a men's bathroom at the Minneapolis airport.
• Sen. Larry Craig, R-Idaho, says he doesn't believe Dumbledore is gay, but says he's awfully cute and if he were the least bit gay, he'd go out with Dumbledore, Hogwarts and all.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Big bad bag boy

When the phone rings at my desk after 11 p.m., it's never good news.

The only people who know they can find me there at that hour are the newspaper's production department, various law enforcement agencies and my wife. I just hope it's not my wife.

"I need you to drop by the grocery store on your way home and pick up some milk, orange juice, toilet paper and various feminine hygiene products."

"Sorry," I say, "no can do."

I would print her response here, but in strict accordance with the Georgia Newspaper Decency Act of 1937, I'd better just print my side of the conversation.

"Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, that would hurt. A cheese grater, huh?"

Needless to say, I follow orders because I know who the man of our house is, and I don't want her to get mad.

No offense to our local establishments, but I hate going to the grocery store. Maybe it's because I have flashbacks to my days as a Food Transferral and Arrangement Engineer (bag boy) making $3.25 an hour. I often scream out with night terrors, still seeing Mrs. Jones chasing me around C-Mart in Oglethorpe, Ga., with a squashed loaf of Wonder Bread in her hand. The only tip she'd give me was the tip of her walking cane to the back of my head. You know what they say: "Hell hath no fury like a woman whose bread got mashed."

Most of these tragic bread-mashing incidents occurred on Fridays. I also seem to recall Mary Jane in Checkout Lane 2 wearing tight blue jeans every Friday. But I'm sure that bagging groceries behind her and putting Wonder Bread in the same bag as a 10-pound tub of lard was pure coincidence.

Though the parking lot of the store was filled with angry victims of my ruthless scheme to mash the world's bread, it was safer than the inside of the store. Remember that Tyrannosaurus rex from "Jurassic Park?" Compared to my boss, that T-Rex would be considered cute and cuddly.
I'm fairly certain that he didn't like me. I deciphered that from subtle, tiny hints he would drop in our conversations, such as, "Hey, kid, did I remember to tell you today that I don't like you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I must have forgotten to scratch that off my to-do list. Now cut the chatter and get back to work!"

I'm not sure why he didn't like me. Maybe it's because Slim Jims began mysteriously disappearing from the checkout aisles after I was hired. Again, pure coincidence — just like it's pure coincidence that Slim Jims were suddenly overstocked after I quit.

Though I worked there for just a few months, I developed the skills that serve as the foundation for my career today — such as knowing where the boss is at all times and how to respond when caught sleeping on the job.

"Chris, are you snoring?" my boss asks a couple of times a day.

"Uh, no. I'm just thinking really hard. My brain always makes that sound when I think."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't think so hard. You're starting to drool on your desk."

Granted, I may not be much more of an asset to the newspaper than I was to C-Mart. But since we don't sell Slim Jims at the Ledger-Enquirer, I'm not too much of a liability, either.

I look like this?

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke to a large group of middle school students at Arnold Magnet Academy in Columbus. Ms. Jill Sammons' class sent me a nice thank-you poster with a new version of my column sig. Thought I'd share ...

Return to Angel City

My friend Gregg and I went to Angel City, the motorcycle haven in Unadilla, Ga., for the fall rally this past Saturday. Gregg rides a Yamaha. I ride a Mazda SUV. Yes, I'm born to be mild.

Of course, while I'm at this rally with thousands of bikers, a biker legend came to the Ledger-Enquirer during my vacation: Erik Estrada, who played motorcycle cop Ponch on the old TV series "CHIPS." Read my co-worker Brad's blog to learn about that visit.

While I'm not a biker myself, I do enjoy mingling with the biker crowd. They have a sense of unity a lot like you find among Parrotheads at Jimmy Buffett concerts. Only they prefer beer and Jack Daniels over margaritas and the revving of engines over the revving of blenders. I didn't have my camera with me this time, so Smitty and the gang from back home won't have to worry about incriminating photos on the Internet. I imagine photos from this latest rally will be going up soon on the Angel City site.

Week in review

• Sen. Larry Craig is inducted into the Idaho Hall of Fame, marking the Republican lawmaker's first ceremonial appearance back in his home state since his arrest in an airport bathroom sex sting became public in August. He also becomes the first person in Idaho to receive the prestigious Udaho award.
• Traffic jams plague Columbus when jaywalkers and pedestrians prove they can actually get slower crossing the street as they come to a complete stop. The National Guard is deployed to remove the stationary pedestrians. Families may go to the Government Center at 10 a.m. Tuesday to identify family members collected from the streets.
• A boy who was bitten multiple times by a Rottweiler running free on a Hawaiian beach is awarded $856,000 by a jury that concluded the dog's owner was negligent. Like every other owner of dogs who've mauled and bitten people, Mariko Bereday insists the dog is docile and not aggressive.
• Thousands of cash-strapped Hawaiians tie raw meat to themselves and taunt Mariko Bereday's Rottweiler.
• Boxer Evander Holyfield, 44, loses a unanimous decision to Sultan Ibragimov but insists he will continue pursuing the heavyweight title. Asked by a trainer following the fight, "How many fingers am I holding up?" Holyfield responds "1,347,321."
• The rivalry between Coke and Pepsi takes a physical turn when a Pepsi deliveryman allegedly punches his Coke counterpart in the face at a western Pennsylvania Wal-Mart. When the Coke deliveryman left the store, his counterpart allegedly punched him in the face three times, breaking his nose and giving him a black eye, police said. No charges have been filed, but police characterized the incident as a misdemeanor simple assault. Pepsi is expected to roll out its "Pepsi Packs a Punch!" ad campaign any day now.
• Thumper, a black Labrador retriever, is getting credit for saving a Greenville, Maine, man when a fire swept through his home. Thumper grabbed the sleeping Roland Cote by the arm to wake him. Cote said the fire marshal investigator believes the blaze was started when Princess, the family cat, tipped over a kerosene lantern. Cote says he and his pets escaped safely, but he says Princess did get her tail singed by the flames. Princess, however, has accused Thumper of staging the fire.

Week in review

• Australian customs officers discover nearly 10.5 ounces of ecstasy tablets hidden inside a Mr. Potato Head toy sent to Australia from Ireland -- which explains Mr. Potato Head's huge smile.
• Sen. Larry Craig (R-Idaho), further giving evidence that his state is aptly named, reneges on his promise to step down from the Senate. His fellow senators blast Craig's decision, saying that his arrest for soliciting gay sex in a public restroom completely goes against the Senate's traditional views of appropriate sexual behavior -- namely that it should be between a man and his escort or intern.
• Hurricane "expert" William Gray slightly downgrades his forecast, calling for four named storms in October and November, including two hurricanes, one of them major. Gray’s team at Colorado State University had earlier predicted five named storms. Gray later revises his prediction of having scrambled eggs for breakfast, changing it to Frosted Flakes. Gray then announces he's not even sure what a hurricane is. "I live in Colorado for crying out loud!" he says. "Ask somebody in Florida and leave me alone!"
• After a million-plus ‘‘Thomas & Friends’’ toy trains were pulled because of lead paint, the maker of the smiley-faced toys sent customers ‘‘bonus gifts’’ — and now thousands of those have been recalled, too. In hindsight, maybe handing America's economy to China on a silver platter wasn't such a good idea. Meanwhile, millions of 3-year-olds meet in Chicago and declare war on China, arming themselves with lead paint-covered toy guns made in China.
• UPS announces it is implementing a system that it says will allow its international shipments to cross borders more quickly ... by dressing the packages as Mexican farm workers.
• White trash pop star Britney Spears loses custody of her two kids to former husband Kevin Federline. Losing your kids to Kevin Federline is the equivalent of losing a war against Bermuda.
• A Georgia Tech study finds that people are becoming emotionally attached to those Roomba robotic vacuums, giving them nicknames and worrying when they signal for help. A related study by researchers at Arizona State University finds that people are really stupid.
• The U.S. Supreme Court on declines to hear a challenge to Alabama’s ban on the sale of sex toys, ending a nine-year legal battle and prompting a warning to store owners to be prepared to clean off their shelves. The court vote was not revealed, but an insider reports overhearing Justice Clarence Thomas pleading, "Aw, c'mon, guys! Please!!"

Go Rockies!

Amid all the negative stories about pro and other athletes lately -- Olympic medalist Marion Jones finally admitting using steroids before her 5-medal performance at the 2000 Olympics, Vick and his dogfighting, Bonds and his illegitimate home run record, the New England Patriots cheating with the help of technology -- is this story:

The Colorado Rockies players (on their own) have decided to donate their share of playoff winnings to the widow of Mike Coolbaugh, who was killed July 22 when he was struck with a line drive while coaching first base for the Rockies' minor league affiliate Tulsa Drillers. The Coolbaughs have two children, ages 5 and 3, and one on the way. If the Rockies make it all the way through the World Series, the players' share could be around $10 million. So, I'm rooting for the Rockies. Besides, two of their players -- Matt Holliday and Troy Tulowitzki -- helped me finish second in my fantasy baseball league.

Click here to read more about the Rockies' gesture.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Interstate pit-stop

"What'll it be, hun?"

This is the sound of music to me at 2 a.m. on some forgotten exit along the interstate. Not only will this sweet lady keep my cup filled with hot coffee and bring me a plateful of eggs, grits, sausage and toast, but she calls me "hun." Even my wife won't call me "hun" unless it's accompanied by "Atilla."

It's one of my favorite guilty pleasures, stopping at these 24-hour breakfast joints far away from home. You know the place by some name — Waffle House, Huddle House, Omelet House, Coffee Kettle, etc. As Shakespeare said, "A Waffle House by any other name would smell just as much like cigarettes and grease."

I like sitting here alone, a total stranger that no one will remember one minute after I walk out of here — though they do steal glances at me as I jot down notes in my reporter's notebook. What kind of freak stops in a Waffle House to write at 2 a.m.? "If that's sober," the man staring at me from three booths away is thinking, "I'll stay drunk, thank you."

The crowd in here is the same as it is every 2 a.m., though this is my first time in this particular Waffle Huddle Omelet Coffee House. A few stools down sits an old man with his coffee and Camels. When one goes out, he lights another. I figure he's been sitting there awhile, probably since the Beatles split.

Behind me is a table of teen-age boys discussing graphically — though unrealistically — their exploits with the ladies before Saturday evening turned into the wee hours of Sunday morning. Nothing wrong with a little macho fantasy talk, I guess. Been there, done that. Besides, when they're ready for reality and have $50 to spare, there's always that lady over there by the pay phone.

In the corner booth sits a couple laughing and pumping quarters into the jukebox, which, thank goodness, has a slew of Merle Haggard songs. I don't think these two folks knew each other too well before tonight, but I get the feeling they'll know each other all too well by morning.

And, of course, there are the two ladies waiting tables. Linda's in her 40s, Sally Ann's in her 50s. Linda is happy to see me. Everybody else in here is simply riding out the night and probably spent most of their money before coming here. I'm a sober stranger who might actually leave a decent tip. And I always do — a least a quarter per "hun."

And there's the intense cook, who seems to be cooking for 500 customers instead of the dozen that are here. He can't stop to breathe while Linda and Sally shout out, "Number three, scattered and smothered, over easy, scorch it with extra cheese!" Where he found time to get those four dozen tattoos, I have no idea.

"Here you go, darlin'," Linda says as she delivers my meal. "Darlin" — that's worth two quarters. Linda looks at me funny as I sample the grits and say, "My compliments to the chef." The "chef" glares at me briefly, wishing it weren't too late to spit in my cheese grits.

I drop two bucks on the table as I leave — two "darlins" and four "huns" — and then stick two quarters in the jukebox and request the same song ("Achy Breaky Heart") three straight times. They're gonna remember me for more than a minute after I leave, by golly.

Week in review

• Iranian President Mahmoud I'vebeenjabbed speaks at the United Nations and (in a move criticized by American right-wingers who decry the lack of freedom in other countries) at Columbia University. President Bush also speaks to the U.N., but no translator was provided.
• In a House hearing, congressmen criticize sex and violence in hip-hop, but shies away from censorship. Rep. Lynn Westmoreland, R-Ga., refuses to the attend the hearing, saying that most "Congressional hearings are wack, and I'd rather get crunk on a budget bill."
• Nepal's mountaineering authorities are calling for a ban on nudity and attempts to set obscene records on Mount Everest. If naked people literally freezing their buns off on the world's tallest mountain are the worst things your country has to deal with, you're in pretty good shape.
• A Maiden, N.C., man who bought a smoker at an auction found what he thought was a piece of driftwood wrapped in paper inside. When he unwrapped it, he found a human leg, cut off 2 to 3 inches above the knee. The smoker had been sold at an auction of items left behind at a storage facility, so investigators contacted the mother and son who had rented the space where the smoker was found. The mother, Peg Steele, explained her son had his leg amputated after a plane crash and kept the leg following the surgery ‘‘for religious reasons’’ she doesn’t know much about. The new owner of the smoker was obviously upset, especially when his homemade honey barbecue sauce just didn't work with the leg.
• Matthew Hiasl Pan's fight to be declared a human in an Austrian court fails. Pan happens to be a chimpanzee, but the Vienna-based Association Against Animal Factories. Pan's argument went astray when he pooped on the judge's desk and began picking bugs out of his hair. Reached for comment, Judge Lance Ito of the O.J. Simpson murder trial simply shrugged and said, "And?"
• The Atlanta Falcons pick up their first victory of the season by beating the Houston Texans 26-16 before a thrilled crowd of 12 people at the Georgia Dome and dozens more watching at home on television.
• Amid the antics of the Falcons' DeAngelo Hall, the latest legal woes for Michael Vick and cheaters like the San Francisco Giants' Barry Bonds, baseball bid farewell to one of the classiest team players to ever take the field as the Houston Astros' Craig Biggio played his final game. And if your eyes didn't mist up seeing Biggio reduced to tears when messages from his kids were played on the giant screen in Houston, then you have absolutely no heart. Might want to compare that to Bonds' whatever reaction to playing his final home game as a San Francisco Giant.
• The world's major philosophers meet in Buenos Aries to re-examine the manta "What doesn't kill me only makes me stronger." It is revised to "What doesn't kill me only makes me bitter and more depressed." The philosophers add that "Behind every dark cloud is a lightning bolt just waiting to strike you in the butt."

Waaay-back Wednesday: Bathtime burglar

As much as I've come to enjoy living in Columbus, I can't get used to the fact that you have to lock your doors around here.

Growing up in tiny Oglethorpe, Ga., we never bothered to lock our doors. We felt safe. Even when we did bother to lock the front door, we were courteous enough to leave a note for friends and relatives such as, "The key is under the flower pot." Good thing many criminals are illiterate.

But once you venture away from the friendly confines of the Oglethorpe city limits — an area some call "The Modern World" — danger lurks. Thieves lurk. Stuff's just lurkin' all over the place. You better lurk out.

The only time I ever heard of anyone almost getting robbed back home was when my Uncle Johnny spotted a man climbing into his bedroom window. He quickly devised a scheme to scare him away.

"Sue! Hand me my shotgun!"

My aunt responded, "Johnny, you know we ain't got no gun!"

My first brush with thievery came when I was in college at Georgia Southwestern in Americus. I had a new car, and — just as I had always done with my piece-of-junk 1978 Celica — I kept the keys under the seat.

On the first day I drove it to school, I returned from classes only to find an empty parking space where I was sure I had parked my car. After a desperate hour of searching, I found the car at the other end of campus with a note from my sneaky ex-girlfriend attached to the steering wheel: "Love your new car. Drives great."

My closest brush with theft came in 1992 in Valdosta, Ga., where we were wise enough to keep the doors to our apartment locked.

I had a rare day off and was taking a hot bath with Mr. Bubble (that's a soap, not a man) when I heard the venetian blinds of the living room rustling. I got out of the tub and, sure enough, there was a burglar unhooking my VCR and television — which made up pretty much all of our wordly possessions — from the wall.

"Hey!" I yelled. And at that very moment, he and I both came to a realization: I was nekkid. He gave me a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look that the word "fear" just can't explain.

He dashed out onto the patio, and I followed. Although, like a dog chasing a car, I didn't know what I was going to do with him if I caught him. Fortunately for both of us, he got away. Unfortunately, the fear turned to laughter for several housewives taking their afternoon walks around the lake.

I guess the thought of tangling with a wet, naked man will make just about any guy run like a gazelle chased by a lion. I've got a bum left knee, yet I can guarantee you that no wet, naked man will ever lay a hand on me.

I'll make an exception, though, for Mr. Bubble.

Week in review

• Famed French mime Marcel Marceau dies at 84 after getting trapped in an invisible box with no air.
• Adm. William Fallon, the head of U.S. Central Command, says he does not believe current tensions with Iran will lead to war and urges for greater emphasis on dialogue and diplomacy. Apparently, America's first-strike policy applies to countries who are not building nuclear programs and who are not bankrolling, arming and supporting terrorists. But if Iran were annoying, as Iraq was, Fallon is certain we'd blow them off the face of the Earth.
• Outgoing VA Secretary Jim Nicholson says growing demands from a prolonged Iraq war are taxing his agency and he's struggling to reduce ever-increasing disability claims from injured veterans. He adds that his job would sure be a lot easier if it weren't for all those darn veterans.
• A study finds that from rural Australia to Siberia to Oklahoma, languages that embody the history and traditions of people are dying. While there are about 7,000 languages spoken around the world today, one dies about every two weeks. In about 14,000 weeks, there won't be any languages spoken.
• University of Florida officials are criticized after campus police used a Taser on student Andrew Meyer during a forum with Sen. John Kerry. Hundreds more students requested to be Tasered after 15 minutes of hearing Kerry speak but were denied.
• A new report shows that Americans waste about 38 hours a year sitting in traffic. Another report shows that Americans waste nearly 2,000 hours a year at work when they could be out living life.
• Nebraska State Sen. Ernie Chambers of Omaha sued God last week, seeking a permanent injunction against the Almighty for making terroristic threats, inspiring fear and causing "widespread death, destruction and terrorization of millions upon millions of the Earth's inhabitants." This week, one of two court filings from "God" came to the Douglas County District Court in Omaha. God claims to have an alibi, saying he couldn't have done all the stuff he's accused of by the legislator because he was too busy responding to prayers of athletes requesting help in football games and 14-year-olds taking algebra tests.

Waaay-back Wednesday: The story of Odysseus Bob

This is for you college students out there who may have to read Homer's "The Odyssey" for the first time this year. I'm here to help. Having taken English 201 three times in college, I'm an expert.

I have written an easy-to-understand version of "The Odyssey." Better than Cliffs Notes, it's Chris Notes:

There once was this fellow, Odysseus Bob, who was a real hot shot in his hometown, but he got lost for 20 years on Lake Eufaula after taking off for the weekend with his buddies.
It turns out that he spent years shacking up with this girl Calypso Lou while his boy, Telemachus Joe, was taking care of Odysseus Bob's doublewide, mowing the grass and all. Telemachus Joe couldn't wait for his pa to come home because these drunk rednecks kept hanging out at the doublewide, hitting on his mama, Penelope Sue, and watching wrasslin' and "Jerry Springer" on Odysseus Bob's satellite dish. But Penelope Sue kept hoping her common-law husband would come back someday.

A lot of bad stuff happened to Odysseus Bob around Lake Eufaula. Like there was this one time a one-eyed hillbilly trapped Odysseus Bob and his buddies. Well, when the hillbilly — Larry Polyphemus — asked his name, Odysseus Bob replied, "I ain't nobody."

Then one night Odysseus Bob jabbed Larry Polyphemus in his one good eye with a broken beer bottle and blinded him. Larry Polyphemus ran and told his brothers, "Ain't Nobody done blinded me." They just laughed and laughed and went back to watching their bug zapper.

Then this guy, Aeolus Jim, gave Odysseus Bob a bag of wind and told him not to open it just yet. But his buddies thought Odysseus Bob was hiding some treasure in there like an RC and some pork skins. They opened it and the wind blew them into the back yard of a witch named Circe Mae who turned his buddies into hogs. Odysseus Bob then threatened to beat up Circe Mae if she didn't turn them back into men — which she did, except for Bubba, whom they barbecued.

Then they went by this old shack where the Sirens lived — Jolene, Irene and Irmalene Siren. They sang pretty songs men just couldn't resist. His buddies put in earplugs, while Odysseus Bob tied himself up so that he could hear the Sirens, but could not stop the boat and yield to temptation when they sang Loretta Lynn's "Don't Come Home a Drinkin' With Lovin' on Your Mind."

After some big dude named Hey Zeus slapped Odysseus Bob's Basstracker with a stick of dynamite, killing all his buddies, he washed up on a sand bar called Ogygia where he borrowed a fancy new Jet Ski and went home disguised as an old man by wearing knee-high black dress socks and polka-dot shorts pulled up to his armpits.

Penelope Sue then said that whoever cranks Odysseus Bob's old pickup can marry her, knowing that nobody but he could crank it. He hopped in, tapped the gas pedal a few times, banged on the dashboard and jiggled the key until it cranked. They knew Odysseus Bob had finally come home. He then grabbed a tire tool out of the back and opened up a can of whup-ass on the rednecks.

Then Odysseus Bob kissed Penelope Sue right smack on the mouth and they lived happily ever after.

Gesundheit!

I was heading south on Veterans Parkway (note, advertisers, that it's not Veteran's Parkway ... there's more than one veteran in this town) with my 7-year-old son in the backseat yesterday when we were sideswiped, hard, by a white pickup truck. OK, accidents happen. Probably a cell phone issue. Um, no.

The white pickup then hopped the curb and proceeded to travel through a stand of small pines across from Lowes about 80 yards until it came to a sudden halt against a bank upon which railroad tracks lie. Problem was, the truck went so far into the pines that you couldn't even see it from the road. I had no idea where it had gone.

A couple of fellows stopped on Veterans and followed the truck's path on foot. I, thinking it was a hit-and-run and that the driver was trying to find some way of getting out of there quickly, went to head them off at the pass at Whittlesey. The truck never emerged. So I, with my 7-year-old Dodger right behind me, headed into the pines until I found the driver acting as if it were a pretty typical situation there with her truck's front end against the railroad tracks and its tail end sticking up.

She was busted up in the face a little, but no big deal. However, she was loopy. My first thought was that she was incredibly high on drugs, and I'm still not convinced she wasn't. The engine was still running, but smoking, so I begged her to shut off the ignition, but she just kind of nonchalantly waved me off.

"I'll just back up," she said as if she'd merely had a little trouble parallel parking.

"Say what?!"

"I'll just back it up."

Whatever, I stepped away and called 911 while she proceeded to blow her engine up. Folks started to see smoke rising from the tracks behind the trees and began to wonder what the heck was going on.

When the fire truck, EMTs and cops got there, it wasn't too easy to explain where the truck was. It's not often you respond to a minor fender bender and the offending vehicle has disappeared. They looked at me a bit strange when I pointed to the large field to explain where the truck was. Finally, they saw the smoke.

As they hurried toward the truck, I warned them this person was high as a kite, in my humble opinion. They eventually got her to safety, and the police officer cited the accident as her fault. My truck's a little scratched up, but no big deal. But they didn't cite drugs or cell phones or anything else as the reason for the accident. They accepted the driver's explanation:

"I sneezed."

Allow me to use my Dr. Evil voice here: "Yeah, r-i-g-h-t."

Week in review

• Burger King announces an effort to make healthier kids meals. The new meals will come with only a toy and no Burger King food.
• Mitt Romney tells voters that his wife would make "a prettier first lady" than Bill Clinton. He goes on to say that his wife is also a better kisser than Bill Clinton.
• President Bush's report to Congress grades Iraq as showing satisfactory progress on nine of the 18 benchmarks set for the Iraqi government. Bush also notes that the term "satisfactory" doesn't necessarily mean satisfactory but "trending toward satisfactory." Kinda puts the whole depending on what your definition of "is" is issue in perspective.
• The title of the new Indiana Jones movie is revealed. "Indiana Jones and the Escape from the Oak Hill Nursing Home" is slated for release May 22, 2008.
• More than 190 anti-war protesters are arrested in Washington. While we haven't quite put forth the effort it takes to capture bin Laden, thank God we've still got the determination to go after those seeking peace.
• Three people who mixed vinegar with catfish bait and tried to sell it as heroin have been arrested. Authorities said the three also tried to sell fake LSD. It's part of America's effort to expand the misguided war on drugs also to those who are not selling drugs.
• In a related story, the Partnership for a Less Drugged Up America releases ads encouraging kids to "Just say no to fake drugs."
• Barry Bonds' record-breaking 756th home run ball is actioned off for $752,467, or enough to buy Bonds enough human growth hormone for a whole year!