With this ring...

If you are going to invite people to your wedding you ought to make the thing memorable. I've been to several weddings where this advice was not heeded. I would tell you some things about them, but I don't remember.

I went to a wedding one New Year's eve. The pastor pronounced the couple man and wife at the stroke of midnight. They are now divorced, but I still remember.

I went to an engagement party that turned into a surprise wedding. That was memorable.

One memorable couple provided washtubs filled with iced Dr. Peppers at their reception. They divorced, but you can't beat a cold Dr. Pepper.

One December I went to three straight Saturday weddings. I only remember one. They served shrimp at the reception.

One couple held their reception in one of those big antebellum houses and served some killer sweet tea. I remember the tea. I also remember the bride's father on the sidewalk yelling, "I paid for this wedding and I can't get a damn parking space in front of the building!" after a considerable hike to said antebellum home from somewhere up the street.

I've been to a couple of weddings where the bride and groom faced the audience. One of the couples, alas, is divorced.

My grandmother went to a wedding once and I sat in the truck and listened to the radio. I was about ten. I don't remember why I wasn't wedding-worthy.

I wore a leisure suit to a wedding when I was twelve. Yes, I have photos. No, you can't see them.

When Joan and I were dating, she was in a wedding. On a Saturday morning. At 10:00 a.m. Lewis Grizzard once quipped that you should never get married in the morning because it ruins the whole day. This couple should have listened to Lewis. Divorced.

I went to a Jehovah's Witness wedding where the pastor preached a sermon before the ceremony and everyone stood up the whole time.

I went to a Catholic wedding with full Mass. I needed to shave again before it finished.

I went to a wedding with a sit-down dinner for about one hundred. Counting Joan, the kids, and me, there were four white people.

I was in a wedding once. It was my only experience in a tuxedo. I would tell you how it turned out, but you can probably guess.

One of these days I'm going to tally up the weddings I've attended and see how many stuck. Or maybe not. I'm sure the count would exceed the number of times I've typed "weedings" while composing this post, and that would be sad.

I went to a wedding today. Another reception at an older home (I started to say antebellum but 1880 doesn't qualify). What I will remember?

• The bride's shoulder tattoo peeking through the back of her veil.
• Bride and groom pouring different colored sand into a glass tube.
• Young ladies are doing very expressive things with cleavage nowadays.
• A huge salad completely topped with rings of fried green tomatoes. Yes, you read that right.
  

My wedding? There were three people there. One of them is dead. The other two of us are still married.

Baby back?

Overheard today in Dreamland: Do you have baby back ribs?

Do these look like baby back ribs to you?



This ain't Memphis, son.

Read the @&(# Handbook

It's been 26 years since I took a driver's exam but I assume they still give a written test from the Driver's Handbook. I say "assume," because I encounter scads of drivers who seemingly have never read the thing.

This morning I met a driver with yield issues so bad that I'm willing to bet s/he even spells it "yeild."

Today I drove down a nice, tree-lined, four-lane divided parkway toward a parking lot. As I pulled into the crossover I saw a fast-moving SUV approaching from the other direction. I stopped to wait for the driver to make a right turn into the lot.

The driver pulled to within five feet of the lot entrance and stopped. In the middle of the road. To wave me across.

Never mind that s/he had the right of way. Or that s/he was in danger of being creamed from behind by approaching traffic (of which thankfully there was none). Or that s/he had violated one of my biggest peeves.

I hate with that happens. Why do people do that? I hate standing on a curb waiting to cross the road at the mall or grocery store because if there is a vehicle approaching, nine times out of ten it will stop and try to wave me across. This is Alabama, people, where vehicle worship is second only to football, and where most urban areas are designed for you and your precious, depreciating at a sickening rate, asset. Keep it moving, and get it out of the way. Courtesy be damned. Because I will not cross. Not until after you are gone. And to show you how passive-aggressively serious I am about this, I will not make eye contact with you. I will look the opposite way for approaching traffic, or at the wads of gum embedded in the sidewalk, or at jet contrails, but I will not be your accomplice as you flaunt the law. I will exercise my rights as a pedestrian to remain immobile until you have lawfully cleared the area. Audemus jura nostra defendere.

So I treated this morning's driver the same way. No eye contact. The more s/he waved, the more I stared at the intersection behind him/her. S/he finally gave up, mercifully before s/he was rear-ended, thus making me later for an appointment, by subjecting me to witnessing an accident, than I already was.

People, read the handbook (pdf warning). In the immortal words of Brad Hamilton, "Learn it. Know it. Live it."



And please, stop waving at me.

Thanksgiving 2007

The second annual "Central Florida Thanksgiving Cookfest and Effenpalooza" has concluded at Adam and April's. We decided to follow up last year's Indian feast with a contemporary traditional menu. See Joan's account for pics and details. Here are some random impressions:

• Is the buzzard Florida's state bird? It should be.
• If there is a worse stretch of interstate highway than I-75 between Lake City and the Florida Turnpike, I'd hate to see it.
• We passed two big college football venues Saturday and I was concerned about traffic. I thought our delay south of Gainesville was Florida/FSU related until traffic cleared after a big pile of laundry in the road. Somebody got to their destination last night with just the clothes on their back. All the Iron Bowl-ers were on campus already when we blew past Auburn. It was dead as usual.
  
• Cracker Barrel has added chicken livers to their regular menu. Oh, yeah.
• It is comforting to know that broadcast radio sucks all the way to central Florida and not just in Birmingham. Thank Marconi for the scan button.
  
• Classic rock is good for passing time if the car stereo will handle the bass and someone is quick on the volume control to shield little ears from questionable lyrics. Thanks, Mick. Thanks, Bryan. Thanks, Prince. Thanks, John.
  
• Is there a sanitary convenience-store restroom in the southeast? Are paper towels and soap rationed in Georgia/Florida? Ever heard of a mop?
  
• There is something otherworldly and impressive about big bales of cotton waiting to be ginned.
• Babies that can walk and talk add so much to a home. Especially if someone else has diaper detail.
• If you eat at a fast food restaurant attached to a gas station, you deserve whatever gastrointestinal discomfort you experience.
  
• Hiking in sand is quite a workout. Doubters should give the Lake Louisa trails a try.
• T-shirt, shorts, and barefoot feels under-dressed for roasting marshmallows around a campfire.
  
• Cool Whip on homemade pumpkin pie is like wearing a wide polka-dot tie with a tuxedo.
• I've tried to be cool and like wine but it tastes too much like cough medicine. I give up.
• Why does everyone respond to "I don't like deer meat" with "You've never had it prepared the right way"? My point: how come no one can prepare it the right way so I can like it?
• If a small town bills itself as historic, and you've never heard of the town, how historic can it really be?
• Is finding gas for "only" $2.91 really a victory to be celebrated?
  
• What were the town fathers thinking when they named Ty Ty, Georgia? Is there an official pronunciation that doesn't sound, umm, less than manly?
• What does it say about your family when your objective is to get home from vacation in time to see what color Mrs. Slocombe's hair is this week?
  

Life Lessons

Life Lesson #178: If you hear a rumbling sound that rattles the windows on your house, run outside and encourage others to follow you. A vintage B-17 bomber might be flying over.

Life Lesson #212: Never, ever, buy the sticky mouse traps and leave them in your garage for three days without checking them.

Life Lesson #594: Never spray WD40 on the drive belt of your car unless you don't plan to drive anywhere anytime soon.

Life Lesson #595: If your dad has his arm up to the shoulder inside his car engine, don't ask him to come inside to override the parental control lock on the tv. Find your mother or read a book.

Life Lesson #596: WD40 will remove most of the grease and oil from your hands and arms after you give up trying to put the drive belt back on your car.

Life Lesson #810: Periodically review those power tool safety tips that your shop teacher bored you to death with.

It's Nice To Have You In Birmingham, circa 1967

Local good ole boy treating visiting good ole boy and family to a visit to Vulcan Park today:

LGOB: The museum here is pretty interesting.
VGOB: Is it included in the admission?
LGOB: Yep. They're a little biased though.
VGOB: How come?
LGOB: They tell all about the slaves that worked in the iron industry. They got their own museum at the Civil Rights museum. I don't know why they have to tell that story up here too.
VGOB: Do any white people go to the Civil Rights museum?
LGOB: I'm sure they make all the white school children go through there.

Yessir, we've made great strides, haven't we?

Of course, I came up with a snappy comeback, eight hours later:
BW: Well, guys, you're in luck. Admission is free on Sundays at the Civil Rights Institute. Why don't you check it out when you finish here?

One day I'll learn to think on my feet.

Birmingham or Bombay?

The Watkins aren't your typical suburban family as far as running around goes, but we do our fair share. Joan leads a small group on Monday night, I led (past-tense, more in a bit) one on Tuesday, Evan has drum lessons on Wednesday, and Joan's writing team meets on Thursday. Lately the schedule has improved as obligations are met and fall by the wayside. We've tried to be selective about how we replace time commitments that have freed up. I've enjoyed the change in schedule.

So it surprised me when Joan added a yoga class a few weeks ago.

Her friend April teaches the class. It didn't really affect me at first because it meets on Tuesday, same as my small group. Joan made arrangements for the kids and went her way and I went mine. I could tell that she enjoyed herself but my experience with yoga (read: none) left me without a clue as to what she enjoyed about it other than she started breathing funny before getting out of bed in the morning.

She was excited when my small group drew to a close because she wanted me to join her for yoga. I thought, What the heck? as we usually encourage our kids to try different things. The class starts at 5:30 and it's a stretch to get there on time from where we are (stretch, get it? Man, I kill me...) so Joan picked me up at my office. Traffic was horrible and we were running late, but April called and said she was running late, too, so I relaxed a bit. Big mistake.

We arrived at the dance studio and I strolled leisurely into the restroom to change from my baggy old man chinos and yellow polo shirt into my baggy old man shorts and a yellow mission trip t-shirt. Wash my face, check the hair, perform the miracle of turning Diet Mountain Dew into water, and man, I'm ready to yoga.

Joan met me in the hallway. "Will you come on, they've already started!"

What? Started? I thought April was late. Well, apparently not. But we were. Which meant that I, Brian Watkins, yoga-novice squared, was banished to the front row empty mat, nearly in the center of the room.

I was not happy. Joan took to her mat and began funny breathing with the rest of the class. A smooth jazz soundtrack wafted at a much lower jazz-worthy volume than I'm accustomed. April was slinking around whispering instructions. In Latin. I had no one to look at, since everyone was behind me, and I could faintly hear the whine of dork meters alarming throughout the over-the-mountain suburbs at my yoga futility.

I was uncomfortable, I must say, in not knowing the lingo, or the positions, or the motions, being late, out front, etc., etc.

April: Now take a deep breath in through the nose down from your xyphoid glottus and let it out slowly through the nose, compressing your maximus platypus into your occipital flywheel and touching your lateral rhomboid to your left shoulder.

Brian: Uh, is there somewhere I could put my keys? Did they disinfect this mat after the last occipital flywheel was compressed on it? Aw, man, I think my maximus platypus is going to sleep. Has anyone ever died of mortification during a yoga class?

Then I saw my way out. April brought her baby to class and the little doll was beginning to fuss. As I tried to figure out how to keep the blood flowing through my legs while sitting on my keys, I visualized myself scooping baby up and rescuing us both to the higher ground of the hallway, away from the raging torrent of exhaling xyphoid glotti. A perfect plan. Probably some resistance from April, but if I picked my opening correctly I could be halfway to the door before she knew what hit her, my lateral rhomboid aglow with new flowing blood.

Then my conscience got the best of me. Sure, I could quit, but I'd let Joan down, and April, and for all I know all the other nose-breathing mat monkeys. But most of all, I'd let myself down. Avoidance has been a coping mechanism of mine for a long, long time. I come from a long line of avoiders, almost professionals, certainly with the consistency and passion of a calling. I briefly thought of that and remembered how hard I've tried in the recent past to break some of those old habits and chains. About the time I convinced myself to stay, Joan poked me and whispered, Watch April. April had laid baby down and was now showing us the moves she wanted us to make. Having someone to look at helped me catch on to what was happening. Nothing was beyond my ability to handle, stretch-wise, and before I knew it time was up and the mat monkeys were rolling up their mats (alas, without disinfectant. I guess that answers that.).

Joan, April and baby, and I crossed over the mountain to our favorite Indian restaurant. I ordered some Lamb Jalferizi that was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Set my maximus platypus on fire.

Ah, that's a language I understand.

United 93

Last night I had some time to myself so I decided to go to a movie. I don't go to many movies and I don't usually go just to be going, so I intentionally wanted to see United 93. I don't recall knowing that it was even being filmed. I became aware of it when it was released and I read about the controversy it generated. Too soon after 9/11? Trivializing a tragic event? Exploitative of the victims and their families?

From the very beginning it was apparent that this was no ordinary movie.

The director, Paul Greengrass, had his work cut out for him: The story is familiar. The outcome is known and it is not a happy ending. And I believe he handled it magnificently. He didn't have to try very hard to get the audience emotionally involved. To the contrary, his main job was not to patronize us with maudlin sentimentality and false drama. And so he presented the story with just the facts. No opening credits. No intrusive soundtrack. Fade in to terrorists praying in their hotel rooms. Cut to airport arrivals. Rudimentary security checkpoints. Gates. Op Centers. ATC towers. Boston ATC loses contact with a plane. Controller thinks he heard hijacker's voice but he can't be sure. Smoke from the World Trade Center. Small private plane? Contact lost with another plane. Where is the military? Where is the president? Can we engage these hijacked planes?

What he successfully did was take me back to that day. The disbelief. The confusion. The shock. Is this really happening? Another plane has hit the towers? The Pentagon? Does anybody know what the hell is going on? I became emotional as the reality of those events unfolded. The gaping hole in the first tower. The Newark controllers watching the second plane hit. The CNN camera showing the smoke from the Pentagon from a camera somewhere near the Old Executive building near the White House. He made me remember.

And it hurt.

I've never been so ready for a film to be over. To walk out into the fresh air. To see the stars. To hear my kids slam doors. To have someone cut me off on the highway. To be distracted by life again. To forget. But I can't.

The banter of the flight crew and passengers about anniversaries they weren't going to celebrate, restaurants they would never visit, e-mails they would never read, trails they would never hike. The phone calls home. Trying to reach family. Someone. Anyone. Just pray. I love you. Goodbye. The most sobering scene? Closeup of a passenger breathing the Lord's prayer. Cut to a second passenger breathing the Lord's prayer. Cut to a third passenger breathing the Lord's prayer. Cut to the terrorist in the cockpit, flying the plane. Breathing a prayer. Oh, my.

That, my friends, is my definition of art.

Random observations from this latest cinematic experience:

1. There were no big name actors in this movie. The only person I recognized was the weird old lady who worked the ticket booth on Wings (Fay, maybe?) and had buried several husbands who had all died mysteriously. I think she had one line in this movie.


2. Some of the acting was a little stilted, I thought at the time, and then when the closing credits ran I saw why. Several people in the film played themselves. Air Traffic Controllers, National Ops Center people (including the guy who decided to shut down all the US air space), military people, etc. I thought that was incredible. I hope it was cathartic for them.


3. $3.65 for a small popcorn? I don't think so.


4. I'm not ready for the digital revolution or the reality-based herky-jerky camera shots. This movie, technically speaking, was a 111 minute IMAX movie, and IMAX movies make me want to hurl. I'm still dizzy as I type this.

What'd I do to deserve this?

We went to [trendy chain deli with the good salad bar] for lunch today.

I filled my salad plate to Neil Diamond's and Barbra Streisand's attempt to out-herniate one another.

My first bite was taken to the strains of Barry Manilow pouring his heart out over somebody named Mandy.

I finished my last bite as someone tightened the vise ahold Michael Bolton's thumb.

Disgustedly, I trudged toward the ice cream machine for some frosty relief.

I found a deli employee with his arm up to the elbow inside the machine, an "out of order" sign over his shoulder.

What did I do to deserve this?

Not my bag

We made a roadtrip to Atlanta today to pick up my Aunt Becky who is visiting from out west.

Aunt Becky doesn't get back this way very often anymore, but she has a professional association meeting in Atlanta next week and she flew in early to spend a long weekend with her favorite nephew and his fam. We were all too happy to meet her at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

It isn't every day that I jump at the chance to go to Atlanta. Atlanta is high on my "been there, done that" list. I mean, one traffic jam on I-285 looks like another, and once you've driven down one street with Peachtree embedded in the name you've driven down them all. To me, the only saving grace to the whole city is their mass transit system, known as MARTA.

As soon as I heard about Aunt Becky's trip I immediately began to contemplate the stress-free journey from the Hamilton E. Holmes station (W5) to the Airport station (S7) with no traffic, parking, or other concerns inherent to our culture's obsession with all things automotive. We left our modest suburban driveway a little before 7:00 a.m., and two hours later we were standing in the drafty Holmes terminal, trying to get the token machine to work.

Now, I had already figured out our fare requirements for the day. Lora, being four, could ride for free, which meant that we need three tokens to get to the airport (me, Joan, and Evan) and four to get back (us + Aunt Becky). At $1.75 per, I needed $12.25 to by the seven tokens. I had a twenty, a ten, and a couple of ones in my wallet, and of course, no machine in the building would take my ten. Which meant I had to use my twenty, which meant I purchased four tokens more than I needed. And that griped me. What am I going to do with four extra MARTA tokens? I mentally screamed at the machine(s). Thanks for nothing!

But my private rant notwithstanding, Joan, Evan, Lora, and I boarded the train and were soon locomoting through the Atlanta cityscape. Five stops to the Five Points station, a transfer to the southbound train, and seven stops and an escalator ride later we were waving across Delta's baggage claim concourse to Aunt Becky, who had just arrived and retrieved her bags from carousel 5.

Joan grabbed Aunt Becky's backpack, Evan grabbed her small carry-on, I grabbed her large rolling suitcase, and Lora grabbed her hand and we all traipsed back to the MARTA station. We were in the airport terminal maybe ten minutes, max. Northbound train to Five Points, transfer to the westbound train, and five stops later we were wheeling luggage toward the exit in anticipation of pointing the chariot back to the Magic City.

I was about to hoist the big bag chest-high so I could maneuver through the exit turnstile when Aunt Becky uttered some pretty ominous words. You know, I don't think that's my bag. I screeched to a halt before the turnstile and did a did-you-say-what-I-think-you-said 180 degree turn. I sat the bag upright on its wheels and I noticed for the very first time a small white tag containing the name and address of the bag's owner, which unfortunately did not match the name of my Aunt Becky. We had someone else's bag.

I can tell you that all kinds of questions go through your mind when you are standing at an exit turnstile holding someone else's bag, such as:
1. Is there something illegal in this bag that's gonna land my careless, didn't-verify-the-claim-check butt in the Fulton County Jail?
2. Has [unfortunate owner of bag] already left on his/her flight to Brazil for a month-long Amazon expedition without their life-saving supply of insulin?
3. You mean I'm gonna have to ride the train all the way to the airport and back before I can get to Cracker Barrel for lunch?
4. Is that why neither token machine would take my ten and I had to buy four extra tokens?

The answers to those questions are:
1. I don't know
2. I don't know
3. Yes
4. Yes

So off we went. Again. Five stops to the Five Points station, a transfer to the southbound train, and seven stops and an escalator ride. I began to feel like a MARTA regular. I actually thought at one point, man, we're at Oakland City already? We dropped off [unfortunate owner]'s bag at the baggage service counter and backtracked to carousel 5 to find Aunt Becky's bag still traveling around in circles.

I kinda know how the bag felt.

Welcome back to Birmingham, Aunt Becky.