The Winner Of The First Perhaps Annual Internet Man Of The Year Award Is:
Just hold on a second. We need a little foreplay here. First of all, what the hell IS The First Perhaps Annual Internet Man Of The Year Award? Well, it’s a very important prize awarded perhaps annually by The Flying Pie Panel of Expert (me) to an internet resource who has altered and illuminated our lives or those of some portion of mankind in general via his thoughtful and exemplary contributions. And no, you cannot win this award just by sending us twenty bucks. Anyway, we tried and tried to reduce the award to a single person but our efforts proved futile and we are left with two recipients: Court Lewis of Johnson City, Tennessee, and Harry Dodds of Austin, Texas.
Court Lewis is an ex-Gainesvillian who delivers a weekly show on American Variety Radio out of Johnson City. One week, the show will be about Life In The Sixties, the next week about How To Raise Nutria For Fun And Profit. There is no end to this fellow’s imagination. He scares up guests from every conceivable nook and cranny of society and manages to put together an interesting program week after week. We have been on there a couple of times and on both occasions our viewership jumped significantly. Moreover, Court—being a big fan of the column—has decided it is read by altogether too few people and must be delivered to the masses. Among other things, he has searched out, contacted and put us in touch with literary agents who do this sort of thing for a living. The last literary agent told us our column was very funny but we needed some kind of “formula” to make it acceptable to the general public. You know, like newspaper editorials. We told him we preferred the scattershot approach and we’re too old to mend our ways. He asked us if we wanted our deposit back. We said sure. That was it with the literary agents. Now, Court is trying to talk us into writing a column for one of the horse industry magazines. But gee, Court, Thursday is already tied up and I’m not sure I’ve got enough horse knowledge to begin imparting it on a weekly basis. Not that we don’t appreciate your efforts.
Anyway, there is a small prize attached to these awards and Court gets a wonderful meal for two at the Café Pacific in Johnson City. The place reopens Friday, Court, so call Manager Scott that afternoon or later to schedule your meal. Manager Scott, by the way, will be checking IDs and Margaret is the only dinner companion approved by The Flying Pie, so don’t try any funny business. Oh, and we’re capping this deal at a C-note so any thoughts of those $500 bottles of wine should be dismissed. Bon Appetit, as they say on the Continent. As if I’d know.
We’re Just Wild About Harry
We’ve told you about the Austin Ghetto Line before. Yeh, Fontaine, we know that isn’t the precisely correct name of the invention but no matter. Anyway, consider the genius of the thing—a network of old sixties veterans, some battered by age or restricted by finances or deprived of mobility, who might otherwise be doomed to loneliness, a lack of conversation or inspiration in their lives. Enter the Ghetto Line, a 24-hour, nonstop internet conversation among friends, most still living in Austin, many as far afield as Mexico, Costa Rica, Hawaii, France and Germany. The requisite for membership is residence for some period of time in Austin in the early sixties., which makes me a marginal member (you have to be voted in by the membership which just goes to show how much they know). I am not much of a contributor and am thought of as sort of a smartass outsider because I disagree with….well, most everybody about most everything. See, the Ghetto Line members are sort of like an SDS alumni group, fussing and fuming about the politics of the day, repulsed by the Republicans and disappointed by the Democrats, and who can blame them? They are sort of like the polar opposites of the people who live in The Villages of central Florida. This is all well and good, but the conversation is often dominated by a very small minority of people who are, if not certifiable, tickling the ribs of Captain Loco. You know how when you go to the Saturday football game there is always one guy there with a large sign promising the world will end tomorrow? The Ghetto line has a couple of those guys. At least the guy at the football game lets you off the hook if you will just accept Jesus. You get no such offers from the Ghetto Line radicals. They remind me of first-time riders of the Dodgems—remember them? When you try to drive the Dodgems the first time, you keep crashing into the siderails, not to mention each other, and jamming your cars into positions from which they will not move. That’s what happened when somebody gave these guys keyboards. They decided they were the canaries in the mines and, by God, if you didn’t accept the inevitability of doom you were just plain wrong, wrong, WRONG! Also, there is a plot behind every tree. Everyone and everything is suspect. These people could find heinous undercurrents in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Nonetheless, I love the Ghetto Line. We have come here not to bury it but to praise Harry.
Into the midst of the rubble floats Harry Dodds in his Gadfly Plane. Harry has a sense of humor about it all, he lightens the mood and lightly scolds an occasional tantrum. If Fontaine Maverick is the brains of the operation, Harry is its soul. He is a several-times-daily poster of this and that, everything from political articles to cartoons to his forte, information about music. If there is an obscure outfit Harry feels you should know about, he provides access to their work. If an entertainer dies, Harry is right there delivering some of his best albums. Harry’s mood is generous and welcoming. He is realistic about society’s ills but he is not overwhelmed by them. He keeps an even keel in a surly sea. We have never met Harry but we really like him and therefore we have reserved a meal for Harry and a guest at Uchiko, one of Austin’s best restaurants. Uchiko, because it is civilized and takes reservations, unlike its big brother, Uchi, although Kate, at Uchiko, assures me that a simple phone call will allow you to switch restaurants if you prefer, Harry. We know you would just as soon go to a Tex-Mex place but we just couldn’t do it. Which reminds me of an old line from a Shelton cartoon: “Poddy fwahgra hell, I want a chili dog.” You can have a chili dog tomorrow, Harry.
Rise Of The Can Lady
You’ve got one in your neighborhood. The man or woman who shuffles along silently on his old bicycle, stopping occasionally at the side of the road to load up his treasure—foregone aluminum cans or the like, assessing them with the eye of a jeweler, bagging them and moving on. I have driven past our own can lady many times, giving her a wide berth, respecting her diligent search, now and then offering a friendly wave, sometimes returned, sometimes not. Our can lady is a good-sized woman, tall, not as old as you might suspect, possessed of a bearing superior to your every day aluminum-keeper, so I’d sometimes lightly ponder her situation, how she became the can lady.
Last New Year’s Day, while Siobhan and I were out on our once-in-a-lifetime geocaching adventure, taken to honor our would-be companion, Kathy Knight, who had carelessly fractured her pelvis (it helps if you read this column every week), we spotted the can lady scooting about. Apparently finished with her daily rounds, she zipped onto our geocaching street and turned into the driveway of a rather nice house. Could it be? Might the can lady be actually well-off? Was this the Secret Identity of an altruistic citizen, who cleared the roadside of debris and parlayed it with an exercise routine? Inquiring minds want to know. And now they do.
A teacher at Central Florida College called Siobhan the other day, responding to her call searching for potential Pathogenes employees. The teacher lives in this area. Somehow, it was discovered, she was a friend of the can lady, who in a previous life was a well-paid executive secretary. Turns out the can lady might like a part-time job just for the hell of it. Which just goes to prove the old admonition: “Ask not for whom the can lady toils, she toils for thee.” Can we all go to lunch now?
Not Yet
Because first we’d like to brag on our August column about our adventures at Montana’s Glacier National Park. The two most-read Flying Pie columns were written in 2010 and republished in later years. The Glacier column was written in August and is already the third most read. Maybe it’s the pictures. Maybe everybody is planning a visit to Montana. Maybe it’s the exotic nature of the prose, cleverly crafted in ancient cheese caves. Whatever it is, keep reading.
And thanks to everybody for all the horse name suggestions, especially you, Debbie and Barbara. We’ll come up with something in the next couple weeks. We can’t have them calling her "Hey, You!” at the racetrack, can we. Despite a lack of official identity, Hannah is galloping a-mile-and-a-quarter daily and is now a mere 60 days from shipping to Calder with her pal, Puck, who is very smug, having a real name and all.
Any interesting New Year’s Resolutions? We’d like to hear about them, especially if they’re odd. Except from you, Marty. We’re not sure we’re entirely comfortable with your idea of odd.
Court and Harry—any complications with the restaurants, let us know and we’ll fix it. You have the email address.
That’s all, folks.
Just hold on a second. We need a little foreplay here. First of all, what the hell IS The First Perhaps Annual Internet Man Of The Year Award? Well, it’s a very important prize awarded perhaps annually by The Flying Pie Panel of Expert (me) to an internet resource who has altered and illuminated our lives or those of some portion of mankind in general via his thoughtful and exemplary contributions. And no, you cannot win this award just by sending us twenty bucks. Anyway, we tried and tried to reduce the award to a single person but our efforts proved futile and we are left with two recipients: Court Lewis of Johnson City, Tennessee, and Harry Dodds of Austin, Texas.
Court Lewis is an ex-Gainesvillian who delivers a weekly show on American Variety Radio out of Johnson City. One week, the show will be about Life In The Sixties, the next week about How To Raise Nutria For Fun And Profit. There is no end to this fellow’s imagination. He scares up guests from every conceivable nook and cranny of society and manages to put together an interesting program week after week. We have been on there a couple of times and on both occasions our viewership jumped significantly. Moreover, Court—being a big fan of the column—has decided it is read by altogether too few people and must be delivered to the masses. Among other things, he has searched out, contacted and put us in touch with literary agents who do this sort of thing for a living. The last literary agent told us our column was very funny but we needed some kind of “formula” to make it acceptable to the general public. You know, like newspaper editorials. We told him we preferred the scattershot approach and we’re too old to mend our ways. He asked us if we wanted our deposit back. We said sure. That was it with the literary agents. Now, Court is trying to talk us into writing a column for one of the horse industry magazines. But gee, Court, Thursday is already tied up and I’m not sure I’ve got enough horse knowledge to begin imparting it on a weekly basis. Not that we don’t appreciate your efforts.
Anyway, there is a small prize attached to these awards and Court gets a wonderful meal for two at the Café Pacific in Johnson City. The place reopens Friday, Court, so call Manager Scott that afternoon or later to schedule your meal. Manager Scott, by the way, will be checking IDs and Margaret is the only dinner companion approved by The Flying Pie, so don’t try any funny business. Oh, and we’re capping this deal at a C-note so any thoughts of those $500 bottles of wine should be dismissed. Bon Appetit, as they say on the Continent. As if I’d know.
We’re Just Wild About Harry
We’ve told you about the Austin Ghetto Line before. Yeh, Fontaine, we know that isn’t the precisely correct name of the invention but no matter. Anyway, consider the genius of the thing—a network of old sixties veterans, some battered by age or restricted by finances or deprived of mobility, who might otherwise be doomed to loneliness, a lack of conversation or inspiration in their lives. Enter the Ghetto Line, a 24-hour, nonstop internet conversation among friends, most still living in Austin, many as far afield as Mexico, Costa Rica, Hawaii, France and Germany. The requisite for membership is residence for some period of time in Austin in the early sixties., which makes me a marginal member (you have to be voted in by the membership which just goes to show how much they know). I am not much of a contributor and am thought of as sort of a smartass outsider because I disagree with….well, most everybody about most everything. See, the Ghetto Line members are sort of like an SDS alumni group, fussing and fuming about the politics of the day, repulsed by the Republicans and disappointed by the Democrats, and who can blame them? They are sort of like the polar opposites of the people who live in The Villages of central Florida. This is all well and good, but the conversation is often dominated by a very small minority of people who are, if not certifiable, tickling the ribs of Captain Loco. You know how when you go to the Saturday football game there is always one guy there with a large sign promising the world will end tomorrow? The Ghetto line has a couple of those guys. At least the guy at the football game lets you off the hook if you will just accept Jesus. You get no such offers from the Ghetto Line radicals. They remind me of first-time riders of the Dodgems—remember them? When you try to drive the Dodgems the first time, you keep crashing into the siderails, not to mention each other, and jamming your cars into positions from which they will not move. That’s what happened when somebody gave these guys keyboards. They decided they were the canaries in the mines and, by God, if you didn’t accept the inevitability of doom you were just plain wrong, wrong, WRONG! Also, there is a plot behind every tree. Everyone and everything is suspect. These people could find heinous undercurrents in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Nonetheless, I love the Ghetto Line. We have come here not to bury it but to praise Harry.
Into the midst of the rubble floats Harry Dodds in his Gadfly Plane. Harry has a sense of humor about it all, he lightens the mood and lightly scolds an occasional tantrum. If Fontaine Maverick is the brains of the operation, Harry is its soul. He is a several-times-daily poster of this and that, everything from political articles to cartoons to his forte, information about music. If there is an obscure outfit Harry feels you should know about, he provides access to their work. If an entertainer dies, Harry is right there delivering some of his best albums. Harry’s mood is generous and welcoming. He is realistic about society’s ills but he is not overwhelmed by them. He keeps an even keel in a surly sea. We have never met Harry but we really like him and therefore we have reserved a meal for Harry and a guest at Uchiko, one of Austin’s best restaurants. Uchiko, because it is civilized and takes reservations, unlike its big brother, Uchi, although Kate, at Uchiko, assures me that a simple phone call will allow you to switch restaurants if you prefer, Harry. We know you would just as soon go to a Tex-Mex place but we just couldn’t do it. Which reminds me of an old line from a Shelton cartoon: “Poddy fwahgra hell, I want a chili dog.” You can have a chili dog tomorrow, Harry.
Rise Of The Can Lady
You’ve got one in your neighborhood. The man or woman who shuffles along silently on his old bicycle, stopping occasionally at the side of the road to load up his treasure—foregone aluminum cans or the like, assessing them with the eye of a jeweler, bagging them and moving on. I have driven past our own can lady many times, giving her a wide berth, respecting her diligent search, now and then offering a friendly wave, sometimes returned, sometimes not. Our can lady is a good-sized woman, tall, not as old as you might suspect, possessed of a bearing superior to your every day aluminum-keeper, so I’d sometimes lightly ponder her situation, how she became the can lady.
Last New Year’s Day, while Siobhan and I were out on our once-in-a-lifetime geocaching adventure, taken to honor our would-be companion, Kathy Knight, who had carelessly fractured her pelvis (it helps if you read this column every week), we spotted the can lady scooting about. Apparently finished with her daily rounds, she zipped onto our geocaching street and turned into the driveway of a rather nice house. Could it be? Might the can lady be actually well-off? Was this the Secret Identity of an altruistic citizen, who cleared the roadside of debris and parlayed it with an exercise routine? Inquiring minds want to know. And now they do.
A teacher at Central Florida College called Siobhan the other day, responding to her call searching for potential Pathogenes employees. The teacher lives in this area. Somehow, it was discovered, she was a friend of the can lady, who in a previous life was a well-paid executive secretary. Turns out the can lady might like a part-time job just for the hell of it. Which just goes to prove the old admonition: “Ask not for whom the can lady toils, she toils for thee.” Can we all go to lunch now?
Not Yet
Because first we’d like to brag on our August column about our adventures at Montana’s Glacier National Park. The two most-read Flying Pie columns were written in 2010 and republished in later years. The Glacier column was written in August and is already the third most read. Maybe it’s the pictures. Maybe everybody is planning a visit to Montana. Maybe it’s the exotic nature of the prose, cleverly crafted in ancient cheese caves. Whatever it is, keep reading.
And thanks to everybody for all the horse name suggestions, especially you, Debbie and Barbara. We’ll come up with something in the next couple weeks. We can’t have them calling her "Hey, You!” at the racetrack, can we. Despite a lack of official identity, Hannah is galloping a-mile-and-a-quarter daily and is now a mere 60 days from shipping to Calder with her pal, Puck, who is very smug, having a real name and all.
Any interesting New Year’s Resolutions? We’d like to hear about them, especially if they’re odd. Except from you, Marty. We’re not sure we’re entirely comfortable with your idea of odd.
Court and Harry—any complications with the restaurants, let us know and we’ll fix it. You have the email address.
That’s all, folks.
