The mornings arrive a touch cooler now, and darker, too, as we meet the day and the waiting horses. Once, maybe twice, a thin shirt is pulled from the closet for a brief interval before the rising sun yawns, stretches and meanders up to dismiss daybreak’s early impertinence. In the North, its supplicants are feeding fuel into the maw of the great train of Autumn, which will soon head south, an engineer leaning on the horn now and then, instantly changing the green leaves of trees along the way to various shades of red, gold and amber. Summer, of course, is wise to this business, has seen it all before, and slowly gathers up her lingering possessions for the annual sabbatical in Key West, a dependable fortress against the cold. Hurricane Season, the toast of coastal weathermen, is left with a mere fifteen days of honest possibilities despite the additional sixty days of life-support annually extended by the grieving meteorologists. The Season changes and as it does so do we all.
Football is in the air and high-school bands are playing everywhere. A person can barely escape McDonald’s or a Subway without being run over by an errant cheerleader on her way to Glory. Perhaps the widest variety of Fashion on exhibition anywhere is on display each Friday night at these little stadiums, where one teenage cutie might dress up like Marilyn Monroe and her best girlfriend like Minnie Pearl. The students seem not to give a fig whether a friend is Asian, African-American or an immigrant from the Rings of Saturn, which is commendable enough when not carried to absurd lengths like, say, developing a fondness for rap music. If the kids in the band are still geeks these days—and you can certainly make a case for it—they now celebrate their geekdom with an eye to the future when their current critics are lining up to get autographs from their future rock ‘n’ roll bands.
I like to visit these hotbeds of Americana a few times each year to gauge the zeitgeist’s temperature and catch a little football. The former is simple, the latter more difficult than you think, being confronted four times a game by the notorious mid-quarter water break (even when it’s freezing) and the unfortunate quandary of the high-school referee, an odd character possessed of “the more, the merrier” philosophy, especially as regards penalties, which seem to arrive early and often. Then, of course, there is the quality of the game itself, which can be quite good or sink to mournful depths, as might be expected when contested by relative amateurs. Last week, the homestanding Buchholz Bobcats threw four interceptions and fumbled twice in the first half, falling behind Columbia County, 23-0. Expecting more of the same, I departed with three minutes left in the first half, commenting to the policeman at the gate, “This looks like the worst Buchholz team in years.”
That was all it took, of course, for Loki, God of Mischief, to hop on his cosmic unicycle and pedal down to the Bobcat locker room, invisibly dispensing shots of adrenaline to the entire squad. “Ouch, did anybody feel a little prick?” more than one player asked another. Then they went out and scored 27 points, the last of them with a mere 18 seconds left, taming the Columbia Tigers for the first time in eight years, 27-23. I had to smile when I saw the result next morning. I had Loki right where I wanted him now. Next time, I would utter the same comment, pretend to leave and sneak back to watch the exciting conclusion. There’s more than one way to skin a god.
The Evil Dissipation Blues
They’re at it again, those Ministers of a Particular Blight. If Autumn is arriving for the rest of the country, it might be Winter for towns like Gainesville, rapidly forfeiting their uniqueness and individuality to the Wrecker’s Ball. As chronicled in an earlier column (The Death Of Funk, April 28), block after block of the city’s colorful past is being razed in the shabby interests of gentrification, which is another word for boring. In the previous piece, we quoted local restaurant owner Steve Solomon’s plaint about the impending disaster: “It’s one size fits all. With this gentrification, you’ll be able to go to all these college towns and they’ll all be the same, the same look. There’ll be nothing like the old Gainesville look.” Now Solomon is joining the ranks of the desecrators, selling off an institution, his Leonardo’s Pizza shop across from the University of Florida. He says the rest of us are wearing “rose-colored glasses,” assuming that quaint old businesses are healthy ones, and he may be right. But how are things different from five months ago?
Many of us remember the original Soho in New York City when lofts in that ramshackle section of town were rented to artists for a song, giving rise to a colorful and artsy community of galleries and small boutiques full of locally crafted goods. Been there lately? It’s like any other tedious outdoor mall, full of chains, devoid of the clever little shops which can no longer handle the rent. Been to Georgetown in D.C.? Same story. Somehow, Haight Street in San Francisco has risen from the ashes and is viable once again, but Haight is the rare exception and who knows for how long? Nearsighted city commissioners who could short-circuit some of these disasters with zoning requirements see nothing but the dollar signs. One of them commented that the small stores could take root somewhere else, neglecting to consider that somewhere else is getting to be further and further from the campuses which make them viable. It’s Levittown all over again.
Hey, builders—make sure to paint everything the appropriate shade of grey.
What Day Is It?
Well, today is National Make A Hat Day, so get right on it. You’ve already missed National Chicken Boy Day (September 1st) and National Blueberry Popsicle Day (the 2nd) so try not to blow the whole month. My personal favorite used to be Whistle A Happy Song Day, during which I would wander throughout the town, whistling up a storm and dispensing good cheer to one and all. I was busily engaged in this benefit to humanity one fine morning, galumphing up and down the aisles of my neighborhood Publix market, when Siobhan wheeled her cart up in a huff. “You’re annoying the customers with that whistling,” she said, unkindly. “I beg your pardon, but surely you jest,” I protested, certain I was performing a Publix service. After all, nobody was complaining. “Not in YOUR aisle,” she advised. “The people in MY aisle were looking for the earplugs.”
On another occasion, I discovered it was Sing A Song With Dolly Day so I quickly grabbed my banjo and hopped the Greyhound redeye for Nashville. Unfortunately, nobody had advised Dolly’s surly henchmen of the big day and the largest, meanest hombre of the bunch threatened to “take that banjo and….” well, you know. What is it with the fascination for anal penetration in this country? I blame it all on the easy accessability of internet porn sites, but it could just be too many people binge-watching Game of Thrones.
Who gets to name all these days, anyway? Is there a committee in somewhere like Roanoke which convenes monthly and listens to requests? And who the hell is the guy who applied for Talk Like A Pirate Day? I mean, I get it with the food products, somebody is trying to make a buck. But how does anybody make a living encouraging people to talk like a pirate? Maybe it’s the City of Tampa, which has a giant celebration each winter called the Gasparilla Pirate Festival in which a motley band of seadogs lands on the shore, browbeats the mayor into giving them the key to the city and then celebrates with a big parade down the main drag. Needless to say, everyone Talks Like A Pirate. Maybe that’s it.
Unlike Dolly’s bouncers, we don’t want to be out of touch and neither should our readers. Prepare then for National Apple Dumpling Day on the 17th, Puppy Mill Awareness Day (third Saturday in September) and National Cheeseburger Day on the 18th. Critically important on the third Sunday of the month is Wife Appreciation Day, during which you’ll be expected to clean out the garage, escort her to the ballet and refrain from all sex acts below the waist.
On Sunday the 19th, it’s Butterscotch Pudding Day, and let’s have a big hooray for that. Elephant Appreciation Day is the 22nd, and about time, too. If there’s one area in which we are woefully deficient in this country it’s giving the proper recognition to our elephants. During EA Day, you’ll be expected to clean out the garage, escort them to the ballet and refrain from all sex acts below the waist.
The 23rd is Restless Legs Awareness Day, which we don’t get. If you have them you’re certainly aware of it and if you don’t, why worry? Are we supposed to be grief-stricken that somewhere in the world there is a person battling restless legs? What about yaws, why is nobody worrying about that? What about Alien Hand Syndrome? What about Xeroderma Pigmentosum? What about chronic hives?
September 24th is National Punctuation Day and thank God for that. Twitter has already destroyed everyone’s ability to spell properly, not that many people were doing too well in the first place. Grammar and Punctuation are merely afterthoughts when they are thought of at all. Pretty soon they’ll be having spelling bees where the winner is allowed to fail three times (the Indian kid will still win). Oh, and the 24th is also Schwenkfelder Thanksgiving. If you must know, that’s the day when little Adeline Schwenkfelder finally married Ralph Jones and got to drop three syllables and eight letters from her signature. It’s primarily celebrated in Pennsylvania Dutch country where you can’t drive your buggy down the street without running over a Schwenkfelder. In Pennsylvania, they don’t put the owners’ names on the business signs, just “Washateria,” “Pie Shop” and “Taco Emporium.” Everybody knows they belong to Schwenkfelder. Hey, it saves a lot on paint.
Huzzah for National Comic Book Day on September 25th. The day after is National Situational Awareness Day. What does that mean? Situational Awareness involves understanding what’s happening with your team as regards its mission. What if you have no team? What if you have no mission? I hear Roseanne Roseannadanna squeaking “Nevermind.” Wait til the 26th for a real holiday, National Crush A Can Day. Are you allowed to mash it against your head like in the old days or does current protocol require helmets, what with the modern sensitivity towards concussions and all?
The 28th is National Drink Beer Day, as if that needed any help. On the other hand, it’s also National Strawberry Cream Pie Day, which should never be ignored. The 29th is National Coffee Day so get ready to spend $5 in gas money to rush down to Starbuck’s to get something for free. September saves its best for last with Siobhan;’s favorite, National Mud Pack Day. You can wash it all down later that night with a steaming mug to welcome in National Hot Mulled Cider Day.
It occurs to us that we’ve been far too lax in our observance of these fine semi-holidays in the past, a deficit we intend to correct if only we can get through National I Just Lost My Short-Term Memory Day, celebrated far too often.
That’s all, folks….
