What’s Up, Doc?
I went to a brand-spankin’-new doctor the other day, a “primary-care physician,” as they like to call them these days. My previous doc, whom I’ve had for nigh on to 27 years, was beginning to show a little wear around the collar, a tad of memory loss, and Covid pushed him over the edge of Sanity Mountain into the frigid, mind-numbing waters of Lake MAGA. He ranted against face-masks in the early stages of the pandemic, pontificated against vaccine shots, recommended his patients read looney-tunes right wing newspapers. I hung around this long because I give relationships of 27 years a lot of latitude (just ask my friend Trumper Jack) and we were on the same wavelength when it came to new, progressive ideas most conservative medicos didn’t know about or wouldn’t consider.
One day, however, Doctor Whatzisname came in with a large bottle of yellow-white colostrum, and it was the beginning of the end. Colostrum is the first milk a mother’s body produces during pregnancy, nutrient dense and high in the antibodies and antioxidants which help build a newborn’s immune system. This was to be a patient’s first line of defense in the Covid War. If you got the plague anyway, Doc was ready with Ivermectin, a horse-wormer par excellence which Siobhan had been using for years and was quite familiar with. Side effects include indiscriminate neighing, swishing your tail at flies and a strange yen for oats and alfalfa. When I told Doc W. we were going on vacation in July and might need a long-distance prescription for Paxlovid if worse came to worse, he absolutely refused to consider it. “That character is on the midnight train to Nutsville,” scoffed Siobhan. “You need a new plan, Stan.” Regretfully, I wrote a nice letter to the office staff, pulled the plug and transferred my medical records.
My new medicine man is young, enthusiastic and knowledgeable. He talked to me for an hour and a half, reviewed my records, performed a cursory physical exam and answered all my questions readily. When I got ready to leave, however, he pulled out a large bottle of a yellow-white substance and put it on the table. I looked askance. “Just mayonnaise,” he swore. “I’m having lunch in the office today.”
Sleepless In Seattle? Brain-Dead In Jacksonville. The Great Kanye West Debacle.
“You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies.”---Oscar Wilde
That goes for races, too. So far, the Jews have made mortal enemies of Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Ayatollah Khomeini, Mel Gibson and lately, Kanye West. Who are you having over to dinner tonight, Woody Allen or David Duke?
A few days ago in Jacksonville, city of geniuses, a cryptic message flitted across the outside wall of TIAA Bank Field during the Florida-Georgia football game, claiming “Kanye was right about the Jews.” This was a stunning development because Kanye is widely known for not being right about much. The identical message was visible on at least one other Jacksonville building the same night. On Friday, banners appeared hanging from a highway overpass on Interstate 10 reading “End Jewish Supremacy In America.” Similar incidents occurred during the weekend in other American cities, including Los Angeles. What do they want us to do, picket Luke's Bagels, stop watching Seinfeld reruns, burn down all the yarmulke factories because Kanye thinks it’s a good idea? Ye also said “I can say anti-Semitic things and Adidas can’t drop me. Now what?” As usual, he was wrong about that, too. “Now What” turned out to be a dumptruck showing up at his door, scooping him up and unloading him at the landfill with the rest of the debris. The unwary rapper was subsequently run over in the stampede of most of his remaining sponsors abandoning ship. Reminds us of the old saw “How do you become a millionaire? Start with a billion and follow Kanye West’s advice.” Kanye’s net worth dropped like the mercury on a winter’s day in Fargo, by a figure estimated at 2 billion overnight, and counting. Inamorata Kim Kardashian was seen in the Manhattan diamond district next day cashing in a few tiaras for meal money.
From The Horse’s Mouth:
July 2, 2005: “Aids is a man-made disease that was placed in Africa just like crack was placed in the black community to break up the Black Panthers.”
September 9, 2007: “I can’t believe Brittany Spears would perform (at the MTV Video awards, instead of him). She hasn’t had a hit record in years. They don’t want a fuckin’ black man in that position. I will never return to MTV.”
February 23, 2011: “An abortion can cost a ballin’ nigga up to 50 Gs, maybe a hundred. Gold-diggin’ bitches be getting pregnant on purpose.”
Not convinced? Here’s a few more:
“I am God’s vessel, but my greatest pain in life is that I will never be able to see myself perform.”
“By 50%, I am more influential than Stanley Kubrick, Apostle Paul, Picasso Fucking Picasso and Escobar. By 50%, more influential than any other human being.”
“People write novels and they just be so wordy and self-absorbed. I am not a fan of books. I would never want a book’s autograph. I am a proud non-reader of books.”
“Visiting my mind is like visiting a Hermes factory. Shit is real.”
“I need a room full of mirrors so I can be surrounded by winners.”
“I have decided in 2020 to run for president.”
“I’m a pop enigma. I live and breathe every element in life. I rock a bespoke suit and I go to Harold’s for fried chicken.”
We’d probably cry if we weren’t laughing so hard.
Kanye West’s unfortunate disciples, wandering aimlessly in an intellectual desert, remind us of the old philosopher’s observation: “Show them a light (however dim) and they’ll follow it anywhere.” Kanye is actually the light at the end of the tunnel. The one that runs you over if you stay on the tracks too long.
The Flying Pie, being a friend of oppressed minorities has a suggestion. Mark your calendars, it’s only 5 months to the first annual Hug A Jew Day on March 6, which used to be the start of Purim. We’ll have plenty of bagels and lox, the Yeshiva choir will sing Hebrew folk songs and Rabbi Daniel Levine will lead the first kosher doobie toss. No hooded garments will be allowed and any swastikas discovered will be straightened out and sold for kindling. Hava Nagila, y’all!
Say It Ain’t So, Ernie!
So now, the ultimate fall from grace; the tailgater sport of Cornhole has its first cheating scandal. We were gobsmacked earlier in the year by revelations of skullduggery in the perceived innocent sport of fishing when calloused contestants took an edge by filling their catch’s bellies with sinkers and other weighty detritus. Previously, irregularities arose in supposedly chaste activities like Irish dancing, chess and Fat Bear Week, and now this. Where is the esteemed Stacey Moore, Commissioner of Cornhole, when you really need him?
Cornhole competitors have recently been accused of such atrocities as thinning their game bags and using non-compliant bags to grab an advantage in what is hyped as “America’s Favorite Backyard Sport,” which apparently replaced Boinking without our knowledge. Is nothing sacred? The scandal, now called BagGate, has the tailgate world atwirl.
In August, 2022, the American Cornhole Association National championship in Rock Hill, South Carolina was riddled with chicanery. First, the top-ranked duo was found to have illegal beanbags. After that, their opponents were found equally guilty. Nonetheless, officials of the ACL, apparently struck stupid by the horrendous disgrace, shrugged off the discrepancies and let the games continue. It’s like a baseball umpire finding vaseline on a pitched ball and saying, “Okay—everybody gets to throw spitballs!”
Lighter and thinner bags apparently are easier to get in the hole and creative cornholers have found endless ways to skirt the rules. By regulation, a resin-filled bag should be 6 inches by 6 inches and weigh approximately 16 ounces. Washing bags with fabric softener, boiling bags in water and driving over them with a car apparently leads to an advantage, however, and all of these practices have been cited by the Wall Street Journal, of all people. The ACL has promised random bag checks in the future and is “exploring infrastructure for automated bag testing.”
The encouraging motto of the American Cornhole League is “Anyone Can Play, Anyone Can Win,” which is apparently true since Jay Corley, one of the league’s stars, has often emerged victorious despite being snockered. After studying the legacies of athletes like Michael Jordan and Derek Jeter, Corley recently decided to stop drinking, leading to mixed feelings among sponsors like Bush’s Beans, Bacardi Spice Rum, Jonesville beef sausages and Mike’s Hard Lemonade. How good could he be straight-arrow if he’s killing everybody now, wondered one sausage magnate.
According to the WSJ, which seems to know about these things, a spokesman for the Facebook group Addicted to Cornhole recently commented, “I can’t believe everyone thought it would be all friendships and rose petals forever---now the dirty underbelly is being exposed.” A long and exhausting discussion of the dastardly corruption followed in Facebook-world, solving little. There have been recent rumblings in the U.S. Congress about intervening in the matter. “If they can’t clean up their mess,” promised Senator Smoot (Republican, Ut.) we’ll do it for them. The youth of America are bumfuzzled by this shocking behavior and are having trouble putting it behind them.” Hopefully, the venerable Wall Street Journal will remain astride the hole story.
Grandpa Jones Is Not Dead. A Little Weathered, Maybe....
Rock ‘n’ Roll music came about at just the right time in my life. As a schoolkid, I listened to DJs Arnie Ginsburg and Alan Freed late into the night in my bedroom before I went to sleep. I was in the theater for Blackboard Jungle, when Bill Haley & His Comets checked in with Rock Around The Clock, and I was stunned to the core at Elvis Presley’s first TV performance. I think the Beatles are the best rock band---if you want to call their music "rock"---ever assembled. I went to the first two Atlanta Pop Festivals and had as much fun as everyone else. But I have a secret; give me one night of music and one place to go and I’m back at the old Ryman Auditorium to watch the Grand Ole Opry.
I'm not going to disparage other forms of music, virtually all of which I enjoy, even though today’s rock ‘n’ roll is not anything like the original stuff I grew up with. I just like country---which covers a lot of ground---better. We're talking an expansive menu from old mountain music to bluegrass to folk to Cajun fiddling. There are several times more radio stations programming country right now than rock. Don’t like country? How do you feel about The Byrds’ Sweetheart of the Rodeo album? How about the Flying Burrito Brothers? Oh, that’s different, you say. Not in my book. Country is out there everywhere, sneaking in the back door in disguise, reeling people in before they know it. How do you feel about Emmy Lou Harris? Dolly? I heard a Taylor Swift song the other day that sounded suspiciously like country. It's everywhere, wearing a perky disguise.
A few of my friends already know that my primary goal for 2023 is to open a Hogtown Opry in Gainesville with a few amigos you know and love. We will be no competition for Heartwood and the other local venues because country music is rarely featured anywhere in the Gainesville area. The first ruffle of protest I hear when I mention this is “Why not do this in Ocala, where it would be an instant smash?” My answer is that despite residing just barely in Marion County, my heart, my soul and my peeps all live in Gainesville. I am a Hogtown guy. And if you think about it, Alachua County is completely surrounded by rural counties, likely customers for our wares. Our country music will be lively and surprising and visitors will soon realize there will never be a dull moment at the Hogtown Opry. I think I heard Gina Hawkins say she had an old Minnie Pearl outfit up in the attic and Ron Thomas was born to play Grandpa Jones, so that’s a start. Perhaps the place will be large enough to finally allow for a long-awaited Gainesville Music Museum and an on-site internet radio station.
Of course, to do all this, we need the right building to lease. We are currently engaged in talks with a couple of possible lessors, but nothing is nailed down. If these talks fall through, we’ll be looking for a building that will seat a minimum of 500 people with the possibility of expansion, the closer to the center of town the better, but not an absolute requirement. If anybody out there has any ideas about a location, please let me, Mike Boulware or Tom Shed know about it. You know how to find us. Until then, happy trails to you until we meet again. Meantime, practice your twang.
That’s all, folks…
