Wow. Color me impressed. Calipari hit a home run in his presser today. His passion and desire to coach the Kentucky basketball team and to do so with class and reverence for our past had to strike a cord with almost every UK basketball fan. He spoke eloquently, was funny and was honest.

I really like this guy.

I think...no I will predict. He will hang 2 banners in his 8 years here. And hopefully get more in the second half of his stay.

Basketball season is going to be a lot of fun this fall. I can hardly wait.

Shifting of the Gears

Alright, time for a shift. I will post more often. I must. I need it. And with all that is going on in Kentucky basketball, I need it more than ever.

Gillispie gone, Calipari maybe?

I love it. Not that I had anything against Gillispie but for some reason I always was uneasy with that hire. Something just did not feel right to me. I like his coaching actually. I think he knows basketball as well as anyone. But, he was not right for us.

Calipari also knows basketball but more than that, he knows how to handle boosters, media, fans, and administration. Plus, he's a great recruiter.

For some time now, I have felt that Kentucky basketball was like that old oak tree in my grandpa's front yard. I grew up in that tree. It was huge, perhaps as big as a car if memory serves me correctly and it was great shade for the front yard with wide ranging branches. I literally mean that I grew up in that tree. I climbed it, sat under, swung from it, and loved it.

One year it got hit by lightning. At first we thought it was fine but it slowly began to die and decay. Many times my grandfather talked about needing to cut it down or do something but we couldn't bring ourselves to do so.

Several years later, after my grandfather had died and I had been through college I went back. The grand ole oak was a shell. Rotted, broken and dying. Sadness engulfed me as the memories of the tree and what it had meant to me flooded back. It was still a tree but a shadow of it's former self and not much to look at.

Twenty feet from the broken, rotted shell was a slender, young sapling. A new oak had sprung up from the seed of the old oak. I can imagine that years from now, others will get the same benefit as I got from the old tree.

Kentucky basketball will be back. I can see the evidence of it in the players and hope that the new staff will buy into the program and help it grow. If so, many others will enjoy it's fruit just as I enjoyed the company of that old oak tree.

Long time...35th and Vine.

Wow...that last post was a long time ago. And it wasn't much good. I've not been writing much and it shows. I should write more. Now that my other job has slowed down for the summer I am trying to find the time to do so. With that, let's check in on Liddy and Deuce.


35th and Vine is probably a typical destination for a taxi cab. The reason? It's a shabby, rundown hotel/motel that has the ability to charge by the hour. It's not clean and it's not really a nice place at all. I guess you are wondering why I would head to such a place? Simple really. Help. I know somebody who lives in the room 17 at the Shady Tree Hotel/Motel. A friend if you will. But allow me to digress for a moment.


How are you supposed to know if it's a hotel or a motel? I've heard differing theories and I can't seem to figure this one out. At one time, I believed that a motel was one of those small, squat hotels that usually sat on the outside of my towns and you could park your car in front of your door. I thought that motel was some sore of contraction for hotel and motor, hence motel. But, I've been to plenty of motel's that actually described themselves as hotels which I always thought were fancy types of hotels where you had to park your car in a parking lot and walk inside a foyer and ride an elevator and essentially have the hell annoyed out of you by this whole situation. Why? Because invariably you will forget something outside in your car and have to make two or three trips to go out and get it. They pretend that these so called "hotels" are safer because you are inside with doors that don't open to the outside but by the time you walk out to your car two or three times a day to get something you need, it's just as dangerous as the motel where you can get to your care in a tenth of the time and be back in your room smoking hash and watching Oprah if you are so inclined to do such a thing of which I am inclined toward neither. I have a thing against drugs. And Oprah just sucks.

Either way, I have come to think of the Shady Tree as a motel even though it proudly touts on it's green neon signage that it is a "hotel." Whatever. I park in front of my door and that makes it a motel. I tell the driver of the cab to drop us at room 17 and he does.

Room 17 is on the back side, away from the street and away from prying eyes. Good thing. We look a mess. I'm still bleeding profusely from the head and Liddy has Waffle House everywhere. Good thing it won't matter much as the person we are about to disturb from his slumber is a friend of mine and a business associate.

We are barely out of the cab before the driver speeds away, kicking up dirt and gravel in our face as he squeals out of the lot.

I grab Liddy's hand and walk to door 17. Bang it hard with my hand.

Inside I hear a hefty grunt and I breathe a sigh of relief. I was afraid my friend wasn't home. The door opens and light spills out onto the doorway. Framed in the light is a big man. He's 6 foot 6, 380 lbs. or so. He's not wearing a shirt but fortunately is wearing cut off jean shorts. For Liddy's sake I am thankful as he has come to the door nude before. The striking thing about this man though is the huge beer belly. It's tremendous. I've often told him that he should call Guinness and get it measured. It really is something to behold. For about 5 seconds.

Meet my right hand man, Brewster Cognac, Thug for Hire. Seriously, that is his name. And seriously, that is his title. He's even got business cards. Seriously. Brewster and I have been through some scrapes in our time and we have a friendship that goes beyond the business arrangement. He's not too smart but what he lacks in brains he makes up for in sheer power and...well I can't think of too much else he does good right now. Well...he drinks beer good. Lots of it.

He sees me and grunts something that sounds like hey. He sees Liddy and grunts something that sounds like hmmm. He motions us in with the beer bottle in his right hand. We walk in.....

Siren Songs.....

I seem to find time in August to write in this blog for some reason. I don't know why. Right now I am up late because I can't go to sleep. So I decided to craft another episode of my flight of fancy involving Deuce Maverick, Private Eye. If you want to know where he stands right now, you will have to read the previous posts.

Sirens. Did I mention sirens? I hear them. And they are getting louder. Incredibly for some reason my mind begins to ponder sirens. And I don't mean the ones on top of cop cars. I mean the mythological sea nymphs that called a siren song to weary sea traveling men in order to vex their minds and use their bodies for their own private joys and....stuff. I've always wondered what such a sea nymph would look like. Invariably during late night web wanderings I have searched for artist renderings of such creatures and have been surprised at the numerous takes on their appearance. Some have depicted them as birds or ghosts that float by as they sing. I spend more time pondering the depictions that show them naked and barely clothed than I do the avian caricatures. Of course, what most men like me tend to forget is that being possessed by one of these creatures is supposed to be unsavory. I find that hard to believe for some reason. A beautiful, naked woman wants to capture me with her wonderful singing and pleasure herself using my body for all of eternity. Yeah, I'm still not sure I see the unsavoriness of this predicament. It's like the same unsavoriness I feel when I hear about some high school guy banging his hot English teacher at the age of 14. Yeah...

Sirens. Cops. I have a problem with cops. And as I still do not know what kind of predicament we are in, I make a decision. I help Liddy out of the car. It takes a few minutes but finally she makes it. She's got hash browns in her hair which is really gross but I let it go. I know if I say something I will never get her in the taxi cab. I see one coming down the opposite side of the street and I flag him down. He pulls up, cautious like.

"We need a ride."

He looks at the big Euro sedan, crumpled by the side of the road and sitting on it's roof. He looks at me. I'm sure he's seeing the caked up blood on my face and the dirt and grime on my clothes. He looks at Liddy. For a second I think maybe he is seeing the hash brown hair and the streaky mascara from the rain and crying. But who am I kidding. He sees her boobs.

"That your car?"

The question begs some kind of explanation. I don't have time for it right now.

"No."

No lie there. It's not my car.

"We are going to 35th and Vine."

I push Liddy in the car and climb in behind her. As we drive off, cop cars, ambulances and fire trucks converge on Liddies sedan.

The taxi driver looks at me.

"You know it's like against the law to leave the sight of an accident, right?"

I wish I had a gun. Instead, I pull a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet.

"We would really like to get to 35th and Vine sometime tonight and sometime quickly."

I hand it to him. The speed of the taxi doubles immediately and the sirens and flashing lights fade behind us.

And now to check in on Deuce Maverick and Liddy Horne once again...

Sweet Jesus my shoulder hurts. And my back. And my head. And my arms and butt and...you get the picture. Everything hurts. But that's ok. It beats being dead. By a slim margin but it does.

I decide to get out. Now getting out of an upside down car that you are strapped into is no easy task. In the movies, they make it look easy. One second, you're hanging there like a trussed up turkey and the next you roll out of the window and hit the ground running. It ain't like that. Let me tell you why.

You see, you are hanging...from the seatbelt. The seatbelt is the only thing keeping you from falling on your head. So if you release the seatbelt, you fall on your head. Got the picture? Now add the fact that you only have one arm to support yourself since you need one arm to release the belt and you've got quite a hard thing to do. Add to that the fact that severe disorientation sets in whenever you are involved in a flipping, rolling kind of accident and things get really difficult. Throw in Waffle House grease in your eyes and you have right near impossible.

Somehow, I get out. I pull myself to my feet and look around. I see the Escalade, front end smoking like Cruella Deville but otherwise unharmed. The driver is large, African American lady with pink fingernails. It looks like our accident didn't affect her cell phone call at all. I can hear it now...

"And honey, you won't believe what that fool of a man said then (BAM!!!! 2 second pause). Oh, girl I think I just hit a dog. Hang on and let me see..."

I shake my head and see the other cars slowing to gape at me. It's about this time that I realize I am bleeding. In fact, I am bleeding hard from a huge gash in my head. A trickle runs down my forehead and into my eye. I didn't notice it in the car because I was upside down but now it flow freely down my face. I must look like a walking gun shot victim or something. I see a kid in the back seat of a Volvo pass by and she screams. The Vovlo speeds away.

I pick just this moment to throw up. Now you might be thinking I am weak or something. But I'm not. Let me tell you why I hate the sight of blood. But before I do that, I decide to get Liddy out of the car. In my disoriented state I fear that the car will explode and splatter poor Liddy all over this side of town. Of course the truth is that cars rarely explode when involved in high speed crashes. The stats say that only about 3 out of 1000 cars explode this way. In my mind, 3 is a pretty big number right now and I would like to get myself far, far away from this Euro Sedan. It's about that time that I finally hear sirens...

Late, so late...

No apologies again for not writing in so long. I made a promise to update this blog sometime within two weeks however and I am doing it. It seems I have one faithful reader who wants to know what is going on with Deuce Maverick.

So, let's find out.

We've decided to hide out at Liddy's place. You know, get some rest after a long night and escaping our deaths and all that jazz. The drive over there is pretty uneventful with one exception. We almost die in a car crash.

It happened like this. Liddy's driving (it is her car after all) and I am sitting in the passenger seat, flipping through channels on the radio. I've just scanned past Christina Aguilera and hit Jimi Hendrix when we pass under a green light at a huge intersection. Out of frickin nowhere comes an Escalade rolling on 20's and plows into the rear end of Liddy's Euro sedan (still can't remember the name of that thing). The Escalade hits us so hard that the sedan goes into a spin, round and round what seems to be about 6 times before we slam into a guard rail and flip over.

The above description makes it sound like all this only took about 6 seconds. And the truth is, that is about all it took. But I can tell you it seemed like eternity. First off though is the CRUNCH! You haven't heard a horrible sound until you've heard the crunch of cars plowing into each other at high speeds. It one of those sounds that when you hear it, you know instinctively that peoples are probably dead or dying. One time I was on vacation at a friends house and we heard this horrible crash outside. As soon as we heard it, I looked at my friend and said, "Somebody just bought it." We get up and look out the window and these two cars are t-boned in the intersection. Smoke and car parts are everywhere and one dude staggers out of his car and falls to the ground. Cars are already stopped and helping and since the sight of blood makes me ill, we decide to not go out. Pretty soon ambulances and fire trucks are everywhere. Later, we hear on the news that the two drivers were killed.

It's pretty much the sound of death. Meat puppets like us don't last long in high speed metal boxes that get in the way of each other. So as soon as I hear the sound, I figure we are done. I start thinking if there's anything I want to write in my own blood while I am dying. You know, "Love you Mom" or some such crap. I decide I will probably write "Outlaw cell phones while driving" since I am sure the driver of that Escalade was probably talking to his homey when he slammed us. Either way I hope I last long enough to get my last words out. But then I realize that "Outlaw cell phones while driving" is going to need quite a bit of blood and then I remember that I hate the sight of blood and I decide that I might have to write it in my own puke which is not nearly as effective or poetic as blood.

Now I told you it only took about six seconds but I swear I had time to go through all of these thoughts and more while waiting for the final end. It's about this time that we hit the guard rail and airbags pop all around us. And I mean all around us. These euro sedans sure love their airbags. I have bags hitting me in the face and the sides all to the tune of screaming metal and rubber. I feel like I'm in some horrible post apocalyptic popcorn popper and then Liddy starts screaming. I experience a piercing pain in my shoulder and I realize that the seat belt is probably going to cut me in half. Now I am a propronent of seat belts. I do believe they save lives. And they probably saved mine tonight no doubt. But they sure do hurt! I mean, can't we pad these things some way? I decide that my next car, if I have a car other than a hearse, will have sheepskin padded seat belts. In fact, I decide that I will see if any company makes sheepskin padded airbags in case I ever get in a wreck again. I wonder for a second what kind of term to use in my web search and if Googling "sheepskin seat belt pads" will turn up what I want or some horrible porn sight that scars me and my offspring for life. It's about this time that the car screeches to a halt and everything gets deathly quiet, for sure.

I don't know why she did it really. I mean, the food was horrible. Greasy and slick like recently exposed entrails...it was awful. So I can't for the life of me figure out what Liddy wanted to keep her leftover Waffle House. And I especially wonder at the intelligence of such an act right now as the smothered, covered, and diced hash brown residue slides down over my eyes. Unfortunately, I am unable to move at the moment due to a seat belt that has decided to tighten down to torture chamber proportions and the fluff of the popcorn airbags all around me. I like the hash brown stuff off my mouth enough to speak and ask Liddy if she lives.

I hear a whimper and a moan and decide she does. At this point, I realize that we are UPSIDE DOWN, dangling from our seat belts and that explains why they hurt so bad. A second later, a see a pair of brown LUGZ walk up to my window. A young, black man leans down and says, "You dead? I'll call 911 but if you already dead, I don't want to waste the minutes."

I spit hash browns out of my mouth and mutter, "not yet."

He flips open his AMP'D mobile and hits 3 digits. At that moment, we hear sirens and he hangs up the phone. "Somebody beat me to it. Just hang in there, they be here soon."

He walks away.

So that's it....

Probably gonna be a short post tonight. I've been getting up every morning at 5:30am to get to work. Tomorrow I have the biggest day of our fall season and I sure hope all my employees make it to work. If not, trouble shall surely come. Should go well though. I've worked hard the last few days to make sure we have enough to cover play levels.


I gotta say, I really love my Xbox 360. I've had some good game consoles before but this one is like a good friend. My previous favorite console was the Dreamcast. I loved every game on that machine for some reason and finished more games on it than any other console I have ever had and I have had them all. But this 360 is really a great machine. There's so much there to entertain and do. If you have a lot of time, put in Gears of War. Just a few minutes, Geometry Wars. Heck, I'm even enjoying the Burger King games that I got for 4 bucks. I just love this machine. Just thought I would let you know.


Now, Deuce and Liddy are safe for the moment. Let's check in and see what in the sam hill is going on with them.


Waffle House food sucks. I can say that without hesitation. It just sucks. But you know, I don't think it's actually the food that makes it taste bad. To me, it's the fact that every Waffle House looks like every other Waffle House. The same furniture right out of the 50's, the same hard plastic seats, the same vinyl looking floor and counter tops. I could go to a Waffle House in San Francisco CA and eat and then fly across country to New York and other than a severe headache from jet lag and the inability to keep my eyes open, nothing would tell me that I was in establishments some 1200 miles apart.


What's wrong with our country? Why do we stamp out individuality at every turn....

Oh wait. I guess you are wondering what the heck is going on. Well, after the Big Fry that took out our attackers, Liddy and I found her car and got the fudge out of there. She's got a nice car by the way. It's one of those European luxury sedans that I can't quite remember the name of right now. All burnished wood and leather. Sure smells good. And the back seat is so inviting and big. I sure can think of a lot of uses for a car with a back seat like that...

So, of course we wound up at Waffle House. It's just a fact of life. If you ever get the chance to experience it you will know what I mean. You see, if you and someone else just escaped being gunned down in cold blood by hoodlums for no reason that you can place, I guarantee you will end up at Waffle House. No doubt about it. Try it sometime. Have some friends try to kill you late some night and see what happens.

Now if any of you at all are law abiding citizens reading this, you are asking yourself, why don't they call the cops? Well, I have a history with the cops in this town and it's all bad history. And I just shot a man. And watch two others fry. Not to mention that I have a record. But that's a story for another time. So let's just say we would like to avoid any police entanglements for the time being.

Plus there's the fact that I have no idea what the heck is going on. In case you hadn't noticed, I have yet to get any information out of this woman and wonder if I will ever. I do know this. She is paying my highest fee. And covering all expenses. Including this meal at Waffle House for the trouble she's been so far.

We order up some nondescript breakfast food that comes out in record time dripping grease and clogging the arteries of the people that just carry the stuff. No telling what it's doing to our arteries. All I know is that suddenly, I am starved. Now I started to go on a rant early about the loss of individuality in American. I mean, I know it's good business. Every McDonald's looks and acts like every other McDonalds because it makes money. Food is interchangeable, employees are interchangeable, and supplies are interchangeable. But just think. How cool would it be to go into a McDonalds and see the under age counter girl in a bikini? With pig tails? And instead of a Big Mac with fries, you could order Fried Chicken and watermelon? Or collard greens with fat back?

Wouldn't that be sweet? I mean, just every once in a while. Just maybe one McDonalds out of a hundred and it would turn into like a treasure hunt to find the McDonalds that does something different. How cool would that be? Pretty damn cool if you ask me.

Instead though, I'm looking at Helga who's worked at Waffle House for 10 years according to her plastic, silver merit badge that's speckled with sausage grease and covering the ketchup stain on her pinstriped blouse. And the menu is a laminated, plastic thing that is too damn big. Why are they so big? Can't they fit all the items on a smaller menu? And why don't they clean them sometimes? They are always slimy and greasy and hate I picking one up.

And last but not least, why the hell can't you get clean siverware at Waffle House? Do they all buy the same brand of dishwasher, the "ISuck" brand. Nothing like cleaning your fork with your own spit.

God, I love this country. At this point, Liddy breaks down and begins to sob into her grits. At least I think they are grits. Either way, she's crying hard and ruining them with rivers of tears.

I taste mine and decide the tears are probably an improvement....