Tuesday, September 26, 2006

THE HEIRLOOM

I have a family heirloom. It is an antique pitcher, designed to resemble a pine cone. It was made in England and brought into the South on a blockade runner during the War Between the States. Its contribution to the Confederate war effort is a little uncertain, but it is a beautiful work of craftsmanship. It came to me from my father's mother, and so is a symbol of the blood ties that ground us in a place and ethos that shape who we are.

And all of that is lost on me.

See, I'm somewhat shallow. If I am going to display a symbol of my heritage, I want it to be an object of lethal force, something that shows that heroic, warrior blood flows in my veins. I want to have something like the three .54 caliber Burnside bullets that were pulled from my great-great-great grandfather after his fell deeds at Antietam. I want a sword that led a desperate charge against Sherman's legions. I want a bayonet that was wielded in the Wilderness.

And that's not just to ease my insecurities. The bayonet and the sword would come in very handy if I were to find a neighbor throwing his grass clippings into my yard or if I needed to strictly enforce bedtime rules on young children. "Yes, this sword was repulsed at Cemetery Ridge many years ago. But it shines in victory after the battle of 3546 Spring Haven Drive! Never again will this hallowed ground be sullied by the clippings of 3544 Spring Haven Drive!"

I suppose I could invent a story in which the pitcher is somehow pivotal to Rebel success. I suppose I could tell people that during the Battle of Chancellorsville, General Robert E. Lee was pacing anxiously in his tent, his mind unable to focus on the task at hand, his subordinates worried. "Just look at this tent," Lee would say. "It's decor is just hideous -- almost tacky! And no Persian rugs or throw pillows will change that! How am I supposed to lead an army from such a ghastly domicile?!" Just then a courier comes up with a bundle under his arm. "General Lee, sir," the courier would say, "I have the parcel from Charleston that you sent me to get." "Oh, thank heaven," Lee would say, "I hope it is what I think it is. IT IS! Just look at this pitcher! Isn't it fabulous! Let me put it right here, and ... THERE! Doesn't my tent now just look amazing?! And that pine cone shape gives me an idea ... yes ... YES! Tell General Jackson to attack the Yankee flank through the forest. That should fix them!"

Or something like that.

If I find a group of re-enactors that's as gullible as Florida real estate virgins, I might be able to bootleg the pitcher into a mock battle. Just how I'll do that would require handful upon handful of psychoactive drugs, but I can just see it now: An officer in gray stands before his troops, exhorting them to glory. "Gallant soldiers! Now comes the time when our valor must be summoned! The time when we must endure the perils of battle to protect our homes, our families, our wives and our children. We must throw back the invaders, or see all that we hold dear be destroyed. What lies before us is the sting of combat -- the haze and acrid smell of gunpowder, the screams of the wounded and the dying, the blood of comrades. But should the haze, the smell, the screams and the blood become to much for you, I want you to remember that behind you Corporal Parnell will carrying a pitcher of his delightful margaritas that might give you just enough refreshment and liquid courage to fight on."

Such an act would have a pretty short life, unfortunately. Sooner or later, a more conscientious and savvy band of re-enactors would come along. They might first observe my contribution with the bug-eyed bemusement that Warner Brothers cartoon characters do so well. But inevitably, their leader would bellow in a voice that would stifle a cannonade, "Boys, we finally get to do a live-fire exercise! I want you to put real ordnance in your muskets, and I want you to shoot the pitcher ... and shoot the man holding it!" Or perhaps he would just insist on a firing squad for me and the pitcher.

But the pitcher does not belong near a battlefield. As I said, it is a beautiful work of craftsmanship. I suppose the only hope left for me is to see whether I can finagle a set of silverware from the family treasure. You know, something that can be melted down and turned into a sword or bayonet.

Monday, September 18, 2006

FISH STORY

A friend and I went to the Georgia Aquarium on Sunday. It has been a rocky few weeks in Johnstown, and I felt a deep yearning to be near many creatures without highly developed frontal lobes and identifiable speech. What follows are a few brief impressions I had of the aquarium.

Each display has a sign next to it with a fact or two about the featured fish. Usually, this information was life span, where it is found and what it eats. I thought there should have been more information about stuff that really matters to the average Joe. For instance, one display should have read, "the red snapper is found off the Georgia coast and can grow to an average of 3 feet. It is best served pan-seared with an herb rubbing and wedge of lemon." Or something like that.

The Chinese otters were taking a nap, and so were disappointing. I went to their display fully expecting to see them frolicking about their pool, cute as could be. Instead, they were as lethargic as a bunch of opium addicts. So I think that when the otters decide to slack off for a bit, somebody should tie cords to their legs and tail and start manipulating the brutes as though they were marionettes. They don't have to be high-kicking like Rockettes, but they have to be doing something. Maybe they could be dressed like Cyrano and Roxanne ...

There is only one reason people want to see pirhanas: the feeding frenzy. They want to see large South American rodents stripped to the bone as the water is churned into a bloody froth. They want to see dread stories made fact. But these pirhanas just sort of herded together like a bunch of finned cows. They looked downright docile and none was displaying the fearsome teeth. Had a large South American rodent blundered into that tank, it might have received a glare or two, and it might even have been severely gummed by the fish, but there was scant evidence it would have been torn to shreds.

There was some talk about whether the fish looked sad in captivity. I would hardly expect that a creature spared the Darwinian horrors of nature would be sad. Indeed, if I were low on the food chain of the sea, I would be thrilled to learn that to enjoy a predator-free existence and to earn my daily bread all I had to do was promenade in front of gawking tourists. And I saw no sign of displeasure. Not once did a school of silverfish arrange itself into The Finger nor did it form letters to spell out S-C-R-E-W Y-O-U L-O-U-S-Y C-A-P-T-O-R-S.

The one tank we didn't see that intrigued me was the tank full of fish to feed the star attractions. I wanted to see this tank of the damned. There I might have seen genuine sorrow, but it would have been worth it if all the fish had been like Deepo, the annoying cartoon mascot of the aquarium. His leering visage was ubiquitous, and it made me want to test the lethality of the pirhanas by tossing a few cartoonists into their tank.

And perhaps if one of the cartoonists had struggled free, we would have seen the pirhanas talk avidly among themselves of the one that got away. It would be quite a fish story.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

IN THE GAME

With this Saturday just chock full o' big games, my superstitions are going into overdrive. I just can't trust the players and the coaches of my teams to prepare as best they can and play as hard as they can. They need help from me -- they need that cosmic mojo that only I can give. Therefore, should they win, it will be in no small part because of whatever obscure and ridiculous gametime rituals I can concoct.

But what should I do to ensure victory? On one message board that I frequent, a young man said that when he and his friends watch their beloved college football team play, they arrange products endorsed by the head coach around the television set. You know, sort of like cultists bringing offerings to an altar. But it carries with it some risks. Most college football coaches in the South endorse such things as high-fat foods and lumber products. So it's entirely conceivable that that ritual might lead one friend to stunt eating (messy, with a high probability of projectile vomit and/or heart attack) and another friend to using a two-by-four smash up your residence during pivotal shifts in the game.

Maybe such rituals are half-hearted. After all, these superstitions smack of pagan rituals, so maybe we should plunge into paganism wholeheartedly. Maybe we should court damnation to guarantee victory. Maybe we should make living sacrifices to the football gods. Take an adored pet -- or the neighbor's dog, whatever -- cut its heart out and offer the still-beating organ up to an idol with three heads: Keith Jackson's, Bear Bryant's and Knute Rockne's. The ritual is of course accompanied by chants of "Whoa, Nelly."

Unfortunately, the only animal I could sacrifice is Pimp Kitty, a beast utterly secure in his worthlessness. If I were to approach him wearing robes of my team's colors and brandishing a butcher knife, he might look alarmed for a second, but then he would just smirk and curl up dismissively. "Go ahead, moron. Offer me up to your football deities. Once I'm cast into their Olympian realm, whining for food and defecating all over the hallowed halls, they're going to want some payback. You'll be lucky if your college team is able to beat even a fourth-place Pop Warner team after the gods get their revenge jones on."

So maybe I should just watch the games and shut up. But I'm keeping the butcher knife handy.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

COURIC'S SIGN-OFF

Katie Couric is searching for a signature sign-off to go with her new position as CBS News anchor, and she is soliciting the public's input. I guess some network executive thought this would be a good way to make the news broadcast more interactive and viewer-friendly, but it has the potential to saddle Ms. Couric with a woefully out-of-character sign-off. For instance, I suggested, "And that's how we rolled (gives date)." She also could be pessimistic: "I'm Katie Couric, and that's our world ... and it still sucks." She might embellish this one with a sip of scotch and a drag on a cigarette.

But what do you think she should do?