Recovery

As reported earlier in this 'blog (yes, I still spell it correctly), I lost my employment of 27 years in May, 2009. It has been a wild ride, involving loads of creative ideas for delaying payment of bills, and cutting back on non-essentials. I am one of those people to whom the words "unalienable rights" in the Declaration of Independence does not involve HBO or dinner outside the home once per week. I still have my house, and the family is intact. Recently, we have moved from shaky to recovery-mode, due to yet another May event.

My young bride, to whom I have been wed for 24 years, is a skinny, 19-year-old college sophomore in my head. She has long, luxurious brunette hair, and an attitude of superiority that manifests itself in her voluminous vocabulary. I may have stated this before, but it bears repeating: when I become very angry, my words get smaller and smaller until they are nothing but monosyllabic spurts of testosterone-infused unpleasantness. My young bride, however, is my polar opposite. The angrier she gets, the longer the words get, and they are spewed with a sarcastic wit that rivals the strongest capsaicin compound available. A good deal of that wit has been directed at the Tate & Lyle corporation the last couple of years.

Anyway...

...she has been seeking employment since I lost mine. Now, with a degree in History, an expired teaching certificate, and a spotty employment record, she is -- on paper -- a gamble, but she searched. I, myself, was without full-time employment and company-provided health insurance for eighteen months, and that's with thirty-three years of constant attendance and performance behind me, so there's no blame to be tossed about.

One day, on the local version of craigslist, my young bride saw an employment ad to which she replied. When reporting the ad to her internet peers, they metaphorically rolled their eyes and said, collectively, "It's a scam." Then, she got a reply from her query. The opportunity was for a legal assistant to a Knoxville attorney who, mostly, practices family law. The ad had been placed by one of his former assistants, who had taught History at one of the local middle schools, but left that job due to the stress, and her desire to procreate. She (who had gone off to Germany with her soldier-husband and their offspring) was now helping her former employer find a new assistant, because he's a lawyer, and he spends all day and night doing lawyer-stuff.

She, also has a good vocabulary. The two of them corresponded a few times, no doubt exchanging witty commentary on world events, and an interview was arranged. The law practitioner has no idea how to interview, and spent the entire time telling my young bride about himself, his practice, and the things required of an assistant. She didn't know it before she walked in, but she already had the job, due to the fact that the former assistant liked her. He didn't even conduct further interviews.

While luck may play some role in these proceedings, sometimes it's just who and how you are that does the trick.

My young bride is now the legal assistant to Attorney X, and has an office in downtown Knoxville that overlooks Market Square. Her income nearly matches my own, and we now -- as a unit -- make more $$ per hour than I ever made on my own. Also, too, we car-pool barring some odd appointment that one of us may have, because we both work day shift and have (most) weekends off.

It's an adjustment, having that kind of income, after having nearly none for so long. My worst fear is over-spending, due to our recent financial difficulties. We have spent the summer taking care of things that we had put off because we had no money. We replaced the refrigerator (it was eighteen years old and was slowly dying), and now have a side-by-side with an ice dispenser. What luxury! We also got our lemon HVAC unit replaced. It hasn't worked properly since -- oh, let's say 2007, and I have learned more about HVAC maintenance than I ever needed to know. We now have cool air coming out of every vent in the house, and we have A/C in the bathroom!

I worried, at first, about my behavior, because I have a somewhat low opinion of my own character. I have been the sole source of income for the family for the bulk of my adult life, and that was okay, because I made good money. We have lived well, and taken some fabulous vacations to Walt Disney World, Edisto Beach and Miami. It was a concern for me that I not react in a negative way to my young bride's financial contribution to our very survival.

Luckily, it turns out that I'm not quite the ASS that I ASSumed. The fact is, her job may not have saved us, but it probably saved our real estate investment, and -- possibly -- the trouble of public-housing, and this is not insignificant in my section of the space/time continuum. Skinny, 19-year-old college sophomores have their place in the cosmos, and hers is on Gay Street in Knoxville.

Alternating Political Philosophies

Let's see, it's July, now, and I'm finally writing about getting my taxes done in March. Yep, I'm still behind! I have been without a home computer for a few weeks, but now, that problem is solved. These days, it seems, all one must do is stand in the yard with a couple hundred dollars and wish really hard. We used the VISA, but it still worked okay.

My tax guy is a man I've known since 1983, Chris Wilson. He is originally from Etowah, Tennessee, but now lives in Alcoa with his hot young bride, Blanche. They have two adult children who have moved on to live their own lives, successfully, it seems. Chris and I met at a workout facility in Athens, Tennessee when we were both much younger. We were good weight-training partners, because he was stronger in chest, arm and shoulder exercises, while I did better in the leg and back department. This gave us both motivation to advance, as well as an opportunity to belittle one another at every machine, loudly. Ugly words and phrases were exchanged, all in good guy-fun.

Chris's favorite story about me has to do with the time he made an attempt to teach me to water-ski. I would relate the story, but it simply loses something without his voice going higher and higher -- to the point of dogs howling at him -- right before he collapses and passes out from lack of oxygen due to laughing so hard. I like for him to tell the story to people, simply for the opportunity to cover his face with whipped cream while he's unconscious.

Chris has a mechanical mind, and had been in the engineering department of a manufacturing company for a number of years, before he moved into marketing, which is Satan's work. We both wound up being bitten by the economic downturn bug. But Chris, the workaholic, also has a small business out of his home wherein he provides income tax services, as well as mutual fund and insurance sales. They're surviving. If you need help, C. L. Wilson Income Tax Service will bail you out.

So, in early March, I went to Chris with all of my tax information, meager as it was. In 2010, I made less money than in any year since 1982, what with my on/off employment situation. I was actually employed full-time for about the last forty days of the year, thank goodness. But, I don't make the money per hour to which I am accustomed, so we've made cuts, and done without things like trips to the nicer places for dinner. We're surviving, also.

Chris and I chatted about life, liberty, and the pursuit of wealth while he worked his incomprehensible voodoo magic over my pitiful W-2 forms. It's very similar to the Sorcerer Mickey scene from "Fantasia." Every now and again he would ask a pertinent question, which I would answer, then he would type into Merlin's computer and glitter-dust would shoot out the top of the monitor. At the end of the session, Chris announced the amount of my income tax return.

I heard the figure, and it was significantly more than in the last dozen years, or so. I informed Chris that he had -- clearly -- uttered some incorrect incantation. He then turned the voodoo-infused monitor toward me, and began to explain that, it wasn't he who had created the strange figure, but our most recent elected president and his odd policies, wherein, the less one earns, the more income tax return one receives.

Now, as a good Libertarian, I am --philosophically speaking -- against this sort of policy. It goes against common sense. However, as a person who has been income-challenged the last couple of years, I thanked Chris for his time, shook his hand, and floated back to Philadelphia, knowing that I would soon be nearly out of debt, other than my mortgage. This was a happy event that went directly against my core belief system.

It has been four months, and I am still confused, but more solvent than I was, which has more to do with my next post than this one, but that's for later.

Catching Up

I have been a literary slacker for the past couple of months, and I think of that as a bad thing. There is no true reason for it. I have been busy, yes, but not so occupationally taxed that I couldn't have "penned" a few sentences here and there. And I have subject matter to impart; I simply haven't been participatively impartive (I made that up).

Thus, to get my 2 1/2 readers caught up, here are the matters I will broach in the next couple of weeks. I tell you so that you'll know, as well as to have a constant reminder to myself:

1. I was forced to purchase new tires for my truck.

2. The current presidential administration's socialist tendencies started to work for me.

3. Our refrigerator began an ugly, untimely demise.

4. My young bride found gainful employment.

I will begin with the story of my tires.

I started toward home one afternoon, after making a stop at Emerachem, the company which provided off and on temp employment for me in 2009/10. My buddy, Chuckles The Chemistry Clown, had a proposal for some possible weekend work he needed done, and -- being the sole breadwinner -- I was entertaining the possibility. After Chuckles, Tony and I hashed out some details, I mounted my truck and headed down I-40 in a westerly direction.

I had just passed under the Lovell Road bridge, when I heard a funny sound coming from the vehicle. After a couple of seconds, it was clear that one of my tires was flat, so I engaged my right turn signal and limped to the side of the westbound entrance ramp at Lovell, cursing the fact that I had a flat tire and no cell phone.

The lack of modern technology has been a point of pride with me for the last decade or so, and I crowed often that "I get into my truck to get away from the phone," but, just then, it wasn't really working for me. I am, however, fairly self-contained, and I know how to change a tire. What I didn't know was how to disengage the spare from beneath the truck. So, I read the instructions in my 18-year-old owner's manual that came with the vehicle, got my jack out, and let the spare down from the rear. About the time the tire reached the correct level, it occurred to me that this particular piece of equipment had never before seen daylight. The tire was the same age as the truck, and a victim of dry-rot.

However, cock-eyed optimist that I am, I filled the only sort'a solid tire with Fix-A Flat, and began removing the lugs from the flat at the left front. This is when I made another discovery. I could not remove the tire, no matter what I did. Push, pull, beg, reason; none of these things worked. And I still had no phone.

After about 45 minutes of struggle, I gave up, grabbed my glucose monitor, locked the truck and started up the entrance ramp to Lovell Road. I stopped at the first business that presented itself, Bojangle's. This is where my luck finally began to turn, somewhat. I went to the ordering line, which was empty, and explained to the guy behind the counter the edited version of my plight. He directed me to the left end of the counter, and handed the land-line receiver, which had dialing buttons on it. I called home, no answer. I called my young bride's cell, no answer.

I told the counter-guy that I was going to the men's room to clean up a bit (I had been crawling around under and beside the truck, of course), and if I could use the phone again when I returned, I would then order some dinner. He -- whom I judge to be in the same age-bracket as myself -- said, "No problem."

So, I got cleaned up as well as could be accomplished in a fast-food restroom, then sojourned back out, where counter-guy happily handed me the phone again. I got 'hold of my young bride this time. I explained the edited version again, and told her where she could find me. She was, at the time, in Sweetwater, and would drop off groceries at home, then rescue me from the situation. It might take a while.

There was food, my truck was locked, there was a roof, and I had my glucose monitor and my i-Pod. I got a cajun chicken sandwich, fries and a drink, plugged into Kathleen Madigan, and ate dinner. A while later, here came my Prius, and I finally started back toward home. When I got there, I discovered -- once again -- that I am stupid. I had left my monitor sitting on a chair in the restaurant.

The internet provided me the telephone number, and --lo and behold -- counter-guy answered the phone. I explained my new situation, and he said, "A diabetic kit? I've got it here, in the office." He should probably be a fireman.

I retrieved my kit the next morning (BTW, the country ham biscuits at Bojangle's are superior), and arranged to have my truck towed to Toyota of Knoxville for the installation of four new tires (they were, pretty much, shot), for which I paid with my VISA.

But that's a story involving our current president, and I don't want to give anything away. Until next time, keep your eyes on the road, your hands on the wheel, and get a damn cell phone!

My Equine Tendencies

First of all, let us establish that I am not a clothes horse; very much the opposite, in fact. I know little about pop culture, and less about fashion, but I know what I like. It is my opinion (for what it's worth) that -- for men -- the most flattering types of formal wear are the tuxedo and the military dress uniform. Having never been a military person, I don't get the honor of wearing the latter, but the former, I would don daily if I had the liquid assets and the excuse. I love a nice tuxedo. Of course that "liquid assets" thing pretty much eats away at my opportunity for tuxedo-donning.

This post is not about a tuxedo, but will explain my inner angling toward hors-i-ness.

In 1991, when I was an employee of Sta-Con-Tatelyle (I never know what to call it these days, as it has been passed around like a small-town whore), I was assigned to the corporate headquarters -- Decatur, IL -- for an industrial research effort. This effort involved a good deal of overtime and swing-shift labor, but was the most exciting working year of my life. The company was booming, the checkbook was open, and we learned something new and interesting every day.

We, the family, resided in an apartment, paid for by the company, about 1.5 miles from the local mall. At the mall was a Bachrach's haberdashery, and in the window was a suit after which I lusted, mightily. The suit was a black, double-breasted, pin-stripe affair, with the stripes alternating a teal and mauve in color. Now "teal" and "mauve" are made-up words to describe the colors green and lavender for women. In fact, "teal" is a kind of duck, and "mauve" is actually an in-between color of burgundy leaning towards lavender. But, to communicate with the fairer and more intelligent gender, these are the words I must use.

One week, in the spring, after a particularly lucrative compensatory notification, I told my young bride that I was going to Bachrach's to purchase the suit. I was excited about it, as was she, because she had not -- heretofore -- seen this side of my personality. Thus, off we went.

We arrived at the haberdashery, and -- for the first time since I had noticed it -- the suit was gone from the window. This caused me to worry, but in we went, so that I could inquire. I went to the counter to ask after the suit, and the clerk asked, "You mean this one?" and pointed behind him at the wall, where it hung, handsomely, in all its wool finery. I told the young man that I wished to purchase the suit, and he zipped from behind the counter to show me all of the accoutrements that I would need to go with it.

This was a new thing for me, but it made sense as we dove headlong into the process. Why buy a new suit if one has no socks, shirts or ties with which to complement it? I got measured for the purpose of securing the proper size jacket (40 regular), and making certain that the pants were properly trimmed (32/30; I was in better physical condition at the time). After the measurements, I had to select some dress shirts. I believe they successfully sold me on four of them, as well as accompanying ties with each. Then I had to get matching socks, so I didn't look goofy with -- well -- plain black, for God's sake. Oh, and pocket squares! Can't forget those! That was a new folding talent I had to learn.

After all was said and done, I left the store with the extras, a promise of the suit's readiness a few days later and a receipt that registered between $750 and $800. I felt like such a spendthrift.

You know what? It was totally worth it, every time I put the thing on. Especially when I wore the plain white Perry Ellis shirt, the most comfortable dress shirt I have ever worn. It was like wearing a cloud, but lighter and softer. Maybe I was totally in touch with my feminine side, but --when I wore the suit -- I felt good, head to toe.

Of course, I can't wear it anymore, 'cuz that was 20 years and pounds ago. It still hangs in my closet, looking abandoned and forlorn, wishing that I would simply drop the extra weight and don it again, promising the same old feeling. Like that'll happen.

Reaching The Science Fiction Future

Once again, because I am aging -- as opposed to gracefully dying young -- a recent event has reminded me of an adventure from my youth. The Boy (Woodrow Robert, according to official state records) has rendered his old box spring set useless. This is probably a no-fault occurrence, as he has been on this bed set for several years. Thus, my young bride betook herself to our local furniture gallery, Greer's, to procure a replacement. We have shopped here exclusively for the past decade due to superior aid and service, as well as decent prices.

She explained to the person who helped her that she was looking for a twin box spring at a discount price, since The Boy is eighteen and will be going on to his Naval career (his decision) in only a few years. He located a discontinued model whose price had been heftily lowered, quoted the cost, and the deal was made. When she inquired about method of payment, debit card, check, whatever, he actually said that cash was good. Cash? Nobody takes cash anymore, without a gun pointed directly at their temple.

I went the next day with my truck (the one that is now old enough to vote and buy tobacco products), and, when the time came to render remuneration, I dragged out my wallet and produced the government issue, paper representations of my labor. Then the woman behind the counter counted out my change, without benefit of any electronic device, coins first, then bills, as God intended. It was very surreal, in an historic context.

I remember reading futuristic fiction and watching films in my adolescence, wherein people would buy things and pay with "credits." Our society has now reached that point, such that my debit card takes care of my fuel and food purchases, as well as the occasional stop for consumption-grade ethanol at Bob's. Which, finally, brings me to the memory that reared up from all of these occurrences.

When I was married the first time, all those years ago, we -- as a couple -- decided to spend July 4th weekend, 1980, in Knoxville. For young people who had hardly ever been anywhere, or done anything, this was a big deal. I made a reservation at what is now the Marriott, but was then the Hyatt Regency, near the Civic Coliseum/Auditorium building. At that time, this was the closest thing to a luxury hotel that Knoxville had. We parked the car as near to the front door as possible, and perambulated to the front desk, where the young lady who was operating things was deep into a terribly important conversation, which I interrupted, being the rude person that I am.

I made known that there was a reservation with my last name attached, and she grudgingly checked the records. She then asked how I intended to pay, and, with not a hint of guilt on my part, I pulled a wad of filthy, possibly terminal, cash from my wallet (Lord knows where it had been). Now, in my fuzzy memory, I can see the young lady handling the bills -- two-fingered -- as if they were infected with cholera, or perhaps anthrax. I'm certain that is just my mind doing a little creative editing, but it entertains me, nonetheless.

Having procured my, probably diseased, change we made our way to the hotel room. Here is what I remember about it, with absolutely no memory edit whatsoever:

-- It was dusty. I wrote my name into the dust on the bureau; it was that bad.

-- It needed to be vacuumed. There were dust bunnies under both beds. I looked out of curiosity inspired by the coating on the furniture.

--There was a beautiful window view of the rear parking lot.

-- The water heater did not work. Cold showers, what a treat!

When we checked out the next morning, cutting our two-night stay to one, I detailed the reasons with the desk-charge-of-the-moment. He was somewhat apologetic, and inquired if another room might be offered, but I said, "No, I've had enough luxury for one weekend. I'll find a hotel that wants my business and money." I got my second night's lodging money returned, and we stayed that night at a Holiday Inn that was on Papermill Drive.

The room was sparking clean, and had been vacuumed that morning, as far as I could tell. Also the water heater was obnoxiously efficient, such that I spent extra time in the shower, just 'cuz I could.

Oddly, I don't really remember any details of meals eaten or events attended, though I'm certain we watched fireworks somewhere. But those memories are so clouded by the events at our "luxury" hotel, that I simply cannot seem to recover them, and that bothers me. I nearly always remember good meals and times, but not from this experience. It's a consternation.

Someday, maybe, there will be a neurological instrument that can restore memories. I hope I have enough credits to hire it out.

$Control$

I am something of a control freak when it comes to money. I realize -- and have for a long time -- how very irritating that can be to family members, and I sympathize, somewhat. However, if I were not a control freak, now that my annual income has basically been halved, we would not have been able to keep our home, and would likely be in public housing, dodging meth mongers and bullets, at any given time.

Thus it is a source of consternation to me when people are loose with cash, and have little knowledge and no control, for the most part. I was divorced at the tender age of 23 years, and remarried around four years later. In that span of time, my checkbook was out of balance once in the amount of $0.05. That's a nickel for those of you who don't follow cash-flow charts. It took me a couple of days, but I finally worked out where the mistake had been made, thank God, because then I could sleep again.

Several years ago, I was confronted by a co-worker with the old saw "time is money," and -- for the first time ever -- I really put some thought into the saying, and came up with this core philosophy: Time is not money. The exact opposite is true. Money is not the paper bills you receive from the bank and spend at retail outlets. Money is not the gold stored in Fort Knox, up yon in Kentucky. And it absolutely is not that seemingly magic plastic in your purse or wallet. Money is all of the time that I am forced to spend away from my home and family at labor for an employer. The numbered paper bills and credit cards are mere pale representations of the time I must spend at my job, keeping the earth spinning on its axis.

Thus, one of my core philosophies: Money Is Time.

When one desires a particular manufactured item or a nice meal, one must decide if it is worth the time spent gathering the funds necessary. When I was employed by Tate & Lyle, I worked a good deal of overtime so that I could pay cash for my vacations. And we had some outrageous vacations that were worth all of the time it took to pay for them. Our hiatuses were paid in full before we left the house, and if the credit card was used, it was because it had been prepaid.

In my in-between years -- my early to mid-twenties when I was a swinging bachelor -- I lived for a short time in Cougar Town. I had a tendency to date women of a certain age, because I found that, mostly, they were less pretentious, and approached life with a cynical eye forward, as I did.

At one point I was seeing a woman who was more than a decade older than I, and had two sons, thirteen and seventeen. I had received from work, as a safety award, a $50 gift certificate to the restaurant of my choice. I chose Chesapeake's, a Knoxville seafood emporium, given to fresh seafood and excellent service. I left Athens with my gift certificate and $150, cash, in my possession.

The meal consisted of cocktails, an appetizer, our chosen entrées with appropriate wine, and dessert. When the repast was done, the waiter brought the check, and I dug out of my wallet the certificate and necessary cash to take care of the bill and tip. My date, however, was absolutely incredulous that the gift certificate had not covered the cost in its entirety. I looked at her. Then I asked how long it had been since anyone had taken her to a decent place to eat.

She admitted that it had been some time since she had been confronted with an atmosphere of Chesapeake's caliber. I told her then that, when I intended to have a dinner the likes of which we had just finished, along with a tag-along date, I never stepped out of the house with less than $200, ever. She was flabbergasted. I then told her that $200 was always more than enough to cover the check, but better too much than not enough. However,had the money not been in my possession, we would not have gone there. Foreknowledge of the potential expenditure is part of the control aspect.

And, of course, I always kept a running total of my available funds pinned to the bulletin board in my head. I still do, but the funds are less impressive these days, so there are a lot fewer meals out than there were, back in the day. Vacation, of course, is a distant dream, as I believe in taking enough cash to burn a wet mule.

Which brings me to Exhibit B.

More than twenty years ago, my Young Bride and I took our first trip to Walt Disney World. We had friends living in Orlando, and the plan was that we would spend three nights in a local inn, then four with Jim and Peytyn. Also, the host couple planned to accompany us on our third day at WDW, spent in the Magic Kingdom.

We had an okay day there, and when it got on toward time for dinner, we shopped about for an eatery. The Liberty Tree Tavern looked workable, so Jim and I stepped into the foyer to look at the menu. When my best friend got a gander at the prices, he got that look on his face. "I can't afford this," he said. Remember, he was not on vacation. I asked to see the menu.

It was gourmet fare, surely, with escargot on the appetizer menu and various types of steak and seafood for entrées. I did some quick math in my head and said, "Buddy, this one's on me." Let's not forget that this couple was putting us up for several days, gratis. That philosophy of having enough money to light up a creature of equine heritage paid off. And, let me say, without hesitation, that this favor has been paid back many times over in the intervening decades. That's how it works.

But, had I not been able to afford the meal, we could have easily eaten hot dogs at Casey's, or burgers at Cosmic Ray's. The ability to do simple multiplication also helps in the arena of control.

And if I ever have that kind of cash again, trust me, off we'll go. But I won't leave the hacienda until I have the money/time my hands; 'cuz that's the kind of control freak I am.

Big Comedy From (Some) Small People

I am a nut for comedy. Some of my favorite films are "Bringing Up Baby," featuring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, as well as "What's Up Doc?," one of the films it inspired. Also, Dudley Moore, as "Arthur" is an all-time great in my perfect world. Of all the cable channels available, Comedy Central is one of my top picks, along with ESPN and Discover, mostly because they both have amusing content at any given time. Those of you who are fans of "MythBusters" and "Pardon The Interruption" know from whence I emerge.

I have seen a respectable number of live comedy shows over the years. My eyes were opened in the early '80s when some smart person in Knoxville first opened a place called The Funny Bone, a low-rent comedy club located behind an unpainted furniture store on Kingston Pike. That was my first experience with live, stand-up comedy, and I fell in love with it to the point that I actually took a stab at it once on open mic night. While I didn't totally bomb, I can see with clear 20-20 hindsight that I am not cut out for the comedy stage. I'm not adept enough, in the verbal sense, and I have a tendency to go ugly-sarcastic more quickly that I ought when heckled.

However, let me tell you about the big-time names I've seen through the years.

Years ago, in the early '90s, my Young Bride and I saw Paula Poundstone at the Comedy Catch, in Chattanooga. We also saw Pam Stone there, she who played Dauber Dybinski's girlfriend on the TV show, "Coach." At that show, we were seated front and center, and Ms. Stone quizzed us and bantered openly with us for improv material. Those were both very good shows. I also saw, at the Comedy Catch, my high school buddy Bart, and his comedy troupe that worked out of St. Petersburg, Florida, in the waning days of his service in the United States Navy.

In the early part of the past decade, my Young Bride was visiting her sister in Las Vegas. My sister-in-law, Amy, called one afternoon to inform me that she had scored tickets to see Kathleen Madigan at Harrah's Casino, and they would attend that very evening. I called Amy ugly name, and charged her with getting me an autographed T-shirt. When my Young Bride returned, T-shirt in hand, I almost forgave them.

However, only a few months later, I learned that Ms. Madigan would be headlining at Zanies in Nashville. I was, at the time, still employed by Tate & Lyle, and had ready cash and loads of vacation to burn, so I nearly ripped my hip pocket off to nab my VISA for procurement of tickets. It was at that show (photo above -- my autographed T-shirt in evidence) that we first saw a youngish man named Keith Alberstadt (It's Pronounced Jenkins). Now, opening acts are always a roll of the dice at comedy clubs, as the entrepreneurs normally rely on local "talent." This is understood; however, we were blown away by Mr. Jenkins and his observational humor.


Turns out he is a graduate of Vanderbilt University, which doesn't suffer fools, and has since moved from Nashville to Manhattan, where he writes, now, for Weekend Update on SNL. He has also been across the oceans to entertain our military troops several times, and appeared on David Letterman. All of these things can be learned on his website, keithcomedy.com.

And, lest we forget, the trip was made to see Kathleen Madigan, whose career I had followed since the early 1990s. Smart, self-deprecating, and loves to rip on her Irish-rooted family (something we have in common). She was rip-roaring funny, and my diaphragm hurt for a couple of days afterward.

At the post-show line-up, I got a photo (above), and a hug from Kathleen, which I still can feel when put my feeble mind to work. She's hot, don't you know? And little. She must get the bulk of her clothes from Gap Kids. I also wrote a column about it for the local rag, which she posted on her website, kathleenmadigan.com.

Since that show, we have seen Keith three times in Knoxville at the club that began as The Comedy Zone, and has evolved into Sidesplitters. We have also seen Blake Clark there, twice, and I acted as a host for a charity golf tournament sponsored by Mr. Clark, who is the nicest, most down-to-earth guy ever to be forced to live in the insanity that is Los Angeles. After the first time we saw him, we waited in the bar at The Comedy Zone. He had gone to his hotel to change clothes, as the lights cause anyone to perspire profusely.

When he arrived in the lounge, he and the Young Bride had old home week, because they both originate from Georgia (the state, not the former Soviet country), and exchanged pleasantries about places only they knew.

At Mr. Clark's golf tournament, I played babysitter to Tom Parks, one of my favorites from the late '80s and HBO's "Not Necessarily The News." The night before the golf began, we were introduced at a hotel off the Cedar Bluff exit. We chatted, as middle-aged men will, and I was explaining to Mr. Parks that, if I began acting erratically while on the golf course, he should instruct me to drink my juice, which would be in the cart with us. He rolled his eyes at me, and withdrew an automatic syringe from his right pocket. As co-diabetics, we watched out for each other.

Since that time, we have seen Ron White in concert twice, once at the Civic Auditorium, and once at the Tennessee Theatre, both shows rib-graspingly hilarious. We also saw Lewis Black at the Tennessee Theatre, and his anger-inspired, physically demonstrative comedy was even better live than it is on "The Daily Show" and HBO.

Recently, I got notification from Keith Alberstadt ('cuz I'm on his mailing list) that he would be appearing in Knoxville yet again, and we should come see him, which we did. He's as good as ever, though he seems to be misplacing more and more of the hair from the front of his head, which he covers more than adequately in his program (the "losing-his hair" subject, not his balding head). Now, while at Sidesplitters, we learned that only the next week, none other than Bobcat Goldthwait would be appearing there at Sidesplitters.

Let me iterate, here, Bobcat is one of my top favorites -- ever. His HBO special, "Is He Like That All The Time?"(1989) is a remote tosser at my house to this day.

Okay, I don't have that great-paying job anymore (which, we understand, I only had for 27 years, so no great loss), but -- come on -- it's Bobcat. So I jinked a little here, juked a little there, and came up with the cash for three tickets down front, stage right. Bobcat, if you know who he is, has a history of interaction with people near the stage, and he had a blast talking to The Boy, because he's eighteen years old, and looks about thirteen. He also had a heckler get on his bad side about half-way through the show, so he had a mid-show snack, and I cried, it was so funny.

After the show, of course, we stuck around to see if he would emerge in the lounge. He did, and -- you can believe this or not -- he was as gracious and nice as any celebrity with whom I have been confronted. Well, he didn't hug me like Kathleen did, but -- hey -- I didn't ask.

And, of course, the photographic evidence of our meeting is on my blog page now, 'cuz it's Bobcat, for God's sake! Notice the similarity of our eye-wear, and how very tiny a person he is. I never realized, but he may be one of those leprechauns that Ms. Madigan talks about in her latest Showtime special, "Gone Madigan (oh, my God, she's still hot)."

Anyway, it was great, and I will remember it much longer than Bobcat does, naturally.

I can hardly wait until Keith AlberJenkins shows up again. I'll go. It's comedy, and I like it.