Coaching Changes

Okay, let's just go ahead and get this out of the way. All of the folks who are upset about Lane Kiffin bolting the University Of Tennessee for USC -- huh? Are you nuts!? Here are my varied and sundry thoughts on the matter.

When Mike Hamilton tossed Phillip Fulmer aside like a dirty dishrag, I was of two minds about the whole thing. John Majors, not my favorite head coach ever, had achieved, at UT, a record of 116-62-8, then had been thrown out in a like manner in 1992. And while I was not a big fan, this was a dirty way to treat a guy who had attended, played for, and coached the Vols. The funny thing is, this had to have been done with Fulmer's knowledge and endorsement, as he was the replacement-in-waiting.

That having been said, the same scenario sixteen years later doesn't correct the mistake, although Coach Majors probably saw it as a rather spooky comeuppance. Let's face it, I refuse to root for the Dallas Cowboys ever since Jerry Jones showed Tom Landry the door in a very similar fashion.

Thus, Doug Dickey was wrong to treat Majors as he did, and Mike Hamilton -- who should have learned from a poor example -- was also wrong. In the first place, Fulmer was and is (merely opinion, folks) a much better representative of the university, and extends a better public image. Also, at 152-52, he was a better coach, because he won more and lost fewer games. And he won a national championship at UT.

So, I did not endorse the firing of Coach Fulmer. But that did not cause me to be against Coach Kiffin when he was hired. Kiffin had been hired and fired by the ancient and demented Al Davis, the worst owner in the history of the NFL. The Oakland Raiders' bad-boy image is a direct extension of their owner thinking he's king of all he sees. Davis is a bully who hides behind his money, and that's the mentality he wants in his players. Of them all, Howie Long has escaped that image more quickly and efficiently than any. Most Raiders and ex-Raiders are of the same ilk as Lyle Alzedo, who broke rules regularly, depended on steroids to make him stronger and faster, then wanted sympathy when he came up with cancer due to his stupidity. I never root for the Raiders. I root for Dallas when the two teams are playing, because Jerry Jones is merely the 2nd worst owner in NFL history.

Therefore, the firing of Lane Kiffin by Davis was -- in my opinion -- a ringing endorsement. One of the contentious issues between Davis and Kiffin was Lane's attempt to fire Randy Hanson, an assistant who is, apparently, one of Al's lap dogs. This was brought to the fore when Hanson got his jaw broken because he couldn't shut his yap in the presence of Tom Cable, Kiffin's replacement. Cable handled Hanson less delicately than Kiffin, and I'm okay with that. If Davis gets rid of Cable, maybe UT should give him a look (that's a joke, folks).

So, I was not against the hiring of Kiffin, I was against the firing of Phillip Fulmer. I waited to see what Lane would do, though my young bride was against him from the start, just 'cuz she loves Fulmer and his public image, and he coached her sweetheart, Peyton Manning.

Lane-boy arrived in Knoxville, and the first thing he did was shoot off his half-cocked, adolescent mouth, trash-talking Urban Meyer and UF. All right, here's another thing we need to get out in front. I am a Florida fan. I root against them one game per year, and that's when they're playing UT. I root for them against UGA, and Alabama, and I was happy when they squashed Cincinnati and taught them a lesson about playing with the big boys.

But I wasn't upset about the WHOM, I was upset about the WHAT. Honestly, could he not do his talking on the field? Did Fulmer ever respond to Spurrier's jabs other than by coaching and playing the game? No! So, I wasn't happy with Kiffy, though I wouldn't go so far as to root against the team, as The Boss did. I even got tickets (through my brother-in-law, Paul Turner -- thanks again) to the South Carolina game last year, which was played on my birthday. Paul and I sat/stood in the rain for most of the game as UT thrashed a team that had been ranked in the top 25 only a couple of weeks before. It was glorious.

Here's what I predicted would happen after the first time Kiffy ran his stupid mouth. Over a few years, he would be exposed as the trash-talking, 13-year-old that he is, and UT trustees would call for his head. At that time, Hamilton would be let go, 'cuz he's a moron, and Fulmer -- who still hasn't taken another coaching position -- would be installed as AD, and he would hire David Cutcliffe to be head coach, who would re-hire John Chavis as defensive coordinator.

That was my prediction, and I was willing to wait it out. Then Pete Carroll left USC, and Los Angeles came calling on Coach Kiffy, and the dumb young people on campus gave the local news something to yak about for days on end. I contend that the frat boys were protesting simply because they didn't want Coach's hot wife to leave with him.

Hamilton (I still believe his hiring of Bruce Pearl to be an extremely happy accident), scrambled quickly, doing a very good impression of Johnathon Crompton exiting the pocket. Trustees were already beginning to situate themselves on Fulmer's doorstep, the AD job in their little paws, and Hamilton needed to find a receiver, fast. He looked to Texas for Will Muschamp, covered. He looked to Cutcliffe at Duke University, but ol' Davey is one of Phil's boys, and he waved Hamilton off. He even looked at Jon Gruden -- another former Raider coach, who had taken Tony Dungy's team in Tampa and won a Super Bowl, then began making them one of the worst franchises in the league. None of them bit.

So Derek Dooley wound up with the football. The Boss is all upset because she -- like everyone in Tuscaloosa before Saban showed up -- thinks we should hire someone with a history at UT. She was a history major, and I understand her position.

But, as I was willing to give Kiffy an opportunity, I am willing to give Coach Dooley an opportunity also. Coach could have attended the University of Georgia, where his father is a legend, and been assured of a place on the team. But he went to the University Of Virginia, where he walked on, and earned a scholarship with his play. I admire that mentality.

One of ESPN's Pat Forde's comments about Kiffy was that he "was born on third base, and acts like he hit a triple all the time." Mixed metaphors aside, Derek Dooley doesn't seem that way. From appearances, he hasn't tried to trade on his famous father's name to make it in coaching. The best thing we can do -- again, opinion -- is to sit back and see what he's made of, on and off the field.

He could begin by hiring John Chavis, who crafted the #3 defense in the NCAA in 2008, away from LSU. It would be a start.

Dealing With Traffic II

Warning! The below was written when I was NOT in the Christmas spirit.

My young bride thinks I'm an odd duck. She is an introverted stage mistress who loves communicating with people as long as she doesn't have to face them. Stage acting and the internet (one again, thank you, Albert Gore Jr.) are the best things ever for her. She can bask in the adulation of an audience without having to actually speak to them directly, and she can communicate personally with people world-wide and never have to sit and drink coffee at The Brown Cup in Lenoir City with them.

I, on the other hand, am a semi-educated extrovert with a pretty good general knowledge of things historically and pop-culture-wise, and an opinion on just about everything. I have the ability to talk to just about anyone, from the intelligence-challenged to X Smith, PhD. I simply choose not to do so the bulk of the time. This is because -- based on my experience -- people are idiots. And many are narcissistic idiots who only ask one's opinion so one can agree with them.

Also, I do not totally absolve myself from this category, just so we're all clear on this. I have the capacity for self-centeredness just as any other person does. But I am aware of this, and do my utmost to keep in under control, along with my testosterone poisoning.

Another traffic example from my travels back and forth to West Knoxville for my job as an industrial temp: Recently, on a Sunday morning, I was making my way toward Emerachem for a day of labor. As I approached the Watt road exit from the west, there was an automobile coming up on me in the center lane, while I was in the right lane. There was no traffic of which one could have spoken. When I went beneath the underpass, I saw that a semi was making its way out toward the eastbound lane. Driving laws and common courtesy, at this point, direct that I make room for the truck to enter the roadway, so I engaged my signal and moved to the left. The car coming up on me was moving rapidly, but the driver had ample time to move into the far left lane, which was totally unoccupied.

Thus, the other car moved into the right lane to pass, causing the poor guy driving the truck (one can only hope that the car-driving donkey's Christmas present was on the truck, and is now sitting in a warehouse, lost to the point that delivery will be somewhere between never and 50 years from now) to have to slow his massive vehicle, then try to get back up to speed as he was climbing a hill.

I think most people are like Donkey-man. Of course, that's merely an opinion.

Thus, I will also give the next example, positing the questionable existence of good-will, and the concept of spreading it about.

On a recent trip to Bob's Package Store, to procure various and sundry bottles of ethanol as Christmas gifts, I was forced to position myself on Kingston Pike, in the middle of the holiday season, so I could then take my place on the interstate parking lot. I had moved from North Winston, and was behind a white Cadillac Escalade, the chosen SUV of the entitled, as far as I can tell. This is not to malign the folks who drive these vehicles because they enjoy them, it is merely an observation.

As traffic moved slowly toward Gallaher View Road, we found ourselves in front of a small strip mall -- behind a red light that was at least a quarter of a mile distant -- and Entitled Driver positioned his vehicle directly in front of the exit from the strip mall, which irritated myself and the young lady who was attempting to enter Kingston Pike from the strip mall lot.

The traffic light finally turned green, and -- ten minutes later, when the cars in front of me began to move -- I motioned the young lady to enter the Gordian Grid. She acknowledged my courtesy, and was then stuck with the rest of us. However, at the next opportunity, she allowed someone else to enter the trafficious puzzle. And that person passed the courtesy forward, and so on.

So, I could be wrong; perhaps the majority of people aren't idiots. I'll go into a holding pattern and wait to see.

El Magnifico

My kitty-cat died recently. We had been owned by Hector since 2003, when he adopted us at Super Petz in Farragut. I don't really remember what stupid name he had been tagged with there, but when we started home with the 23-pound lug, I decided on the way that he would be "Hector," named for the heroic Trojan prince who sacrificed himself to give his stupid king an opportunity to out-maneuver the Greeks who held siege at the gates.

Yes, his sacrifice was in vain, but that does not -- in any way -- diminish the spirit in which it was made. It is theorized that our cat was at least part Snowshoe, which is some really hooty-tooty breed about which neither of us could have cared less. Hector was an extraordinary animal, damn the heritage, full speed ahead; and I loved him dearly.

When we took him home, he was about six years old. He was also without front claws. Now, I am against this practice in general. It's like sending a soldier to the front lines with a broomstick and telling him/her to point it and say, "Bang!" But clawless he was, so there would be no going outside for the big boat anchor. He used his litterbox just fine, but had some trouble with coverage. Many times, I heard him tugging at the sides of his box trying to cover his "business," and he never figured out why it was still there.

The title for this particular missive comes from the fact that, Woodrow, my brain-damaged son, one day -- in an Hispanic accent -- tagged him "Hector, The Magnifico." It suited him, so it stuck.

Now, many of you cat-lovers will be reluctant to believe what I am about to propose; but it is, nonetheless, true. Hector was less trouble -- as a pet -- than any animal my young bride or I had ever owned. He never created a fuss; he did not complain. When we brought a puppy into his home last year, he dealt with it by totally avoiding and ignoring the ridiculous little thing. By the time of Hector's passing, the puppy was almost as big as he was (Doris is a Welsh Corgi).

Over the years, Hector -- who was obese when we brought him home -- had lost down to about 17 pounds, practically svelte for his enormous frame. He was never unable to jump wherever he needed/wanted to be, and he did not eat as much as one would expect. Also, his taste ran to the inexpensive in food. He preferred Friskies dry cat food, which can be had for nearly nothing. This is more evidence of his perfection, and complete disdain for complexity.

Hector made regular visits to the veterinarian, where he always got a clean bill of health. We carried him there in his dog crate, because they never made a cat crate big enough for him. I still remember his first vet visit after he adopted us. We were actually heading to Walt Disney World not long after he came to us. When we dropped him off in his crate, the look on his kitty-face said clearly, "Great. Here we go again."

When we brought him back home after our return, he kept walking around the house, not quite able to believe he wasn't a victim of foreclosure. Before the dog came and he gave up his rights to the front of the house, he spent a good deal of time lazing about on the couch and in my leather recliner.

Many times, when I would go to bed at night, kitty would jump onto the bed and lay down behind my head, then give me a neck massage. I have no idea what pleasure he got from this, but it felt fine, and we both were happy.

In the mornings, he would always come to the kitchen while I prepared coffee, and tell me all of the assignments he had accomplished while I was laying about after my massage. Then he would sit on the floor by the computer desk, making himself available for petting while I checked ESPN and my mail.

A couple of weeks ago, I got up to get ready for work. Hector came and jumped onto the bed, where I petted him, and he purred at me. I went to start coffee, then went back into the bedroom for something (I still don't remember what). As I stepped around the bed, I trod on a soft object, and thought, "That feels like the cat. Can't be the cat, he would have jumped." So I turned on the light. Of course, it was El Magnifico.

I picked him up and tried desperately to talk him awake. When it became clear that he was not going to wake up -- ever -- I shook The Boss awake and told her the news. To her credit, she handled everything extremely well while I cried like a beauty contestant who just wants world peace. She also observed that in death, he was still Hector. No muss, no fuss; just a quick cardio stoppage, and done. I got myself cleaned up and headed to work, though I didn't really want to go.

I know it seems ridiculous, but Hector was -- truly -- one of a kind. I miss him terribly.

Dealing WIth Traffic

I already realize that those of you who live and work in an urban setting are going to roll your eyes at my complaints in this post -- and I don't blame you -- but the current situation is fairly new to me, and this internet thing gives me an opportunity to vent. Thank God for Albert Gore, Jr. (snort)!

For the last sixteen years I have resided within just a few miles of my job. Really, it was to the point that going to work and putting in four hours, then going back home was no big deal. In light traffic, I could go from driveway to parking lot in ten minutes. In "heavy" traffic, it was a max of fifteen.

Now, however, after four months of unemployment and my acceptance of a temp job just to survive, I find myself driving daily to within a few miles of downtown Knoxville. According to Google Maps, it is 35.3 miles door to door. That translates to about 45 minutes in decent traffic. I have yet to experience an industrial strength tie-up on I-40/75, thank goodness.

But I have also discovered that I have fallen into a strange sort of driving pattern. When I am going to work, I keep my speed -- pretty much -- between 65 and 70 mph, and do little as far as lane-changes go, unless they are absolutely necessary. When I am on my way home, though, I am, apparently, in a God-awful hurry to get out of the Volunteer City.

I normally get on I-40/75 at the Papermill Drive ramp, because it is the closest one to Emerachem. This is one of those frustrating trafficious (I made that up) jigsaw puzzles that comes in two parts, with a cloverleaf involved. The first time one takes it, and one believes one is on the interstate, one discovers quickly that one must then enter traffic twice. For Country Bumpkins like myself, this can be overwhelmingly baffling the first time around, especially when one must deal with tentative drivers who don't have the first clue how to use an entrance ramp.

Please excuse me while I wipe away the sweat generated from simply thinking about the situation. I have driven -- periodically -- in heavy city traffic, in places like St. Louis, Atlanta and Miami. I just don't expect this kind of stupid abeyance close to home.

Anyway, I enter the Indianapolis Speedway at Papermill, and I immediately start moving left as quickly as I can go. This has its ups and downs, as I managed to lose the one side-view mirror that was on my truck years ago whilst driving in some woods. Honestly, there was a small pine sapling growing sideways in front of my truck on the trail. I was easing past it so I wouldn't damage the poor thing, and when it snapped back, my mirror went flying.

So, with a good deal of side-glancing, I move toward the far left lane, weaving as necessary, clutching, shifting, and punching the accelerator with authority. When I hit 70 mph, I ease up a bit and allow those moving faster to go past me as I am able. But I sit between 70 and 75 (barring one of those inexplicable slow-downs, which I have experienced a few times) all the way to the Watt Road exit, after which, having shed the traffic headed toward Nashville, I can relax enough to slow down to the actual speed limit, which is 65 mph.

And there I stay all the way to Philadelphiaburgh, excepting the necessity to stop off for something in Lenoir City or Loudon, which I do as little as possible. It would seem to be a convenience to have all of these opportunities to snag needed items on my way home, but I hate stopping. I really want to get home after a day at work.

Some of the guys at Emerachem talk about going to a place called Ray's, near West Town Mall. While I'm certain this could be fun, I just don't see me going there without benefit of a shower after work, and I'm too lazy and cheap to go home, then turn around and head right back into the fray. Also, I haven't hung out in bars for so long, I wouldn't know what's what.

And, there I'd be, driving home afterward in the same damn traffic I deal with daily. Nah, not for me.

I have counted the exits I pass, and they are a paltry ten in number. Including my entrance and exit, we're talking about a total of a dozen exits between here and there. I feel stupid whining about it, 'cuz at least I have a job for now. Also, too (the Department of Redundancy Department sends greetings), I have the advantage of Papermill Drive being the Knoxville location of McKay Used Books and Cds, which everyone in the family loves. I often stop by after work to hunt my Young Bride's white whale -- "Dodgeball" -- in widescreen on DVD.

I have told her repeatedly that she can get a used copy from Amazon for a few dollars, but it has now become a challenge to find the movie at McKay, and she'll do it or go down on the Pequod, cursing Hollywood and Vince Vaughn. Ahab lives.

So, for now, I'll navigate traffic as I must, and try to see the positives as I am able. It's still better than unemployment, no matter what the traffic is like.

Employment Is Good

I got a job this week, and proved that I was right -- an extra bonus. I have said since I got canned at Ye Olde Tate & Lyle that if I could only get someone to interview me, I would find employment. I realize that sounds a bit egotistical and crass, but -- just the facts, ma'am -- I interview well.

I had sent an application and résumé in response to a HotJobs online advertisement for a chemical analyst to a site called ResourceMFG. Turns out ResourceMFG is a temp service that supplies people -- like myself -- who have industrial experience of various degrees to companies far and wide. Therefore, I am now a temp. I already hate myself. Everyone hates temps.

Also, where I am working, I am the new guy; so I doubly hate myself.

Some background: I had my last job for 27 years. When I met new technicians, I would shake their hands warmly, apologize and tell them, "It's not your fault, but I hate you." I would then explain that I hate all new people, because the new guys' main job is to complicate life for me and my co-workers. I would further elucidate that -- in 1982, when I was a new guy -- I hated myself. Most understood.

Anyhoo, I got the call from ResourceMFG telling me about the opportunity, and asking if I could interview Wednesday, 9/23 at 9:00 AM. I did just that, and Wednesday afternoon the temp agent called and said, "He wants you there at 7:00 AM tomorrow. I told him you hadn't taken your drug screen yet, but he said, 'I don't care, have him here in the morning,' are you okay with that?"

Duh.

So I got this temp job at a place called Emerachem. They manufacture industrial application catalytic convertors that turn carbon monoxide emissions into CO2 and steam; a very GREEN sort of thing to do. They have a huge contract for some power generation place in California, and they are hiring temps to help get the work done in the contracted amount of time. Therefore, I have employment until at least January 2010.

The work is not difficult. There's some chemical mixing, fork truck driving (probably my greatest skill for them is my ability to operate a fork truck in tight spaces), and assembly line-type work. Admittedly, it's not a QA laboratory, but it IS a damn job. I'd rather work forty hours for twice my unemployment check than sit on my dead ass and get gum'mint pay -- anytime.

I now have to get all of my medical junk straightened out (passed the drug screen Friday afternoon -- although there probably was some Kentucky bourbon in there), but that's another problem for another day.

Employment is good.

The Georgia Alps

Last week, the family all mounted our communal automobile and spent a couple of days in the Georgia Appalachians. This began as a request from my young bride, who has dealt rather well with my obsession with the salt waters of the earth for the past 22 years. Our normal vacation spots have been Walt Disney World and Edisto Beach, South Carolina. But since I currently have no job, and we have little cash to spare, a true vacation was pretty much out of the picture for this year.

A few weeks ago, The Boss said we should run down to Helen, Georgia and spend a night, then kill a day seeing the sights in and around town. If you have never been to Helen, it is a smallish tourist spot that was experiencing a slow and painful death until the late 1960s, when the town deciders opted to put some Bavarian cosmetics on the tiny burgh and remake it into a sort of false-front Alpine resort. The efforts paid off, and during the summers and Oktoberfest, it is a busy place full of people from foreign lands like New Hampshire and Oklahoma, who come to eat German delicacies such as Wienerschnitzel, and drink lots of beer.

Historically speaking, my young bride had spent her childhood summers on Lake Burton, near the town, attending Camp Cherokee For Girls (notice that there is no attached link; that's because the camp doesn't exist anymore). She made many friends there, up to and including Emily Saliers of Indigo Girls. I, on the other hand, visited Helen once in Oktober of 1982, where I first discovered Beck's Beer, the best mass-produced beverage on the planet.

We began our trip down by cutting through Cleveland, TN and hitting US 64. We stopped for lunch at a Subway between Cleveland and Benton, and bought the only gas we required for the entire journey (have I bragged about my hybrid lately?) at the attached fuel emporium. We then wound our way up the Ocoee River, stopping at one point near the dam just to browse and relax for a spell. We then went through Copper Basin, which is still recovering from the sulfuric acid poisoning of the old mining operation, then slowly made our way through northeast Georgia until we came to Helen.

Luckily, The Boss had done some research before she planned the trip, and found an inexpensive place for us to sleep. The Quality Inn, on Yonah Street, snuck up on me such that I passed it and two more streets before I could turn back. But I finally found the parking lot, and we got checked in. Before I forget to mention it, I'll add now that we took The Boss's puppy, Doris Daylily, our Welsh Corgi. While she can be a handful sometimes, she is a sweet dog, and the motel is pet friendly. The people who work there were all very homey, and they -- to a person -- went on over the dog, and rubbed her tummy to make her feel special.

We got our bags unloaded, and I got settled in to watch the Bones re-runs on USA. Afterward, we walked about and found where we would eat dinner. The Café International serves a variety of foods, but mostly it's Bavarian fare with outdoor seating. This is my favorite eatery in Helen, although there are better places. I enjoy the dining over the Chatahoochee River, and the general atmosphere. I had the Wurst Platter that evening, with knockwurst, bauernwurst, and German potato salad. My young bride found the potato salad too vinegary, but I really liked mine. If it weren't for acetic acid and cayenne pepper, I'd probably stop eating.

After dinner, we walked for a bit, though most of the stores were closed. I also visited the local grocer, Betty's IGA, which was right next door to our motel. There I found some ear plugs which, after years of working swing shift and sleeping during the daylight hours, I now require just to feel comfortable enough to sleep at all.

The next morning, the first thing I discovered was that a major event had taken place in the space/time continuum. My young bride was already awake, and had taken the puppy for her morning walk. This is not so much abnormal as it is freaky; I kept waiting for Herr Einstein to show up, strolling upside down along the ceiling, counting the black holes in the universe while humming Rocky Top. But I recovered, took a shower, and partook of the Continental Breakfast that was available at no charge in the Motel lobby.

The breakfast was better than many. There were individually packaged Lender's Bagels, as well as fruit danishes, bear claws, various cereals, margarine, cream cheese, a microwave and a toaster. I didn't know where to start. But again, I recovered, and chose a bagel and some microwavable oatmeal. I took my selections back to my room where we had a microwave also, and The Boss had brought our personal coffee maker so we could have our Coffee AM Kenya AA.

After that I took Doris for another walk, The Boy and Emily explored, and The Boss planned our day; our first move was to book another night at the motel, for which I had been lobbying since we had discovered that the word Quality in the title was not wasted.

We then headed for The Old Sautee Store, which appears to have been there since man has walked upright. My young bride had me purchase some Swedish Hushallsost Farmer Cheese with flat bread to accompany it. The cheese went into the cooler which had conveniently found its way into our trunk. There is a small sandwich shop next door that advertised frozen cider, of which I took note.

Our next leg was to head toward Lake Burton and the former site of the revered Camp Cherokees For Boys and Girls. The Boss drove around the area, lamenting the loss of such quality entertainment and education for young people. I'm fairly certain one cannot experience the same lessons via XBox 360 or PS3. There is now a collection of McMansions along the shore of Lake Burton where the boys camp used to be.

Money talks. I'm not against the concept, but sometimes the spirit is applied poorly.

We next headed up to Wildcat Creek to take a gander at what was always called "sliding rock" by the campers. This is a small falls area on the creek, with a place that serves as a perfect water slide (about an eight foot drop) from the upper area into a deep pool below. We were going to slide there, but there were a couple of gentlemen fishing, and it was a tad chillier than we had anticipated. We walked about, however, and Doris enjoyed smelling everything up and down the dirt road along the creek.

Our next stop was an old pottery vendor. The Boss says that for her mother, The Old Sautee Store was an absolute when she was in the area; for Amos, it was Mark Of The Potter. The shop is on the banks of the Soque River, where gigantic trout hang out to be fed at $0.25 per handful, and the owners don't allow anyone to fish for the piggish icthians. We admired some of the wares (I, especially, am taken with pottery mixing bowls, of which I have many, acquired through years of hanging out at yard sales and flea markets), and I eventually bought a new butter bell for our kitchen, which is a good deal larger and prettier than the old one. It will hold a whole stick of our creamy, unsalted butter.

After that visit, we made our way back to Helen, where we ate lunch at the Hofer Café and Bakery, which smells like Heaven ought'a. I had the Schnitzel Delight, a breaded pork cutlet, fried and served with Hofer German potato salad and steamed broccoli. -- and a Beck's beer, natch.

After lunch The Boss and I napped while my children did whatever it is they do these days. When we had recovered from our morning activities, we walked up into town again and bought some fudge at the Hansel And Gretel Candy Kitchen. I tried some immediately and found it to be fairly good, especially the plain chocolate. We walked about some more, looking at all the shops that were totally uninteresting. I postulated to my young bride that -- if I were a photographer -- I would have a tintype shop with Heidi costumes and lederhosen instead of all the cowboy fare that has nothing to do with the Alpine part of the world.

We decided to try dinner that evening at The Farmer's Market Café, which promised traditional southern foods. They were right, and we ain't talkin' Cracker Barrel, neither. I had a homemade chicken pot pie, the crust of which was flaky and crisp. The go-withs were fried okra and fried green tomatoes, and both were very good. Our waitress was attentive without being bothersome, and I had absolutely no room for dessert. After returning to our motel, I fell asleep very early.

The next morning I had another bagel along with blueberry muffins from the continental fare. After gadding about the downtown area some more, we got checked out of our quarters and headed for the Anna Ruby Falls trail. This is a short 0.4 mile hike to the waters that form Smith Creek in the Unicoi State Park on Trey mountain. Smith creek comes forth at the falls where Curtis Creek -- a 153 foot drop -- and York Creek -- a 50 foot drop, join together. It is not a difficult hike at all, and the weather was cool and pleasant. Doris seemed to enjoy her part of the activities, which consisted of keeping her nose glued to the Earth so she could smell all of the dogs, 'coons, and other critters that had recently passed by.

After our morning hike, we found our way back to The Old Sautee Store. The Boss had them play the Nickelodeon for us, and a woman at the "jewelry" counter nearly drove her to distraction with her prattling. I, personally, took the opportunity to acquire one of the frozen ciders at the market next door. It was a muscadine combo of some kind and was delicious and refreshing. I sat on the porch with Doris Daylily, lording it over the rest of the planet until time for lunch.

We inquired at the Hofer Café about sitting outdoors so that we could have the dog accompany us. They were very accomodating, and took our order, then knocked on the front window when it was ready. This time I had a Brat on a bun, with brown mustard and sauerkraut, the way God intended Bratwurst to be eaten. I highly recommend this place to folks who visit.

After lunch, everyone walked about town some more, though we had seen everything more than once. Honestly -- speaking for myself -- there's not a lot to do in Helen, other than eat. For entertainment, I recommend getting out of town. Most of the shops are T-shirt and hat vendors, and, let's face it, it's not really Germany, after all. I enjoyed the trip, but mostly because The Boss knew where to go and what to do.

And now we're home, and I'm back to the reality of unemployment and looking for anyone who might hire a person of my background and temperamental nature. But yes, it was good to get away for a few days. I am refreshed, and less negative in my outlook. I think it was the beer.

Public Service

For any who are unaware, my favorite radio station on the planet is WUOT. They are the NPR affiliate that is associated with the University of Tennessee. There are a number of reasons why I enjoy them so much, but I'll only list a few here:

1. They play classical music, which, while I know little about it, I still enjoy.
2. I like the hosts, my favorite of whom is Chrissy Keuper, the host of Morning Edition. She has a very soothing tone, and helps me relax, even during world crises.
   
3. I am afforded the opportunity, at least twice a year, to hang out at the station during the fund drives. The food is excellent, and the company better, while the conversation subject matter can range from Keirkegaard to Pamela Anderson, and all places in between.
4. For some inexplicable reason, they seem to appreciate my rather meager efforts on their behalf.

WUOT will be celebrating its 60th anniversary this year, and to celebrate, they are holding an open house on Tuesday, August 18th. To aid in preparation, I sojourned to the the station a couple of days ago to perform slave duty for Lisa Beckman, the Membership Coordinator (which is business-ese for "the one who deals with the unemployed nuts who want to help"). Most of the labor was of the manual variety, with which I am uncannily familiar.

When I first arrived, I fully intended to store my truck -- for the duration -- in Circle Park Drive. What I should have done was tell the attendant that I would be going to the McClung Museum, so that he would provide me a two hour pass. Being a guy, however, I'm not gifted with that kind of foresight. When I arrived at Circle Park, the conversation went thusly:

Me: "I'm going to WUOT to work for a couple of hours. Can I get a two hour pass?"

Attendant: "I can only give you a 45-minute pass."

Me: "What if I tell you I'm going to the museum?"

Attendant: "But you're not."

There were a few more limited sentences, but I could see that the young man took his job much more seriously than I, so I accepted the 45-minute pass, and resolved to move my truck every hour or so.

When I first arrived in the station proper, Lisa wasn't quite prepared, which I attribute to two phenomena: I was a tad early; and, she's probably used to being stiffed by volunteers who make empty promises. After it was established that I was on site and ready for work, she got her station map, and dragged me back, forth, east and west, moving and hefting.

As a guy, I expected to perform most of the actual labor, 'cuz, hey, I'm a guy. But every time I turned my back, Lisa was lifting and moving things that were bigger than she is. At one point, we had moved some new, as yet uninstalled, electronic equipment into a particular spot, and cousin David Williamson (his mother -- of Irish heritage -- was burdened with the maiden name "Loftis") expressed -- rather sternly -- that the servers would have to be moved into an area under lock and key. I believe he would have preferred an armed guard, also, except he's one of those left-wing-lunatic-anti-gun-nuts.

I razzed L'il Davey some about his serious attitude, then later, I thought, "You shouldn't have been such a derriere; he's just trying to protect a rather significant investment." So I stopped in his cubbyhole to express my understanding about the fact that, at some point, somebody always has to be the hardass. David began to explain his position, whereupon I elucidated, telling him that there was no need for him to explain; he was, obviously, just doing his job.

He looked a little puzzled, and I wondered if he had ever had a volunteer who expressed the understanding that business is business.

After the second time that I had to go move my truck, Lisa suggested that I park it in the staff parking lot behind the Communications Building. Since it was already 4:30 PM, and it is legal for me to be there after 5:00 PM, I took her suggestion -- more on that later.

After a while, I told Lisa that I needed to check my blood glucose level. I'm still acclimating to having an insulin pump, and sometimes I don't do things the right way. I was perspiring too much for the work I was doing, and I was more fatigued than was warranted. So my blood sugar was -- um -- low, and I inquired with Louise Higman about the nearest drink machine, to which she directed me with unerring efficiency.

I sat in Cindy Hassil's office, drinking my Coke while the three of us passed the time. After several minutes, I felt back to normal, and Lisa and I began generating more perspiration. At some point, we began hanging signs that set newbies in the proper direction, and told people not to eat and drink in the control areas. Now, Lisa is a little -- how shall I say this -- particular. She was attempting to hang signs from the suspended ceiling using only 8 1/2 X 11 sheets of copy paper and Scotch tape. And she wanted them to be perfectly straight. Girls are funny, aren't they?

She would stand on a chair to adjust a sign, hop down and eyeball it from ten feet. Back up into the chair; down; eyeball, repeat.

After another little while, all the tables that could be moved had been, all the signs that could be hung were, and we had rolled a grand piano across the performance studio and into a corner out of the way. Also, David, if you read this, the servers are locked in Dan's office.

Lisa expressed her appreciation for the minimal work I had performed, and sent me on my way. When I got back to my truck, which was now in the staff parking lot, I found a ticket from my favorite law enforcement officers, the UT cops. It was generated at 17:01, which, for the uninitiated, is 5:01 PM.

It is legal to park there after 17:00, and the ticket said 17:01. Hmmmmm. So I did what I normally do with them. I wadded it up and threw it into the nearest trash receptacle. What are they gonna do, come to Philadelphia and impound my truck? They haven't yet.

I was glad for this opportunity, because, though I have conquered a number of tasks here at home over the last few weeks, helping someone else gives me a different sense of accomplishment; more satisfying somehow. And it makes me feel useful again, which is different.