Do you fly fish?  If you do then you are likely a lunatic. If you will contact me privately I can give you the number of a good psychiatrist who specializes in treating fly fishing lunacy. I’m a little worried though because I haven’t been able to reach him lately. I heard he took up fly casting for tarpon down in Florida which means he himself may have fallen off the fly fishing lunatic wagon. 

I, myself, had a relapse last week and busted off up to the Little Missouri River.  I had become bored with posting anonymous snark on yik yak and had the sudden urge to drive. The fly fishing report was that the rainbows and browns were jumping into landing nets and that the barbless hooks that we are forced to use were actually catching trophy size trout. Ha! If you are a lunatic you will believe anything. I was all in.

I packed up all of my fly gear and drove away, dreaming, like most fly casting lunatics about landing old hootie, getting a pic of the new Arkansas record catch to send to the kids and then hamming it up for the Little Rock TV station that would theoretically be covering my rare and amazing catch. 

Feeling adventurous that day, I decided to take the un-recommended driving route. The self-mapped scenic route. Forget Waze and Apple maps.  Who needs that crap?

Giddy with excitement I drove along I-49, anticipating the glory that would be heaped upon me and the endless stories that would be told about my fly casting expertise and prowess. Are you feeling the lunacy yet?

First of all, and I can’t impress upon you how important this one piece of advice is; if you find yourself on that same un-recommended road less traveled, which happens to be old highway 67, don’t ever stop at a place called Boll Weevil’s. I can’t talk about it yet. Just don’t. 

I rolled into Murfreesboro at around 9:30 A.M. (trout don’t care about early) and I  figured that since Katherine wasn’t there to monitor my dietary selections I would slide into the EZ Mart and grab some flamin hot Cheetos and an extra large Dr Pepper, a form of pure ecstasy known to many aging white males. 

My brother, Don, tells me that when a trip goes off the rails it morphs into an “adventure.”  That’s pretty much what happened that day. 

Once inside the EZ Mart I was laser focused on the facilities. Long drive, lots of coffee, the whites of my eyes had turned yellow. Wow, what a relief.  I then scanned the store for the delightfully hot, orange, spicy and crunchy bag of diet poison and the dispenser of sugary caffeine laced soft drinks I was craving. As I approached the check out counter I was in for a surprise. Have rednecks started using makeup?

Yes, apparently they have.  There at the checkout was an oversized, burley and notably unattractive man, replete with classic redneck garb. 501’s with rodeo belt buckle, slightly soiled sweat shirt, bulging gut, work boots, John Deere ball cap, a dip of skoal under his lip, and yes, full makeup. Like a woman would wear on a night out. And the look on his face was as deadpan as it gets.  I mean blank. Serial killer quality. Can you see the Cadillac red lipstick? Following the transaction I backed away slowly, then goose stepped all the way to my truck. Whew.

Who said fly fishing trips can’t be interesting?  I caught myself wondering if this dude knows Pud Rutledge.

Do you know Pud? If you remember, Pud did ninety days for making off with the Posados tortilla making machine in the middle of the night. Yep, the Mexicans themselves chased him down. How dumb can you get. 

In addition to that, they nabbed Pud five years ago in the now famous pixie bobcat smuggling scheme. He said he was “relocating” them to his Australian Barking Deer Ranch over by Athens, Texas. Apparently the northern border of Honduras was wide open.  I’m keeping an eye on Pud. But that’s a different story. 

I found my way out to Muddy Fork Road, my favorite access point on the crystal clear and indescribably beautiful, Little Missouri River.  As I was rolling up to the parking area I imagined the rainbow trout hammering my home made woolly booger fly, breaking the water, arching its back in angry defiance that I had fooled it into taking the bait. I was borderline euphoric—-really. 

Reality check.  The river was wide open. Rolling like the Proud Mary. Zut alors! Yes, the Corp Of Engineers were busy lowering Lake Greeson and simultaneously destroying my day. It looked more like the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon than a picturesque stream in mountainous Arkansas. Totally un-fishable. Turns out that the “generating schedule” was wrong. They reserve the right to release water, massive amounts of water, without notice.  They were exercising that right!  And there I sat with my pre-rigged tandem midge larva and pupa tippet.(fly boy lingo meant to intimidate rednecks.)

The Cheeto on my lips fell into my lap. The surge of joy I was riding had suddenly vacated my soul.  My reality was rapidly melting into the gravel my vehicle was parked on. 

My soaring day dreams had crashed into the cheeto bag. 

Suddenly the acid began rising in my esophagus as I burped the now sour Dr. Pepper.  It would be a long drive home, my tandem midge larva and pupa tippet flying in the wind behind me.  

I remember dropping off at Shakey Ray’s Cook Shack for the last time.  

It was near the end of Ray’s life.  By that time he had stopped shooting eight balls and smoking crack. 

Ray had an interesting story that is worth telling. My complete biography of Shakey Ray will be published on Kindle in the spring of 2024. I’ll cover a few highlights. 

Ray started off as a chicken sexer in southern Arkansas, then had a sudden epiphany at age 17 and drove himself to the Culinary Institute of America up in Hyde Park, New York, where he graduated in 1971. 

Instead of telling me stories about his chef training, on my last visit, he preferred to talk about his drive to New York that year. He recalled taking the back roads on the way up and hitting all of the road side mailboxes he encountered with a baseball bat.  They were putting off a magnetic pulse, he said.  He was pretty sure he had gotten every one of them. 

After chef school he was seized with an undercurrent of depravity and for a few years hooked up with a guy named Bob.  Bad Bob, he called him. Not Dirty Bad Bob, the Mexican, but the original Bad Bob.  They commenced to stealing cars, after which they would run them out of gas and then set them on fire. Ray’s memory was that when the cars were engulfed in flames Bob would throw down a prayer rug and pray this prayer: “May the divine Vishnu whose momentum none can stop, bless us for all of our well-being.” Apparently Bob was bad but he wasn’t all bad. 

Ray had a habit of wearing sunglasses twenty-four seven. One time I asked him if he could see anything at night and he explained, “the big show is going on inside of my head.” No doubt his artistry was wrought from the lunacy.  

Later on in life there was a subsequent bout with bad chemicals which led him into his self described “constructive anguish” period. He emerged from this phase as a window licker and then moved on to a job as a fire watcher and fish squeezer. By that time Ray’s co-hort Bad Bob had turned good but had gotten a job committing suicide. 

Anyway, Ray went on the invent the steptronic transmission for Ferrari and the Bogan Diode before he invented Stormy Night Frog Leg Pate’ which launched him back into the food shack realm of cheffing and made him eternally famous.  

One night while  wrestling an alligator turtle in the river Ray got sucked into a whirlpool.  His son, Schmetterling, a vegan jogger who had invented byaldi vegetables and the Hilary Clinton Nut Cracker, jumped in after him.  They both perished.  

Noops Bogan, Ray’s second cousin, an anemic, well dressed musician and chef who is a former member of Kinky Friedman’s band, “The Texas Jew Boys,” took over the cook shack following Ray’s death. 

Most people are unaware that Noops wrote Kinky’s hit song, “They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore” or at least he claims he did.  The Noopster rocked the culinary world recently when he originated a new pig snout scrapple that happens to be featured in this month’s issue of Food and Wine magazine.  Check it  out. 

My wife and I have been hosting a big tiger stripe tabby on our property for about three years now. He showed up out of nowhere one cold rainy day at a neighbor’s house. Scavenging dog food was his game. He looked pretty rough. We named him Sidney.

The neighbor had called us with the news of his having shown up, figuring we would take him in. The neighbor was correct. But I sensed he wasn’t a normal cat when, at my first sight of him, he was panting like a dog and licking his balls. He made unusual noises all the way home. I mean really strange. We were a little scared—-so much so that we weren’t really too excited about opening the pet carrier door——and especially after hearing some of his low register baritone utterings, if you know what I mean. Some of those sounds must have come all the way from his butthole.

From day one he was——odd. His most obnoxious habit is to strut around the house like royalty, invading my space as though I’m not here and turning to put his butt right in my face——-and he does this on a regular schedule. If it’s 6:05 a.m., the butt is in my face. And those vacant stares. He must be thinking; “Hmmm. That old man smells funny and he’s a grump—but he has tuna, friskies and the gullibility gene. I’ll let him rub me tomorrow if I’m in the mood.”

I’m telling you it’s working for him! I’m pretty sure he would start munching on me if he thought I was dead. Just yesterday I was awakened by a thoughtful and thorough cat scan. Checkin for a pulse he was!

The snake episode was perhaps the most rattling (pardon the pun) experience. Going barefoot in the house is so freeing and relaxing—-that is unless your catdog delivers a very much alive, injured, bloody and angry, snake, just inside the back door. Sydney was nowhere to be seen. Delivery complete! Thank you Sydney!

Then there was the chilly foggy winter morning, barely light enough to see. There was movement. Lots of fur moving around down by the water. I stood in the back door and sipped coffee, studying the shore line. Soon I was able to make out Sydney and the other large furry object he appeared to be dragging toward my wrought iron fence. After a solid ten minutes of watching his relentless attempts to pull the the adolescent nutria he had assassinated through the bars of my fence I cautiously approached him and wrestled the dead nutria carcass from his claws.

What house cat do you know that kills nutria and vipers just for grins? .

Here’s hoping that our next cat, if I decide to re-cat after this hair raising experience, is a fraidy cat. Fraidy cats are what we’re accustomed to, what with gators and snakes and spiders as big as hoodoo bears. Sydney would be in the un-fraidy zone, somewhere in the “gator-snake, hoodoo bear, strike fear in the heart of man” category. Not fraidy of anything, except maybe missing his five o’clock tuna.

I ran into the Bossier City Chicken Whisperer at Sam’s Club yesterday. Turns out chickens have had a rough two years, considering their 99.9 % death rate. Very bleak for the cluckers. After a long discussion about exactly what information she was sharing with chickens I asked if she would be willing to attempt to whisper to Sydney. Turns out she had worked in the vet clinic where Sydney had been banned two years ago. Not only had her whispering failed but she had become “weary of seeing his anus up close.”

I’m up early this morning and headed out to walk. But first I MUST locate my Kevlar coveralls. There were noises earlier. Some of that baritone growling and, new this morning, barking sounds. If he attacks me it will be within the first one hundred yards of the walk. Wish me luck.

How much trouble can I create for myself or anyone else by simply breathing? Think about that. How near the looney farm are any of us? Much closer than we think?

Can carbohydrate addiction be a set up for murder? Can I awaken my third eye by pouring warm oil over my forehead? How many more people would be mass shooters if they could just find some camo pants they look good in? Where exactly are you on Karpman’s triangle? You need to know. Do you shift around, or always play the victim?

At the University of Caye Caulker’s Seahorse Ranch, ongoing research on Seahorse psychology has revealed role playing exists among Seahorses. Seahorse bully, Seahorse victim, seahorse savior. Karpman’s triangle.

Noticeable inconsistencies in research findings have been explained away by Dr. Riggin A. Doobier , M.D. as “The Bob Marley Factor.”
Doobier runs a home for wayward women on the island and therefore can’t be trusted.

I’m gonna have to get me a seahorse ranch and do some research myself! If my hunch about the ninth cranial nerve is correct, I’ll make billions!

If needed I’ll be sitting outside eating fried rice over at Aunties until four pm in 2029, at the three pm hookielau. Send a post card if you get work or run into the newly disaffected Cockwirk Scourge. He needs to call Noops Bogan. I’m not making that up.

 

I remember dropping off at Shakey Ray’s Cook Shack for the last time.
It was near the end of Ray’s life. By that time he had stopped shooting eight balls and smoking crack.

Ray had an interesting story that is worth telling. My complete biography of Shakey Ray will be published on Kindle in the spring of 2019. I’ll cover a few highlights.

Ray started off as a chicken sexer in southern Arkansas, then had a sudden epiphany at age 17 and drove himself to the Culinary Institute of America up in Hyde Park, New York, where he graduated in 1971.

Instead of telling me stories about his chef training, on my last visit, he preferred to talk about his drive to New York that year. He recalled taking the back roads on the way up and hitting all of the road side mailboxes he encountered with a baseball bat. They were putting off a magnetic pulse, he said. He was pretty sure he had gotten every one of them.

After chef school he was seized with an undercurrent of depravity and for a few years hooked up with a guy named Bob. Bad Bob, he called him. Not Dirty Bad Bob, the Mexican, but the original Bad Bob. They commenced to stealing cars, after which they would run them out of gas and then set them on fire. Ray’s memory was that when the cars were engulfed in flames Bob would throw down a prayer rug and pray this prayer: “May the divine Vishnu whose momentum none can stop, bless us for all of our well-being.” Apparently Bob was bad but he wasn’t all bad.

Ray had a habit of wearing sunglasses twenty-four seven. One day I asked him if he could see anything at night while wearing them and he explained, “the big show is going on inside of my head.” No doubt his artistry was wrought from the lunacy.

Later on in life there was a subsequent bout with bad chemicals which led him into his self described “constructive anguish” period. He emerged from this phase first as a window licker and then moved on to a job as a fire watcher. By that time Ray’s co-hort Bad Bob had turned good but had gotten a job committing suicide.

Anyway, Ray went on the invent the steptronic transmission for Ferrari and the Bogan Diode before he invented Stormy Night Frog Leg Pate’ which launched him back into the food shack realm of cheffing and made him eternally famous.

One night while wrestling an alligator turtle in the river Ray got sucked into a whirlpool. His son, Schmetterling, a vegan jogger who had invented byaldi vegetables and the Hilary Clinton Nut Cracker, jumped in after him. They both perished.

Noops Bogan, Ray’s second cousin, an anemic, well dressed musician and chef who is a former member of Kinky Friedman’s band, “The Texas Jew Boys,” took over the cook shack following Ray’s death.

Most people are unaware that Noops wrote Kinky’s hit song, “They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore.”

The Noopster rocked the culinary world recently when he originated a new pig snout scrapple that happens to be featured in this month’s issue of Food and Wine magazine. Check it out.

Mojotoo.net

My Grandmother Was A Butthole

My grandmother was a butthole. Well, at least it could be said that she was evolving into a butthole. She had tendencies. Certainly—-she presented us with a number of intensely powerful butthole moments .

Although, in consulting with Dr. D. Moseley, Chairwoman of the Department of Animosity at Whatsa Mata University, who has dedicated her entire career to the study of a sect(we won’t say a religious one) she deemed Buttholists, it would have appeared grandma’s moments were random and episodic occurrences, no body of evidence of her belief, or of her faith in, or of actually being, a practicing Buttholist.

Dr Moseley claims there is no concentrated population of this sect anywhere.(Well, maybe Texas, I mean really, think about those Texans for a minute.)

The exact word Dr Moseley used was “ubiquitous.” “They’re everywhere!” In a quest for solid proven science I asked Dr. Moseley if it’s possible to “know one when you see one?” Her eyes got real big and she said, (now this is pure science) “OH YEAH!”

Notice: Dr. Moseley doesn’t want you to know who she is or where she lives or that she helped Pud Rutledge smuggle Pixie Bob cats in from Nicaragua last year. They’re $10,000 a piece. It explains everything.

The road to becoming a butthole, before that “ist” thing is added or the state of having nearly become a butthole: I need the correct term;

Should I go with buttholedom, buttholiness. Or maybe buttholalonian, like Thessalonians.

eg; my grandmother was a——Buttholalonian?

Does buttholiness sound too Christian? Are butt and holy a contradiction, a forbidden combination? I need answers. Today. And I’m not shitting you. The Anna Nicole Smith trial is being re-run tonight. No way in hell I’m missing that!

An average family, worldwide, even rare Nicaraguan jungle tribes(who raise the even more rare Pixie Bob cats—(strange coincidence)—-according to Dr. Moseley, has in it at least one butthole. The simplest(Occam’s Razor) solution to putting a name on the butthole in a family is family consensus. We all know who it is!

If you aren’t sure who it is, then the proven science answer is, and I mean it is EVERY time, it’s YOU! Even more telling is that if you are laughing right now, guess what, YOU have been caught in the butthole trap! Yeah! More tricky Moseley science!

We are packing a serious load of buttholes in my family. The simplest solution to managing this potentially nuclear circumstance is to alternate being the butthole. But there are so many of us that it becomes necessary to be in a continuous survey of a family butthole who is beginning to vibrate. Pay attention now. This is critical. We know—-when to back down.

In fact, just yesterday, our family’s most well-spoken and articulate butthole(the most dangerous kind)began to vibrate when ordering apple pie at a local restaurant. We have no rational explanation. Everything seemed to be going well, then—-it was served. Improperly. We all gave each other the glance, which is tantamount to surrender. Recognizing my position at number two butthole sitting at this table, I glanced first. Vitally important.

We’re REALLY good at this. We’ve witnessed two and three simultaneous butthole meltdowns. We’re hardened veterans.

Let me leave you with this thought; no matter how badly buttholes in public can behave, there is a butthole right there in your house that cause you more anguish. The bitterness of the family butthole is unrivaled in any other setting.

I’m at home today. Just Katherine and me. Everybody in my family knows that one of us is THE butthole. The one that actually received the gift of a belt with the words “The Butthole” on it. And it ain’t Katherine.

Sid Richardson was a wealthy Texas oil man, perhaps one of the most wealthy and influential men in American history. At one point in Sid’s life he disappeared from the pages of history for about ten years. I’m fascinated by that fact.

I am definitely no Sid Richardson, but I recently disappeared from the landscape. No, I’m not in prison. Well, not since that thing back in 2012. It was a close one. But I was never indicted! (No laughing Kristi Chapman)

I had a total shoulder replacement 5 weeks ago. In the process I found out that I am allergic to Dwarf Australian Barking Deer. It’s a long story that involves Pud Rutledge some Honduran male tabby cat smugglers. I don’t have the time or energy to go into the story, but trust me, it was ugly. Do you know Pud? He is also the prime suspect in the theft of that tortilla making machine at Posado’s. If the Mexicans find out about this, there is going to be a lynch mob after Pud! I volunteer to put the noose around his neck!

I’ve been reading a lot. Just started book number eight. At the end of number seven I realized that I had gained eight pounds.

I found out about the extra pounds today. I was back in my doctors office for the fourth time, attempting to get my axe murderer prevention medication adjusted. Weight gain, according to my doctor, comes from laying around on your ass reading books. Who knew that?

Now—murdering people with an axe burns a lot of calories. I figure about four hundred calories each. Any other guesses? I could burn some serious calories if I would just quit taking my medications.

But then I recalled the story told to me by a good friend who is a cancer survivor. In the story he explained that he had experienced severe weight loss during treatment. Following treatment and recovery he gained all of his weight back. “Being skinny is overrated,” he said.

So there! It’s anecdotal and only one case—- but convincing! I stopped off at Sam’s Club and bought a giant bag of chips, some of those stuffed peanut butter pretzels and a dozen Greek Gyros. I feel so much better now. Is there a Lane Bryant for men?

Other than all of that ridiculousness I shucked off my shoulder immobilizer last week. Sleeping with that thing strapped around you neck is miserable and it was beginning to smell like tepid hot dog water. The shoulder is improving right on schedule.

Today I had the idea that I might get started writing some vague, apocryphal account of my life, making up a bunch of stuff to make me look better and more thoughtful and intelligent than I really am, as opposed to the circus of vulgarity and bad judgements it has been. Nobody will read it but it would be fun to do.

We are headed to the beach soon to watch the fat people on the beach, you know, the ones that show up from Illinois in October. I’ll write about that. Did you know that they steal the Splenda off the tables in our restaurants down there? I’ll fit right in! I’m taking a few more books. I figure about an extra pound for each book.

What have I learned this week? Milk your nightmares. There might be something useful in there. Swallow those damned those pills. They’re good for you! And hand over that axe!

On any given day my friend Lane Pittard’s mind is more full of sh*t than a port-a-potty at the end of little league baseball season. This is not to lodge a complaint in any form or fashion—it’s some brilliant sh*t! He harbors some deeply felt beliefs.

However there is now one particular belief of his that I am now prepared to contest. In case you are unaware, he is a Baconist—bacon worshiper.

It all came to pass(sounds kinda biblical doesn’t it) last night at Cotton’s in Minden, Louisiana. Pittard is the one who sent me out there so I could argue that this is all his fault.

Cotton’s is a rather rough looking fried chicken joint. Not as rough as Gary Busey looks after a week long bender—-but fairly rough.

When we approached the place on hwy 79 what we witnessed could only be described as a frenzy. I haven’t seen that much craziness since we came up short on banana pudding at the Methodist church back in 1995! We ended up having to send the pastor to a three month Banana Pudding Addiction Recovery program. I hear he relapsed down in Lake Charles years later. Banana pudding is pure dope to a Methodist.

But back to Cotton’s.

The one place left to park in the pot-holed, dimly lit parking lot at Cotton’s was more narrow than Maxine Water’s mind. But we managed to squeeze in there.

There is a walk up order window on the outside, and an order window on the inside. A third window is badly needed.

Once seated across from a very large photograph of an old man(must be, or have been, Cotton) we waited. His photograph portrayed a man who appeared to have known many chickens. Yes, you can tell by looking.

At last our order arrived. Then—————then, I bit into that first drumstick. I passed into what can only be described as a dream state!
The holy fried chicken spirit came upon me! I would need a certified Pentecostal to adequately describe how I felt. Methodists like me never have such experiences. But I knew in that moment that I had reached out and touched the beak of the holy god of fried chicken! Who knew such food existed?

Later, as I drove away, I began to ponder Pittard’s bacon worship. I’ve heard he has an underground bacon bunker where he stores bacon in case of some unforeseen apocalyptic event.

As a matter of full disclosure I will reluctantly admit that I attended one of his late night meetings wherein he built a large bon fire, fashioned hats out of bacon and danced a weird pagan looking dance around the fire. It looked sort of like Elaine’s dancing on Seinfeld. Then we all ate bacon until we passed out. The next morning when I woke up the fire was continuing to smolder and I looked around to see that the still sleeping attendants, including myself, were all wearing Arkansas Razorback hats. Weird.

I’m going to go out on a limb here. I’m going to say that Cotton’s fried chicken
is, dare I say it, better than bacon!

Now——as many of you know, I am in fact, a baconaholic myself. I just can’t quit. Hell, I had a half a pound of bacon for breakfast this morning!
I’ve struggled. I’ve been to the twelve step meetings. I even had a sponsor(Susan Prestidge)who quit bacon many years ago and now drinks Vienna sausage juice, which is basically like methadone for bacon addicts.

Lord help me! I can’t get that chicken out of my head. I wonder if there are any crumbs in the bottom of my trash can from last night? It’s out on the curb. I could dig those out! Would that be wrong? Is this just trading one addiction for another? Maybe I should call Susan.

OH MY GOD! I HEAR THE GARBAGE TRUCK COMING! SH*T! I GOTTA GO!

Katherine and I had our evening meal at an Italian restaurant today (I won’t mention the name, but the word garden is part of it.) The experience is never boring. Never! Incidentally, I highly recommend the blackberry pineapple tea. I don’t drink alcohol but the sugar content was high enough that I am flying right now. YING!!

Tonight’s entertaining distraction was a server(we’ll call him Adam Baum).

It became impossible not to stare at him. I tried desperately not to look. While she was looking at him, Katherine looked back at me and said, “stop looking at him!” Ha! In small print on the back of his t-shirt was the phrase “Who Would Jesus Bomb?” I’ve wondered that myself.

Adam is obviously a trainee, a trainee none to thrilled to be there. He could have taken some lessons in enthusiasm from a former server at blankety blank garden (we still miss him) named Stormy.

Stormy was a delightful man. I mean really delightful! When he commanded your table it was an event. His choice of fine colognes, both men’s AND women’s were always a treat!

But back to Adam. Adam had spent a considerable amount of time on his look. Frosted hair, Bruno Magli shoes, shirt by Pierre Cardin. But somehow, some way he had unintentionally achieved what I could only imagine in my own twisted mind as the wood pecker look. Maybe it was the spiked hair. Up until tonight I had only seen the woodpecker look on women. You men know what I’m talking about.

His look was paired with a sullen expression ——-thus, a sullen woodpecker.

I started thinking that if we could collect a group of similar individuals and put them all in one restaurant—well, we might be on to something. The angry donut whore, the butthole barista, pre-menstrual Mary, the meth head hostess, the Waffle House washout, the Vicodin valet, the sullen woodpecker.

Adam(the sweet one) could train them and do a hell of a job and
they could all stay in character! And with Adam around they would all smell great! We could call it:

HERE’S YOUR BLANKETY BLANK—FOOD.

By the time I had escaped the Gulag back in 2012 I had met a diverse cast of scoundrels and miscreants. There had been a time when I thought that the cultural sociopathy of the Willis-Knighton system was tough. You can’t be a pussy and live through that. But trust me, there are worse places. At the ripe old age of 68 I’m still standing.

Still in practice for over four decades I can’t imagine leaving it behind. I was enraptured by Anesthesia as a teenager. I love it just as much today, perhaps more.
There are elements of the subculture of surgery and anesthesia that are impossible to understand unless you live it. I will make no attempts to describe it here.

When I am away from bad hospital coffee and hospital cafeteria food for more than two weeks I begin failing to thrive. My body needs it. I’m sure that most all vegan joggers will live longer than me, but they will never have experienced hospital cafeteria chili at 2:30 in the morning. Lethal to harmful pathogens, that middle of the night chili will kill them all.

All elements of society show up in medical practice. It has always fascinated me. From trash to nobility, they are all there. But the best and most heroic people in health care never receive proper recognition.

Doctors and nurses in places like Claiborne Medical Center don’t have the luxury of a specialty when heart attacks and trauma come through their doors. No medical specialist would survive a single day in their shoes. These nurses and doctors live and thrive on the true front lines of medicine. They are the best and the brightest. It has been a truly wonderful place to spend the remainder of my Anesthesia practice.

I have collected an eclectic group of brilliant and eccentric friends along my life’s journey. From rednecks to royalty, from outlaws to judges, from gentlemen to rogues. I lost one this year. It’s hard to know that he is gone. Between him and my older brother it’s a miracle we lived this long. My brother and I laughed so hard and so loud at his funeral that the nice people in church stared at us. It was because they didn’t really know Jim or who the three of us were when we were together. Being in his presence was somewhere between terror and exhilaration. From machine guns to explosives, from whiskey to hard living, I wouldn’t believe the stories myself. We should have all gone to federal prison at least once. His funeral was a great celebration of what a wonderful, boorish, larger than life rogue he really was. Jim really never left the Marine Corp. Wherever he is now, he is still a Marine.

Now at 68 I am a proud and studious cuisine whore, shitty bassist, lover of Stan Getz and Oscar Peterson, John Coltrane and Vivaldi. Don’t hug me unless you are a woman or somebody close to you died. I hate camping, love fine hotels, our beach home and being on houseboats or anywhere else with my amazing family who have tolerated all of my ridiculous bullshit for all these years. They stuck with me and we are a finer, closer bunch than ever before.

I did however tell AJ that I would sell him to two Mexican guys for $5. I was just kidding. But he still owes me two dollars. See you this weekend you little butthole! And you better have my two dollars!