PJ

I find myself in that enviable position of having just enough knowledge of a topic to expound for about 9 to 13 paragraphs without completely losing my train of thought.

It was in the Avery Journal publishing days that I came upon one of the strangest little men I've ever met. 'Georgia' Jimmy Garnett was like a character in a dream -- just barely above cartoon, but not quite believable in the role of adult homo sapiens.

He wrote sports. I don't want to give too much away so's not to embarrass him, but he wrote sports and he was absolutely obsessed with one aspect of collegiate athletics. One bastion of upright society, of sportsmanship and gamesmanship, of dignity, and this hallowed ground was none other than my beloved University of Georgia. He lived and he breathed Georgia Bulldog football. He could, and often did, quote scripture and verse from Lewis Grizzard books, and could tell you Vince Dooley's record against Auburn in night games where the Tigers' quarterback topped 300 yards passing. It was damn near eerie.

His stature simply added to the picture. He was 5-4 if he was in thick sole tennys. Typically black. He proudly wore the sacred Red and Black in almost every form -- from slacks to polo to windbreaker and back -- but question him about his days in the Classic City, and the subject was quickly changed. Jimmy's ties to the Dawgs were of the lifelong and sportscentered variety. He watched Herschel go over the top in the 1980 National Championship game and was hooked. The restrictions of out-of-state tuition conspired to keep Jimmy from ever having long discussions on Civil War history in LeConte Hall or puking out the Reed dorm windows, no, Jimmy stayed home in the mountains and felt his blood grow Redder from afar.

He was only functionally literate but he could crank out a sports story, which brings me to my actual point. In 1999, Georgia Jimmy was constantly writing stories about Division I-AA football. It was mostly understandable for me due to the prominence of the mighty Appalachian State Mountaineers here in Boone, and their influence stretched into neighboring Avery County where we were making the newspaper. But his stories weren't about Appalachian in those distant pre-Michigan upset days, his stories were about the hated Southern Conference rivals, the Georgia Southern Eagles.

Mind you, they were the dominant team and once again I-AA champs, but the reason Jimmy was writing about them was their coach....former Avery County High School coach....wait for it, Paul Johnson. (If you live under a rock or lack an adam's apple, or are one of the three people that didn't graduate with me that's reading this, the name Paul Johnson will become more significant momentarily.)

Jimmy had grown up with Paul Johnson, and he was now the coach of the National Champions (of I-AA). He was proud of him and wanted everybody to know that this particular 'local boy done good' story made it out.

So, in the end, my days with Jimmy were somewhat short. Politics and the dramas of the countryside conspired against our odd little friendship. I still have a cup he gave me from a Dawgs game, and I never did give that magazine with the caricature of Lewis riding Uga on the front, but I did give him a real blood link to Georgia. But here we are, lo these many years later, both Jimmy and I are probably moving horizontally, but the career of the aforementioned Paul Johnson has continued to blossom.

I know Jimmy was proud when Johnson was enlisted by the United States of America to direct its gridiron operations at the Naval Academy. They were terrible when he got there. He took them straight to a bowl and then another couple. He was soon noticed by a team struggling at the next level of Division I football, in Georgia ... no, it couldn't be...

As Georgia Jimmy looked on ready to write the next chapter for the friends and family back in Avery County, and I watched from Boone with something approaching genuine interest, Paul Johnson was hired to coach the godforsaken Nerds on North Avenue, the Good Ol' Fashioned Hated Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets.

Gal-dangit. And I was just starting to like him.

Now, of course this brings us all the way to this very day, three very days since the supposedly overmatched, helplessly undercoached Georgia Bulldogs laid a whuppin' on said Jackets. Mr. Johnson, for the first time, shared his true feelings about the outcome, it was the first quotes of his I could remember reading outside of a Jimmy article. "Guy giving you a hard time and you get tired of it," said PJ on the radio, "Punch him in the face." ...Wow.

Before we even start the great Bow-Up of 2009, I got to share something with the soldiers of the Slightly Off Mustard - and sometimes Gold - Nation, as my buddy SteveO said, better remember that "you" go to Tech and the "guy" is a farmboy from Athens that will beat you to death if you punch him in the face. So, just bear it in mind before you go all Avery County Killbilly on anyone.

Now, with that said, I want to offer all my best to badass Paul Johnson and his efforts to toughen up what was admittedly, with no offense to the ladies, a very girly team. Yes, they have some fellows that can run fast (though their hands appear a bit suspect), and PJ has thrown together a very complex and difficult-to-slow offense. I even think they have a good shot at topping Clemson and then may even get lucky in the Orange Bowl. Now with THAT said, let's move on to address your conception of the GA-GA Tech rivalry, Paul.

Y'all got us last year, we popped you back this year. See you next Thanksgiving. We've owned you for the better part of my waking life with the exception of that spectacular four year run y'all had at the turn of this century. PJ, you are gonna have to string a few together before you talk too big over Coach Richt, and our mascot is about three hundred and seventy times cooler dead than your team's bug or its car. Why do you have an extra mascot anyway, in case one breaks down on 4th and 10? Trust me, I hope it's a long and distinguished rivalry between Coaches Richt and Johnson. I think over time, Georgia Jimmy's boyhood friend and idol, Coach Paul Johnson, might just get what Good Old Fashioned Hate is all about.

Y'all have a good holiday, and if any of you would presume to give me a Christmas present, I direct you to my school's webpage. There is a PayPal link there that you could use to make a little donation to our Bus fundraising campaign. Thanks, Grizdawg out.

Gaia

I feel like the piece I typed in here called Mother Nature's Stepson was probably the best thing I've written over the past year or five, and in re-reading it I felt a touch 'spired to do a little rhyme-writin'...

I met this hippie chick named Gaia,

She was pretty, soft and cool

Perfect eyes as blue as oceans

Sparkling waves and tidal pools

But in the hills they turned to emeralds

In the snow they turned to ice

In the desert out in Utah once

I learned of the sacrifice

Seems that Gaia's touched with poison

She's been tasting for a while

It started getting pretty bad

'Cross these last two hundred miles

Every man that's come to Gaia

With his pockets full of lies

Has left her scarred and scared and punctured

And oftentimes barely alive

Every cheap and lazy vulture,

Every starving, greedy crow

They all go chasing after Gaia

And she's too nice to just say no.

So they take another piece away

And they feed upon her love

They will hold her skin above the flame

Until the day she says 'Enough.'

I can see it in her sparkle

I can feel it on her skin

Gaia won't take it forever

She'll be standing at the end

So I'm asking her to trust me

Maybe join me for a walk

That's just a parrot on my shoulder

That I'm trying to teach to talk

So he can tell us 'bout the jungle

And the smoke that's in the East

And the fight against the lurking

creeping

Fire-breathing Beast

I sound like Gaia when I say that

It's always this or that new cause

Everything's so personal

Who knew we had so many flaws?

But I just can't live without her

I can feel her everywhere

In the grass beside the creek out back

And in my little girl's long hair

See Gaia's not the marrying type

She simply too direct

But if you ever get to dance with her

Please show her some respect

Keep a proper distance

Let her get to know you first

See Gaia needs to feel your warmth

And not to be immersed

In your greedy exploitations

In your mining for the power

Behave yourself with dignity

And get her home at a decent hour

And tell her that I asked about her

I think I'll go and see her soon

The sun is rising over Gaia

But Gaia's dancing with the Moon.

--GG, 7/9/09

To Jekyll and Hide!

As a teacher of children, I end up with a lot of influence over the minds of future grownsed-ups. In my situation, I get to teach a wide wange of wisdom, and as long as I don't set off one of the parents, I can come from pretty much any angle of which I can thinkerate. Out of all these different lessons I give, whether it is a philosophical run at Ishmael, Plato or The Tao of Pooh, or an overview of the basics of the Constitution,  I can think of one lesson that is more important than all of them, and it is one I was never taught when I was on my way up to my present height.

If I could pick anything I would impart upon the young adults of this world, it would be these simple words: You do not have to fall in love with and marry the first person you get intimate with.

Those of you who know me well are quite aware of the depth of the oceans that I personally sailed on my way to discovering this particularly well-charted land. Though, I repeat, it is the fault of my elders and teachers for shirking the responsibility of simply telling me this information. It is disrespectful for a 16 year-old student of either gender to not receive this truth. Whether they can actually hear it or not is another matter.

Currently, I do not have any children of this relative age under my sway, so I get the personal satisfaction of passing this responsibility on to every one of you reading these words. 

It took me forever to get out of my catastrophic inaugural relationship. I have no interest in going into the gritty details of the disaster, but suffice it to say, neither of us was ready to settle down and raise a family. We could barely keep our zoo of pets alive.

If someone had sat me down on the front seat of my sweet blue Chevy Nova on my 16th birthday and said some version of the following, perhaps I could have gotten much more out of my college years than an education degree and responsibility for the smallest parrot in the menagerie: 

"Over the next few years, you will progress from curiosity to completely possessed by feelings and urges. These are to be cultivated and enjoyed. There will come a time when you will look at a (boy/girl: pick one - wisely.) and be overcome with chemicals and constellations of caramel. This object of thine affection will either respond positively or negatively to your outpourings of l'amour. When all is slayed and done and hearts are tripped upon and squashed, you will emerge hand-in-hand with one of the first few loves of your life. You will become as close as people can be, if ya' get my meanin', nudge, nudge. And there will come a day when you abruptly realize that you might be able to live happily ever after with this person...or you will even more abruptly be clubbed by the fact that there is more to be tantalized, tasted and tabulated in the 52 million square miles of habitable land on our planet. The prophet Sting once said 'If you love someone, set them free' (though he might have been plagiarizing), but the idea is that if something is real enough to last forever, you and your partner need to be of a sound (less hormonically-addled) mind and experienced soul when you knot the tie. You need to see some of the world and what magic is available for sample. And if it turns out that you are one of the chosen ones who hit the lottery the first time you buy a ticket, all my best, let's hope y'all still have enough luck in the tank to do the forever thing successfully. Long and the short of it is simply that you are not required to sew yourself to your love at first kiss, instead, consider using velcro, so it won't hurt as bad when you pull back."

Admittedly, you might want to come up with a better closer than velcro, but this is just your basic template. You have to make it your own and appropriate for your particular situation. Don't worry about coming off sounding judgmental, it's for the good of the future lives of people you are supposed to influence for the better.

For myself, I owe all the credit in the world for my happy beginning to two important friends, Dr. Jekyll and Miss Hide. They came from an island off the Georgia Coast and alerted my (sadly) 22 year-old soul that the door was ajar, and it was time to slip out the back, Jack. Without Jekyll's magic, and Hide's smile, I mighta been writing to y'all from behind some line in a Johnny Cash song: "Told my woman that she'd better shut that parrot up, or else I'm gonna grab a knife and cut that parrot up..." (though I might be plagiarizing).

Good night, San Quentin.

Mother Nature's Stepson

By virtually every practical, scientific and pedestrian standard, Planet Earth possesses all the essential characteristics by which we define a Living Thing. She is an organism unto herself. And judging by the reflexive pronoun and its antecedent in the previous sentence, and being the painfully anthropomorphic homo sapiens sapiens that I am, I would like to take a deeper look into the long-lived characterization of the Earth as a "Her." This dynamic casting has been true from her days as the sassy, classy, great big assy life-sprouter with valley girl names like Gaia and Terra, to today's much more disturbing infomercial role as late-middle-age twins that are never in the same place at the same time, the Mothers Earth and Nature. 

Her Earthness's progression from voluptuous young MILF of the Stone Age to today's mustachioed motorcycle meth-hag makes sense in many ways, and the trail of clues leading to the proper place to the lay the blame is as easy to follow as the final version of Anna Nicole's E! True Hollywood Story. 

Early on, back when the first coat of paint wasn't even dry on the cave walls, Bunga-Bung watched things come to something he was realizing was Life. Life was growing and sprouting forth from every direction he looked. When something green or grainy wasn't shooting up out of the ground or out the end of a tree branch, something screaming and squirmy was shooting out of the nearest tribal female. It wasn't beyond his mammoth-meat muddled mind to detect the connection between her... and Her. Lucky for Bunga-Bung and his buddies, due to some ancient alignment in Captain Carbon's Cardgame, the Pink Ladies split their jacks and went home with pockets full of nature and nurture, while the T-Birds doubled-down on muscle and drew the Queen of Diamonds (who we all know 'will beat you if she's able'). The fairer sex hardly ever gave any lip in those days of the club and heavy rock, and likewise the ever-accomodating Terra also seemed content to settle for her relationship with this league-bowling, pit-stained alcoholic and his multi-religious sanctioned totalitarian rule. 

However, if we delve deeper into the relationship, we can see the pattern that has grown all too familiar in these days of such trailer park trysts. Insecurity and fear are the intoxicants that dull the ever-expanding mind of this slowly evolving Homerest of Simpsons. From the time of his revolutionary harnessing of the power of mud, it is clear that mankind has done his best not only to dominate, but also to adhere himself to beloved Mother Earth in a profoundly Freudian way that can't be touched by therapy or thorazine. We constructed, first out of mortar and granite, and later with concrete and Rearden Steel, an ever deepening anchor into the Missus. We trot across the arid asphalt in between, corner to right-angled corner, in a vain attempt to leave our manly scent on every remotely flat surface. From the first Egyptian obelisk to the friggin' Empire State Building, we have been engaged in a species-long show of testosteronic towering over Mother Earth. A belief that now is beginning to look like equal parts fallacy and 'phallus'y.

Somehow through it all, dear sweet Mother has continued to take it all in stride. "He'll come around," she whispers into the wind of the spreading mushroom cloud. "He's good to me, when he's not in one of his moods."

What could it possibly be that keeps Her from slamming the door and turning off the gravity switch and just letting our sorry asses float right away -- from the comforting arms of the Mother, into the slathering fangs of the Maw? Is she afraid that the dolphins and chimps won't be able to meet Her at Her level? I certainly can't picture a chimp tossing a toxic coal waste cocktail in Her face and then dumping last night's empties into the contaminated pond behind his neighbor's house -- at least not for four or five million years or so.

But with the exception of Her occasional outburst, particularly those we measure in terms such as 8.7 or Category 5, She continues to put up with an awful lot. Wouldn't you think that there's some point where She's going to realize that Her club trumps Man's spade (and bulldozer) in this cosmic casino? After all, self-preservation is the most basic instinct of the living thing. If you have something living on your skin, you are probably going to try to find some fine ointment --brand new and expensive -- to get it cleared up. In this case the severity of the blemish is up to us. Would we rather be a beauty mark on Gaia's cheek, or a wart on Mother NaturEarth's nose?

I just sort of feel like we better start bringing home some pretty darn nice flowers one of these days, or dear old Mother is going to come down on us harder than she did on the Heat Miser when he didn't want to let it snow in Southtown. I've always thought that she was kind of tough on her boys in that Christmas special, but now that I think about it, she's got plenty of reason to be bitter. And we've got even more reasons to be sweet.