rex l. camino covers a johnny cash classic, sort of

How high's the water, mama?

Said it's two feet high and risin'.

How high's the water, papa?

What are you, fucking deaf?

dream or actual movie

I can’t remember if I read about this movie being developed or if I dreamed I was writing the script, but it torments me. Here’s the plot:

Scientists studying the shroud of Turin are able to extract a DNA sample and then clone themselves a real live baby Jesus. It turns out that this manages to fulfill the “second coming” prophesied in the Bible, and it eventually leads to the end of the world and such.

It is not unlike a mix between Left Behind and Jurassic Park with just a dash of The Omen thrown in for good measure, and I think it would make a fine vehicle for Rob Schneider.

Now, this really has nothing to do with Biblical questions or the shroud’s authenticity. Bear in mind that this is a movie or possible movie, and that films often require us to set aside notions for a couple of hours. We all know that Tom Cruise is freakishly small in real life, and that Ewoks would really just get in the way when one is battling the dark side of the Force.

I just like the plotline and hope to use it without threat of plagiarism, so please let me know if I’m thinking of a movie that already exists.

Your assistance is greatly appreciated.

shock an aussie

Have you ever wanted to be a cheap and relatively ineffectual superhero?

Sure, we all have.

Now you can, and all you need is "an unfortunate combination of insulating clothes".

...Wait, isn't that also the title of a children's book?

a pox on the house of camino?

It all began early last Saturday morning when Carl Weathers woke us up with some very audible pre-regurgitation heaving in his crate. I rolled out of bed and released him and was unable to get him outside before he began coughing up parts of an undigested winter glove. The carpet unfortunately bore the brunt of that black leather concoction, and we thought all would be well when he coughed up the remainder on the lawn.

He does this all the time. He is a six and a half year old dog, and he still coughs up a sock here and there the same way he did as a pup.

That is usually the end of it, but it wasn’t this time. He was lethargic and sickly all day, and we eventually took him to the 24 hour vet on Saturday night. X-rays revealed that he still had a blockage—a finger from the glove—that was preventing the natural course of the digestive system.

He remained there overnight and most of the day on Sunday receiving a number of enemas and other enticements to help him again perform his favorite backyard activity. He was understandably angry when I picked him up on Sunday night, and he ran right past me to greet total strangers sitting in the vet’s lobby. Then he wandered in my direction with indifference and the expression of a dog who feels violated. There was no way to explain to him the correlation of glove eating and intestinal blockage, but he eventually got hungry again and remembered that we are the providers of food.

By the way, it will cost you about four hundred bucks to have a dog with the cleanest colon in the county.

Speaking of clean colons…I was in a minor traffic accident this morning.

The lady whose jeep I inadvertently ran off the road was quite nice about it, as it was really not my fault, but the cop did have to blame someone. I was at the back of a line of cars when the driver of the lead car had the spontaneous desire to make a left hand turn, resulting in the chain reaction of quickly applied breaks. This doesn’t always work so well for the guy in the back, and I swerved to the right to avoid a pile-up.

Her jeep only suffered a flat tire and busted rim, and the Rexmobile came away with only a few dents, but what really made the occasion was receiving a ticket for a reckless lane change.

It was certainly a helluva way to start the day, and a fellow landscaper who had heard all about Carl Weathers’ bowels the day before said, “I guess the other shoe has dropped.” Then he added, “Unless these things come in threes.”

Everything in folklore comes in threes, but I don’t understand the business about dropping shoes. Can there be three dropping shoes?

I certainly hope not, as I will be flying out of state this weekend for one of my other half-jobs, and a third disaster waiting to happen is not something I want to travel with. I already HATE flying.

So illogical Rex spent the day waiting for something bad to happen.

I was head butted by a ghostly white Borzoi (also known as a Russian Wolfhound) while digging holes in a West Meade backyard, but that probably doesn’t count. He floated around the estate like a giant sheet of happy, yet pristine poster board and kept bringing us toys to play with him and then tried to help us dig our holes, but that isn’t on par with illogical Rex’s expectations.

Ah, the joy of a dog who knows not about enemas and such.

He then pissed in the hole I was digging, but that probably doesn’t count as disaster number three either.

this is not our gas goodbye, but...

This weekend’s revelations by the Gas Guy have me feeling a bit guilty, for I, dear reader, am also a bit of a fraud and have not been entirely honest with you. I am going to step out of character here and come clean as to my real identity and purposes for this blog.

I am actually Jan Michael Vincent, and I have been doing this blog to get extra credit towards achieving my GED.

You might remember me from the film “White Line Fever” or as the tortured top-secret helicopter pilot Stringfellow Hawk in my TV series “Airwolf”, but my fame and fortune has quickly faded over the last few years. I had been lobbying hard for a reprisal of the series, but that Ernest Borgnine bastard keeps claiming to be “too old” to costar in an action series at this point in his life.

But I ask you: How hard is it to just sit in the back of a damn helicopter for half the episode? I mean, back in the days of the original series Borgnine was always half-loopy on crystal meth and spent most days in his trailer with an assortment of transvestites and dwarves. There are worse ways to make a living.

I suppose I shouldn’t be too angry, as he agreed to read my blog to you, dear reader (though I just don’t have the heart to tell him that I lack auditory capabilities, and that everyday he just comes in and reads into a broken Mr. Microphone that I picked up at the Salvation Army when I was there buying pants).

But I digress.

I’m afraid that I must also inform you, dear reader, that I, much like the Gas Guy, live nowhere near the Nashville area. I am actually in a small west Texas town near the gulf. I managed to survive the recent hurricane, but the satellite dish atop my mobile home did not fare so well. It was gone when I emerged the next morning, and I have yet to see it while driving around the trailer park in the AMC Pacer. I think the Mexican family next door actually stole it, but I can’t prove any of that. Besides, I sort of took their AMC Pacer without asking.

Anyway, I know many of you big-hearted folks out there have already given until it hurts in the wake of the hurricanes, but I hope you still have enough left in your hearts to contribute to the “Help Jan Michael Vincent Get A New Satellite Dish To Replace The One That Either The Hurricane Took Or The Mexican Stole” fund. Former President Bush has refused to help me solicit donations, but Clinton has said maybe. I’ll update you on where you can send the checks when I get a post office box.

Is there anything else you should know about the real “Rex”?

Yes. I hate martinis. I don’t know why I pretended to like that crap. In those times when I seemed a little drunk it was because of the peyote. In the lean times it may have been paint thinner, but it was mostly the peyote.

This is not goodbye, dear readers, but I felt as though I should be up front. I hope that you continue to read because I still have quite a ways to go before reaching high school equivalency.

Also, I would appreciate it if you lobbied your local CBS affiliate to bring back “Airwolf” in the meantime. Those gambling debts will not pay for themselves, and the AMC Pacer will be utterly useless to me when both my legs are broke.

duane & duane, episode 7

...with more "possible" copyright infringement.

Enjoy.

selling the hurricane

Kudos to CNN for having a sizable journalist out in the approaching hurricane late last night. I didn’t catch his name, but he didn’t flail like a windsock in the gusts.

Yes, it is sometimes fun to watch Anderson Cooper being bandied about like trash, but he must be preserved for bigger things. We must always keep in mind that the ghost of Larry King cannot ramble on forever, and that someone will someday have to assume his role and provide a forum for the Tammy Bakers and Deepak Chopras of our world.

If news corporations are going to continue sending correspondents out to cover hurricanes first hand, then they should provide larger journalists on their staff for just such an occasion. Think of it as an evolutionary step. You need a hefty reporter with a low center of gravity who can withstand high winds, stinging sheets of rain, flying debris, and an asinine line of questioning from Katie Kouric.

What you don’t need is Shepherd Smith staggering like an Irishman in the downpour and rambling on about how the street signs are bending.

Then again, maybe you do on some subconscious level.

If the main objective of news outlets is to sell us on these natural disasters, then perhaps the most waifish among the pool of reporters is the one to send. Maybe I’ll be more inclined to watch news reports from an emaciated beanpole of a correspondent who only needs hundred mile an hour winds to get parallel with the ground.

But why stop there? If drama is our goal, then why not seek out the most cowardly individual in the organization and handcuff the poor bastard to a pier closest to where the storm is projected to hit landfall.

Matt Lauer: We’ve sent Dudley Wumpkin to cover the hurricane as it comes ashore. Dudley was originally sent by the temp agency to answer telephones here in our office, but he spent the majority of his time hiding in a bathroom stall due to a debilitating social anxiety disorder. Dudley, what can you tell us about the conditions thus far?

Dudley: Sweet Jesus, Matt! My testicles have climbed into my body cavity.

Matt: What are the wind speeds?

Dudley: Oh God!

Matt: They say that what you’re experiencing now is just an outer band, and that the conditions will only worsen when the storm reaches you in thirty-six hours.

Dudley: I’m going to fucking die!

Katie Kouric: Dudley, this is Katie.

Dudley: Fucking help me!

Katie: We are getting word now that the American Meteorological Association has just expanded their classifications to include a category six in order to accommodate this hurricane.

Dudley: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Katie: But do you think that the president has done enough for your safety?

stache dreams and rambling

Another good thing about landscaping is that you are not so concerned about your appearance. It is a good time to take some facial hair risks and maybe grow those porkchop sideburns or get that Mr. T haircut you've always wanted. On a lesser level, it is certainly a better environment than an office for taking another shot at that moustache you've sometimes dreamed of.

I thought we decided to give up on that.

We did, but this is not unlike a time of employment limbo. People don't care what I look like, so long as they don't have to prune and weed their own damn gardens.

You'll never look like Tom Selleck.

I know that now, but I can still be my own mustachioed icon.

You remember the last time, don't you.

Of course.

You looked like a really bad Freddie Mercury impersonator.

That really had more to do with the leather pants and the dog collar.

And all that man-love had nothing to do with it?

Stop that! These people don't know when you are kidding.

Why the hell aren't you at work right now?

I have the day off, and the cruelest of ironies is that my own yard desperately needs some tending to.

Ain't that a bitch.

It indeed is, disembodied voice. But I do prefer landscaping in Murfreesboro to working in the yards of west Nashville, as I am less likely to have to mow around a passed out Mindy McCready down here.

Laughing at others makes us feel better about ourselves.

It does when they are famous.

Or when they are sporting a subpar moustache.

You make a good point, italicized bastard. There was a guy who worked at Kroger's with a Hitler moustache a couple of years back, and my ego was certainly not threatened by him.

That was just bad taste.

Maybe it was, or maybe it was just a poor knowledge of history. Then again, maybe it was just that a forty year old guy who bags groceries for a living really has nothing to lose.

So, what have you learned from this?

That there are fates worse than weed pulling.

still tangled up in rex

Though I have been quite the one-legged man at the ass kicking contest this week, I've managed to post a couple of things over at Tangled Up In Blue.

Come and discuss death and brandy.

don't thank me

I couldn't help but notice the improvement of the Titans this weekend. There was no pussyfooting or grab-ass to be seen, and I have to wonder if Coach Fisher read my post last Tuesday and implemented the suggestions.

That's fine, Jeff. I don't need the credit.

Excitement, adventure, a blogger seeks not these things.

rex l. camino's dream of practical cats

The cat known on this blog as "Bukowski" gave me an idea the other day.

Now, if I can just train him to do this to weeds and avoid grazing on flowers it will make my time as a landscaper much easier. Then again, if I can train a herd of the little bastards to consume weeds upon my command I might just have a lucrative business venture in my future.

I am more about the ideas than the work ethic, and that may have been a contributing factor in the number of jobs I’ve had and left, but I’m willing to wager that people would pay good money just to see my army of lawn care cats in action.

It won’t even matter that they do a shitty job.

Much like I am off to do now.

duane & duane, episode 6

...in which there is brief puppet nudity.

Enjoy.

random mutterings of a lawn ranger, week 1.

Rex is sore, Kittens and cats. I got up at five a.m. last Saturday to help my brother-in-law pour concrete and then had a short and Titan aggravation filled Sunday before starting my three or four month stint as a landscaping professional. Luckily, I will have a week off here and there to travel for one of my other, less manual labor involved half-jobs.

But today I landscaped until I got caught in the rain, which is good and bad. It ended my workday by a few hours, but those hours will also be absent from my first paycheck. Also, I had to drive from West Meade back to Murfreesboro soaking wet, and in dire need of exchanging my attire for a dry martini.

I ended up going with coffee though, as my morning coffee intake has had to be shortened quite a bit with this job. There is nowhere on the worksite to relieve myself where I am not in the view of passersby or outside the window of some Bell Meade trophy bride, a nanny, or Al Gore.

Sure, I could stop somewhere on the way, but it is always a hassle.

The good thing about this job is that it should sufficiently diminish my burgeoning beergut. If it does not, then the beergut is meant to be and should therefore be left alone.

I am usually not the hard working type when it comes to actual work, but I have come home everyday this week with my clothes completely drenched in sweat. My arms are tanned and the hair on them is turning blonde. Muscles that I don’t even use are sore, perhaps for sympathy. My legs are bleeding from rosebush thorns, scratching at mosquito bites, or getting too near a drunken and disheveled former U.S. senator and vice president.

Katherine Coble actually drove by and took a picture to document my labor. She then opened and unloaded quite a few garbage bags full of empty malt liquor bottles just so I would have to pick them up.

coach camino fixes the titans

When I watch the Titans getting their collective asses kicked I have to wonder if Coach Fisher goes in at halftime and gives the same kind of speeches my high school coach gave—something along the lines of:

Did y’all come all the way to Pittsburgh to play grab-ass and pussyfoot around the field? Huh? Cause I sure as hell didn’t.

At this point I always wanted to stand up and say: Wait, this isn’t the grab-ass team?

I never did, of course, but I tried to give the coach a little more engagement than some of the others.

He would always take his grab-ass and pussyfoot question straight to a player—usually an alpha male who played linebacker—in order to personalize his assessment get the adrenaline going for the second half. Then he would go down the line on the bench and attempt to ignite a fire of enthusiasm, as it were.

Coach: Big Marcus, did you come here to pussyfoot around and play grab-ass?

Big Marcus: No, sir!

Coach: Bubba, did you come here to pussyfoot around and play grab-ass?

Bubba: Hell no!

Coach: Rex L. Camino, did you come here to pussyfoot around and play grab-ass?

Rex: Not really, sir. I’d be lying if I told you that I hadn’t planned on some tomfoolery and maybe a few shenanigans, but grab-ass was never on the agenda. Also, I’m a little confused as to what constitutes pussyfooting. If I have been engaging in it, and I very well might have, then I must apologize and plead ignorance on this one.

Coach: What the hell are you doing with a martini in this locker room!?!

I doubt that Coach Fisher ever tries this. I don’t blame him, as millionaires would be less likely to respond to this sort of thing than teenagers, but I would be willing to try. I even practiced a little on Sunday. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and said with my most serious face:

Keith Bulluck, did you come to Pittsburgh just to play grab-ass and pussyfoot around? Huh? Did you?

Just think about it, Coach Fisher. But try not to pussyfoot too long, as I am making my motivational speaking skills available for any team at any level with enough alcohol to lure me into the clubhouse.

I will also do children’s birthday parties, though parents must sign a special waiver.

the lawn ranger

I started a landscaping job today to fill in the gaps left by my multitude of other half-jobs. This is the slow time of year for them, and it is also a great time to be outside. It will probably cut down on my blog reading and posting time, but there should be a sufficient number of rainy days for me to catch up.

However, this also means that they guy pruning that oak leaf hydrangea outside your office window might be me.

Then again, maybe not. We mostly do private residences, and you may have just foolishly waived at your office building’s landscaping guy. I’m sure that won’t be awkward.

No, it is more likely that I am at your house right now. I might be pulling weeds in the flowerbed, going Edward Scissorhands on the shrubs, sneaking into your house to drink your beer, and then…maybe…possibly…trying on your wife’s clothes.

But look at it this way: I will probably stretch them out. The next time she wears that black cocktail dress it will no doubt hang more loosely, and she will think that she’s lost weight.

We all win.

duane & duane, episode 5

There was no DUANE & duane last week, and the world got along without it just fine. However, I have a few a few more of these and figure that I might as well post them.

Here is what has happened so far: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, and Episode 4.

Now Episode 5 will make sense. Enjoy.

robocop gets his learn on

I could--and sometimes do--watch the History Channel all day. I don't care if it is a documentary about the Napoleonic wars , whaling in the 19th century, what Hitler had for breakfast, the history of New York's sewer system, or preferred facial hair styles of pirates. I have come to expect all manner of useless historical trivia knowledge from the History Channel, but I never expected it to be explained to me by Robocop.

It turns out that Peter Weller, the man who was both Robocop and Buckaroo Banzai, is now a professor at Syracuse University. He is featured on the channel's new series on Rome, and has done a great job on the parts I've caught so far. He is enthusiastic and much more animated than in his portrayal of the half robot/half cop who had to battle through his remaining human emotions to stay focused and catch a number of bad guys who were doing an assortment of things that bad guys did in the eighties.

Although, I did miss what he was saying the first few times, as seeing Peter Weller when and where one is not expecting to see Peter Weller can be distracting.

Kudos to you, Buckaroo. But let us pray that Rosie Perez does not become an expert in the sixteenth century sea trade.

ghosts and the law

Owners of a Japanese restaurant in Orlando want to break their lease because the building is haunted, and the landlord is taking them to court. Therefore, the defense could hinge on trying to prove the existence of ghosts.

Perhaps this could ascends through the courts and make for one hell of a welcome for the new chief justice. Maybe the ghost of Rehnquist could even be brought in for consultation.

This also reminds me of two stories:

1. I worked as a temp for a while at a large mobile home manufacturing company just outside Knoxville. They also resold used mobile homes, and a woman once tried to get out of her mortgage by claiming that her previously occupied trailer was haunted.

Yes, I'm also thinking a remake of The Ghost and Mr. Chicken starring Jeff Foxworthy.

The company laughed it off, and I suppose the woman never thought to take up the matter in court.

2. We have our very own haunted Asian restaurant here in middle Tennessee. I haven’t been there in quite some time, and I might very well be confusing it with another place, but I seem to recall that it was the “Asia Chinese Restaurant” in Smyrna. It is your typical Chinese buffet with crab legs and Jell-O offered alongside the traditional dishes, and it sits in a nondescript building on what turns into Murfreesboro Road. Mrs. Camino and I would eat there every once in a while when we first got married. We even had a sort of paranormal experience there once but thought nothing of it at the time, as it was long before I had heard anything about the ghost.

It happened like this: The wife and I were quite poor at the time and were taking full advantage of the “all you can eat” nature of the buffet. In keeping with the cost effectiveness, we drank only water. However, each time we returned from the buffet Mrs. Camino found her water replaced with 7up. We figured that the first time was an honest mistake and pointed it out to the waiter. He told us in broken English that he hadn’t replaced the drink, and we returned to our sesame chicken and egg drop soup in only slight confusion.

The second time it happened it was a bit more disturbing. Once again, it only happened to Mrs. Camino, and our waiter was just as confused about the whole matter. We were becoming less hungry with each plateful and had more energy and attention to devote to the matter. I surmised that it was a Chinese idea of a joke. These people had spent quite a bit of time under Communist rule, and their sense of humor was understandably diminished.

Mrs. Camino, as usual, did not buy my made up on the spot explanation of things. We made short work of round 2, and she kept her eyes on the table as we went back for dessert.

I had the fried bananas, frozen yogurt, and some of those little donut balls. I don’t remember what Mrs. Camino had, but I do remember the look of confusion on her face as she tasted the third 7up to have magically replaced her water.

“I was watching the table,” she said.

“Have you ever seen any of the Bruce Lee films?” I asked her. “These guys are quick, and they can break your neck or switch your beverage in the blink of an eye. They’ve been doing it for thousands of years, and you really have to respect that.”

She still didn’t buy it, but I was perfectly happy with my deductions until someone told me about the ghost years later.

An elderly Asian woman is often seen sitting by one of the tables by the window. People will notice her there and think nothing of it until she disappears in front of them. She has also been seen sitting at the window when the restaurant is closed and supposed to be empty. She just sits there and disappears. She does no other tricks, and she would make for the subject of one really lame horror movie unless someone is deathly allergic to 7up.

Then again, maybe it is just some really fast old lady who is able to dart around the room without anyone seeing her move, and my original theory therefore holds true.

an arachnid in alabama

There are scorpions in Alabama, and I had forgotten all about them until this past Friday when I was down at Ma and Pa Camino’s and had one zip past my foot as I crawled into bed.

The little bastards are harmless and carry a sting far less dangerous than that of a common bee, yet it isn’t the sort of thing you want lurking about when you are staring at the ceiling and trying to sleep. So I got onto my knees and raised the bedsheets from the floor to see the cocky little guy staring back at me. I didn’t have my camera with me, but he looked a like this.

It was worse than I feared, and I knew that my only option was to obliterate it or else endure a night of that annoying whistle intro to “Winds of Change”. But I am big-hearted to a fault, and I began by trying to reason with it and reach a peaceful solution that would be amicable for all involved.

“Neinen!” he shouted, “Der rocken I must bringen tagen!”

I don’t blame the poor guy for having to turn to squatting for survival. In the wake of Katrina it has become no doubt distasteful to perform “Rock You Like a Hurricane", even for a German, and this is sure to have put a dent in his meager finances.

“I’m sorry”, I told him in my most reassuring voice. “I guess none of us thought about how things would be for you.”

But he was unmoved by my compassion. He stared me down as he maneuvered his guitar into a clichéd phallic symbol pose and then shouted, “feelen tagen meinen thunderstrucken!” before launching into a blistering solo.

He would’ve woken up the entire house if I hadn’t quickly dispatched him with the heel of my shoe.

tangled up in rex

I have joined in the fun and festivities over at Tangled Up In Blue, a blog site where right wing, left wing, and wingless bloggers can come together over their love of music.

Come and watch far right Mennonites and rich black women learn that they are really not so different after all.

carl weathers and bunny

While the rest of us attended the game on Saturday, the beast you know as Carl Weathers remained back in my old room at Casa de Ma and Pa Camino with plenty of food and water, a television left on ESPN so that he could stay abreast of the day's college football, and a basket of stuffed animals provided by Ma Camino.

Here was how we found him when we returned around one in the morning.

Aw, wook at Caw Wevvers wif hims widdle baby bunny wabbit.

Yes, this is the very same dog who nearly ate an entire nest of actual baby rabbits just a month before. This stuffed rabbit obviously received better treatment, and I realize that it is due to its being comprised of cotton rather than meant, but I thought you should see the softer side of Carl Weathers.

weekend review

How was your weekend, Rex?

Thanks for asking, disembodied voice.

It was great. We started off with the drive to Alabama on Friday afternoon, and I have to admit that I was in quite a funk from being glued to the Katrina coverage all last week and then watching its subsequent deterioration into political sniping.

However, all that quickly changed when Mrs. Camino put in So Much For the City by the Thrills and we sang along all the way from Franklin to Lawrenceburg. There is something so indescribable about putting on the right CD or record at the right time, and I won't begin to try and unravel the intangible mystery of good music now. I won't even give you a review of that particular CD, but I will say that it was the best thing I'd ever heard for that brief hour while we drove down highway 43 with the birds singing and the slight tinge of fall in the air from the occasional pile of burning leaves along the roadside.

What other CDs did you bring along?

That is a very good question, as the music one chooses for a trip--even when they often spend more time roaming the radio dial, as I often do--is probably more important than the actual destination. I knew I was going to be in the mood for sing-a-long material and left the jazz and bluegrass on the shelf while grabbing: The Delivery Man by Elvis Costello, Rubber Soul and Abbey Road by the Beatles, Soul Journey by Gillian Welch, The Dirty South by the Drive-by Truckers, Big Notebook for Easy Piano by Fluid Ounces, and ELO's Greatest Hits.

How was the game?

The experience of sitting in Bryant-Denny when they play "Sweet Home Alabama" just before the game starts is something everyone must experience at least once. It was great to be back in the atmosphere of college football, and my heart really goes out to those who don't appreciate the sport this time of year. It is another one of those indescribable experiences.

The beautiful Mrs. Camino was there on the Alabama side in her full MTSU regalia, and there was nothing cuter than the way she clapped for both teams because she likes them both and thoroughly enjoyed the competition.

I am one lucky bastard.

How was Tuscaloosa?

We made it there in enough time for beer and calzones at a nice Italian place in downtown T-town by the name of DePalma's. They also had a nice wine selection. The Camino Clan highly recommends it for your next Tuscaloosa outing.

What is the deal with asking yourself all these questions?

Don't be an asshole.

Anything else?

I was surprised to find that a number hurricaine victims are being housed in my hometown of Florence. We took some things over to a drop off location before heading back up yesterday, and I was happy to see that a warehouse was quickly being filled with an assortment of supplies and that the local evacuees were going to be given first dibs on what they needed. Also, there are quite a few are staying on the campus in Tuscaloosa who were given free tickets to the game.

Things like natural disasters really do bring out the best and the worst in people, and it really helped to see more examples of the best.

not working for the white man

I once had a job interview with a cross-eyed albino, and he was an asshole. I was talkative, outgoing, personable, and all of the other things that I am generally not outside of a job interview or court hearing, and he treated me like you would expect a man who had grown up both cross-eyed and albino to treat a man who had not. Still, I was the best Rex I could be. I just kept making excuses for him in my mind and trying to figure out what he was looking at. I told myself that I would probably be twice the asshole in his place.

Also, some of us have always been cross-eyed and albino on the inside, and I could relate, sort of.

At any rate, I bore him no ill will throughout the flood of condescension and snippy comments, and I instead found myself wanting to hold him to my bosom and pat his little cotton white head and tell him that it was okay.

But I didn’t because he also smelled like garlic.

The other thing I kept thinking of was Erskine Caldwell’s God’s Little Acre, in which a Georgia dirt farmer searches in vain for gold on his property. He and his sons eventually kidnap the albino who lives down by the swamp in a last ditch effort to find the gold, as albinos are supposed to have the gift for finding gold. It doesn’t work out, of course, and the albino ends up running off with the farmer’s daughter.

I was thinking about this and didn’t hear one of his questions. I had already allotted him a good five minutes of my attention span, and that is all anyone could hope for, regardless of employment ramifications or the uniqueness of one’s pigment.

He was obviously angry at having to repeat himself, but I no longer cared. The job didn’t pay enough to have to deal with him, and I thanked him for the interview and left.

There was a lesson here that the story was supposed to lead into, but I seem to have forgotten it.

let the tide rolling begin

I grew up in a fairly consistent Southern Baptist household. We would show up to church twice on Sunday and most Wednesdays, and we were generally good to hit the highlights on revival week. Dad would always fork over the required allotment when the offering plate was passed around, and he would donate some meat from his butcher shop when the church had its chicken stew suppers. He was also there cooking at the once a month pancake breakfasts and driving the bus to pick up inner city kids for Sunday school. The church had saltines and grape juice once a year while the Catholics partook of the real stuff, and then we washed each other's feet for some reason.

But if they had expected us to be there on Saturday we would have been atheists.

I'm not saying that football is bigger than religion in the South, but that is only because I don't want the Lord to strike down my team. There was no tacky picture of Jesus or crocheted biblical quote gracing our walls, but there was a picture of Bear Bryant.

This is not it. This is not even Bear Bryant. The late Sir Alec Guinness will be portraying him here because I like this picture and because I am all powerful within the confines of this meager blog.

Bryant was actually quite different from Obi Wan and could probably kick the ass of any given Jedi without knocking his hound's-tooth hat askew. He drank like a fish and his deep and grizzled voice from chain-smoking Chesterfields could be heard in neighboring states, and it was perfectly acceptably for grown men to openly weep when he passed on January 26, 1983, less than a month after coaching his final game. Death dared not come for him until he was finished with football.

One of my earliest memories is the 1978 Sugar bowl, which pitted Bryant and the Tide against Woody Hayes and the Ohio State Buckeyes at the Louisiana Superdome. I was three, and I sat and watched it on the couch with my dad.

My dad is normally a very low-key guy with the occasional hint of a dry sense of humor, and he is certainly the last place you would look for an outburst of emotion. Friends would want to check for a pulse when they came over.

However, for those two to three hours in which Alabama pounded the Buckeyes 35-6 to go on and win the national championship he wildly exploded for each touchdown or sack, knocking over the coffee table every time and leaving our shag carpet a thick stew of potato chips, coke, barbecueeque. It was like a scene from Awakenings, and it both frightened me and instilled a love for Alabama football.

I'm heading down to Tuscaloosa this weekend with my dad to continue our tradition of making every Alabama home opener. Mrs. Camino is coming along, and she will be sporting MTSU paraphernalia while I have no choice but to root against our alma mater. To pull for the opponent of Alabama would be the ultimate sacrilege, and I would be no better than a godless vegetarian ACLU attorney in the eyes of my homeland.

The only thing worse than that is a Vol fan.

UPDATE: Many of the relief organizations will have donation sites set up at each of the games this weekend, and I know from spending two years in Knoxville that even fans of the "evil empire" are kind and giving when someone is in need. There are many refugees from New Orleans currently residing in Tuscaloosa, and any donations taken there this Saturday can help directly.

i hope he is in heaven sitting down

R.L. Burnside passed away yesterday at the age of 78.