Country Strong

What follows is an endorsement of the Gwyneth Paltrow film Country Strong, a movie I was very apprehensive about enjoying.  The film turned out to be surprisingly not as bad as I thought it would be.  The degree of its not being as horrid as I thought has inspired this affirmation.

Country music can be a fickle mistress.  She teases with lyrics of a festive life, filled with dogs, watermelon dances, seeing one’s mother after her incarceration.  But she will also remind us of life’s hardships, including infidelity, watermelon dances and death by getting runned over by a damned old train.  While I do find a few of the songs catchy or some of the female singers nice to view, I have never felt the music described my lifestyle or a lifestyle I was particular to.

Several outside influences have been considered in this review.  One must take into account the state of mind present when viewing the film.  No danger or odd circumstances surrounded the atmosphere of our den; we were at peace with the world and in love with each other as we watched Country Strong together, my wife and I.

Gwenyth Paltrow stars as Kelly Canter, a country superstar being released from rehab one year after falling from the stage in Dallas, a city which will haunt and redeem her, in a drunken stupor causing a miscarriage of her unborn baby.  Garrett Hedlund plays the part of Beau Hutton, a young part time honky tonk singer cursed with a pitiful attempt at facial hair, with whom she has an affair.  He is hired to join her on her return tour to keep an eye on her addictions.  He is torn between Kelly and Chiles Stanton, played by Leighton Meester, a young girl whose success in country music is dependent upon her beauty.  Tim McGraw stars as Kelly’s husband James, he pushes her as her manager but you can see right through his wig that that he has a hard time forgiving Kelly for losing their baby.

While Gwenyth never won an award for being considered sexy, as an example please refer to the unflattering evening gown worn in the movie poster, she gives an admirable portrayal of a much sexier woman.  Namely Tim McGraw’s real wife, Faith Hill whose acting skills might outweigh the singing skills of Gwenyth.  A conundrum aided by theory that Faith Hill fans may find the film to be documentary in nature and unleash their hatred for McGraw’s misgivings while at the same time confused by Faith’s appearances at later dates.  I thought of Faith often during the movie.  While the simplest of country music fans might be perplexed by Kelly’s behavior off stage, I believe superstars such as Faith might have watched the film from the comfort of their own luxuriously appointed RV, snacking on Xanax with a little vodka to help the pills go down easier, all the while screaming at the images on the screen “I hear ya girl, been there, done that!” 

Like the country music, table mounted, whiny guitar instrument thing, melodrama is sporadic but hits the right chords, get it chords.  It is not overpowering but you really notice how annoying it is during the solos.  Melodrama could be lost on or misspelled by its intended audience, but it brought a smile to a non fan such as me.  It was at those moments I imagined Faith drunkenly raising a bottle of vodka saying “Hell yes!”  I know I did.

After viewing the film and telling a few friends about it I was informed that it was really a horribly reviewed movie.  I don’t doubt it for a minute as it has been decades since I last saw Coal Miner’s Daughter, another film filled with country music songs.  I feel different about this film.  This film makes even me feel Country Strong.

Ambassadors

On a leisurely drive through Pinckard Alabama on state highway 134 you might encounter a black man sitting on a wood crate in front of the old mercantile building beside L&M Motors.  His purpose is unknown to the casual driver who might lift a few fingers from the steering wheel for a cordial wave as I have never seen him return a wave.  He might possibly be a salesman for L&M Motors, albeit a bad one as I rarely see him standing, plus the Chrysler with the lackadaisical Hip Hop paint scheme they have for sale has not moved in months.  I did see him sitting on his wood crate with the vegetable salesman mentioned in one of my recent posts.  Apparently he finds the hot spots in Pinckard, which are few and I would say far between but nothing in Pinckard is far.  If he is the ambassador for our fair town I say we can do better, like the black man in Midland City.

Just a few miles down the road, after 134 turns into Napier Field Road in Midland City, you will find a black man in his front yard most mornings that waves at every car that drives by.  I’m not talking about a casual movement of the hand.  He throws an arm in the air for several seconds ensuring the drivers know, depending on direction of travel, they are welcome to town or thanked for passing through on the way out of town.  His enthusiasm is indelible as not only myself, but several other drivers I have noticed, return the wave in a similar fashion.  He puts a smile on my face almost every morning on my way to work.

If you pass through either of these small towns take note of these gentlemen.  While Midland City has the benefit of a major four lane highway, Dollar General and an independent grocer, they also have an ambassador of friendship.  A man who raises his hand to greet any race, any gender, any make and model of automobile, and he is appreciated for it. 

Tomato Sandwich

I saw the man on the side of the road in Pinckard selling vegetables out of the back of his truck and this time driving by I have cash.  He has signs advertising MATERS and KORN.  I am reminded of a band named Korn with a K but I think the band used a backward R, so there is probably no connection.  I whip around my wife's Taurus wagon and pull up to the makeshift stand.  He also has okra and squash.  I ask where the tomatoes originated.  Malvern he says, that is close enough to Slocomb for me.  I purchase twelve pre-husked ears of corn along with some tomatoes and a mess of okra.  For those not familiar with a mess, it is a commonly used unit of measure in the South, ranging anywhere from a helping to a half a hamper.  I told him the ingredients will go together to make a soup.  He asks if he can come to my house.  I just smiled, thanked him and left.

Just in case you were wondering I got all of that for $15.  $5 for the dozen ears of corn pre-husked, $4 for the okra and another $4 for the tomatoes.  I told him to keep the change, in return he handed me a few more tomatoes and some kind of little round squash.  I love the South.

My wife is not home yet and I want a snack.  Oh no, all we have is wheat bread.  I have never had a tomato sandwich on wheat, it will have to do.  I picked the smallest tomato and sliced, then applied a liberal portion of mayonnaise to the bread.  Then generous salt, pepper and ten dots of Tabasco sauce.

Even on the wheat bread the sandwich is good.  Nothing can quite describe the taste of the mixture of milky goodness that drips from the sandwich to my plate.  If you have never tried this delicacy then get yourself to Slocomb, or the surrounding area during the early summer.  Make yourself one of these simple but flavorful sandwiches.  I may save one for my wife to have a sandwich too.  I need to get some white bread and bacon, oh bacon makes it so much better.  Excuse me now, I have to go back to the kitchen.

Chair Repair

My wife and I refurbish and re-purpose old furniture pieces, as you can see from her blog.  K. Gilbert Designs & Unique Finds  Pictured below is a pair of confusing chairs.  Confusing because I wonder why someone would make an incomplete chair with a thin piece of press board as the seat.  Aside from the legs, the seating area should be the most substantial portion of a chair. 

As you can see with the one pictured on the left I cut a piece of plywood for the center.  This did not have to be exact because I was filling the crack with wood glue after taping the bottom side to hold the glue in place.

Then I began filling the crack with glue.  This took several applications due to waiting while the glue flowed downward.

After I was satisfied with the glue filling the crack I waited a few days for the glue to cure.  After curing, the bond will be stronger than most other parts of the chair.  Once the glue was cured I sanded it smooth and painted it white.

  Looks pretty good from that view, how about a close up.

Using an aged piece of plywood helped match the grain of the rest of the seat.  Now my wife may sell it as is or put an aged finish on it which would required some light sanding and staining.

Now it is time to tackle the other one.

RIP Keppy

I just found out that one of the people I write about has passed of natural causes.  I never met Keppy but I hope he enjoyed the stories.  I will post the obit as soon as it is available.  Condolences to his family and co-workers.

RSN story

And click here for more information.  John Keppy story on RSN

Lunch With A Twist

“Do you think I should shave my head and grow a goatee?” Keppy asked of his friend and boss Rickey Stokes over lunch at Bill’s restaurant.

“Why would you want to do that?” Stokes asked back at him.

“Well the shaved head worked for Michael Chiklis and everyone has a Harley and a goatee these days.”

“Why would you want to look like an angry fat man?  What’s wrong with being a jolly fat man?”

“I don’t know.  It just seems like the cool thing to do.  You could shave your head too and we could wear black t-shirts,” Keppy almost pleaded.

“I do not intend to shave my head.  My skull is bigger than most people due to all the extra brains and stuff I have in there.  Plus my hair is perfect.  It never messes up, wet or dry it always looks the same.  I want to keep it that way,” Stokes answered.

“I won’t even ask about matching hogs,” Keppy said, dejected.

“Those things are a danged nuisance.  You would think with as expensive as they are they would come with proper mufflers.  When I was growing up you didn’t want to be associated with Harleys in any way or the people who rode them.  Now every dentist and accountant in Dothan has one along with several thousand dollars worth of overpriced apparel.  Thanks but no thanks, I like being a unique individual, one with no distinguishing features, just an average Joe, easily lost in a crowd.”

They were finishing off the last of their fries from the late afternoon cheeseburger lunch when “she” walked in. Stokes, always seated facing the door saw her walk in first. Quickly he made a mental note of her distinguishing features as he did every person he saw; red sweater, large sunglasses, blondish hair, six foot seven, maybe six foot eight, could easily take Keppy in a fight even if he did have a goatee. Big gal, he thought to himself.

Keppy watched Stokes study someone entering the restaurant. The look in his eye was not of danger, but of interest. Stokes’ gaze lingered an extra second to study the person. Some people are easily lost in a crowd, others stand out.  There was uniqueness about this person. It could have been a beautiful woman, although Bill’s menu of mostly fried food attracted a clientele, whose logic falsely concluded bacon fat increased blood viscosity, allowing a more efficient flow through the cardiovascular system.  As a result, physical beauty was not a requisite of Bill’s.  If it was a beautiful woman she should be viewed, judged, classified and stored in his memory according to dominating phenotype.  Keppy glanced at the salad bar, allowing his gaze to momentarily affix upon the woman to and fro.  He was impressed with her stature and made a quick mental note to not challenge her to an arm wrestling match.

Both men returned to the task of finishing their French fries.  The waitress began taking the female customer’s order and Stokes supposed the waitress knew the customer.   Sweetie must have been the customer’s name due to how many times the waitress used it.  Stokes thought for a moment that the waitress never referred to his wife, Marsha, as sweetie, and “Y’all” was the best he and Keppy ever got.  It should be noted at this point that Stokes is a ten percent tipper or less.  A dollar was considered customary for a meal, two dollars were occasionally left when Marsha gave him that look.

Stokes noticed how raspy Sweetie’s voice sounded, which he attributed to cigarettes.  Every time he heard a woman speak that way he was thankful his wife did not smoke.  While they didn’t stunt her growth, they certainly affected this woman’s voice. 

Shortly thereafter another customer entered the restaurant that caught Stokes’ attention.  He was a cowboy, a big fellow wearing a proper cowboy shirt and hat.  His mustache was impressive, hanging low on the sides and covering his lips entirely.  Real men like that didn’t come to town very often, and if they did it was to the Farmer’s Co-Op in a much smaller town.  The cowboy rustled up to the checkout counter and placed his order, a fingertip to the brim of his hat obliged the waitress.  The cowboy sat down at the table with the tall woman in the red sweater.  Wow, Stokes thought, they must have tall kids.

As they finished the remaining fries Stokes’ keen senses caught something in the woman’s voice.  He listened more closely, not to the conversation specifically, but the sound of her voice.  After a few moments of studying the conversation at the table next to them Stokes came to the conclusion that she was not a woman.  Keppy was oblivious.  Stokes stopped eating and looked over at Keppy.  After a few moments Keppy looked up and saw Stokes staring at him, wide eyed.  Keppy stopped chewing, figuring he had ketchup on his face, wiped it with a napkin.  Stoke continued to look at him with a somewhat worried look in his eyes.  Keppy furrowed his brow.  Stokes rolled his eyes in the direction of the table next to them.  Keppy dared not look as he knew Stokes was being incognito.  Stokes tugged his earlobe.  Keppy listened to the couple next to them.  Suddenly his eyes went wide too.

Dread fell over Keppy.  Stokes looked worried.  Had five robbers come in with shotguns blasting they, nay, Stokes would have handled the situation easily, while still eating a burger with one hand.  This was different.  There was no apparent danger but procedure for this situation was not in their training.  Should they not ask and not tell?  Should they expose the woman’s real identity to the cowboy?  Surely the cowboy knows.  But what if this is a blind date, never having met her before?  He seemed like a nice cowboy.  Stokes imagined having to post a news story the next day concerning a surprised cowboy arrested for battery or worse. 

But listening to their conversation Stokes deduced they were good friends.  There was mention of fishing.  An image of a bass boat occupied by the cowboy and the woman in a bikini flashed through Stokes’ mind.  She fights to reel in a fish, which turns out to be a very small crappie.  They laugh, they cowboy slaps his knee, her bikini top pops loose but she catches it with her arms.  The cowboy looks at her lustily, her face relaxes from the laugh and her eyes become tender and vulnerable, wanting, needing.  She stands with her back to him and drops her bikini top then dives into the inviting waters of the Chattahoochee.  The cowboy dives in to join her, for some reason leaving his hat and boots on.  From underneath he sees their silhouettes against the backdrop of the warm southern sun as the cowboy swims toward her and reaches a hand out to hers.  About that time the daydream turned into Brooke Shields and that blonde guy swimming in The Blue Lagoon, suddenly he felt a kick to his shin from Keppy.  He looked over to see the waitress standing by the table.

“Here’s y’all’s check,” she said.

Stokes laid a dollar on the table, as did Keppy.  Silently they walked up to the counter, paid the bill and silently they left.

In the Bondy’s Ford Expedition Keppy asked, “What happened back there boss? I lost you for a second.”

“Nothing, Nam flashback.”

“I don’t have the words for the other situation.  I’ve never seen a big guy dressed like a woman.  Usually they are dainty.”

“Perhaps he or she considers that normal but what does that make us?”

“Abnormal?  No, surper-normal.”

“Well then my super-normal friend.  Do you want to go fishing this weekend?”

“No, not just yet.  I heard them talking about fishing too.  I’m afraid this is going to stick with me for a while.  You know I don’t think it would have been so weird if he was a dainty fellow that looked or sounded like a woman.”

“I know what you mean.  I’ve seen the documentaries where they say the clothes make them more comfy.” Stokes added.

"I wish it was acceptable for guys to wear miniskirts.  For those manly times like mowing the grass or changing the oil in your car.  Have you ever tried on some of Marsha’s panties?”

“I will try to miss the bone when I shoot you but I can’t promise anything.”

928

The Porsche 928.  My spell check allowed the previous sentence.  Why?  Because that says it all.

 

The Porsche 928 (pronounced poor-sha) was the car I loved as a teen.  The 911 was and continues to be Porsche's bread and butter but the 928 was the flagship of the fleet.  Manufactured from 1978 through 1995 was one of just a few models with a front engine layout.  During its reign the 928 was considered a supercar, although a modern family car would surely give it a run.

Visually I find the 928 appealing to this day.  The shape and curves of the car are unlike anything else.  When I would see one on the road I turn to admire the beautifully curved rear, just as you would an attractive woman.  I have never been too concerned with how the car drives, as I can't admire its beauty while sitting inside.  While I don't understand my wife wanting the fabric of the curtains to somehow match the sofa, I do understand that a black 928 should have some proper black rims.  Maybe it should be flat black, like a SR-71 Blackbird, the aeronautical equivalent of the 928.

Occasionally I search the web for used ones.  My wife will not allow a money pit so I search and dream without telling her.  I did tell her of one I found in California for $500, it ran but the windows had been left down for over a year.  That would not bother me, it bothered her.

There's one sitting in a yard in Midland City.  I stopped by to look at it from the road.  Joyfully it was already black.  There was a dent in the door.  I didn't approve of the rims.  The grass and weeds underneath indicated it hadn't been moved in several months.  I saw an old man in the yard.  I got out and asked if it was for sale.  His response, "You can't afford it."  I asked again, agitated.  He grumbled "It was appraised for $12,000, you got $12,000?"  I threw my hands up in disgust and drove away.  It might have been worth $12k at one point, the weeds underneath knocked a minimum of $3000 off in my mind.  Obviously the old man has no idea what the car is worth.  I have seen 928's from $15k-$25k that were in immaculate condition.

The old jackleg might not be so cranky if he kept the car in the back yard.  I am sure a lot of people stop to ask.  In the mean time the value continues to go down.  In several more years I expect an estate sale, where the children will try to sell the car.  I imagine they will still say "It was appraised for $12,000."

I might drive by and check on the car every once and a while.  Just to let it know that someone appreciates it and someone would love it, given the chance.