Local Knowledge

Been an exciting few weeks in the reflected glory department, as several athletes from my home county (and that of Marls) did cool stuff on the global sporting front.

Derek Johnson, who graduated from the same high school as my kids, made the final of the 3000m Steeplechase at the U.S. Olympic Trials, narrowly missing a spot on the team headed to Paris. Drew Hunter, who went to Loudoun Valley High School, where his parents have built a running dynasty, finished fourth in the 10k final, one spot away from qualifying.

Ashburn's Emily Fox, currently a starting defender at Arsenal, was named to the U.S. Women's Soccer team by new head coach Emma Hayes. Fox has 49 caps for the Stars and Stripes.

And last night, Weini Kelati did this:

Kelati defected from Eritrea ten years ago at the age of 17 at a track meet in Eugene, OR - the very same place the Olympic Trials are being held. She moved to Leesburg and graduated from Heritage High School before attending the University of New Mexico. She became a U.S. citizen in 2021. And now she's headed to Paris to wear a USA uniform in the Olympics. That's the good shit.

Gheorghe Explains and Also Pees Himself

There has been a great disturbance in the force of late, exacerbated enormously and precipitously by Uncle Joe Biden's disastrous performance in last night's Presidential debate. Republicans gleefully pounced, mocking Biden's feeble mien and halting speech. As is their wont, Democrats gnashed their teeth, rent their garments, and whined. Some ostensibly sober members of the commentariat demanded that Biden step down as the Democrats' candidate in favor of a younger, sharper candidate. 

We don't come here today to make light of the debate and dismiss the very real concerns Biden's performance heightens. Rather, we offer some ballast, and a handful of suggestions for the Democratic Party, mostly things that are so obvious that their current absence calls into question the competence of the party's campaign apparatus.

Over at Bluesky, veteran journalist Radley Balko said this today, "Biden is too old. But he has surrounded himself with competent people and has had a conventional first term. Trump is authoritarian but inept. He has surrounded himself with people who he hopes will make him more effective at authoritarianism. Neither is ideal. But these are not similar problems."

And over at my phone, veteran Gheorghie Rob Russell said this to DJ-barrister-shoehorse-ladies man Z, "The campaign needs to lean hard on the uber-competence of his staff and agency leadership. The Biden Administration has quietly done a whole lot of good shit. The problem is the 'quietly' part. Good governance is rarely sexy."

In those two statements, we find a recommendation, if the Nervous Nellies in centrist Dem leadership can find it in themselves to stir up the appropriate level of righteous anger. Democrats and anyone who understands the peril that another Trump presidency would visit must do three things:

1. Follow the advice of the the multi-hyphenate zman, who said to me: "Just hammer the felony conviction, the insurrection, hang Mike Pence, Covid, the civil rape conviction, and "you cheated on all three wives, why should the American people trust you?""
2. Shout from the rooftops and every street corner the positive things that the Administration has done, from reducing college debt to lowering prescription drug prices to dramatically increasing the availability of renewable energy to supporting the UAW's successful action and labor more broadly, to advancing LGBTQ+ rights in a number of meaningful ways, among other things.
3. Insist every American watch this segment from John Oliver and the Last Week Tonight team, which puts into stark relief the things that Trump's authoritarian fuckwhistles want to accomplish in a second administration:

I get the instinct to fear the worst. The consequences of another Trump presidency are disconcerting for all compassionate people. I have a trans kid and two children born female. Under the world Republicans want, their rights will be eroded and they'll be second-class citizens. That's fucking infuriating. And our friends in the media/entertainment complex will continue not to serve their audience because a horserace is good for ratings and repeatedly pointing out Trump's obvious and disqualifying flaws doesn't sell advertising.

But there's a long way to go, and time for Democrats to get their shit together. If last night was brutal, at the very least let's hope it serves as a wake up call.

If not, I'll be over here in the corner silently wetting myself, and/or rewatching this Jon Stewart rant on a loop.

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Masterclass

Martin Short has been guest hosting for Jimmy Kimmel this week, and I'm here to tell you that the 74 year-old legend has not lost an inch off his fastball. Or his slapshot, as the case may be for Canadian comics. Feast your senses on this preposterous Jiminy Glick interview of Bill Hader. Poor Hader - himself no slouch - is completely helpless in the presence of Short/Glick's way over the top genius.

NBA Draft Open Thread Filler

Yes, use this post to discuss what promises to be a messy NBA Draft tonight. But really this post was just an excuse to recognize the grand importance of this day:

Time Passages

In the summer of 2005, on an overcast day in Brewster, MA, my wife took a picture of me walking down the beach with my kids, then 4 and 15 months. We recreated the image in Myrtle Beach in 2015. And this week, we went back to the original scene of the crime to update it once more (kids are now 20 and 22, and the little one's best friend, a photography major at the Pratt Institute, took the photo). Some things have definitely changed (notably, the amount of gray in my hair), but the joy this ritual brings me hasn't diminished in the least. Watch this space in 2034.

Stupid Vacation Tricks

Rum, as it turns out, is a surprisingly effective part of a healthy training regimen. Let me explain.

I'm staying at my cousin's place in Brewster, MA. He and I were sipping on some Plantation XO at the end of the evening a couple nights ago, and he asked me if I'd ever heard of the World's Hardest Mile. I had not, but I have now:

@nickflintness The World’s Hardest Mile 😮‍💨 #running #track #amilewith #mile #workout #tampa #tampabay ♬ original sound - Nick Flint

Given the rum's effects on decision-making and my decent level of fitness at the moment, I suggested we try a quarter-mile version the following morning. 

I woke up the next day and told him, "I had the damnedest dream - could've sworn we agreed to do some stupid fitness challenge". And off we went.

We found a straight stretch of road near his house on Long Pond. Straight, and not a little uphill, and commenced to get our exercise on. The bear crawl, lunges, and running bit were manageable. The burpee/broad jumps? Fucking sadistic.

After we completed the challenge, we celebrated by jumping in the cold, clear pond. Felt like...victory.

And this morning, my entire shoulder/neck complex is afire, muscles spent. 

Get on the rum if you wanna get your fit on, friends. Or, perhaps, think twice.

The Over/Under on Achievement

Athletic achievements and careers are often parsed with an auditor’s eye and a toddler’s energy due to the delightful human tendency to view a mountain vista and envision a housing development. In other words, nothing and no one is appreciated for what it is or what they do longer than fifteen minutes before the gallery begins to search for greater meaning and start sentences with the phrase, “Yeah, but …” 

This occurs in many walks of life but is particularly prevalent in athletics due to levels of interest that manifest in scoring and comprehensive record keeping and history that purportedly make experts of us all for what should be a pleasant diversion. 

When accomplished athletes complete their careers and are done entertaining us, one common practice is determining if they underachieved, overachieved or performed as expected. It’s a swell little thought exercise that often carries more weight than is wise or proper. 

The G:TB commentariat launched a thread recently that wondered if Tiger Woods and Andre Agassi underachieved, given their respective ability. I don’t presume to tell anyone how to spend their oxygen or pixels, but I’d suggest that except in rare cases, athletes achieve exactly what they’re supposed to, barring injury, illness or unless they’re locked in a basement. 

Too often achievements and careers are judged as if performed by machines in a sterile environment, where performances are fed into a mental spread sheet that factors in physical gifts and health and age and competitive eras, and then projected to what should and should not have occurred. Fine for a lab setting, less relevant for human beings traipsing the earth. Often ignored are areas such as upbringing, personality, character traits, maturity, surroundings, personal flaws – the stuff that makes us us. 

Tiger won 15 majors, changed the sport of golf and was the game’s dominant figure for almost 15 years. The late, great sportswriter and columnist Dan Jenkins thought Woods had more in his bag than Nicklaus and Ben Hogan and once said the only things that could prevent him from being the best ever were an injury or a bad marriage. Nicklaus himself predicted that Tiger would win two dozen majors, far surpassing his own record of 18. 

Does that mean Tiger underachieved? Again, I’d say no; he did what he was able before the disintegrated marriage and injuries and bad mojo took their toll. Likewise Agassi. He won eight majors and was ranked No. 1 in the world in two separate stints. Could he have won more? Maybe. Should he have won more? Impossible to say. 

Agassi also overcame an abusive father, injuries, personal struggles and drug use. I’d say that makes his accomplishments all the more impressive, which brings up another point: not taking human factors into consideration actually minimizes athletes’ achievements. Elite athletes deal with the same schmutz as everyone else; they just happen to be more talented and can shelve the distractions and unpleasantries, with varying degrees of effectiveness, on the way to the pitch or the court. 

Here's one more: Shaquille O’Neal is a four-time NBA champ, eight-time first-team all-NBA, shoo-in Hall of Famer and on the short list of the best centers in history. Yet some basketball people and take-havers will tell you that for all his success he underachieved. I disagree. He did precisely what he should have, given his ability and personality and priorities at the time. Now, Shaq himself has said that he could have had an even more productive and dominant career had he trained more diligently and taken better care, particularly as he aged. 

Doesn’t that bolster the notion that he underachieved? I’d say no. This is 40- and 50-year-old Shaq looking back with the benefit of hindsight at his 20- and 30-year-old self and seeing areas in which he could have improved. It doesn’t mean that he *should* have done more or been better. He accomplished what he did in the package he embodied at the time. That’s all you can ask. 

Judgment can cut both ways. Consider a certain sixth-round draft choice quarterback who received his big break when the starter got hurt. Tom Brady, he of the drawer full of Super Bowl rings and longtime engine of the Kraft Family Football Collective, certainly qualifies as an overachiever, yes? Again, I’d say no, that he accomplished what he should have. Just because few outside his cerebral cortex foresaw his career doesn’t mean that he didn’t think it possible and simply made good on it. 

That’s another part of the judgment equation. Those doing the appraisals are usually older and supposedly wiser, filtering their opinions through years and experiences that their subjects haven’t had – a tactic that increases the opinionator’s winning percentage but adds little to the discussion. I don’t bring all this up to dampen anybody’s enthusiasm for spirited debate on athletes past and present. I won’t even try to convince you that I’m correct. It’s simply what I think. If you spin your barstool in the opposite direction and engage elsewhere, well, I can’t fault you for wise choices.

Gheorghasbord: Medley

Packing up the truckster and headed up the coast to Cape Cod this morning. By the time this posts, I'll be somewhere around Frederick, MD, good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise. Which reminds me of this song:

Bringing some Long Drinks and some Narragansett Del's Shandies (the drink of summer) in addition to the hard lemonadey type of shit my kids like to drink. Which kinda brings this tune to mind, sorta.

We're taking two cars, because my older kid can't head north until Wednesday, so I'll be in the car with my younger one and her friend. And we'll play the game she and I made up on our trip home from Boulder. I'll be sure to find a reason to queue up my favorite R.E.M. song, deeper cut division.

As always, we're staying in Brewster. At my cousin's place rather than the old homestead, but the salt air tastes the same and the ice cream at Kate's is still the tops. Brewster's one town over from Orleans, which reminds me of this cat and his band, Donna's new fave.

There'll be plenty of familial fellowship and revisiting of old haunts. But I wanna be this guy a bunch, too.

We'll head home too soon, but I'll keep you posted along the way. Until then:

On to Happier Things

Fifty-six years ago today, in an idyllic little church in a postcard Massachusetts small town, my parents got married. This song was the top of the charts on that day:

My Mom's maiden name? Robinson. Ironic, that.

Flag Day (Possibly Upside Down)

Too many Florence Nightingales

Not enough Robin Hoods

Too many halos not enough heroes

Coming up with the goods

So you though you'd like to change the world

Decided to stage a jumble sale

For the poor, for the poor

So you thought you'd like to see them healed

Got Blue Peter to stage an appeal for the poor, for the poor

It's a waste of time if you know what they mean

Try shaking a box in front of the queen

'cause her purse is fat and bursting at the seams

It's a waste of time if you know what they mean

Too many hands in too many pockets

Not enough hands on hearts

Too many ready to call it a day

Before the day starts

So you thought you'd like to see them healed

Decided to save a jumble sale

For the poor, for the poor

So you though you'd like to change the world

Decided to stage a jumble sale

For the poor, for the poor

It's a waste of time if you know what they mean

Try shaking a box in front of the queen

'cause her purse is fat and bursting at the seams

It's a waste of time if you know what they mean

Flag day, flag day, flag day

Flag day, flag day, flag day

Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?

If you were a music fan in the DMV in the 90s, you eagerly awaited the annual reveal of the lineup for the HFStival, a music event held at RFK Stadium each summer from 1993 to 2004. Sponsored by the late, lamented WHFS, which carried the banner for alternative rock in the Nation's Capital until it abruptly changed formats to Latino music, the HFStival rapidly became a must-play stop on the summer schedules of some of the biggest bands of the era. Everyone from Foo Fighters to Green Day to INXS to The Ramones to Run D.M.C. to Eminem to The Roots to Tony Freaking Bennett took the RFK stage.

And now, courtesy of 9:30 Club owner I.M.P., 90s kids are gonna get a chance to relive some of the great musical memories of their teens and twenties, right down to appearances by Violent Femmes, Bush, Jimmy Eat World, and Garbage. On September 21, HFStival 2024 rises like Gutter on a weed high and returns triumphantly at Nationals Park.

Wear your sensible shoes.

Bite Me Randy Newman/Fuck You Cancer*

Rob Burrow passed away from motor neurone disease (MND), which is basically ALS, on June 2. He was 41 years old. 

Burrow made more than 500 Rugby League appearances for Leeds Rhinos, and was capped 13 times for England as a scrum half, recording nine tries. Despite standing just 5'5", he was named to the Super League Dream Team three times, and was named Man of the Match in the Super League grand final twice. His try in the 2011 grand final is regarded as one of the greatest tries in final history.

In late 2019, Burrow announced that he'd been diagnosed with MND. From that point, he and teammate Kevin Sinfield were tireless advocates for victims of the disease and raised more than £6 million for charities associated with MND. Both men were awarded CBEs for their efforts, and the Rugby Football League announced that the trophy for Super League Final Man of the Match would be called the Rob Burrow Award henceforth.

Near the end of Burrow's life, Sinfield and teammates took part in the Leeds Marathon, where he pushed Burrow in a specially-adapted wheelchair. You can see highlights here, in particular the moment at the end of the race where Sinfield carried his friend across the finish line:

MND is a particularly pernicious disease, all the more so when it takes people whose lives had been marked with extraordinary vitality. Sinfield and Burrow did incredible things for the MND community, but as Sinfield said at the end of the marathon, there's was a story as much about celebrating friendship as fighting a medical challenge. 

And here's cheers to that.

*Not cancer, but we'll allow it.

The Cars of My Life (A Day 12 List)

The Cars of My Life
by Clarence, Igor, and Me 

Name the most popular topics addressed through 20 years at Gheorghe: The Blog. I think you’d hit:

• sports 
• music 
• parties, bars, beer, and other alcohol 
• inspirational people of diminutive stature 
• underdog stories 
• alfonso ribeiro shirtless 
• and a wee, wee bit of political content (sometimes just what politicos do with their wee-wees) 

…but especially lately, you’d also have to include cars. Mostly Zman’s indelible influence on G:TB, and much for the better. While the WCSAGD series remains the apex of this subject, there are plenty of other automotive instances that have graced the virtual pages here. 

We also enjoy recounting utterly ridiculous tales of yesteryear involving gheorghies and FOGTB. Of which there are more than a few. 

Well, get ready to put your hands together. I’m here to add another List of 12 to my Day 12 tally. May I please present for your perusing pleasure: 

The 12 Cars of My Life and the 3 Morons Who Drove Them 

(with minstrel-style lyrical accompaniment courtesy of Les Coole) 

Do you remember the first car you ever rode in? The first car you remember your family having? 

My first ten years in this regard are mostly blurry, for reasons that differ from the blurred days and nights of ages 18-22. We always had Volvos; my great-uncle Pat owned and operated White’s Imports in Mobile, AL since 1959 (that was their last name, not Jim Crow signage, you creeps) and they brought Swedish and British (MG’s) class to the Gulf Coast. So, the rest of the family bought Volvos at good rates. 

We also had a station wagon, something in the GM family, with the faux-wood paneling and reverse seat in the rear. Road trips… yes. I think it may have been green. Maybe even “metallic pea,” like the Wagon Queen Family Truckster? Anyway, let’s fan through the ether and get to the cars I really remember. The ones with lasting impressions. Oh… and the preposterous things that my friends have done to in and to these cars, when (in)appropriate. 

1. 1980 Jeep Renegade soft top, navy blue 

My soon-to-be-stepdad Ed bought this in 1980. My stepbro/fratbro Ian, my sister Kate, and I would squeeze in the miniscule back seat while my mom and Ed sat up front arguing about why this vehicle was or was not the worst purchase Ed could have made with a 5-person family in mind. But it was awesome. We cruised around town and down to the beach with the top off. That’s right. Ed’s Jeep was boss, albeit impractical at times. 

Ridiculous memory (1984): Nothing too shocking, as I was never old enough to drive it. We took it up to Summit, NJ to see my aunt and uncle one weekend, and I remember playing Mad Libs. Ed was (presumably still is) a hoot, and his mad-libbed names were oft comprised of locales we passed along the way, Hence, monikers like “Jacques Tenafly” stick in family memory for 40 years. 

2. 1986 Audi 5000, navy blue 

Dad always had nice cars… after he split from Mom and married into a new tax bracket. (Sorry, Dad, but chances are you will never even know about this blog). He had multiple Audis in the 80’s, and this one was the nicest. A sleek ride with a cool stereo (not quadraphonic Blaupunkt, but Dolby cassette). Not the type of auto you give to a 16-year miscreant to get from A to B. 

 * * * QUICK ASIDE * * * 

[Ed. Note: my folks made the call not to hook me up with my own wheels when I was in high school. Didn’t get me a beater that I could help pay for and care for and learn on and mess up and make my own. I get it. I was as irresponsible as any kid my age. However, given that they then wanted me to depart the residence, have a social life, and leave them alone, short of leaving me hanging with a bus pass, they had to let me borrow their cars. I can’t say for sure, but they may have ultimately regretted that course of action. You be the judge: read on. And if you think Whitney messed up these cars, let me assure you that friends Clarence and Igor did way, way worse things!] 

Ridiculous memory (1987): The Audi era drew closer to a close after Clarence, Igor, and I took the car out for a hot August night in Norfolk. After ingesting some of Dr. Leary’s medicine, a few inhalations of cheeba, and a pitcher or two over tacos at Speedy’s near ODU, Igor felt he was okay and drove a few friends and us in the Audi into a seedy part of town. And that's where unbelievably (people say I'm fabricating this but I swear this is how I remember it) some randouche threw a dirt clog into the side of Dad’s car and ran away. There are a dozen peripherally preposterous stories from this evening, but sticking to the car saga… twas bad. 

My recourse was nil; my comeuppance was steep…
Father awoke from not-deep-enough sleep…
I hadn’t garaged his once-lovely coach…
In it he found two cans and a roach…
Oh, Clarence… Oh, Igor… Oh, me...

3. 1985 Mercedes 300TD wagon, metallic light blue 

When I was in high school, Ed got rid of the Jeep Renegade and bought something much more family-friendly. A used Mercedes wagon, she rode pretty well and had very few issues. I was mostly denied driving access to this baby except to the store and what-not. Mostly. 

Ridiculous memory (1987): There was a party taking place on an undeveloped plot of land by the Elizabeth River called Fort Norfolk. Bonfire and such, definitely going to get busted quickly. As such, Clarence, Igor and I scooted over there early, go-getters that we were. Clarence hopped in the driver’s seat once the po-po showed, and we sped out of there across the bumpy dirt at an unrealistic clip. (16-year-olds with beer who don’t chuck the beer when the cops come but instead wisely hang onto it have to move fast.) The Benz bottomed out in a sizable dip with a menacing volume that evoked one blurt: oh, shit. But she was fine, or fine enough! Unscathed! 

Clarence thinks he’s funny as can be
Igor drinks til he can’t see
I just shrink into my seat
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

4. 1984 Volvo GL, maroon 

This was my baby. I mean, it wasn’t my baby (thanks, Mom and Dad), but this was the car I drove the most in my youth. Volvos were absolute tanks, so I think my folks felt relatively safe with me in it. I mean just look at that fuckin’ thing. Steel bars in the doors, I was told. I logged a lot of moronic miles around town in that mother. The Red Baron, we called her. (I feel like that’s a common car sobriquet.) Well, we certainly put the Red Baron to the tank test through the years. 

Ridiculous memory (1987): A dandy. One night after a few too many Goebels, Busches, or Beasts, Igor took the wheel. We were in one of the nicer neighborhoods in town. My buddy Ned was with us, long before he matured and became a guy who wrote songs about Mardi Gras and Jimmy Buffett. After veering errantly into some hedges and taking a chunk of them out with no impediment to the Red Baron’s progress, Ned suggested that we “do that again!” Oh, boy. 

Ahem, I’ll skip a bit, brother. After arriving home, I noticed a headlight was smashed. Ed then noticed that something akin to an oak tree was stuck up under the car. The next day I rode around town with Mom surveying the damage Igor had done. She’s a goodly and honest woman, but even she had to cut losses; after passing several instances of hedge-havoc, abruptly she said, “Let’s go home” before the poor residents could identify the marauding assailant. 

Clarence gets so I can’t manage
Igor’s mostly into damage
I just wish that I could banish
Clarence, Igor and me 

4a: Interlude: Not our car this time! 1979 Volkswagen Dasher wagon, silver 

My buddy Eise, who’s a lot like Igor, was one of my best friends in the 1980’s. You can hear his supporting vocals on a Les Coole track when he sings, “I remember a time.” Eise made terrrrible decisions. Suppose he still might. He’s a farmer in WV. He used to get access to this banged-up baby from time to time. We called it the Crasher, but one night it took on a new meaning. 

Ridiculous memory (1987): On occasion, someone in our midst would gin up some grit and do something colossally hair-brained. For once, it wasn’t Clarence, Igor, or me! In this case, one Friday night senior year, courtesy of a fake Va license, our friends Gretch and Tig rented a hotel room at the oceanfront on 19th Street or so in Va Beach. A real peach of a place just north of by-the-hour. And then invited all of our friends to congregate there. Clarence brought some light rum, and someone else brought the heavy metal. It wasn’t even very late when the door knocked loudly. Clarence opened the door to officers who didn’t wait to be politely invited in. Fortunately for Clarence, and it remains a mystery as to how or why, he opened the door with the hand that contained a Bacardi bottle. So when 5-0 rushed right by him, he assessed the situation and slipped out the door with some booze while the trouble stayed. 

Clarence, Igor, and I met up with Eise at the Dasher. Since we’d told our parents we were spending the night at each other’s house, we had zero plan. Or cellphones to regroup with the scattered cockroaches we called friends. Out of luck, and with a football game to play the next day, we drove to school. Yep. Drank the rum and slept in the Dasher, cranking heat to battle the late October cold, then waking up in a sweat and turning the car off. Over and over. Sometime pre-dawn the nightwatchman knocked on the window and said we had to vacate the premises. So we drove just across the street from school and resumed our slumber. We lost that football game, by the way. And it wasn’t close. 

5. Saab 900 turbo convertible, black 

Ah, the midlife crisis. Dad wasn’t driving jalopies prior, but somewhere around age 42 he went for a test drive in this hot little number and bit. The Saab could really jet, dangerously quick but snug as a bug in a rug when it cornered. Terrible blind spots with the top up. Lordy, that was dicey. 

I really loved this car. (So did Seinfeld.) And I was actually able to land a few dates at this age; there was nothing quite as cool to 17-year-old Whitney as pulling up in that sucker. Black Beauty, she was labeled. There’s no way this car should be lent to reckless teens. Ah, but it was. 

Ridiculous memory (1988): I now live in a Norfolk neighborhood called Ghent, as I did in high school. There’s a neighboring neighborhood to the west called West Ghent. We Norfolkers are super clever. West Ghent abuts the train yard of Norfolk Southern, a Fortune 500 railway company that used to be HQed here. (And in Rootsy’s town before that.) Along the railyard is a street of straightaway that leads into the yard, about 400-500 feet of unadulterated, unintersected road. Since reaching driving age we have called it the Speedway. We used to gauge the giddyup of various vehicles back then, mostly late in the evening after a few of what our football coach from Massapequa called “yellow Pepsi’s.” The Speedway required a little bit of manual and pedal dexterity, what with the waggle left at the end to avoid the tree in a parking lot to the swim club. Floor it, really gun it, keep it straight, steady, steady, okay brake, waggle left, get it back to about 10 mph, look to see if anyone was around watching us. Let’s do that again. 

As soon as the keys to the Saab were in my hand, there were three priorities. I wanted to put the top down. Clarence wanted to take it over 100. And Igor wanted to test out the Speedway. Eise and Ned were both part of the stupidity, and I can’t remember what lofty number we notched on that stretch of pavement (I know, criminal not to have it etched in memory), but I can tell you that Clarence got his wish on the ride home to Virginia Beach more than once.

Clarence chugs while riding ‘gun
Igor revs it to a hundred and one
What started out as so much fun
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

6. 1986 Jeep CJ-7, white 

My stepmom was a BMW loyalist throughout the 1980’s, and she had a series of models I thought were pretty bad-assed; she ended that streak by buying a Lexus before I’d heard of the company. She and I never quite achieved simpatico, predominantly because I hung around with the likes of Clarence and Igor, but she was cool in a number of ways, and car taste was one. As a fun extra car along the way, she bought a Jeep. Take it down to the Martha Wood Cottage, run summer errands with the top off (aww yeah), and let it sit in the driveway idle for most of its life. After I turned 16, there were two things my stepmom encouraged me to do, and they both involved learning manual transmission. One was to learn to drive my dad’s Honda motorcycle (which collected even more dust), and the other was to take her Jeep out for a spin now and again. Pretty cool. 

Ridiculous memory (1988): Beyond the ridiculous memory of learning to drive stick in this Jeep (think spasmic shaking and sputtering out ad nauseum), there was the time that Ned and a few others joined us for a Jeep ride around VB. We didn’t get out of Dad’s neighborhood before we got pulled over. We’d disrobed the vehicle of her top and doors (that’s right) and decided that folding the windshield down was an even better idea. It wasn’t. Luckily Clarence and Igor weren’t around or we’d have had some contraband on board and it would’ve been worse. I got off with a warning, just an order to wear protective eyewear when driving it. I threw on some cliched aviator Ray-Bans and put her into first gear. (And then put the windshield up. Windshield down is super dangerous.) 

7. 1990 Honda Accord DX, dark red 

By the time the sun had set on my sophomore year of college, my dad was pretty sick of arranging rides to and fro for me. It’s just Williamsburg, 45 minutes to an hour northwest, but it became annoying. Trains, buses, rides, etc. I think that’s what it was… maybe Dad was tired of my friends and me destroying his beautiful vehicles. Maybe he’d inked a big commercial real estate deal. Whatever the logic, he bought me a car, and I’ll be damned (either way but especially) if he didn’t go large for me. A brand new Honda Accord. $12k. I mean, it was DX, meaning cloth seats and power nothing, but he threw in some floor mats and AC for me. I was ecstatic. I paid for the AM/FM cassette player option. Then my mixtapes and I hit the road, baby. 

I had this Accord for 6 great years, and short of bad alignment blowing out not one but two tires on a rugby road trip to Mary Wash (BTW, the Accord is limited to one spare tire), she held up wonderfully. A great car, and the first one I could call mine own. You always remember your first. 

Ridiculous memories (1990-96): Too many to count. I thought I’d left Clarence and Igor in Norfolk when I went off to matriculate, but they did pop in for road trip visits here and there. An hour after inking the paperwork to get the car at Williamsburg Honda (actually in Norge), I scooped my gf and we hit the Ramones show at the Boathouse in Norfolk. (I was supposed to meet Dave and rob there, but like Tojo, they they never made it.) I made lots of unwise choices in the Accord, but she was great on long trips like Spring Break Daytona, summer job Cape Cod (x2), Fall Break NYC, OBFT’s, and many a rugby away match. Good days. 

8. 1996 Honda Accord EX, hunter green 

I had made just enough dough in my super-mediocre government employ to afford an upgrade to my Accord… with another Accord. Why wouldn’t I? Great cars, they were. I swapped red for green, since the holidays were nearing, and I splurged for the EX edition, meaning power everything! Leather seats! A 12-disc changer in the trunk! Yeeha! I kept the manual transmission, though, because it’s just better driving, and wieners couldn’t borrow my car. 

I kept this car until 2000, when the wife and I bought a row house in DC with no parking and I metroed or cabbed to work. (The old, archaic, inane concentric Zone Method of taxi rates in DC at the time meant I could get to work for $4.) So I sold my car to curious old fraternity pal Ed Lee, who ran a shop that had “two Koreans selling Japanese cars to Mexicans,” a tagline that doesn’t hold up as well now. And with that, I was carless. 

Ridiculous memory (1997): Who’s ready for more Igor?? Well… in 1997, I was engaged to be married, and what better way to get prepped for the aisle-walk than to hit Mardi Gras a few months prior? With your fiancée’s college-aged sister, and some of her friends? Yep. Prudent. I cruised down from DC to Lynchburg on a Friday afternoon, scooping up a couple of co-eds for the drive to New Orleans. I repeat: the drive to New Orleans. Yep. Prudent. My soon-to-be sister-in-law (we can just call her “Hyphen”) and her pal got into the green Accord with me about 5pm, armed with some vodka and Sprite. I’d packed a beer cooler. NOLA-bound. What could go wrong? 

11+ hours later: I am beat from driving all the way and ask for some relief. In the form of a new driver. The two of them head up front, and I sack out in the back seat. Out in 30 seconds.
23 minutes later: I bolt awake to the sound of two young women screaming. Wide open Mississippi Highway, three lanes of wide open stretch going each way with a broad gully between. Off in the far distance, the sight of a car headed our way. Like barreling down right at us. You’re going the wrong way, we said, but to no avail. Behind that driver was a fleet of cops with flashers a-flashing. Yipes. Hyphen pulled onto the shoulder (and then some) as we watched the perp flee right by us, followed by the posse of police. Scary shit, but exciting. 

I didn’t fall back asleep for the remaining couple of home-stretch hours. We landed at old fratmate Corky Joe’s house in the Garden District, and I started emptying the car. Speaking of empties… Joe started counting, and lord, we had done some damage. The overnight car ride ‘twixt Lunchbag, VA and the Crescent City: 14 hours, 19 beers between the three of us. That’s when the girls indicated they had only been drinking vodka. Jesus, Igor. Yep. Prudent. 

Clarence cracks wise and he don’t care
Igor stands with a fist in the air
I shake my head and lose more hair
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

9. 2002 Toyota Highlander, silver 

After a couple of years of me officially sans car and her with a little blue Civic, it was time to get back in the game. We had a little tike now, after all, and we found that two cars are better than one; two cars, girl, get the job done. So we cruised over to an Alexandria dealership and bought a new ’02 Highlander. What a great car. 22 years later, we just sold the Silver Bullet (my girls named her) for a few grand. 230,000 miles on her. Scant few signs of slippage. I’d buy one of these again, though I just chipped in for a pair of RAV-4’s for my girls. 

Ridiculous memory: I can’t think of a one. Doesn’t mean they don’t exist, but nothing Clarency/Igory jumps out at me like in other cars. This one was just the family truckster, with lots of good times carting the kids around -- and then bequeathing it to them to cart their butts to South Carolina semester after semester. Great stuff. 

10. Nissan Altima 2003, silver 

The Highlander quickly evolved into her car rather than mine, and the Civic wasn’t exactly… uh… well, “Fat Guy in a Little Car” played every time I drove it. So in 2005 I swapped it out with old fratguy El Reynoldo. Picked up the ’03 Altima, my all-time least favorite of these cars. Had it for about 6 years, and ran it into the ground. Somewhat literally. 

Ridiculous memory (2011): So here’s what happened. I had taken to calling this car the Silver Lining (“at least it still runs”) when that became jinxy. In 2009, it landed in the shop at a dealership (big mistake) because of chronically losing oil, and they informed me that it was a blown head gasket and that the damage was so bad the engine needed replacing. $5k worth of work on a car not much more valuable. They pointed me to their showroom. 

I decided to get a second opinion. That guy (at a shop in West Ghent near the Speedway!) trod lightly when he said this, but he indicated that it had taken his guy 25 minutes to remove spark plugs to look at the situation, and the chances that this action had also taken place 2 days prior… not bloody likely. Crooks! Anyway, he recommended that I just fill it up with oil frequently and ride it until it dies. (Not environmentally sound, I know.) According to the scumbags at the dealership, it would be days or weeks before it keeled over. It turned out to be 22 months. My female lead at the time was driving it for a spell, never put oil in, and it died as she was driving on the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel. Eh. 

11. 2007 Acura TL, navy blue 

Probably my favorite car. Got it at auction from a friend in the biz after Silver Lining died in 2011. Sporty little number with a cool stereo and killer leather inside. I’d definitely be convinced to get another like it. Alas, poor Bluebelle. 

The first crappy thing that happened: apparently on the key fob if you pushed a bunch of buttons, all of the windows and the sunroof would open. Security measure of some kind. Well, I used to keep my keys in a basket of stuff, and people would throw keys, phones, other crap into it. Somehow, late one night, two damnable things happened. All of the windows and the sunroof opened. And it poured rain for hours and hours. My cupholder was full the next morning. Aargh. Damp-Rid and all that jazz, but she was never the same inside. Brittle leather being torn apart. Boo. 

The second crappy thing that happened was that the transmission died. I got her up and running again to a pretty penny, but she was really never the same. I eventually sold her to a good dude making a fresh start for $300. Boo. Hoo. Poor Bluebelle. 

Ridiculous memory (2017): Oh, Igor, you monster. Igor was driving Bluebelle through the streets of my neighborhood one night, head and shoulders out the sunroof. Basically standing erect while pumping the gas too much to the tune of The Clash, “Straight to Hell.” Very late, very bourboned. Oh, self-destructive idiot Igor. He hit a few curbs, natch, but other than that, dodged one. This activity happened more than once, I found out later. 

Clarence ticks friends and family off
Igor turns his head and starts to cough
I line up another quaff
Yeah, it’s Clarence, Igor and me 

12. 2011 Lexus RX350, gold 

After the sad, rapid demise of Bluebelle, I was hanging onto her for dear life when fate intervened. My grandmother passed in July 2017, and some months later, my mom and (awesome) stepdad Ted (who passed last week, dammit, F cancer) approached me. Grammie had left me some money, but in lieu of that, they were willing to give me one of their cars (they were moving to Sarasota and downsizing) and keep the cash. I’ll never know if Mom hoodwinked me; I kind of prefer to think she did. Anyway, thus ushered in the era of Goldie, who has been running for seven years. Goldie’s been banged up along the way, and she’s due for some collision work next week, but she’s hanging in there with about 140k miles under her (timing) belt. 

Ridiculous memory (2022): Despite being known for Igor and his woman frequently driving through the darkened streets of Norfolk with windows submerged and “More Human Than Human” blaring at unreasonable decibels, nothing too crazy. 

Dumb, though… Wintergreen, summer time, Winery tour. En route from the mountain to the vineyards, Clarence is backing out of the condo driveway whilst in a highly heated debate over something pointless, and I miss the good-sized tree in my rear view. Whoops. Bumper dinged, really messed up and dented the rear right panel. I had just taken her in months earlier for some front right work after Clarence tagged a Mercedes in the office parking lot (homeboy is aging into my grand-dad super quick-like), so pride/embarrassment and wallet woes meant I would hold off fixing her for a spell. A spell, meaning like 2 years. Poor denty Goldie. 

But then… out of nowhere… my fiancée, 28 hours from “I do” two weeks ago, gets rear-ended in the bad way in Ghent. Same exact spot. Other dude’s fault. Glory be! (Of course, it’s far more critical that the missus was okay in the crash, but she is, and this is a sweet little add-on.) Goldie’s front got dinged as well, so she’s in bad shape right now. She goes in for the operation(s) on Tuesday. Wish her well and that they don’t give her the “totaled” prognosis! 

*  *  *  *  *  *

Well, there you have it. 12 cars good, bad, and ugly. Made better, worse, and uglier by Clarence, Igor, and me. Upon reflection, it's a bit of a miracle that I made it out of my youth (and youthful regressions) alive and not in jail. Seems like there's a song in all of this.  Oh, wait...

So, gheorghies, share your own car stories of yesteryear... if you dare.

Oh, Clarence, Igor and me
Why oh why must it always be
And you may say how come
I spend my nights with tweedledee and tweedledum
And yet I wonder why
Does it feel like me, myself, and I

Proper Sesh, Proper Lad

Robert MacIntyre is a 27 year-old up-and-coming professional golfer. The Scotsman represented Europe at the 2023 Ryder Cup, going 2-0-1 in the Euros' thrashing of the Yanks. He won his first PGA TOUR event last weekend at the RBC Canadian Open, giving him a total of four professional wins across the globe. MacIntyre's win in Canada qualified him for entry in this weekend's elite Memorial tournament in Dublin, Ohio. Of note, his father Dougie was on his bag for the win.

His response qualified him for inclusion in the pantheon of Gheorghie golfers, joining Joel Dahmen.

Rather than claiming his slot at The Memorial, famously known as Jack Nicklaus' tournament, MacIntyre chose a different path. During the trophy ceremony on the 18th green after the event, he told CBS on-course announcer Andrea Balionis that he'd be heading back to Scotland to "have a hell of a party". FlushingIt, a social media account focused on things UK golf-related said, "As promised in his presser, Robert MacIntyre has WD from The Memorial and is returning home to celebrate his Canadian Open win. He's about to have a proper sesh."

Proper Gheorghie, young MacIntyre.

Extra Credit

During a college tenure in which I chiefly took up space and displayed my ignorance, we dorm hall denizens often received credit card application forms from banks and card companies in our lobby mailboxes. They were widely ignored and mostly littered hallways and the areas around residence halls. 

At the time, I thought it colossally stupid, a waste of paper and effort. We were students. Few of us had much coin and we paid cash for what we bought. Credit cards were for adults, not for callow offspring who were even-money to embarrass them. Only later did I come to think it savvy and perhaps brilliant, if a mite cynical. 

Young OBX Dave was a hard-working and sharp-dressed fella.

At one point, as a joke, I filled out a form and applied. You were asked your annual income. I worked in the summers and made a few thousand dollars, which lasted me through the school year. I filled in the amount, which to me was part of the gag, and sent it off. 

A few weeks later, a thick envelope arrived, containing a letter saying I had been approved, several pages of terms and conditions, a credit card with my name on it and a monthly spending limit of a few hundred bucks. I was stunned. What the hell was I gonna do with a credit card? I didn’t suddenly have more money. I didn’t even have a checking account at the time. 

I don’t think I carried the card in my wallet at first, as if it might somehow materialize in my hand and force me to buy things. I may have left it at home with my parents. I recall no significant early purchases and almost never used it. One enlightening evening, however, a buddy and I were at some off-campus watering hole. We had run out of cash, which usually resigned us to head home. I’m not sure why it occurred to me – perhaps I saw a sticker in the window – but I asked the server, “Do you take Visa?” He said, “We do.” We looked at each other as if a magic portal had opened before us. 

We didn’t sling until last call or buy drinks for the house – only another round or two, as I remember. But the realization that a piece of plastic could extend the jollity when your pockets were otherwise empty was mind blowing. 

All of this probably sounds quaint, like an episode from a bygone era that depended on kerosene lamps in the evening or when the home entertainment center was a radio. Using credit cards now for everything from clothes to furniture to bar tabs is as natural as breathing. Back in the 1970s, though, it was far less common, particularly by the yutes. 

I bring this up not to go all Boomer gasbag, but to point out that society changes, sometimes gradually, sometimes rapidly. I came across a story that said U.S. consumer credit card debt reached a record $1.13 trillion in the fourth quarter of 2023, according to the Federal Reserve. That amounts to almost $4,380 for every adult and $3,424 for every man, woman and child in the country. 

In 1970, however, only 51 percent of U.S. families had a credit card. By the late ‘70s, that number was still only just above 60 percent. Granted, the concept of credit has existed almost as long as humans. Widespread credit, though, is fairly recent. The concept of revolving credit – carrying debt from one month to the next, with interest and fees – didn’t exist in consumer finance until the late 1950s. American Express handed out the first bank cards in 1958, the year I was born, and the same year that California-based Bank of America began to issue personal credit cards, according to Forbes. Bank Americard, the precursor to Visa, didn’t operate outside California until 1966, the same year a consortium of regional banks aligned to start what became Visa’s primary competitor, MasterCard. 

Which gets to the smart marketing component. Credit card providers and banks, all companies in truth, are in the business of cultivating customers. Sure, they reach out to adults because they’re the ones with steady jobs and incomes. But not looking to the future is almost negligent. Never too early to start building consumer habits. 

College campuses are a target-rich environment, as the strategists say, populated by youngsters on their own for the first time who likely possess only a passing acquaintance with personal finance, particularly 50 years ago. Offer them a taste of credit, make them feel grown up. Keep spending limits and conditions tight. If they pay in full and on time, fine; if they don’t, even better. If only a small percentage of millions of kids sign up, it’s worth the effort. 

The effort appears to have paid off. Credit card usage has become pretty much part of the national DNA. According to Forbes, 191 million Americans have at least one credit card, and half of the population has at least two cards (by comparison, the entire U.S. population in 1970 was 203 million). Eighty-two percent of U.S. adults had a credit card in 2022. 

The amount of debt is a concern – the financial site Bankrate said that 49 percent of cardholders were carrying over debt month-to-month in late 2023, and the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau said that almost 10 percent of card users are in what’s called “persistent debt,” where they’re charged more in interest and fees annually than they pay toward the principal. The concerns and that level of saturation haven't stopped the card companies and credit advocates from continuing to push. 

I regularly receive emails from one of the three major credit rating outfits telling me that they have new credit card recommendations and asking if I’d like to increase my monthly spending limit. Nah, I’m good where I am. Needs and wants are modest. I’ve used credit cards for 45 years without inflicting great damage to myself or others. Jury’s still out on me using sharp objects and heavy machinery.

New Recurring Bit, Because I Ran Out of Gas: The Sports Illustrated Covers

Much has been made of the impending (and moronically inevitable) demise of the greatest sports magazine of our time, Sports Illustrated. After Authentic Brands denuded the once must-read publication and announced it was planning to go all-digital, Minute Media stepped in recently with plans to continue publishing on a monthly basis. It is, to state the obvious, not what it once was. 

When I heard the initial news that the once-great SI was going out of print, I made a stupid and futile decision, like we're meant to. I decided to write a post naming the best covers in the magazine's history. That was in January.

I got all the way through 1979 before running out of gas, and so that's where this first edition ends. And so I present to you G:TB's definitive list of the best Sports Illustrated covers from 1954 to January 1979. 

Swimsuit issues are an entirely separate category, but if we were to include them, we'd go with Elle.

In general, there's a bias towards action shots for me, though as you'll see, I make an exception or two for striking imagery of fascinating people. Import matters, but in general, this list is about the pictures more than it is about the newsworthiness.

Here we go, in chronological order:

The first one, August 15, 1954, featured Milwaukee Braves' slugger Eddie Mathews. It's a classic.

In February 1958, SI dropped a peach of an image of Villanova high jumper Phil Reavis.

January 22, 1968, Jerry Kramer carrying Vince Lombardi off the field after the Packers won Super Bowl II.

Great shot of a seminal moment in college hoops history from March 28, 1966.

From January 25, 1971 - this one's got import and a cool image.

The iconic Jim Kiick and Larry Csonka from August 7, 1972.

Classic, from February 27, 1978.

This one from January 8, 1979 is personally significant - these were formative years for your boy. Gut check is still a phrase with weight in Alabama.