New Song from David the Uber Driver

I rode in a few cabs/Ubers whilst in SEVA this weekend.  My favorite ride was from my hotel in Norfolk to the Coach House.  My phone told me that David would pick me up in a blue Chevy Cruze, so when a blue Chevy Cruze pulled up I opened the door and said "David?" and David said "zman?" and I said "yes" and he said "KaMOANen!  We GOOOAN!"  I nestled into a thick plume of blunt smoke and looked at David's bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror.  I knew this would be a fun 12 minutes.

We made the first right and in a few blocks a clutch of young women dressed as naughty pirates passed in front of us.  "UUUUNNNGGHHH!" observed David.  "Indeed," I replied, "is there some sort of pirate party going on?" to which David laughingly responded "Pyra parda, pyra parda!  Nah, we own Gramma Stree, aw you eveh wan in yo life is own Gramma Stree!"  He expressed further opinions regarding Gramma Stree and then asked "You stain right by Gramma Stree, why you goan awway outta Colley?"  So I explained that I was in town for a wedding the next day, and I was meeting up with various attendees at a restaurant.  David clapped back like Clay Davis.

"Ya boy gettin murrd?!?  Y'all gah go tua strip cluuhs on Gramma Stree!!"  I demurred, "He already had a bachelor party for his first wedding, I don't think a strip club is in the cards tonight."  David was intrigued.  "He gen RE-murrd?  Sheeeeit, he must have money to get murrd twice!"  I replied "I haven't seen his balance sheet so I can't speak to that, but it's actually his third wedding so maybe he does."  David was apoplectic.  "Cot DAM!" he blurted, "this n***a a freak!  Three times, sheeeit!  He a freak!"  

The music gods intervened to save me, as David's jam came on.  I know this because he heard the early strains of the song and said "UUUUNNNGGHHH!" as he did when he saw the naughty pirates and turned the radio up very loud.  Our readers know I'm fond of hiphop and I'm no prude, but I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  "He can't be saying that" I thought to myself, so I Shazamed it and got this:

I then googled "shake sumn lyrics" and confirmed that yeah, DaBaby was really saying what it sounded like he was saying.  I can't do it justice, watch the video.

"Make the ghetto bitches put their hands on their knees" makes me feel like a scene from "10" where Dudley Moore complains about today's youth and their music--I can't find it on YouTube, but here are the lines:

• George Webber : If you were dancing with your wife, or girlfriend you knew in high school, and you said to her, Darling, they're playing our song, do you know what they'd be playing?

  Don : What?

  George Webber : Why Don't We Do It In The Road. Fuckin' hell kind of era is that?

Although I don't plan on pumping "Shake Sumn" from zmobile anytime soon, I might sneak it onto a jukebox the next time I'm out and overserved.

I wasn't able to completely tell this story to anyone because of my long and rambling storytelling style and everyone's general lack of interest in me.  One of Whit's high school buddies explained that "Gramma Stree" isn't Grammar Street or Grandma Street as I hypothesized, it's Granby Street, and clarified that there are no strip clubs there (but he wishes there were) and the story dissolved into a noodie bar tangent.  Similarly, I met some GTB lurkers and when I introduced David's car I said that it smelled like San Francisco and they recoiled shouting "Ah!  San Fran smells like shit and piss and vomit!" and went off on their experiences there so my story dissolved again.

Pronounced ˈjȯrj thə ˈblȯg (or ʤɔrʤ ðə blɔg)

50 years ago this month, five twentysomethings from Jacksonville and one transplant from California left the practice pit proving ground known as Hell House and trucked up I-75 to Studio One in north Georgia. Over the next five weeks, they laid down eight finished tracks -- 41 minutes of what would soon become Southern Rock Gospel for evermore. 

The young, longhaired redneck image of the sextet belied their stalwart virtuosity and dedication to the craft. The diesel engine of the Three Guitar Army, with legendary driver Ronnie Van Zant behind the wheel, fired off number after number. Songs like "Tuesday's Gone," "Gimme Three Steps," and, of course, "Free Bird."

The Call: What song is it you wanna hear?
The Response: Free Bird!

The musicians: 

• Ronnie Van Zant – lead vocals, lyrics
• Gary Rossington – lead guitar, rhythm guitar, slide guitar
• Allen Collins – lead guitar, rhythm guitar, acoustic guitar
• Ed King – bass and guitar
• Billy Powell – keyboards
• Bob Burns – drums and percussion

Three months later, MCA released these tracks as the band's debut record. The album title is parenthetical and self-referential, a phonetic spelling of the band's name. Lynyrd Skynyrd, as they were called, was a play on their old gym teacher nemesis's name: Leonard Skinner. And the cover of the album showed a randomly captured lightning strike in the background over Ed -- surely a sign of the lightning in a bottle they had just captured.

For the math majors among you, yes, there's a seventh band member in the photo. Bassist Leon Wilkeson had left the band before the recording sessions, which led to them onboarding Strawberry Alarm Clock guitarist Ed King to play bass, but as they were putting the finishing touches on the album, Ronnie convinced Leon to return and Ed to become the third general in the Three Guitar Army. Leon showed up in time to get in the cover pic.

We all know what happened four action-packed years later. "The rest, as they say is history."

Up until two days ago, Gary Rossington existed as the last remaining living member of this historic posse. Gary rejoined Ronnie and the rest of the gang in that fishin' hole in the sky this week. 

This song almost got scrapped from (Pronounced 'Lĕh-'nérd 'Skin-'nérd). Thank goodness Ronnie Van Zant knew a dandy when he wrote it. Gary Rossington co-wrote this gem and is featured prominently in its axe-wielding. Enjoy... some sunny day.

Sentence of Dave Inspires Me, Alternatively Titled "My Earliest Appearances in Court"

Dave of Sentence of Dave wrote two recent Davish posts about his son's speeding tickets and subsequent court appearance, including an aside that "Alex should be thankful that he has a supportive father who accompanied him to court" just to prove that Dave wrote it.  This inspired today's post.

Almost 30 years ago I spent a summer in the Burg living with rootsy, Nelson, and Juan Moritz on Braxton Court.  This confederacy of dunces encountered a comedy of errors including broken pipes, shower fungus, and a misunderstanding of when the co-eds from whom we sublet the place expected us to be out.  But we managed to eke out some fun along the way.

I used Hoopy's name to get a job working at the Short Stop Cafe.  I think I made it through three shifts before I was fired.  I misread the calendar and showed up for a dinner shift when I was supposed to work a lunch.  The manager said "We have a policy here, no show, no call, no job."  I replied without skipping a beat, naturally, "No shit." and handed him my apron and Shortstop polo shirt.  I'm still bad at calendars but I haven't been fired since.

I was not phased by this turn of events.  I knew I wasn't cut out for the waitering life, with its formalities and expectations like courtesy and politeness.  I was too sick and rude to wait.

Shortly afterwards, I saw a sign at Paul's Deli advertising an opening for a delivery driver.  This seemed like a good fit.  I like to drive, it involved minimal customer interaction, I got a free meal on each shift, the commute was about 250 feet, and I could smoke cigarettes on the job.  It suited my 21-year-old lifestyle to a T.

Except for the part about the cops.  Williamsburg is crawling with them.  Campus Police, Colonial Williamsburg Police, Ford's Colony Police, Kingsmill Police, Williamsburg Police, James City County Police, State Troopers, all of them looking to pull over a young guy in a Japanese car with NJ plates driving 6 to 9 MPH over the limit.  All this is to say I had a lot of interactions with the local constabulary.  In these situations I would point to the pile of pizza and sandwiches in the passenger seat, explain that I deliver for Paul's, and occasionally they would let me off with a warning.  Or they might give me a ticket for improper equipment, a misdemeanor that doesn't put points on your license.  About half the time they would give me a speeding ticket for 5-9 MPH over the limit (no matter how fast I was really going).

I couldn't afford the points and resulting insurance hike so I would put on a jacket and tie, take the ticket to court and beg the judge for mercy.  Sometimes the cop wouldn't show up so the judge had to let me go scot-free.  Other times the judge would knock the ticket down to improper equipment, maybe they liked Paul's French dip (truly a hidden gem of a sandwich).  Once I negotiated with the prosecutor before the proceedings started and walked out with improper equipment instead of speeding.

My favorite courtroom appearance, to this day, arose from such a situation.  I was driving on Route 60 towards the Outlets and the myriad hotels, motels, and mobile estates out that way.  I made this run a million times and knew every crack and pothole in the road.  I also knew where the 25 MPH zone ended and the 40 MPH zone began.  I was cruising along at about 30 MPH in the 25, and once I was within sight of the 40 MPH sign I sped up.  Almost instantly, out of a shitty little hidey-hole tucked twixt two shrubberies popped Sneaky Pete.  I looked down, saw I was doing about 37 MPH, and pulled over immediately.

Radio off, interior light on, window down, rearview tilted up so I didn't get blinded by the coplights, hands on the wheel.  A Statie rolled up, a young guy.  He gave me permission to get my documents from the glove box, asked how fast I was going, and I told him "37 MPH because I could see the 40 MPH sign" and gave him my usual song and dance about Paul's.  He appreciated my honesty so he was honest too.  "It's the end of the month and I need to make my number.  You've been straight with me so if you come to court I'll tell the judge you were cooperative so he might reduce the fine."  This is why people hate the regulatory state but I didn't get into that right then and there, instead I took what the defense gave me and checked down to "Thank you sir."  After we exchanged the relevant paperwork I went back about my business with the popcorn shrimp and hot Hollies.

For whatever reason I had to appear at the courthouse in Yorktown.  The judge was straight out of central casting, a Southern fried take-no-bullshit sumbitch like Fred Gwynne in "My Cousin Vinny" and he looked like the judge from "Air Bud."  The entire proceeding irritated him and he had complete disdain for most of the lawbreakers who came before him.  He threw the figurative book at almost everyone.  Almost.

I got there a little bit before the appointed time, and that was a stupid move--this court also has jurisdiction over maritime issues so I had to sit through an hour of boating and crabbing shenanigans.  And they really were shenanigans.  In the maritime session, a Vietnamese guy tried to fight a ticket for taking some undersized crabs.  The judge lit into him, "This is whyyyyeh we don't have enough cray-yibs innymore!  Becuz pyeople lahk yeeeew are tayehkin' unnersahzed cray-yibs en overcrabbin' the bay!"  The defendant couldn't follow what was going on and barely managed to say anything in English in response.  The judge yelled some more and hit him with a $750 fine.

Very next guy up was Jimmy Joe Jim Bob John from Croaker or Norge or whatever.  The cop explained the facts--same as the previous guy, except he had two coolers full of too-small crabs.  The defendant was incensed.  "Judge" he said, "Ah've bin crabbin the bay since ah wiz knee-hah to a grasshopper en ah've nivver bin tickitted fer sumpin lahk this!!"  I swear to god he said knee-high to a grasshopper.  The judge was suddenly accommodating and said "Sir, ah unnerstan how yew fee-yil, buuht the sitchy-ation here is bay-yid.  Pyeople are overcrabbin the bay!  An if yew keep takin 'em fore they're ole nuff tuh reeper-duce, sum day we wone have inny lift!"  Jimmy Joe Jim Bob John adjusted his mesh baseball hat, put his hands on his hips, and screwed up his face as if to say "Ah cay-yint argue with tha-yit."  The judge turned him out with a $250 fine and an admonishment to consider future generations of crabbers.

White privilege is real.

Eventually they got to the landlubber moving violations.  The defendants were called based on the cop who caught them, so that each cop worked through all his criminals in one batch, allowing him to promptly get back to eating donuts and giving himself testicular cancer with the radar gun.  The judge demolished everyone, he didn't want to hear anyone's excuses or stories about anything until a pretty little girl went to the defendant's table for a ticket written by Sneaky Pete, the same guy who wrote mine.  She was accompanied by a guy who I assumed was her father until he entered an appearance as Sam Slickness from Dewey Cheatam & Howe.  The cop explained that he pulled her over making a U-turn at a stoplight that had a "NO U-TURN" sign.  Open and shut, right?  No!  Slickness did his dizzle.

First he asked the cop if the little girl had any other moving violations on her license.  She didn't.  Then he asked if she was polite when pulled over.  She was.  Then he asked if any drugs or alcohol were involved.  They weren't.  Slickness then said "Yer onner, as you can see, li'l Suzy Sweetness nivvir did innythin lahk this before, she was pulaht to the ossifer, en there are no extenyatin circumstances with the incident.  She jus gradjeeated from Yorktown Hah School, she's about to be a frishmin at the University of Virginia, en her daddy, Poppa Sweetness, is on the town council here in Yorktown."

The judge leaned forward and grinned like the Cheshire cat.  "Li'l Suzy Sweetness, dew yew promise yer nivvir gonna do this agin?"  Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth as she coyly relied "Yessir" and batted her eyes.  "Aw-rite thin" purred the old judge, "ahm givin yew a ticket for im-proper equipmin.  Run along now, en ah don't wanna see yew in my courtroom agin," smiling the whole time.

Then they called me.

Sneaky Pete explained the facts as he recalled them and based on his notes, ending with 37 MPH in a 25.  Then I did Slickness's dizzle.

I did not know anything about precedent or stare decisis, but I figured I should say what the lawyer just said, adapting to my facts of course.  The only differences were (1) I was within sight of a sign that allowed me to do what I was doing, and (2) my daddy wasn't on the town council here in Yorktown.  I assumed there was no way he couldn't let me off if I did what the lawyer did, otherwise it would be clear that the only reason Suzy Sweetness skated was her father's position on the town council.

So I asked the cop if I had any other moving violations on my license.  I didn't (thanks to all those "improper equipment" trips to court previously).  I asked if I was polite when pulled over.  I was.  I asked if any drugs or alcohol were involved.  They weren't.  I asked if I was within sight of a 40 MPH sign when the cop hit me with the radar gun.  I was.

Then I said to the judge "Your honor, I have no other moving violations on my record, I was polite when pulled over, and there are no extenuating circumstances with the incident.  I was doing 37 MPH because I was within sight of the 40 MPH sign, and I was speeding up in anticipation of entering the 40 MPH zone.  I deliver food for Paul's Deli so I'm familiar with where the different zones begin and end.  I'm about to be a senior at the College of William & Mary, and I promise I'm never going to do this again."

The judge was livid.  He saw exactly what I was doing, and exactly why he couldn't throw the book at me.  He leaned forward and through clenched teeth asked me "Suuun, did yew say yer a stewdin ay-it the laaaw skoo-wul?"

"No sir" I replied, "I'm just an undergrad delivering pizza to pay some bills."

He could've spit nails. "Ahm fahnin yew fer im-proper equipmin, yew be-yin the im-proper equipmin!!  En ah don't ever wanna see yew in mah courtroom agin!!"  Then he banged his gavel.

Some of the poor slobs waiting their turn before this hanging judge gasped.  One or two cheered a bit, there was even a brief smattering of clapping.  I left the courtroom to pay my fine and a middle-aged woman ran after me.  She caught up to me and panted, "That was incredible, how did you do that?"  I replied "I just said what the lawyer right before me said, I figured if it worked for him it should work for me."  Stunned, she smiled and went back into the courtroom.  I like to think that everyone else followed my lead and went home with im-proper equipmin fines too. 

Getting Over It... Together

Last year our tiny dictator posted a post about posts. Unpublished G:TB posts. Well, this one has sat in the hopper for quite a long while. It never really come together, it sounds thoroughly preachy, and it wasn't finished. But with a semi-local milestone in the news this morning -- which will undoubtedly elicit some of the same shopworn outcries from traditionalists, rednecks, and racists -- well, here we go...

Studying people is interesting.

I was a Sociology major who also took a number of Psychology courses. I earned full Psych credit by completing the requisite guinea pig assignments for upperclassmen's Psychology dissertations... including double-dating with Dave and some unlucky co-eds, then writing about whether we remained "date-anxious" after the encounters.  It was an ordeal, but I got through William and Mary by learning about humans, our crazy cultures, and the ridiculous stuff we say and do. Despite my marks, I learned a lot.

People love to root for a cause.

A football team.
A political party.
A god, and and a very particular strain of dogmatic do's and don'ts that go with that god.
A cure for cancer.

You can levy your own opinion on whether time, money, and emotional energy being poured into each of those four things in equal volumes is a societal ill or just the way we homo sapiens are.  But we root for a million different things out there, and we root hard.

We cheer.  We congregate.  We celebrate.

We bemoan. We bitch. We abandon, only to identify with another "home team" and start anew.  Not very often, but it can happen. (Rob, TR.)

Such identification gives us joy and pride.  Go ahead, posit the argument that it "shouldn't" because groupthink is potentially dangerous and frequently mindless.  Share a post about that on Facebook, counting the hypocritical Likes.  

Doesn't matter, this instinct has pervaded our world from the time we donned cave skins to tunics to knickers to zubaz pants (cave skins to zubaz is not an evolutionary marathon, mind you) and beyond.  That's just how we are. We sign on with a group of like-minded nitwits like ourselves, rally and cry for the good guys, boo and beat on the bad guys, and talk about it afterwards for the rest of our silly, little lives.

Enter Southern pride and the joy of being identified as a rebel.

You could study US history between the Reconstruction period through the modern era and delve into the phenomenon of Southern humiliation-turned-hubris as a coping mechanism.  (I'm sure I was supposed to study that at some point in my illustrious undergrad career.)  Or you could just watch "The Dukes of Hazzard," an Ole Miss football game, or Deliverance in a bar in the Bible Belt.  (Ever think you'd hear that Ned Beatty got what he deserved?)  Tradition, honor, glory, and the beating back of oppressive aggressors is part of the charade of revision history over the last hundred-fifty, but no truths can be heard over the hoots and howls of revelry in certain parts of the country, not to mention the Dixie horn from a '69 Dodge Charger with stars and bars on the roof.

Not all association with the Confederacy is an approval of human bondage and enslavement.  In fact, a hell of a lot of has nothing to do with that.  It's just belonging.  Banding together with fellow humans to navigate our lives as part of a team.  Our team.  With symbols like sweet tea and cornbread, trucks and tractors, Lee and Jackson. Ignoring images, memories, and any true ties to the hatred and evil and oppression of our fellow humans from days gone by.  We aren't anything about that horrible stuff; we just want to break bread, love the Lord, and get down the dusty road that is Life with folks who see shit like we see shit.

There can be energy and positivity in such affiliations and groupings. The endearing image of the underdog... the humble survivor... the rebel... this draws in most humans.  Hell, Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker were rebels! (So is Luke Skyywalker.)  Massimino to Tarkanian, Stirling Bridge to Rorke's Drift. It's natural, and people can't help but want to be a part of it.  Don't assign that horrible history to us because we embrace and honor the best in those rebellious confederate symbols while living the best lives we can, being the best we know how to be to our fellow humans in this century.

Yeah, I do get it.

The thing is, right now, that doesn't really matter.

You see, good people, you and I do not get to decide what logical associations exist between our identified groups, teams, leaders, or heroes and some very bad things.  And once those associations become ubiquitous, I'm sorry, but we're screwed.

You can be a huge fan of someone or something for a very long time -- all your life -- and then one day it's impossible to appropriately acknowledge rooting for them.  This happens seemingly all the time. 

• You loved Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids?  You're like school on Thanksgiving... no class, turkey. Love it! And he was commencement speaker at my college graduation! Tough shit. He's a rapist. (A free one now.)
  
• You love the Washington pro football team through and through and through and through (despite common sense and your utter disdain for the owner)? Yeah, about that... turns out that team name is pretty friggin' racist. Caricature out front shoulda told you. Oh, and Chris Rock in 1991. (NSFW)
• You were wondering whether your alma mater's best football player ever (by a substantial margin) will get in the NFL Hall of Fame? Sorry, he's also a rapist. And in prison. For a long time.
• You loved Mad Max and Lethal Weapon? Well, Mel's a huge bigot.
• You look like Kevin Spacey, according to too many people you meet? Bummer, Whitney. You look like a sexual assaulter.

Dammit, man! How is any of that fair? I had nothing to do with that crap.

What if you grew up of meager means in the Deep South, where one of the things that brought you rare joy was a sense of pride in a community that has as its emblem a Confederate flag and extols virtues like bravery and courage and heroism from names such as Lee, Jackson, Stuart, and Davis? And you're even named after one of them? And you have no hate for any race, you just want to get along and keep feeling that pride?  You just want the feeling of belonging to a like-minded congregation of good people with family values and decency, a feeling that takes you back to those glorious days of yore?

I'm sorry. Doesn't matter at all. Today is Wednesday, and as Ronnie told you, Tuesday's gone with the wind. All those days are gone.

Today another nail was hammered into this particular coffin. The statue of one Robert Edward Lee was removed from its perch on Monument Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. You know, there are symbols everywhere, good and bad, and the elimination of this increasingly electric lightning rod of a symbol of the Confederacy is in itself as powerful a symbol of change as I can conjure from my vantage point here in the Commonwealth. Lordy, I would never have believed it if you'd bet me even 10 years ago -- with a Black President in office at the time. No, sir. No, ma'am. No how no way they'll let that happen on that street in that town.

Here we are. Nobody said or sang it much better than Sam Cooke: 

It's been a long / A long time coming / But I know a change gonna come / Oh, yes it will

And with such change, it's not all that rosy when it happens, where it happens. Relief and a renewed sense of optimism that things can get better, yes, for sure. But it's not rosy. For both sides of the coin, there's just reflection on the wretched things that have gone on. For one side in particular, there's also the stark absence of the point of personal pride on which you've hung a whole lot for a very long time.

And that doesn't feel too good. And it's not any of their faults that things have changed. It's not fair, in a lot of ways.

Doesn't matter. Tuesday's Gone and it's Wednesday morning.

Many bemoan "cancel culture" with a broad brush, citing micro-detail-paintbrush lines as instances of fallibility therein; it's true that with FB as mighty as the AK these days, occasionally scenarios exist where loud axe-grinders and bitter bastards manipulate public thinking maliciously and erroneously. But by and large, we'd all rather live in a world where people are truly held accountable for dirty deeds like never before.

Of course, there's heavy-handed, condescending advice about not attaching yourself so permanently to any one person or group or team or cause or band (Dave, with permanent ink) or what have you. Because whether you like it or not, a change is gonna come. Yeah, well, that's easier said than done.

But as you see people these days aligning themselves so completely with one political faction or another that they lower themselves to spitting gobs of venom and vitriol all over their own neighbors very publicly for the crime of carrying a differentiated outlook . . . well, I gotta believe that there may come a day that there will be bales of regret stacked up out back on those folks' lower forty. Anyway, I'll keep studying people as I do, and they'll keep doing anything except making that habit boring.

In the meantime, I don't need to bash people over the head with "Get Over It" like the reconstituted Eagles did in 1994 via that clownish single. Bleh. If you really want us all to just get along, like Mr. King (not Dr. King) said, then we have to encourage us all to get over it together. Collectively. Moving to a new era of peace. And cornbread. Sweet tea and unsweet tea. And Ronnie Van Zant. And Neil Young.

And thoughtful, thought-provoking monologues like this one. And the song that follows it.  Enjoy.