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All Over the Map This isn't going to be another one of my boring rants about movies. But to put the following column into perspective, I must begin this week with the opening scene of last year's thriller, Eastern Promises. Some of you probably have not seen this film set in the dangerous world of the Russian mafia, but the movie is currently airing on the pay channels (Cinemax, HBO, etc.) if you want to catch it. So, the opening scene... It's an ugly rainy night, and a guy is in a dimly lit barbershop waiting for a shave. Suddenly the barber, a menacing-looking bald dude with a creepy moustache, holds the customer down while another guy takes the barber's straight razor and -- slllliiiittttt! -- opens up the poor customer's throat. This scene was rolling through my head the other morning when I walked into the Anderson Brothers' Barbershop in Southside. My brother-in-law and a pal with the unfortunate nickname of Pinky have been longtime customers of the Anderson brothers, identical twins with a long history of buzz cuts, flat tops and straight razor shaves. It was the latter service that always had my interest. I'd never had the pleasure of leaning back in an old-fashioned barber chair with hot wet towels pressed into my face and then lathered up in warm cream for a close shave. It had seemed, in my mind, to be a long-gone art preserved only through old Clint Eastwood westerns or gangster films like Eastern Promises. Yet, a shave with a straight razor and all the goodies is making a comeback in the cities. Swank new establishments are popping up everywhere offering men old-fashioned shaves along with a tumbler of Scotch, manicures and, oh yes, a haircut if one so desires. The Shave of Beverly Hills, for instance, will offer a shave for only...$65. At the Anderson brothers' establishment, a thorough comfortable shave will only set you back eight bucks. I can also safely say the fellow customers won't be as stuffy as those you might find at that Beverly Hills shop. And as my unfortunately nicknamed friend Pinky told me: "They'll shave you so close you won't have to pick up a razor for a week. Guaroooonntee it!" Thankfully, when I walked into the Anderson brothers' that morning, I found they weren't bald with menacing looking moustaches like that guy in Eastern Promises. My throat would be safe. The brothers were pleasant-looking gentlemen with matching thick heads of white swirling hair. A few other customers were waiting, and the brothers were buzzing and clipping through their clients with a no-nonsense efficiency while peppering occasional comments on the particular barbershop topics of that day: gas prices, the idiocy of some in the U.S. Senate, and praise for the hard-working Americans trying to make it through these tough times. And, without sounding too feminine, my shave was delightful: the hot towels, the warm shaving cream, the patient and gentle working of the blade, then the burning rush of some type of tonic over my newly baby-smooth face. I walked out refreshed, energized and somewhat giddy I had finally experienced the simple pleasure of a straight razor shave by someone who knew what he was doing. It was like a facial for men who wouldn't be caught dead getting a facial. Not that I've ever had a facial. I think Pinky has though. Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. All Over the Mapby Rob Grace July 16, 2008 Two or three years ago on Classic Rock 93 KZLE's website, I posted a tongue and cheek request to have CBS News reporter and sometime 60 Minutes contributor, Lara Logan, move to Batesville and become KZLE's new news director. (This was back when CR93 was known as The Max 93One FM.) About a week later, I received an e-mail from someone claiming to be Logan, telling me how flattered she was by my post. Thinking it was a joke with a fake CBS e-mail address, I nevertheless replied with a skeptical bent believing I'd receive a note saying the address was invalid. Besides, why in the world would a CBS News reporter based in Iraq waste time cruising the net, happen upon a small town Arkansas radio station's website and then shoot off an e-mail of gratitude? Surprisingly, I received a reply from the CBS News e-mail address belonging to Ms. Logan. She told me her appreciation was sincere and gave me a few details that, without a doubt, confirmed it really was her. She happened to be in Washington on a break, and a friend had apparently forwarded the website posting to her. So, I humbly replied, told her I was sorry I doubted her and since I had a morning radio show at the time on KZLE, I asked if she would tape a phone interview with me. She gladly said yes, told me she would contact Kevin Tedesco -- the publicist for 60 Minutes -- to set it up, and a couple of days later she called for the chat. She was gracious, sharp, funny and even put up with my mispronunciation of her first name (it's not pronounced "Laura") as well as my pedestrian questions about the Iraqi situation. Now, with her star rising at CBS News and a promotion to the Washington, D.C. bureau, Ms. Logan is falling into the unfortunate realm of tabloid attention. A week or two ago it was revealed that, while in Iraq, she found herself in some romantic entanglements involving a CNN reporter and a married contractor from Texas. Eventually, news came that the contractor was divorcing his wife and Ms. Logan is pregnant. The bottom line is none of this is any of our business, but unfortunately, there is an innate thirst for gossip in our genes. The trials and tribulations of others, whether they be a celebrity or Joe Don down the street, can give us a superior, snotty attitude. "Well, if Lara Logan is having romance issues with different men, then she must be a bit on the unsavory side -- unlike me," someone will likely think. Of course, that's bullpoop. We all have our own issues, but knowing Kirstie Alley is approaching 300 lbs. keeps some of us "above" her. So, cheers to Lara Logan for her success and integrity. I don't care about her personal life; I just know she's a top notch journalist. Now excuse me for a moment. I need to read the latest scoop from the National Enquirer. *** Finally this week: from my nemesis in Newport, the last word on my aborted attempt to be President of the United States for Life (POTUS4L): Dear Rob: In your June 27 column, you wrote: "These folks supporting Anne Pyle are NUTS! Judging from the continual e-mails I'm getting, it's almost as if they are a cult, worshipping at the altar of Pyle and Manilow. Before you know it, they're going to be putting on their black shrouds, Nikes and having the Kool Aid party, if you get my drift.
"That scares me. Cults are wacky, particularly if they're primarily made up of women because, really guys, we all know how off-kilter the girls are, right? Remember my fellow brothers, they caused the fall of man by eating that apple. With a chip like that on their shoulders, no wonder they're a little cuckoo.
"So, knowing all of this and knowing the potential danger of running against the Pyleontologists, I am withdrawing my name from the candidacy of the POTUS4L." I, too, am withdrawing my candidacy for POTUS4L. In part, because I no longer have time for political aspirations. I have long been a Genealogist (which is very time consuming), but I have suddenly been cast into the role of a Pyleontologist, which we all know is the science of treating man and woman as equal. The old days of keeping the woman barefoot and pregnant are gone. If being a woman means being a member of a cult, than I am guilty as charged. We may be a little cuckoo, but Eve did not eat the Apple...Adam did. Eve may have given Adam the Apple after taking a small bite, but Adam is the one who ate the whole thing and Eve got blamed for it. That has been par for the course over the years. The male does the dirty work while the female bears the blame and the cleanup. I believe there are many Pyleontologists out there who agree with me. Therefore, I am starting a seminar with specialists who know how to handle difficult situations. I hope we can get Lorena Bobbitt to be one of our first presenters on the program. Ms. Bobbitt is well known for her propensity to cut an offending subject short. If she needs a male assistant to demonstrate her technique on, are you available, Rob? Other potential guest presenters are Hillary, Marge Simpson, Peggy Hill, Miss Piggy, and others too numerous to mention. Thanks for listening, Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. All Over the Mapby Rob Grace July 9, 2008 The bet was a hundred bucks. Now, I have no idea what prompted your humble scribe to take the bet because, trust me, $100 is not pocket change to me. Plus, there's the fact that I had never played a round of golf in my life. I tried to play a round in high school when I joined the golf team on a lark. After my first pathetic drive on the first day of practice, the team and the coach burst out laughing when I put the tee on the fairway to continue my play. (Teeing off on the fairway, I learned that day, is a golf no-no.) Needless to say, I quit after about the fifth hole and switched to the tennis team the next day (which, trust me, is another column completely). What indirectly drove me to the golf course on this recent afternoon was my 10-year-old son's sudden interest in golf. Since the embarrassment in high school, I completely lost any desire to be the next Tiger Woods (or John Daly, for that matter). While many of my friends and family have played the game, I would turn up my nose at a silly waste of an afternoon hitting a bloody little white ball. But the simple fact was I never again wanted to make a fool out of myself in front of the other golfers on the greens. So when my son asked me to take him to the driving range the other day, I tried to switch him to another outing. "Don't you want to go swimming or maybe see a movie?" I asked. "Oh no, Dad. I want to tee off." Sigh from Dad. So off we went with his junior-size golf clubs and a new bag of tees. After borrowing a driver for me, we set ourselves up side by side and plugged our tees in the grass. I scanned the course for any golfers in the immediate area around us and tried to remember the basics of a solid hit: never let your eyes off the ball, feet flat on the ground, and don't slam the sucker off the tee -- just try and make a decent swing, following all the way through. And then I hit that baby sky-high -- and sharply to the left. But still: at least I hit it for a good length. The afternoon went on with more high flies to the left, many fumbling shots that landed 15 feet away, and an occasional soaring drive right down the middle. And, though they were few and far between, the latter shots were the hook that drew me back onto the golf course -- and into the bet. A few days after the day at the driving range, I text messaged a friend -- a really good golfer -- to take me out for a round. Word spread that the goofy dude who always made fun of everyone golfing was actually going to attempt a round. When I arrived, my brother and a friend had decided to follow my other pal and me to watch a likely butchering of the game of golf by yours truly. And it was my brother who made the bet: a $100 wager that it would take me more than 10 strokes on the first hole. I won. It only took me eight strokes. My brother's mistake was not making that particular wager on the second hole. Or the third. Or the fourth. Etc. Because that's how the afternoon went. I ended up having an average of ten strokes per hole. My tee-offs were sometimes decent, but my Achilles' heel was my performance on the fairway. Big clumps of dirt would go flying while the ball never moved. Sometimes I would take a swing and miss the ground (and the ball) completely ("Practice swing!" I would yell). And when the club and the ball finally met, nine times out of ten, the ball only sputtered about 12 or 13 feet -- if that. It didn't matter though. The next time my son and I go to the driving range, I'll be taking some irons to work on my fairway drives. I'm going to work on this little thing called golf, and soon, I hope a father and his son will be spending afternoons on the course. In the meantime, if any of you see my brother, tell the jerk he still owes me a hundred bucks. Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. All Over the Mapby Rob Grace July 2, 2008
Locked-in syndrome is a rare condition that occurs when one's brain stem is massively damaged and causes complete paralysis. Unlike a person in a vegetative state, victims with locked-in syndrome are mentally coherent, yet they are "locked in" their body. They perceive, think and experience things as they did before, but they cannot move. The damage to the stem can come from severe head trauma, a medical overdose, or in the case of the late French journalist, Jean-Dominique Bauby, a massive stroke. As the jet-setting editor of the French fashion magazine, Elle, Bauby was at the top of his game when he suffered his stroke in his early 40s. After waking from a coma, Bauby found himself at a rehabilitation center on the shores of the English Channel. His mind still vital and alive, Bauby could not speak or swallow, and a ventilator pumped air in and out of his lungs. His right eye lid, working improperly, had to be sewn shut, leaving only his left eye and his hearing as narrow strands to the outside world. Miraculously, Bauby's speech therapists taught him a method of communication through the blinking of his working eye. In time, Bauby had written a memoir of his experiences as a victim of locked-in syndrome entitled The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Transcribed entirely through Bauby's communicative blinks, he detailed the horror of being trapped in a motionless body, comparing it to the old clunky diving gear where the diver is encased in a cumbersome suit and a large metal helmet, as the air supply flowing through a long tube from the suit to the surface provided the only conduit to breathe. But Bauby held a secret weapon to battle his unbearable misery: his mind and spirit - tools that freed him from his oppressive cocoon. Through memory and imagination, Bauby tells of fantasy feasts to placate his inability to eat; the memories of times with his children and his father; and the ability to place himself in any portion of the world where beautiful vistas reign. About 10 days after Bauby's book was published to great acclaim, he passed away. Last year, the American artist and film director, Julian Schnabel, released his cinematic adaptation of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, and I recently caught up with it on DVD. The first 20 or so minutes of TDBATB are told entirely through the eye(s) of Bauby, portrayed by the excellent French actor Mathieu Amalric (he's the new Bond villain in the upcoming 007 flick), and then gradually reverts from his view to a combination of glimpses inside his memories, and the people and places around him, as well as moving back to his point of view from time to time. What makes this film so engrossing is not only the obvious human drama of a man living life to its fullest and suddenly being cut down to a vibrant soul trapped in a lifeless shell, but also the drama concerning the bittersweet and lingering melancholy of his anguish over the (pre-stroke) breakup with his children's mother; the cherished flashbacks and fantasies he calls upon to relieve his spirits; the ambiguous and eventual revelation (to us) of a mystery love that haunts his memory; and the beautiful dream states that envelop him, vividly brought to life by the gorgeous and quirky eye of Schnabel. It's probably too simplistic to take TDBATB as a call to live each day of life to its fullest because deep tragedy can come in an instant to whisk it all away. It is that, but it's also a spectacularly moving testament to an immaculate spirit that can overcome the limits and pain of a devastating situation. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, which was nominated for four Academy Awards last year, is available now on DVD, and those wary of subtitled films should get over such silly aversions and experience a gorgeous movie. Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. All Over the Map This POTUS4L (President of the United States for Life) campaign between myself and Newport resident Anne Pyle has gotten completely out of hand. To refresh, I wrote a few weeks back that I should be POTUS4L, and one of the first items on my agenda would be to imprison and possibly execute Barry Manilow for his musical sins against humanity. Ms. Pyle, who loves Mr. Manilow, suddenly took it upon herself to challenge me in the POTUS4L race should it happen. Because of this, I've had people stop me in restaurants, and I've received various e-mails telling me how horrible I am to not only pick on Ms. Pyle, but also Barry Manilow! Barry bloody Manilow! This is the dweeb who released such "fingernails-across-the-chalkboard" audio poop as "Can't Smile Without You," "I Write the Songs," and heaven help me, "Mandy." To quote one e-mail I received last week, "You little booger! THE VERY IDEA OF EXECUTING BARRY! How can you be so cruel?" You see dear readers, Pyle has started a vicious e-mail campaign against, me, your humble scribe. I've already received three e-mails from Pyle supporters since I started typing this piece. One woman from Florence, Mississippi (!) just e-mailed me and wrote, "I could never vote for someone who would be so cruel to Barry Manilow." Do these Pyle supporters, who are solely female, not realize that the C.I.A. has utilized Barry Manilow music as a form of torture? Do these Pyle supporters not realize thousands of people every day purposefully drive ice picks in their ears whenever "Mandy" comes on the radio? Do these Pyle supporters not realize that many people walk in front of barreling freight trains simply because they vainly tried every possible way to get "Copacabana" out of their heads? These folks supporting Anne Pyle are NUTS! Judging from the continual e-mails I'm getting, it's almost as if they are a cult, worshipping at the altar of Pyle and Manilow. Before you know it, they're going to be putting on their black shrouds, Nikes and having the Kool Aid party, if you get my drift. That scares me. Cults are wacky, particularly if they're primarily made up of women because, really guys, we all know how off-kilter the girls are, right? Remember my fellow brothers, they caused the fall of man by eating that apple. With a chip like that on their shoulders, no wonder they're a little cuckoo.* So, knowing all of this and knowing the potential danger of running against the Pyleontologists, I am withdrawing my name from the candidacy of the POTUS4L. Goodbye. Now leave me alone to my Bruce Springsteen and Ryan (not Bryan!) Adams records and my Slip n' Slide. I'm done. * * * *To all the wonderful and beautiful females of the world: this is, of course, satire. Women make the world go around. They light our lives. They are angelic, and most of the time, smell flowery. So, please know, I kid. I kid. Now, put the paper down and get back to the stove. Your husband's waiting for his dinner. (Heh...heh...I kid. I kid.) Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. All Over the Map Uh-oh. I have some competition in my quest for becoming President of the United States for Life (POTUS4L). If you recall from last week, Anne Pyle from Newport protested one of my first acts that will be taken as POTUS4L: the imprisonment and possible execution of one, Barry Manilow. Ms. Pyle has taken offense at my stance on this critical issue. Printed below is her latest e-mail, which, you will notice, includes a threat to your humble scribe. In your latest column you said, (and I quote); "Let this be clear: When I am elected to the Presidency, Barry Manilow will be imprisoned and possibly executed for his horrific musical sins. If I decide to grant him clemency, he will be forced to listen to the entire discography of rapper Snoop Dog, 24/7."
Now, you shouldn't have said that!!! That would be CRUEL and INHUMANE to force anybody to listen to Snoop Dog, 24/7. I wouldn't last 15 minutes before they would be carrying me off to the loony bin. There are laws against torture, waterboarding and things of that nature. I can't be a party to illegal acts by giving you my vote, although I agree with you on the oil barons and some other stuff that you propose. I have sifted through my brain for some sort of compromise because I just can't bear to see poor Barry tortured. I came up with only one solution.
I will run against you for a lifetime Presidency. Of course, at my age, that won't be long. I have all the needed qualifications for Presidency: I was a PTA member for many years, a Cub Scout Den Mother, performed in the School Follies back when Newport had such. Plus, I can cook. Plus, I have a secret weapon that I can't tell you about now, but it will cinch the Presidency for me.
I hate to run against you, but you leave me no choice.
The future President for Life
Anne Pyle OK, Anne: It's Hammer time! (Anne, since you despise rap, you might not get the "Hammer time" line. It comes from a rap song from long ago.) Anyway, bring it on! The fellow Manilow haters of this country will crush your puny coalition of "Mandy" lovers. And we will show the world the power and majesty of a POTUS4L Rob Grace administration full of Presidential Slip n' Slide parties and mandatory attendance of all U.S. citizens to Bruce Springsteen concerts. Speaking of which... Arkansas Weekly also received this anonymous e-mail this week: Tell Rob Grace we are sick of Bruce Springsteen stories and music. Bruce is about as old fashioned and out of date as that Members Only jacket hanging in Rob's closet. OK, first: I'm going to refer to this e-mail author as "Chicken Man" because he doesn't have the GUTS to give his name. Second: Springsteen is more relevant today than he was 15 years ago, and he still sells out concerts all over the WORLD. Third: My Members Only jacket is not hanging in my closet. In fact, I'm wearing it as I type. In fact, I wear it ALL THE TIME, even when I sleep. In fact, I still have a mullet that looks damn cool with the Members Only jacket and parachute pants I wear. You, Chicken Man, are simply jealous of the fact that I can still pull off the Members Only/mullet/parachute pants look in 2008. So, bug off. I'm getting in my t-topped Pontiac Firebird, turning on my Alpine radio, popping in my cassette of Born to Run, and cranking it up. Chicken Man, to paraphrase M.C. Hammer again (something I thought I never would do twice in one of my columns): U CAN'T TOUCH THIS! Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. All Over the Map Odds and ends this week... First, in response to my column regarding my future reign as President-for-Life Rob, Anne Pyle from Newport e-mailed these suggestions: Dear Rob,
I enjoy your columns, although I have never written you before to say "Thanx." I especially enjoyed the May 28 column where you are considering your lifetime presidential White House. I have a couple of small suggestions to make though before you get my vote.
1) Why not pick Carrie Underwood as the VP instead of Hugh Hefner? We need a female in the White House.
2) Do you have to imprison Barry Manilow? Couldn't you put one of those rappers in there instead? I like Barry Manilow. I am 74 years old, and I can't get into rapping or whatever they call it. I grew up with Elvis, Dean, Barry, Neil, and others like them and they wrote the songs the whole world sings.
Keep up the good work.
Anne Pyle Anne: Thanks for reading and your comments. I thoroughly agree with Suggestion #1, however, there would still have to be a place for Mr. Hefner in my cabinet. I believe I would create a new position specifically for Hugh: Secretary of Partying. That way I would have direct access to the Playboy Mansion and all Playmates, past and present. Unfortunately, we strongly differ on Suggestion #2. Each of the artists you listed as your favorites display your wonderful musical taste -- with the exception of Mr. Manilow. Let this be clear: When I'm elected to the presidency, Barry Manilow will be imprisoned and possibly executed for his horrific musical sins. If I decide to grant clemency to Mr. Manilow, he will be forced to endlessly listen to the entire discography of rapper Snoop Dog, 24/7. *** Speaking of Neil Diamond, here's some amazing trivia. Diamond is smack dab in the middle of a terrific comeback. His last two albums have been produced by Rick Rubin, the mastermind behind Johnny Cash's late-career renaissance, and they have supplied Diamond with endless accolades from fans and critics alike. The amazing trivia is this: Diamond's latest CD, Home Before Dark, entered the Billboard Top 200 in album sales at number one, and believe it or not, it's the first number one album Diamond has had in his long and highly successful career. *** Re Construction on Batesville's Harrison Street: Here are some ways one can navigate the traffic jams the widening of Harrison St. has caused. 1) Take Neeley St. or a leisurely drive through the Goff neighborhood, then hit an access road to Harrison that has a stoplight. 2) Purchase a Secret Agent Jet Pack and fly over Harrison St., maniacally laughing at the puny fools stuck in traffic below. If you do this suggestion, however, it's strongly suggested that you wear a helmet. 3) Buy helicopter. 4) Install police sirens and lights on vehicle that strongly resembles a police car. When on Harrison St., flip those babies on and watch cars and highway department workers scatter out of your way. It should be noted that this suggestion is illegal. 5) If none of these options appeal to you, then purchase a book on CD. It will pass the time away while you wait. In fact, it's likely that you could make it through an unabridged audio version of War and Peace by the time you hit Wal-Mart. *** Besides cleaning out the office refrigerator and being the blue vested greeter at our front door (we stole that idea from Wal-Mart), I also program the music for Classic Rock 93 KZLE here at W.R.D. Entertainment. So, imagine my surprise when I received an e-mail from one Aaron Gonthier in Springfield telling us he was enjoying our station one afternoon. It seems he briefly picked up our signal while he sat in his driveway in his "old rusty truck." Crazy thing is Aaron was not in Springfield, Missouri. He wasn't even in Springfield, Illinois. He was in Springfield, Vermont. Extremely wacky atmospheric conditions can do incredible things to radio signals, and this, apparently, was one of those days. Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. All Over the Map Had my first Bloody Mary the other night. Tasty, I thought. A buddy I was with told me how they made Bloody Marys and the different variations the drink can have. Two days later, some pals and I are having a chat. One friend decides to have a Bloody Mary. "I want all the mix," she says to Andy, who's making it for her and had only poured half of the little can of Bloody Mary mix into the stainless steel shaker. "Whooah," Hank says, laughing. "Gotta have the whole thing." "And it's gotta be the gooood kind of mix," Lawyer Man says. "You can't make a decent Bloody Mary with no V8." Hank nods. "That's right. That's right." Ms. Ruth, sitting next to her husband, is taking it all in. "Well, V8 is tomato juice, lots of shredded celery in there too, you know? Yes sir. Yes sir." "Boy, I would love a Bloody Mary," Ms. Ruth's husband says. "Well, Andy, make him one," Hank says. "No," Ms. Ruth's husband says. "No, no, no. It'll tear my stomach up. Ulcers." Ms. Ruth nods. "Yep. His ulcers will act up." "The best Bloody Mary has to have horseradish," Lawyer Man says. "What you do is, you use it as the base." "You know what I like in mine?" Hank asks. "Heinz 57. Now that's great in a Bloody Mary." Andy squirms. "Heinz 57? That's not right. That's just not right." "Heinz 57," Ms. Ruth says to no one in particular. "Hmmm. Never heard of that. No. No. Never heard of that." And she lets loose a laugh as she turns to me. "What do you like in yours, Rob?" I shrugged my shoulders. "I really couldn't tell you. I had my first one two nights ago." Ms. Ruth's eyes almost pop out of their sockets. "What? Hey, everyone, hey...hey...listen, listen. Rob just had his first Bloody Mary just the other night. Iddn't that something? Iddn't that something? Hmmmm...Yes sir. Yes sir." Lawyer Man looks to me with a somewhat surprised face. "Reeeally? Huh?" "I'll be," Hank says. "Why were you having one at night? Best time to have a Bloody Mary is in the morning," Lawyer Man says. "I don't know really. My buddy wanted one, and I had always wanted to see what the fuss was about, so I ordered one, too." "And?" Ms. Ruth asks me, as she moves to the edge of her seat. "Oh, it was good. I enjoyed it." "Good. Good. That's great," Ms. Ruth says. "Did it have horseradish in it?" Lawyer Man asks. "Umm...you know I really couldn't tell." "You have got to have horseradish in it for a deeecent Bloody Mary," he repeats. "It acts as the base." "I would've put some Heinz 57 in it," Hank says. Ms. Ruth's husband, looking glum, lets out a sigh. "Man, I would love to have a Bloody Mary right now." "It'll tear up your stomach, babe," she tells him. "Now, some Bloody Marys have celery salt around the rim, like a margarita," Lawyer Man says. "Really?" Ms. Ruth says. "Hmmm." "Oh, heck," I finally say. "Make me one, Andy. All this talk has me wanting to try one again." "Whooo-hooo!" Ms Ruth says with a clap of her hands. "There we go! There we go!" "Now, Andy," Lawyer Man says, "put some horseradish in it for him." Every ingredient Andy plops in the shaker is met with an "Ooooh" from the gang. Finally, he places it in front of me. I take a sip. Everyone is looking at me without a sound. I put down the glass. "Well?" Ms. Ruth says as she moves back to the edge of her seat. "That's very good," I finally tell them. "Much better than the one I had the other night." "Great! " she says with a smile. "That horseradish makes it, doesn't it?" Lawyer Man asks. "I just may have one," Hank says. I smile, take another sip and glance over to Ms. Ruth's husband who happens to be eyeing my glass with a wistful look. "Man," he finally says with another sigh. "I'd love to have a Bloody Mary." Rob is the president of W.R.D. Entertainment. Feel free to e-mail him at rgmax99@yahoo.com, and check out his blog: www.suburbanvoodoo.blogspot.com. |
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