7 Reasons You Should Love Peanut Butter Jelly

As you will find out below, I don't think there are actually seven reasons, and I am also not referring to that dippy song, whose 28-word lyric has about as much to do with PB&J as the Troy Davis protesters have to do with Troy Davis. The real health food; the breakfast, lunch, dinner, afternoon, pre-workout, post-workout and midnight snack of champions. The only accompaniment for white bread that makes white bread taste like something other than plaster of Paris. Yes, yes I have.

Unlike some, I am not picky about the type of peanut butter or jelly used on a PB&J as long as it is not the junky "low-fat" peanut butter, which should be declared an abomination against The Lord by the next Vatican council, and I'm not even Catholic. George Washington Carver should come back from the dead and open up a can on the descendants of Edward "Skippy" Williamson and Frederick "Jim" Armstrong for developing this heresy. "But peanut butter is fatty." Yes, but it is good fat, good for your heart, good for your soul, good for your lovin'.

Sure, the PB usually comes in only two flavors, but how many more do you need when those two are so delightful? There's chunky, which is crunchy and funky like a monkey, but my personal favorite is smooth. However, unless I am mistaken, it hasn't been called smooth in years, it is now "creamy", because some brilliant marketing person decided that creamy sounded more appealing than smooth. Because where would the English language be without iconic phrases such as "creamy move, Exlax!", and "creamy as a baby's bottom." And who could forget Sade's 1984 smash "Creamy Operator?" The same person who replaced 'smooth' with 'creamy' on the peanut butter jar is probably the same genius who told us the only way to get anyone to read what you write is to MadLibs headline it "(number between 4 and 100) Ways (or another acceptable noun) to/you should (verb) (any activity; you get more readers if it has something to do with your sex life or a part of your anatomy)."

Some folks say they only acceptable jelly for a true PB&J is the Gold Standard, Welch's Grape. Sure, it's authentic, but if all you had on hand were some strawberry or peach preserves, especially if they were homemade, how could you turn up your goober at that? In fact, I have yet to find a jelly that doesn't go with peanut butter - a personal favorite is blackberry. Oh, and please, spare me the pre-mixed peanut butter and jelly, the jars with the disturbing tiger stripes in the PB aisle. Yes, our lazy society was crying out in despair at the thought of having to wash one extra knife or spoon so you wouldn't get PB in your jelly jar. What will they think of next, frozen crustless PB&J's? What a waste of money and a waste of the fun that is making your own PB&J.

No, I don't have a hip viral video like the Peanut Butter Jelly Time song, at least not yet, but I don't need a Flip camera, a hot tub, a live chicken, and a giant vat of Peter Pan to do justice to the greatest sandwich.....in the WORLD. I realize I haven't addressed those who cannot enjoy this fruit of the earth because of their allergy to peanuts. This is an epidemic that must be stopped immediately so these fine people can be smooth like us! We should make plans for a telethon hosted by Sonny Dixon, because everyone loves giving money to Sonny. How about "Hands Across Plains", a giant peanut butter Slip-n-Slide...okay, maybe not that one. We definitely will need a "We Are The World" type of song, but be careful what you write. When I asked my seven-year-old for a word that rhymed with peanut, she said "chicken butt."

And the final score, Cats 1, Green Tree Frog who got in the house 0

I'm Marlon Perkins. This is the American Green Tree Frog, also known as hyla cinerea. Hyla cinerea are found all throughout the Southern United States. They are distinguished from their cousin, the European tree frog, by their larger jowls, their penchant for deep fried crickets, and the European frog's desire to retire to the public dole almost immediately after birth. Today, we take a look at a subset of hyla cinerea found only in Effingham County, Georgia, the hyla methlabius, and this particular one is beginning an adventure inside someone's home.

This hyla methlabius starts to move around its unnatural habitat, perhaps in search of food, or at the very least a two-liter soda bottle and some Sudafed. So far, the search does not turn up any of the frog's typical cuisine, only a strangely shaped shell. Only when we move the camera back do we see the shell's true identity - it is indeed a naked Mr. Potato Head. The frog makes a mental note to use this as shelter if need be when he spots a much larger and more posh potential shelter. It is a huge two-story barn, complete with silo, apparently populated by a miniature plastic cow eating the plastic hay where a plastic chicken appeared to be attempting to lay, presumably, plastic eggs. Our froggy friend investigates his new animal mates, trying to determine why they are moving almost as slowly as the employees at the Rincon Burger King when....DANGER!

Stalking our amphibious visitor are, not one but two, ferocious calico cats, striking fear in the hearts of carpeting everywhere with their hairballs of doom! The calico cat is an expert stalker. An abysmal killer, but a fantastic stalker. Countless insects, dust bunnies, and stray Cheerios have been on the receiving end of the mighty blows of the felis catus, or the subspecies we observe in this particular house, the lumpus poopfloorus, and it looks as if our slightly slimy intruder might be next on their list. Well, the kid's chair is actually next for a claw sharpening session, and now it's on to the frog. While Jim holds down the feline known as "Chloe", eliciting a succession of "rah-ah-ah-ah" mew tones and minor scratches while attaching a tiny-claw camera to get close to the action, let me tell you about Mutual of Omaha...

....and now, back to the action.

The American tree frog is observing a fellow woodland creature, the rear end of a stuffed bear, unknowingly being watched by the cats. Well, unknowingly until "Doo-dee-doo-dee-doo doo doo, dee-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo doo doo", the toddler bus that never shuts off is accidentally brushed with a cat tail. Jim attempts to get a camera on the back of the frog to get the amphibical perspective, THWAP! BAM! BIFF! POW! An episode of Batman? No, cat paws left, right and center! Good thing Jim has that Mutual of Omaha policy.

The frog attempts to hop, but as soon as he lands, SMACK, a right from Chloe's ample sister, Zoe. The frog hops, BAM, a left from Chloe. The frog gets two hops when, SLURP, a thorny cat tongue attack. At this point, we feel it is our duty to attempt to rescue the frog and return it to a more natural habitat, the trash can outside. We retrieve a paper towel, but just before we get to the frog, CHOMP, a bite from Zoe, who someday hopes to be Andrew Zimmern's mascot on the "Bizarre Foods" show. The frog, who had done a remarkable Chuck Wepner impression up until now, is no more, not eaten, but a slimy shell of its now former self.

And now, for the benefit of our Spanish-speaking fans, here is a replay of the American tree frog's final journey, as described by Andres Cantor.

La rana del árbol brinca de cojito alrededor del camión rosa, gigante y grande. Hoppity de hoppity de Hoppity, y hay los gatos. Zoe y Chloe, Zoe y Chloe. La Rana del árbol, Zoe y Chloe. La rana brinca de cojito y, un abofetea en la cabeza de Zoe. Otro brinco de cojito, otro choque de Chloe. ¡Zoe y Chloe, brinco de cojito de hippity y abofetea! ¡El humano gigante trata de conseguir la toallita de papel, pero Zoe, la rana, Zoe, la toallita de papel, la rana! ¡Zoe con una mordedura, una mordedura inmensa y va hacia abajo la rana para un Objetivo! ¡Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal! ¡Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal! ¡Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal! ¡Zoe el gato de calicó, con su hermana Chloe, devastación increíble de la rana norteamericana de árbol, terminando con un Golazo! ¡Goooooooooooazo! ¡Azo, azo azo!

The Healthy Savannah Carrie Nations Are Coming For My Cigar

I can't picture Savannah Mayor Otis Johnson wielding an axe a la Carrie Nation, the temperance movement leader whose literal bar busting helped pave the way for Prohibition. Johnson just doesn't seem to be the type to storm into Pinky Masters or Bacchus Wine Lounge (depending upon who my wife and I feel like hanging with) so he can take an axe to the end of my Cohiba. But it sure does feel as if Mr. Johnson, along with Healthy Savannah - part of the latest incarnation of the temperance movement - are hell(th?)-bent on keeping some of us from enjoying a smoke every now and then.

It isn't easy to disagree with the Mayor. He is one of the nicest people in a city chocked full of nice people. No conversation with Mr. Johnson is uninteresting, and the story of his recovery from a heart attack and how, in his 70's, he successfully made a number of lifestyle changes is inspiring. And, like most interesting people, he wears a hat - a fedora, a real man's hat.

This also isn't easy considering that, a little over two years ago, my father had a quadruple bypass and a heart valve replacement, forcing him to quit smoking after more than 40 years of lighting up. His doctors told him he was about a month away from dying when he had the surgery. Granted, Dad probably ate enough salt over those 40 years to create another Utah, but his excessive smoking certainly didn't help. In an interview for a medical magazine published by the hospital where was treated, Dad was quoted as saying that everyone should "never start smoking." Whoops. Sorry.

Smoking to me, however, is something entirely different than smoking was to my Dad and is for many others. I don't, nor have I ever, smoked two packs a day or more. With rare exception, I don't smoke cigarettes because most of them contain a lot of ingredients other than tobacco and, frankly, many cigarettes stink to high heaven as a result. I am a cigar smoker - an occasional cigar smoker who also enjoys outdoor activities and whose family hopes to be part of the Savannah River Bridge Run this Fall. I don't need a cigar every day, and if I go months without a cigar, I don't miss it. But when I do have the privilege of enjoying a fine, hand-rolled cigar made from nothing but tobacco whose production is overseen by legendary cigar families such as the Fuentes and Padrons, most of whom seem to live well into their 80's and 90's, I enjoy the you-know-what out of it. I also do the Clinton, I don't inhale, but then again, you aren't supposed to.

Disgusting, Carrie Nation..errr, Healthy Savannah says. No, anything but. The aroma of a well-made cigar is as succulent as that of a fine wine, the flavor as rich as a blue cheese-encrusted medium-rare porterhouse. It is something you savor until the last puff, not something you choke down during a five-minute break. Cigars and pipes are an event, like taking in a work of art, a baseball game, Singing In The Rain, or a Top Gear marathon. They are things you enjoy, like just about everything else, in moderation. Yes, even I admit that smoking too much is bad for you, just like eating too much fried chicken, drinking too much water, or indulging in too much Culture Club music.

What's that? It isn't about my health you say? It's about everyone else suffering from my "second-hand smoke"? Maybe I am not out at the right time - we admittedly don't get out much except on the rare occasion when we our babysitter is available - but that's funny, as I don't recall seeing any Healthy Savannah Carrie Nations hanging out at the bars recently. Perhaps they are disguised as tables and chairs or cheesy wall art and are there for "research purposes", but if you believe so passionately that one whiff of my cigar is the equivalent of Lex Luthor's disintegration ray, why put yourself in harm's way? Last time I checked, there were plenty of smoke-free places the Carrie Nations of the world have already conquered.

Silly me. I should know by now that is not enough for the modern-day Anti Saloon League, which means the campaign to outlaw smoking in public places will, after it is successful, become the campaign to ban smoking in private homes and yards as well, which will subsequently turn into the movement to make all tobacco products illegal. They do, after all, have history on their side. Just as the 18th Amendment to the Constitution completely rid the country of alcohol, made the country healthier and wealthier, ended poverty, made the blind to see and the lame to walk, freshened all of our collective not-so-fresh feelings and, of course, ended crime as we know it, banning smoking will immediately cure all the ills the 18th Amendment didn't take care of.

When that happens, I will donate the victory cigars.

A.P. headline: "Indian Woman and Black Guy Win SC Runoff Races"

It isn't exactly the headline, but it's pretty darn close. And you had the audacity to think identity politics would end when President Obama was inaugurated 17 months ago. Not a chance. Not in this country, or more accurately, not with our media's compulsive obsession with the color of people's skin or the composition of their genitalia.

It is undeniable that there was some history made in yesterday's South Carolina primary runoff wins for Nikki Haley in the governor's race (or, in the vernacular of the "we're smarter than you because we can use big words" reporters, gubernatorial race) and Tim Scott in the state's 1st Congressional District. Yes, Mrs. Haley is of Sikh heritage and Mr. Scott is African-American. Sure, Haley was called a "raghead" by State Senator Jake "I was just kidding" Knotts, the same genius who prevented the legalization of tattoo parlors in South Carolina for years because the Bible told him so - seriously, that was his reason. And yes, Scott was probably called goodness-knows-what behind his back, as his primary opponents included the sons of two political legends for whom half the state's inanimate objects are named, Strom Thurmond and Carroll Campbell (Mr. Scott decimated Mr. Thurmond in yesterday's runoff). Unfortunately for both, many in the media - and a few of The People - will only define the two victors in this manner ad infinitum.

"The relevance of me being black is really, fortunately irrelevant," Mr. Scott said. "The voters voted for a guy who they felt represented their values and their issues and their philosophy."
Mr. Scott, I wish you were right, but I fear you are dead wrong, at least in the world of today's media. Today's talking-points-driven, 24-hour news-cycle media universe means that your race is, sometimes, the only thing that is relevant. You are the African-American that beat the son of the man who, after likely consuming some of his favorite raw oysters, filibustered for more than 24 hours against a civil rights bill. For far too many lazy news writers, that will be the introductory paragraph of every story about you. Not only that, but if you are elected to Congress and start to become somewhat prominent, someone on a Fox News Channel panel will say something ridiculous along the lines of "Hey, we got a black guy, too. He's the Republican Obama" and, BOOM, whether you like it or not, there will be half-a-dozen websites drafting you to run for president, complete with two-dollar t-shirts sold for $14.99 on those giant, annoying ads at the top of the Drudge Report page.

Don't believe me? It's already happening to Nikki Haley. The Hill newspaper and Lord-knows how many blogs have already mentioned her as a possible vice-presidential running mate for either Mitt Romney or Sarah Palin in two years. You can almost hear the minds of the so-called "political experts", the consultants, and some in the conservative media churning; "heh heh, we not only got ourselves a woman, we got a Indian woman! Heh heh, Pocahontas for President!! Oh, she ain't that type of Indian? Oooo, sorry 'bout that."

The victories by Mrs. Haley and Mr. Scott were significant, but now, they are just candidates and not hyphenated something-or-others, just as Obama was supposed to have been two years ago. Have the media already permanently re-named both of them? Will we always see them referred to in the news as Nikki "Hey, She's an Indian Woman, and She May Have Had an affair though it can't be substantiated...and oh by the way she's an Indian Woman" Haley and Tim "The African-American who beat two sires of white South Carolina politics, but is he really an African-American if he doesn't support Obama" Scott? I hope not, but I am not optimistic.

Artie Shaw: Not an evil genius. Just a jerk. And a genius

Is it possible to loathe the man/woman and, at the same time, be in love with their contribution to humanity? After reading Tom Nolan's excellent biography Three Chords for Beauty's Sake; The Life of Artie Shaw, the answer unquestionably is, absolutely. Whether or not this is fair to the late "King of the Clarinet" is much more complicated, as was Mr. Shaw.

Perhaps there are more talented clarinet players today fingering away, outside of a handful of NPR fans, in obscurity. 70 years ago, two of the best known people in the entire world were clarinet players. There was the "King of Swing", the often more popular Benny Goodman, and the man who was the better musician of the two, the amazingly self-taught Mr. Shaw. More astonishing is that Shaw was also, perhaps, his era's best blower (at least among white musicians) of the alto saw, his original instrument. And if you didn't believe the claim, the first person to tell you how wrong you were would have been Artie Shaw.

Except that Mr. Shaw wouldn't have simply said "you're wrong." He would have told you "you're full of s***", or "all those other players were s***", something along those lines. Even into his 80's and 90's, when Mr. Nolan was able to interview the aging jazz man several times in what became the basis for Three Chords, the four-letter synonym for defecation remained one of Shaw's favorites. Not only did he describe some of his musical contemporaries that way, he sometimes similarly described his bands audiences, treating them with outright contempt despite their adoration. Though his tone mellowed mildly as he got older, Shaw remained supremely confident - many would say supremely arrogant - of his place at the top of the musical heap, even though he didn't play in public and barely touched his instrument in private during the last five decades of his 94 years.

Many, but not all of his ex-wives, would also be described by Mr. Shaw with epithets, even as he fondly remembered falling in love with each of them. When we say Artie Shaw's ex-wives, we aren't talking about a couple, we talking about eight, including six marriages that lasted three years or less. As Nolan writes based upon his interviews or the memoirs of the eight, Mr. Shaw was impossible to live with, something Artie himself frequently admitted. He would charm, show interest, make love, fall in love - not necessarily in that order - but as soon as vows were exchanged, it was usually downhill from there. Mr. Shaw claimed to want someone with his intellect and in tune with his very liberal politics, yet Nolan says if one of his wives attempted to do just that, they were met with contempt. How dare a woman, his own wife indeed, show up the great Artie Shaw! Yet somehow, despite the brutal verbal putdowns he often hurled at his wives, Mr. Shaw usually remained on good terms with his ex-brides, Lana Turner and Ava Gardner in particular. He was one of the originators of the "It's Complicated" relationship status long before you could share that status on Facebook.

So what is there to love about a man like that? Well, there is a little thing called his remarkable solo in his recording of Hoagy Carmichael's "Stardust", his ethereal composition (and theme song) "Nightmare, his Gramercy 5 recordings which still sound fresh today, and of course his signature hit "Begin The Beguine", which Shaw grew to hate because that's all anyone wanted to hear, or so he complained. His library may be the greatest collection of clarinet recordings the world may ever see, all on a stick he taught himself to play. Nolan, like a lot of folks who write lovingly about jazz, sometimes gets a little carried away unpacking his adjectives in describing the beauty of Shaw's music, but there is no doubt that Shaw's body of work is phenomenal.

Another area where Mr. Shaw could be loved was on matters of race. Like many in the white jazz world, Shaw wanted to play with and be compared to what many consider the true jazz artists, the African-American pioneers such Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and the lesser known but just as important Jimmie Noone, who may have been Shaw's equal, and some say his superior on the clarinet. In 1938, Shaw hired 23-year-old Billie Holiday to be one of his vocalists, even though he hated singers because they took the audience's attention away from him. Both he and Goodman bucked the entertainment world's color barrier by featuring black musicians; Shaw with the great trumpeter Roy Eldridge, among others. Shaw didn't win too many battles over race with theater owners, nightclubs, and other establishments, but it was the 1930's and 40's, and his were among the first knocks on the door that would eventually be kicked down by the civil rights movement.

Nolan writes in detail about the beautiful music, the composition of bands and the (many) breakups of bands when Shaw thought he had pushed the musical bar as far as he could. Three Chords also describes in detail Shaw's struggle to also become a successful writer, defends his capitulation to the Congressional committees investigating entertainers and Communism in the 1950's, and it tells us more about Shaw's life after he quit playing in 1954 than ever before. But it seems as if every other page, we meet someone else who provides variations on the same theme; Artie could be a nice guy, charming, but he was also an SOB. A rich person you would be if you had a dime for everyone who interacted with Shaw and who provided you with that description of him.

Why was Shaw this way? The only real explanation we are given from Nolan was the treatment a young Arthur Arshawsky received from his father, Harry. We are told that Harry frequently ripped Artie for trying to learn music and was, by all accounts, a lousy dad. While such treatment would understandably scar someone, the one fault I can find in Nolan's book is why Shaw wasn't able to overcome that, in addition to a difficult relationship with his mother, on a personal level to where he wouldn't treat people in much the same manner as an adult. Plenty of people have had horrible home lives as children and have grown up to be decent human beings. If there were any reasons Art Shaw wasn't able to never escape his father's contemptuous behavior, Nolan does not explore them.

Nolan also relies heavily on his interviews with Mr. Shaw, making much of the book one-sided, but this is typical of many biographies, and Nolan does take note to remind the reader of Shaw's propensity to make himself the hero in all of his stories. Three Chords is well written with chapters that remind you of the length of songs, some short and to the point like a popular hit song, and some longer and deeper like Mr. Shaw's "Concerto For Clarinet." Unlike many biographies, you won't love Artie Shaw the man after you read it, but you will definitely want to hear the music (or hear it again) that perhaps was, because Artie Shaw wouldn't have it any other way, the finest in the world.

Ron Higgins

I didn't know Ron Higgins. There are some Savannahians who believe this to be impossible. After all, Ron was "Hollywood." Until recently, though, I knew him only as "that guy we met at (mutual friend) Michael Gaster's party several months ago." There is, I believe, a difference between meeting someone a couple of times and knowing them. I had indeed spoken to Ron on a couple of occasions, most recently an impromptu conversation that turned unexpectedly in-depth a few weeks ago. I decided then that getting to know this guy better, which I was certain would happen, would be a joy. Now, of course, I am learning much about Ron. I am learning it after he is gone. After all, who knew?

Most everyone has read the obituaries and tributes and now knows the basic info - how Ron left home to attend UCLA film school, went on the road with boyhood hero Michael Jackson, then came back to Savannah and created some fantastic tours of his home town. He started his Savannah Movie Tour because, as Ron told Connect Savannah's Bill DeYoung, he was a passenger on a trolley tour that only mentioned three movie locations out of about 70 he knew the tour had passed. After our most recent talk, I realized I had forgotten to ask Ron about a 1920 Rudolph Valentino silent movie I had watched on TCM called "Stolen Moments", part of which was filmed in Savannah (which, of course, looked very similar as parts of Savannah look today). In hindsight, I suppose I wish I could have stumped him on a Savannah movie location. Yes, I realize this would have been an exercise in futility.

You and I know there is much more to Ron than the Hollywood tour and the Ghost Tour and his latest creation, the Martini Tour. That is evident by the outpouring from mutual acquaintances and on Ron's Facebook page, where his friends numbered in the thousands. I'd like to add my goodbye, but how do you do that for someone who you wanted to get to know, who you meant to get to know, but didn't?

That last conversation with Ron was at the Chamber of Commerce's Taste of Downtown. For an ironic 15 minutes, we stood in front of the tables from Vic's On The River and Marco's Pizza talking about dietary changes we had made, Ron because he had lost someone close to a sudden heart attack and me because of my father's quadruple bypass and heart valve replacement. Having been in Savannah for only three years and only having met Ron for the first time less than a year ago, I had no idea that Ron had lost so much weight. He looked marvelous, especially considering he wasn't much older than me. When we said our goodbyes, we told each other we were sure we'd meet up again at the next Gaster party. Who knew?

Doggone it, Ron, why'd you have to go?

Does Anyone Have A Shot at John Barrow? Part 2, Republican Bugaloo

The answer is identical to the answer to this question:

Is Tom Jones secretly in the closet with Tom Cruise?

Now that we have established that there is only, at most, one Tom in the closet, there are two qualifiers. First, much can happen between now and November, and I don't mind conceding that point. Secondly, this is not a commentary on any of the Republican candidates in GA 12. All of them, as far as I can tell, are likable people who sincerely believe what they profess to believe. They may be right in that their way is the better way forward. But in this district, even in what will be a bad year for Democrats, the likelihood that John Barrow loses this seat is about the same as the likelihood that Helen Thomas will go skinny dipping with Benjamin Netanyahu.

In a perfect Republican world, John Barrow would be extremely vulnerable. The 12th District is located in a fairly conservative part of the country, and Barrow is not a conservative. There have been plenty of times when Barrow has voted with Speaker Nancy Pelosi and the Democratic leadership. Some polls say Ms. Pelosi is the most unpopular politician in the country right now, so all you have to do is say "John Barrow = Nancy Pelosi", right? Um, no. The Republican National Committee, currently suffering under one of its most inept chairmanships ever in the form of Michael Steele (no relation), helped blow a winnable special election in Pennsylvania for John Murtha's old seat by trying exactly that. She may not be a threat for the Miss America crown anytime soon, but most of The People simply don't care about Nancy Pelosi. You may win conservative partisans that way, but then again, you had them at "hel...", much less "hello." Talk incessantly about Nancy Pelosi, and The People will mostly ignore you.

So, you hit on John Barrow's "fake good ol' boy" act, right? He isn't a real Southerner. He calls himself "Barra" to hide his Ivy League heritage. I bet he even went to the Earl "Reel Umureecuhn" Pitts Redneck Accent School so he wouldn't be caught telling The People about how he used to pahk the caah in Hahhvahd Yahhd. Sorry, but that argument is already being propagated by many Republicans (and some Democrats) I know, and that sure helped get 'Barra' defeated two years ago, now didn't it?

"But John Barrow isn't a 'moderate', he's a flaming liberal" you say. Look at how many times he has voted with his party. Whether it's TARP, ze Stimuli, or the GM/Chrysler bailout, "Barra never met a bill that spent taxpayer money that he didn't like" you claim. This actually could cause trouble for Barrow. One of the reasons for the tea party's success is the fact that a lot of people finally got tired of Congress thinking that every problem could be solved by writing a big honkin' check that, in the real world, would be rubbery enough to re-open a shuttered Goodyear plant. Yes, that would be a good argument against Barrow, that is if Republicans didn't have just as bad a record on federal spending as Democrats. It doesn't matter that none of the 12th District GOP candidates were part of that spending problem. All Barrow has to do is pick one or two bills he voted against, highlight those, then remind everyone how Republicans, with the exception of Reagan, historically love to spend their dough, too. He may not win over everyone, but he'll keep at least some of The People on his side.

Not a moderate, eh? "Hello, I'm John Barra, and I voted against Obamacare." It isn't quite checkmate on the "not a moderate" argument, but it's pretty close. When you combine that with a no vote on carbon dioxide regulation to combat "global warming", a yes vote to build a fence on the Mexican border, a yes vote to make the Patriot Act permanent, and a few other votes, you might as well try to argue that John Kerry actually didn't say all those ridiculous things he said, or maybe that he said them before he didn't say them. The GOP will say "but Barrow waits until he gets the word from Pelosi as to whether or not his vote is needed." Even if that is true, it is (a) difficult to prove and (b) matters to The People about as much as soccer matters in the U.S., even if our team does manage to walk on water and win the World Cup (but, with apologies to The Icon Alton Brown, that's another show). As for the argument that Barrow should have taken care of his Democratic base by voting for Obamacare? Barrow knows that if he had voted for the bill, this race would be leaning Republican today.

To be sure, this is a unique year, and as the cliche goes, you never know. But not only does John Barrow have the moderate label in his corner, he has a cool million in the bank to spread that moderate message. Will the Republican candidate get that much coin to compete? It's possible, but right now, I doubt it. There is a reason that none of the political gurus who follow the nation's congressional races have the the Georgia 12th District contest on their radar, other than a few who see it remaining safely in the Democrats' corner. Big national Republican money will only go to those races deemed winnable. It is true that African-Americans, who make up a good chunk of the 12th, may stay home in November, costing Barrow some votes. But will all of the district's independents buy the GOP argument that Barrow is a phony? I could be wrong, but I just don't think so. He won't win in a blowout as he did two years ago. It's possible he may only squeak by, but barring a seismic shift, John Barrow will not be among the legion of Democrats losing their Congressional seats this Fall.

Does anyone really have a shot against Barrow?

President Obama says he is looking for an "ass to kick." When asked if he was doing the same, Barrow said "well a committee has been formed to study the causes, the effects, and the after-effects of the raising of the fibula and femur to a certain height to where the metatarsals make or attempt to make contact with a posterior, or a gluteus maximus, you know, taking into account wind resistance if the movement is being attempted outdoors as well as the height of the person on the receiving end of the forward thrust, not to mention whether the Americans With Disabilities Act might be invoked if someone has a condition that would prevent them from a foot attack on a hiney even though they wish to engage in one. Once that committee meets, holds hearings, meets again in private and issues recommendations, then......"

While that answer continues, back to the question at hand. Who has a chance with John Barrow? Well, Rogaine perhaps - since you have to use it everyday for three months, that leaves plenty of time until Election Day. But does any human have a shot at knocking off the Congressman from the 12th District? Even in this anti-incumbent year, especially anti-Democrat incumbent year, my gut still says no.

Regardless of how he has done it, Barrow has successfully made himself out to be the quintessential moderate. He votes with his fellow Democrats on some things, votes against them on others. Sure, there are many who say he waits until the last minute sometimes to find out whether Speaker Nancy Pelosi needs his help or not, but even if it is true, it is difficult to get that through to, to borrow Bill O'Reilly's term, The Folks in the 12th District. Most of The Folks just don't have time to care about the minutiae of the ridiculous goings on in Washington. An exception was the health care reform debate, and Barrow positioned himself well by echoing the opinion of most of his district with his vote against the bill and against much of his party.

There are some Democrats who think this will hurt Barrow with the liberal base in the upcoming primary. Those Dems need to ask Mr. Rourke for their money back and get Tattoo to put them back on de plane. It might hurt some if Barrow had a challenger. What's that? Oh, yes I know Regina Thomas is running again. Don't get me wrong, she is a nice person with hats almost as cool as mine and Frank's, but Sand Gnats' second basemen and budding hip-hopster Alonzo Harris will win American Idol before Thomas beats Barrow in the primary.

"But the racial makeup of the district..." blah blah blah. First of all, how insulting is it to insinuate that "black voters are going to vote for the black person"? That's a little like saying Jews are the only people offended by Helen Thomas. But let's say that every single African-American who showed up at the polls voted for Ms. Thomas - not that one, the other one. Even if that unlikely scenario took place, Barrow would still win the primary by double digits or more because a) President Obama is not on the ballot to help drive African-American turnout, and b) much of the Democratic Party establishment is still behind the Congressman.

Oh, I think the Congressman might be done with his answer to my original question. Let's see:

"....and in conclusion, when you consider all of the factors of the sheer number of posteriors that would be struck with feet or feet-like-objects, or of course prosthetics for those unfortunate people who either lost or who were born without feet, and that of course raises an entirely new set of questions about the regulation of a prosthesis and the stores that sell prosthetic feet and other prosthetic limbs, whether or not we need the Consumer Product Safety Commission to step in and issue rules and regulations on the strike force power of a prosthetic foot, and then you have to consider a real-world application to the old joke about the one-legged man in a booty-kicking contest, because I know for a fact that situation has come up in my district..."

Sorry, false alarm.

Even though it takes him a while to answer a question, Dreamland is the only place where John Barrow could be knocked off by Regina Thomas. That would be Dreamland in Birmingham or Tuscaloosa, and only if Barrow got snockered on their scrumptious white bread that you dip in the barbecue sauce...aw man, now I need a road trip.

Next time, we'll look at whether or not any of the Republican candidates have a shot to knock off Barrow in November, though to be honest, we could probably name that tune in one note. Or one word, well, you know what I mean.