Happy Birthday Mr. Mercer!

And now, the News From the Ham and Beyond

First, the news from the Ham, which if you don't know, is Effingham County, Georgia, home of wide open spaces, great public schools, and meth (shaken, not stirred).

The renovation at the Rincon Wal-Mart (motto: "Yes, ma'am, we do carry bras in your size, and we'd appreciate you buying one immediately!) is ongoing. The pharmacy is still under construction, so it is temporarily housed at the former location of the checkout counters on the side of the store nearest to health and beauty. Those are the same checkouts that were never manned, or womanned, even though your checkout line snaked all the way back to the discount bikinis.

I am very upset at the Rincon Wal-Mart because they apparently no longer carry Post Raisin Bran, only the more sugary and salty Kellogg's and Sam's Choice versions. What does a guy have to do to get his recommended daily amount of fiber in a tasty way? I suppose I will just have to pay extra and get my Post RB down the road at Kroger. Either that or revert to the days when I would combine a box of All-Bran with a box of Cocoa Puffs or Peanut Butter Crunch.

In news from Savannah, the Savannah Morning News reports that Metro Police Chief Willie Lovett has instituted a ban on visible tattoos on police officers. Good thing Herve Villechaize has passed on. If you think this is an unusual policy, you would be wrong. The Georgia State Patrol will not hire you if you have any tattoos visible below the cuff of a short-sleeved shirt. The Garden City Police Department has been working on a tattoo policy, but officers there have been too busy pulling over people for driving 45.0001 in a 45 mile-per-hour zone, so as soon as they finish giving you a speeding ticket, they will get around to body ink.

In Sports, yesterday's Savannah Sand Gnats game in haiku:

Gnats Lose to Greenville
The Family Had Fun, but
Pitching Was Stinky

The positive news from Gnatsville; despite the loud guy on the public address speakers who one day will pass out while attempting to hold the word 'Savannah' for 30 seconds during pre-game introductions, attendance is up this season. Even though the Gnats are still last in the South Atlantic League in attendance, the average crowd of 1,812 through the first 48 home games is up over the same time period last season. Kudos to new team president John Katz for an outstanding year, and props to the team for giving Savannah a few extra home games by making the playoffs for the first time in 14 years.

With apologies to the Savannah Tobaccostapo, the smoke of the day is the Romeo Y Julieta Habana Reserve, an outstanding medium-to-bold cigar. It's wrapper and binder are grown in Nicaragua while the filler is grown in Nicaragua and Honduras. Unlike some, I don't rate cigars on a particular flavor - no "hints of dark chocolate and coffee" or "aroma of active paper mill." I just pick a cigar that I enjoy and recommend it. Speaking of the Savannah Tobaccostapo, there will be more to say about them down the road, but Mayor Johnson, while I love you as much as one man can platonically love another man, you are dead wrong on the smoking ban idea. We cigar and pipe aficionados are considering a smoke-in at your next town hall meeting because, unlike the Tobaccostapo, we believe in the Constitution.

The jazz record of the day is actually a double album, one that got virtually no recognition for being great in its time. "The Astaire Story" was recorded in December 1952 when Fred Astaire was 53 years old, still making good movies but long after his glory years with Ginger Rogers. Jazz impresario (are there college classes you can take on becoming an impresario?) Norman Granz conceived the album, which mostly featured songs made famous by Mr. Astaire in his films. Rather than the lush arrangements of "The Gay Divorcee" or "Top Hat", this album is pure jazz with the music played by an all-star sextet led by legendary pianist Oscar Peterson. Though it was not a huge seller after it's original release, Mr. Peterson spoke lovingly of this album - he and the other musicians all received gold bracelets from Mr. Astaire with the inscription "With thanks, Fred A", a bracelet Mr. Peterson would wear for the rest of his life. A personal highlight is an updated arrangement of one of Mr. Astaire's few hits as a songwriter, "I'm Building Up To An Awful Letdown", with lyric by Johnny Mercer. If local musicologist Roger Moss is, as he has suggested, recording an album of Mercer songs, I hope that song is included simply to hear Moss's enormous baritone utter the opening line "I'm like Humpty Dumpty...."

That's the news from the Ham, Savannah, and the half-point in between. Tomorrow, how the Ham desperately needs a mathematician. No, not a methamatician. Also tomorrow, how polls flat out lie, especially polls that claim you are just fine and dandy with higher property taxes. Speaking of lies, tomorrow is Primary Election Day in Georgia, otherwise known as Bend Over, This Won't Hurt a Bit Day, Part One.

The Olden Days

Boy, the way Glenn Miller played. Songs that made the hit parade. Guys like us, we had it made. Those were the days. And you knew who you were then, girls were girls and men were men.

- from "Those Were The Days", theme song of "All In The Family"

Yes, yes, I admit it. I am Edith Bunker in disguise.

It ain't easy being 40 years older than you appear to be. A friend with whom I used to work in radio, a friend old enough to be my father, used to call me 'grandpa' because of my penchant for telling "in my day" stories. "In my day, musicians didn't wear all this black eye shadow, and black lipstick, singing about suicide all the time. The guys wore women's makeup and teased their hair five feet in the air, and they liked it. They LOVED it!" I didn't mind being called grandpa by a guy who actually was a grandpa. But having your kid point out your age is something completely different.

We are fortunate in that our first-grader not only loves to read, but also that she reads on a fifth-grade level. I am fortunate in that one of her favorite authors is Dan Gutman. Mr. Gutman is near and dear to my heart for a book he wrote prior to his sterling career as a children's book author, a baseball book called "It Ain't Cheatin' If You Don't Get Caught." The book came in handy during another time in my life, as it gave detailed instructions on the "gamesmanship" aspects of our national pastime. I learned the proper way to throw a spitball, which substances work best (K-Y, well, it worked best for me), the proper technique for a "scuff" ball, and if I ever got to play in a wood-bat league, I would have been able to cork with the best of them. Of course, nowadays I would never advocate cheating in baseball. Never. If I were you, I wouldn't let myself within a mile of your kid's Little League team.

Mr. Gutman later moved away from cheaters and into kid's literature, and his "Weird School" series is hilarious. The books are supposed to be funny to me because they are written for boys, yet my little girl loves them, which is both fun and disturbing. The "Weird School" books depict second-grade boys as, well, second-grade boys. They are usually mean to the girls in the class, they burp the alphabet, they refer to the school's cafeteria as the "vomitorium", and they say the word "butt" as many times as possible because it is the funniest word in their vocabulary. When you think about it, they aren't all that different from fifth-grade or 10th-grade or 38-year-old boys. Naturally, this means the first-grader would not exactly be a hit at an old-Savannah proper ladies' tea. "What would you like in your tea, my dear?" "Your butt!"

This week, we did not have a "Weird School" book to read at night before bedtime, as the first-grader had already read all of those available at our local library. Thinking she might be up for something different, I checked out what I thought was a very nice book about Harriet Quimby, the first woman ever to acquire a pilot's license and the first woman to fly solo across the English Channel. We had read it once already, but when I suggested it again to my little girl, I was rebuffed. Okay, I said, how about this book from the "American Girl" historical fiction series that my wife had picked out as a Christmas gift in an attempt to interest the first-grader in something other than bodily functions. "I don't like it," I was told. "It's too real." When I asked her what she meant, she told me, "I don't like books about the olden days. The olden days are....boring!"

Ouch. For someone whose idea of a good time is to listen to scratchy 1920's jazz records..errr, mp3's or to watch a Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire movie for the 174th time, that was like getting belted by Bluto before being able to pull the can of spinach out of my shirt. Knowing that my little girl loved to watch the dance scenes from those movies, I reminded her that Gene and Fred were from the 'olden days.' She smartly replied, "yeah, but I only like the dancing. When they just talk, it's.....boring." I sarcastically suggested that I guessed everything was boring unless it included 'chicken butt' jokes, people shaking their butts, and everyone referring to each other as "dumbhead." Her eyes lit up, a smile slowly formed, followed by a simple but effervescent "yeahhhhhh." I should have known that sarcasm and Asperger's mix about as well as Tiger Woods and monogamy.

Perhaps one day, my little girl will appreciate the olden days. Then again, perhaps she will offer her own unique take on history, writing reports on the American revolution that feature George Washington accepting the surrender of Lord Cornwallis by exclaiming, "nah nah nah nah boo boo on you", and Benjamin Franklin shaking his butt at King George (which quite possibly could have happened). Perhaps her project on the first moon landing will include Neil Armstrong's historic words "Houston, guess what? Chicken butt!" Perhaps I will be able to talk her teachers out of flunking her, pointing out her wondrous creativity and that, in a hypothetical bizarro world, her take on the olden days could have happened. But it won't be easy.

Dancing Nekkid ain't for me, and it dang sure ain't for my daughters

As the father of two young daughters, I want both to be enormously successful when they grow up. Both of my girls also like to dance. I should say they LOVE to dance, and that's an understatement. Playing pin the tail on the donkey after a six-pack of Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA is easier than feeding a child who loves to dance. There's nothing wrong with dancing, though once one becomes an adult it only provides a steady living for a select few. So, if my daughters are thinking about dance as a career, I am seriously thinking about finding a few places for them to observe, perhaps serve an apprenticeship in a few years, places where they will see women earning good money while dancing. I'm thinking the Pink Pony in Atlanta, Thee Southern Belle in Raleigh, Uncle Harry's right here at home, or next time we're in Alabama the Platinum Club (if it is still around).

Or, I could just enroll the girls in what appears to be your typical dance school, as there are times when they and the aforementioned strip joints...errr, "classy" nightclubs are indistinguishable.

To be sure, I love dancing about as much as a straight man can. While there is certainly nothing wrong with watching 12 consecutive hours of college football, my family would tell you with a sigh the size of Hurricane Hugo that I would be just as happy watching a marathon of Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire movies. I even stop everything I'm doing when I come across "Breakin" or especially "Breakin' 2, Electric Bugaloo" on the tube. However, when I first saw those movies first in my youth, I never imagined that one of the reasons I would continue to enjoy them many years later was that Shabba-Doo and Shrimp didn't engage in a nekkid breakdance-off with Popin' Pete and Popin' Taco.

My sister, eight years my junior, was an avid clogger and baton twirler in her youth. I am pretty sure she had to wear some makeup during her performances, even though she was between seven and nine years old at the time. I am also absolutely positive that she was never made to dance in apparel you are more likely to see on Spring Break at Tybee with makeup caked on so thick that it would take Rodin three weeks to chisel it off. Lil' sister also never was asked to "perform" some of the "dance moves" that apprarently are so popular among local dance troups today.

A few months ago, driving to my Summer gig as Public Address Announcer for the Savannah Sand Gnats, my car was stopped at a red light on 37th Street in front of a dance school. On the sidewalk in front of the school, an instructor was showing a group of girls who couldn't have been older than eight how to properly, hmmm...how to say this, shake their doodlies. The practice of this maneuver continued the entire time I was stopped at the traffic signal, a good 30 seconds or so, and perhaps continued after I moved on. Aside from the obvious question of the purpose of eight-year-old girls shakin' their thangs when they don't have thangs to shake, even if you are older and are doodly-endowed, would it not require lots of chiropractic care (not to mention a cast iron brassiere) to shake them for such a long period of time?

This past weekend, the family was "treated" to performances by another dance team at a local festival, complete with dancers sporting two coats of makeup applied by a van load of Mexican painters and showing more skin than the docs at the Georgia Institute of Plastic Surgery typically see. The dancers, and especially their proud mommies, beamed through their Tammy Faye pancake, rouge, and lipstick as they performed 20 routines involving the only two songs apparently allowed at this particular dance school, the "Cha Cha Slide" and "Soulja Boy." "Ain't they so purty?", one momma observed.

So is it too harsh to compare our petite, purty doodly-shakers to strippers? The only differences I see are their ages and their wallets. The older gals seem to bring in a lot of coin, as I imagine they get a certain number of dollars per doodly-quiver. A few years ago, when my brother-in-law got married, the best friend of the bride paid for the entire reception out of her pocket....from the money she made spinning around on a pole. This was astonishing to me considering that, if the girl had 30 dollars in her wallet, she would have about 16 more dollars than she had teeth. Since I have never been to a strip joint in my life (yes, really!), perhaps that is the norm.

I know. I have grown up to be an intolerant prude, but if that's the case, so be it. If my daughters want to learn to dance, for the sake of decency I will learn to dance and teach them myself. Since I don't plan on growing doodlies, my instruction will probably be limited to Gene Kelly-style ballet-influenced tap. If I had ever had five-grand to burn, I would bet you that the girls and I replicating a number from "Singin' In The Rain" would tear down the house. But by the time that happens, there will probably be a full-fledged and barely-thonged mini-whoooooooore spinning on a portable pole on the fall festival program. I can already hear the girl's proud momma and momma's sixth husband both exclaiming "Ain't she so purty?"