Zeus

Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea were relaxing on the porch when the Duke sauntered up for a spell. He was feeling a little down because one of his best bulls, Zeus had died. He asked Bubbie if he go with him the next morning to pick him up off of his neighbor’s property. They had a gentlemen’s farm and were boarding Zeus there.
“He’s a monster.” the Duke said, “You don’t just dig a hole and bury a bull of his size.”
“No?” asked Sweet Pea.
“No ma’am; but I have a few big sinkholes that have opened up in the back pastures due to this drought and we can plant him in one of those.”
“Aw, I’m sorry Duke.” replied Sweet Pea.
“Yeah, he was a good ol’ bull.” the Duke lamented.

The next morning the two amigos rode out to the ranch and picked up the great behemoth. They found him lying on his side in the shade of a large live oak. Even in death, lying down he was a black mountain of bull. They carefully loaded him gently on the trailer. As unpleasant as the event was, the Duke proficiently took care of business as always; his cordial southern demeanor always shining through. The summer day crept into a nice long afternoon with cool drinks and fond memories of Zeus.

Poison Ivy

Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea were sitting on the couch when Sweet Pea noticed a red mark on Bubbie’s arm.
“Does that itch?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“That spot, on your arm.”
“Not really.” Bubbie says dismissively.
Mere moments later, Sweet Pea spots a couple minute bumps on Bubbie’s thumb.
“Let me see your hand.”
“What?” Bubbie quips.
“Is that poison ivy?” Sweet Pea ponders out loud.
“Oh criminy.” Bubbie grunts.

Within the next hour, several other areas on Bubbie’s body broke out in the small bumpy rash. To say that the itchiness is annoying is an understatement and one will find a multitude of spots on one’s body that suddenly itch, even though they are unaffected areas of poison ivy. Sweet Pea finds it comical that he has a break out on a part of his body that is most precious.
“Well,” she laughs, “I guess we know the places boys touch first!”

The itch gets more intense and oddly couples itself with a burning sensation. At this point, Bubbie, who has been through this many times before, knows that this is going to take days to get over. Not a fun thought; but if this is the worst thing he has to deal with this summer, he can live with it.

Cows Don't Care

While driving among miles of pasture land, Bubbie views the sporadic herds of grazing cattle. There’s something about the scenery that Bubbie likes in a nostalgic way. Not primitive but old. It could be 1950, 40, 1850, heck even 1750. And those cows—they don’t care that cars are driving by. As a matter of fact, they don’t care about us, at all. They don’t care about when we were young and other kids picked on us. They don’t care about our painful awkward teenage years fumbling through pubicly, hormone drenched phases. High school crushes, summer infatuations. They don’t care about all the lessons learned in adulthood; responsibility, good choices, bad choices and their consequences. Nope, those cows don’t care about us and our self consuming thoughts. They don’t know how important we’ve made ourselves.

Bubbie thinks that if a cow could one day talk and he tried to explain our lives to that cow, the cow would say, “You need to get a life.”

Gas Pains

So, it’s been half a year since the elections and gas prices have crept up to a new record high. Do you recall how they mysteriously dropped prior to the election and some folks said it was just a coincidence, that there wasn’t any conspiracy to help certain officials get elected or re-elected? Do you still feel that way when you’re filling your vehicle up with gas? In Bubbie’s view, this is only the beginning. As the Spring thaw allows more and more northerners to venture out and travel, thus potentially stimulating the economy, there will be a delicate ballet of gas price manipulation to raise the price to the point where they’ve squeezed every red cent out of us. Yet we still have the power to change our ways, create new habits and stop using so much fuel. What are you gonna do this summer?

A Lesson, A Reminder

Uncle Bubba is somewhat of a solitary man. It’s as though he lives his life on a different level and in some ways doesn’t need the companionship of others, yet he loves who he loves deeply and cherishes and appreciates those that he holds dear. The other day he was telling me that he has had a few run-ins recently with some folks and though unpleasant, they served as both a lesson and a reminder. Let me tell you how…

Bubbie had an acquaintance named Possum that was one of those difficult fellas that kind of chronically complains and likes to “stir the pot” so to speak. Bubbie always treated Possum well, respectfully listening to his off center ideas and at times, ravings of working things out to its logical end. Bubbie always thought it was oddly funny that Possum’s “logical end” was shortsighted; he never seemed to think that there was more than his side of the story.

So Possum had an idea the Bubbie had done him wrong over some inconsequential item and confronted him about it. Bubbie was taken aback, not only at the theatrics of Possum’s assail but also the triviality of his attack. Bubbie understood how Possum could have drawn the conclusions that he did, but it hurt him that Possum would have thought that Bubbie was anything but sincere. Still he claimed responsibility for his actions and apologized. That should have been the end of it but Possum wouldn’t hear of it; he went on and on about how he felt wronged. Bubbie decided that there was nothing left to say. He could see that Possum would never see or admit that he had culpability in things too and had hurt Bubbie’s feelings; he had all but called him a liar. He quickly parted company with Possum who was still ranting on about how he is an innocent victim in everything. Bubbie knew better, he was no liar, he was one to always be honest at all costs; it’s not the easy way, but it’s always Bubbie’s way.

In the end Bubbie’s view was that he had learned a lesson that no matter what he had said to Possum, he would never see Bubbie’s side of the story and he didn’t need Possum’s approval to validate that he was a good man. Though he had a heavy heart, he had a clear conscience which, he said, is all any body can ask for.

It also served as a reminder to always be honest, respectful and loving, not just with others but with you. Relationships are sometimes difficult and they take two people willing to meet in the middle. Bubbie said that he wished Possum only good and would keep him in good thoughts; that is all he can do. He believes that we are meant to love and respect everyone, even the sometimes “unlovable”, yet give everyone grace and space. I think I’ll take his advice.

Free Speech

In Bubbie’s view, free speech is the right of all Americans regardless of race. It has been said recently that free speech is for everyone unless your white, then one must be guarded against being perceived as being racist. This view imposes a limit to free speech, which is not the case. One can say whatever one wants; there is just a consequence to what is said. You can offend people with words. This double edge sword strikes both ways; one person or group of people cannot say whatever they want without repercussion, even if they may be on the morally “right” side of an issue. It’s each of our individual choice to exercise our right to free speech and suffer the consequences or hold our tongue for the sake of peace.

It’s critical to keep free speech free. Please don’t ever give up your right to any of your freedoms, no matter what the cost.

Imus Expound

In speaking with my friend about the recent uproar over the comments made by shock-jock Don Imus; Uncle Bubba’s suggestion is to have the African American community hold a vote under the administration of their own objective committee. They can decide their standard of decency and equality that they can all live with and uphold within their own community. Then they can offer their proposal to the Caucasian community; maybe it can be mediated by the UN or something. A negotiated agreement can be reached on the American Standard of African American/Caucasian Racism Act and we can end all of the sickening rhetoric. Wow, not bad, a peace agreement between to warring factions. What a novel idea. Then we can move on to more important things like cleaning up this country from all of those illegal aliens; oh yeah, and don’t forget about those sneaky Asians.

Happiness Is A Sharp Knife

Uncle Bubba pulls out his pocket knife and quickly cuts a piece of rope. The short blade slipped effortlessly through the tautly braided strands of interwoven cotton and nylon. As he pressed the dull backside of the blade against the side of his dungaree thigh to close the knife, he thought, “Happiness is a sharp knife.” Why? Because it works. It does what it is supposed to do, efficiently and effectively. How many items do we buy in the course of a lifetime that frustrates us because when we try to use it, it doesn’t work well? Case in point; a dull knife. This is why Uncle Bubba resolves to keep his mind honed and wit sharp every day.

Protect & Serve?

There’s never a cop around when you need one. Have you ever really thought about it? We usually say it when someone else is doing something that is bothering us, or most likely breaking the law. You know, like when some yeah-hoo is tailgating you and then passes and speeds off in a fury. But tell me, what’s a cop gonna do? Pull the dude over and give him a ticket? Sure, that would be gratifying, but that doesn’t do anything to change the fact that the guy is an asshole.

Police are only able to react to an action. The word police as a verb is to clean and keep clean. So at best they show up after an offense has happened and, well, do whatever it is they do. To be fair to them, I’m sure that if they were to witness a crime, they would probably do something to protect our society.

This may be the reason that people think that they can get away with a crime. But is the answer to hire more police? God, I hope not! I think the answer is to improve the standard of morality of our society, thus leaving us to police ourselves.

Bike Week Buddies

After a morning of wild hog wranglin’, Uncle Bubba and the Duke rolled into Samsula, FL at the intersection of Pioneer Trail and Tomoka Farms Rd. A rent-a-cop in an orange vest flagged them by to a dusty parking area out in a field behind the Cabbage Patch Bar. The usual large crowds of Bike Week partiers were gathered around the huge fenced area in the middle of the sandy acreage. The infamous women’s coleslaw wrestling event was in full swing and unfortunately for the two weary hog wranglers, it was the super-heavyweight division goin’ at it. They surmised that the one big ol’ girl may have been wearing a bikini but it was suspect. The two didn’t hang around long; after wetting their whistle, they got back on the road and headed further east to New Smyrna Beach to have dinner at J B’s Fish Camp & Seafood. After a fine dinner—the Duke had shrimp and Bubbie had a blackened grouper sandwich—they rode up US 1 to Port Orange and then traversed the intercostal causeway over to A1A. Destination: Main St, Daytona. The Bobby Friss band was rocking Dirty Harry’s and electricity was in the air.

Bobby’s first rowdy set was over, it was about 11:30 pm. Uncle Bubba looked over at the Duke and they nodded to each other unenthusiastically that it was time to get out of the crowd and find a place to lie down. The Duke pulled the small wrinkled paper and angled it a couple times in the light to try and read the chicken scratch scribbled across the end.
“What’s that, your grocery list?” Bubbie joked.
“Naw,” said the Duke, “it the directions to the camp.”
Bubbie’s smile fell from his face.
“We gotta head back, 9 miles from the Cabbage Patch and then look for some big power lines that run over the road. It’s a half mile from there.”

The two friends had been up since 5:00 am to catch wild hogs and now they were facing a ride to a friend’s camp back down RT 415, south of Samsula. They walked back to their hawgs and layered on their leather jackets and gloves. Bubbie considered donning his chaps but it didn’t feel too cool. Big mistake. They weren’t a mile out of the city and the fog laden road was cold and damp. 25 miles later they were shivering, driving in pea soup fog, trying to look up over their heads for power lines; not an easy feat on a motorcycle. After several U-turns and double-backs, the Duke finally spotted the large wooden double gates to his friend’s property. They unlatched the chain holding the gates together and rumbled through into a dark wooded pasture. Both were a little unsure that they were in the right place, but cold and tired; they were willing to take the chance. ¾ of a mile down a sugar sand lane, mined with cow pies, deep into a wooded hammock, they found the bunkhouse.

With nothing but the bike headlights to help them see, they fumbled around to find the door, then the doorknob. Incredibly there wasn’t one and the door was locked. Armed with a cigarette lighter, the two stumbled around the shadowy corners of the structure to find another way in. Luckily there was a back door and it wasn’t locked; they ventured in. The Duke pulled out some scratchin’ paper and lit a scant torch to inspect the murky surroundings.
“Well, there’s bunks so we must be in the right place.” the Duke declares.
“It ain’t much, but I’m ready to lay down just about anywhere.” Bubbie replied.
“There’s lights. There has to be a way to turn them on.” says the Duke.
Like two archeologists searching the black bowels of an Egyptian pyramid, the two road warriors shuffle about to find the secret to turning on the lights. The Duke leads the way with is lighter and mini torch of any paper he can find to light. After a good half an hour of flipping switches and searching for a panel box, Bubbie finally concedes, “That’s it. I’m laying down. I don’t need no light on to sleep. There’ll be plenty of light in the morning when we get up.”

The two hit the bunks and within minutes they were asleep. Perhaps hours later, Bubbie suddenly woke to a rustling and over the pounding of his heart he heard a door to the cabin open. Sure that it was a bear or the owner coming into to shoot them, he snapped his head around to see if the Duke was in his bunk and could faintly that he wasn’t! He was outside relieving himself.

Early the next morning Bubbie woke to a racket that sounded like golf balls dropping on a 55 gallon drum…and he was inside the drum! He cracked opened his eyes and his tired gaze fell on the ceiling of the bunkhouse. It had a nearly flat metal roof that was nothing but rafters and sheets of shiny corrugated metal. The heavy dew from the dense fog of night was dripping off of the trees and dropping loudly onto the roof. It didn’t take long for the two to get up, pack up, get out of the drum and back on the road. Walking outside, Uncle Bubba was slightly taken aback at what the bunkhouse looked like in the daylight; it was probably better that it was pitch dark when they found it the night before.

“All I need is a cup of coffee.”
“Sounds good to me.” replied the Duke.

It was the perfect cool sunny day for a ride home. After coffee and a doughnut at the nearest gas station they rolled back across the byways home. After a safe return they laughed as they both agreed that it was the perfect trip and vowed to make it again soon, but next time with a few more friends.

The Great Hog Roundup

Uncle Bubba and the Duke had quite a weekend. The Duke is having a pestiferous wild hog issue at the ranch and called Bubbie to join in the havoc of dispensing of the sounder. (Yankee translator: a sounder is a herd of wild boars) The wild boar are rooting up his pastures and ravishing everything in sight. Friday night they dispersed a pungent washtub of swill in the trouble spot to lure the sounder to the bait. At day break, the Duke, Bubbie and the cowboy crew met at the barn to make the plan. The cowboys unloaded in their dogs and horses as the Duke and Bubbie pulled up. They were wide-eyed as the Duke unloaded an arsenal of weaponry.

“Alright men,” the Duke says, “the plan is that we’re gonna take as many of these hogs as we can.”

“Uh, I dunno about shootin’ round my dogs.” one of the hands says nervously.

“Well then… we’ll grab as many as we can…” the Duke pauses, “but if we have to shoot, we will. Now let’s get down the lane, they’re waitin’ on us.”

Heading down the grassy lane between the pastures in the light, early morning fog, Bubbie spotted the dark profiles of stocky beasts rooting under a large live oak.

“They’re right there Duke!” he said excitedly pointing to the area where they had dumped the swill the night before.

“Let the damn dogs out!” the Duke yelled through his windshield. Unfortunately the cowboys were too far ahead to hear and hadn’t yet seen the beasts. Finally one loose dog cut out after the hogs and the fracas began! The men were sure that the hogs would split up and scatter into the woods lining the pastures but they circled the small pond and emerged from the other side like a 16 car freight train chugging down an adjacent lane and breaking across a pasture. The Duke had all ready wound up the white diesel Ford pickup and set out after them. He rounded the corner of the lane and gunned it down the straightaway. Dale Earnhardt Jr. had nothing on the Duke as the sod flew and he had ‘er fishtailing over the bumpy ground. In a streak of lightning he threaded the big Ford through the open pasture gate and broke into the pasture.

“You can turn’em if you beat’em to the corner!” Bubbie yelled.

“I got’em.” the Duke calmly replied as the tree line approached rapidly.

Sure enough, he turned the wild little freight train of hogs and they bolted back down towards the far end of the pasture. By now the cowboy with the cage of cattle dogs in the back of his truck had caught up and was bounding parallel to the Duke across the pasture with the freight train of hogs charging between them. The cowboy’s tailgate was down and the coup gate was open and there were dogs flopping out of the back with every bump. Stunned they’d get to their feet and realize the melee was on and the hogs were fair game. They fearlessly charged into the herd and the hogs dispersed. The Duke slammed on the binders and stopped the truck. They hurriedly bailed out to wrangle hogs. Uncle Bubba bolted around the back of the truck to find the Duke holding the biggest black boar by the hind legs, wheelbarrow style, and a dog latched onto each ear. The sound of hogs squealing, dogs barking and growling and men yelling was fearsome. The two men yelled and kicked at the dogs to try and shake them from the boar and get after another.

“Yaw! Git! Bubbie, grab a rope!” the Duke commanded. “Let’s get this one tied so we can get another.”

After hog tying the snarling squealing black monster, they looked around the pasture and each cowboy was on a hog. The dogs were still excited, yapping and biting at the hogs tied up and laying on the damp sod. The men smiled at one another as they looked over the captured quarry.

“We’ll load’em in the back of my truck and take’em up and put’em in the trailer.” says the Duke.

“Put’em up in the front and untie’em.” one of the cowboys croaks.

“Ah-ight.”

The Duke and Bubbie unloaded the hogs into the trailer.

“Shut the gate.” the Duke orders from inside the trailer. Uncle Bubba wonders how the Duke is going to untie these hogs without getting mauled inside that trailer, but the Duke has spent a lifetime handling livestock and fearlessly wrangled each one out of its rope cuffs. The Duke is Bubbie’s hero.

The hogs had little fight left in them by now and the Duke took command of them in short order and they were untied and cowering in the front of the trailer.

“That’s all right,” the Duke laughs, “Six hogs and not a shot fired.”

Yep, says Bubbie, “That’s cowboy huntin’!”

Bubbie checks his watch. “Hey it’s 8:00.”

“Time to get on the hawgs and ride to Daytona.” barks the Duke.

The two laugh as they hop into the pickup and head back to the house.

Hogs, to Hawgs, to Hogs

Uncle Bubba and the Duke are recuperating from a wild weekend. The short story: wild Hog hunt, rode Hawgs to Daytona for Bike Week, watched a couple-a-Hogs (a.k.a. Humongous Overweight GirlS) in bikinis wrestling in coleslaw. Stay tuned, details comin’…

Dreams I'll Never See

Bubbie’s view from his windshield is clear on this bright sunny day. The sky is cloudless and brilliantly blue. The green in the trees still have that yellowish spring tint that denotes happiness and joy and signals the coming of summer. One of his all time favorite CDs, The Allman Brothers Band from Polygram Records is playing the backing track to his day. Seven great songs that stir Bubbie’s emotions as he travels through the back farm-country roads. (Actually it’s been playing for nearly two months now; he’s having his own little contest of how long he can listen to it before he’s had enough.) Coming over a rise, just between a peanut field and a pine stand, Greg Allman is floating along in one of the solos in song #6, Dreams (7:18 mins.). Attributable to the excellent production of this recording and Greg's talent, one can almost picture his fingers as he plays. That’s what Bubbie loves about the Allmans, the tensioned layers and humanness of there performance, often subtly playing ever so slightly behind the beat. It projects a cool demeanor, like they almost don’t regard their own genius before skillfully, fluidly passing the passage of to the next musician as a brook flows into a stream.

Bubbie rolls up to a red-light and patiently waits to turn onto Hwy 41. He sings to himself as he turns the radio down, “Pull myself together, put on a new face, Climb down off the hilltop, baby,
Get back in the race.” The light turns green. The sky is blue. The road is straight and clear.

Can’t?

I overheard Bubbie talking to the Duke the other day and he said his grandma Mabel always told him that “Can’t never did anything.” It was one of her favorite sayings. I got to thinkin’ about that and here it is days later that still rings in my ears and then it occurred to me like a slap on the forehead! We can do anything that we really want to. If we took the word can’t out of our vocabulary, we would have to replace it with the word won’t. That has a whole different connotation and one that is much more truthful.

Sign of the Times

While Uncle Bubba travels the byways, traversing the various country sides, he has noticed an aggervatin’ anomaly and has expressed his disgust of a growing trend. Y’all know Uncle Bubba can get down on some dark topics and when he’s in a mood he’ll freely share it. Anyway, the growth of this trend is so evil and insidious that it may just doom us as a civilization. If you disagree with that you may agree that at the very least it is a symptom of the grave illness that our society suffers from. What is it you ask? Warning signs! Now before you through the baby out with the bathwater listen; remember when a warning sign meant something horrible might happen to you? Danger—Slippery When Wet—Icy Road—Steep Grade—Flammable, No Smoking.

The new breed of warning sign now expresses the implication of harm, but is really intended as just a precursor to a declaration absolving the property owner of culpable responsibility. Here is an example that Bubbie showed me today:



Obviously if the driver of this truck doesn’t clean it off after loading it with dirt or debris prior to driving it down any old road ahead of you, and a rock falls off and cracks your window, it’s your fault. By the way, following at 200 feet is about the length equivalent to two-thirds of a football field; not an easy feat behind a crawling rock-hauler in any town or city.

I can see how walking around your rig to quickly inspect and sweep of any potentially dangerous material might be too challenging for the average truck driver. How could anyone expect to do that every time; after all, I’m sure his job description is truck driver, not truck driver/cleaner? And of course they post this warning on there because rocks never fall off and crack windshields or chip paint. It’s just because.

Here is another:



So if the ol’ Ford is parked, waiting for the moving machinery that opens the gate to launch into gear, and the chain snaps and lands smack across the hood of Bubba’s truck, it’s his fault. You reckon if a fella were to slap a warning sign on his .45 Smith & Wesson with some duct tape and a sharpie, he could shoot whom ever he wants and he’s not responsible. Hey, just like Dick Cheney!



Uncle Bubba thinks it’s time we all grow up just a little bit and take responsibility for something, even if it’s just a little bit to start. Like the Duke says, don’t worry 'bout the mule son, just load the wagon (translation: just do your part and I'll do mine). Smile at a stranger, make a handshake count, and let the lawyers starve.

The Thoughtful Thinker

I would like to send you a smile today. Do you consider yourself to be a thoughtful person? If you were to search a few dictionaries to get a good definition of thoughtfulness, you may be surprised to find that there is more than one definition, however they all revolve around and agree with two points in particular. One being, “exhibiting or characterized by careful thought.” and the other “considerate of the feelings or well-being of others”. The first being a generalized statement and the other being related to the first but is a more focused description that I think we all relate to when we use the term “thoughtful”.

Being considerate of the feelings or well-being of others is not the entire story. In my opinion, true thoughtfulness is to be considerate of the feelings and well-being of others at the risk of inconveniencing ourselves. Let’s face it, we all think we are thoughtful but as soon as someone else’s feelings infringe on our own ideas and contentment it’s over. In Bubbie's view, when we can count the number of times we’ve held our tongue or walked away from a fight or given someone a hand or helped a friend does not make us a very thoughtful person. It should be so ingrained in our lives that we couldn’t begin to count and no one should even notice. Often our most thoughtful act is taking very good care of ourselves so that others don't have to be burdened with our shortcomings.

I would never want anyone, from a loved one to a friendly stranger, to ever feel that I wasn’t taking them into careful thought 24 hours a day, seven days a week, but I know it happens. This is because even though I try hard to always be thoughtful, I am human and often have my own agenda as to what I think is best for someone else. Also, each of us has our own perception of what we think others are thinking of us. But in the end, I pledge daily to lend quite support and consideration to every person in my life. My daily goal is give my best effort to be considerate of the feelings and well-being of others at the risk of inconveniencing myself. Won’t you join me? *smile*

Ah, Sore Ecstasy

Bubbie woke today with one thing on his mind; going for a ride. After downing a couple cups of hot black coffee he gears up for a cool morning ride. Unfortunately he has to swing by the chiropractor first to get a couple dislocated ribs popped back into joint before rumbling through the country side. (The sore ribs were left over from last weeks incident that involved a couple of beers, a couple of good ‘ol boys and an unfortunate remark about someone’s mother; but that’s a whole ‘nother story. )

After throwing on his leather jacket he pulls his gloves snuggly over his fingers. He saddles his trusty steed and with a healthy choke, fires the rumbling beast to life. She sounds high strung, starved for gas; Bubbie makes her wait until he eases in the choke. The whining whir slows to a throaty rumble and then kicks her into gear and they are gone.

Later, rolling out of the bone-cracker’s parking lot, he throttles it up to hit the back country roads. Before long he is rolling up the highway to destination unknown. The speed limit is 65 and that’s fast enough on this cool winter morning. His knees hug the gas tank to siphon some warmth from the roaring V-twin. It’s not long before traffic and civilization become sparse and he can relax his mind to take in the beauty of his surroundings. After heading north for a while he glides his machine off of a ramp to an intersection. This is where it all happens. Since he had never turned right at this location, he decides today is as good a day as any. It was the right decision. He’s found a long smooth road through the tightly knit pines of the Goethe Forest. Mile after mile he rides, the road lined with swampy marsh and tall green slash pines boxing him in like a mouse in a maze. He eventually rocketed out the other end of the forest and straight into wide open pasture land. The stark tan winter colors majestically frame the dusky green oaks that spot the landscape. Round and bulbous, they are stoically waiting warmer days, conserving energy yet anticipating a spring where they can turn up the volume of there shiny green leaves.

Bubbie rounds another bend and it looks like another town is coming soon. The signs hint of a waterfront area and it’s not long before he notices a very large lake on the left hand side of the road. He believes it might be Lake Rousseau and there is just enough of a breeze to give its surface a pretty good chop. The tangy fresh scent of the dark lake water hits him and he smiles at a wealth of memories and a primitive stirring in his soul to the primordial beginnings of life.

As the lake drifts off behind his left shoulder, his sore back muscles stiffen from his morning adjustment, which also makes him smile. Good times and good friends. But with that he knows it’s time to turn for home. He rolls back into the throttle and shifts up through the gears. Sweet Pea will be waiting to share a hot meal and a few laughs as the sunny afternoon unfolds. It’s good to be Bubbie.

Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag

Bubbie has recognized that this is a monumental week with the resolve of some war issues. No, not Britain announcing their withdrawal from Iraq but the burial of James Brown and the disputed internment location of Anna Nicole Smith.

Now that the children of the Godfather of Soul and his former partner have decided on where the soul singer should be buried, nearly two months after he died. Hey, surprise! Their agreement is part of a legal battle over control of the estate and assets of the singer. It is complicated by a dispute over whether his former partner, Tomi Rae Hynie Brown, was legally married to him.

Anna Nicole’s strange friends and estranged mother have been locked in a televised trial to determine who gets custody of her remains. Bubbie wonders if this is racism. Is this what our African American brothers and sisters are always so angry about? ‘Cause she is white, her grotesque Jerry Springer type trial gets total TV coverage while Mr. Dynamite’s bottom feeding family didn’t get no press time! What’s Bubbie know; he’s of the Caucasian persuasion and freely admits to being too ignorant to understand these complex issues. But he thinks it has more to do with Anna Nicole’s scandalous past and enormous breast size than her race. The Godfather had his own scandalous past, and he was young and sexy; but his time had passed. Anna Nicole was still attractive enough to be able to command attention in life, and for better or worse the mother of a 5 month old baby. It seems to Bubbie that these elements along with her nefariously outrageous behavior were the driving force behind the dirt on TV. Anyone can only hope the she is now at peace. God bless her.



Rest in Peace James Joseph Brown – The Hardest Working Man in Show Business

Licensed to Disturb

Traveling along packed highways and byways of the south in the winter months, you’ll invariably notice the plethora of diverse license plates. Though they are viewed as a random assortment of colorful representations of individual states, there are certain likenesses that the drivers all have in common. Our northern visitors invariably drive slowly in the left lane. My theory is that they intend to turn left at some point, which might be 30 miles away, but they are in that lane to insure they correct position when they reach their cornering destination. These same slower paced individuals also tend to speed up and slow down in a random surging motion (obviously unable to operate the often complicated cruise control button), none more noticeable as when passing a Reduce Speed Ahead sign and having to speed up to reach the minimum speed. (Apparently the reading of traffic signs is not practiced much in the north.)

Notwithstanding, our southern neighbors obviously suffer from NASACAR fever and seem to be unable to operate a vehicle without speeding, drafting, and committing overly invasive and evasive actions while passing. With all of this in mind Bubbie has some alternative suggestions for a few of the license plate logos so proudly displayed.

Alabama – Stars Fell On
• Foot Fell On Accelerator
Connecticut – Constitution State
• Cut U Off
Delaware - The First State
• Left Lane Forever
Georgia –Peach State
• Let’s Kill Sumpin’
Illinois – Land of Lincoln
• Drive Like Lincoln
Indiana – Hoosier State
• Pull Out - Drive Slow
Maine – Pine Tree State
• We Just Drive Slow
Massachusetts – Old Colony State
• Old Arrogant Apathetic
Michigan – Great Lakes State
• Missed Shift Again
New Hampshire – Live Free or Die
• Live Free in Florida Past Our Expiration Date
New Jersey – Garden State
• Watchu Lookin’ At
New York – Empire State
• Confused Urban Rednecks
Ohio – Buckeye State
• Brake, Gas, Brake
Pennsylvania – Keystone State
• You Think They’re Slow
Tennessee – Volunteer State
• Suicidal
Texas – The Lone Star State
• Laws Don’t Apply
Virginia – Old Dominion State
• Old Dominion 500
Vermont – Green Mountain State
• We Just Suck

NASCAR News

Bubbie and the Duke agree; addin’ Toyotas ruins the Great American Race. The good ol' boys have gone soft; how 'bout we act like men that our granddaddies would be proud of and stop letting big money dictate what we get. Start the gal darn race at 1:00 pm, and stop with the Superbowl type hype and hoopla. It ain’t a concert, it’s a race! And the Chevy commercial with the hippity-hop version of Sweet Home Alabama is sacra-relig. You’re puttin’ our whole dang southern culture on the skids. Speaking of which, a gentleman doesn't cheat. This includes listening into your opposition's radio transmissions to hear their strategy. That's cheating!
Oh yeah, and congrats to Kevin Harvick on the win.