Category: Out to Lunch

Crossfire has always been a favorite show of mine, largely because grown men get paid big money to argue with each other, and without interruption from kids, pets, or distractions from such inconsequential things as grease fires and overflowing toilets.

I’ve often wondered what would happen if Crossfire were modified to reflect the concerns and interests of rural life, instead of its ordinary fare of national politics and cultural issues. Here’s an absurd but altogether ludicrous illustration of what I had in mind.

JONES: From the Left, I’m Scooter Jones, and tonight I’m joined by Red Clark from the Right, sitting in for our friend Lefty Anderson, who’s off judging the Lower Alabama Prize Heifer and Abandoned Washing Machine Toss Competition. Our topic for discussion is “Worms vs. Crickets: What’s the best general purpose fish bait.” Stay tuned.

[Fade to advertisement for Catfish Paste, a noxious compound resembling spackle but which is particularly attractive to bottom-feeding scavenger fish.]

JONES: Joining us in the studio is Cooter Smith, self-described fish expert and tractor mechanic. Welcome, Cooter.

SMITH: Much obliged. Can I set this ratchet wrench somewheres?

CLARK: Cooter, you’ve written a book entitled You and Your Worm: How to Hold Your Mouth Right While Spittin’ Chew. In it, you take the position that there is nothing to compare with worms for fish bait. Are you serious?

SMITH: Darn tootin’. Wigglers, earthworms, nigh crawlers…worms is where it’s at.

JONES: You’re pullin’ our collective leg, Cooter. You also write, and I quote, that “the amount of worm gunk you collect under your fingernails bears a direct relationship to the quantity, girth, and flavor of the fish you catch.” You don’t have any scientific basis for that, do you?

SMITH: Scooter, you’ve been amongst the slickers too long. You Washington boys can’t help but lost your connection with nature when the only thing you’d catch in the Potomac is a skeleton that fell out of the Clintons’ closet.

JONES: Well, if your worm gunk theory is true, why aren’t Catawba worms good fish bait?

SMITH: Catawba worms, for one, are mighty scarce these days, probably even on the Endangered Bait List. Second, you almost always have to break a Catawba worm to get him to fit on the hook, and Catawba worms exude a green worm gunk, which is demonstrably inferior to the brown gunk of all other worm species. Besides, all those little suction cup feet make ’em hard to handle.

CLARK: Crickets are considerably cleaner and more efficient than worms. Why don’t you like them?

SMITH: I’ll admit that, for fish, crickets are much more bite-sized than worms. But you have to hook ’em just right, or they come slap off the hook. Here, lemme show ya’…you have to put the hook right here in the cricket posterior, thrust it up through that mushy interior, and anchor it in that cricket noggin. Any slight misstep in the hookin’ process, and you’re fishin’ with a bare hook. You can wrap a worm on there any ol’ way.

Besides, if the cricket isn’t all wet when he hits the water, he’ll float on top and make all sorts of cricket commotion.Then you have to sink ’em with a rock or sump’m, and by then all the fish are plum scared off. Worms sink like little ol’ rocks.

JONES: Is it necessary to use live bait? Doesn’t that cause worms, crickets, even minnows, some sort of ante mortem pain and suff’rin’?

SMITH: I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no Aunt Morten, but fish don’t cotton to no cold cuts, if you know what I mean.

CLARK: Cooter, we know exactly what you mean, but the sentiments of fish bait has always been the Left’s favorite red herring, pardon the pun.

SMITH: Red, looks like a cricket crawled in your ear. You might want to get that out before you sit down to dinner tonight…

JONES: And we’re out of time. For Red and Cooter, I’m Scooter sayin’ goodnight for Crossfire. Whether you bait your hook with worms or crickets, always spit outside the boat.

Y’all come back tomorrow.

For those who are interested in such things, we are now, finally, in the so-called new millennium.

We normally start counting things at 1, not 0, so the start of the next thousand years is 2001, not 2000, which was actually then end of the last thousand. Not only that, but the experts also say that 2001 is not truly the start of the third millennium, because roughly two thousand years ago we started counting at the wrong place.

Apparently Jesus Christ was born about for years earlier than we initially thought, so that 1997 was actually 2001.

Oh, well. Now, on to more important matters: chads.

It should come as no real surprise that if we can’t count years correctly, we were bound to have some trouble counting ballots.

I realize that everyone has just about had their fill of this, but I have yet to put in my two cents’ worth on the subject. And, after witnessing the parade of experts, opinion gurus, political pundits and talking heads who got way more than their allotted fifteen minutes of fame during ELECTION CRISIS, I think that my two cents is worth much more than theirs. Consequently, I’ve also decided to take up television journalism.

I say ELECTION CRISIS because the television reporters like to devise ominous sounding titles for every news event, and I have better start toeing the media line if I am to have a chance of unseating Tom Brokaw.

For instance, a tornado in south Alabama becomes DESTRUCTION IN DOTHAN. Floods in Colorado: DENVER DROWNS. Mad Cow Disease in Massachusetts: BOSTON BOVINE BELLIGERENCE. And their propensity for excessive dramatization is not limited to large-scale disasters. HANGNAIL IN HAWAII, FRANKFURT FENDER-BENDER, and SCHOOLBOY MISSES BOWL, FORCED TO SCRUB BATHROOM FLOOR are the types of riveting stories of worldwide import about which we are treated to round-the-clock coverage, commentary, and concomitant commercials.

Which brings us back to ELECTION CRISIS.

If you’ll recall, the Florida presidential election processes gave us chads. Scads of chads. Gads! at the chads. There were Swinging Chads, Hanging Chads, Dimpled Chads, Pregnant Chads, Perforated Chads, Glad Chads, Mad Chads and Very, Very Bad Chads. Where is Dr. Seuss when we need him!

Enough I think, is what I’ve had

Of all these very Ugly Chads

They’re Very Bad

They Make me Sad

I think I’m Mad at Scads of Chads

They Swing, they Hang, these Dimpled Chads

Pregnant, Perforated, Vote-Clad Chads

I hope there is no Plaid Chad Fad

Enough, I think, is what I’ve had.

Well, you get the picture. By the way, will the pregnant Chads give birth in August?

Unfortunately, THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD (a subset of ELECTION CRISIS), did, in fact, create a Chad Fad, however brief. I say THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD, because this significant phase of American history occurred during the yuletide season when we were all beginning to hear the familiar refrains of The 12 Days of Christmas, and, of course, I’m still angling for Brokaw’s anchor job.

I’m working on a jingle of the same name, sung to the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas, which will serve as an emblem for the era. “On the first day of Chad, Al Gore gave to me, a recount in Broward County,” and so forth. I’ll let you know when it’s finished.

THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD FAD spawned jewelry that mimics the shapes of Chad (that’s anchor talk for more than one Chad), and portraits of Al Gore made with Chad-shaped flakes. And, speaking of flakes, any day now I expect to see boxes of Chad Flakes gracing the shelves of the cereal aisle. No Sugar-Coating Added Chad Flakes for those who like unadulterated voting, and Frosted Chad Flakes for youngsters and chafed adults, with a Secret Vote Decoder Magnifying Glass in each box.

THE 37 DAYS OF CHAD also had profound effects on infant nomenclature. No self-respecting parent would dare name his son Chad, until long after the painful memory of the experience has faded from our collective consciousness.

For much the same reason, it has been quite a few years since we heard of any children named Bell Bottom, Shag Carpet, or Disco.

Having reviewed my finances and been reminded therein of the vast wealth I have relinquished in exchange for an endless array of pet supplies, I lounge on my couch and gaze in resignation at my two domesticated animals.

Why “domesticated”? They don’t do dishes, nor windows, nor, for that matter, do they even clean up after themselves.

I consider that even as they draw each breath, they are depositing more hair on my carpet and furniture, digesting more food which need only be replenished later, developing maladies which will result in large veterinary bills, and generating the main course for some future tick, flea, mosquito or other vermin which will require more fiscal expenditures to combat.

The dog (a German Shepherd Dog named Roger), has just been to the vet, in fact. He had developed an irritation on his mouth, and I was instructed to apply Vaseline to the affected area until it healed. For your information, it takes quite a bit of Vaseline to grease down a German Shepherd Dog’s considerable mouth, and I expended no small some to have the vet tell me the he had what amounted to little more than chapped lips.

Roger digests his expensive food with a look of mild bemusement, inwardly laughing at his servile owner for worrying with such nonsense as coat sheen and proper stool.

He stares at the cat, Malachi (the last book of the Old Testament…long story) and calculates whether he could leap forward and wrap his teeth around Malachi’s skinny neck before I regain consciousness and intercept him. He considers the amount of cat hair that would be deposited on his tongue and considerable lips, and decides that he’d rather have ear mites.

Malachi has just concluded one of his feline chirping episodes, wherein he perches on a window sill and salivates over a cornucopia of airborne prey protected only by the intervening window, all the while producing an “ack-ack-ack-ack” noise resembling something akin to the defective starter on a ’72 Javelin.

I have just concluded the consumption of a bag of chips, and for now, leave the bag on the floor.

Malachi shows some interest in the bag, or the contents thereof, and attempts to insert his nose for closer inspection. Of course, the bag has virtually no weight, and Malachi succeeds only in pushing the bag around the floor. This is slightly amusing.

Malachi pushes the bag against the wall, and manages to get his head insight. This is somewhat more amusing.

Malachi discovers that there is nothing but barbecue residue at the bottom of the bag, and begins to back out of it. But lo! his head is not so easily extracted. The same lightness which made the bag difficult to enter makes it difficult to exit, and this begins to cause Malachi some concern.

After some half-hearted shaking and tail-twitching, Malachi reaches the most amusing of stages — feline panic. This is getting much better.

I am reminded of the time that Malachi interrupted one of my frequent interludes of mental hibernation by racing out of the bedroom, followed closely by what I could only identify at the time as a grey blur. Thinking he had disturbed a rogue rat, I leaped, as best one can when emerging from hibernation, to investigate and to procure appropriate rat-killing gear.

Malachi was behind the couch, having deposited his assailant on the floor. The “rat,” I discovered, was a pair of my cut off sweat pants. Emerging quickly now from post-hibernation mental fog, I quickly deduced that Malachi had managed to get the draw-string stuck in his teeth, inducing the aforementioned feline panic that is so amusing, and causing him to race madly about the house in an attempt to be rid of his newly-acquired parasite.

My flashback, however, does not help Malachi extricate himself from the corn chip bag.

In a feat of locomotion of which only cats are capable, and with the bag still attached to his head, Malachi races all about the room, IN REVERSE. Malachi’s speed is not restricted by the apparent physical impossibility of such motion, nor by his obscured — indeed, nonexistent — vision.

Malachi continues bouncing around the room, resembling a fur-covered, fish-eating, furball-coughing neurotic pinball, until by sheer violence of motion he is freed from the bag’s bondage.

Malachi casually licks a paw as if nothing has happened, and I laugh aloud. Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, thinks now that fur on his tongue and considerable lips would have been a small price to pay…

Christmas is especially conducive to reminiscing; recalling past Christmases, contemplating better times, being thankful that difficult times are past. Something in the eggnog makes us weepy and sentimental.

It is no different in the Faircloth household. For us, merely one year has seen remarkable change, and things are much different now than they were last Christmas. For instance, this year our nine year old cat, Malachi, will celebrate Christmas our of doors. This is due to the fact the Malachi came to consider orthodox feline waste elimination a restriction on his liberties. That is, he quit using the litter box. He didn’t quit going; he just quit using the box.

While we are thankful that our remaining cat, Zino, is quite satisfied to have her liberties restricted and confine her activities to the litter box, Malachi reminisces about better times, times when he could go in my shoe, in the dirty clothes hamper, or even on the dog, if he were dumb enough to remain motionless for more than a couple of minutes, which, for Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, occurs quite often.

Our joy is Malachi’s lament. But, as C S Lewis once remarked, hell for people and heaven for mosquitoes could very well be the same place.

At Christmas last year, our son, Brooks, was merely fourteen days old. His capacity to appreciate his first Advent was limited to spitting up and requiring diaper changes at the appropriate times. What a difference a year makes. Brooks is now chattering away (in an alien tongue, probably Chinese, from the sound of it), drinking from a straw, and walking quite well.

This means that he knows when silence is appropriate, and can even motor over to the Christmas tree without making a sound, grasp an ornament, and celebrate his defiance of the parental units by appropriate proclamations in fluent Alien while motoring back over to hide behind Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, who has been lying motionless for quite some time.

You’ve heard of stealth planes, stealth candidates, stealth ships. Brooks is the stealth baby. He moves in to the target undetected, and makes his strategical strike.

By the way, Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, is also thankful that Malachi is not without the house, since he no longer wakes to find he has been used for a toilet. His canine joy may be short-lived, however, as I understand that potty-training toddlers can do some very interesting things.

Christmas of 1997 Carrie and I were dating. Granddaddy was still alive for Christmas of 1993 and Grandmother for 1988. Just a few years before I was still in high school at Charles Henderson.

I can remember staying up late in our old house on Elm Street in order to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus coming down the chimney with all my presents. In keeping with young sibling rivalry, I had requested Santa not bring my sister anything good, and was sure he would take my word that she had been naughty and only deserved a lump of coal and a bag of switches. Little did I know our fireplaces were gas and no longer accommodated the girth of one whose belly shook like a bowl full of jelly.

Grandmother was also wise to our childhood attempts to discover package contents by carefully opening the wrapping, then taping it closed again. She always kept a couple of things hidden, for surprises, and I never caught on that the only presents I ever found were the underwear and socks.

I remember one Christmas so warm I could go outside in my shirt sleeves and kick around the brand new football I had gotten. It promptly became lodged in a pine tree. Another Christmas was so cold (four or five degrees) that we all just stood as close to the space heaters as social convention and body odor would permit, being sure to remind each other to rotate occasionally so that no one caught fire.

Christmas always included the traditional hymns and carols, the church special programs, and Christmas Eve serves. It included the annual trip to the attic for decorations and untangling of lights, and my favorite decoration, the nativity scene that consisted of a manger Granddaddy made and people and barnyard animals from one of my early toys. And it included the Christmas morning reading of the Christmas story.

I enjoy all the childhood memories, the traditions, the eggnog, mistletoe, carols and candy. I am thankful for my growing family, good health, and close friends.

But I am truly and especially thankful for the purpose of Christmas: the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ.

Camcorders have become almost as ubiquitous as personal pagers, beepers and cell phones.

It should be readily apparent to everyone that you’re not on the cutting edge of society unless you’re selling beepers or cell phones. Notice that I didn’t say you’re behind the times if you don’t own a beeper or cell phone; simply owning one is now passe, old hat, tire, dated and definitely not hip.

To be cool, you have to be both a beeper owner and a beeper dealer. If you deal both beepers and phones, all the better. This is patently obvious upon a mere cursory examination of the yellow pages. There you will find Joe’s Pool Hall & Beeper Wholesale, Johnson’s Carpet Barn & Cell Phone Emporium, and Ed’s Hot Wings & (Hot) Beepers. And let’s not forget the most infamous of the bunch, Ed’s Woco Pep & We Fix Cell Phones.

Camcorders are next. Just about everything that occurs in the universe has probably been recorded by some would-be cinematographer and sold to America’s Funniest, Most Redundant, Home Videos & Beeper Kiosk. So, that time you “spilled” coffee on the squad car when you thought no one was looking…tune in to see yourself on next Tuesday’s episode. It will play right between Dad Gets Hit In Face with Soccer Ball and Unidentified Stranger Gets Blindsided by Skateboarding Teen Wearing Beeper and Cell Phone.

Quite a few videographers use their camcorders to catch people doing things they shouldn’t, such as the babysitter raiding the wine cellar, throwing a pizza party on your Persian rug, and allowing the baby to fall headlong into the litter box while grasping your favorite beeper and cell phone.

For much the same purpose, I decided to install Spouse Cam in our house to uncover the truth regarding some of the most mysterious happenings of the known universe. What follows are transcribed excerpts from the Spouse Cam Tapes.

Monday, 9:36 am.

My wife, Carrie, peers out the front window, and apparently satisfied that I am not home, grins mischievously and walks toward the laundry room. The dryer beeps, indicating that the cycle is done, and she begins to unload dry clothes. She carefully separates all my socks, matches them into pairs, and stacks them neatly on the washing machine. Once the entire load has been removed from the dryer, she takes one sock from each pair and places them in the basket of clean clothes. The remaining socks she collects, carefully carries to the kitchen, and unceremoniously dumps into the garbage can. Universal Mystery #1 is solved.

Monday, 3:14 pm.

Carrie enters the master bathroom. “Master bathroom” is misleading, implying marbled floors, saunas, Egyptian linens. Carrie enters the lavatory. She retrieves the tube of toothpaste from the drawer. The tube appears neatly folded from the bottom. Carrie unfolds the tube, grasps it firmly in the middle, squeezes, and replaces the tube. Universal Mystery #2 is solved.

She then retrieves my toothbrush and uses it to remove debris from the bottom of her shoe. Universal Mystery #3 is solved.

Wednesday, 10:42 am.

On her way out of the lavatory, Carrie removes the toilet paper from its spindle and turns it so that the end of the paper falls to the back, instead of to the front. Universal Mystery #4 is solved.

Thursday, 4:27 pm.

The 13-month-old, Brooks, toddles into my library alone. “Library” is misleading. Brooks wanders into the coat closet where there happen to be some books. He pushes every book to the back of the shelf, then removes the contents of the trash can and distributes them randomly around the room. Universal Mysteries #5 and #6 are solved.

Friday, 11:03 am.

Roger, the German Shepherd Dog, enters the walk-in closet. “Walk-in closet” is misleading. Rogers enters the broom closet with the really wide door. He then brushes repeatedly against the previously clean and fur-less slacks and coats hanging there. On his four heels is Brooks, who takes one who of every pair, and those he doesn’t place in the bath tub he hides under the bed. Universal Mysteries #7 and #8 are solved.

Saturday, 6:47 am.

Carrie plays with the toddler in the living room. She retrieves the remote control, removes the fresh batteries recently installed by me, and exchanges them for batteries from the toddler’s well-used remote control car. Universal Mystery #9 is solved.

The unblinking eye of Spouse Cam will continue to report suspicious activity, so watch yourselves.

Rob Faircloth spends much of his time recovering socks from his children.

Not too long ago, we went out to eat at a real, “sit-down” restaurant.

Because we were both a bit tired, we chose not to sit at any of those “stand-up” restaurants that do so poorly that they’ve had to sell all the chairs in order to purchase another batch of soybean for the burgers.

Actually, it was a long while ago, so long, in fact, that it was before the last Post Office rate hike and we were still using 34-cent stamps. Oh, my mistake. That was last week.

We went out to eat at one of those restaurants that takes your name and then calls you when your table’s ready. They ask all the important things, such as How many are in your party? Smoking or non-smoking? What’s the limit on your credit card? and Are you really going to bring that toddler in here?

Your response to the last two questions determines whether you sit somewhere suitable to your response to the first two questions, or sit out in the parking lot adjacent the garbage dumpster.

Then the host asked me the name to call when they had set up our folding table in the ally out back.

“Faircloth,” I said.

“Fairclaw?”

“FAIRCLOTH,” I reiterated.

“Fairclauf?”

“FAIR, CLOTH.” I could feel the tips of my ears turning red.

“What?”

“F-A-I-R-C-L-O-T-H,” I said, giving the appropriate cheer leading gesture for each letter, followed by a triple back hand spring into a back flip.

“Oh, Saircloth.”

After catching my breath from the gymnastics and resisting a fleeting urge to put someone in a headlock, I told the host, “‘Jones’ will do.”

This illustrates the constant problem my surname causes in everyday life. When I tell others my name, it undergoes some cloaking maneuver between my mouth and their brain synapses. When others try to read my name, its cloaking device causes them to see things that are not there. In these cases, my name become “Fairchild,” probably because of the celebrity, Morgan Fairchild. I can only speculate as to the things she’s been called.

Once, after purchasing a pair of shoes, I gave the cashier my name and asked him to hold the shoes while I continued to browse. When I came back for them, no one could find my shoes. Oddly enough, everyone on this occasion seemed to understand what my name was, but the original cashier did not. He had left after labeling my shoes “Bearclaw.”

Yes, I am a breakfast pastry. My cousins are Mr. Pop Tart and Mrs. Oat Meal.

It’s difficult to fathom how a name could be so problematic, especially one as simple as mine. Whenever people undergo an epiphany of understanding regarding my name they all exhibit the joy of discovery and exclaim either “Oh, it’s just like it sounds!” or “Oh, it’s just like it’s spelled!” and I get those headlock urges, again.

Faircloth actually means “dweller of fair cliff or hollow” (stop laughing) and our Faircloth forebears have included the wife of a British king and one of the men responsible for printing an edition of the Bible using the famous Gutenberg Press. Our lineage, though not full of presidents, celebrities, or even notorious criminals (although Lauch Faircloth, U.S. Congressman, is a distant relative), is a fairly proud one.

That is, proud until you discover that a relative made it into the Guinness Book of World Records for being named Legal Tender Faircloth.

“Mama, what you reckon we gon’ name this boy?”

“I don’t know, Papa. What’cha got in ya’ pocket?” After examining Papa’s grimy one-dollar bill, Mama pronounced “We’ll name him after the Secretary of the Treasury, Legal Tender.”

Mama apparently thought she would be able to carry the child to market and buy some pickled pigs feet with him.

“How ya’ gon’ pay for ’em feet, ma’am?”

“Why, Legal Tender, of course.”

Why couldn’t Papa have had some Lance crackers in his pocket?

Rob Faircloth recently received a billed addressed to “Fairsloph.”

It begins in March.

Otherwise manly men are reduced to humiliated husks of their former selves, sniveling and cowering before the hideous ogre that beats them down in May, makes them whine for mother in July, and by September has them eating quiche and putting the toilet seat down.

It rears its ugly head seeking whom it may devour, and calls itself Yard Work.

Oh, sure, men may say they enjoy working the yard, but that’s only true as long as there are dishes to wash, diapers to change, toilets to clean. Keep in mind that men also say we don’t care which way the toilet paper is put on the roll.

And when a football game is on television, you’d better believe that working in the yard suddenly ranks below listening to John Tesh’s gymnastics commentary (“you’ve got to understand the histrionics of the apparatus”).

Nevertheless, the whole thing is quite brilliant in its conception. Men were able to make Yard Work, a chore as appealing as bedtime stories told by Janet Reno, endurable by devising an entire industry of power tools to use. Anything can be fun if it involves rotating blades powered by a gas motor.

Power trimmers, power edgers weed whackers, chain saws, power blowers, mowers, tillers. You name it — you can probably plug it in or gas it up and use it in the yard.

Were it not for mechanized lawn implements, my yard would resemble a wildlife preserve, and that leaking faucet out back would provide just enough excuse for some federal agency to confiscate the area as an endangered wetland. I can just see Marlin Perkins whipping around in an air boat, describing the habitat while avoiding power poles and the neighbor’s storage shed.

Making use of available yard tools, I’ve devised the Faircloth Method of Lawn Care, which is simple in design but highly dependent upon motorized implements. The equipment necessary to excel in the Faircloth Method are a chainsaw, a riding lawnmower, and several hundred gallons of weed killer.

The Method is as follows:

1. Whack it down with the chainsaw
2. Run it over with the mower
3. Douse it real good with weed killer
4. Repeat as needed.

My theory is that if it can’t be done with a chainsaw and mower, it’s more suited for the lawn of a music mogul in Malibu Beach.

Unfortunately, though, there are some things even the Faircloth Method won’t remedy. For quite some time, I have believed that kudzu was the cockroach of the plant world, able to survive nuclear holocaust and IRS audits.

Not anymore.

Beating out kudzu for top honors in that category is the awesome wisteria. Your heard right: wisteria. It looks innocent enough, but is actually demon spawn from the pit of Hades.

I disposed of unwanted wisteria vine/plant/tree/bush following the protocol of the Faircloth Method of Lawn Care. It came back.

Perceiving the need for creative pruning, I soaked the glorified weed in gasoline for 48 hours, then set it all on fire. It came back. It went into redeployment mode and came back 20 feet away, then reacquired its base of operations and came back in the center.

I event treated the thing with Aunt Matilda’s bean dip, which is ordinarily potent enough to melt the tiles off the Space Shuttle.

If only Wal-Mart carried napalm in the garden section…

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my quiche is getting cold and I left the toilet seat up.

Rob Faircloth was once trapped in a wisteria vine for three days.