BeyondWriterDome

That Pig Joint in Blahvil

2009-09-29T18:03:00.000-07:00

It seems like a shame starting out with the best so early in the trip, but that’s more to do with the logistics of my summer traveling rather than preference. In the interest of full disclosure, I was born and raised in the heart of the Mid-South--Mississippi County, Arkansas (named for the river rather than the state).

Just about an hour away from Memphis, and on the other side of the river, lies a small town full of unsung heroes in the art of true barbecue--my hometown, Blytheville, Arkansas, where home-grown barbecue establishments with years of history almost outnumber national chain restaurants. What other town has a resident “porkologist” like Ray “Red” Gill . (Just as a side note from the author: if you are into quality home barbecue and haven’t heard of the River City Spice Company, go there and by something!)

Exposure to such great barbecue throughout my life is why I’m such an unbearable barbecue snob.

Because I didn’t have as much time as I would have liked to devote to my barbecue habit -- I had family to visit, and that’s pretty important-- I had to limit my trip to just one barbecue establishment. (Keep in mind it was the same day that I hit Couch’s in Paragould, so two stops in one day isn’t a bad barbecue day).

By only reviewing one barbecue place in this town, I will probably alienate a certain segment of Native Blthevillians that may read this. My sincere apologies to both Penn’s BBQ locations, Benny Bob’s, the Kream Kastle and the many other -- but no less important --barbecue establishments in this fine town. I had time for only one barbecue stop. But if you only have time for one barbecue restaurant when you go to Blytheville, I’m sure all Blythevillians would agree, you could do worse than the famous Dixie Pig.

You gotta give props to the Dixie Pig immediately just for the name and the character/mascot on the sign and the t-shirt’s they sell. He looks not unlike Porky Pig or the Piggly Wiggly pig from the grocery store chain, but this guy is wearing what appears to be a Confederate soldier hat-type thing.

I should also say at this point that I’m no stranger to this fine establishment. In fact, I’ve been in this place hundreds of times. It’s walking distance from Blytheville High School (home of the Chickasaws). And I spent many an off-campus lunch at this place. But I tried to take particular note this visit to set the scene for those not fortunate enough to have a Dixie Pig in their hometown.

The walls are adorned with sports memorabilia, mostly of the Razorback variety. I’m talking about the good ole stuff with the old, crazy-lookin’ hog with slobber coming out of its mouth, not the toned-down, friendly version we’re familiar with now. The next prevalent mascot seen on the walls is of the mighty Blytheville Chickasaw. Car plates recognizing the various state championships won in their conference are in the plain sight.

But it should be pointed out that the odd Mississippi State Bulldog sticker can be seen, and (sigh) at least one Ole Miss Rebel bumper sticker (at least it’s upside down). Although most SEC loyalties in Blytheville lie with the Arkansas Razorbacks, the town is geographically closer to the campuses in Starkville, Miss; Oxford, Miss and Nashville,Tenn (Vanderbilt).

There is also a strong showing of Arkansas State paraphernalia, most of which is of the Arkansas State Indian, the mascot the NCAA deemed too politically incorrect for sports. The team name of that college in Jonesboro is, of course, now the Red Wolves.

Perhaps the most seemingly out-of-place piece adorning the walls of the Dixie Pig is a large print in the corner of the north dinning room. Amongst all of this dominant red (U of A) and maroon (Blytheville High), is the unmistakable color of Arkansas’ nemesis from the old Southwestern Conference. I’m talking about the burnt orange of Texas.

Why would a barbeque joint in the heart of SEC and thousands of miles from the Texas boarder, in Arkansas no less, have such a thing? Upon closer inspection, it can be seen that the print is of former University of Texas head coach and Blytheville Native Fred Akers. An autograph can be seen in one corner made out to the owners.

Just goes to show you don’t have to be a fan of the Hogs to be welcome at “the Pig.”

I guess I should talk about the barbeque now. There are many various items on the menu to be enjoyed, including the Pig Salad and some fine ribs (only served on Saturday nights unless specified by the sign up front), but my personal favorite is the Pig Sandwich. Served on wax paper, not on a plate, with the SLAW ON THE SANDWICH.

The good people in the back do not put any sauce on the sandwich for you. There is bottle of famous Dixie Pig Barbecue sauce on every table next to the salt and pepper shakers, and you can put a little or a lot depending on preference. This is the way it should be.

A word about the sauce: the sauce is definitely a vinegar-based sauce. Other than that I have no idea what’s in it that makes it taste like heaven on earth. It’s spicy, salty, not sweet and maybe a little smoky. Words fail me (great writer, huh?) The sauce is contained in a glass bottle not unlike a ketchup bottle complete with a white top. Proper procedure is to grab the bottle like a hand brake and place your thumb over the small hole in the top of the cap and shake. It is recommended (by me) to put a napkin between the thumb and the cap while doing this, because we don’t know where you’re thumb has been. The clear glass allows you to look at the spices “floating” around in the bottle. It’s the same theory as an Italian dressing except it tastes NOTHING like an Italian dressing.

A proper shake brings all of the spices closer to the top, allowing you to open your bun and dowse the pork and slaw with liberal amounts of this spicy goodness through the hole in the cap without fear of ruining your sandwich. If you take your sandwich spicier than others, simply repeat this process until the proper heat level is applied.

Dancing around in that bottle is a generations-old, closely guarded secret recipe. When I asked the waitress, “What’s in this stuff, anyway?” I get the same well-rehearsed response. “I could tell ya, but then I’d have to kill ya.”

I get this response every time, but it always keep asking in hopes a new girl will slip up one day. But then again, I don’t really want to know. The mystery is part of the experience.

Another thing you’ll notice immediately is that there are no “fluffy” buns like you’ll find at other bbq places or even a burger joint. The entire sandwich has the appearance of being “pressed.” In other words, the buns are flat. Once you’ve had a pressed bbq sandwich, you’ll never want fluffy buns again. This allows you to taste the meat/slaw/sauce combo with the bread complementing, but not getting in the way of, the good stuff.

You can mimic this pressing at any bbq establishment by placing both hands on the top of your sandwich and then lean on it. Try to push that son-of-a-gun into the table. If it’s good bbq, then your sandwich will be better for it.

A family member once told me of a time he was in eating barbeque in an establishment up the river in Missouri. He proceeded to press his sandwich and the owner actually said, “You must be from Blytheville.” When asked how he knew that the owner said, “You’re doing the Blytheville press.”

See? We’re famous.

I could write a novel about how good this place is, but in closing, I’ll just go on record as saying you won’t find barbeque better than this place. Everything is good: the ribs, the bbq beans, the fries, the atmosphere. It’s no wonder the Dixie Pix gets this barbeque snob ranking of SOTBDBOTP or Some Of The Best Damn Barbeque On The Planet.

Nuff Said.

Footnote that has nothing to do with bbq: The correct pronunciation of Blytheville is Blah-vil. Accent on the first syllable. Like a lot of great Southern towns, the locals say quite differently than it looks, like Norfolk (Nah-fuk), Virginia; or New Orleans (Naw'lins), Louisiana; or however the hell they say Louisville (?), Kentucky. So when the fair River City of the Arkansas Delta comes up in conversation, pronounce it correctly. Let everyone know how cool and well-read you are. And under no circumstances pronounce the "th" in Blytheville around a Blytheville native. A fella could get his ass beat.

BBQ Destination Number 1: The Arkansas Delta

2009-07-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

The following is part 2 in a series of barbecue pilgrimages I have made in the summer of 2009. Read the intro to this series here, or apply your favorite sauce and dig in.

Couch's Barbecue; My Grandma's Kitchen; Paragould, Arkansas

The first BBQ experience of note on my trip to northeast Arkansas (NEA) was at the birthplace of my parents--Paragould, Arkansas.

If your family is anything like mine, then a visit with the grandparents is an occasion for plenty of great food. Since we didn’t want “Maw Maw” and “Paw Paw” to go to any trouble, we made a stop by a local place and brought plenty of barbecue sandwiches and ribs for everyone for lunch (Or as my grandparents say, “dinner.” The meal that takes place in the evening is known as “supper.” ) Maw Maw insisted on making one of her famous chocolate pies, a rare treat usually only reserved for holidays. Next thing you know, cousins and uncles and aunts were there, and I was wishing we lived closer to home.

The barbecue we enjoyed that day was from Couch’s Barbecue, a regional chain in NEA with locations in both Jonesboro and Paragould. The very name of that place brings back fond memories of the catchy jingle from the commercial that played constantly on the television station out of Jonesboro. Hear it once and you were hooked: “Bar-be-cue, Couch’s bar-be-cue, nothing fancy just good foo---ood! Ya ha!”

I can’t recommend going into a Couch’s, because I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and ate in one. This particular establishment is best enjoyed take-out, preferable at your grandmother’s house with a chocolate pie afterwards. If your grandmother doesn’t make chocolate pies, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do for you.

I was able to enjoy a sandwich and a few ribs from a couple of racks that were carried home in aluminum foil. I have to say, this was pretty decent barbecue. The ribs were a little tough, but they were flavorful. The sauce was served in a separate container. Major points awarded for the S.O.S. (sauce on the side) serving style; however, points were taken away for serving the slaw in a container by itself.

I will give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that the sandwiches might be served with slaw on them had we went inside, so I’ll let that slide. In fact, the pork was also served in a separate container so this was a build-your-own-sandwich situation. It was chopped pork rather than pulled pork, not my first preference but very tasty. The sauce, as near as I can tell, was a ketchup/vinegar sauce, slightly sweet with a little kick to it, surprisingly spicy actually, but not overwhelming.

Maybe the good company and my grandmother’s pie had more to do with it than the barbecue itself, but I have to say overall it was a great barbecue experience. But I’ve never had a bad experience (eating or otherwise) in my grandmother’s kitchen.

I have to rank this barbecue as: PGBBQ for “Pretty Good Barbecue”

Stay tuned, because the Great BBQ Vacation will continue to the next stop the Mecca Of Barbecue (if barbecue had Meccas) Blytheville, Arkansas.

My Barbecue Vacation: a BBQ Snob’s Take on the Great Southern Pastime.

2009-07-14T20:22:00.000-07:00

There are very few topics of discussion--outside of sports, of course--that will get my temperature rising. During my adult life, I have kept my composure during heated debates regarding both politics and religion (two things, I don’t recommend talking about with any company over cocktails-—unless you are very sure they agree with you on every matter).

However, disagree with me over the proper preparation methods and nomenclature to address the preferred food of my homeland and the proverbial gloves come right off. I won’t say I’ve ever come to blows over the subject, but there have been times when it came awfully close. And I assure you, the fact that the discussion didn’t escalate to violence wasn’t because I wasn’t ready to take it there. Rather, the other party either backed down or decided such a topic wasn’t worth this sort of trouble, which, of course, also makes me right by default.

I am, of course, talking about barbecue. I’m an admitted barbecue snob.

Now, despite my enthusiasm for the subject, in general, I’m a very open-minded person, more or less, even about barbecue. Food, perhaps more than anything, is subjective in nature. What one group may find delicious, others may find repulsive. (How else would you explain someone eating something called head cheese, while finding something truly delicious, like crawfish, disgusting?)

So, I have no problems with our friends who prefer ketchup-based sauce to vinegar-based sauce, even mustard-based sauce is ok with me, if that’s your thing. Equally, I don’t care if you want to make your ribs all messy and sticky as opposed to a nice dry rub with sauce on the side. This is America. You bought it and cooked it, do what you want with it. I, of course, have my own opinion on these matters; but that’s all it is, an opinion. And you can’t argue a preference.

But.

There are certain matters that we as barbecue lovers must agree on for the sanctity of the art of barbecue itself. I call them the Three Truths About Barbecue. And if you hold these truths to be self evident, you will get no disagreement from me.

Truth Number Three: Simply Cooking Outside, A Barbecue Does Not Make.

Barbecue {bahr-be-kyoo} (-verb) by its very definition, is slow-cooking a meat of your choice (read: PORK) over indirect heat over a long period of time. (Good barbecue is cooked low and slow.) That meat when properly barbecued is called barbecue (now a noun). Anything else should be called “grilling out.” Hamburgers, hotdogs and the occasional chicken breast: these are the things one finds at a cookout. Now it should be mentioned, I’ve had some damn fine barbecue chicken, it’s one of my favorite things to find at a barbecue; however, there is a difference between barbecue chicken and grilled chicken. Calling cooking over an open flame with direct heat and flipping burgers “barbecuing” is an offense to the art itself. See the difference? You don’t see many people smoking hot dogs for four to five hours with hickory. (Although, come to think of it, that would probably be delicious).

Not recognizing Truth Number Three is a forgivable offense and one easily corrected. Most people are happy to be corrected. At least they say so. But please don't stop inviting me to your cookouts. I love hamburgers and hot dogs! And as long as you're feeding me, you can call it any damn thing you like. I'll keep quiet; I promise.

Truth Number Two: In Terms of Sandwiches, THE SLAW GOES ON THE SANDWICH

This truth is akin to the designated hitter debate in Major League Baseball: everyone has an opinion. But half of those people are also wrong. This is a rare case where a preference can be considered incorrect. Personally, I don’t care for slaw by itself. I can count the times I’ve actually eaten slaw with a fork on one hand. But topped on the meat of a barbecue sandwich, or better yet, thoroughly mixed in the barbecue with tender love and care, and I can eat my weight in the stuff. Some will say “I like mine on the side” or “but I don’t like slaw.” Well, you sir or madam, don’t really like barbecue sandwiches and I suggest you go have yourself a quiche.

Truth Number One: The Most Important Truth: Barbecue = Pork

Barbecue is Pork. Pork is barbecue. Pork is a jealous barbecue, and there shall be no barbecue before Pork.

Now that we’re clear on that, it should be said that unlike how the Lord Almighty feels about false gods, Pork doesn’t mind if you experiment with other meats that are barbecued. You will not get smote. So, by all means, enjoy other meat prepared in the traditional barbecue method from time to time. Just don’t call it “barbecue” without specifying the meat afterwards.

For example “barbecue chicken” is perfectly acceptable to say. Even saying “barbecue beef ribs” is ok in the eyes of Pork. But if you’re at a barbecue joint and ask for a barbecue sandwich, or barbecue ribs, and you are served anything other than Pork–-leave immediately, then promptly leave the state because you are most likely in Texas. (Just kidding, Texas. You know I love ya.)

In other words, saying “barbecue pork” is unnecessary and redundant. You might as well say “barbecue barbecue” or “pork pork.”

The Great Barbecue Vacation

So now you’re probably thinking, “If this guy is so good, I’d like to try his barbecue sometime.” Well, let me say at this point I am not a very good barbecuer. It’s true what they say, those who can’t do, teach, or at least critique. I mean, I’m not bad. I enjoy the process very much, but I’m nothing compared to those hard working souls, Pork bless them, that make their living with the art or compete on an international level in competitions such as the World Championship of Barbecue held every May in Memphis.

To use yet another baseball analogy: those guys are like Albert Pujols, and I’m more like the guy on your company’s softball team who doesn’t hit a lot of home runs but makes good contact with the ball until around the fifth inning when he’s had too many beers.

I love to fire up the smoker and give it a whirl some weekends. I’ve even participated in the ultimate barbecue experience--a whole hog--but my real passion lies in eating the stuff. I consider myself more of a connoisseur.

How passionate about it am I? Well most people wouldn’t plan their hard-earned vacation days around particular barbecue destinations would they? Truth is, I didn’t either; it just worked out that way. So I decided to write about it. Serendipity I suppose. Over the next couple of months or so, this blog will feature various barbecue destinations I have visited or will visit this summer: Kansas City, the East Coast and even Texas. My weight will increase, along with my cholesterol. But these are the sacrifices I'm willing to make in the name of BBQ journalism. It's a hard life, but somebody has to do it.

COMING UP: My next post will be a write-up on some barbecue sampled in the birthplace of barbecue--the Arkansas Delta.

Note from the Author: There is some debate on the spelling of this subject, but it makes no difference to me whether you prefer barbeCue or barbeQue or even BBQ or just "que." I went with "barbecue" because that was most common on the bottles of my various sauces (in the photo).

2008-11-05T15:06:00.000-08:00

Going Native

2008-11-14T07:37:00.000-08:00

Ponder this: the correct term to refer to someone of the ancestry formerly known as “American Indian” is, of course, “Native American.” But I’m a native of America, so wouldn’t I be considered a native American? No.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to go on some anti-PC tirade. The use of the term “Indian” to refer to anyone born in the United States is offensive, and just plain wrong. An Indian is from India… duh! All I’m saying is that the term “Native American” may be just as bad of a misnomer as “Indian.” A Native American should refer to anyone that was born anywhere in America … not just Oklahoma. (Sorry. That wasn’t very nice).

First let’s take a closer look at why the term “Indian” used for an Indigenous Person of the United States is wrong:

According to what we were told in grade school, Columbus – a white guy – came to what is now America, saw some brownish/reddish people, and just started calling them by the term he used for other brownish people he knew. He also called them that because he was on the opposite side of the globe from where he thought he was … what a dumbass.

So the term is offensive, if not to Indigenous Persons, then at least to Columbus. I’ll bet the ghost of Columbus cringes every time somebody uses the term American Indian. “Jeez! So I was off by a few hundred-thousand miles. I made a mistake! Give me a break and change that already!”

There is a part of me that thinks we should keep the term as a reminder of how stupid white people can be. Like when there’s two black guys at your work and you call one black guy by the other black guy’s name … awkward.

Calling Indigenous People "Indians" is the equivalent of someone from China coming here and calling all white people “Norwegians.” And you would say, “I’m not Norwegian; I’m American!” And they would say, “Shut up, Jorgan! You all look the same to me.”

You see. Not very nice when you think of it like that, is it?

And if you’re of the I-don’t-care-if-it’s-nice-or-not-it’s-always-been-that-way ilk, it still makes more sense in terms of clarity to avoid the usage of “Indian.” The world has changed a lot since Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492. America is actually resembling the “melting-pot” that it has been advertised as for so long. So you have a better chance of actually knowing an Indian-American as well as what was formerly known as an American Indian. The use of a word besides Indian can help you avoid this awkward convo:

You: Dude, that chick in accounting is hot!
Dude: Which one?
You: You know, the Indian girl.
Dude: I thought she was in HR?
You: No, man. The other kind of Indian
Dude: How many countries called India can there be?
You: No. I mean feather not dot! I’m talking woo woo!

Then the girl from accounting comes in and hears what you’ve said and she’s pissed, so no date for you. And then she scalps you (sorry that wasn’t very nice … I couldn’t resist.)

Now let’s take a look at why Native American, while less offensive, is just as wrong:

Check out this scenario: Let’s say you’re a person from the United States living in the United Kingdom. You’re watching the tele with your British friends and Madonna comes on in an interview with her quasi-fake-Brit accent:

British Bloke: What kind of accent is that? Where is she from?
You: Actually she’s from the States?
British Bloke: Well she wasn’t born there was she? I mean you don’t talk like that. She has to be from New Zealand or Australia, there’s something else in there right?
You: Nope, she’s just from the States.
British Bloke: You mean she’s a Native American?
You: Well, actually no. That’s what we call Indians.
British Bloke: What? Why would you call people from India that?
You: No, we call the people from the States Indians, you know the first people – teepees, loin cloths, wompum, woo woo!
British Bloke: That’s not very nice, you!

You see where the confusion could come in?

Alternatives to both Native American and American Indian:

In official, work-related writing, I use the term “Native American” whenever it comes up. I do this because I’m a writer by trade, and I adhere to the gospel according to Associated Press Style and Usage Manual. But whenever the occasion comes up in informal speaking I prefer to use the specific tribe. For example: “ I have a friend whose wife is a Cherokee.” See wasn’t that easy? But this usage has its limitations. What if somebody’s dad is Cherokee and their mom is Choctaw? Or if you’re not sure what tribe this person is affiliated with?

You don’t want to go getting people’s tribes wrong. That can be really hurtful. I know. One time in Jamaica, on my honeymoon, a guy heard my accent and said, “you must be from Texas.” So I sued Sandles.

So if there are any Native Americans, or Indigenous Persons, or People Formerly Known as American Indians reading this (assuming you didn’t get pissed about the scalping joke) I implore you to give us a replacement for the term Native American. It can be anything you want. Maybe you could all get together and decide on a term in your native tongue.

For example, if there is a two or three syllable Navajo word that means, “not a stupid, pale-faced asshole” that would be perfect. Or maybe there is a short Chickasaw phrase that means “person whose land was taken by Caucasian jackass.” Or you could be real slick and choose an old Algonquin word that means, “Victim of Manifest Destiny” or an Apache phrase roughly translating to “person who is owned back payment of Eminent Domain compensation plus interest.”

Don’t tell us what it really means either. Tell us it means “Happy Warrior” or some corny bullshit like that. We’ll eat it up. We’ll picture ourselves as the Kevin Costner character from Dances with Wolves and use it every chance we get.

“Well, Suzie Redcorn! That’s an interesting name. Are you a person whose land was taken by a jackass?” And you could just smile to yourself and say, “Yes. Yes I am.”

Razorback Hockey? Are you pucking crazy?

2008-11-10T10:21:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my new sports obsession – SEC Hockey.

Back in the 90’s when I was at the good ol’ University of Arkansas, the basketball team made a run for the national championship about every year. The football team … well, not so much. In the late fall you could often hear the expression, “Thank God it’s basketball season.” In a couple of years you might just hear, “Thank God it’s hockey season.”

Don’t count on it. But it is true, the University of Arkansas has a hockey team. Don’t believe me? Go here then come back. See I told you!

I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. But I did see it, dear readers, and I have the T-shirt to prove it. Last Friday, I took the boy to the home opener at the Jones Center where the Razorbacks played – you’re never going to believe this – Mississippi State. And no, the puck was not an empty Skoal can.

At this point it should be stated I know dick all about hockey. But nevertheless, if you deck a team out in cardinal and white and put “Razorbacks” across their chest, I’ll show up and call those Hogs no matter what the sport.

Here's my report – it was awesome. We didn’t stay for the whole game because it was way past the boy’s bedtime. But before we left the Ice Hogs had the game well in hand 6 to 0, which is like 60 to 0 in Football numbers.

Not only was it the home opener, it was the first Razorback Hockey game in the University’s history. That’s why it was so important that I take my son. Even though he’s only 9 months old and will have no recollection of it at all, he can say he was there.

So 25 years from now when he’s playing in the NHL and they ask him, “How does a kid from Arkansas become such a good hockey player?” he can say with pride, “My dad took me to the first Razorback Hockey game in history, and he’s the best dad in the world. Thanks, Dad!. I’ll also add that he has aged incredibly well and is extremely good looking.” Hey, a guy can dream can’t he?

Even if he doesn’t end up playing in the NHL, attending the game was a great time. If you’re a Hog fan looking for a new sports obsession I highly recommend you take in a game at the Jones Center. Tickets are cheap ($5 as compared to $25 basketball tickets and $45 football tickets), and it’s a family-friendly environment. Unfortunately they don’t sell or allow beer there, which is a bummer because watching hockey with a cold beer would have really topped off the awesomeness. But it is the Jones Center and it is a college event, so what are you going to do?

Other SEC rivals on the schedule include Alabama, Vanderbilt and LSU. Bama, Vandy and LSU will be home games at the Jones Center. Our out-of-conference, road schedule includes our age-old archrival. You guessed it, the Evil Orange Empire, the Texass Longwhorns.

I can’t believe this. I’m actually getting fired up about hockey played by teams from Alabama, Louisiana and Texas. I feel like I’ve slipped into some bizzaro world. Somewhere in Ontario there are Canadians that are excited about a college NASCAR team.

UPDATE: Added Nov. 11, 2008

Friday's final score was Hogs 14, Dogs 0. Saturday night they played again – Hogs 21, Dogs 2. Once again proving our dominance over the state of Mississippi ... in hockey.

Photo Courtesy of razorbackhockey.com

I have a strange feeling something bad might happen.

2008-11-03T15:31:00.000-08:00

Some of you may have noticed that I removed my real name from this site and used my well-known cyberspace moniker, Uncle Duke. If you’re wondering why I did this, it’s because I had a dream that Tim McGraw came to my house and whipped my ass Jay and Silent Bob style.

I figured if I was going to make a habit of slamming people on the internet, I should do it in anonymity. Otherwise I could get visits from the football fans of Ole Miss, the fans of the University of Alabama, Lars Ulrich of Metallica as well as Tim McGraw. That’s just the people I’ve slammed in the short time this site has been up. I plan on doing much more slamming in the future.

If that makes me a wuss, so be it. Some people are sensitive and take internet fun way too serious. (example here)

By the way, if you are some big publisher or editor that enjoys my writing so much that you want to hire me to write about such important topics as college sports, comic books, vinyl records, music made before 2000 or how to deep fry a honey bun, please just comment with your information and I’ll contact you.

And I will check your sources. Don’t think I haven’t thought about the possibility of me showing up to meet some publisher or editor, only to have my ass beat by Lars Ulrich and Tim McGraw wearing Ole Miss and Alabama t-shirts.

Hogs beaten by the Oxford Nutt Sacks.

2008-10-29T13:54:00.000-07:00

This weekend, my beloved Razorbacks were defeated by the Ole Miss Rebels, a.k.a. the Oxford Mississippi Nutt Sacks in a squeaker that went down to the final seconds. I won’t go into a tangent about the game. But if you want, you can read one of many from the Woo Pig Clan here. What I will say is that this group of mostly freshman played well above Hog Fan’s expectations in what many people believe (myself included) is a rebuilding year after Houston Dale “Colonel Reb” Nutt R-U-N-N-O-F-T across the creek to Mississippi.

Since I’m a season ticket holder who resides in God’s Country (a.k.a. Northwest Arkansas), I was able to catch the first game in what will surely be our new rivalry. The following are some notes from the game:

It’s never too early to go to an SEC football game. My co-workers scoffed at me when I told them I planned on being there at 9 a.m. for a 6 p.m. kickoff. Well, I did get there at 9, and I wasn’t the first to arrive. If I would have gotten there earlier, I could have enjoyed more tailgating time.

Tailgate breakfast is the best. A few years ago my tailgate crew discovered “Deep Fried Honey Buns,” which are just store-bought Little Debbie Honey Buns seared on both sides with butter in a cast iron skillet. This year we made a new discovery – “Pancake Wrapped Bratwursts with Maple Syrup.” It’s exactly what the name says it is, so I don’t have to tell you, it’s delicious. We also enjoyed Jimmy Dean Sausage patties and of course we fried up a batch of Honey Buns, for a little something we like to call “Breakfast Dessert.”

Ole Miss dudes all look like the same white person. I know there is a whole lot of stuff you can make fun of about the fan base of the Arkansas Razorbacks. I mean our team’s mascot is a feral bovine critter. But among the Ole Miss faithful, originality is not a virtue that is held in high regard. They all dress like I did 15 years ago when I was a freshman frat kid in college – even the old bastards. There was a surprising number of OM Nutt Huggers that made the trip, all decked out in the official OM Uniform – khaki pants, Redwing boots, Oxford button down shirt (OM sweater vest or golf pullover optional), brown belt, no facial hair, and Manning Brother Bowl Haircut (OM cap also sold separately).

If you eat enough all through the day, you can drink as much as you want. Fishing, golf and tailgating are the only times when it is socially acceptable to drink before 10 a.m. (at least in the South). Over the course of the last seven years or so our tailgating crew has come to realize that you can drink enough booze to kill a large mammal as long as you have a high carb/high calorie diet. So, in addition to consuming mass quantities of foreign and domestic beer and spirits that day, we also consumed several dozen grilled hot wings, various sausage and bratwurst products, hamburgers, many racks of ribs, a cheesy potato casserole, tub of Panchos cheese dip and multiple bags of corn and potato chips.

Ribs should be of the pork variety. Ours were pork, and they were delicious. Slow cooked/smoked for around 6 hours. Beef ribs are for Texans = not as good.

I don’t have to hate Texas anymore. For years, Hog fans my age and older hated the University of Texass Longwhorns (misspelling completely intentional). Now we don’t have to anymore. We can hate Ole Miss. I don’t think they will be as fun of a nemesis though. I mean. Texas is a national football powerhouse with a huge recruiting base in the largest state in the lower 48. Ole Miss is in Mississippi, a state that most kids just want to get the hell out of. The University of Texas is located in Austin, a city with a vibrant live music scene and world-renowned art and music festivals. Ole Miss is in Oxford, where I think Widespread Panic may have played a couple of times. The University of Texas is the EVIL ORANGE EMPIRE. Ole Miss is more of a Republic of Complacent Preppy People, whose motto for years has been, “We may not win every game but we’ve never lost a party. Hoddy Toddy, ya’ll.”

I wonder if we can re-apply for a new arch-enemy in the SEC. Ole Miss doesn’t seem good enough to be our nemesis. Hey LSU, wanna hate somebody?

That will be the last time a team coached by Nutt beats the Hogs. We won’t have to worry about Ole Miss being our “rival” for very long. Nutt and company will become our whipping boys soon enough and we can focus on more hard-to-beat teams. The team that played the Hogs last Saturday wass the best class Nutt will have at Oxford – one recruited by someone else – it will go downhill in Oxford from here on out. Meanwhile, there’s good times to come with the Razorbacks coached by Bobby Petrino.

Nutt will be the coach at Ole Miss forever. Ole Miss is never going to win at anything, and they don’t really care if they do or not. They’re like the Chicago Cubs of the SEC. All they want is to go to a bowl game, any bowl game, every other year or so. So Houston Nutt is their man. I can see them now, in their nicely pressed Izod shirts at the casinos in Shreveport after the Independence Bowl saying, “Wow! This place has gambling just like Tunica. I hope we come here every year.”

NEW Tim McGraw cologne!

2008-10-23T15:12:00.000-07:00

Doing my regular web surfing I came across a banner ad for this stuff and I threw up in my mouth a little bit. Tim McGraw cologne? WTF?

Three celebrities that I know of who have a “scent” named after them = Britney Spears, Debbie Gibson and now … Tim McGraw.

First off, I’m not a fan of Mr. McGraw’s (or so-called “radio-country” in general). I couldn’t name one song of his at gunpoint. All I know is he’s married to Faith Hill. I couldn’t name one song of her songs either; I just know she’s pretty hot and doesn’t like losing at awards shows.

Why do I care then? Well, there’s something about the concept of a cuntry musician (misspelling completely intentional) with a cologne that makes me mad as hell. I guess it’s my appreciation of Johnny Cash, Clint Eastwood movies and my respect for manhood in general.

After my initial reaction, I had a second thought: maybe he did the public a service and created a scent that is an honest representation of what country music should smell like – an equal combination of Skoal spit, Budweiser, Marlboro Reds and horseshit. I mean, he’s pretty good at packaging shit and mass producing it for the public. Have you heard his music?

But, when I looked up the description for the product on the Kohl’s website (Kohl’s = KA – LASS -EEE) I discovered it was your typical run-of-the-mill metrosexual cologne made for douche bags, by douche bags. In the description, the “top notes” (whatever that means) say “bergamot and nutmeg.” The “middle notes” (still I’m clueless) are “lavendar and moss.” The “base notes” (?) are “amber, patchouli, sandalwood and aged whiskey.”

Oooooo! Lavendar and moss, how pretty!! And I just love a good sandalwood! In all seriousness, the aged whiskey isn’t a bad touch – now we’re starting to smell like a cowboy – but he went and put patchouli in it. Patchouli – the sent that hippies have been using in lieu of bathing since 1968.

McGraw, why did you have to go and wuss up Country Music more than Big & Rich were already doing? I would say that Johnny Cash is spinning in his grave right now, but I know JC wouldn’t fraternize with such an “artist” as yourself. If told of this news, he would simply say, “Tim who?”

Just for fun, lets find out what the “scent” of REAL country musicians would be like:

“Honeysuckle Rose” by Willie Nelson – The strong, pungent smell of Bong Water complemented by horse sweat from a freshly squeezed saddle blanket, with a hint of Bio-Diesel

“Highway Man” by Waylon Jennings – Half whiskey, half gunpowder . Shake well and apply with can of WD40.

“BLACK” by Johnny Cash – Just as black is the absence of color, “BLACK” is the absence of smell.

“White Trash” by David Alan Coe – Ingredients within are an ancient redneck secret (Pearl in a can and Jack Daniels’ Black)

I would buy any one of the above products at a premium price. I wouldn’t wear them, but I would buy them. I would make sure the bottle was closed tightly, and I would place it carefully under a velvet, oil painting of John Wayne.

If you want to know what Tim McGraw’s cologne should smell like, just imagine the image above with a different label on it. There’s your Tim McGraw “scent” – a douche bag.

Please Mr. McGraw, take Kenny Chesney, Toby Keith, Brooks & Dunn, Big & Rich and your girl perfume and go somewhere. And never come back.

P.S. Please take NASCAR with you (but that’s another blog post)

METAL DAYS – RE-RE-RE-revisited, Part 3 of 3.

2008-10-20T10:40:00.000-07:00

The following is the exciting conclusion to a three-part series about the glory days of METAL! the whole METAL! and nothing but the METAL! So help me God of Thunder. No posers allowed. (If you missed the others check out METAL 1, METAL 2)

By early 1988, I had ditched poser rock for straight up, balls out, thrash METAL! I listened to little else for about a solid year. Those were good times. The experience of switching from lame-ass to kick ass made me learn an awful lot about pre-conceived notions about rock and other things in life. For example, for years I avoided Metallica for fear that they worshiped Satan, or that their lyrics were evil. What I discovered after listening to them was that the subject matter was pretty tame. Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls was obviously inspired by Hemingway, and The Four Horseman was inspired by the Bible. That’s the exact opposite of Satan. Duh!

On a side note, I checked out Slayer too, and yeah they were and are, in fact, evil as shit. But damned if they aren’t METAL!

Although I knew the bands I listened to weren’t Satanic, I considered it kind of a plus that other people thought they were. As a short white kid growing up in eastern Arkansas, it gave me a don’t-you-fool-with-him-he-crazy edge that came in handy sometimes.

Looking back, I probably should have been a little more careful. Just down the road a spell in West Memphis, they put away three other goofy kids for just being METAL! like me. They were listening to the same music I was, and wearing black t-shirts like I did; they just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

On a more positive note, I also learned not to limit my listening tastes to one genre of music. The discovery of Thrash METAL! was such a great experience I ventured out to discover new bands and old bands I’d been missing while bangin’ my head to Quit Riot. Bands like the Ramones. Thanks, Thrash METAL!

One night, TBS played a cut up version of Rock n’ Roll High School and I discovered the Ramones. The Ramones led to the Sex Pistols, and other punk bands. That led to post-punk bands like the Talking Heads. By that time I was so musically open-minded, I was digging the Violent Femmes and R.E.M.

Side note: I’m probably the only person alive who credits Metallica for turning him on to R.E.M.

Another side note: There were other bands I was listening to, but to list them would be a lame, pretentious attempt to prove how hip I was/am. I’m sure you were listening to way cooler bands than I was, even before I was listening to them.

By the time grunge kicked in, I was fully ready to embrace it. Bands like Soundgarden and Alice in Chains were every bit as heavy as the METAL! I was listening to. Besides I was already wearing flannel. Hell, I still wear flannel.

Looking back, I realize how funny it is that kids think the genre of music they listen to should dictate how they dress. The above photo is a good example. I look around the mall today and see a bunch of teenaged EMO kids that are going to be embarrassed someday (at least the dudes should be, anyhow, jeez).

My open-mindedness to music didn’t always lead me down good paths either. In college I did a brief stint as a neo-Hippie. But as it turns out I was a huge failure at that. Not because I didn’t dig the music, but because my daddy wasn’t rich enough for me to take an entire summer off to “follow Panic.” Unlike the rest of the trustfundafarians, I had to get a frikin’ job. Here’s a reenactment of a conversation I had with some frisbee chuckin earth cookie in 1995 A.D. (After the Death of Jerry Garcia)

ME: Man, that’s a bummer that Jerry is gone. I’m glad I got to see him in concert in Memphis before he died.
Earth Cookie: How many Dead shows have you seen?
ME: Just the one.
E.C.: Bwaa ha ha! You’re such a newb, Brah! I’ve seen the Dead over 67 times, seen Panic 56, and Phish 230 times, all on acid Brah!
ME: Newb? I’ve got Europe ’72 on vinyl.
E.C.: You’re clueless man, just clueless. Let me get you some tapes, from some real shows, Brah. Some Phish, some Panic, Brah!
ME: Tapes? Like a cassette tape? Who the hell has a tape player anymore?
E.C.: You’re the one with the firkin’ record player?
ME: Touche’

STATE OF METAL TODAY

The other thing I learned the hard way was not to engage in hero worship of these guys. Even my saviors of METAL!, Metallica, turned out to be pretty douchey themselves. And no, I’m not about to go on a tirade about Lars’ battle with Napster. Robbing music for free on the internets may be fun as hell, but taking away those record sales from the recording artists strips them of the ability to achieve the goal of every rock n’ roller – to make enough money to be above the law and have kinky sex with multiple partners. Well, when you say it out loud it doesn’t sound like such a good argument.

But they got douchey in other aspects. First they SOLD THE EFF OUT after the Black Album, and it turns out they were constantly hazing their “new” bass player for years just because he replaced Cliff Burton. If there is a METAL! bone in your body I highly recommend that you avoid the documentary “St. Anger” about the band recording the worst “metal” album ever. It shows them actually having therapy sessions … with a “band therapist.” Is this Metallica or Matchbox 20?

There’s also several minutes devoted to Lars and his dad and the issues they have. Then there’s a terrible scene where Lars and Dave Mustaine talk about their feelings, and how Dave has so much rage bottled up inside for being kicked out of the band. Ugh! Never mind Matchbox 20, the New Kids on the Block were more METAL! than that.

Word of advice to Metallica – DON’T DO ANY MORE DOCUMENTARIES IF YOU ARE GOING TO ACT LIKE VAGINAS!

But the state of the METAL! is not all bad. In fact the thing that made me start reminiscing about my METAL! days in the first place was a show on the Cartoon Network's Adult Swim, Metalocolypse, about a fictional METAL! band, Dethklok. This is the work of creator Brenden Small, who aside from being an excellent cartoon creator, stand-up comedian and actor, is an awesome musician.

The show packs a ton of references to the METAL! days – everything from Scandinavian Death Metal to a “rock n’ roll clown” named Dr. Rockso who is a cross between David Lee Roth and Gene Simmons. If you are/were a fan of any of the METAL! genres, I highly recommend it.

Small, a graduate of the Berklee College of Music, writes and plays all the music performed by the fictional Dethklok on the show. Small, as Dethklok, put an album out in 2007, the Dethalbum. I have this to say about it: I own it. It is all that is METAL!. It may be the best damn METAL! album of all time. Seriously.

He even got some touring musicians and took it on the road. They’re awesome. I’ll shut up about it now.

In Closing

I’m of the opinion that if you ever pumped your fist in the air to a guitar riff, you will always be a member of the fraternity of black-T-shirt-wearing-mullet-sporting punkards that are METAL! kids. You may have strayed away, but as Bob Segar says, “Rock n’ Roll Never Forgets” (Hey! Bob Segar is not METAL!). That’s why I tend to find Tenacious D absolutely hilarious, while others find them funny but don’t get some of their more obscure references. Jack Black and I were probably playing air guitar to the same Dio tape.

Today, certain aspects of METAL! that we listened to in the past are not only tame, but downright mainstream. For example, Ozzy’s whole family is a household name, with the Osbournes having their own TV show and Sharon being a celebrity judge and talk show host. You can’t even listen to an SEC football game without hearing a marching band play a rendition of Ozzy’s Crazy Train. In my day, letting someone know you listen to Ozzy would get you a visit from the local Baptist Church youth director trying to save your soul.

Even the most evil/METAL! band of my time, Slayer, has a song on the very mainstream video game, Guitar Hero. How in the hell did this happen?

It makes me kind of feel sorry for the METAL! kids of today. Nothing is shocking anymore. Since everything has pretty much been done already, the new generation of METAL! has been forced over the edge of ridiculous just trying to be shocking. Just take a look at Slipknot. Really, guys? Ok. We get it, you’re sooo evil (yawn).

I’m kind of looking forward to see what kind of music my son will listen to in the name of rebellion. I mean, how do you shock an old-skool METAL! guy like me? Poor little guy, there’s no music he can listen to that will repulse his old man. Unless … he puts on a pair of cowboy boots and asks for money to go see the Kenny Chesney concert … NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Brian Pohsehn Rules!

2008-10-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

This post could very well be called “I have the coolest wife in the world,” but that would just be bragging. Besides if she hears I said something like that, it will go to her head. Lucky for me she never reads this blog.

One afternoon I was checking The Fayetteville Flyer like I always do to get my know about the haps in town. What I read made me so excited I almost shat myself! I’m just kidding; I didn’t almost shit myself. So after I cleaned up, I read that one of my favorite comedians was going to be performing at my college alma mater that very night! How on earth did I not realize that Brian Posehn was going to be in town, and at my old school no less?

There was no time to beat myself up. I had to act fast. As a recently new parent, I just can’t go about making plans for a night out on the same day. Even though I was at work, I had to put that on hold for a while and make some stuff happen. I called my wife at 2 p.m. and we both hastily made calls for babysitters … but to no avail. About 4 o’clock my wife did the coolest thing ever –- she gave me permission to go while she stayed home with the kid. What a gal, huh?

Now she’s not the Posehn nut that I am, but she does enjoy stand up comedy and a good night out so it was a pretty selfless act. I owe her one, big time. So if ya’ll see me at the mall some weekend, holding my wife’s hand with one arm while carrying a bunch of sacks of shoes with the other, or at a movie starring Reese Witherspoon you’ll know why.

No matter what she has in store for me, it’s cool, cause as mentioned earlier, Posehn Rawks! I’d give a full review, but I wouldn’t do him justice. Also in the line up for the show was Hard N’ Phirm. Lotsa laughs, I highly recommend them too.

METAL DAYS RE- RE-revisited, Part 2 of 3.

2008-09-29T14:39:00.000-07:00

The following is Part 2 in the three-part series examining the golden age of metal. The PMRC says parental guidance is suggested while reading. (Part 1 here)

In 1987 I came to the realization that the majority of my Hair Metal heroes were in fact nothing more than posers in tights and make-up that Tammy Faye Bakker would consider tacky. I was devastated. I had put a lot of stock in my hard rockin’ image. My mullet was just right, but now there was a very real possibility I would have to give myself a new identity. I could no longer be affiliated with these cock-knocker rockers. But I wasn’t about to get a hair cut.

I had to consult with my METAL mentor, the one dude in Jr. High whose mullet was longer than mine. This guy had more black t-shirts than I did, his amp was louder than mine, and he actually knew how to play his guitar! He appeared as though he might actually have a criminal record, which was a major source of respect to me in those days. To protect his identity – because I think now he’s actually in law enforcement instead of into breaking the law – we’ll call the dude Axel. I couldn’t approach Axel in the halls because he was an upperclassmen and his people would break me, or at least I thought they would at the time. So I decided to get detention, on purpose, to approach him and ask about the state of the METAL.

ME: Sup, dude?
AXEL: (sarcastic tone) Nice Cinderella shirt. Dude, those guys are posers, dude.
ME: Yeah, I know, dude. Only clean shirt I had. You know, cause I’ve been partying every day so much lately, not to mention rockin’ all night.
AXEL: I only listen to thrash metal now, dude.
ME: Yeah. Me too, dude. Thrash metal, it’s all about the thrash metal now. Uh … who would you say specifically you are thrashing out the most to now a days?
AXEL: You know, Anthrax, Megadeth, Slayer and OF COURSE Metallica, dude.
ME: Oh yeah! Metallica rules, dude!

So, needless to say, I had to go out and get myself a Metallica tape*. I had avoided purchasing Metallica or thrash metal tapes in general up until this point, not because I didn’t enjoy the hardness with which they rocked, but because the lingering guilt of my Southern Babdiss upbringing made me worry about Satan. The bible thumpers always listed Metallica and Ozzy Osbourne among the most evil ones in Heavy Metal. And rocking out to them would surely cause you to rock your way straight to Hell. But these were desperate times; I decided to give them a listen at risk to my eternal soul.

As a side note I also tried listening to the Christian rockers, Stryper one time. Even going as far as purchasing their album To Hell with the Devil. I soon discovered what Hank Hill would sum up nicely many years later, “Christian rock doesn’t make God any cooler, it just makes rock lamer.”

So, I wanted to get my hands on a Metallica tape, but I didn’t want to shell out the $10 for a cassette of a band I hadn’t listened to yet. I had been burned before with Dokken (jeez, they were AWFUL). There’s $9.99 I will never get back. My folks were pretty well off, but I didn’t just get cassette tapes produced by possibly satanic rock bands whenever I asked for them. Those gifts were reserved for special occasions… like Christmas. Being that Christmas and my birthday were months away, I had to go with plan b.

You see, in the 80’s we had a pretty low-tech version of file sharing. It was called “dubbing.” A boom box with two tape recording decks could get you a copy of your buddy’s tapes and vice-versa. It’s kind of funny how people were already ripping off Metallica’s shit years before Metallica drummer, Lars Ulrich, threw such a hissy fit about the whole Napster thing. No wonder that dude is so pissed.

What I ended up getting through the metal head’s tape sharing community was a dub, of a dub, of a dub of a version of one Metallica song, For Whom the Bell Tolls, recorded off the radio. I know this because the DJ came in before the song ended. I give props to whoever recorded the original. You had to stay up pretty late on a weeknight to hear Metallica on the classic rock radio station out of Memphis.

Now before Lars sics the Metal Militia’s law force on me, it should be known that I legally purchased Ride the Lightening in its entirety once on tape and again on CD. It should also be noted that I legally purchased the entire Metallica catalog up until and including The Black Album (before you guys got lame).

When I brought the tape home from school that night, I was excited, but nervous. The only thing I knew about Metallica was what I read in my Metal magazines. The band was taking a break from recording after the death of their bassist, Cliff Burton. I also heard from the Bible thumpers that they and Ozzy Osbourne were Devil worshipers and if you listened to their songs backwards it would cause you to do evil stuff like sacrifice your cat to Satan by putting lipstick on its ass and throwing it in the deep fryer. Not being that attached to my cat, I decided to proceed.

I pressed play on my boom box … the usual 4 to 5 seconds of wind tunnel sound came on … then the bells … the same as AC/DC’s Hells Bells, except somehow more creepy … then one short, loud METAL guitar riff, that was louder and more rockin’ than any I have heard before or since. These dudes accomplished in three chords more METAL than any of the douche-nozzle hair bands in my tape collection

Immediately following the aggressive guitar blast, was a high octave, noodling bass riff, played from beyond the grave by Cliff Burton himself, that sounded like a cross between the few notes from the into of the Twilight Zone and the theme from the Halloween movies.

Then the guitar riff, then the bass riff again… this pattern repeated … drums kicked in … the church bells clanged in time … then a heavy note crunching of guitar, bass, and drums, the likes of which I had never heard in all my METAL days. Head was bangin’, horns were flashing. I was hooked, even before James Hetfield had belted out the words “Make us fight on the hill in the early day …”

I ceremoniously ripped down the poster above my bed of the glammed-out Motley Crue in their Theatre of Pain get ups. In its place I put up a poster of Metallica from my most recent Metal magazine purchase. I had seen through the bullshit. No longer was I going to adorn the walls in my room with posters of dudes that looked like chicks in make up and hair spray. From now on I would adorn the walls in my room with posters of dudes that looked like ugly chicks without make up and hair spray.

Good bye, panty waste sissy rock. Hello Ass-kicking, heavy METAL! Rockin’ would be my business … and business would be good.

*Short for cassette tape, common medium for listening to music in the mid to late 1980’s

METAL DAYS RE-revisited, Part 1 of 3.

2008-09-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

The following is the first in a three-part series about my hard-rocking METAL years of Jr. High. If you can relate, crank up the volume all the way to 11 and take a journey to the golden age of metal. If you cannot relate you probably were into the band Journey and were LAME).

As evidenced from the accompanying pic, I was once pretty effin’ METAL. I guess my AC/DC shirt was in laundry limbo that day. Yes, this photo is of yours truly circa 1987. Notice the plumage of the mullet, the curl under both of the ears. If I hadn’t hidden my identity with the skull face, (I do have some shame, after all) you could also notice my cold, blank stare and menacing scowl. My goal was to look like a juvenile delinquent. I accomplished this quite nicely, I think.

The beginnings of my METAL habit can be traced back to 1984. I know this because that was the year Van Halen came out with the appropriately titled album,1984. I owned this album on an actual album, one that you play on a phonograph or record player. For the record (no pun intended) fourth graders should not handle vinyl. There are so many scratches on it today it’s just worthless. It’s a damn shame too, I often want to spin it and listen to Hot for Teacher.

Van Halen led to AC/DC, AC/DC led to led to Motley Crue, Motley Crue led to Judas Priest. I also discovered Aerosmith through the help of Run DMC. In 1987, a band called Guns N’ Roses came along and changed everything! When I heard Appetite for Destruction it blew me away! I became a full-fledged METAL kid. That was my identity. Long hair? Check. Levi’s 501 jeans in Blue and Black? Check. Metal Mania magazine and like-minded publications? Check. Assortment of black T-shirts letting people know what bands I consider awesome? Check. Hells yeah! METAL!

I was a mullet-headed, acne-faced, wanna-be hooligan with an electric guitar, Pevey amp, and distortion pedal. My motto was “rock n’ roll all night, and party every day”, although I didn’t have the slightest idea of what rocking or partying was, or why we could use these words as verbs as well as nouns. My idea of “partying every day” was having friends over to play Super Mario Brothers. “Rocking n’ Rolling” all night meant turning the sound down on the TV while playing Super Mario Brothers and listening to Def Leopard’s Pyromania.

As an impressionable kid, I was buying into every glam-metal, bullshit hair band the recording industry tried to shove down our throats. Poison? All right. Ratt? Ok. Cinderella? Ok. I guess. Whitesnake? Ok. Great White? Ok. White Lion? It was right about the time I noticed the eighth band with “White” in its name I said, “HEY! Wait a minute? This sucks!”

These guys weren’t METAL! They didn’t even Rock! What is rockin or metal about Extreme’s More than Words? What does that say? “I have long hair and like to rock out with electric guitars, but there’s a sensitive side to me as well that makes me want to harmonize in falsetto!” That’s about as METAL as Richard Marx.

I cracked the code. I saw what these douchey butt-rockers were trying to do to us. They would put out a shitty album, then release their first “single” from said album, which would be a rocker. That song would appear on MTV. Then they would put out the slow “power ballad” to get teen-aged girls to dig them, go on tour, have a sex with said under-aged teenaged girls, release another album and repeat process. I came to this conclusion, sometime in 1987, but the Hair Metal Train kept on rolling. Don’t think these dipshits had a formula? Check out the following time line.

1986 Cinderella’s NightSongs
Rocker = Shake Me
Power Ballad = Nobody’s Fool

1987 White Lion’s Pride
Rocker = Wait
Power Ballad = When the Children Cry

1988 Poison’s Open up and say …. Ahh!
Rocker = Nothing but a Good Time
Power Ballad = Every Rose has its Thorn

1989 Warrant’s Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich
Rocker = Down Boys
Power Ballad = Heaven

1990 FireHouse’s FireHouse
Rocker = Don’t Treat me Bad
Power Ballad = Love of a Lifetime

Sometime after Poison, but before Warrant (God they were awful weren’t they?) I jumped off the Hair Metal party train. Did I stop rocking? Did I avoid guitar-based rock n’ roll in favor of acoustic folk music? Did I enjoy the electronic-based techno music from Great Britain? Ha! You underestimate my commitment to balls out METAL!

When the Rock becomes lame. The true Rockers rock even harder!

… to be continued.

We should all wear scrubs.

2008-09-25T14:18:00.000-07:00

I’ve been trying to watch what I eat lately, so I avoid the drive-thrus on my lunch breaks. Yesterday I went to Subway, a-la-Jared. I figure that’s a good way to lose a couple of inches off the ole’ waistband.

While I’m waiting in line for my meatball sandwich I notice the group of people in front of me are all wearing scrubs. You know what scrubs are, the loose-fitting, V-neck shirt and pant combo made in the comfy cotton/polly blend typically worn by doctors and nurses.

Now these folks were definitely not doctors. I’m not saying anything disparaging about their appearance or anything, but they just didn’t give off that doctor quality. For the record, I’m sure I wouldn’t pass for a doctor either, even if I had scrubs, a stethoscope and one of those cool headbands with a mirror attached to it. So let it be known, I am not putting them down. I’m just extremely jealous.

You would be jealous too if you could see how incredibly freaking comfortable these people looked. Here it was, the middle of the workweek, and these hard-working folks are about to eat in a public establishment wearing what are essentially pajamas. Take notice next time you see someone on a shopping errand or at a fast-food eatery wearing scrubs, you’ll see a very comfortable person, confident in what they are wearing.

People in scrubs must constantly be thinking, “Yeah, this elastic waistband with the draw string is less constricting than your whole pants with a belt and a belt loop thing you’ve got going on, thank you for noticing. But you know what? I’ve been to work today, and I work hard for my money. I’ve earned the right to be this comfortable!”

Well, maybe not all of them are thinking that all the time, but I know I sure would be.

Why do some people get to wear scrubs while others do not? The most well known professions that society deems scrubs-worthy are doctors, nurses, dentists, and dental assistants. Based on this list, you could come to the conclusion that scrubs are only to be worn by those in the health field. But in the words of Lee Corso, “Not so fast my friend.”

When I drop off my son at daycare, the daycare professionals (is that what you call them?) are also experiencing the casual, carefree comfort of scrubs. And I’m not saying they shouldn’t be. They have enough poop, puke, slobber, snot and any number of un-named bodily fluids coming out of those kids to deal with. They don’t need to worry about keeping up with current fashion trends at work. An easily cleanable, relatively in-expensive work uniform is entirely appropriate.

But by this rationale, shouldn’t my wife, an elementary school teacher, get to wear scrubs too? She deals with all sorts of grossness coming out of kids’ noses and other face holes. Think back to your elementary school days. You remember how often a kid puked in class and the janitor had to bring that bucket of sawdust to the room? That’s my wife’s life on a daily basis. She also has finger paints, inks, glue, markers and other messy craft-making equipment that could stain her clothes. Yet my wife is always dressed in the highest fashion appropriate for any occasion. She has impeccable tastes … and she pays for it too.

America’s work force should STOP THE MADNESS. We ALL deserve the comfort of wearing scrubs. Fashions developed by Seven Jeans, Abercrombie & Fitch and other really, really high-end places (like the one I purchase my gear at – Target) should only be worn at singles bars when trying to get laid. That way you let people know the “open for business” sign is up. On work occasions, regardless of the profession, scrubs should be worn.

Believe me I’ve often contemplated wearing scrubs myself, even though I am not affiliated with any of the above-mentioned jobs. There’s just this fear that I’ll be going into Walgreens to get some milk or something, and somebody I know will be like, “hey, Bret … you get a new job?” And I’ll have to be all, “no, why?” It will be a pretty uncomfortable situation. What would be worse though is if I’m sitting in a fine restaurant somewhere and somebody chokes on a bite of double stack with cheese. Then people will see me with my scrubs on and get the wrong idea. It might go like this:

Concerned Citizen: Sir! Sir! Help us, please! Are you a doctor?”
ME: No, but thank you for thinking I could be … I didn’t really think I had that doctor-like quality…
Concerned Citizen: Never mind that! We have a situation here. Are you a nurse? A dentist?
Me: No. I ahh …
Concerned Citizen: Daycare worker?
Me: No, but I think they have every right to wear comfortable, easy to wash clothing.
Concerned Citizen: Oh, yes. I agree. And public and private school teachers as well.

And before you know it, the poor guy is dead. So until we as society as a whole accept that scrubs are for everyone, not just certain professions, I won’t wear them. I’ll continue with my constricting jeans and collared shirts that the system deems appropriate for me to wear. Since I work at a cubicle (or career station, as my co-worker calls it) no comfy scrubs for me.

P.S. Aren’t you glad I made it through this entire blog without mentioning that stupid show on NBC.

Bama fan base comes to town, hilarity ensues.

2008-09-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

Been a busy week. Lot of changes at work, my 401-k has been plummeting, and the new season of Always Sunny in Philadelphia premiered on Thursday.

So no time to post. Instead, in honor of the Arkansas v. Bama game going on in my hometown this weekend, I give you this awesome pic of the "Crimson Mafia" I skraight up stoled from deepsouthsports.net. There's just so much to rip on in this photo: the Bear Bryant houndstooth, the do-rag, the dude caught in the process of putting in a dip, and the kid giving us the I'm-tough-in-an-A.J. Soprano-kind-of-way look.

So enjoy this photo, and talk amoungst yerselves. Hope Bobby P. and the Hogs roll over the Tide.

Have a good weekend.

Vote Irish this November.

2008-09-09T12:29:00.001-07:00

I never set out to write a political blog, because there’s just so many out there already. I don’t think I can really add anything to the political blogosphere that hasn’t been said already. But since this is an election year, and a HUGELY important election at that, I felt the need to at least mention it and tell you whom BeyondWriterDome is endorsing in the 2008 presidential election. (You know, because it’s such a powerful endorsement.)

For the record, I’ve never, ever, ever voted Republican before in my life. However, I think it’s important to throw partisan parties out the window while researching candidates. You need to be objective and consider yourself an American first and foremost. Look at issues beyond party affiliation.

That’s why I’ve decided to vote for the candidate with the most Irish sounding last name. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Your last name isn’t very Irish sounding.” Well, hold on there for a minute. While it’s true that the “ington” part of my last name is most commonly associated with the English, there are some “ingtons” in Ireland. Take PGA golfer and British Open winner, Padraig Harrington.

Born in Dublin Ireland, Harrington's first name is Padraig. I think Padraig, the Gaelic spelling of Patrick, has to be the most Irish name in the world. This guy is as Irish as a potato soaked in Jameson. Damn! That guy has a cool name. He may be the only guy in the world whose name is cooler than mine. If he had won the British Open last year instead of this year, I would have heard about him sooner and named my son after him. Padraig Ellington, now THAT’S a cool firkin name. But I digress.

So, even though my first name is most commonly associated with WASPy frat guys and comic singers in folk-parody duos from New Zealand, I can relate to the great Irish-American heritage in this country. Our next president should too. Kennedy was a great American president and an Irish-American. We need more of the hardworking, salt-of-the-earth, middle-American values that Irish-Americans hold true. That’s why I’m pleased to announce that BeyondWriterDome is throwing their support behind O’Bama.

O’Bama is from Chicago, Illinois, a city with a long history of Irish-Catholic Americans with a bluecollar work ethic. My long extensive research on this candidate also says that he is of mixed ethnic background of some sort. I don’t know what his mother’s background is, but it’s clear that a senator from Chicago with a name like Barry O’Bama, must have had a very Irish daddy. I wonder if his dad’s name was Padraig. I digress, once again.

Now you may be thinking, “Well, McCain is a pretty Irish-sounding name too.” Well if you think that then you are really showing your ignorance. McCain is a name that is more frequently associated with the Scottish. You really should think harder and do more research before you mistakenly lump people into ethnic backgrounds like that. It could be considered offensive.

So let’s make St. Patrick’s Day come early this year, and vote Barry O’Bama for president of these United States. Erin Go Bragh, Barry!

NOTE: This piece of satire is not to be taken seriously, nobody is that stupid outside of the Bush family. In all seriousness though, vote Obama.

An open letter to Tim Tebow.

2008-09-02T19:23:00.000-07:00

Dear Timbo,

Just want to tell you how happy I am that your name was not included in Playboy’s pre-season All-American team . You don’t need your name associated with such a sinful publication that degrades women and promotes perversion. Whether it was your decision or the University of Florida’s, it is clear that the decision was made because the name “Tim Tebow” stands for good, wholesome, American Christian values of the Baptist variety.

Just one thing: recently ESPN acquired the rights to broadcast a massive chunk of SEC football games. And since you’re on the run for your second Heisman, the network will be wanting to show Gator Football a plenty this season. This concerns me greatly because, as many people know, ESPN is constantly showing commercials for Coors Light, Miller Lite,and Bud Light.

I know that you would not want your name to promote the sin of drunkenness anymore than you would want it supporting pornography. As I see it you have only one option – quit playing football for the SEC.

You’ll probably miss the game of football very much, but it’s not like you were going to seriously consider going into the NFL! Those games have beer served at the stadium, which often turns into drunken debauchery .

I’m not even going to mention the scantily-clad cheerleaders
who are part-time strippers and sex-addicted, drug-crazed
lesbians. Definitely not a family-type atmosphere.

This will be quite a lifestyle change for you, so you should probably ease out of it. My advice is to go ahead and play the Miami, Tennessee, and Ole Miss games and get it out of your system. But you should most certainly quit playing before October 4 (the Arkansas game). If you’re still playing football by then … well some people may consider that just down-right un-Baptist of you, especially the Baptist here in Arkansas.

Just looking out for you,

Bret

This season may hurt a bit.

2008-08-31T20:25:00.000-07:00

Whew! I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t more than a little concerned about the fact that the Razorbacks came EXTREMELY close to losing their cupcake game to a “directional school.” This year’s supposed patsy, Western Illinois, gave the Hogs everything they wanted and more. It may be a long season.

Rebuilding years are tough. We have an exciting new coach and a lot of young, talented players, so the future looks bright for the years ahead. It’s just going to be a while getting to that point. Meanwhile, with arguably the toughest schedule in the NCAA including the top-tier of the SEC and old rival Texass (not a typo), this year is going to sting.

I are teh profeshenal righter on teh world wide interwebs.

2008-08-13T09:27:00.000-07:00

Hi, I’m Bret, and this is my “professional” blog, in that it will have samples and news of my creative endeavors outside of my paying gig. So you won’t see a whole lot of general info on the wife and the kid and I, unless that stuff appears in the writing I’m doing, which it does from time to time. If you want to read more general stuff about the fam please check out my wife’s myspace page that she updates religiously.

Here is some short personal stuff about me in case you don’t know me and wonder what kind of subject matter you can expect on BeyondWriterDome: I’m married, an obsessive sports fan, and I’m a pop-culture/comic-book nerd. I know what you’re thinking – “your wife must weep herself to sleep every night.” You would think so, but actually she’s generally pretty supportive. Now you’re probably thinking – “Oh, she must be ugly.” But the truth is she’s hot, and I still wonder how the hell I talked her in to marrying me. She must have a warped sense of what constitutes a good husband, or I’m just one lucky bastard.

We have one kid, who is the most even-tempered, laid-back, cutest little dude you have ever met. I must have been a saint in a former life because I have done absolutely nothing in this one to deserve either of them.

Since this is my website, I’m going to make up some rules that I don’t expect any
readers to actually follow:

1. Don’t comment on the numerous typos and mistakes you’re bound to find on this website. I make a living neurotically worrying about that stuff at my day job. I’ll try to keep mistakes to a minimum.
2. Yes I realize how funny it is that I used the word “Dome” in the title of the blog and I’m a bald guy. The pun is intentional, and you’ll find I have a pretty self-depreciating sense of humor. (That’s not really a rule is it?)
3. If I offend you in any way with any of the content that appears here, please save us all a lot of time by not commenting and just going away. Have a nice day and go frick yourself.

But seriously, thanks for reading and come back often.

One of my favorite old jokes.

2008-08-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

I DID NOT WRITE THIS JOKE. I don’t know where it came from, but I heard this one along time ago back in grade school, so it should be public domain:

A guy has been having migraine headaches for as long as he can remember. Over the course of many years, he’s had several tests done, but the doctors can never tell him why he’s having these headaches. Every day he is in pain, and he’s considering suicide.

One day the doctors call him with some news. Although they still don’t know why he’s having these headaches, they do know the source of them – his testicles. The doctor has good news and bad news: The good news is they are 100% sure they can cure him. The bad news is they have to surgically remove both of his testicles.

The man doesn’t want to loose what he considers his manhood, but he gives this long, hard consideration. Given the choice of suicide, living with the migraines or having no testicles, the man reluctantly decides to have the surgery. He does, and all goes well. After the surgery is over, he feels better than he has in his entire life!!

Walking down the street with a new lease on life, he passes a fine Italian suit store. He decides since he feels so good, he should look good too. He’s going to live it up and get fitted.

He walks in and tells the Italian tailor that he wants his finest Italian suit, and that money is no object. He asks to see something in a 42 regular. The Italian man looks him up and down and says, “Excuse’, signor, please try this 44 regular, I think it fitta you better,” and hands him a suit jacket to try on.

The man puts it on and it’s the best fit he has had in his life. He’s amazed! “How did you know without measuring?” the man asks.

“I’m a tailor, itsa my job to know these things!”

Next the tailor gets him a shirt, “You are a seven-and-a-half neck, 35 inches on-a left arm and a 36 inches on-a right arm,” he says.

“Wow! How did you know that?” asks the man.

“I’m a tailor, itsa my job to know these things! Next, we getta you pants. What size?”

“Well, I’ve been wearing a 34 waist with a 33-inch inseam.”

The tailor says, “No, no! You want a 35-inch inseam. A 33 will ride too high on you nuts and giva you headaches!”

I love a good joke with a moral. The point here is sometimes when life has got you down, you still have to live it up. If that guy had got that Italian suit earlier, he might still have his berries.

-30-, bitches.

FF or WoW – what’s geekier?

2008-08-26T21:14:00.000-07:00

Which pastime has the higher concentration of geeks – Fantasy Football or World of Warcraft? Of course all the frat guys are going to say “What!?! Fantasy Football is football, it’s not dorky! Those Dungeons and Dragons dudes are NERDS!!! Nerds! Nerds! Nerds!” Well not so fast there, Ogre. Talking about either for a prolonged length of time at the party is like spraying Chick Repellent on yourself before you leave the house. The fact that your game has the word “Fantasy” in it doesn’t win you any cool points either.

In the interest of total disclosure, I do play Fantasy Football and I was in a frat, and my name is Bret – crissakes, talk about stereotypes – and I think FF is frickin’ awesome!! But I didn’t always think so. Before I started playing FF three seasons ago, I would equate FF with WoW. And this would piss my Fantasy Football playing friends off to no end – which of course is why I did it. I also maintained that I was too busy following my beloved college team, the Arkansas Razorbacks, and this passion had no room for other passions. But I played, and now, I realize, that the only thing better than football in the fall is MORE football in the fall. But my stance remains, if altered a bit, that they’re both pretty dorky.

Last Saturday I was in the B-dub-dub (Buffalo Wild Wings) with a couple of friends of mine, having a beer and watching baseball and Olympic coverage (multiple TV’s allow you to do both). They proceeded to tell me about their experiences in the world that is World of Warcraft. I have to admit it sounded fun! I can totally see myself playing it. But since I already have so many geeky obsessions anyway, including comic books, vinyl records, and sports (watching more than playing) on top of Fantasy Football, I figured WoW would be one geeky obsession too many. Some would argue I hit that marker many moons ago.

Lets think about this another way. Given the recent trend of Geek Chic – what was once uncool is now cool. So consider this little essay to be an attempt to gain acceptance for my FF playing brethren into the now elite WoW crowd. We’ll go through some geeky topics and see who scores the most geek points.

1. Computer -Technology. Both games are played exclusively on computers. So members of both disciplines must be somewhat tech savvy.

Geek Points Awarded: wash

Score: WoW 0
FF 0

2. Mystical Creatures. WoW is loosely based on D&D, which features characters and critters from the Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia series. So it’s chock full of elves, goblins, trolls, dragons, necromancers and frikin lygers and tigons for all I know. Fantasy Football is based on actual football. Although Chad “Ocho Cinco” Johnson is pretty freaky at times it’s nothing like an orc. However, there are oft-told legends of the elders such as Butkus and Ditka that battled the beasts on the frozen tundra in the north land called Lambeau … aw who am I freakin kidding. WoW gets major points on this. FF gets none.

Geek Points Awarded: WoW – 8 geek points, FF – 0 geek points

Score: WoW 8
FF 0

3. Slang. You may hear WoW dudes talking about a Twink or Twinking, which, according to Wikipedia, “refers to outfitting a new character or player with items or other resources that are not normally available to new or low-level characters.” But yet another definition provided by Wiki for Twink is “a term for young or young-looking gay or bisexual men.” On the other side of the coin you may often hear FF players talking about needing a “good tight end.” Which would explain why most of these dudes’ “fantasy” involves hours upon hours of watching dudes in tight britches.

Geek Points Awarded: None. However, male homo-erotic points are through the roof for both on this one.

Score: WoW 8
FF 0

4. Social Interaction: You probably have images of FF dudes watching football hanging around, chuggin’ brewskis and slapping high fives. That does happen from time to time, but most often games are watched alone, by some poor fat guy with bad skin eating Cheetoes and drinking Diet Mountain Dew, watching his tv and laptop monitor simultaneously, keeping a close eye on the “stat-tracker”, praying that Willie Parker does or doesn’t run those 10 more yards, and hoping he will win this week’s game and advance into the playoffs. I know, because that’s me. Not so glamorous huh?

Geek Points Awarded: WoW – 2 geek points, FF – 5 geek points

Score: WoW 10
FF 5

5. Chicks (or lack thereof): It’s no secret that both of these hobbies are severely lacking in participants of the fairer sex. To be fair, I’m married and so are my friends I was speaking to at B-dub-dub. So we’re not online looking for love. But if you are a single dude who participates in either of these hobbies, all hope is not lost. There are a few girls/women who play both FF or WoW.

To the FF dudes: If you find an attractive person of the female persuasion that plays FF, that is a valuable find. As valuable as LaDainian Tomlinson is to your offensive rushing yardage. Odds are she is a uber-cool, jeans-and-t-shirt, low-maintenance, bad-assed chick. But odds are equally high that there’s way more dudes in your FF league than girls. It’s even money that she’s just out of your league in general.

On the other hand, there are probably more girls playing WoW than playing FF, believe it or not. And, there is more of a chance that the girl will be one of those sexy-ass-tattooed-goth-emo “Suicide Girls” type (attention: link is not safe for work).

So advantage here is with the WoW geeks, who get a lot of cool points, which means, unfortunately, that they loose all of their geek points, because interaction with hot, tattooed chicks is something pretty cool.

Final Score: WoW 0
FF 5

In closing, the point here is this: You are really missing out in life if you don’t have something that fills in the blank in this sentence: I am a ______ nerd. And you can’t say you’re a “wine” nerd, or a “cigar” nerd, or a “gourmet” nerd. That would be a connoisseur instead of a “nerd” there, Chet. The truth is we’re all geeks of some kind, and if you don’t have a hobby that a certain sector of the population considers nerdy, or dweeby you’re really missing out in life. There’s nothing like going to a convention celebrating your passion, shop selling your passion or movie showing your passion and being around people who are in your little pop-culture cult. It’s even cooler to discover someone you already know is into the same geeky stuff you’re into.

For instance, my wife and I once PLANNED OUR ENTIRE VACATION around going to the nearest town with an IMAX to watch the latest Harry Potter movie. We’re not just joined in Holy Matrimony; we’re joined in our geekiness.

So, no matter what you chose to put in that blank - whether it’s collecting yard gnomes, dancing to polka music or singing science-fiction folk songs - let your geek flag fly, America! Because being cool is for dorks.

So here’s something cool I did once.

2008-08-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

A very talented artist friend of mine, Kasey Loman, had a web-comic. She also happened to be, and still is, a lesbian. The name of the web-comic was “Hippie and Bulldyke.” (You see, she can use derogatory language about gay people, because she is one.) Kasey once asked me to be a guest “artist.”

Let me explain, I’m not an artist by any stretch of the imagination, nor am I a lesbian. But I do golf, wear flannel shirts, and can tolerate the Indigo Girls. Oh, and I also find women sexually attractive. So I thought i had enough in common with the lesbian community to write a couple of comics.

If you think you’ll enjoy “Lesbian Mayhem at its Finest” as Kasey puts it, I highly recommend hippieandbulldyke.com. If you’re hung up about gay people and are generally a socially conservative, marriage-is-between-a-man-and-a-woman dickwad then you should probably steer clear of it. (and probably my site too)

Since this is my blog site instead of Kasey’s, I’m going to link to the episodes I did. Let me set it up here: I had some fun with the fact that I have no artistic ability, and Kasey encouraged me to make sure people got the idea that the person doing this wasn’t trying to showcase any artistic talents. I “drew” these by hand, with pen so I wouldn’t be tempted to erase them and “draw them better.” Because even though I know I’m not an artist, I’m so neurotic, and I would try like hell to do it “just right.”

I also left all the misspellings in the speech balloon, as I had no freaking eraser.

I thought the end result was pretty funny, and I thank Kasey for the opportunity. Here they are:

#139

#147

#154

#164

#171

#173