Good News and Good Dreams

I have asked a small handful of fellow bloggers, all of which are from one or other of the Carolinas, for permission to link to their blogs from here. Hopefully, that will be the beginning of a small loose network of Carolina blogs. I enjoy each one I read, and feel that others will also. Prior to getting permission though, I won't be linking any of them, except in this post. On Barry Ready's blog "Palmetto Pundit", scroll down to the post titled "It Doesn't Have to be Grim to be a Milestone!" I can't resist referring readers to that post. I've had similar situations so many times on a much smaller, and less serious, scale; but still similar. The borderline valueless media really does put a damper on my spirits. http://palmettopundit.blogspot.com/

Anywho, if you happen to be from either of the Carolinas, have a blog, and would like to be included in the blog links, drop me a line. No damnyankeewannabees need apply. I also almost tripped over David Terrenoire's blog titled "A Dark Planet" which I won't provide a link to in this post because the last couple of his posts I read were carefully uncrafted pieces with key words inserted which may or may not be the intention of the author to generate hits in searches. By key words, I mean phrases such as teen sex, gay marriage, and well, I really didn't analyzee them very closely. Those phrases (teen sex and gay marriage) just jumped off the page in an almost otherwise semi-unrelated narration. Why not include the whole bent list of terms David? There are quiet a list of bloggers out there who regularly use and heavily sprinkle their blogs with various morphations of the "F" word. I find that I can be just as offensive, if not more so, by not using such profanities, vulgarisms and damnyankee regurgitations. However on reflection, perhaps an abundant use of the "F" word gets you more hits from search engines, or more frequently blocked from Net Nanny, and thus fewer adolescent comments. I really don't care. I still wonder if David was using teen sex and gay marriage to garner search engine hits or what. The polite thing would be to ask I suppose.

The "F" word, and all its permutations at one time were my favorite nouns, verbs, adjutives, and adverbs. I still lapse into a string of them when I become extremely addled. Anywho, back to David Terrenoire's tortured outcry of writer's cramps... Okay, truthfully, David I enjoy your writing style. HOWEVER, your most recent two posts suxored badly. Did you have a ghost writer? As a friend of my gay brother is fond of saying, "I unknow". I may sound as the pot calling the kettle black, but I don't proclaim myself to be any kind of writer other than a marginally literate person, dabbling a brush load of simple vocabulary over the canvas of the net. I pronounce the pictures that I paint aren't cute, pretty, nor very amusing. But I know fairly decent writing when I see it, even if I can't do it. David does a fairly decent writing job most of the time. In fact, its much more fairly decent than any writing that I do. And, I consider myself a fairly decent judge of fairly decent writing. Its that really fantastic writing that seems to swim over my head.

Half the renown writers of today are people that seem to make a living by being outlandish or rude, but not by writing. Another fourth of the renown writers have been misclassified as writers. They are actually something else, but I couldn't find the profession listed in the CIA Fact Book, and the word escapes me just now.

Carolina writers though generally have a charm about them that you don't find anywhere else in the world. I hope to prove that point to readers soon, by collecting the links here that will most definitely prove that fact. Hopefully including David Terrenoire's link. He's a transplanted yankee, but been here long enough, and suffered the passions of living Southern long enough, to now qualify as a Southern writer.

I wish I would have followed the advice that was passed to me in my youth by one of the Carolina writers of that time. He said that the way to become a renown writer is to be a prolific writer, but only a prolific writer who hid away at least 95% of what he wrote, and only revealed to his publishers his best 5%. I asked him if it was true that his publishers had published everything that he wrote. He told me no, that they published everything that he ever submitted to them, which was only about 1% of everything he ever wrote.

It seems the writing business is just as much hard work as any other. The callous settles on your brains though, instead of your hands. But, the work is all about the same as that of the hired field hand, and the pay, even more meager. I've worked as a farm hand in the fields. Its hard, back breaking, but honest labor. At the end of the day, you know you've done a days work. It gives you character and personal dignity. I've never submitted my personal dignity to the challenges of pulling something so personal as my written work product and submitting it to a publisher for probabal rejection. That either takes guts or arrogance; maybe a healthy dose of both? Perhaps some Carolina writers who have, can tell us what the slow stream of rejection is like.

I would prefer to experience the joys of an acceptance and offer letter for myself. Yes, I know that New Orleans Snowballs served up on a Carolina Beach sidewalk stand a better chance of surviving the summer than of my getting an acceptanc/offer, ever; probably stands a better chance than that of my ever finishing a submission. But hey, we all like to read and dream. Some of us like to write and dream. The secret is, its not because we necessarily like to, but are driven to. If you are Southern and live beneath the Carolina moon, then you know some things about being driven. Yes, I would say you do. You also know some things about dreams. Yes we do don't we. We like good news and good dreams. Its really good when they are the same. Its just one of the passionate hopes we live for, beneath the Carolina moon.

Dread

Ask the Right Question

Sometimes, even hindsight isn’t clear. I’ve finally gotten around to reading the various accounts and speculations, rumored accounts, etc., surrounding the joyous demise of the rabid animal, deemed by a few journalists as human, Abu-Musab al-Zarqawi, or ever how you spell fecal remnant in Aribineese. There seems to be some speculation that the two five hundred pound bombs that left a huge crater in the earth, uprooted trees, destroyed the house, and killed everyone else in the house, may have left al-Zarqawi wounded and conscious with US troops gut beating him until he died. Sounds like some limp wrested propaganda to me. What are the odds he would be the only survivor of such horrific blasts?

If someone wants to bitch out the US for being inhumane, they might well point out that a little girl, age 5 to 7 also died in the bombing attack. I really don’t find it offensive that someone may have taken a personal vendetta against a man who sawed people’s heads off to video tape for showing off his politics and religion to the world. Some bad old troops may have gut stomped that SOB? Awe…breaks my heart! SO NOT!

I realize that war has casualties. Some of them just plain must be done, such as blowing apart the entire being of a personality like al-Zarqawi. Some casualties are “oops, wished that hadn’t happened, but its war” type casualties. Some casualties should just break your heart, no matter how or why they happened. When an innocent child dies, it should break your heart. If it doesn’t, you should examine your heart. The fact that none of the reporters seem phased that a child died in the attack on al-Zarqawi, really strikes me and stands out. They report the child’s death as though its an adjective or a number. No one has even bothered to determine the exact age of the child, just a ball-park guess is offered, as age 5 to 7. At least someone noticed the child was female. It was probably required information on a casualty reporting form used by the military.

Now, you would think that of all the howling the limp wrested media does, it would howl about an innocent child being blown apart in the hunt for the vile al-Zarqawi, but no. They whine that the poor old misunderstood terrorist may have finally and at last had the ever-loving (insert your own expletive for feces) beat out of him, and actually died knowing that it was a U S of A ass kickin’ that was doing him in. What kind of sick attitude is that? Will the question ever be asked publicly as to whether or not al-Zarqawi could have been taken out without taking the life of a child? In my mind, the two questions seem miles apart. One is the first question to pop into my mind. The other is easily answered with “who cares? I could have stomped his head in myself and never flinched.” Does that make me twisted and as bad and low as he? Maybe, but I doubt it.

al-Zarqawi chose his path. The child…? I have to ask the burning question about the child. Our media doesn’t seem motivated to in the least. They don’t even seem interested in learning who the child was or her accurate age. I hope they can answer whether or not al-Zarqawi was gut stomped by US troops as he lay dying. Never mind how many innocents have died at his hands, right? Perhaps he’ll be awarded a Nobel Peace Prize posthumously, since he has gone on to join his fellow terrorist and Nobel Peace Prize winner Yasser Arafat, who once ordered an Israli school house full of children bombed.

Was it really necessary to kill a five to seven year old little girl to get al-Zarqawi? I don’t have that answer. But I am enraged that our media never even pauses to ask the question. I hope someone besides me does. Can I understand and look over the rage that might have taken over troops who might have stomped al-Zarqawi? You betcha! I do remind you that stomping hasn’t been proven. If it ever is, I think you’ll have a hard time finding one single human living beneath the Carolina moon who gives an anum rodentum. I’ve spewed enough for one day. I know some reporters that should be gut stomped. I also know some five to seven year olds that should be writing news stories.

Even if you don't have the answer, and you know, sometimes there is no answer. At least ask the right question!

Dread

A Gnome Moon is not a Carolina Moon

I do not title my blog Beneath the Carolina Moon due to an obsession with everything moon. It is primarily, at least in theory, meant to be an expression of the Southern experience, particularly the Carolina Southerner's experience. At best, it's Life 101 taught by an insane tenured professor. At worst, it's boring drivel. The blog is simply a peep hole rigged backward into the real space, that the marketer's antebellum mystic image glosses over. You want to know the real South? You gotta live and die here first. You want to be entertained by the South, you can read stuff, like this blog, and along the way, get a smidge of insight as to which spices and ingredients make up a healthy Southern psyche, or as in my case, a typically sick but passionately sick psyche.

For today's lesson we have the above gnome. Gnomes are not a Southern thing. The fact that the gnome is "mooning" whoever happens to look, is irrelevant to this blog. Yes, I keep a moon phase chart on the blog page. Yes, I believe, and its been scientifically proven, that the moon has influences on not only the ebb and flow of tides, but also many aspect of nature, and on human behavior. So yes, I pay attention to the moon phase. But this site is not about every freaking thing moon. So please do not email me "moon" stuff. A gnome mooning is considered "moon" stuff that I don't want. Gnomes are not Southern. They are an invention of other regions of the world. I do not like gnomes. They are creepy ugly little creatures that shouldn't be having sex and procreating. To me a gnome is like a troll that's had a bath and a visit to the Salvation Army Thrift Shop for clean clothes. I suspect they drink excessively on a daily basis also, but never mind all of that.

I don't plan to use the mooning gnome as a logo for the blog. I have a logo that was used when the blog was hosted o my own server, a story and history to be related at another time. Just suffice to say for now, I don't want or need a logo for this blog. When I do want one, I'll either say so or just draft one. Until then, please don't send moons or gnomes. Especially don't send gnomes mooning. A mooning gnome as a personal statement from you as a reader I could perfectly understand, especially readers from the New England area. You really are gnome people up there aren't you? Don't bother to answer. There's no mystery. At least here in the South, the South is itself a mystery. In fact, I'd go so far to say that all things Southern can be mysteries.

We have enough mysteries to fill books. We need very little spice added to make life interesting here. Gnomes we definitely don't need. Although if we had gnomes here, they probably would have the habit of jumping from behind shrubs in the garden and surprise mooning passersby. But then Walt would seem perhaps a little more normal to visitors and not cause such a fuss. On second thought, maybe I should order a few of these mooning gnomes and set them about the garden. It might help desensitize people to Walt. It gets tiresome answering the door to the police each spring when the garden tours are on. But I shouldn't really discuss Walt in this brief post. He's a much more complex and sensitive individual than just the mooning thing, and I don't want to imply that his eccentricities detract from him being a valued member of the community; quiet the contrary. There's just not time today to get into that. In fact, I'm going to be late for work if I don't fly out right now. That's it for today,

Dread

Feline Ferocity

I don’t remember exactly where this picture came from, but it fairly well serves the purpose to prove out what cat owners have always known; a well trained and experienced cat, can and will whip even the most aggressive pit bull. Flying side kicks aside, I once shared company with a cat that had the reputation of ripping the throats from several dogs who had merely trespassed the property. I found it difficult to believe of such a fluffy, soft, loving creature as Jodie, until I witnessed one such incident myself. It was the most brutal attack I’ve ever seen inflicted on a living creature.

An innocent neighborhood dog one day wandered into my back lot in that nonchalant saunter the way that dogs trot from yard to yard through neighborhoods. Jodie, a black and white shorthair sitting at my feet, suddenly bolted straight for the dog, meeting it head on. The dog, a big yellow lab mix, just stupidly kept trotting along looking at the approaching cat with a puzzled look. Just before Jodie arrived in his face he stopped and brought his head up sharply. That’s when Jodie lunged beneath his head and latched on to the underside of this throat, digging in with all four claws and a mouthful of teeth.

Fur and blood flew violently for a few seconds, then the dog began to scream and run. Yes it screamed. I’d never heard a dog scream, but I’m telling you that dog screamed. A few seconds later and it was all over. Jodie had dismounted her undercarriage position of that dog’s throat and the dog was plunging wildly toward a side exit from the lot. Blood was surging from beneath his head. I doubt the dog made it very far away before collapsing. In a matter of three to five seconds, Jodie had literally clawed her way deep into the dog’s throat inflicting horrible wounds. Suffice to say, that if a ten pound domestic short hair can inflict that kind of mortal wounds in the short of a few seconds, then imagine what a forty to fifty pound bobcat when cornered would do. Which brings me to the real meat and potatoes of today’s post.

I found the picture above while doing some attic cleaning of my hard drive this morning, and the picture reminded me for some reason of a story I heard a few years back, well, many, many years back actually, of two New York gentlemen who were coming down through the Appalachian Mountains on their way to Florida. This was before the days of super highways being built through the North Carolina mountains, and it was a winding two lane blacktop trip.

Somewhere along the Southern part of the North Carolina trek, late at night, with some miles yet to go before crossing into South Carolina, the two gentlemen encountered a bobcat on the road. The car lights startled the cat evidently and despite braking hard, the cat managed to get bumped by the car. The two New York gentlemen not knowing exactly what the creature was, other than some type of exotic cat, stopped to have a look. The bobcat, knocked unconscious, but appearing dead, looked like something the guys would want to show off when they arrived in Florida the next day, so they loaded it into the back seat floor, and proceeded along on their trip.

Having already told you that the cat was knocked unconscious but appeared dead, you are already chuckling, or wincing, at what you already figure eventually happed. And you are right. Only, it didn’t happen until the gentlemen arrived in downtown Greenville, South Carolina, right on Main Street, approaching the Poinsettia Hotel. In those days, the Poinsettia was considered to be like one of today’s Hiltons, only better. Can you imagine the poor doorman and concierge encountering the car as it came to a stop in front of the hotel, windows up, with the righteously indignant, and now awakened, bobcat expressing his natural born fury on the two occupants?

Depending on where you were while it was going on, what ensued could be called catastrophe or hilarity. The fact that no one was killed, and the cost of medical care for the two gentlemen and of replacing the entire interior of the car, was only a few thousand dollars, I suppose, classes the event as a cheap lesson on wildlife management. Yes. Leave wild animals where you find them. In fact, just leave them alone altogether if you’re smart. And further, never underestimate the authority of a cat.

Speaking to not being smart, I heard that one of the New York gentlemen a few years later committed the same act of stupidity with a whitetail deer, and lost an eye for his effort. I can’t fathom that anyone would be that stupid. But, hey, they were from New York, and they were under the influence of the Carolina moon. I’ve known stranger things to happen under that moon. I’ll tell you about them sometime. Right now, I have Saturday errands to run. Until later,
Dread

Damn Hot Damn Humid

There are days when I sit down to write without a clue on my mind, and what I feel at least are brilliant thoughts of revelation, stream forth as though I had pondered and carefully considered each small detail, nuance, turn of phrase and overall general structure. Then, there are days when I can't even discuss the current weather conditions with sufficient fluency of the language to convey the simplest climatic attributes. It's damn hot here today. It's damn humid also. Anyone not accustomed to our Deep South climate would be or is damn uncomfortable. As for me; its summer, its hot, I'm happy. I doubt those few statements convey sufficient information to someone not from the South to understand very much about the current weather here, or my mindset. If you're from the South however, especially the Deep South, then you know exactly already where I'm coming from, and what I mean by my phrases. You even understand the exact level of heat and humidity, whether or not you agree with my prejudice for hot weather and summer. Others however, without exact temperature or humidity readings can only make odd guesses of the physical conditions of the current weather here, based on their own limited experiences. That means my description is lacking, but only if the reader is from parts outside of the Deep South. Therefore, we arrive at the crux of the problem of today's writer. Can they reach their target audience?

If I write to inform of the social and cultural nuances of the Deep South, but only those native to the Deep South fully understand what I write, then don't I miss my target audience? (Those ignorant of our ways) Or, do I? If they understand at least something of what I write, although not the full depth or any particular implied meaning, isn't that still a casualty in the war of words? I mean a hit is a hit. Even if it isn't a clean kill, it should score for something. One of my uncles used to say, "If you just shoot near a damnyankee, and make him mess his pants, its just as much fun as if you hit the bastard, and a whole lot less trouble to clean up." I have to agree. And, if they go back where they came from, it's a bonus to not have their carcass contaminating our soil. Actually, the damnyankee shooting gives me a scale upon which I think I can describe our weather so that a non-Southerner may understand. At least I will try to put it into words.

During our winters here, it sometimes gets cold enough to wear a coat, and believe it or not, occasionally on some odd years actually snows a few inches. Now on one of those particularly cold days, and say it snows, if a damnyankee slid off in the ditch, most southerners would stop and help the obviously lost out of the ditch and back along their way. On a day, in say early August, when the humidity level and the temperature both pass 100% saturation and 100 degrees F, (yes we breath water at that time of year...hot water...steam) say a damnyankee says something out of the way and off color before your innocent Southern bred, born, and raised children. Then he stands an extremely high chance of appearing on a milk carton, or being a side feature by John Walsh. Those are two extremes in weather we have here and two extremes in acts of ignorance of damnyankees and two extremes in Southern reactions to damnyankee actions.

Now, let's take a sane midlevel average of those examples. Actually, why don't you the reader just imagine one? It's too early in the morning for me to be expending creativity and brain-power. I have a meeting with my bosses later today and I really need to conserve for that. So, if you don't mind, just imagine a happy average mid point between the two extremes I have described. That would be the weather here today. As for the type of reaction a damnyankee would get today, well, that depends on how ignorant the damnyankee behaves. It always does. You didn't think it had anything to do with regional prejudice did you? If so, then get that thought out of your mind. There is prejudice for sure, but its about values, manners, consideration for others, its not regional, its cultural, its basic to human dignity, and of course its about how the weather agitates your patience. We aren't perfect; we're human here. And yes the hot weather does have something to do with the hot passions that tear through the fabric of our culture. Since we are used to it, it impacts us differently than outsiders, slower, and from different angles. But it does affect us.

Have I been too vague for you outsiders? I do think there is something here for you to glean without being a native Southerner, but you will have to expend a bit of brain-power. It could be worth it. In August, the difference between Fahrenheit and Beretta is discernible, although it can be split by the hair's breadth of a few words; words that are considered, or words flippantly thrown out. Now at the nice temperature of "damn hot, and humid", is a good time to consider and practice self-control and consideration of others. We generally are more forgiving in the spring and early summer. I'd say it's definitely the time to get in some hands on practice of getting along with the weather. When you learn to get along with the weather here, you learn to get along with the people, and generally vice versa.

Well, I'm off to work for a bit, and then the weekender. Have a good one. It's going to be a damn hot and humid one.

Dread