Lost in the '50s tonight

Some nights when I can't sleep (like tonight), I like to put on old black-and-white movies or TV shows. The monochrome casts just the right glow across the room. Sometimes I even drift off to dream.

Well, that didn't exactly happen tonight, as you can tell by fact I'm still up. But, the show was "Ozzie and Harriet" and that probably explains it.

I watched an episode in which Rick Nelson sang his 1950s rock-and-roll songs and wooed his too good to be that beautiful date Sandy. And I thought to myself, "What I wouldn't give to have been a '50s teen idol."

Oh, I know it's a lie. Nobody (not even Rick) had that kind of life. Yes, he was a teen idol. But, he was addicted to drugs and enjoyed a less than perfect relationship with his wife Kris.

But, for a couple of years, Rick was nearly as popular as Elvis. He rode high until the British Invasion made malt shops and doo wop obsolete.

It's funny. "Ozzie and Harriet" isn't the show people think it is. Ozzie was the first of what became a trend years later -- the dumbass dad. He and Harriet slept in the same bed long before that became the norm on a TV sitcom. Sons David and Ricky fought all the time. In short, it was as real a family as the boob tube would allow. Maybe because they were a real family in real life.

Still, few could boast a life like the Nelsons. All their dates were stunning. Everybody could play and sing. Life was good, full of the innocent confidence of the Eisenhower years. It is a nice illusion. And I suspect it was stifling for those who thought that was the way you were supposed to live.

Maybe that's why I like it so much, though. Those who know me well will tell ya that I don't have too much in common with my generation. Sometimes I feel adrift, Jimmy Buffett's pirate, 200 years too late, lost in a world that doesn't mesh with my mind-set.

These early morning screenings of this sweet fantasy feed that part of my soul. It is relaxing. Maybe that's why I can often fall asleep.

Doesn't change the fact that I wish I'd been a teen idol. If for no other reason than to sing to the pretty girls.

So real, so right, lost in the 50s tonight...

A perfect day

It has been the kind of day that only one with a charmed life can lead.

High noon, and I'm down at the Foundry, speaking to the Northside Kiwanis Club. I couldn't imagine why on earth they'd want to hear from me, but Tom Mattingly asked nicely and I can't say no to the Vol Historian.

So, I sing a few songs and tell a few bad jokes and swap stories about some of the characters I've written about. Guys like Catfish Dave, who illegally stocks Fountain City Lake. (Most of us call that the Duck Pond.) Dave says it ain't illegal unless he gets caught.

I told them about my first trip to New York, Sept. 1, 2001, 10 days before the towers fell. They laughed when I told them we ate at McDonald's in Times Square. They laughed when I told them I couldn't think of one word to say to actor Tom Selleck, who I met on the street.

And so it went. They were gracious hosts. They laughed in all the right places. They gave me a six-pack of Crush Orange Soda and a box of Moon Pies to take home. I enjoyed both a few minutes ago while I watched a black-and-white movie.

Life is good.

After the speech, I met the boss out at our west office. We plotted how we are going to take over the world.

Pulling in, I noticed that my right headlight was out. Off I went to the Turkey Creek Walmart to buy a new one. Passing through the store, I spotted a guy sporting a t-shirt that says, "Beer: It's Not Just For Breakfast Anymore." I laughed.

Found my headlight then headed over to Calhoun's to enjoy an early supper. Sitting at the bar, watching the TVs and admiring the pretty young bartender named Valerie, I thought about this perfect day and realized just how lucky I am to live mi vida loca.

Later, at home, I sipped my Big Orange drink and read the Saturday Evening Post (great story from Hemingway's grandson John) and figured life can't get much better than this.

Ooo, wee, ride me high...

Came home riding a high.

You do that when you meet a legend. And, I don't care what you say, Marshal Andy is a local legend.

But, I was nursing a headache and there's no baseball on tonight. (I don't count the silly home run derby.) So, I plopped down in the recliner to enjoy an old western. Starring Rex Allen Sr., no less.

Somewhere before the big fight at the end, I fell asleep, missing the climax and a couple of phone calls. But that's OK. I saw it all later. God bless TiVO.

I wanted to read Alan Alda's second memoir, the tome with the title "Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself." He is such a decent guy. Not to mention the star of my all-time favorite show.

But, headache had other plans, so I sat out on the porch and watched the sun set. It was quiet. It was perfect.

I thought about the last few days, the old friendships renewed, the wonderful, horrible surprise that is life, the good times, the laughs and the tears.

You take from it what you will. For me, it's the people, the music, a little beer and a lot of laughs, midnight Krystal runs and early morning dreams.

And it's funny. If the old dreams didn't work out, well, the new dreams will. We can't change the past. But we can do a little something about the future.

Now, it's off to bed. Big day tomorrow. Lunch and interns and seeing whether the National League can finally win the mid-summer classic.

Oh, I forgot to tell you the best part about last night. The headache went away.

Amazing what happens when you come home riding a high.

Knoxville: Summer 2009

I looked out over our fair city and thought about James Agee.

We were up in the Sunsphere, from the vantage point of the observation deck, and I remembered his lyrical "Knoxville: Summer 1915." I wondered what it looked like nearly 100 years ago. And, I tried to make my peace with this place, to which I have this love-hate relationship.

It looks so beautiful at night, the dimming light mixing with the glow from the houses and places of business. We pointed out the L&N, a ghost from a bygone era; Neyland Stadium, where I've wasted a lot of needless energy rooting for that blasted team; the old UAB building with its glass windows and, finally, to the river that flows through Knoxville town. Shades of the Louvin Brothers.

It was pretty and it was romantic and it was a perfect way to spend a perfect Friday night.

So it is in the Old City, in that eccentric old warehouse that is often my end of the weekend haunt. I will be there tonight. Robin is off, but her ex is filling in, and he's pretty darn good, too.

The place is marred by some signs of decay, by the panhandlers roaming the streets, by the occasional belligerent drunk. But, I like it on lazy Sunday nights. Plus, I'd walk a country mile to hear Robinella.

But, on this night, I drank a particularly good Porter, and enjoyed particularly good conversation with an old friend I hadn't seen in a mess of Friday nights.

And from the fourth floor of what used to be irreverently called Jake Butcher's Erection, I gazed upon our fair hamlet and was glad to notice that summer nights in Knoxville can still be poetic and lyrical, even if James Agee is no longer around to write it.

M*A*S*H comes alive

TOLEDO, Ohio -- Well, I didn't see Klinger. But I did buy a hat.

One of my favorite spots discovered during the course of 10 years vacationing in Michigan is Maumee Bay Brewing Company here in Jamie Farr's hometown. They have good pizza. They have good beer.

Didn't have to do too much coaxing to get David and Jen to take me down here, an hour from their home in Michigan. They are good friends.

It struck me that "while in Rome" I needed to look up the joint that Farr made famous on "M*A*S*H" -- his beloved Tony Packo's Cafe. Fans of the greatest show in TV history will recall that Klinger often spoke nostalgically of Toledo -- usually before hatching some plan to get out of the army. Inevitably, Packo's would pop up in the conversation.

So David mapped out the city and found that Packo's wasn't too far from the brewery. I tried to contain my child-like grin. I failed.

I kept hoping beyond hope we'd see Jamie Farr. As close as I got to that was a picture in the gift shop of Jamie and "M*A*S*H" co-star Mike Farrell, reuniting at Packo's for some unannounced cause in 2006. It was cool. Also spotted Jamie's autograph on a hot dog bun (they are everywhere, signed by everybody).

I bought a t-shirt modeled in the old M*A*S*H style, Packo's logo on the front and pictures of Klinger on the back. And I bought a sweet lookin' hat that declares Packo's "The Best Buns in Town."

"I can't come to Packo's and not get a chili dog," I say to Dave and Jen. So we walk up to the bar. There, I discover that Packo's sells Schlitz beer! The original '60s formula!

I toasted Jamie Farr, and that gentle and sweet show, and Chuck Kincade and Matthew Shelton and Alan Alda and anybody else I know that loves "M*A*S*H."

The only thing missing was a camera. I always seem to be without one at such moments. Kinda like the time I met Tom Selleck in New York. With no camera.

"You'll be back," David says.

And I grin. Because I know he's right.

Here's to memories of M*A*S*H.

Tug of war

I like the moon the way it is tonight, a tiny sliver against the setting sky.

When I was a kid, I used to think it actually changed shape, evolving from round sphere to a thin slice of cheese, and back again. In the second grade, John Bob Whitehead told me that his dad was an astronaut and had taken him to the moon one night. I asked him how he stood on it when it was a tiny sliver. He said he just did.

Where does it go? Second grade was 24 years ago. Older than some of these kids with whom I work.

Sometimes I get so tired of it all. Inman Majors calls Knoxville "paved hell" in his debut novel, which I'm reading now. Half the time, maybe more than that, I know what he means. I hate this place, says Nelson Mutz, throw a rock at the Sunsphere, knock it down. But don't you badmouth it, buddy, or I'll punch you in the face.

East Tennesseans are a strange bunch.

I sat out on the porch tonight, watching the remains of the day, wondering if this is all a bad dream or just a moment in limbo. None of it makes sense anymore. Or precious little of it anyway.

Saturday morning I will fly on an eagle into the northern sky, toward cooler climates and a little deliverance, precious peace for a scant few minutes. Nothing will matter, no ties, no responsibilities, no clock to punch, no phone to ring, no bell to answer. I don't need you, I don't need friendship; I don't need flowers in the spring.

And then you think about that radio interview with John Majors, laughing it up with a complete stranger about inane KnoxVegas politics, Marshal Andy and talkin' to Brandy, take home a pound or two of Tennessee Pride, real country sausage, the best you ever tried. How can I leave it? How can I ever go anywhere else?

It's the great tug of war inside this soul of mine, getting out versus staying put, thank you for being a friend or kiss my butt and don't let the slamming door hit your rear end. God, I hate the Volunteers, and oh, here's my check for this year's season tickets. Don't ever let me hear that damn song again; but now it's on the radio, so I'll crank it up. Osborne Brothers version, to boot.

Oh, hell. What's the point in introspection? It never solves anything and usually makes you feel worse.

I'm going to go watch John Wayne. I need a little black-and-white tonight.

A Southern tale, better than naked art

My buddy John Martin Ramsey says that I go to the Bistro at the Bijou because I like nude art. If you've been there, you know what he means.

Funny line, yes. But, not really. I like the food. And, it's usually quiet on a sleepy summer weekday afternoon.

Thus it was today, when I met Fountain City historian Dr. Jim Tumblin there just after 5. I was nursing a cold beverage when Dr. Jim arrived. He spent the day downtown researching a column.

Dr. Jim seemed to enjoy his gumbo. I ordered an excellent fish sandwich (I think it was halibut). We laughed about local politics. Jim told me about a terrible rock band he went to hear last week. "They didn't rock, so I went home," says our favorite octogenarian.

It was a nice way to escape the heat. Boy, has that heat shown its face early this year, as if August has morphed into June, two months too soon.

Could have stayed in the Bistro for another hour or two, but I came downtown to hear Inman Majors read from his excellent new novel, "The Millionaires." It is a fine book.

Majors didn't say much about the novel's obvious connection to the Jake and C.H. Butcher banking scandal of the early 1980s. And, although it is certainly there, that Butcher stuff isn't the entire picture. From what he said tonight, Majors did what any writer worth a damn does -- scribbles what he knows. I suspect that has as much to do with his characters as anybody associated with that colorful clan from Maynardville.

But, those who remember the Butcher brothers, and the World's Fair, and the Knoxville of what seems like a bygone era will find much here that is familiar. At its best, though, "The Millionaires" is less about plot and more about character, piercing into sibling rivalries and ties running deeper than blood. Majors said tonight he has always been fascinated by his parents' generation -- the Southerners who made the leap from the family farm to the suburbs.

Others have criticized his technique -- not using apostrophes, writing some chapters as a screenplay -- but all of that is what makes this novel vibrant. Ignore the naysayers.

As all good storytellers should do, Majors keeps his audience glued to his story (I once stayed up reading until 7:30 a.m.). The two brothers at the center of the tale -- bankers Roland and J.T. Cole -- are what they are, but I found myself drawn to Roland's wife Libby, and to the central character of the book, political operative Mike Teague.

Libby handled her life with a dignified, understated grace. She knew about Roland's affairs. She knew about going home alone. She knew about unfulfilled dreams. The story ends before we know, but I suspect Libby endured her husband's fall from grace without so much as a public flinch. I thought about Libby long after I turned out the light.

Teague is the empathetic character in this tragic tale. Teague is a guy doing a job, fighting to keep his optimism, struggling to do what he thinks is right. In the end he is a victim of someone else's ambition run amok. And, yet, he lands on his feet.

I don't want to do the usual boring synopsis and I don't want to tell you much else. If you like good writing -- no, scratch that -- if you like GREAT writing, go buy this book. If you grew up in Knoxville, Inman's tale is a must read. If you are a political junkie, and like Southern tales of power and corruption and complexity, run don't walk to your local store or to Amazon.com.

The book is called "The Millionaires" and the author is Inman Majors.

Be forewarned -- it will keep you up nights. It might even make you do something really crazy. Like leave a cool bistro on a hot summer afternoon.

So much for that naked art.