Southern gothic at the Amber for breakfast
One of these days, I'm going to write a story or two based on the conversations I overhear at restaurants or wherever. It should be a hoot.
My grandparents invited me to breakfast at the Amber this morning. A woman came up to my grandmother and offered this little nugget:
"I'm mad at you. You didn't speak to me at church this morning!"
I had half the story mapped out by the time I got back to the house. Some kind of a ripoff between Flannery O'Connor and Faulkner, full of Southern Gothic and the kind of absurd humor that can only come out of a Southern Baptist church.
Dean Harned heard a classic Saturday night at the Olive Garden. Some teenager verbally attacked some man sitting there with his kids.
"Take a picture, it will last longer," the kid said, in a voice eerily similar to the guy at the C&C auto parts store that was the object of John Bean's classic "Whoop Ass" prank phone call. Dean figures the guy looked too long at the young punk's girlfriend.
Amazes me to think that some scribes complain about writer's block. I see -- or maybe hear -- stories everywhere I go.
Still hard to believe Skip Caray is gone.
I haven't watched a Braves game since his death. Just can't bring myself to do it. I don't know. I guess a part of me died, too.
All my teams are out of contention. The Braves and Tigers are irrelevant at this point. I've been looking in on the Yankees, counting down the final games at the Stadium, but I don't really care at this point.
I have this nightmare about the Series turning out to be a Rays/Cubs matchup. Cue the yawns. Guess I'm ready for some football.
OK, I'm off to heat up the hamburger left over from lunch. Peace out.