Brick’s Blog

     Just like Michael Corleone in Godfather 3, "Every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in."  Yep, there I was out for dinner last night and the restaurant had its TV’s tuned to the "Great American Race." I confess, I watched, I rooted, and like Fredo in G2, I said a Hail Mary when a Toyota didn’t take the checkered for the Daytona 500. Take that, Joe Gibbs, you traitor.

     How can I guy who has won the Super Bowl three times, won 3 Winston Cups with Chevrolets (yeah, I know one was a Nextel, but I can’t bring myself to calling the Cup - Nextel), now be fielding an all TO’YO’TA team? And if it hadn’t been for Mercedes Benz, which owns Chrysler/Dodge, a damn TOY’OTA (how do you say this brand?) would have gone to Victory Lane in the 50th running of the 500. Shame on you, Joe! Kicking Chevrolet, when it’s down. GM only lost 39 billion last year. 

     Although I have said many times that I am done with NASCAR, it’s official this time. NASCAR now calls their redesigned big boxy safety first prototype the "Car of Tomorrow". Funny to me, it looks like a Prius.   

     With Valentine’s Day in the rear view mirror, it is fitting for me to make this post. See, I use to love NASCAR. While I don’t care about NASCAR anymore due many reasons (Nextel Cup, Toyota, The Challenge, Viagra sponsorship, Theresa Earnhardt & Junior, etc. - visit my Let Me Explain the South to You category for previous posts and clarification), NASCAR is still like that old flame who I am glad I didn’t marry, but I still like to hear good things about. So what stirred these buried feelings for me to make this post?

     Yesterday morning I was out early; and is my custom, my car radio was tuned to the AM dial. Reporting on the Daytona 500 at this 5:30 a.m. time was the sports reporter for the Wall Street Journal. Excuse me. WSJ reporting on NASCAR. Fella, you need to be reporting on the squash match at the Downtown Athletic Club. Or maybe croquet out on the Hamptons. Leave NASCAR to good ole boys who actually know about it and would know the first Junior was Johnson not Earnhardt. 

     Anyway, this twit starts droning on about the 500 being the Superbowl of NASCAR; and how ironically, it is the first race of the season. I knew any other true Southerner up and about at this hour; and probably on their way to Hardee’s for a biscuit, hearing this would go just as ballast as I did. WSJ, that’s the problem with NASCAR these days - too much Wall Street money. Just look what Wall Street did to Krispy Kreme. Damnit, I can’t even go get a dozen "hot" this morning (you bubbas, know what I mean) and consume 3/4 of them before I get home without feeling guilty. LBO’s, IPO’S….hey Wall Street how about a LSA……Leave South Alone.

     But enough of this rant. Junior, git it done! And Joe Gibbs, I’ve got a few words for you, too. Stay tuned.

     Call me, Scrooge. Wait a minute. Wrong Story. No, it’s not the wrong story just the wrong start to the story, so let’s begin again. The picture left is the "power pose" of my friends, Bob and Peggy Smolko. As you can guess by the pose, they are real estate agents. This is their old picture, their new "power pose" has the Colonial Capitol at Williamsburg in the background, which is where they live.

     I met Bob and Peggy 13 years ago when they relocated to Williamsburg from Brookline, MA, a suburb of Boston. I was doing some consulting work in Williamsburg at the time; and Bob and I became quick friends. We were quite the pair. Me, with my slow speech and Southern drawl. Bob, with his long "a" - ca-ah (car), ga-ah’den (garden), you know the accent.

     Well, Bob and Peg have become "Southernized" over the years. Now I am not claiming Bob’ s speech resembles mine now, but it is much softer these days. Peg still occasionally cannot understand me, but Bob can translate for her when that happens.

     Every year, Bob and Peg host a " client appreciation" party at their home in Ford’s Colony in late December. Peg must cook all month, because it is always a spectacular event. I guess it was 5 years ago that I realized just how "Southernize" my buddy, Bob, had become. We were standing in a group of people and Bob was talking with one of his new neighbors who was at the party. His neighbor was a northern transplant and had just moved into their "new" home in early November.

    Ever so tactfully, Bob complimented his new neighbor on their Christmas decorations. The neighbor accepted Bob’s compliment and began to wax on about his wife’s love for decorating at Christmas. Bob, then, steered the conversation into a discussion about Williamsburg’s Grand Illumination. Had the neighbor attended? Did he know the history? Bob was so masterful and then Bob ever so casually dropped the line, "you know, most folks wait until the Grand Illumination before decorating their homes." Oh, my brash buddy from Boston was now a Southern gentleman! Steeped in Virginia Tradition. I was so proud!

     A few days ago I noticed Christmas trees had been delivered to the grocery stores. I saw a Salvation Army kettle last night in front of a Ukrop’s. One of our neighbors already has placed wreaths and garlands on the exterior of their home. (They own Westbury Pharmacy so I can only assume it is ploy to guilt us into decorating our homes earlier and buying what we need from them!) Com’ on, we’re a week before Thanksgiving. Don’t make me have Bob talk to you.

     And if you didn’t know, The Grand Illumination will be on Sunday, December 2, 2007.

     The older I get the less interest I have in sports. One by one the sports that I loved and followed slowly and eventually lose all interest for me. It’s as if they lose their innocence and become tainted. Pro football was one of the first to go. Not sure if it was when Jack Kent Cooke didn’t pick up Sonny’s contract for that last year that sealed it for me, but probably close to then that I slowly and surely lost all interest in pro football.

      College basketball was next. I use to love ACC basketball, especially when Jefferson Pilot aired the games. I’d watch them all. Again, I can’t recall the exact event or reason I lost interest. Not sure, don’t remember, don’t care, but was probably when when Len Bias died of a cocaine overdose right after signing with the Boston Celtics. 

     Baseball? I have commented on this before, I use to love baseball, October 26, 2006. So maybe it wasn’t really when Fay Vincent resigned, but I do know the 1994 strike was definitely a final deathknell for me. Well, I did go to Fenway once after that, but I was in Boston and it was opening day. Clemens pitched. It was ‘95 or so.

     All week, I have been thinking I needed to write something about NASCAR, since we’ve got a race here Saturday night. Coming home last night, I heard an ad on the radio for Dale on CMT. Watched it, loved it, and since it is rerunning again tonight, count me in. Earlier this year, I commented on the state of NASCAR right before the Daytona 500, Goodbye, NASCAR, February 14, 2007.  So tonight while I am watching Dale, (CMT, Comcast Channel 69 at 8 p.m.), I am going to bide my final farewell to NASCAR. When Dale Earnhardt, Jr. won’t even be driving for DEI (i.e., Dale Earnhardt, Inc.) and won’t have the 8 car next year (you know Dale Jr’s grandpappy, Ralph, drove the 8 car first), it is definitely time to move on. Hell, some guy with a name like Montoya driving a Toyota will probably win the 50th Daytona next year. 

    Step-mothers, I got one, too, Jr., so I know how he feels.  

     What is it about Hardee’s that makes you ever return? It must be the forgiveness factor inherent in Southerners. Or maybe a little bit of regional pride. After all, Hardee’s was the the South’s first fast food chain. Hardee’s has good fried chicken, honest to God southern elixir, sweet tea, and according to their commercials (and my taste buds), homemade biscuits. Just writing about those biscuits makes me want to head to Hardee’s. And don’t forget, it was a long time NASCAR sponsor with a car and a race long before corporate America and Wall Street discovered NASCAR. 

     The other thing Hardee’s has is Southern service. I’m not talking about that "yes ma’am" "y’all come back" service, but that "we’ll get to it when we’re ready" Southern service. Com’ on, you Southerners, you know what I am talking about it. We all have those special service suppliers who we tolerate despite constantly being disappointed by them. They’re like our eccentric uncle or aunt, who says anything that crosses their mind and typically does at the worst possible time, but we still love them. If you ever eat at Hardee’s, you know the service ain’t lightning quick, but they do have good food and it’s usually worth the wait.

     Yesterday, I was headed to the 55 + neighborhood near Virginia Center Commons where I am the site agent. I normally like to arrive there a little before noon so that I can put out my "open" flags and also do a little stage setting on the model. This morning, I was low on gas so I got off at the Parham exit of I-95 to fill up. Knowing there was a Hardee’s around the corner on Route 1, I decided I’d go through their drive through. Besides it was only 11:40 and even with Hardee’s notoriously slow service I figured I had plenty of time. 

      As I pulled into the drive through there was already a car at the order box, whose order was quickly taken. I pulled up and also got my order taken promptly, too. It was then that I saw there were 3 cars in front of me, but since it was only 11:42, even if I waited 10 minutes I figured I could still be at my post by noon. The first indication that today might be a little different was at 11:45 when the driver of  car # 2 (and I ain’t talking about Rusty Wallace) got out of this car and jumped up and down a little. I figured he was just stretching his legs. At 11:48 when he got out of his car again and asked car # 3 (and this wasn’t Dale Earnhardt) to back up and let him out, I just figured we must have some impatient Yank who’d never experienced the Hardee’s wait. Anyway, didn’t his departure just insure I’d be taken care of sooner? I was # 3 now.

     At 11:52 I thought "Boy, that must be some order car # 1 is getting." Since it was a pick’em up truck, I guessed he was getting lunch for his whole crew. Surely it couldn’t be much longer, because there were hardly any cars in the parking lot. It was then that I had a flashback to a month earlier when I had ordered in at this same Hardee’s and had experienced a wait of about 10 minutes. 

     Okay, there goes car # 1 with his one bag and one drink. A few minutes pass and car # 2 departs. Also a small order. I’ll be headed north soon I thought, as I pulled up to the window with my exact change ready. When I handed the cashier my money, I glanced at the clock and it was now 11:56. So what, I’ll be 5 minutes late and this experience will make just make for more fodder when I joke about Hardee’s service with some good ole boys. 

     Now that I’ve got a clear view inside through the drive in window, I can see there’s only 1 cashier at the counter plus the cashier handling the drive through window. Typical Hardee’s with only 1 counter cashier I mused, since I was sure if I went across the street to the McDonald’s I would have found at least 3 counter cashiers at their post since at least 11:30 for the lunch rush. 11:58 there goes a different employee who looks like she’s on bathroom duty, since she was carrying a roll of paper towels. You just know there’s no Hamburger College for Hardee’s like at McDonald’s!

    Since the radio is tuned to WRVA a sole bell begins to toll for the VA Tech Victims. Boy, that makes you think as the bell tolls on and on. Soon a different employee appears from the back and takes a position beside the chicken and biscuit station. He’s not doing anything, he’s just standing there. Must be on break. The drive through cashier assists the counter cashier distributing a few orders. Of course, I am ready to explode. For even Hardee’s this is unbelievable.

     I mutter a few goosefahbahs (you know, from Adam Sandler’s movie, Anger Management) and actually begin to entertain the thought that I’ll walk inside and confront the manager. What I’ll need for this confrontation will be some validation of my actual wait as I watch the drive through cashier post a few order slips above the food distribution area. Ah hah, there’s my proof. Hopefully, she’ll place my slip inside my bag with the order. Surely that slips must be time dated from when I placed my order some 20 minutes early.

     From the radio, the Rush Limbaugh theme begins as the drive through cashier finally hands me my order. If you’re a Rush listener then you know it is 7 minutes past the hour. I quickly glance in my bag, but don’t see my desired proof to go confront the manager. Besides I’m really late now and I need to wolf this food down so that I arrive at my new home site running. As I maneuver my way up Route 1, cursing each traffic light, I reach the bottom of my food bag and feel a piece of paper. There it is my VALIDATION - actual proof of the time warp that Hardees has held me in. I rip it from the bag only to discover the time date reads 11:56.

     Now, wait a minute. Hardee’s couldn’t time stamp things by when you paid for them, could they? You’d never get anyone through the drive through, if the order wasn’t started until your reached the window. And this really wasn’t a receipt since it didn’t show any prices just items. Maybe this is a Hardee’s corporate strategy to postdate everything so it looks like you didn’t really wait. Or maybe those 2 stoners who are featured in Hardee’s current radio commercials are really part of the management team. I need to do some further investigation on this. I think I’ll hit Hardee’s tomorrow for their 2 egg bacon and cheese biscuit special for $2.22. You know they only charge me a 25 ¢ for my senior coffee! 

     One of the great aspects of my profession is that you get to interact and know families. I have a special affinity for mothers of all boy families. You see I am one of 4 boys and there is no question that my mother deserved sainthood. Let me give you an example why.

     Mother’s birthday would be tomorrow, April 9th. Mother grew up in Chicago and was extremely proud of her New England ancestry. And like so many Northerners, not afraid to express her opinion. On the other hand, all of her sons are die hard Southerners. For a true Southerner, April 9th is the day Ole Dixie died. The day of RE Lee’s General Order 9. The striking and furling of the battle flag. Appomattox.

     For so many years, we, boys, would spend April 9th regaling the virtues of the South. Of course, we knew it was Mother’s birthday, but being true Southern men we could not be caught dead expressing any unmanly sentiments to our mother. Mother would endure this for most of the day until her glint of Irish heritage could take no more. We boys would then be treated to a complete dissertation on the superiority of our Northern heritage. Maybe this is really why we did this every April 9th.

     Anyway, Mom, Happy Birthday. I am still working on that sainthood.  

     When Will Ferrell made his movie, Talladega Nights, my first thought was why would you antagonize part of your fan base by making a parody of what so many of your fans hold dear. Well, I was wrong. Ferrell succeeded, but mainly by making a greater parody of what all true Southern men despise and that is the French.  The character of Jean Girard and his Evian sponsored car (ever noticed Evian is Naive spelled backwards) provide the perfect element to keep Ferrell from completely lampooning his Southern fans.

     So is life imitating art this Sunday at the Daytona 500? (I can’t believe I refer to anything by Ferrell as art.) For this good ol’ boy, this could well be my last season with any interest in NASCAR. It was bad enough when Mark Martin started driving the Viagra car. A product no true Southern man would ever admit needing. Sad when the Winston Cup became the Nextel Cup. For a true Southern man, your cigarette brand told as much about you as anything. Who cares what cell service you have. And starting Sunday, there will be a Toyota in the field at Daytona. 

     Hell’s bells, America, especially Southern America, still doesn’t even know how to pronounce this brand - is it To’yo’ta or Toy’ota? A automobile that was first imported as the gas sipping alternative to Detroit’s gas guzzling muscle cars are now on the same track? And because NASCAR has always started its season with its "Super Bowl", the Daytona 500, the venue is Daytona? Somehow having a future driver being known as "The Samurai" ain’t quite the same as "The Intimidator." RIP, Dale.

     With this weekend being the Chevy Rock & Roll 400, I can’t help not recirculating this old post.

 So you’re thinkin’ about movin’ down South, huh? Here’s a word of advice. We’re serious about that NASCAR. While y’all think it’s just a bunch of guys makin’ left turns all afternoon, we see it as the epic struggle of brave and chivalrous knights in the joust of life. Don’t you ever never say nothin’ bad about NASCAR.

     Or maybe just send me to the glue factory; obviously, I have outlived my usefulness. What has happened to Beach Music? For most of my life, you got near any southern beach and the AM and FM dials were filled with Beach Music stations. Headed south on I-95, you only had to get to the Carolina Pottery before numerous competing Beach Music stations could be found. Here I am in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, the place where South Carolina’s state dance, the Shag was invented and I can only find 1 all Beach Music station. I’ve found at least 2 all Spanish stations, but just the sole all Beach Station.

    Now, as my sarcastic teen children have told me "Like, yeah, maybe there’s a reason for that" leaving no doubt that Beach Music is old and busted just like me. But it was a happy genre while it lasted and best represented by it’s national anthem, "Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy" by The Tams. 

     Did you know South Carolina has a state dance? In 1984, their General Assembly passed an act designating the shag the official dance and music of South Carolina. Want to learn how to Shag? Then show up at Fat Harold’s Beach Club on Tuesday nights for your free hour and half lesson.

    Fat Harold’s is on Main Street in Ocean Drive, South Carolina. One of Myrtle Beach’s water towers provides a backdrop for Fat Harold’s. The tower is adorned with a dancing couple and the notation "Myrtle Beach, South Carolina - Home of the Shag." While Myrtle Beach and the Grand Strand might be the home of the shag, Fat Harold’s is it’s Hall of Fame.

     Fat Harold’s is just a block from the OD (Ocean Drive) Pavilion. Pavilions were the old town squares of the various villages that dot the Grand Strand and comprise greater Myrtle Beach. In the evenings, the young folks would gather at the pavilions, where a juke box could be found. Music, teens, a dance; the evolution was just natural.  For everything you ever wanted to know and not know about the shag and beach music, just show up at Fat Harold’s any Tuesday nights at 7 p.m.