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Year: 2010

Twenty Ten

A buddy and I were wishing each other Happy New year the other day.  He said he was so glad to say goodbye to 2009 because it had bee such a rough year for him.  I told him I felt the same way.

About 370 days ago, I started this blog, the gentler offspring of my somewhat racier blog that had run its course a few months earlier.

I started up this one because I missed writing and wanted to offer more of myself than a plus-sized pecker.

Then I failed.  I ended up making only 46 posts the entire year.

I blamed it on 2009.

But, how can I do that?  The pages of a calendar are no more responsible for a year that I would love to forget any more than the turn of the page on January 1 would suddenly make everything better.

Sure, there are things that happen that are beyond my control, but it’s not those things that effect my happiness, it’s how I manage to deal with them.

Granny’s health and faculties are in serious decline, but I’m the one who let the increased responsibilities frustrate me.

It was me (and the Attorney) who let the limitations created by the realities of our relationship get to me.  Not a two, a couple or zeros, and a nine.

So, it’s me who has the power to make it better in Twenty Ten.

I think maybe, without realizing it, I took a big step toward that already.

The Attorney visited with Granny and me on New Year’s Eve.  He gave up an invitation to a fancy party for a pretty uneventful evening watching the countdown on TV with us.  Granny fell asleep in her chair long before midnight and the Attorney took the opportunity to lay his head in my lap and steal few moments of private affection.

I normally wouldn’t go for anything like that right under Granny’s nose,1 but there was a comfort there that was…well, comforting.

I wanted it to just be us.  If only for a few minutes, just us.

So, a few minutes before twelve, with Granny snoozing, he and I grabbed the bottle of champagne that the Attorney brought up, hopped into the truck and drove a little deeper into the mountains to a spot where we parked overlooking a ridge and waited for 2010 to arrive.

At the final tick, we toasted, drinking straight from the bottle, and steamed the windows with the year’s first kiss.

In all we were gone maybe half an hour and I honestly felt a little guilty about sneaking out on Granny.  But I also honestly felt happier than I had in a while.

Because I chose to make myself happy.

And that’s how it will go in 2010.

Happy 2010 to you, too.

{ fin }

  1. mostly out of respect []

Forever Knox

I know the facts of this post will not interest the most of you, but maybe the spirit of it will.

As the rappers say, “people were blowing up my cellie” tonight.  I’d be on a call when another would beep in.  I’d let one go, and another would beep through.  I stopped answering the others once The Attorney got in.

His call referenced the same thing as all the others.  But, I could tell he figured I had already heard the news.

“Okay, I guess you were right.”

That’s all he said.

It’s not so much that I am “right,” but I had never been able to quite warm up to Lane Kiffen in his first year as the football coach at the University of Tennessee.   For some reason, which I could never really explain, I had trouble getting behind him.  Something in my gut just didn’t feel good about him.

Based on Kiffen’s announcement tonight that he is leaving Tennessee to take the open head coach position at University of Southern California, my gut instincts were correct.

I get why he wants to go to USC.  It’s one of the most storied programs in the nation.  Rose Bowl and everything.  Plus, he had been an assistant there during at least one of their recent National Championship years, serving under the very man he is replacing.  So, there is a sense of home about the place for him.  It’s his dream job.1

But what about the recruits that were set to sign with Tennessee three weeks from now? 2 What about the players who came to Tennessee already to play for him? What about coaching staff that he will not be taking with him and find themselves wondering if they will be replaced when we get a new coach?  Where do we find a good coach who will come into a program with no time left to recruit?

What about the fact that Kiffen in his first press conference a little more than a year ago, he was emphatic about how he was at Tennessee for the long haul so that he could rebuild our suffering program.

Where is his conscience?

In his final press conference tonight, which lasted less than one minute, he refused to take questions, and tried to deny TV cameras.  Those are not the actions of a man who is struggling with the consequences of a tough decision.  Those are not the actions of a man with a heavy heart.

Those are the actions of a man3 without a conscience, without class, and without a backbone.

Could he not display even the smallest expression of regret or sorrow.  That’s all it would have taken.  Even if he didn’t mean it.  I’m not saying people would have liked it any better, but I think more would have accepted the news.

“You’re pissing on us, Lane, but we understand.”

Instead, he chose to tell us that without a doubt in the fourteen month he was here, he is leaving us in a better place than we he arrived.

I assume he is not referring to the series of NCAA recruiting violations, mouthing off in the press, yet another bowl game loss, four team members going to jail for armed robbery and shop-lifting, nor the Halloween uniforms.4

Stupid ungrateful punk.

Interestingly, the USC fans, for the most part, don’t seem much happier with the news5 than our fans.  No one seems to be looking at it as the return of the prodigal son.   My gut now tells me that he is going to have a rough time of it out there.

That is if he makes it there.  There’s a lot of drunk rednecks out there right who have had their football messed with.  That’s worse than messing with their women.  There were reports that on campus, students were rioting outside the athletic center and demanding that Kiffen be brought out to them.

You reap what you sow.  One good turn deserves another.  Karma sucks.

Kind of ironic, but the Kiffens have a boy that was born not long after he took the job in Knoxville.  In honor of the new position, they named the baby “Knox.”  As much as I’m sure he wants to, Lane Kiffen will never be able to forget Knoxville, because forever he will be feeding it, changing it, and it will be asking him for money.

Karma is a bitch.  An evil, evil bitch.

{ fin }

  1. No doubt they are offering him more money too. []
  2. And will be penalized a year of playing if the decide to go somewhere else? []
  3. and I use the term lightly []
  4. I know black jerseys are all the rage in modern sports, but when your primary team color is orange, you just have to let that fad go. Especially if the game is on Halloween night. []
  5. for different reasons []

In Sunlight or In Sorrow

It’s been almost 20 years since I have seen my Mama.

Except in dreams.

I often dream about her.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. For all my alpha-male posturing, deep down I am a Mama’s boy.

She was in a dream I had last night, along with others in my family.

I dreamed about a painting a big white farm house. It wasn’t the big white house I actually live in, but in the dream it felt like it was home.

It was early morning in the dream, just as dew was burning off the grass.

My favorite time of day.

The house sat high on a high spot in the mountains. The sun was at my back, and nothing but  valley below. That means that I was probably on the North Carolina side of the Smokies.

Believe it or not, it is different from the Tennessee side.  Tennessee is rougher, where on the Carolina side, the hills seem to roll more gently.

A gravel road let up to the house and in the distance, I could see there was a car coming.

I came down off the ladder and found Granny standing on the porch.  She wasn’t herself.  Well, she wasn’t her current 92 year old self.  She was Granny of my childhood.  The way she was when I first knew her.  In her late 60’s.

“Kept us waiting long enough,” she said, looking over the valley toward the approaching car.

“Who is it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer me.  She just walked back into the house where I heard her call my mother’s name then announced, “He’s here.”

I had a sense in the dream of someone important arriving, so I decided to clean myself up from my work.  I went around the house to a hose, but my Grandaddy was already there, in his underpants, showering himself off with it.

“I saved the inside for you,” he told me.

I had to hurry, so I raced around to the front of the house.  But before I could get inside and head for the bathroom, the car arrived.  The Attorney stepped out and grinned that big mouthy grin of his.

I didn’t know who he was in the dream, but for some reason I ran into his arms.

He held me close and whispered, “You forgot about me, didn’t you?”

I don’t remember what I said back, or even if I did say anything.  But suddenly I knew exactly who he was. And was so glad to have him there.

My Mama (pre-illness) came from inside and said to him, “You thirsty after your trip?  I’ve got some Sprite.”

Sprite was my Mama’s favorite thing in the world.

I turned back to the house to look at Mama, behind her were my Grandparents.

With beaming smiles, they all motioned us to come into the house. My father never showed his face, but it just felt like he was there, too.

Everybody in my family was there but my brother.

In other words, it was everyone who has passed away.

I think I’m going to die before The Attorney.

{ fin }

ADDENDUM – 1/16/2010: A comment from David made me realize that I may have led some of you to believe that Granny has passed in real life.  Please forgive me if I have alarmed anyone.  Granny is still with us.  I guess I had decided that if, in the dream,we were with my parents and grandfather, then Granny and I had passed as well.  So, maybe the others of you are right.  The dream is not so much about death.

Every Time A Bell Rings

I know I risk upsetting many of you, but I can’t write this post without using the “F” word.


But the post really isn’t about football.

There’s a football player and a football game involved.  But it’s not about football.

It’s more about other “F” words like “family,” and “fetus,” and “full-of-yourself.”

The biggest football game of the the year, The Superbowl, is this weekend.  You can tell it’s the biggest game of the year by the word “super” in it’s name and by the fact that it’s watched by millions and millions of people, most of whom really have no interest in football and don’t watch any other time of the year.  It’s what Christmas and Easter is for folks who otherwise don’t go to church.

Apparently former college football superstar Tim Tebow – I say former because of both the fact he has finished his final season at University of Florida1 and his poor showing in the senior bowl – apparently he is going to be starring in a Superbowl commercial2 by an anti-abortion group called Focus on Family.  There is controversy surrounding the TV spot because the CBS network is breaking a non-political ad policy for the Superbowl by airing it.

I have a sort of unspoken non-political policy for this blog, too.  I try to never push my politics on someone else, and unlike CBS, I’m going to stick to it.  Besides, I have trouble focusing on the political side of it all because I can’t stop thinking about how Tebow is the very3 definition of self-righteous.

Outstanding athletes, right or wrong, are often deified.  Tebow, in his years at Florida, was given the full-blown idol treatment.  There was even the running joke that “Superman sleeps in Tim Tebow pajamas.”

Now, it seems Tebow is drinking hos own Kool-Aid.

The reason I say all this is because from what I hear is that the commercial features Tebow and his mother, who makes the point that if she had listened to others around her4 and had an abortion, then Tim would not be here today.


So there might have been a world without Tim Tebow. While I can understand how meaningful that possibility probably is to the Tebow family, it really doesn’t effect me.

What if there had been no Tim Tebow?  There might not be a sophomore player to ever have won a Heisman trophy?  The Gators might have had one less national championship? Old Man Potter would have taken control of the Savings and Loan?

Give me a break.

What is special enough about Tebow to make him the poster boy for anti-abortionists? 5 Tim Tebow is just a guy.  Just like you and me.  So, he may be a better football player than most of us.  But, I’m sure there are things that we are all better at than Tebow.  And we’ve had no less effect on mankind than he has.

So, where is my commercial?  I wasn’t aborted.  And I’m pretty damned sure that neither were any of you.

{ fin }

  1. look at all those “F” words []
  2. the chocolate rabbit of football []
  3. and apparently literal []
  4. because of where she was in her life at that time []
  5. Although it it makes a better poster than the usual bloody fetus. []

Valentine Kisses

I don’t like surprises, but The Attorney does.  So I didn’t call before showing up at his house Sunday night.

He put aside his book and gave me a quick kiss.  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I thought I’d cook us dinner,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “If I had known we were having a Valentine’s dinner, I would have been dressed better.  And I would have gotten you something.”

He looked fine.  Very fine, in fact, in an Annapolis sweatshirt1 and Adidas shorts.  There is something very sexy about The Attorney when he is not so buttoned down.2

“I don’t want you to give me anything,” I responded.  “And I’m not cooking dinner because it’s Valentine’s Day.  I’m cooking dinner because we have to eat.”

Besides, I had already had my Valentine’s Day experience a couple of days earlier.

There is always food at work.  Because one of the Phyllises3 or the other will bring in some home-made treat.  Especially if its fattening. And especially if they can justify it with a holiday.

So, one of the Phyllises showed up at my desk with a cupcake on Friday.

It was red velvet with cream cheese frosting and topped with a Hersey’s Kiss.

A Valentine’s Day cupcake.

As she placed daintily in front of me, I made a mental not of how odd it is that the size of a woman’s gestures is somehow always inversely proportional to the size of her body.

“Everybody should get a Valentine’s kiss,” she said, looking at me the way people look at a three-legged puppy pulled from a storm drain after a hurricane.

The implication was “you poor, poor, single boy.”

Then the other Phyllis, the one with little flecks of cream cheese frosting caught in her faint lady-stache, piped in, “Oh, I bet he has a Valentine, he just doesn’t say much.”

You would think that not saying much also made me invisible because they discussed me like I wasn’t sitting there.

But, no, they could clearly see me because the both of them just grinned at me, expecting me to give them a peek into my personal life.

“So, what did you tell them,” the Attorney asked.

I wanted to tell them I do have a Valentine, thank you very much, and that it doesn’t have to be Valentine’s Day to get kisses.  Kisses that give me rock hard boners, in fact.

But I didn’t.  I just ate the Kiss off the cupcake and went back to my work.

“So, is it true?” he asked, leaning in to kiss me.

Several seconds later he pulled away from me and reached downstairs. “I guess it is,” he said.”

I gave myself a tug. “Right now it’s only about half true.”  Then, leaning in myself this time, I said,  “It takes two or three kisses to make it completely true.”

But he brushed me off.

Erectus interruptus.

He wanted to get in a quick run before dinner.

So, he did.

By the time he was back and cleaned up, dinner was on the table.

Just before we sat down, he hugged me close and took my hand and slipped it into his pocket.

“Oh, we’re going to throw down before dinner,” I thought.

But that wasn’t what he had in mind.  Because even though I felt nuggets rolling around in his pocket, they were too small to be his balls.  I grabbed them and pulled my hand out to find three soft Hershey’s Kisses in my fist.

Apparently he had made a stop on his run.

“You said two or three more kisses would do the trick,” he grinned.

“They’re warm,” I responded.

“Warm kisses are the best kind.”  And with that he backed me against the counter and proved his point.

You know what? When it’s a warm kiss, it only takes one.

{ fin }

  1. No.  He is not a Naval Academy grad.  Just has the sweatshirt for some reason. []
  2. Showing some leg doesn’t hurt none either. []
  3. the women in our office []

Swingin’ and Rockin’

I’m not a clothes person.

I’m not talking in the fashion sense.1 I’m talking in the wearing sense.

If I could go without clothes and not get arrested, I would.

Despite my Internet history, it’s not an exhibitionist thing.  It’s comfort, plain and simple.

As much as I have hated to see Granny’s physical decline over the years, the bonus is that ever since she has had trouble climbing stairs, I have pretty much lived my life on the second floor bare-assed.

I read naked, watch TV naked, blog naked2 …If I can do it naked, I do.  Even if I get chilly, I will put on only as little as possible to make me warm.

I don’t do it so much when I’m at The Attorney’s place.  That’s because he isn’t the bare-ass type.  Maybe because he spends his days all buttoned up in a suit and tie, stripping down to his underpants feels like nudity to him.

Speaking of underpants, he doesn’t understand why, if I like being balls-to-the-breeze, I don’t go commando.

Look inside a pair of pants and you’ll see why.  The part were you deposit your junk.  It’s nothing but a snarl of rough seams and fabric edges.  I don’t need3 all that rubbing and pinching up against the Beauties and the Beast.

If my stuff is gonna have to be on lock down, on house arrest, I need the softness and support of a good pair of underpants.  And boxers don’t do the trick.  When I want to swing, I want to swing like Tarzan, not like Granny’s glider.

That’s why I want a kilt.

Yep. A kilt.  I’ve been giving it serious thought.  All the freedom of being naked while staying within the boundaries of decency laws.

I think I could get into wearing one.  From banging around the grocery store to Sharon Stone-ing fellas at the barber shop, I could totally get into rocking a plaid skirt4 …and whatever that thing is that hangs down in front.5

I wonder if a wife-beater is considered improper attire with a kilt.  Because that’s the way I plan on wearing it this summer.  Swingin’  it and rockin’ the beater and kilt look.

I’m not even sure where to get a kilt.  Not sure how it will go over in East Tennessee, either. I guess I could use the excuse that I’m honoring the Scottish side of my Scots-Irish6 heritage.

Honoring my Cherokee blood would not help me.  They were not a tribe that wore loin cloths.

Too bad.  Because I could totally rock that, too.

{ fin }

  1. Which I don’t have. []
  2. Like right now. []
  3. or want []
  4. I hope my clan has a nice looking tartan. []
  5. Something to keep your boner down? []
  6. From where most folks around here descend. []

Is There A Docker In The House?

I don’t know who the official czar of English slang is.  But I want to challenge the slang usage of a word.


I’m going to be showing my ignorance here, but for the  near twenty-two years that I have been sticking my pecker in warm, wet, tight1 places, and doing a lot of the activities that sometimes go along with it, I have thought that “docking” was just another way of saying “fucking.”

As in “HDP.”

Human Docking Procedure.

Until recently, I had no idea it had anything to do with foreskins.

Maybe because I don’t have much experience with them.  Foreskins, that is.  Granted the doctor left me with a little extra skin, but only enough extra enough to make my stuff  handle a bit thicker.  Not enough to be pulling it over the head of another man’s pecker.

So, inexperience makes my ignorance at least a little bit justified.

Even if it doesn’t, the actual process of what is currently known as “docking” completely does.

From the way I understand it, two fellas put their heads together2 and one slides his foreskin over  the others dong.

That’s not docking.  That’s throwing a tarp over the woodpile.

So why not call it “tarping?”

“Docking” is putting something inside something else, not covering something with something else.

You bring the ship a ship into the dock.  You drive the truck into the  factory dock.  Something goes into the dock.

And then you unload.3

I have to say fucking sounds a lot more like it should be called “docking” than eskimo kissing your dongs inside a sleeve does.

Even the frightening practice of “sounding” is more like docking than “docking.”  Although, it doesn’t seem like a very sound practice if you ask me.


That’s a better word for it.  Even better than “tarping.” I mean you have to tie a tarp down.  “Tarping” is better saved for the BDSM version of  the act.

So, I’m sending out an appeal to the Secretary of Sexual Slang, and the uncircumcised of the world, that from now own, for the sake of clarity, that “docking” be called “sleeving.”

But, then, what if you have a fella back the eye of his storm up to you and wraps his innards around your meat.  Could that be “sleeving” too?

Nah.  That’s just what it’s always been:

A damned good piece of ass.

{ fin }

  1. hopefully []
  2. And I don’t mean to brainstorm. []
  3. To loading dock, which is always in the rear. []

Man Made

Men like naked bodies.  That’s the truth.

Gay or straight, guys like seeing people with no clothes.  Flopping cock or bouncing titties.  If there is nudity involved guys are going to hone in on it.  Much more than women do, I think.

I’m the same way.  Fee-swinging peckers don’t get my attention so much1, but bare bootie will make me throw a rod faster than a Nascar engine.

I love seeing the Attorney naked2.  For a man who is a couple of months shy of 50, he’s got a pretty damned fine body.  Running and swimming have kept his long-legged, broad-shouldered lean frame in great shape.

But, in some ways I think guys have it all wrong.  It’s true that a man’s hot naked body will make me chub like nothing, but I often find myself plumping up when I pay attention to way the Attorney looks when he is dressed.

It’s not that I am starting to fetish-ize a particular piece of clothing. Like being  into jock straps or uniforms or suits or something.

Sometimes it is The Attorney in a suit.  He wears one at least five days a week.  But it’s not the fact that he’s in a suit.  Or even that he’s getting out of a suit. 3 It’s the way he wears it: the way his shoulders and back fill out his suit coats.

Sometimes it’s the way an old t-shirt wraps around his chest and hugs it as tightly as I want to. Other times it’s a sweatshirt that completely hides his form altogether.

Speaking of form, don’t even get me started on the running tights that mold to his legs, or, even better, those thin shorty shorts that seem to be worn only by runners and hookers.4

They say that the clothes make the man.  I think we may have that all wrong, too.

Do the clothes make a man sexy?  Or are the clothes sexy because of  a man?

In the case of  The Attorney, I’m inclined to believe the latter.

It may be a case of chickens and eggs.

But,  I don’t much care which comes first…as long as I get a chance to, too.

{ fin }

  1. unless it’s a big one, then it’s more about competition than admiration. []
  2. although his inherent modesty keeps him from being as free as I am about exposure []
  3. Trust me, he is so meticulous about his business clothes that there is nothing remotely sexual about their removal. []
  4. I’m definitely hooked. []