the most unfortunate name

Last weekend my sister-in-law came to visit and brought a big bag of VHS movies for Fox to watch. Included in the sack was Walt Disney's Robin Hood, a film that my brother and I watched millions of times during the 80s. Since Robin Hood is portrayed as a Fox, I assumed my son would love it, but I had no idea that he would want to watch the movie twice a day, starting the moment he awoke.

It has been frustrating, but also fun to relive the humor and music. Tons of details emerge which I didn't notice as a child. For instance: the name of the man responsible for the voice of the Sheriff of Nottingham's name is Pat Buttram. What an unfortunate name. What a shame that my brother and I didn't notice that in the credits, as we weren't big credit readers at that time. Buttram. That's just plain awful.

Ladyface, revealed

For those of you who recall my April 7th blog post Fountains and Fountains, you may remember mention of a certain sexually ambiguous neighbor who was affectionately referred to as Ladyface. More evidence has been unearthed about this swarthy, yet delicate individual.




I apologize in advance for these uncensored images.

Sometime after posting the aforementioned blog, my friend Beth told me that she had seen Ladyface at our neighborhood store, The Handy Dandy. I asked Beth if she got the impression that Ladyface was a man or a woman, and she felt confident that it was a man in women's clothing. Clothing, dangling earrings, and platform sandals, to be exact. Imagining Ladyface in the Handy Dandy all dolled up is enigmatic. This is the kind of store where they butcher and sell their own meat, and where cops hang out. Their top selling beer comes in 40 oz bottles, and most of their customers arrive on foot. The thought of an unabashed transvestite entering the establishment seems ballsey, if not slightly dangerous.


The following day Lee and I were driving to the comic book store so he could get "dis guy tuh buy me one uh dim five dollar foot longs", and on the way we drove past Ladyface's house where the fountain was spewing.
"Do you the man who lives in that house with the fountain?" I asked Lee.

"Hell yeah" Lee said in a low, "no duh" tone. "People says he's some kinda queer er sumthin. I don't give uh damn but whut th hell is he doin with that goddam warshin machine pump on thar? Can you imagine thu warter he's a waistin' jus to run that crap in his front fuckin yard"

Lee's tone and volume increased to a mid-high agitation level, and he elaborated:

"I mean, here's dis grown man spendin all his time'n money on some ugly warter pump with bricks an bullshit all over it; livin in thare with his BIG old momma! That says to me that shit ain't right with em. Them peoples CRAZY"

I was proud that Lee didn't rail the man for dressing like a woman or for his proposed homosexuality. Ladyface had logged at least 25 hours a week on that stupid fountain, and since he continually changed it, it was 25 hours a week from April to September for three consecutive summers. But the bottom like was that Lee was calling another CRAZY.

A few days later Jason and I were driving by and saw Ladyface relaxing around his house. We took these pictures.







I couldn't help but notice the pick in his pocket. I used to carry a pick like that when I got an 80s perm.

My neighborhood is the best. When a man feels this confident and natural while cross dressing, everyone else should just follow suit. No pun intended.

3/20/2008 Me and My Cousin

I just swiped these images off my cousins profile. She and I were together all summer long when we were kids. She turned 27 yesterday!

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Stephanie and I were content playing together, with or without toys for hours on end. When the weather was warm we spent most of the day outside, and if it was rainy we made the garage into a cat theater. Nothing like the Broadway production of Cats; more like a torture chamber for the population of ferrell cats which reproduced without reserve in my parents garage and sheds. I can’t remember ever being bored during the summer, and I spent the entire year long looking forward to meeting my Uncle Steve and Stephanie in Berea, Kentucky to bring her back to Asheville.

Our meeting point was approx. halfway between Asheville and Muncie, Indiana in the small town of Berea at a motor lodge called THE HOLIDAY MOTEL, not to be confused with the HOLIDAY INN. The only place to eat supper was at a place called the DINNER BELL, and we didn’t like it. It was a lot like a CRACKER BARREL, but more country. Imagine a wagon wheel motif with lots of gingham. Our step grandfather, Boyd would order fried liver and onions and shove his cornbread into his cold glass of buttermilk.

Stephanie and I would have been content if they had served breakfast at night, but they didn’t so we ordered heaps of mashed potatoes and butter instead of piles of pancakes with butter. As a child I was suspicious of anything with more than three ingredients, and anything fried. Most children’s menus have something fried with the word "fingers" in the name which I have always thought unwise. Heaven only knew what was inside the golden brown shell. Probably fingers.

Our Nanny (mom’s mom) let Stephanie and I run the show most of the time but when we screwed up it was bad. Nanny’s anger was the kind that made you wish you were born into life as an otter or a hawk. That kind of anger was rare and reserved to bad behavior resulting in fires, floods or trips to the emergency room. My brother has coined the term "Nannitude" for describing the severity of her extremes. Nanny was considered by others as impatient, but she taught Stephanie and I how to make frilly dresses for our Barbies, (everyone knows what a test that is) let us help her make fudge and even she even sat through our longest theatric productions.

Neither Steph nor I were bequeathed a sister so our relationship was as close as it got for us. Whenever we get together we have so many things to catch up on; I wish we could stop time and have our summers back.