Susan Alice Shelley - 12/2/1964 - 2/21/2007

People living deeply have no fear of death.
— Anais Nin

     Just forty-eight hours ago, I was sitting down to write about what great friends I have.  Mere moments after writing, “Pirates never die,” I received a phone call which showed that the world had decided to see just how much I really believed that.

     She was there one minute, laughing with us like no tomorrow.

     And then she wasn’t.

     We’d met before, briefly, some fifteen years ago.  We knew the same towns, some of the same people.  And when she showed up again last year, it was all so familiar … hard and fast friends, an instant sister, that crazy gypsy, that Wicked Wench.
     It was only natural that I wrote her a testimonial a few months ago:

She’s an incredibly talented artist with a death-lock stranglehold on the eclectic. She’s all fun, all the time, complete with an infectious laugh that can change the mood of an entire bar!

     For those of us who’ve been around her, all we have to do is remember how she she lived: Like there’s no tomorrow.  Nothing left unsaid.  Nothing left undone.  No regrets.

     Laughing at every damn thing — like a bunch of kids with attention deficit disorder — certainly has its benefits.  I remember taking her out for her birthday that night with Niki, going to Market Square…

     Oooh, Kitty!

     (Maybe it’s Susan *grin* Besides, it’s only a 24-Bar Break)

     Thanks, Glenn.  Appreciate ya.  *rolls eyes in faux disgust* 

     Met up with some cool people for Blogfest on Saturday night:

• Perry Nelson
• Cathy McCaughan
• Doug McCaughan
• Rich Hailey
• Michael Silence
• Randy Neal
• Barry
• SayUncle
• CE Petro
• Les Jones
• Mike Faulk
• Lissa Kay
• Katie Allison Granju
• Jonathan Hickman
• Dr Helen

     Oh, and Glenn “Instapundit” Reynolds … *snicker*

     Had a few laughs … Had a few Porters … Had a few more laughs … And then … Met up with some more friends … Had a few more Porters … And laughs … and continued to the next venue(s).

     At some point during the night, I actually turned off my phone and left it in the car, because the business calls were really bringing me down after what had already been a long, long, long, long day.  Four business calls per hour gets old on a Saturday night…

UPDATE 11:26PM GMT-5

     Having just read Rich Haily’s blog in its entirety, I wish to clarify something:

Present but not blogging were Les Jones and his wife Melissa, and Mark Steel.

     I submit that I am not the wife of Les Jones.  I have not, nor will I ever be, married to Les.  Nor has anyone ever, ever called me “Melissa.”  I am also sure that Les is not from Utah, nor Massachusetts.
     That said, however, Les and I do have more in common than most of my recent dates, such as mutual affections for Star Wars, Firearms and making fun of the Dixie Chicks.  *snicker*

     Apparently, Monty’s opened up a can of worms that can’t be shut.  Again, I get put in the position to bring it down a notch.

     In the immortal words of Reinhold Niebuhr:

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.

     To put it bluntly, “Shit happens.  We deal with it, or we don’t.”

     Recompense helps.

     But when even that fails…

     Laughter always makes us feel better.

     Let’s leave our apprehension, anger and fear at the door for a moment.  I mean, hey, it’d do us all good to just sit back, take a deep breath, and have a good laugh.
     Shall we?

Thanks, Zacque!

The news of the double murder of Channon Christian and Christopher Newsom is shocking. But I want to know where this all began. We know where it ended and who is in custody, and who died. Young white kids from the West side died East Side of town.

What will be truly telling is where it all started. Why are they holding that back? I think the answer will be that it started somewhere “safe” like ”Turkey Creek” and they don’t want people to know that. If it had happened in the Old City or downtown, you can bet it would have been news from day one.

I really want it to have happened in West Knoxville. I want the world to give up this notion that parts of town are “safe” and parts are “unsafe.” Why doesn’t the media report the number of thefts and robberies and other crimes in the parking lots of Turkey Creek and West Town Mall, but seem to regularly report anything that happens downtown? If people knew the facts, it would change a lot. When Bill Haslam’s mother’s purse was snatched at the mall, they were unable keep it quiet. News this big can’t be kept quiet either.

We will see if there is a real reason the location is unknown, or if it is just their way of protecting some economic interest’s investments, or maybe some segment of Knox County’s notion of “safe.”

     According to the rules of “Pirate Chicks” (I don’t date and/or do Pirate Chicks) I stay in line.  Mind you, those were my own rules, if for nothing else than to cut down on drama.  I love those girls, and I’ll stand up for any one of them at any time for almost any reason.
     Some conditions do apply — they make their own rules, and can make their own mistakes, and take their own consequences.  But I’d like to think we all know each other well enough that no lines will ever be crossed.  We do what we need to do, and we respect each other enough to step on one anothers’ toes.
     I like that.  It’s friendship.  It’s what we do.
     My Pirate Chicks.
     Cuz I’m possesive like that, and hey, like the Pirate Princess said, I was Pirate enough to Hijack the booty …

We are Mark’s Pirates because he said we are.  He sought out the treasure in true Pirate form and laid claim to the booty.  (In a manner of speaking, of course.  LOL  We all know you don’t date Pirate Chicks, Mark.)   All treasure is not silver & gold, mate.  Some things are better and worth a whole lot more.

     But, there’s this guy, Marty Ray.  He’s the one who brought the whole “Pirate” thing together with an annual Pub Crawl, complete with a designated driver (on a bus, with lots of Jell-O Shooters).
     Thanks, Marty Ray.
     He’s real Karaoke Afficianado.
     It’s not your plain-jane, “Hey, we gonna sang some sheeyit!” Karaoke.  Instead, he plays “popular” music in between, and pretty much keeps the crowd entertained.
     Tonight, I went to one of his shows, propagated by the ass, errrrrrrr, girl, in my Flirting 101 blog… (Ed - Sam: Yeah, that deserves a slap.  Oh, Baby!)

      I had a good time, actually.  I didn’t expect that.

      When I got there tonight at 10PM, the place was a little empty.  A few college kids, not much going on in general.
     But by 11:30PM, there was a line out the door.
     You sit around, being “old,” and just kinda watch for a while.  You have a laugh at the guys “trying” to hit on girls and getting slapped in the face.  You have a laugh at the girls swaggering out the door (even though they’ve been drinking Coca Cola all night) with the object of their affection.
     You have a laugh, basically, at the whole, “Been there, done that, and you are certainly a dumbass!” of it all.
     But I found that every ten minutes or so, some hot young thing would come up and ask me, “What am I drinking?” and I’d tell her how, regardless of that fact that she hates gin, she’d enjoy a Gin & Tonic the way I make them.  I’d instruct the bartender, and she’d love it, and pretty much offer me anything I desired.
     Else, one of them would come up and rub my closely shaven head, and tell me how sexy I am.
     Or, one of them would come up and just ask me, straight out, “Are you going home alone tonight?”

      When you’re old enough to be their father, that kinda crap just seems … weird.  And that’s a good thing.
     Then again … It’s a serious ego-boost to know that I’m still sexy at my age.
       But all in all, it certainly feels good to hear all these young kids singing along to the songs you know.   It also feels good to know that they’re making some of the same dumbass mistakes you made when you were their age.

     For all the stupidity of the night, I had a damn good time.

     I even gained a little faith in the future.
     I mean, at least they’re not fighting each other like we did…
     Maybe they will be a better generation…

     Certainly, they know how to make an “old man” feel pretty damn good by asking him to take them home.

     Especially after they’ve been drinking Coca Cola all night.

     Last week I got the news that Opal’s Lounge, Knoxville’s best Dive, had sold out.  Swanky and I have frequented the place on off for many years now, having a beer, playing darts and talking to Opal, the owner.
     A few years ago, her grandson Robbie started helping her out, and the crowd changed a little — it became younger, and a lot more obnoxious than the older “neighborhood regulars” who usually frequented the place.
     Still, I could always go in before 7PM and sit and talk to Opal, smoke cigarettes and laugh.

     I told Swanky about it last week.  Today, he broke the story on his blog.  Since my name was on it, I couldn’t help but go and check it out…

     Today, it already felt like a different place. No Opal. No Robbie. Strange people, who I didn’t know, struggled with both the cash register and finding that elusive “Miller Lite.”
     The familiar painting — one her late husband had brought from Mexico — was no longer on the wall above the cash register, and several other items we’ve stared at over the years just weren’t there.  It all felt a little surreal, and I sat there wondering if Opal had taken her things, or if they’d shoved them in the storage room.

     Finally, I looked at the new bartenders, and asked, “I’m confused… where’s Opal?”
     “She sold out!” he said happily.
     He introduced himself, personable enough.  They’re friends of Robbie’s, and will be converting the bar into “D A’s Sports Bar” (I believe that’s what he said — was hard to hear over the TV & Jukebox). They told me that Opal did everything she could to help them get into the place.

     “Sold it to us two weeks ago,” he said. “But it was official … last week.”
     Strangely, last week was the first  heard about it … from one of my clients. Opal had called him a few minutes before I walked in the door.
     Given that, I’m kinda surprised she didn’t say anything when Swanky and I were there on her last Friday.  Like he says…

If you go by before 7PM these days, you can still hang out with Opal herself. She is a legend in Knoxville bars. She has been like a grandmother to me. One that smokes, drinks and cusses.

     Instead, she gave Swanky and I each a hug and a kiss, and said, “I love you boys!”
     That’s pretty damn special, coming from Opal.

     And after going there this afternoon, I miss her already.

I have a gripe. This seems to be the day for them.

My mother called me a couple of hours ago to tell me that the show Cold Case (which I’d never watched, or ever heard of) was going to be set in Knoxville and Nashville. Apparently the premise was that a country singer (from Nashville) was killed six years ago in Philadelphia and they’re re-opening the case, which calls for a trip down south.

As I said, I’d never watched the show before, nor had I even heard of it. But I thought what the heck, I’ll give it a shot. I thought they might have actually filmed some of the scenes on location and I would see some familiar sights.

Gripe Number One: We are not animals. When the Philadelphia detectives are told that they’ll be going to Tennessee, they acted as if they’d been assigned to a third world country. OK, seriously, it’s not that bad. There seems to be this idea that Hollywood must portray the south as backwoods and uncivilized. We do actually have some pretty spiffy buildings, and I’ve heard tell that SOME places in the south even have running water and electricity!

Gripe Number Two: The ACCENTS!! Oh. My. God. I cannot stand to hear an actor who has clearly never been south of the Mason-Dixon line try to do a southern accent. Just like I can’t stand to hear an actor (or anyone else) who has never ventured out of the US try to do a British (or Aussie, or German or..) accent. Very few people can pull it off and be believable. Is it really that hard to find a few actors who truly ARE southern? I don’t try to do accents, because I realize I sound like a total dork. And the actors that they had doing these “southern accents” were soooo incredibly thick, I could hardly understand them. Truly, most of Nashville just isn’t THAT southern and is, in fact, quite metropolitan.

Gripe Number Three: The appearances of the “Nashville” characters. Everyone in the south does not have a scruffy goatee. Everyone in the south is not dirty. Everyone in the south does not wear a cowboy hat. Everyone in the south does not dress like they’ve just rolled in off the farm. Everyone in the south is not a country musician (or country music fan.) I promise. And contrary to popular belief, we actually DO bathe.

Gripe Number Four: The names of the “Nashville” characters. Sugar? Honey? Big Daddy? What the hell? I don’t know anyone named Sugar or Honey and I certainly don’t know anyone named Big Daddy. I’m truly amazed they didn’t have a Bubba or Vern. Oddly enough, I don’t know anyone named Bubba or Vern, either.

I tried watching some of the show, but it was so disjointed and unbelievable, I quickly lost interest. I still don’t know if they ever showed anything that was supposed to be in Knoxville, because I’d already changed the channel. And perhaps that’s why I’d never heard of this show. I’m wondering if anyone else has either.

     The three easy steps to owning a town: 

     1) Don’t do anything wrong.

     2) Mind your own business.

     3) Have irrefutable proof when others, higher in power or stature, don’t do the same.

     Politics are nasty, and allow you to circumvent all of that with:

     A) Pay them (or launder their money).

     There is no B.  And most people who have the money won’t do it.

     That’s just the way it goes.

Friday afternoon, an unseasonably warm November 4th, I received a call telling me that Casey Jones had slipped into the ether after an extended battle with cancer. There are so many things which can be said of Casey: a strong local businessman, a fair and balanced politician, an influential leader, champion for the working man, a charitable soul who saw promise where others saw failure, a wise and powerful mentor, a steadfast friend, and, before any of that, a man devoted to his family.

Perhaps most telling of Casey’s endless generosity is a line from his obituary:

“In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to support the Beck Cultural Exchange Center’s Legacy Path Project 1927 Dandridge Ave. Knoxville, Tenn. 37915 or through youth golf scholarships for the Wee Course at Williams Creek payable to WC Two Inc., 1130 Atlantic Ave. Knoxville, Tenn. 37917.”

In extolling the virtues of such a great man — a legend, a pillar, a dear friend — we must also remember: he was still just a man. And this is not a man whose passing should be mourned; rather, he is someone we should aspire to be more like.

Casey, you will be sorely missed.

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