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.

     Swanky sent me a link to this brilliant video, Battle of the Bands … Oh yeah!
     And if you’re old enough to remember at least fifty percent of these album covers, they’re probably too loud now. 

     Last night, I ran into another ten people I hadn’t seen in ten or more years.

     Man, I love getting out.

     Of course, one of the aforementioned was someone who’s practically family (knows everyone in the family, most of the people I’ve worked for around Knoxville, and and a lotta things she shouldn’t).
     Those conversations always take a negative turn … family, since past … friends, long gone … nostalgia, nostalgia.

     At the end of the day, when you look back, if you can know them and have no regrets — it’s all good.

     Sometimes a picture’s worth a thousand words.
     Other times, they’re worth ten thousand.  I’ll try not to write them all down.

     Throughout my travels, I actually have very few pictures, let alone pictures of me.  That’s why this one is so special to me.  It was taken 28-Dec-2000.

     Nine months later, those beautiful landmarks were gone.  I was in a foreign country having abuse and saliva hurled at me by random morons with their, “Fucking yanks got what you deserved!” and other such slanders.
     Mind you, “screaming” is considered a violent act there, and they had a tendency to make examples of non-citizens, so I had to either take the abuse or take my chances beating on some of them.
     Door number two was easier, knowing that I could go home and shave my hair and beard, and they’d be too stupid to know it was me if they saw me again.

     Contrary to popular belief, the 9/11 attacks took little to pull off.  That’s the one thing the public doesn’t like to hear.
     It wasn’t the work of a brilliant, criminal mastermind with an endless supply of money.  All it took was a few idiots with the nerve and will to actually do it.
     I was out there, and I know first hand that there are a lot of idiots in the world, with the will to do it.  Fortunately, few of them have the nerve, but the possibility has always been there, and continues to be there.

     ”There was no problem before this stupid President!  We could travel anywhere under the last one!”
     Even through the 90’s, foreign travel was discouraged to “ALL COUNTRIES, DUE TO HIGH POSSIBILITY OF ANTI-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES.”  These notices were in every Post Office and Airport in the country.  Surely I’m not the only one who noticed them.
     But certainly, after 9/11, it got worse.  Half the world saw America as weak, saw that retribution could be had for whatever made-up reasons we needed it, and apparently, all it took was a few plane tickets and some box cutters.

     “We shouldn’t be in Iraq since it had nothing to do with 9/11!”
     We unhinged Afghanistan because there were camps training armies of Jihaadists.  These things are all over the Middle East, as well.
     Regardless of whether or not Iraq had anything to do with it, two facts remain.  First, it was an unsecure country with  tons of munitions.  Second, a stabilized Iraq dead in the middle of a Jihaadist region is a perfectly good thing.
     For Iraqis who are fed up with Totalitarian control, isn’t it nice to see them on television now wearing Levis and playing soccer instead of being terrorized by a leader who has had no qualms about killing them by the hundreds of thousands?
     And for Jihaadists … Iraq is a poison pill where the majority of them will face the front, and die for their cause, without killing as many innocent civillians as they have for last thirty years.

     “You’re more likely get killed by lightning than killed by a terrorist!”
     Maybe that’s true.  But maybe it’s only true of now, post-9/11, because we certainly didn’t think it would happen on 10-Sep-2001, now did we?
     Realistically, the NOAA & NWS agree that there were 3684 reported deaths by lightning between 1959 and 2004.  2997 people died (not including the hijackers) on that single day, 11-Sep-2001.
     Given those statistics, is it really fair, comparing nearly fifty years to a single day?
     Regardless of how we may dislike the new “security” measures at airports, they usually don’t inconvenience us terribly.  Sure, we’ve hit a few bumps lately, but we’ll get through it.

     Without the politics to add fuel to these arguments, they all fall apart.  We can sit here, as citizens, getting a tenth of the story at best, and try to second guess, analyze, and make all these stupid connections to find a single person responsible for the mess.
     Thoughts like that will almost never represent the truth.

     We should remember what life was like, realisticly, before 9/11.  We should remember the day.  We should remember those who died for no reason.  And we should never forget.
     Maybe when we all start doing that, we’ll begin to see some improvement.

Thanks, Mia, for the last two pictures

     Back in my “prime,” I was considered to be one of the most trustworthy people there ever was.  Family, Friends, Customers, Criminals, Police, Random Asshats and, especially, Politicians would tell me all their secrets.  I could keep my mouth shut.

     I was always very good at keeping my mouth shut.

     Eventually, their problems would become my problems, in trying to resolve the injustices in a given situation.  Still, though I would play Devil’s Advocate for a lot, I’d keep my mouth shut.]

     I was always good like that.  That why everyone felt they could trust me … Why they felt I could keep their secrets.

     Those are the things that keep me up at night.  Not my guilt — no, other peoples.

     And it pisses me off.
     Many months ago, I finally got the opportunity to meet one of the objects of my torment.  I beat his sorry ass to a bloody pulp, all the time lecturing him about why it was a stupid idea to put me in this situation.
     A few months later, he killed himself.

     Good.

     One less asshat in the world.

     Too bad the sorry piece of trash never had the balls to apologize to all the people he’d screwed over in his life.  Too bad he never apologized to those he’d confided in when he took the “easy way” out of his guilt.
     No, his worthless ass left everyone else holding the bag, just like he always did.
     The very sad part is, most people will say, “Don’t talk ill of the dead!”
     Why the Hell not?

     I mean, come on, if their bullshit has tormented you for years, why shouldn’t you just come right out and say it?

     And what the Hell was wrong with me that I never said it before?
     Tonight, for instance, I saw someone I haven’t seen in nearly ten years.  A sweet girl who I tried to look out for in the absence of her parents.  A sweet girl who just always seemed to make bad decisions.
     Several times, I took the fall when she messed up.  Several times, I beat on someone severely when she was in harm’s way. 
     She was one of many “homeless” kids back then, and that’s what I did.  I lived downtown, and I tried to keep them outta trouble.

     Still, eventually, things got really bad for her, despite my best intentions.
     Marriage to someone I’d known for a long time, a cloak & dagger psycho snooping around, and a mysterious disappearance as the outcome.

     A few years afterwards, I realized the “mysterious disappearance” wasn’t so mysterious, afterall.  I ended up meeting up with that specific party in another town (in the same state, mind you!) hanging out with a few other mutual friends.
     I kinda figured everyone knew, except this girl.

     Before I left the country seven years ago, I talked to her late, one night, and said, “Hey, about all that shit … you know, doncha?”
     “Yeah.”

     I kinda thought that was the end of it until I saw her again tonight.

     Eventually, reminscing about old times caught up with me.  And maybe her, too.
     Everybody’d else had known for seven years.  Everybody.

     But, it seems, nobody ever told her.

     Just one less secret for me to have to keep.

     I don’t like that … hate that situation.

     Especially between friends and family.
     It’s no damn wonder I feel like I’ve lost my mind, all these secrets.
     Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out how to tell people without telling them… Just get them thinking enough to figure them all out.

     In the meantime, I guess I’ll just keep on keeping my mouth shut … keep on keep secrets that I don’t want …

     With other peoples’ guilt.

     Wish you pricks would spill the beans already, and quit leaving people like me hanging.

     Every now and again, you’ll hear a woman say, “The word ‘bitch’ should be removed from the English language!”  Sometimes I agree, but now and again, you find these incredible witches with capital “B”’s who underscore the necessity of the word. 
     “Dorothy” (we’ll call her for the purpose of keeping her privacy) is one of those.  More than just witchlike, she was a psycho who couldn’t understand normal thinking.  On second thought, even the c-word might be too tame…

     We met in a bar several years ago.  It was just after midnight, and we’d been having a great conversation.  She was from a state that I used to live in, and we spent quite a while reminiscing the old days.  Old hangouts, old friends (a few of whom we knew in common), old cars and old girlfriends, husbands and wives.
     Eventually, she invited me back to her place to “hang out” for a while.  I went, mind you, but made my motives pretty clear — “Listen, you’re drunk.  I’m not gonna take advantage of that.  You might say it’s not taking advantage, but let’s not do something either of us might regret.  Okay?”
     I’m good like that.  I don’t send mixed signals.

     Unfortunately, once we got back to her place, she was no longer the semi-sober woman she was in the bar and car ride home.  

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     Continuing on the same thread of former psychos, who may or may not continue to be psycho — fortunately, it’s been so long since I’ve seen any of them, I have no idea if they’re still psycho or if they’ve been heavily medicated and rehabilitated — there was another really good one who showed real promise in the Art of Screwing Up Guys Lives.
     It’s going to be a little difficult to write about her given that I’ve promised not to reveal enough information that would make someone easily identifiable.  Unfortunately, in this case it’s difficult, and I’ve debated heavily about writing about her at all.  But the story, oh the story, is just too good.
     We’ll call her “Alexis.”

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     Taking another stroll down the memory lane of past relationships mentioned in the last post, I remembered another really funny one.  We’ll call her “Sybil.”

     Sybil didn’t do much outside of college.  She hung around in the neighborhood talking to people most of the time.  That’s pretty much how we met, and became pretty good friends.
     The “we’re dating” thing came about after one of those uncomfortable conversations that most men try and avoid — all the “We need to talk.  What are we doing?  Where is this going?” bits which establish a plan and timeframe that didn’t need to be established since the obvious answer was, “We’re hanging out and having a good time, why do you have to ruin it with stupid questions?”
     But I digress…

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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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