Economy Class Warfare

My back's killing me. I have had a pinched nerve in my lower back for over two weeks now. I really don't know how it happened. I think someone called my name and I turned around funny. I'm sure that dancing at my stepdaughter's wedding only exacerbated the problem. We knew the day was coming. We met the young man, they set the date, and we began our ever-growing neurosis over flying to California for the ceremony. The wedding itself was beautiful but it was an endurance test to just get there. The airlines have stripped customer service to the marrow and just about everything surrounding the industry, from air fares to the sadists who populate the TSA, tests your tolerance and tries your patience. Once an adventure, today's air travel more closely resembles flying Trailways buses that were decommissioned in the seventies. In order to maximize shareholder profits, seats are smaller in both width and legroom and an overweight person might have to slide into the tiny bathroom sideways. And the seats don't tilt back anymore. Now I know how those prisoners who were tortured at Abu Ghraib felt.

For years, we have intentionally tried to avoid air travel after a particularly harassing and humiliating flight and have tried to drive whenever possible. But then we drove to Atlanta and I took the wrong turn-off in Nashville and ended up driving around the city lost for an hour or so- and I lived there for nine years. So, Amtrak and Greyhound aside, if you have a long distance to travel, you're pretty much captive to the airlines and you will obey the rules or else. And they keep changing the rules. One fool tries to light his sneakers on fire and for the next ten years everybody has to tiptoe through security in their stocking feet. This trip, we were allowed to keep our shoes on but had to stand in that scanner that exposes your ass to some letch monitoring a flat-screen. I thought I saw him pocketing a printout. A necklace I was wearing set off the metal detector and I was told to step to one side and wait for a uniformed pencil-neck to come over and pat me down. Melody said I was supposed to put my wallet and phone in a container instead of shoving my whole jacket through the X-Ray device with all the stuff in the pockets. I was merely trying to be efficient.

We had an early flight to San Francisco with a layover in Phoenix and I was surprised to find the gate was packed. The boarding process is totally stupid except no one's bothered to tell them. Wouldn't it make more sense to fill the plane back-end first? Then no one would be stuck in the isle waiting on those passengers attempting to cram an overstuffed valise into an undersized overhead compartment. We brought wedding attire which meant we had to check two bags at thirty bucks a pop and still had carry-ons. Naturally, I drew the middle seat which meant I had to jockey for the armrest with a stranger for several hours while sitting in a seat more suited for an anorexic aficionado of Deep Vein Thrombosis. A Columbia School of Law professor called these practices "calculated misery." With only four airlines controlling eighty percent of air traffic, a wink and a nod translates into every flight slashing comforts to prod customers into paying extra for additional services, like leg room or a pillow. We did get a small bag of pretzels and a coke, only not the full can. I asked Melody if she would call the stewardess over for a refill but she told me that the proper term now was flight attendant. I said that, actually, they were air waitresses, to which Melody informed me that the acceptable term now was server. I implored, "Just please ask the soft-drink Nazi if I can have some more cola."

The American Eagle airplane is the Ford Pinto of the air in that it should be discontinued for commercial use. Melody had insisted that I stop singing "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" by the time we actually got there and the Xanax was wearing off. The walk to our connecting gate was like the Bataan Death March with a pinched nerve thrown in for laughs. No zippy little trams or golf carts, just us trudging along with grim reserve and bruised knees from lack of legroom. Arriving in California was like being discharged from the Army. When we reached the hotel, both of us were drained and ready to collapse only to find our room directly above the hotel's ballroom where a wedding disc jockey was spinning hip-hop music so loudly he may as well have been set up in the bathroom. I might have copped an attitude had our wedding not been so beautiful. The bride looked so gorgeous that I had to shed a tear. I think I must have snorted a little bit too because my future in-laws were patting my back and comforting me. The band at the reception was so good, I got up and danced despite myself. My new son-in-law's father is a minister and we were told he was very reserved. But by night's end, Melody had the reverend up and dancing while the band sang, "We're up all night to get lucky." When we returned exhausted to our room, another wedding DJ was blasting away in the ballroom below, and it was all about that bass. Our flights returning to Memphis were the same misery, only in reverse- and I got singled out by security again. We arrived exhausted and grouchy, collected our luggage and walked an additional mile in the freezing cold to the long-term parking lot. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

It's A Gas, Gas, Gas

Nobody should have to live like this. To go about your daily business while in the back of your mind is the nagging concern that the psychotic sonofabitch who occupies the White House will do something else insane that will harm the country. As the ghastly evidence of his criminal activities creep closer to the president during the impeachment hearings, expect his conduct to grow even more aberrant, lashing out madly at everyone or anyone who dares criticize him. The latest victim of a Trump tweet trashing is Fox News correspondent Chris Wallace, who dismantled Rep. Steve Scalice's GOP talking points justifying Trumps' conduct toward the Ukrainian government on Fox News Sunday. Trump tweeted professorially, "Steve Scalise blew the nasty and obnoxious Chris Wallace (will never be his father, Mike!) away on Chris' lowest rated (unless I'm on) morning show. This kind of dumb and unfair interview would never have happened in the Fox News Past." Well, Roger Ailes died and Shepard Smith quit, so maybe some of the reporters over at Big Brother Central are developing consciences. Trump can still count on folks like Fox & Friends and the other half-wits who spew propaganda and lies on behalf of this president, but two scholastic studies, one by the University of Maryland, the other by Fairleigh Dickinson University, have determined that people who only watch Fox News are less informed than all other news consumers and are much more inclined to believe false information.

There is a Federal law called the Truth in Advertising Act which states that "all ads must be truthful, not misleading, and, when appropriate, backed by scientific evidence." The Federal Trade Commission enforces the law, be it any ad online, in the mail, or on billboards and buses. For the punishment, a Federal Court demands a desist order, freezes the assets of the offender, and gets compensation for the victims. Why can't we have a Truth in Broadcasting law as well, to halt the torrent of lies that create the dual realities in which we live? Basically, people who follow politics fall into two major categories: those who read and those who watch Fox News. If you're reading this, you most likely fit in the former category. During the Nixon nightmare, the president railed against the media, saying, "Never forget, the press is the enemy." He accused networks and newspapers with all manner of lies and slander right up until the time it was proven that Nixon was the liar and the journalists had it right. Anyone who saw All The President's Men know that their are rules that professional journalists must follow to protect the paper's integrity and abide by the First Amendment. If there were a Truth in Broadcasting law, Fox News would either have to change their name, like World Wrestling Entertainment, or conform to the laws that govern other legitimate news organizations.

Any real journalist worth his salt would love to work for the New York Times or the Washington Post, who made their respective reputations during the Watergate Scandal. Since they've been proven right before, I'd believe them before the inane tweets coming from the carbuncle on the posterior of humanity. While the impeachment hearings into Trump's phone calls with Ukrainian President Zelensky make for great television, there's an undercurrent of questionable behavior that's much worse than trying to dirty up the Bidens. The Trump gang's conspiracy theories about Joe Biden and his son, Hunter, are based on allegations already debunked by State Department officials. Far more ominous is this continual stream of information concerning Ukraine's natural gas industry. The firing of Ambassador Marie Yovanovitch was less about opening investigations on Biden and Clinton, and more about clearing the way for Trump's allies to set up business deals with Naftogaz, the Ukrainian state owned oil company. Trump initially tried to blame his disastrous call to Zelensky on Rick Perry, Secretary of the Energy Department he once vowed to dismantle. Trump claimed, "The only reason I made the call was because Rick asked me to. Something about a liquefied natural gas plant."

This is where Lev, Igor, and Giuliani enter the plot. Igor Fruman and Lev Parnas were at the center of efforts to turn their ties to Trump into revenue producing gas sales. The two were also instrumental in disseminating rumors about the Biden family and also behind the push to remove Ambassador Yovanovitch. The Associated Press reported, "This circle of businessmen and Republican donors touted connections to Giuliani and Trump while trying to install new management at the top of Ukraine's massive state gas company. Their plan was to then steer lucrative contracts to companies controlled by Trump allies." Rick Perry urged Zelensky to fire the Naftogaz advisory board and came with a list of suggested replacements approved by the president. Perry only recently announced his resignation while Lev Parnas hinted he may testify before the Judiciary Committee. There's another federal law called the RICO Statute (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act) which says the leaders of a criminal syndicate can be tried for the crimes they ordered. This makes asking a foreign leader to smear a political rival pale in comparison. It's all about the gas. If the Judiciary decides to look into this, you can say goodbye to the GOP million dollar donor, Ambassador Gordon Sondland; goodbye Rick Perry, Rudy Giuliani, Lev and Igor, Bob Barr, Mick Mulvaney, Don Jr., Mike Pompeo, and Donald J. Trump. The revolution will be televised.

Trick Or Treat

All Hallow's Eve is nigh so we'll probably celebrate in the traditional manner- lock the doors, close the shutters, turn out all the lights, and trust that the dogs will bark ferociously should anyone dare to knock. Just as added protection, I plan to hang a sign on the door that says "Quarantine-Norovirus," and wrap the porch in yellow police tape. It wasn't always like this. We participated in the pagan ritual of children shaking us down for candy for many years just to see them in their costumes. When we first moved to this neighborhood, the local kids would come around while the young moms and dads stayed on the sidewalk carrying cocktails in Solo cups under the guise of "taking the children trick-or-treating." Maybe word got out that we were a candy rich area because after awhile, the nature of the tricksters changed. They seemed to be much older and not wearing children's-size costumes anymore. They were no longer dressed like pirates and princesses but more like prostitutes and pallbearers. Then van-loads of sugar-crazed teenagers began circling the block in search of Snickers. I finally decided that if you're old enough to drive, you're old enough to buy your own damn candy. 

I used to love Halloween when I was a kid. My sister and I would circle a neighborhood that was so wealthy, they handed out Dinstuhl's. I'm kidding of course, but nearly every home was generous with their candy. Some people even went to the trouble of making caramel apples for us, only one year after a "razor blade-in-the-apple" scare, that practice pretty much ended. No one in the civilized world ever found a razor blade in an apple. There was one old man on our block who was too elderly to go shopping for candy, so every year, he gave us each one raw wiener. I would eat it before we got home so my mother wouldn't take it away. I still find the old man's gesture touching. Eventually, I aged out of the trick-or-treat scene and entered into the unholy world of post-childhood Halloween. This was the age of egging houses and rolling yards. When we said "trick-or-treat," we meant it. Some of the "pranks" we played would be classified as atrocities today. But we grew out of that too. Halloween was still a joy in my teens because I attended a Catholic high school and November 1st was All Saint's Day, a rare holiday from classes. 

I have always believed that Halloween was for children. Maybe it's because when I was a child, I saw my parents leaving for a costume party dressed as two giant, pink rabbits. It's tough to take your dad seriously while he's wearing a fluffy cottontail. That's why I was never much into costumery as I grew older. Some friends of mine used to throw an annual Halloween party downtown. What began as a gathering of a small group of friends, turned into a bacchanalia of such grotesque and unmanageable proportions that the cops were often called and no one could tell if they were real or just in costume. That's when I became convinced that grown-up Halloween was pretty much X-Rated, and that it served as an opportunity for ordinarily staid ladies to dress up like sluts and sexy witches. My party invitation was rescinded after one year when I couldn't be bothered with a costume, so I just got naked, strapped on a pair of roller-skates, and went as a pull-toy. At least it was inexpensive. Contrast that with the benchmark set in 2018 when thirty million Americans spent $480 million on costumes for their pets.

I'm aware that times change. Now, children go door-to-door at their own risk and adults go bobbing for Xanax instead of apples. We had one kid show up at the door in a baggy blue suit and oversized red tie with a bad, blonde wig atop an orange painted face. When we asked him if he wanted some candy, he said, "If its all the same, I'd rather have the cash." And to think that I used to put an illuminated Nixon mask in the front window to scare the children. Elevating the fright level now are the "Haunted Houses," a fairly recent phenomena that some people blame on Disney. What once was a church-sponsored, family entertainment where cobwebs brushed your face and volunteer ghosts said, "boo," have turned into gore-fests with professional actors and animatronics. One such "house" features a cemetery crawling with corpses awakened from their graves. Another leads patrons through an actual funeral home where visitors are taken from the parlor to the embalming room, to the morgue, and ultimately to hell. Memphis is home to several "Haunted Houses," one which advertises "a brain bashing, fear soaked...experience that will scare you to the core." Another brags of "ghastly butchery that won't be believed." Such horror from a holiday that began as a day of prayer for the souls of the departed. These times are plenty scary enough for me as it is. Now, what am I supposed to do with this bag of miniature Snickers?

Funky Chicken

Last week, around eight, I was driving west on Poplar Avenue just past Mendenhall when I saw traffic backed up for a block, choking off all movement in the right lane. I thought it must be a multi-car, chain reaction accident. It was dark but I didn't see any blue flashing lights. I was concerned that I'd be the first on the scene and be required to help, but when I drew closer I saw the reality. A convoy of vehicles were backed up in one of the most heavily traveled streets in Memphis, waiting to go through the drive-in window to get one of those damn Chik-fil-A chicken sandwiches. This battle of the chicken sandwiches between Popeye's and Chik-fil-A is baffling to me. Popeye's chicken is the hot "Cajun" variety, while Chik-fil-A donates to organizations like Exodus International, an "ex-gay" therapy group, and the Family Research Council, which the Southern Poverty Law Center has deemed a hate group, so they can kiss my ass regardless of how their chicken tastes. Without delving into antiquated  racial stereotypes, Memphis should be a chicken city, not because of race but because of region. We're Southerners here and everybody, vegans excepted, loves their fried chicken. Some of my earliest memories are of eating Sunday "suppers" at my grandfather's house, consisting of fried chicken and butter beans, without fail. As a child, I ate drumsticks and thighs, but when I grew to be a man, I put away childish things and switched to breasts and wings, the juicy parts. So in a chicken-enamored city like Memphis, how did we allow Nashville to claim the rights to some aberration called Nashville "Hot" Chicken? What's next, Nashville Style Bar-B-Q? I could eat fried chicken six days a week and rest on the seventh, but unfortunately, my zip-code seems bereft of chicken that isn't "hot and spicy" without driving a ways. I feel as if I'm living in the middle of a chicken desert.

I never got the whole "hot" chicken thing. That's why I don't go to Popeye's. Hot "Cajun" chicken is just a bastardization of the real thing. A couple of years ago, word of mouth was all about was Gus's. I heard about all these flavors bursting in your mouth and how people could not get enough of it. So I bought some with great anticipation and after the roof of my mouth was set aflame, I tossed the rest. If you want your chicken hot, do what my wife does- fry it in the usual way and put hot sauce on it like a normal person who was raised here. That way, your chicken isn't saturated with chili powder, or whatever the hell they use, and you can heat it to your palate. I like my chicken fried and extra crispy, which brings KFC to mind. I kept going there and asking for breasts and wings extra crispy, and they'd always say, "Can you wait fifteen minutes while we fry up another batch?" I said, "It's dinnertime. Don't you people sell chicken here?" For a while, I thought I'd solved the problem and had a good thing going. I skipped the drive-thru, went in, and found a kindly counter-person. When she promptly delivered my order, I tipped her- considerably. She looked shocked as if it never happened before. I asked her just to remember me and consequently, I received hot, crispy chicken every visit and tipped her each time because doesn't the word "tips" mean "to insure prompt service?" I was living in a fool's paradise however, because one day she wasn't there anymore and I was once again asked if I minded waiting fifteen minutes. So, I've given up on KFC.

A colleague of mine once told me, "Church's Chicken is the shit." Maybe so, but probably not in the way he meant. I used to drive to Bartlett just to get some Mrs. Winner's chicken. The intersection of Sycamore View and Summer Avenue was like a chicken paradise with every franchise represented, but Mrs. Winner's was the juiciest. One day, I drove the distance only to find my Mrs. Winner's had turned into an Exxon, and I refuse to buy chicken from a gas station. I've always loved Jack Pirtle's Chicken but the closest one is a good drive away. When cable TV was still in its infancy, I had a ritual. Every Saturday, I drove to Pirtle's on Highland, got a mess of chicken, took it home and dined while watching Georgia Championship Wrestling. I even learned to walk up to the window, bypassing the long drive-thru lines. But they took Georgia Wrestling off the air and I moved away, making my trips to Pirtle's difficult. I'm told on good authority that the best day to get Pirtle's chicken is Thursday when they change the grease. And besides, Cordell and Tawanda Pirtle are lovely people. Every other chicken joint near me is a chain so we've been getting our yardbird from Super-Lo or Kroger's, each having their own taste, but not like home-cooked.

We haven't tried Uncle Lou's, balking at the "sweet and spicy" slogan, or Hattie B's Hot Chicken, a carpetbagger franchise from Nashville. We have yet to try out Joe's, who advertise their chicken is marinated in secret sauce for twenty-four hours. Do me a favor. Rub some salt and pepper on it, add some flour, and drop it in a skillet of sizzling Wesson Oil, which is manufactured in Memphis. Keep your "hot and spicy" and "Cajun styled." Just serve me up some good old Southern fried chicken, like the kind they serve at the Loveless Motel in Nashville. If I had the funds, or if someone would like to back me, a stretch of Summer Avenue is begging for a decent chicken joint. My idea, pending copyright, is to approach  the first family of Memphis Music, Vaneese and Carla Thomas, and ask permission to use their father's name. Then I'd start a chain of down-home restaurants and call it "Rufus Thomas's Funky Chicken." We could decorate the place with Rufus' stage outfits. People would come from all over the world just to see his hot pink short-pants getup. The chicken would just be gravy. "You'll flap your arms and your feet will start kickin' when you eat Rufus Thomas's Funky Chicken. Now, did you heard me?"