Anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic. - Flannery O’Connor

Photos by WWW.POWNETWORK.ORG

Well, as it turns out, Knoxville evangelist Ernie Ray Lester didn’t really fight in Vietnam.

His 23 war wounds? The single-handed killing of thousands of Vietnamese? Waiting for rescue as the sole survivor of a massive enemy ambush?

Not so much.

But he did work as a biker assassin.  Really, he did.

And as for getting rammed at full speed by the Lincoln Continental? while collecting on a drug debt? which “knocked my eyes out of my head and my teeth out of my mouth” until they got sewed back in again by a biker doctor?  That really happened, too.  But not in Houston, as he’d said before. 

“That was Atlanta,”  he corrected the record on Friday.

Faced by a flood of evidence provided by attorneys, law enforcement officials, and other folk, Ernie Ray Lester has agreed to update his testimony a wee bit. 

I think he should consider opening a sperm bank, as well.

Right now: 

read it again!

They’re a heck of a lot of work, kids.

But how I do love peeking into their funny little brains, and fortunately mine both still let me do that via their Facebook pages. Here’s the latest:

Almostgotit’s son: has suddenly, really rather abruptly, become a huge fan of “Ticket To Ride.” Awesome song.

Almostgotit’s daughter: I try to learn something new every day. Today I learned that spinning around in circles greatly improves one’s chances of crashing headfirst into the dishwasher.

Our dog Jerry also retains certain violent feelings about dishwashers, so we clearly have some things to work out at my house.

Night time temperatures are dipping again this week, but Jerry the Rhodesian Fridgesnack has great pyjamas…

Hello Fans, So nice of you to appreciate my creativity and potential. Lots of types of trees on the place, I like to juggle, play bamboo flute, sit and watch the sunrise and read my mail, feed the birds. If you may be interested in becoming my wife, I invite you to be in contact.
(Comment on Almostgot.com post, “Dave’s Klezmer Band & Sperm Bank” )

I’m already married though, but thanks Dave. 

On another note, today’s News-Sentinel reports that Knoxville’s MPC has granted David Perkins’ permission to give music lessons at his home; however, Perkins’ additional request to run a Jewish sperm bank at home, through which he “offers his seed,” has been denied. 

So sorry to hear, Dave.

I’m also sorry to have missed Perkins’  pitch to the Metropolitan Planning Commission — apparently Perkins delivered it as a performance, running through the presentation at an auctioneer’s pace in an exaggerated announcer’s voice.

I wonder if David Perkins can tell what kind of voice Almostgotit is using right now?

David Perkins standing in his non-ampitheater. Knoxville News-Sentinel photo

“Hello!  Dave’s Klezmer Band and Sperm Bank.  Can I help you?”

That’s exactly how I plan to answer the phone just as soon as my Knoxville neighbor, David Perkins,  hires me as receptionist  for his unique new set of business ventures. 

While Mr. Perkins insists he will not be using his suburban house as a performance venue, and that the massive thing behind him with benches is simply a PLANTER, his Myspace page describes “Dave’s Place” as

A lovely home setting with performance spaces both indoors and outdoors. Theater seating around the grounds for up to 300 guests viewing four separate shows. Beautiful views and ample space to stroll..

Plus, of course, he’ll have the Jewish sperm bank, so hundreds of lucky people can, um, watch the shows and enjoy the views, or even have kids who look  just like Dave!

What more can I say?

You can’t make up stuff as good as this.  So I guess I’ll simply close  with a few of Dave’s own happy images, accompaned by his Klezmer music.

Does that sound great, or what?

I just received this invitation for a party, in a bar, in Chicago. 

Unfortunately, I’m so perfectly qualified to attend that I can’t go, because I failed either to live in Chicago or to have enough money for a plane ticket.

My 8th grade daughter has a bad teacher in one of her favorite subjects.  He’s a swaggery guy, newly imported from the west coast. He uses curse words, makes stuff up about English grammar, assigns no discernable work whatsoever, and belittles both the natives and the other teachers.Some of the other parents want to do something about it. I’m disgusted by the guy but don’t want to hurt my daughter. 

I also don’t want to commit another murder. 

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Long, long ago, I wrote a very dramatic and terrible letter to my own 8th grade teacher on the last day of school, and I think it made him quit.

Here’s why I think so: I saw Mr. M afterwards, walking across the campus. He looked stunned, my letter dangling from his hand as if it were a telegram telling him his entire family had just been murdered. And then he didn’t come back to teach again the next year.

Mr. M was a mousy little man who wore only brown and gray, didn’t wash much, and peered at us through John Lennon glasses balanced on the end of his long nose. But Mr. M had us studying all night and writing 40 page papers, goading us mercilessly with his dramatic favoritisms and sudden irritations. I was deeply in love some of my classmates, while vying desperately with several others for Mr. M’s arbitrary attentions.

Though it was a language arts & social studies class, Mr. M was our theatrical director, and we didn’t just read Shakespeare in that class, we lived it.  For two hours every day, he played us very skillfully.  We switched identities, fought with swords, died tragic deaths, and did lots and lots of swooning.

(I was particularly proud of that one.)

We were probably Mr. M’s entire life, but were too full of our own selves to notice. What I did notice was that he was impossible to please, and seemed only to have eyes for the same attractive people that I did.

So I killed him.

I had no idea, really, that this mop-headed, bespeckled teacher was also a real person, who could stop being a teacher and become unemployed instead. Nor was he, really, the source of my adolescent angst.

Probably.

Anyhoo, what to do about my daughter’s teacher?

There’s a happy ending for Mr. M, at least. I have no idea what happened during the intervening years, but someone sent me a newspaper clipping about him many years later. It was a feature story, headed by a large color photo of my former teacher, now posing in a flamboyant Bill Cosby sweater.

Introducing the new and improved Mr. M!  He had resurfaced, and was known district-wide for his wildly polychromatic wardrobe, heavily featuring the color purple.  The clothes were meant to  go along with his penchant for dramatically unconventional teaching — get it?

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Moral: Don’t mess with Almostgotit’s head, and don’t ignore her poetry. Cause if you do?

First she will kill you and then she will turn you into a gay purple circus performer.

Knox County teachers, consider yourselves warned.

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I love the South, don’t get me wrong.

And a few of us even managed to vote for Obama this last time round.   Nevertheless, “Tennessee” and “Nudist Colony” have not been terms I would have connected, heretofore.

Rock Haven Lodge is a nudist colony not too far from Knoxville, and it’s no longer under wraps as of this morning’s edition of the Knox News Sentinel (which publishers, apparently, had to read it in Nashville’s The Tennessean first, before they believed it either.)

All I can say is, those folks had better watch out for the crazy ants. Raspberry crazy ants, that is, which were discovered a few years ago in Houston and are coming to get us.  (hat tip Bill for the warning) Those of the nekkid persuasion should note that these ants are proven omnivores.

Sigh.  Do I have to spell it all out for you, people? 

The scientific name for the little beasts is Paratrenicha species near pubens.  Which, while I can’t speak for everyone, would certainly be enough to persuade me to grab a pair of shorts.

 Imagine if every Thursday your shoes exploded if you tied them the usual way. This happens to us all the time with computers, and nobody thinks of complaining.” - Jeff Raskin

Well, today I’m complaining. The blogging interface on GoDaddy is so slow this morning that I can hardly stand it. 

Image Picture Perfect Gallery

Bah, humbug. 

I’m thinking… B.L.T with avocado on whole wheat.  Join me?