Parable of the hammer makers

There was once a land filled with proud people who were the absolute best at making hammers … powerful hammers. Its people were displaced to what became their native land because of their love for hammers. Before the people of Hammerful came to their new land, they were oppressed by a tyrannical leader who only wanted hammers to be made with his name on them. But those who became the people of Hammerful wanted to be free to make their own kinds of hammers.

There was a great battle between the two sects of people, and those who had left for Hammerful won! They were free to make their hammers any way they wanted. Generations of great hammer makers went by, and Hammerful’s hammers because to talk of every land. There were even people who hated Hammerful because of its freedom to make hammers.

There was once a hammer maker named Werdna who worked for a proud hammer making company. It was a small factory, but the workers took pride in making their yellow hammers. Werdna was very good at making yellow hammers, but he sometimes didn’t enjoy only making only yellow hammers. He also enjoyed going home and making red hammers and blue hammers and green hammers. His hammer company found out about Werdna’s hammer making at home, and was not happy. Werdna was told not to make such hammers at home. He was told only to make yellow hammers, or to only make hammers that made the yellow hammers look good by comparison. Werdna got into trouble for his red hammers, in particular. Werdna was told his hammers were bad. Werdna was told he didn’t have the freedom to make whatever hammers he wanted to make. He was very sad, but there was nothing he could do. His hammer making had been censored.

This is the beginning to what could be a sad ending to the story. But may the people of Hammerful remember what their ancestors meant when they said they wanted to have the freedom to make hammers of any kind.

Farewell, old friend

I had to say goodbye to an old friend today … my favorite pair of jeans.

It wasn’t a total farewell, however. They perfectly-fitting denim sheaths have now been regulated to “day off” wear, as they are no longer suitable for office attire. The hole in the crotch started off small, and grew to a point where you could see though the opening if you happened to be staring at my … ahem … area. But today, when I bent down to take a picture of a discus (at a track meet) that had lodged in the ground, I heard a painful rip from my oldest and most trustworthy jeans.

I take this time to congratulate my trusted friend. May you forever enjoy your lazy days of TV watching and beer drinking. No longer will you need to sit at a desk or commute to work. Enjoy the slow life of retirement. I’ll see you on Sundays.

You might burn ... but I'm cool

If I offend you with this, lick my balls.

In Greenville, probably the place to be on a Sunday night is Ham’s Brewery. It’s got a huge outside dining area, that open-mic-type music for which I am fond and cheap booze ($2 in-house brews and $2.25 hi-balls). I was there last night, and, let me tell you, it was as hopping as any place I’ve been in the past few weeks. Guys, if you’re looking for a place to see some of Greenville’s finest women, it’s no doubt the place to be. Zoom in on my brother getting a little play at the brew house.

But many of those women, and most of the guys, seem to come with a catch — a catch I’m not too fond of. Should you get a chance to lock lips with one of the opposite sex, they’re most likely going to taste like tar and tobacco. I can’t recall the number of times I thought to myself, only this Sunday, “Damn, she’s too hot to smoke.” It’s absolutely absurd. Why do all of you 20-sumthin’s smoke? What makes you, say, at the age of 14 light up that first cigarette and puff it up? Were you than insecure at that age that lighting a cancer stick was the only way you felt you could fit in? Dorks. Sure, I do my fair share of harmful things. I’m a sucker for a cheeseburger. But, damn, a cheeseburger tastes good. Does your Marlboro? I don’t think so. So, how is it so many people still fire one up every chance they get? I’m a pretty smart guy … and I still can’t get it. Someone, please tell me. Quick, before I kiss yet another tar face.

A last bastion for live music?

Do you ever get in one of those moods when you just want to sit, drink and listen some some tunes? Sure, who doesn’t. But there are also the times when you want to sit, drink and listen to some live music. I was in one of those moods last night. Now, a few years ago, Greenville was a great place to be in such a mood. There were live music performances everywhere, and on almost any night of the week.

Today’s Greenville, however, is quite different. Sure, there are scheduled rock shows at Dr.Unks, and I’m pretty sure the place that used to be Corrigans still has a few shows every now and then. But with the death of the Attic several years ago and the recent demise of Peasants, the live music scene in Greenville is a barren wasteland of mediocre bands, who may or may not still be in their “still hopeful” 20s.

And what happened to the live acoustic shows? They’ve been cut down to nothing more than open-mic-night type performances scattered around the corners of restaurants and small pubs. One such place is called The Back Porch. I’ve written about it before. I believe it had something to do with Coronas. I’ve been there twice now, and I’ve been somewhat satisfied at the musical climate it has to offer. Last night, there were a couple of dudes and their guitars playing a mix of original and cover songs. All in all, it’s not bad. It’s not the downtown Greenville music scene of the late 90s, and especially not the one I’ve heard of from the 80s, but its something. At least you can hear the music and the person next to you at the same time.