A Great Southern Movie

I don't usually watch "Southern" movies.  Gwynneth Paltrow trying to sound like Patsy Cline makes me nauseous.  The condescending attitude of Hollywood producers toward a culture they will never understand but continue to be simultaneously fascinated with and repulsed by disgusts me.  But, most of all, their failure to get the "Redneck Code" right makes me angry. Make no mistake, Rednecks have a code of ethics. When you have nothing but your pride, you will go a long way to protect it.

To start with, "Mud" uses all Southern actors.  I didn't hear a single phony accent.  Matthew McConauheigh and Reese Witherspoon were utterly convincing as a self destructive match of likeable but flawed souls. Sam Shepherd acted like he was born the river where his role took place and Joe Don Baker was utterly convincing as the Texas family patriarch seeking revenge for his abusive son's death at Mud's hands.




I probably wouldn't have the time left in this lifetime to properly explain the Redneck code.  If  you weren't born into it you probably can't understand it.  It's the kind of thing that causes a skinny fourteen year old to punch out a much larger high school senior who was fondling the girl he admired from afar. It's the kind of thing that makes you do dangerous things for a friend based on abstract principles like love and respect. It's the kind of thing that lets you understand and respect a man who killed another man over an admittedly trashy woman he can't forget. In short, it's the kind of thing that separates the men from the geldings in Redneck culture.

This is a tough movie to watch at times.  But, it is well done and it pays proper respect the people and culture it portrays.  The movie is critically acclaimed and rightly so.  It's hard to do "Southern" right but this crew did and I'm glad.

What Happened to Napoli's?

In the past, I have written glowing reviews of Napoli's restaurant at 61st and Memorial.  The first few times we ate there, the food was nothing less than spectacular.  But, times (and probably chef's) change.  We ate there a few weeks ago and I was treated to a Chicken Marsala with red sauce.  It wasn't what I was expecting and I didn't care for it.  I can't remember what Sheila had, but she wasn't particularly happy either.

We had dinner there again last night.  As usual, their bread was superb.  So was the Calamari appetizer.  We split an entree of Chicken Piccata. Sheila or I's home made Chicken Piccata is much better.  The sauce was thin and lacked character.  The pasta just kind of laid there.  The meal was edible but I wish now we had just ordered another order of Calamari and skipped the entree altogether.

And, to add to the lackluster ambience of it all, there was a strange video of a stencilled representation of Marlon Brando playing the the Godfather on one of the TV monitors with Italian music playing in the background.  I like Italian music.  However, the playback unit wasn't working properly and it would skip annoyingly enough that it attracted my attention every time it did.

On a good day when one of the younger brothers of this family is cooking this Napoli's can turn out a meal that is something to be remembered.  Unfortunately, the last couple of times we have been there, we got a meal that was better forgotten.

Busman's Holiday

As an attorney, I had a tough day yesterday.  I had two depositions.  Because the case is still awaiting trial, I will not comment on the content of those depositions other than to say that I left the deposition room totally drained.  Don't get me wrong.  It was a very, very useful day for my client's case.  It just wore me out.  I decided as I was walking out the door of my office downtown that I would take a day's "vacation" today.

I had a few things to clear off my desk this morning before I could do anything else, so I paid the first of the month bills, answered some emails and made a few phone calls.  By mid-morning, I was done.

I left the house and hit a couple of pawnshops looking  for a replacement for my beloved Epiphone Les Paul that I sold to family friend over the weekend.  I really hated to part with that guitar but it was time.  Les Paul's are notorious for their weight.   Because of my arthritis, I have found that I am more comfortable playing smaller, lighter instruments like my equally beloved Little Martin acoustic. At one of my stops, I found a Gibson student model that might fill the bill.  The guitar I sold was a much better guitar in every respect, but it wasn't doing me any good if I couldn't play it.  I will go back in a day or two and see what I can work out with the pawnbroker.

After the pawnshops, I headed for American Legion Post No. 1 to try to straighten out my membership.  I joined online a few years ago thinking I would be assigned to the post nearest my address.  Well, I was assigned to a post in Indianapolis, Indiana.

I have been less than successful in addressing this situation online. Ironically, every time I visit Post No. 1, I fail to catch anybody in administration.  About half of the time the bar is open but I don't know if they would let me in or not, much less serve me, now that my membership card is expired.

By the time I left the deserted Legion Post, lunch time was approaching.  I met my friend Mike Sala at El Burrito on Admiral at Pittsburg.  We both had a Michelada with our guacamole, salsa and chips. Actually, I had a Michelada and Mike, who doesn't care for spices, just had a red beer.  Mike had an enchilada plate and I had some tacos.  It was a pleasant little hour.  We caught up on family news and guy gossiped a little bit.

After lunch, we headed down the street to OK2A to shoot an hour or so.  Mike brought a whole sack of guns.  I brought two, the Glock I was carrying and my much cheaper to shoot Ruger SR-22.

Mike was kind enough to let me fire his Beretta's. He has two. One just has "Taurus" stamped on it instead of Beretta.  Beretta had a long term contract with the Brazilian government to make the model 92 for their military. When the contract expired, Beretta sold the factory, tooling and all to the Brazilian company Taurus who continue to turn out high quality Beretta 92's under their own name.  Same tooling, same gun, different name. The other is a cute little tip up barrel pocket .22.  I was amazed at its kick but it is a solid little weapon.

Mike is one of those incredibly annoying people who is just a natural marksman.  He doesn't practice that much and doesn't pay a lot of attention to form and discipline other than safety at which he excels.  He just stands there and punches holes in the paper in groups tight enough to make many of the folks who shoot regularly and religiously drool.

Mike and I were actually shooting two different games most of the time.  He was punching holes in paper.  I am working on developing instinctive point and shoot skills where you don't actually aim at distances less than twenty five feet or so.  You simply point the gun instinctively and pull the trigger.  I was all over the place with that.  The best thing I can say about it is that I never shot the hostage and kept all of my shots on the paper.  The worst that I can say is that I am still missing way too many timed head shots. The key to passing CLEET qualifications (and surviving a gunfight for that matter) is to be dead accurate at short range quick shots.  It's like golf.  It's the short game that really matters.  The key shot in that portion of the CLEET qualification is a double tap the chest and a single shot into a triangle formed by the eyes and the top center of the lips in two seconds from the draw.  A Texas firm that I know of that trains armed bodyguards and executive protection people requires their people do the double tap portion of this exercise in ONE SECOND from the draw.


I discovered something about myself today.  I have performance anxiety when I shoot around other people.
Mike is an old and dear friend.  We have known each other most of our adult lives.  He is about the most low key, non judgmental guy you ever met.  I didn't think that I was concerned about how I was performing around him because I had nothing to prove and nothing to lose.  But, I still shot like crap, at least crap for someone who shoots as much as I do.  On aimed shots, I was pretty well keeping everything within a six inch circle more or less but Mike was kicking my tail, even with my own guns.  But, as we were getting ready to leave, I decided to shoot one more pattern of 20 rounds.  Mike was not paying much attention and had busied himself in packing up as I was shooting.  I didn't pay a lot of attention to what I as doing, I just walked through the drill counting off the seconds to myself.  The results were twenty out of twenty shots in the scoring rings and I even hit the head shots. So, that tells me I can shoot.  Very good combat shooters talk about "getting in the zone."  I apparently haven't found my "zone" yet. I don't want to get too Zen about it all, but I think I am now at the point where my head game is holding me back.  Ms. Cleet shown above would probably agree.

It was a good day.  Good food, good drinks, good friend, good time.  At our age, that's saying a lot.