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.

I Should Have Stayed At Home Today .....

The robbery looked something like this.

Shortly after noon, I headed out to the neighborhood Chinese buffet for a bit of lunch.  While it appears pretty disreputable the food is not bad and the price is reasonable.  At any rate, I've eaten there for years and never gotten sick.  It is definitely a north side type place.  A lot of Mexicans, a lot of blue collar whites, blacks from the nearby apartments.  And, there were two lawyers in the place today as well, myself and another guy whose face I recognized but whose name I cannot remember.

As I sat down to eat, I noticed a tallish, thin white man in his 20's wearing a dark blue hoodie and sneakers. He looked and acted like a druggy.  He tried several times to distract the cashier and then apparently settled down like he was waiting for someone.  When the cashier did move away, he made a move for the register which was bolted down and locked up.  So, he grabbed the poor waitress's tips and ran out the door.  This all took about two seconds.

I jumped to my feet and headed toward his back.  I yelled out and asked what had been stolen.  The little Chinese lady said "tree dollah."  I didn't see a weapon so I didn't pull mine and at any rate the guy was hightailing it across the parking lot.  After he made it across Sheridan, we could see him in the Dentist's parking lot across the street ambling back in to the apartments behind.  I told the Chinese lady she should call the cops.  She wouldn't do it.  I told her she should get a baseball bat because the next robber might try to make her open the register.  She said, "I just woman. No can do that."  

From there, I went to the post office.  As I arrived, there was a new red Camry in front of me waiting in line

for the next parking spot.  The first spot that came open was the single handicapped spot.  The Camry pulled into it.  I looked carefully to see if she was going to display a handicap sticker.  She didn't. What did happen was that a tall, twentyish blonde woman got out of the car and did a cute little dancing run right up the steps and into the building. And, she wasn't just there to check her box.  She got in the long line for service.  I was not a happy camper.

So, I went inside and got in line.  I waited until I caught her eye and spoke to her very loudly, saying, "Maam did you know that you are parked in a handicapped spot?  Did you know that that is against the law?  Did you know that you can be fined up to $500.00 for that."  She began apologizing, saying it was the only spot available and she was just trying to get out of my way. Duh.  Getting out of my way didn't me any good if she was parked in the only available parking spot!  I intended to embarrass her and I believe I did.

Just a few months back, I watched a woman pull in to that same spot.  She was driving a 100k plus Mercedes convertible.  She was a tall Latina with a model's figure. Her designer clothes probably cost as much as some of the dilapidated cars in the overcrowded parking lot. And, she too paid no attention to the handicapped sign, pulled in as though her wealth and beauty entitled her to the spot and then swished up the steps like she was working the runway.

I've got a few choice words for folks like that.  If I could run up those steps the way you did, I would gladly park half a block away and count it pure joy to take the walk.  But you see, some of us can't.  We count our steps every day knowing that if we take too many we may not sleep tonight or be able to get around tomorrow.  So, you should be grateful for your two strong legs and have the decency not to use accommodations that you don't need.

The Pack Meets Again

Roger and Maddy are pretty well established in their new little home on Grand Lake.  Maddy is leaving her teaching position here in Tulsa to take a part management part charge nurse position in the lakes area.  Mike and Jodi are back from Hawaii.  We all had tales to tell.  

We had agreed to meet at Asiana in Claremore last night but I suggested we move it back to Tulsa at the last minute because of the possibility of icy roads. Roger and Maddy were already in Tulsa and could have spent the night if the roads had iced before they left. So, we wound up at one of our usual haunts, Beijing Gourmet at 61st and Memorial

The Chinese lady who serves as maitre' de gave us a big smile when we showed up and showed us to an out of the way table where we could chat and not be in the way.  The food was good as usual.

It seems that Mike and Jodi did not enjoy their Hawaiian cruise as much as the last one.  It rained most of the time and they encountered heavy weather at sea.  Mike has sworn off of cruise ships but I suspect we will be able to win him over in time for the next Pack Cruise in January, 2015.

As we were chatting, one of the folks guessed that I heard a lot of heartbreaking stuff in my profession.  I do.  I don't talk about most of it because I have a duty of confidentiality to my clients and at any rate most of it is anything but good conversation material.  The saddest part of that is that much of that heartbreak is self inflicted. Sometimes, a huge part of my job is getting my client to step outside of the hole they have dug for themselves and look at their situation as the rest of the world sees it.  I didn't share this all with the pack. Being a downer is no fun for anyone.

We had a good chat and several good laughs.  We broke up early and went home before the ice set in.  And a good time was had by all.    

A Tale From the Hood - The Tabby Cats

Last night, we let our twin orange tabby "yard cats" sleep in the house because of the cold.  I guess there was a certain amount of mercy involved in that decision on my part but I also thought a lot about having to locate a dead cat by smell from someplace deep in my storage building where they normally sleep.

The way that we "acquired" those cats is a story.  A while back, the guy who lived next door at the time was letting a pair of teen-aged lesbians crash in and probably work out of his house.  (Sheila literally chased the next girl that stayed there out of the neighborhood when she began working the corner in front of our house.)  This pair had a newborn baby with them and a pair of identical twin orange tabby kittens.  Once, they left the baby with their host/landlord with nothing to feed her.  The neighbor knocked on my door and told me he was broke, the baby was crying, there was nothing to feed it and he didn't know where the mom's were.  I kind of lost it. I went up the street and bought a box of very

expensive formula for the baby and then warned him if he didn't call DHS I was going to. The kinky young beauties were gone within hours never to return BUT they left their twin kittens.

At first the neighbor fed them but soon he went to jail.  Then his parents fed them for a while but that eventually stopped.  We pestered everyone we met trying to find them a home to no avail.  In the meanwhile, I used them for moving target airsoft practice in the back yard to encourage them to find another home in somebody else's yard.  Before you animal lovers go nuts about the airsoft practice be advised I used a low velocity, spring powered pistol that modern kids regularly shoot each other with.  It just stings a little.  No permanent damage.

I couldn't figure out why the cats didn't move on until I caught Sheila feeding them on the sly.  I demanded she stop.  I might as well have saved my breath.  She just did it anyway.  It's me and Rodney Dangerfield all the way on some issues with Sheila .... like feeding stray animals.  I soon had to lock up our cat door to prevent our one cat  house from becoming a three cat smellathon. Soon, they spent a lot of time begging for food or entrance at the cat door.  I ignored them.  But, the fact that it was VERY cold last night and I didn't want to try to recover a dead cat carcass from somewhere deep in our stored furniture convinced me temporarily call a truce.

Ironically, the truce may have accomplished all that I wanted.  Once they were in the house last night, I locked the cat door to keep them in.  They tried to escape multiple times and I just ignored them.  When one sneaked up on to the bed, I shot my empty airsoft pistol in his general direction.  This one makes a LOUD pop from the CO2.  He disappeared instantly.  Today, they are no place to be seen.  I haven't heard a peep out of them.  I've left the cat door unlocked all day and haven't seen hide nor hair of them.  Maybe one night in the house was enough.  Who knows?  But stop and think about this.  What other neighborhood can you imagine where someone as boringly normal as Sheila and I would be recounting a tale like this?

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A postcript.  They were back as soon as Sheila came home from work this evening.  They shot in the front door as soon as she opened it.  They know who their friends are I guess.

My Great Grandmother Was A Cherokee Princess

You would think that after the recent Elizabeth Warren controversy, folks would learn to think twice before making a dubious claim to Native American heritage.   Perhaps the most dubious is the claim to be the descendant of a "Cherokee Princess."

I was sitting at lunch at a very swanky country club a few weeks back when my host's wife made one of those statements that makes any Okie and particularly a Cherokee Okie want to laugh in their face.  This lovely, polished, otherwise classy lady said with a perfectly straight face, "My great grandmother was a Cherokee Princess but we can't prove it."  Proving that would be a problem.  All Things Cherokee makes an interesting statement on this subject: ".... many Indians consider "my grandmother was a Cherokee princess" to be the mantra of the wannabe. There is no faster way to lose credibility and respect from an Indian than to speak these words." Link The photograph below is the header of a very well written and pointed blog that addresses this issue. Link I think the photo itself pretty well tells the story but this same writer has also written an excellent post on the subject. Link

The statement that you are a descendant of a Cherokee Princess is a common urban myth.  First, Cherokee leadership was not hereditary. Cherokee leaders were almost always elected or appointed when there were any leaders at all outside the clan.  So, without hereditary titles, the "princess" concept becomes somewhat problematic.  Further, it was common for Cherokee men to refer to their wives in the linguistic equivalent of the term "princess."  It was a statement of affection and respect not title.  Finally, in later years before statehood, it was common to publish the title "Cherokee Lady of Quality" when a white man married a Cherokee woman.  This was to let the ignorant readers in other states know that this man had married a civilized woman who was not an uneducated barbarian.  

Another commonly held myth about Cherokee's is that there is a "Cherokee Reservation" in Oklahoma.  The relationship between the Federal Government, the State of Oklahoma and the Cherokee Nation has always been murky and is seldom understood by outsiders.  The Cherokee Nation was never a "reservation" but rather a constitutional republic which occupied approximately the northeastern quarter of the State of Oklahoma.  When people from out of state ask to be taken to the "Cherokee Reservation" I am tempted to drive them to Catoosa, point out the Casino complex and then say, "Here you are.  It continues to the Arkansas state line east and the Arkansas River south."  Trying to explain checkerboard Indian country to an outsider is usually not worth the trouble unless they are a lawyer.

I am a blue eyed and fair skinned with only a small blood percentage. There were two branches of my father's family, the predominantly white and the predominantly Cherokee.  I never knew the white side.  But, my Cherokee great aunts and uncles were wonderfully gentle and kind. I have very fond memories of meals in their homes and get togethers at their churches and cemeteries.  They were almost all stalwart Baptists, honest to a fault and very family oriented.  But, some of the fondest memories of my childhood are from time spent with my half blood great aunt Ada Miller who raised my all but orphaned father.  Aunt Ada and her full blood husband John Miller were remarkably kind people who took in a sickly, orphaned boy and raised him as their own.  I am honored to have known them.