Writings on Ole Miss, Oxford and the world beyond, 1986-2006
by Chico Harris
Over 100 columns and essays published between 1986 and 2006 about the big things in life like music, sports, dogs and the human scene and also on the small things, like politics and politicians.
Samples:
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Mississippi Edition interview with Chico about Dear Tonda by Karen Brown
Oxford Town #56 September 8, 1994
I SAT IN VAUGHT-HEMINGWAY STADIUM and cried after L.S.U. beat the Rebels in 1989. I was distraught, moved to tears, those glandular raindrops of emotion, for no other reason than we had lost to the hated and despised Tigers of L.S.U. Many of the Rebel faithful would not see this as a special problem, but rather one of the unpleasantries of life one must sometimes deal with. But I thought it asinine to sit in the stadium at game's end crying when I could've been in The Grove whooping it up.
“I have to leave here,” I said of Oxford. “I must find a place where I could suppress and tame my Rebelmania.”
I had been graduated almost six months, so maybe it was time to leave town and look for a job. I figured it needed to be far away from Ole Miss and the lure of Rebelmania, so in a couple of months (once the Ole Miss versus Air Force Liberty Bowl was over) I was walking into San Francisco offices saying, “Look, I've got a diploma, give me a job.” Personnel managers always asked why I moved to San Francisco, and, priding myself on my candor, I always told them it was because I wished to break Rebelmania's hold on me. This always seemed to provoke strange looks, so I started saying it was because the Grateful Dead play in the Bay Area so much. More strange looks, but not as many.
I was just getting settled in my Chinatown apartment when I got a letter from the San Francisco Chapter of the Ole Miss Alumni Club about the annual June gear-up-for-football picnic in Golden Gate Park being on the same day as local Dead shows, but it was hoped everyone could attend both. Seeing "football" on Ole Miss stationary got my twitch going so I packed up my diploma and moved to Alaska.
Once there, after seeing an Ole Miss bumpersticker in the Yukon Territory and almost turning back, I picked up a copy of The Anchorage Daily News to look at the job listings. Trembling, I turned past the "college football preview" section and saw this listing:
FISHERMEN JOBS Dirty, slimy, dangerous hard work. Long Hours-At Sea For Three Months. No college diploma needed. You won't have time to think about football.
I hit the office quick and, after the physical and mental tests (I didn't mention the Grateful Dead), got the job. I left my diploma on shore. I mentioned this to the skipper when I boarded the P/V Northern Quest. "So, whaddya want,“ he barked, "a prize?" I made a mental note to keep quiet about Ole Miss, but then put a bright red "OLE MISS" bumpersticker on my deck helmet. Before very long my nickname was Ole Miss.
The work was hard—a grueling, back-wrenching labor of pulling in nets and working pulleys—six hours on, six off, and this was often in the devil's weather on the world's roughest sea. It was mindless, though; and I often wondered during my work if this was why I had worked through four years of college and also what kind of offense the Rebels would run.
We had, chained to the ship's hull, enormous bladders that enabled other ships to dock along us at sea. One night in a “howler,” as we called particularly rough storms, and just at my shift's midnight end, the skipper told me there was a piece of driftwood stuck in the bladder chains, which could lead to puncture and that I was to get down the ladder and free the offending driftwood. The skipper and I had different ideas of what constituted a ladder. This one was made of rope and was wet and slimy. In Mississippi they were made of sturdy wood or, at least, chrome which climbed over a van.
But I went. The driftwood was easy to free, but as I started back up, fierce wind spun me around and into the Northern Quest's side. The jolt loosened one arm and my deck helmet, which hit the cold swirling mass of water and vanished. I hung there a moment, stunned by the slam, the howling wind on my face, the cold rain that had soaked me and by the quick death below. In an instant I thought of how, at that moment, thousands of miles away, the Ole Miss faithful were in The Grove preparing for the Memphis State game.
“I want to be there again,” I thought, and hastened up the ladder, thankful I didn't have my college diploma in my back pocket to weigh me down.
Oxford Town #91 May 11, 1995
So, there I am on the golf course, with my golfing buddy Frank Bensciek, shooting the greatest game of my young life, actually on target to beat him for the first and only time in over ten years of friendship, and be isn't even noticing, only saying something about the weight of the world being on his shoulders.
Now, I can fully understand that he might have cause for the weight of the world being on his shoulders.
He is the owner of a sprawling, growing business in Tupelo with employees that look to him for guidance and a paycheck. He is a rabid and loyal University of Memphis fan (and that's enough to put the weight of the world on anyone's shoulders). He has a family that includes young Frank Bensciek IV.
Now, I also fully understand that having a family is an enormous responsibility, the biggest and grandest there is. This son looks to his father not only for food, clothing and shelter, but also guidance n the murky waters of today's world.
The father believes he has let his son down.
Well, that may be so, and it is certainly my place as a good friend to listen to these problems. The only thing I can think of that would be worse than failing the child would be seeing it die.
It was obvious something had happened and Frank wanted to talk about it but I mean, come on. We were playing golf, OK?
Not only that but I was shooting my best game ever. I was breaking par on every hole and had yet to blame a thing on my putter. And he wants to talk family problems?
I know the golf course is a place where heavy discussion goes down. Companies are bought and sold, mergers are completed and small governments are overthrown, sometimes before the first nine holes. A young businessman I know here in Oxford regularly con ducts business meetings out on the course, albeit the disc golf course.
And I understand that friends, true friends, can count on one another to listen when their world is seemingly crashing down. Frank's certainly seemed to be. He kept muttering things about where he had gone wrong and if he could ever look in a mirror again.
Meanwhile, my game was going so good I was beginning to think about a new career in golf endorsements. I was wishing he would get over whatever was bothering him, because I wanted to effectively rub it in that I was his Conqueror-on-the-Course.
Remember that I had never beaten this man. Beating some of my friends, like Boyt, is a given. We play and I win (and I love beat ing him because I'm a terrible golfer). Other friends, like Dave Whitney, the fabled West Coast and Caribbean golfer, I could never beat. The world is just not set up that way.
But beating Frank, even though I had never done it, was obtainable and would happen on this day. About the 12th hole, I began to worry that whatever was bothering him would stand in the way of my rubbing in it once the final ball had dropped.
This simply wouldn't be fair. As long as I've known this man, we have taken good-natured jabs at each other. It's been easy for me, since be is such a staunch University of Memphis fan and my allegiances lie with Ole Miss.
Many have been the times over the years that I've called him up to rub in a Rebel victory over the Tigers. There has been the rare occasion, of course, when Memphis managed to eke out a victory, but it has certainly been I who has done most of the taunting. I have always questioned how anyone can be a University of Memphis fan, but have also always admired Frank's unwavering love of his alma mater.
Our friendship started when I needed a job to save money to attend Ole Miss and he gave me one, knowing he would just have to replace me in a year, when I left for school. I was thank ful for that, just as I was that he would trust me, a kid, driving the huge multi-thousand dollar trucks off his steelyard and out into Mississippi, Tennessee and Alabama. I was even more thankful be was cool enough to put rock and roll cassette tape players in the truck cabs.
When I shot my first ever hole-in-one on the 15th bole and all he did was stare off in the distance, I had to ask what was both ering him. He stared at the ground for a moment and took deep breaths. He rubbed his eyes and, voice quivering, said:
“It's Frank. My son. He said yesterday... he ... he wants to go to Ole Miss.”
I stared off, saying nothing, but wanted to howl and roll around on the ground in laughter.
Frank shrugged, saying, “It could have been worse, though. What if be had said Tennessee?”
Oxford Town #239 March 5, 1998
A few years ago, it wasn't near ly as fashionable to hang out on press row at Ole Miss basketball games as it is now. There were plenty of empty seats, and all that open space made Chuck Rounsaville stick out all the more. It wasn't his looks that made him so noticeable, but rather the look on his face. There were Southeastern Conference bas ketball players playing very close to him, and they were doing it very fast and very hard. But from the carefree look on his face. Chuck didn't seem fazed at all by sitting in such close proximity to such controlled violence. I was hanging out down there in those days, and let me tell you, being so close to these giant athletes stomping around made me at least nervous and at most (truthful) downright scared. These guys battling on the hardcourt were men, jack.
Before coming to Olc Miss, I spent four solid years working on a loading dock and had worked on ships after graduating. I even bartended Ole Miss fraternity/sorority mixers in between, when the minimum drinking age was only 18, and had come through it all relatively unscathed, so physically I was comfortable with my place in the world. But standing so close to these huge, physical men slamming around with Herculean strength flat-out scared me. Hey, just seeing Mississippi State center Eric Dumpier up close would scare anyone. You think the maroon on his uniform is ugly? You should see his face, up close.
Chuck wasn't scared of any thing. His permanent grin was always there, and not just because he has the greatest job in the world, editor and publisher of The Ole Spirit, which is the bible of Ole Miss athletics. What Olc Miss fan wouldn't have a permanent grin while Anthony Boone is a Rebel?
I am indebted to Anthony Boone, and not because he has been a great basketball player because he has been such an absolute class act for Ole Miss (Boonc has almost a 4.0 in chemical engineering, is president of the M club and the Fellowship of Christian Athletes and is a credit to both his families, the one in Arkansas who made him who he is and the one at Ole Miss, who appreciates who he is.). Anthony Boone has no idea who I am, yet he has done very, very much for me.
Four times a surgeon has per formed major surgery on Boone's knees, and the guy has made it hack to the coliseum every time and given his heart for Ole Miss. He has worked and worked and then worked some more to push himself to a level of greatness few humans will ever attain. It amazes me that he can have all that surgery and come hack and play hard, tough SEC basketball against hard, tough players who want very badly to beat him.
Eleven months ago, I had an accident that left my pelvis, ankles and feet all broken up with mus cle and bone protruding from the latter. Shattered was the word used most for my pelvis, but it was only broken up badly in three places. My feet, except for the pain, were numb and still arc today, except for the pain. They were ugly enough already, but you should see them now. My ankles were extremely painful, not just because they were snapped but also because they were this sick ening LSU purple. It was enough to get a fellow discouraged.
But how could I after what Anthony Boone had been through? All I had to do was learn to walk again. This guy had to come back from surgery four times to play SEC basketball! Doctors, nurses, friends, family and strangers all told me I had a long, long way to recovery, and they were right. One day, I plan to get as close to recovered as I can. Anthony Boone has helped clear the path for me, because the giant things this man has accomplished has inspired and helped me I will always be indebted to him.
I got out of my hospital bed and made it to the first Ole Miss basketball game in a wheelchair. As the season unfolded, I progressed to a walker and then a cane. Any walking is painful, and making it up and down and down the steps of the Tad Pad has not been easy but it has been nothing compared to what Anthony Boone has been through. You nave to be tough to play SEC basketball, and he has endured four injuries, four surg eries and four rehabilitations. He will start Friday for Ole Miss.
The cold weather during the Auburn game made me hurt, but there was nowhere else/on the planet to be except where Anthony Boone was playing his last home basketball game for the Ole Miss Rebels.
For that game, I left my cane at home for the first time and when the Rebels play Memphis State on campus come September 5, I plan to walk in there without the help of anyone or anything.
Thank you, Anthony.
THE LIFE AND TIMES of Oxford, Mississippi Number 1 December 10, 1998
SHE DROVE A GREEN AND BLUE pickup truck and had red hair, great dimples and was smart.
On November 8, 1985, I thought she was the best thing that had ever happened to me and when she broke up with me, I thought it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
Ronald Reagan was not even a year into his second term, I was a freshman at Ole Miss and started that night in my Jackson Plaza apartment, drinking Jack Daniel’s.
I wanted to mope in public, and decided to go out to a bar. I knew I wanted to go to Ireland’s. The girls were prettier down at the Hoka, but I had been to Ireland’s a few times and it seemed like a good place to cry in my whiskey. But on that night, there was a band. It was Beanland.
Bands have always been there in my life. The Velvet Vultures, The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, The Clash, The Alarm, The Crime...but none of those have come close to having the impact on my life like this band of college friends that got together for the love of music and good times and ended up bringing happiness to many, many people.
I had a great time that night at Ireland’s and cancelled a trip to the Antenna Club in Memphis that weekend to go to a party where Beanland was playing.
I learned in an early grade at Mooreville Attendance Center to always sit by the prettiest girl in class, and carried that rule to Ole Miss. I sat by absolutely the prettiest girl in Basic Reporting 271 and was chatting her up one day as we left class and she said, “Meet My Boyfriend.”
He had on a Dylanesque Greek fisherman’s cap and seemed an honestly good guy. When I first heard Beanland that night at Ireland’s, there he was playing guitar, grinning ear-to-ear and singing “Sugar Magnolia.” I couldn’t remember his name and the sound guy told me the singer’s name was George McConnell. Then the sound guy asked me, “You want a beer?” He put a Budweiser in my hand and said, “My name’s Lance Lawrence.”
And so I had met two of the finest people I will ever know. Lance then introduced me to Bill McCrory, who standing a few feet away playing guitar and also drinking a Budweiser. He turned out to be just like them and was their brother-in-spirit. The fine-people trend continued as sho-nuff Deadhead Rob Laird and bassist Ron Lewis, wearing a Oingo Boingo t-shirt, joined the band. The first thing I thought when I met Ron was, “I bet this guy knows where the party is.”
In a little over a year, a boogie-woogie piano player from New York who called himself JoJo showed up at the Hoka and started playing for tips and sleeping on people’s floors. When John Hermann started playing keyboards with Beanland, the band evolved from a tight, fun musically adroit unit to the magic that occurs when the right people get together to make music at just the right time in their lives.
I miss Beanland. I’m sometimes asked, if I could go to any show in time, what it would be. I answer that I’m torn between Woody Guthrie anytime anyplace and the Beatles in 1961 in Hamburg. I know, though, if I could go to my pick of shows, it would be Beanland upstairs at Syd & Harry’s on the square in Oxford, preferably one of those shows where the band traded sets with the Tangents. Oh, Beanland was great at the South End in Memphis and Tipitina’s in New Orleans and everywhere else, but Oxford shows, be they at Forrester’s or Ireland’s or anywhere else, were special. It was a special time in a special town and Beanland was what was happening.
I loved their tradition of playing wherever Ole Miss was playing. The best time I ever had at an Ole Miss game was when we all saw the Rebels beat Alabama in Tuscaloosa in 1988. It was JoJo’s first college football game and I’ll never forget how he summed it up afterwards: “I like the cheerleaders.”
Musically, they were astounding. They played “Sugar Magnolia” better than the Grateful Dead and “All Along The Watchtower” better than Dylan. Unlike so many cover bands, Beanland played great originals. I’m excited these Beanland reunion shows are upon us because of all the old friends I’ll see and also because of the opportunity to hear “Take Me To The Show” live again or “Hold The Wheel,” or maybe even “Nothing’s Wrong”! I’ll get chill bumps and be glad to be in Oxford as the crowd erupts when George picks the opening notes to “Doreatha.”
When I graduated from Ole Miss and moved to San Francisco, after one more show at the South End, I only really got homesick when I would listen to Beanland. One day I was in traffic near Chinatown and pulled up next to a cable car stop where a bunch of little black boys were waiting. I had a live Beanland tape playing, and just as JoJo played the opening riffs to “Stagger Lee,” they all started laughing and dancing good enough to star on Soul Train. I cried.
Vesuvio, my favorite bar, was around the corner from my apartment and one day I went in and picked up a Village Voice and saw that Beanland was playing CBGB’s in New York city. I wondered what the hell I was doing on the wrong side of the country.
I wasn’t even living in the country when the first Beanland CD was released. I was loving life but hating missing Beanland shows. Couple that with missing Rebel football, and I knew it was time to come home to Oxford.
When I walked into Company Street Pub, a dark little bar on Saint Croix in the Virgin Islands, and “1x1” was playing on the bar’s stereo, I bought an airplane ticket home, season tickets for Billy Brewer’s boys and and got my sights on a lot of high times with the Beanland boys.
I’m very fortunate to have been around when Beanland was happening. I know some of my best and most dear friends because of the band. Many of my most-fond memories involve, in some capacity, Beanland. They were a part of my life, what made life good. Being in Oxford at that time, I would have inevitably ended up at a Beanland show, at Ireland’s, Forrester’s, the Hoka or somewhere.
But sometimes I think about that smart redhead back in 1985 who caused me to go Ireland’s that night Beanland was playing and I’m glad she was smart enough to break up with me.
Oxford Town #69 October 4, 1994
I WAS SITTING in a pub called The Grapes reading a local newspaper called The Liverpool Echo when a drunk slumped onto the bench beside me and said that with my being a bloody American, I should buy him a bloody double vodka. The Southern gentleman in me decrees that drunks who interrupt one while reading should not be vilely cursed until they do it a second time. In this town, it might remind one of the Beatles song “Not A Second Time.”
I’m fascinated by the British and was curious exactly why, if I was indeed a bloody American, I should buy him, this sixty-something drunk in a rumpled suit and a bad silver hairpiece, a bloody double vodka. I explained to him it was not possible for me to buy him the aforementioned drink; I was living in England on $30 a month, sleeping in the doorway of a Catholic church a few blocks away and was only able to have a Guinness because it seemed so inexpensive after being in the London pubs.
He was in my face instantly, eyes wild, hair frizzed, bellowing: “Well, if you can’t buy me a bloody drink, wot the ‘ell are you doing in Liverpool, then?!!?”
I very much prefer the northern England accent to the southern. The Merseyside tongue is full, and rich; almost a brogue. I don’t care for it, though, bellowed and spit in my ear. Especially when “In My Life” by The Beatles is coming out of the jukebox.
I explained to him, shortly, that I was in town simply because of my love for the Beatles, to check out where they were from, just as I had seen folks do for Elvis in Tupelo and Faulkner in Oxford. He fell silent. About an hour before, another Liverpudlian had told me a story about how Ringo Starr had bought Bill Clinton a beer in that very pub. The future president, the story went, had assisted when the drummer was threatened by some local toughs, or ‘teddy boys,’ as they were once called, in their parts. One far-fetched story, or lie, as they’re called in our parts, was enough. If he also had one, I hoped the drunk would turn away as I turned back to my Echo. Wasn’t to be. He was in my face again, screaming, “John was a prince!”
I noticed I was the only person in The Grapes who thought this irregular; all the other pub patrons ignored this screaming man.
“Did you know John Lennon?” I asked.
“Know him! Of course I did! I loved him, I did! He was the best! The best of the lot!”
For some reason, even though I was sitting in a Liverpool Pub on Mathew Street, a pub famous as a Beatle hang-out and just a couple of doors from The Cavern Club, which The Beatles made world famous, I didn’t believe him at all. He wanted a bloody double vodka. “I have to be going,” I told him. “I’m going to Quarrybank tomorrow.”
“His school! You’re going to see where John did his schoolin’! They won’t let you in. Not without this.” he began scribbling on a paper napkin. I again told him I had no money for a drink.
“Just give it to the bloody headmaster and be gone with you!” He was screaming again.
At Quarrybank the next day, the headmaster smiled when I gave him the napkin --which held a scrawl I couldn’t read-- and proceeded to give me a personal tour of John’s old stomping grounds, like the first stage he played guitar on and the office where he received his many beatings. The crown jewel of this tour was the opening of a dusty old ledger to show me where ten-year-old John Winston Lennon signed his name in 1950.
That night I was back in The Grapes when I met a fellow who told me he could introduce me to Allan Williams, who would be coming in shortly. Allan Williams! He was the first manager of The Beatles, and is credited with with making them a real band and being the guiding force in making band breakups temporary.
Eventually, Allan Williams did come in. You can guess who it was. He didn’t remember me from the night before, but he did tell some great Beatle stories.
John Lennon would have been 54 Wednesday.
The Daily Mississippian September 23, 1986
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Bruce Springsteen!
Today is the 37th anniversary of the birth of the man who wrote “Growin’ Up”. While to most of the world's population it is just September 23rd, to thousands of us Springsteen freaks it is a day to do something really meaningful. Something like, blow off classes, ice down a case of good beer and head out to Sardis with plenty of batteries for the Sardis blaster and everything from "Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J.," (Bruce's first, 1973) to "Born In The U.S.A.," (his latest, 1984).
Like he sings in "Thunder Road", a time to "roll down the win dows and let the wind blow back your hair."
To some people, Bruce's music is simply a good tune on the radio. Or maybe they had heard of him somewhere before and bought (or taped) "Born In The U.S.A." because everybody else was doing so. And there are those Lost Souls who don't like Bruce's music. They would probably like the sound of Jerry Clower ringing a cowbell.
But to a lot of us, Bruce's music is a damn good reason for getting out of bed in the mor ning. Or, not, as long as you can control the blaster, but then, what about dancing?
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I idolize him or anything, his music just does better than anyone else's what good music should: it lifts you up out of depression, makes a good time great, and rocks like a '57 Chevy screaming down the Jersey turnpike. Or a Willys Jeep on a gravel road between Taylor and Thacker Mountain.
There are two types of people in the world. The Chosen, those who have seen Bruce live in concert, and The Unfortunate, those who haven't. Some of the previously mentioned Lost Souls fall into this category.
In 11 years of my favorite thing, live music, I've seen a lot of different acts in the rock and roll category. Everybody from Presley to McCartney to the Dead to the Clash. Well, I haven’t seen X or Lone Justice yet, but as far as I can tell, there is nothing on Earth like a Bruce Springsteen show. Anyone who has seen the man spend four hours sing ing, playing and baring his soul for the au dience will attest to that. Bruce is such an ex plosion of rock and roll energy, the au dience feels drained when they leave the venue. The guys look like they just scored the winning touchdown and the gals look like they just had what they know is the best sex they will in fact ever have.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw him: April 29, 1976, in the old Ellis Auditorium in Memphis. Getting tickets was no problem. Even though he was very popular in the North then, the virgin South had yet to give into his music. My main problem was finding a way from Tupelo to Memphis (This was '76. I was too young to drive legally.) andcovering my tracks out of town. I had two tickets and was more than ready to supply one to so meone for a ride. Most of my requests were met with "Bruce who?" or "Whaddya wanta go see him for?" I finally found this old hip pie named Kopko who said he would take me in his 1961 Rambler. I thought it was worth a shot. If the Rambler started to rumble I could hitchhike.
Finally the big day came. I told Mom I was going to spend the night at a friend's house and practice “Day Tripper” on my old Univox bass. I had started going to rock shows the year before when mom took me to Jackson to see Elvis Presley. I had seen a lot of great stuff since, including The Who and I thought Bruce Springsteen might be something like Keith Moon. I couldn’t risk not getting to go hear the man who wrote and performed “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out” and, since I had recently gotten expelled from junior high and was afraid mom might still be pissed, I developed the Day Tripper ruse. I busted out of the house and met Kopko at Johnnie’s Drive In.
“Brother,” said Kopko, “somebody told me today this cat has a really cool sax player.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “He does. I know he’s good on records. Let’s go hear him live!”
It’s hard to imagine Bruce's shows being anymore of a rock and roll blast than they are now but this one was just a tad more. My young eyes had never seen anything like it before. The music was good on record, but live is always better and with Bruce it was fantastic. I was hook ed. So was the old hippie. He said he had not seen anything like it since The Beatles. We talked about the show the whole time as we rambled back to Tupelo. We were both ex hausted from watching Bruce perform. We went to Kopko’s house and he woke his buddies and told them he wanted to start a band that played Woody Guthrie songs like the Beatles would. I’ll never forget this one hippie, a full-freak pre-Chewbacca looking dude, who looked out from under the covers and below a huge Steal Your Face poster with the most confused look on his own face.
When I got home later that morning, Mom said that judging from my appearance, “Day Tripper” must be a tough one.
The second time I saw him, in 1978, the show was just as unbelievable, but the third time, in 1981, where I saw him was equally unbelievable. Mississip pi State (and he played a favorite Woody Guthrie song, “This Land Is Your Land.”). That's one thing they've got on us. Bruce gave a fantastic show, but surely he meant to play Ole Miss.
Bruce has kept up the high level of musical intensity in all subsequent shows I've seen. The only thing wrong in these later years is the crowd size has grown to where every show is a sellout. A little bit of intimacy has been sacrificed, but Bruce is living his ver sion of The American Dream.
I even have unused Bruce tickets. After getting tickets to see him and the E Street Band in Dallas last year, I — in a very weak moment — opted to go see the Tangents at George Street in Jackson instead (Well, of course there was a female involved and I’ll be damned if she didn’t run off with a guy in the band!).
Thousands of people will wish Bruce a happy birthday today. He has touched lives by letting his creative genius flow out through his songs.
Even if you have never been in a large city, Bruce can convey the feeling of standing on
concrete that stretches for miles in every direction and the hopeless feeling of being a prisoner in a urban cage ("Jungleland,”1975).
If you have never been in a car wreck he can make you feel the horrible emotions of being on a lonely, dark road late at night surrounded by broken glass, twisted metal and death ("Wreck On The Highway." 1980).
If you've never had or wanted an exciting girlfriend, he can change all that if you give a listen to "Rosalita" (1973).
Yes, Bruce has touched a lot of lives, mine included.
That's why I was thrilled to read in The New York Times last week that he would be giving a concert with Tom Petty, Neil Young and others in small amphitheater in San Francisco on October 21st. The article said only mail order ticket requests would be honored. “Great! I told Wayne, my dog, who is named after Wayne in “Darlington County”, the best song on “Born In The U.S.A.”. “I've got a chance to get tickets and I can use the rest of the loan money I have in the bank to fly out there. Fantastic! Live Bruce!”
Then I thought about it and told Wayne I'd better not. Lots of schoolwork. Got to work at Syd & Harry’s. Need the money to pay rent to Bill Rogers. I'd better not go.
How dull. I must be “Growin’ Up”.
Oxford Town #121 Decmber 13, 1995
It has been five years since I've heard from Norm, and it just occurred to me that he might be dead. Norm Minoit was one of the best acquaintances I've ever made, and considering the life 1 knew him to live, he very well might be dead.
Five years ago this week I received a letter from Norm that had been postmarked at a tiny post office on a far-flung island in the Alaskan Aleutians. We had been making plans to meet either in Germany or Honduras, and he told me to have a good Christmas and that he would let me know by the end of January which coun try to go to. I haven't heard from him since.
Norm and I shared, with two other men, cabin #3 on the P/V Northern Quest, a fishing vessel that journeyed the Bering Sea, daily pulling in thousands of pounds of pollack and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the nets.
We met on the airplane that took twenty other workers and us over a 1000 miles from Anchorage to the port of Dutch Harbor, on the mountaintop island of Unalaska. I first saw him in the Anchorage Seaman's Hall, where company officials told horror stories to dissuade any would-be seamen who couldn't handle the danger, the numbing cold or the six-hours-on, six-hours-off, seven-days-a-week-for-three-months work schedule. "Out in the Bering," said the official, "we'll find out if you're seamen or semen."
I noticed Norm when he was the only man in the room who stared straight ahead while the rest of us laughed.
I had bought some second-hand paperbacks in Anchorage and had begun reading Larry Wells' rommel and the rebel on the airplane. Norm noticed the title. "It has something to do with Germany?'
"In a round-about way," I told him.
"I would like to read it when you're finished," he said.
"I've got another if you'd like to try it out," I said, and pulled out Kerouac's on the road.
"Ah. I read it years ago," he said. "It is very good." Something then told me this soft-spoken and neat fellow was different from the others we made our journey with: they wore long scraggly beards, weather-beaten clothes and cursed loudly while debating if sex was better with Eskimo or Indian Women. One of the loudest of these men, a Norwegian called Bluey, captained one of the smaller boats. I hoped to end up on one of these.
We worked on deck of the Northern Quest for two weeks while proving our seaworthiness to go out on the smaller boats that crashed through the waves and dared fate in the deep of the world's angriest sea. Bunking with Norm, I had quickly learned about him: he was from Honduras and his family lived near the Guatemala border. At 12 he had stowed away on a ship to Germany, where he learned not only the local language but also English and French, along with smatterings of others. He had worked and paid his way through school and married a woman from Germany, who now lived there with their son. He could discuss the pros and cons of the European Union as easily as he could how to make safe rope knots. He worked this dangerous job, as he had for years, in order to send money to both families. The day came that crew volunteers for a small boat, The Alaskan Venture, were called for. I was among the first who stepped forward and was elated when Bluey, the boat’s captain, pointed at me and nodded. But Norm also stepped forward. He pointed at me and said, "You don't want the American, Bluey. He won't be able to handle it. I bunk with him."
Norm had been at sea for years and his word was good with Bluey. I was furious. Later, in our cabin, Norm told me, "You do not want to go to sea with Bluey."
A week later, during a storm, the Northern Quest's captain sent me down the ship's side on a rope ladder to untangle a chain. That night, Norm cursed me and told me to never again accept such a dangerous assignment.
"But Captain can send me to land," I said. "It is not better than being dead?" Norm replied. A month went by and we got the news one morning in the gal ley: The Alaskan Venture had gone down. Bluey and his crew of four were lost The attitude was that it was part of the life on the Bering Sea.
I grew to respect and love Norm. When we got to land I begged him to drive with me to Memphis to see Ole Miss and Tennessee play football. He just laughed. He had one more three-month con tract to fulfill and twenty years at sea would be over. He insisted I visit he and his family. I sure would like to hear from him.
Oxford Town #227 December 4, 1997
WHAT A TIME IT WAS to be alive. In a matter of just days, there was a birth, a celebration of life, and a death.
Newborns have always looked identical to me, something like a big wrinkled Roma tomato. Virginia Hill Brown looked like a beautiful little girl. The day I first saw her was a day of pain for me — in the wake of an accident last spring, I have good and bad days and this one was miserable. Her father met us at the front door and as we shook hands I could see the pride and joy gleaming in his eyes. Only later would I realize that as I first saw my dear friend's newborn daughter, all my pain had left. For the first time in a long lime, I just didn't hurt. Seeing this gorgeous little girl, with Pat and Ginger, her thrilled and excited parents, gave reaffirmation of good in the world.
At the same time, I felt sorry for Pat. A holder of multiple degrees and season tickets from Ole Miss, new-father duties would keep him from going to the Egg Bowl. We talked about what it would mean to beat State this year in particular, at their house, with them nationally ranked, to screw up their bowl plans and help our hopes, to see Stewart Patridge avenge the loss in last year's game. It was time to head home and get ready for the next day's game and when we left the Brown's house out off Highway 30; I saw Sheriff Buddy East and wondered why he looked so harried.
Saturday I woke early to read all the sports sections about that day's Egg Bowl and noticed a short story in the Tupelo newspaper, The Daily Journal, about a Robert Whiteaker being found dead on the side of Highway 30 near Oxford. I didn't know any Robert Whiteaker, so the Rebels and Bulldogs were turned to. I got a few telephone calls about the game, and then, during a call from Memphis, this unexpected question: "Have you heard anything about Pizza Bob being killed?" That was jarring. I thought about the Daily Journal story. Robert Whiteaker. It occurred to me that in spite of visiting Pizza Den for almost twenty years, I didn't know the real name of the man who had run the pizza joint in Oxford since 1966. He had always been Pizza Bob to thousands of Oxonians and Ole Miss students. I made a couple of calls, but no one knew if Robert Whiteaker was indeed Pizza Bob, the man who made the best muffaletta north of New Orleans. When I spent over three months in a hospital bed this year. Pizza Bob saw to it that more than a few of those muffalettas were delivered to me.
Almost game time. Emotions were, riding so high, at the Egg Bowl that a brawl broke out between the teams before the game. Late in the fourth quarter, things did not look good for the Rebels, State had Ole Miss 14-7, and with 2:12 left to play, the Rebels got the ball on their 36. Patridge put together a Montanaesque drive that resulted in a touchdown pass to Andre Rone with 25 seconds left. Coach Tommy Tuberville, God bless him, eschewed the almost-certain extra point and overtime to gamble victory-against-loss and pass for a two-point conversion. Patridge delivered a flawless pass and Cory Peterson caught the zipping football to put the Rebels in the lead. There was much screaming and yelling, but the game was not yet won. A field goal would win it for State, and with 23 seconds to play, they moved down the field, and then a pass that looked like a possible Bulldog touchdown was intercepted by Tim Strickland to seal the Rebel victory. People live entire lives without feeling the euphoria this victory brought on, because of who it was over and how it was won.
Late that night Dr. Bubba and I headed to the Square to Ajax to toast Pat and Ginger's new daughter, and to Proud Larrys to toast the two-point conversion. Mainly, though, we just needed to be on the Square, the heart of our little town, which is made up of the lives of so many; our little town whose team had gone to the hinterlands and defeated the enemy of the ages; our little town where we live; our little town which is our life. At Larry’s, Robert Whiteaker was Pizza Bob.
On Sunday, the headline in The Daily Journal read, "Robert 'Pizza Bob' Whiteaker," and the story told that he had operated Pizza Den for over 30 years. But the story could not relate the years of being not just a local place, but a place in peoples' hearts. A place where the walls had Ole Miss posters and a mural by a local artist, a place where the owner always asked, "What you been up t'day?” and a place with more soul than a mall full of chain restaurants. Oxford has been evolving since before the Civil War, and Pizza Den has been an important part of that just like the Hoka was.
Those few days last week were wondrous ones. We saw the birth of a wonderful child who has everything to look forward to; she is the revitalization of the life that makes this place vital. We celebrated life when we saw the Rebels win the biggest game in years. And we saw the untimely death of Pizza Bob. He and I would have talked about the Egg Bowl the next time I went in Pizza Den. I can see him grinning about the two-point conversion.
Yet at the moment Peterson caught the ball and secured for Ole Miss two points and a grand victory, Pizza Bob's heart lay still, as still as the air in the Hoka.
Oxford Town #1 August 19, 1993
I MISSED THE B.B. King show in Memphis this past Saturday because I was far away on the Caribbean island of Saint Croix, bidding my best friend farewell as he slipped from this life into the great unknown.
The notice came in July. I was expected to travel to that far away land of sparkling blue water, cool tradewinds and soft white beaches to witness a ritual execution.
Things are done differently down there. The act can be decided on in the morning and carried out that afternoon. Of course, that's happened right here in Mississippi, but it's not the usual way we do things.
Not that any of that makes a damn. What matters is that Doctor Robert is gone.
He was Bob to everyone else, but when he graduated from med school I started calling him Doctor Robert, after the Beatles song. Then I sure never dreamed of this happening to him. Never, ever, not in million years.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
In December of 1990 I had just moved home from Alaska and he was taking a break from med school. So, we decided to move to the Virgin Islands.
It was only supposed to be for about six months, but it soon turned into a year and a half.
Now, he's still down there. Forever, I guess.
He met her in Company Street Pub, our usual hang out in Christiansted, an ancient old Danish fishing town.
I thought nothing of it at first, he had met lots of girls down there. This one was from North Dakota.
But the next day she met us down at the beach. Before long she was always around, diving the reefs, listening to reggae bands on street corners, hanging out in the Pub. Whatever we were doing, she was right there with him. Soon enough, it was me that was there with them.
Then, in 1991, Bob and I flew to New Orleans to watch the Rebels play. He brought her along. It was very serious. When we got back on island, they moved in together.
I left soon after for six months in Europe before heading to north Mississippi for the Egg Bowl. Bob and I had attended the game together every year since 1978. When I talked about him to people I met, I said, "When I get back to Oxford, there he'll be, shaking his head in embarrassment."
I had no idea what my good friend was capable of doing. I found out early on a Sunday in June.
They had gone to the beach the night before. An argument happened. She drove home. He followed her on foot. It happened when he reached home.
Then last Saturday there I was in that building where I knew these rituals took place.
I caught a glimpse of his bewildered face just before it happened. He was shaking and crying.
Afterwards, we stepped out into the brilliant sunshine and looked out over the water. I could only think of Bob. For him, it's all over now.
He's a married man.
The Daily Mississippian March 7, 1988
I'm worried about our lieutenant governor. He is in extreme danger of overdosing. The dangerous substance? Not cocaine. Not marijuana. Not Schlitz.
Nerve.
When folks were going through the line to get nerve, our lieutenant governor must have gone back for seconds and thirds.
You know who I'm writing about. Bradford Jay Dye Jr.
Or, when he presents himself as a public servant, Brad Dye. Brad sounds much more good ol’ boy than Bradford, which is important in Mississippi when you want to get reelected and continue to be a public servant. Bradford's ample amount of nerve was displayed not long ago when it was revealed that he, the public servant, had been using state-owned airplanes to attend Ole Miss football games. I thought public servants were supposed to serve the public, not the other way around. Am I wrong?
Maybe Bradford thinks since he has been in government since 1960 he can manipulate the public anyway he wants. Something evidently has his nerve flowing because now Bradford not only wants use of the public's airplanes, he also wants the public's urine. He has proposed a program to randomly test school age children for drug abuse. It seems Bradford is not satisfied with just milk breaks in Mississippi schools, he also wants urine breaks.
To his credit, Bradford is not looking to fill Parchman Farm even further. The bill, sponsored by Senators Jack Gordon of Okolona and Bunky Huggins of Greenwood, states that if a students' urine is tested for illegal drugs and alarms go off, only the parents, principal, and drug counselor would be notified. I suppose the bills' authors are taking it for granted the student would know if illegal drugs were present in the urine or not. The bill would also prevent use of test results for civil action or criminal prosecution against those marked as having tainted urine. Which is good, but this bill should not exist in the first place. School kids have enough to worry about with algebra, sadistic teachers and zits.
To force them at random to urinate in a cup to satisfy Bradford is inhumane. It would be much easier to live with Bradford's wish if he was someone to be respected, but how do you respect someone who calls himself a public servant and then travels to Ole Miss games at the public’s expense?
I can't fault him for wanting to see the Rebels play, but at a salary of $34,000 a year he can afford to pay his own way. I don't make anywhere near that and I go to every game.
But, he is the lieutenant governor, and f he wants our urine, I think we should send it to him.
The next time you go to happy hour take along a milk jug or a glass jar (a locking sandwich bag might work, but personally. I don't know) and fill it with Bradford's liquid of choice. Do not substitute Mountain Dew. Here is where you should send it:
Lieutenent Governor Brad Dye
Post Office Box 1018
Jackson, Mississippi 39205
If we all send enough, maybe Bradford will be satisfied and will abandon this rude, violating bill. If not, we will probably soon see an increased number of dropouts. For those who do go to school, it will mean not only reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmatic but also filling it to the rim.
The Daily Mississippian February 29, 1988
You have to give credit when it's due.
Even if it's to Mississippi State.
Moo U released their 1988 football schedule last week, which included games against S.E.C. foes Georgia, Alabama and L.S.U. in Starkville. Also listed as a home game is the contest to be played in Jackson against the University of Southern Mississippi. I realize it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to call it a Mississippi State home game since Southern is sitting just 80 miles down Highway 49, but that's the way the schedule is printed. I don't care where State dons their ugly maroon uniforms in the name of sport (except for the Egg Bowl), but there's this one guy who has been hanging around the Mississippi legislature for 13 years who does.
State Senator Dick Hall of Jackson has taken it upon himself to say where both State and Ole Miss should play their “home” football games. Senator Dick introduced a bill in the legislature last week that would make it law that the State College Board force Ole Miss and the Starkville bunch to alternate home games between Jackson and their campuses.
Senator Dick wants it to be LAW that we have to travel almost three hours from campus to see our favorite team play "HOME" games!
Which is where the credit is due State, or more directly, Larry Templeton, State's Athletic Director. Templeton basically said he really doesn't care what Senator Dick wants. He's standing firm by the Mississippi State Athletic Department's decision to play most of their home games where the campus is. Bravo, Templeton!.
Unfortunately, Templeton's execution of common sense will not make Senator Dick and his silly little idea go away: there are Senator Dick Backers.
One is Jackson Mayor Dale Danks. That's right, the same brilliant guy who lost the state attorney general's race when he failed to make the good voters of Mississippi realize that the length of Mike Moore's hair in 1975 was a campaign issue. It's easy to see why Danks wants the games in Jackson. The games mean money pumped into the Jackson economy via the hotels, restaurants, gas stations, etc., and enables Danks to laugh all the way to the barber shop.
Another Senator Dick Backer is Mississippi Veterans Memorial Stadium Commission chairman Alvis Hunt. It is equally easy to see why Hunt wants the games in Jackson. He wants people to come to football games in his stadium. Lots of people. This means teams other than Jackson State and Southern playing there. That, of course, leaves State and Ole Miss, which would not be any problem except that Hunt's stadium is not located near either of the campuses.
There is no reason at all for State or Ole Miss to play a single game in Jackson. Who cares if there's a lot of alumni down there? If they went to school here or at Starkville surely they have the limited intelligence it takes to find their way back. You have to give even Bulldog fans that much credit.
When I first heard of Senator Dick's bill, I figured he was another good ol’ boy law-maker who never went to school anywhere and did not realize how much of a hardship it creates for students to travel to Jackson for “home” games. A little investigation revealed that Senator Dick is actually a Mississippi State product (which may explain some of his lunacy). This does make it a little clearer. Since Senator Dick is from Jackson, all he has to do when the Bulldogs are in town is get up, have breakfast at the Mayflower Cafe and stop by the stadium on the way home! And while he’s at it, why not make things hard on Ole Miss fans by putting Rebel game sin Jackson?
If Senator Dick and the Senator Dick Backers want more football games in Jackson, they should call up the New Orleans Saints and find out how many “home” games they will play there.
The Daily Mississippian December 7, 1987
THERE IS still hope for America.
After damning ourselves with Richard Nix on, we made it through his hand picked successor, Gerald Ford, only - to make it through four years of Jimmy Carter, a good ol' boy who meant well but was doomed to serve our country's needs at a time that prescribed a one-term president.
As is our custom, we had a chance in 1980 to help ourselves by giving the man from Plains four more years to fulfill the promises he realistically said in 1976 would take more than four years to fulfill.
Instead we picked an old B-movie actor. Hard to fault the American people with that, since they were picking between an old B-movie actor and a peanut farmer. But the peanut farmer, while in school and earlier serving his country, had proven himself to be an intellectual. The old B-movie actor, mean while, achieved the status of lifeguard at the pool while in school, before moving to California to be on celloid.
Everyone makes mistakes and it became evident early the American people did when they elected the star of "Bedtime For Bonzo." Among his first disgraces was ignor ing the American people and their over whelming disapproval of his Secretary Of The Interior, James Watt, while he was raping America's national parks and the admission by his budget director, David Stockman, that they didn't know what they were doing. Americans had the chance in 1984 to stop him from embarrassing our great country
further but the brainwashing had seeped in so far that he scored a landslide victory so large it brought to mind the huge victory when
in 1972 by that other American embarrasmment, Nixon. Of course, the 1984 landslide was before the Iran-Contra fiasco proved Reagan to be guilty of one or two things (maybe both!): lying to the people who elected him or being just a bumbling figurehead who doesn't even know what goes on in his own basement. Take your pick, depending on how much you face reali ty.
Thankfully, there are only 380 days of Reagan left. If the Republicans are smart, they’ll avoid further embarrassment by letting Reagan continue his practice of not calling press conferences and avoiding questions by smiling and pointing up at twirling helicopter blades (maybe he's indicating God doesn't want him to lie anymore). Hopefully for the Republican's sake, Reagan won't do anything else embarrassing. Maybe a good sedative would help.
Otherwise, they're going to have trouble keeping their Oval Office streak intact. Which isn't easy, considering who they've got bidding for the nomination. The front runners are Veep Bush, who has trouble convincing people he really exists, and Senate Minority Leader Robert Dole, who most voters don't know from a banana. They're followed by nobodies like Pete du Pont (how many people in middle America would vote for someone named du Pont?) and Pat Robertson (snicker). The latter stands no chance what soever because America has gotten it's fill of farces with Reagan.
All of this Republican muddiness, coupled with the fact that one candidate is emerging from the Democratic pack vying for that nomination, is why I claim there is still hope for America.
That candidate is Tennessee's Al Gore.
Gore showed in last week's debate why he is the common sense replacement for Reagan. Gore supports the arms treaty heavily. Among the Democrats, this is a popular thing to do. Gore takes it a step further. He calls it “budget flexibility.” If arms control can be guaranteed so that neither side gains an advantage, it will allow the government to redirect large amounts money from the military to where it is needed elsewhere without damaging militia strength or preparedness.
Very simple, sure, which is probably why Gore doesn't stop there. He promotes using those saved funds to invest in science and develop technology to usher America into the 21st century world of supercomputers and supercolliders which we will be living in. By investing now, America will lead that world and not follow the Soviet Union, Japan, or even India or China.
Gore is the only candidate standing head and shoulders above the rest, who are involving themselves in wrestling for the basic old political footholds.
It is a shame Gore will have to win the nomination of a party to have a chance. Some narrow-minded Americans will always vote Republican or Democrat, no matter who the candidate is. It's much like voting for ASB President and using fraternity/sorority affiliation as a basis of casting the lot. Sad, but true. Some things like that may never change, but at least Reagan will no longer be president.