The Greatest Bluebook EVAR!!!!!!

Yesterday, I received a copy of an old bluebook and the following letter from a grad school friend:

“Sorry this took so long to get to you. I kept leaving it at home after they finally placed the office copier in an actual room in the building after renovations. But, maybe the wait will make it even funnier! The second I found it I reached for my phone and called you — you were the first one I thought of. We had so many great laughs and now inside jokes because of this brilliant exam answer!”

The “brilliant” student in question almost assuredly failed Louisiana History, but that didn’t stop him from banging out two hilarious essays for his final exam. It made its rounds on the 3^rd floor of Himes Hall for several years before my friend spirited it away for good. But now everyone can savor my transcription of this monstrosity!

The first essay doesn’t require much exposition. This scholar was asked to gauge how Radical Reconstruction impacted the political and legal status of Louisiana’s black population (all of his answers are in bold, italic font).

Throughout Radical Reconstruction up to the Constitution of 1898, the political and legal status of Louisiana’s black population was changing constantly. Of course, the southern blacks were first brought to America as slaves and throughout history it has been a constant struggle for them to gain rights and freedom. 

Okay…an innocuous and generalized opening.

Radical Reconstruction brought about an attempt at black suffrage, putting an end to slavery, and giving slaveholders’ land outright to freed slaves. The North wanted the Confederate states to abolish slavery and rejoin the Union. This began with fairly peaceful negotiations, but would eventually erupt into bloody, racial battles, especially prominent in Northern Louisiana.

I know, just your typical C- paper so far. It will get better soon. I promise.

After the Confederate Louisiana troops handily defeated the Union troops in northwestern Louisiana, and after all of the blood was shed, blacks began to find their way to more and more political power.

The Confederacy won the war AND freed the slaves. Yeehaw!

Pinchback became the first black governor in Louisiana although his time in office lasted only 3 months (he also survived an assassination attempt.) The Louisiana Congress was now also half black; although at this point, blacks still did not have the right to vote.

So blacks couldn’t vote, BUT they were able to hold political office. Nevertheless, there were some awfully enlightened white folks in 1870s Louisiana! I guess they just felt incredibly  magnanimous after winning the Civil War.

Wait, what?!

Blacks were now Americans but not necessarily citizens until they could vote. 

But they could still hold the highest offices in the state, lest ye forget.

“Black codes” were [implemented] to the black folk saying they could not do things like remove manure from canisters without first inserting flaming discs called “Negro Flamin’ Records.”

Annnnnnnd we just entered Crazy Town, folks.

All through this time, generals and presidents and various governors, etc., were practicing routines and carrying out their jobs. Old men grew older, while young newborns rocked gently in their mothers’ loving, tender arms.

It’s the circle of life, y’all.

Only once did a rodent actually survive crossing Highland Road near Starring Lane. One cannot imagine the anguish these creatures feel. I for one would admit only to the philosophy of Carl M. Goodenbough, who said “flamingoes, like doves, have wings.” Rest the souls of my beloved creatures. 

I want those last two sentences as the epitaph on my tombstone.

Now onward to our second essay! It asked about the Robert Charles Riots of 1900. They were sparked after African American laborer Robert Charles shot a white police officer, after an altercation involving Charles, his roommate, and several New Orleans police officers on Monday, July 23, 1900. He subsequently went on a shooting rampage, and inflammatory editorials from the New Orleans newspapers led to a widespread race riot.  Twenty-eight people were killed in the conflict, including Charles who was killed on July 27, 1900.

But let’s ask our amateur historian for the real dirt!

This guy Robert Charles was a man. He was alive and lived back then.

Indeed.

He got beat up because white people hated black people a whole bunch. He died. If he lived and was brought to trial he would be executed anyway, so it really didn’t matter that he was killed.

So Judge Dredd really existed, and he lived in 1900 New Orleans.

/cue Joey Belladonna shrieking “Judge, Jury, and Executionerrrrrrrrr!!!!

//rocking the metal horns.

///banging my head. But not because “I Am The Law” rules.  Which it does, by the way. Go download Anthrax’s “Among The Living” album right now. You’ll thank me later.

////My headbanging is actually from me slamming my head against the desk after reading this essay.

I loved Robert Charles. His grace and honor were so grand indeed. If only I could speak with him. “Robert,” I would say, “you are so cool for standing up for what you believe.”

Robert Charles shot white 27 people and triggered one the bloodiest race riots in American history. Nevertheless, he had unimpeachable integrity. He was like MLK, Charles Whitman, Buddha, and Ice T all at once, but with ten percent more awesome.

Then after the parade you’ll go to the corner grocery store and supply yourself with beads and lemons. Put them all in a basket and worship it. Never eat the contents, for they are now of the land.

It’s a lost verse from Leviticus, folks.

Go quietly into the soft, cool night and tell stories to the children. Stories of love and bravery and always remember your commander-in-chief Calvin Coolidge, for he was a good, good man. Take with you now the memory of Andre the Giant (the famous wrestler). He was a big man, with a big heart, but sadly his size was too big.

I genuflect daily to Silent Cal and The Eighth Wonder of the World. And Gorilla Monsoon, for what it’s worth.

Also, never forget Jim Henson. He brought us the lovable Muppets. Who could ever forget Beaker and Fozzie? Those wily guys will live in my heart forever.

And mine as well. Except for that #$%@ Elmo.

Finally, I speak to you of Wolf Blitzer. CNN and Wolf portrayed the beautiful story of the Gulf War. 

‘Twas majestic.

Wait, what? 

Where is Wolf Blitzer now? Under a tent in Idaho? Trapped inside a flaming Jack in the Box? Jumping from the side of a newly constructed warehouse in Grand Rapids, Michigan? 

I just saw him on “The Situation Room.” But thanks for asking.

 I don’t know, you know, I believe nobody knows.

NOBODY KNOWS. I’ve been outwitted by your sophistry.

I will now devour a small portion of an 8 and a half month old porcupine, too-da-loo!

Job hunting sucks

The longer that I go without work, the harder it is to preserve my self-confidence. Longstanding doubts about my educational choices and work history multiply. Maybe I should have been an accountant after all. Or maybe I should have conquered my squeamishness with blood and other bodily fluids (as well as my narcoleptic spells during Biology class) and gone into the medical field. I say that because most of the vacancies I see these days are for bean counters and health care providers. But then I remember that I’ve only met a handful of likeable accountants with a lick of personality, and I hate hospitals.

I see plenty of sales jobs, but most of those adverts are a) internet scams, b) part-time and/or minimum wage positions, or c) demand that you work an insane number of hours moving a phenomenal amount of product in order to get a taste of the illusory commission rate. In most cases, the type of wage slavery in Category C is an even bigger lie than the identity theft/marketing traps that comprise Category A.  And I won’t break my neck hustling wares that I don’t believe in. I just won’t.

I’ve had several interviews. I’ve followed all of the recommended steps from the stacks from the articles I clipped from the Wall Street Journal. Get a haircut the day before. Wear a black suit, conservative tie, and polished shoes. Show up 15 minutes early. Don’t ogle the secretary, no matter how miniscule her ensemble is. Once I’m in front of the hiring authority, don’t slouch. Take copious notes and ask plenty of questions. Don’t trash your previous employers, no matter how despicable they might be. Don’t be the first one to ask about money. Don’t openly laugh or spit when the initial salary offer is a sliver of your old paycheck (I don’t need a lot of money – just enough to cover living expenses, workout supplements, guitar strings, the occasional book or DVD, and ammunition. For the most part, I just want to work my 40 years and pursue my boring hobbies. But they don’t need to know that, because I’ll never voluntarily disclose my utter lack of ambition during a job interview). And I try not to be overly pushy, but I am direct: how do I stack up against the other candidates, do I meet the requirements for the job description, and what do I need to do to get the job?

Inevitably, I get the phone call or email a few days later that goes “oh, you were great. But you’re overqualified/made too much money at your last two jobs/we found someone even more desperate than you, blah, blah, blah. But we’re sure that someone else will snap you up real quick, blah,blah, blah, because you were a wonderful candidate, blah, blah, blah. Now kindly go jump in a lake.” A pat on the back isn’t going to feed me, you #$%!!!

So the local job market is terrible, but it seems to be pretty horrid everywhere. Most of my fellow jobless friends around the country tell me their prospects are equally grim. That’s certainly not reassuring. As matter of fact, it’s a damning indictment that this economy is in even worse shape than advertised, and it will probably get worse before it gets any better. I even broke down and applied for contracting jobs in Afghanistan yesterday. Trust me, I got my fair share of excitement in Iraq…and then some. But no one else seems to be hiring, and KBR, Fluor, and Dynocorp always have vacancies. And not to be utterly fatalistic, but the only times I’ve made decent money are when I’ve had to relocate and expose myself to a fair amount of physical danger. Maybe I was never meant to work a halfway fulfilling job that’s 40 hours a week, with weekends and holidays off. Perhaps it’s just time to accept my fate.

I’ll keep plugging away. I mean, what other choice is there? I’d make for a hideous streetwalker.

So, about this rapture thingy…

I read a fair number of books about millennialism when I was in grad school. Heck, I even considered the Civil War-era movements as a possible dissertation topic. That should let you know that this latest wave of panic ain’t nothing new. As a matter of fact, comparable beliefs were part of Jewish and Zoroastrian eschatology long before Christ walked the earth.

If I felt like bothering one of these people, I have some questions. First and foremost, I’d ask them, “Really? Jesus has been slinging curveballs about his encore performance for almost two thousand years. Plenty of other movements hedged their bets on a return date and watched their reputations go poof when nothing happened. Are you sure you wanna apply a slide rule to Revelations and figure that one out? Because that book is chockfull of obtuse riddles, mysteries, and allegories. The monsters are awesome and the environmental disasters are scary and all, but theologians have been scratching their heads over its meanings for ages. What makes you so certain it’s this Saturday?

Well, since you’re so certain, do you still have long-term CDs in the bank? Did you pay this month’s mortgage? And what about credit cards? Well, then again, a shopping spree would be rather trite at this point. But would you feel guilty about your creditors holding the bag on a bunch of unpaid bills? Are you concerned about health insurance anymore? Do you worry about your food’s expiration dates? Do you even bother to keep the deep freezer plugged in these days? Are you annoyed that you’re going to miss a pretty awesome NBA Finals? The talent among the final four teams hasn’t been this deep in 20 years. And how are y’all paying for those billboards and radio ads? Did you have to sign a contract that runs past May 21? Or do you pay as you go? And what happens if the status quo prevails? Do you keep the signs up and just spray paint ‘Doh!’ or ‘Yeah, sorry about that’?”

Yeah, I guess I do have a lot of questions. But what if they’re right? What if there is a ginormous teleportation this Saturday? It would be wonderful if I got picked for that rocket ride, but what if I’m not? What happens next? Do the godless heathens left behind resume our fumbling, bumbling antics? Or do we have panic, mass hysteria, and dogs and cats living together? And if that’s the case, then I’m not happy about having to cast allegiances to either Lord Humongous or Mad Max. Do I side up with the steroid-fueled, hockey masked, and merciless Ayatollah of Rock n’ Rollah? Or do I tag along with an assuredly unstable Mel Gibson? Then again, he’s probably hedging his bets on this rapture, given his career’s recent freefall. Then again, he would be surrounded by a whole of bunch of Jews in the hereafter.

I hope our nuclear power plants have some pagans on standby, otherwise we’re gonna have scads of simultaneous meltdowns which would yield the environmental cataclysms promised in the Good Book.  And to avoid mountains of flaming wreckage, we’re going to need some Buddhist copilots in our airplanes, Hindu train conductors, and Muslim barge captains. Do we have enough Wiccans, Scientologists, and Satanists on standby? Someone will have to take the wheel when all of those automobile drivers vanish.

I hope CLECO has enough qualified people actively praying to Thor, because I plan on having a post-rapture looting spree. While everyone else is hitting the gun and liquor shops, I’m going to use a mega-church’s P.A. for my band’s rehearsal gear. I’m playing demolition derby with Greyhound buses. And I’m going to turn the zoo critters loose so Alexandria can resemble the opening sequence from I Am Legend. And who among you could resist this pickup line – “Hey babe, c’mon back to my mansion. I’ve got some pet lions and alligators.” It’s gonna be awesome.

Whenever I have questions about religious issues, all I have to do is look across the dinner table. I asked my grandmother what she thought of this latest movement.

“Well, I hadn’t heard about it, but no one knows. That’s not up to man. The Father is the only one who knows when it’s time. But we should all live everyday like it’s our last anyway. Because The Lord does come for someone every day…every few seconds, as a matter of fact.”

Smart words from a smart lady. But I’ll do a bed check on her this Saturday. Just in case.

What I’ll Remember

There’s very little from the past two months that I want to hang on to. But it wasn’t all bad. I’ve already documented some of the times I made my grandfather smile or laugh, as well as some of his more amusing and weird moments. I enjoyed spending time with my Aunt Margaret, who was his sister. I’ve always relished visits with her, but they’ve always been sporadic. Beforehand, circumstance and distance always seemed to get in the way. Well, we had plenty of time to catch up over the past two months. I enjoyed hearing her stories about our family, even it was the fourth or fifth time I’d heard them. I’d just smile and pretend it was a brand new anecdote whenever she’d start.

But there’s too much that hurts if I dwell on it, so I’ll try not to do that anymore. It will take me a while to bounce back from all of this, but I will. I have to. What I’ll try to focus on are the good memories of him, because there were so many of them. That’s one of the things that sustained me during this period. So I figured I’d share some of them with you.

I’ll always remember that shuffling, shambling walk of his after his back gave up on him. His body moved in ten different directions, which produced a cacophony of jingling coins, clattering keys, and creaking joints. But no matter how much he hurt, he always had a big, joyful grin whenever he saw me. He’d utter “Hey boy!” and give me a crushing bear hug. His north Louisiana hick accent made “boy” sound like “bwah.” I loved that smile and I loved that goofy accent.

When I was little, he and I always woke up before everyone else. We sat on the front porch of their old house on Barrister Street, where we drank black coffee, watched the morning dew glisten, and listened to the birds sing. Then we’d go inside and watch “The Three Stooges.” Our laughter always woke up the rest of the house. Every afternoon, he loaded my brother, sister, and me into a Radio Flyer wagon. He hauled us to the corner store and bought us Icees. I loved that red wagon.

Every Friday night, we went to the movies. He always got a big tub of popcorn and Raisinets and mixed them together. I sat in his lap while we shared our snack. Our faces and fingers would always be smeared and sticky with chocolate by the time the movie ended.

Every Saturday, we’d hit the local garage sales. My grandfather drove, my grandmother hollered directions to the next sale that had a particularly juicy ad in the paper. Hank Williams and Marty Robbins provided our soundtrack. My grandparents collected antiques. My grandfather and I collected old comic books and history books. We’d go home, break out the price guides, and figure out how impressive our haul was.

Every football season, we lived and died with LSU and the Saints. We did a lot more dying than living most years, but that was okay. We had each other to share the disappointment, and we always looked forward to next year. And “next year” finally happened. He stuck around long enough to see both of our teams become winners. No one wanted to strangle Nick Saban and Les Miles more than he did (but not nearly as much as he wanted to throttle Carl Smith for his “run & punt” offense during the Jim Mora era). And no one loved Drew Brees more. “Bwah, he’s better than Archie ever was,” he’d always say. “I can’t believe we got him.” And I’ll never forget when we held each other and cried when the Saints finally went to a Super Bowl and won it.

I’m really going to miss him this upcoming season. No more Sundays with a big box of Popeye’s when I’m home. No more excited phone calls after a big play when I’m out of town. I’ll never again hear him ask “Did you see that, bwah?!”

He was my biggest fan. He’d rave over my artwork. His office walls were covered with my drawings. He bought my first guitar. He let my bands use one of his school’s classrooms as a rehearsal space. He’d let us play so loud that the walls shook. He welcomed my friends over to his house, where we’d write songs and record demos. The bathroom tiles made for great plate reverb. And he gave us enough quilts that we could smother a mic’ed amplifier, crank it to 10, and record it without getting arrested for noise pollution. It didn’t matter if we playing country music or death metal; he’d always pop in with a big grin and say “Sounds good, bwahs!” And he was there for most of my concerts. He’d always be up front and slightly to my right. He videotaped us while he dodged mosh pitters and drunks. If the noise, heat, and my obnoxious stage banter ever annoyed him, he never told us.

I’m glad he was still alive and alert both times I came home from Iraq. I didn’t think I’d see him again when I took that job. But he was still kicking during last October’s R&R. I came home for good on February 14. His birthday was the 15^th. He didn’t know I was coming home yet, so I gave him a good and proper surprise when I knocked on his door that morning. “Well, there you are, bwah!” He was so happy that I was back in one piece. I was so happy that he lasted another year.

More than anything, I’ll remember him being someone who would drop everything for someone in need. If someone was hurting or desperate, he could always be counted on for some money, some food, a bed to sleep in, a job reference, a phone call to a local politician or businessman, a receptive ear for counsel, or a shoulder to cry on. He gave freely to so many people for so many years, and he did it without expecting anything in return.

He gave me so much over the years. He meant the world to me. That’s why I couldn’t let him die alone or in pain. I made that vow to him when he got sick. I had the time and resources to fulfill that promise. I hope I did enough. I hope I made him proud. I just hope I get to see my Pawpaw again.