The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

Most of my friends know that I have a young friend, all of 20. He's adopted me as a surrogate dad , of sorts, and he calls me "Pops". Throughout our adventures in ukulele playing, psychology, culture, humor and semi-fine dining, he has found that this old man knows how to cook. And dude loves my cooking! It's become a bit of a routine for me to take him dinner at work a few times a week. His tastes run pretty similar to mine, so its even easier for me. Yesterday, I was trying to decide what to make. I had just made gumbo a few days prior and that was going to be a tough act to follow. (if you've had my gumbo, you know this) I had some leftover peppers, so there was a start. I thawed out some chicken thighs and picked up some fresh onions....now what? Let the creativity begin! I sometimes just make up a dish as I go along. I'll take an idea from one dish or other, mix it up, add some things, change some things, just to see how it goes. I've been coo...

My grandmother was pretty funny. She had an often sly, sometimes bizarre sense of humor. Once, I brought a shy gal I was dating to meet my grandmother and great aunt. We went out for dinner and drinks. This same gal was so overwhelmed at meeting the rest of my family at the holidays that she needed a sedative. OK, most would probably want drugs to meet my family. Back to my grandmother. We were sitting having drinks and talking while waiting for dinner. My girlfriend was barely saying two words, due to her shyness. My grandmother reached across the table, took my gal's beer, took her swizzle straw out of her own cocktail and started blowing bubbles into my gal's beer. My gal was, um, a tad surprised. I was laughing like an idiot, understanding what she was doing. My auntie said to my grandmother, "Dammit Marg! What ARE you doing? That girl doesn't want your spit in her beer!" My grandmother dryly replied, "Her beer looked flat. I thought I'd help her ou...

Sitting here thinking back over my musical career, the ol' brain spent a fair bit of time on my love of so-called punk rock .  I don't really like to categorize music. Always feels like a sales gimmick to me. Music, at least to me, is a form of sonic communication. (Note: I said "music", not "lyrics") I can feel the same energy from Beethoven that I do from the Sex Pistols. I can glean the same musical intent.  But punk rock.... When I first started to listen to it, and play it, my basic thought (which, I guess, was very punk) was "Oh! I can do this." Basic chord progression. Repeat at rapid fire speed. Turn volume up. Go. Yep...I could do that.  I have always enjoyed classical music, so these 3 chord aural assaults were a whole new thing to me. Around the same time, I had been introduced to the music of The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix. The Beatles got me with the production. Hendrix...I remember seeing footage of him on TV once and bei...

I've taught guitar before. I can honestly say that it was neither a pleasurable nor enriching experience. Yet...here I am again. Why? Good question. The answer is pretty simple. For me, its about sharing the joy of making music. People often ask how I started playing, how long I've been playing, etc. My former guitar teacher, Kevin, showed up at a gig the other night. It got me thinking. I CAN teach...provided I can teach the way that I learned. How NOT to play guitar. No discredit to Kevin. He tried to teach me the way that countless others were taught. It was already too late for me. I had been teaching myself for about 6 months at that point. While he did teach me many valuable things (forcing me to use a pick, various ways to tune, the rudiments of finger-picking, and harmonics all come to mind) the whole 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" crap just didn't move me. It's not what I was listening to or what I was feeling. After a few months, the lesson...

Just had a kitchen accident. It's OK...the cats weren't hurt. Neither am I. However, a treasured family heirloom is gone gone gone. OK..."heirloom" might be a stretch. It was one of my grandmother's old mixing bowls. Your grandmother might have had one. Hell, you might have one. These things were sturdy and built to last! And...they have roosters on them. You know the ones. I can only imagine the thousands of meals that were prepared in this thing. I've never known life without this mixing bowl. I've eaten countless servings of popcorn from it. And now it's gone. I was making dinner. I had the front burner on, searing a roast. I thought I'd turned it off...but I'd only turned it down. Roast was in the oven, and I was doing dishes. As I needed sink room, I had set the bowl on the stovetop. As I was getting ready to reach for the bowl....KA-BLAMMMM!!!!!! It just shattered. Freaked me the hell out. The cats came in to see what was g...

I was just telling this story to a friend of mine (it's what us older guys do...we tell old stories) and he thought it was pretty damned funny. I've always thought it is...especially as I lived it. ERNIE & HOMER When I was in college, back in the 80s, I had a friend named Ernie. He had cerebral palsy and was in a wheelchair. He also had, by choice, a colostomy bag...which we referred to as "Homer". You'll find out why in just a bit. I'll admit, I thought that choosing to get a colostomy bag was a pretty radical idea. Being the kinda guy I am, I asked him about this choice. His answer was pretty simple and to the point. "I was really tired of shitting myself and having to wait for someone else to help me get cleaned up."  It really made sense! This was a young guy, in his mid 20s, with a dual degree in psych and criminology. He was bright! He lived on his own and handled his own affairs. There where, however, certain things he couldn't...

I wrote this over a decade ago. It's still just a bit of silliness...but some folks like it and some look forward to it. I hope it can bring you a smile. We need more of those these days. THANKSGIVUS Thanksgivus: that's what she called it. The 'she' in question would be a very short, loud, middle aged black woman with retardation who I supervised for years. Her name is Omega...fitting because she truly is THE END! Omega didn't exactly have a speech problem but I think her hearing wasn't 100% on the mark, as certain words would get slurred together such as "Thanksgivus". Another fave was her version of Social Security, which often sounded more like "sociable secretary" (of which I've known a few). Thanksgivus (which is what I now prefer to call the US holiday Thanksgiving) is the last Thursday of November (this is for my overseas friends who may not be fully knowledgeable of the subject). It is the holiday where we Americans give T...