The Cap

Here's my uncensored "All Over the Map" for the 08.25.10 edition of Arkansas Weekly:


An Arkansas radio personality announced that she was fired Monday, two days after wearing a Florida Gators hat to an Arkansas Hogs news conference, according to a report from the Associated Press.

***

Saturday afternoon, Aug. 14, 2010. Location: the office of a certain head football coach of a somewhat prominent NCAA team.

The coach stomps through his doorway in a huff. He rips off his baseball cap and throws it on his couch.

“Who the hell let that girl reporter into practice wearing that cap?!?” he screams to the various assistant coaches meekly assembling in the office. The cap in question featured the logo of this certain football team’s conference rival. It was worn by a local sports radio reporter to the team’s practice and the press conference afterward.

“Uh, Coach, sir,” one of the assistants says in a hesitant tone. “Maude is getting the athletic director on the line right now. This is just unacceptable.”

Maude would be the head coach’s secretary.

The coach walks to his desk and gets Maude on the speakerphone. “Maude,” says Coach. “I don’t care if he’s on a golf course, in a movie, at a funeral, or on the pot, I want the A.D. on the phone as soon as possible!”

“Yes sir,” replies Maude.

“Oh, and Maude?” says Coach.

“Yes sir?”

“Did my agent call about any, uh, openings in the big league?”

“No sir.”

“Oh, ok,” replies Coach, somewhat disappointed.

“Oh sir,” says Maude. “I have the A.D. on line 2.”

Coach stabs the line 2 button and grabs the receiver.

“Have you heard?!?” screams Coach.

“Heard what?” says the A.D. “Did our quarterback injure himself in practice? Did someone die? Please don’t tell me someone has utilized our team logo without paying the appropriate licensing fee!”

“Oh, no,” says Coach. “It’s worse!”

“Worse?!? Oh lord. Let me tell my driver to pull over. Fred, pull into that Walgreens. No, not on that corner – the one across the street from the other Walgreens. Yes, there. All right, Coach…let me take a deep breath…ok, I’m ready.”

“You know that girl reporter from that sports radio station down the highway?” asks Coach.

“Yes. What happened? What happened?”

“She…uh…she,” says Coach with a slight quiver in his voice. His eyes began to water. “She wore a baseball cap with our arch rival’s team logo TO PRACTICE!!”

With this, the head coach drops into his chair and begins to sob uncontrollably. Some of the assistant coaches look to one another, some with tears rolling down their cheeks, some with blazing red faces of anger.

At this same time in the Walgreens parking lot across the street from the other Walgreens, the A.D. allows the cell phone to slip from his hand. He fumbles with the car door and stumbles out into the late afternoon sun. He tries to process what Coach has just told him, and when it finally coalesces in his mind and the initial shock fades, he does the only thing he can think of doing: he tears his golf shirt apart and screams to the heavens.

“OHHHH! WHY?????!!!!!????? WHY?????!!!!!????? DAMN HER TO HELL!!!”

The A.D. falls to his knees and buries his face in his hands. He tells himself that he never should have allowed a girl reporter media access to the team because he knows that the female caused the downfall of man when Eve tempted Adam with the apple. He knows this girl should have been in her man’s kitchen or cleaning her man’s house. She should not, the A.D. tells himself, be doing the work of a man -- particularly if that work involves some aspect of football.

Thirty-seven minutes later, after the A.D. has composed himself and changed into his favorite Polo, he rushes into the head coach’s office.

Coach is sitting at his desk, bleary-eyed, dejected and weary. Five empty 40 ounce bottles of Colt 45 are scattered in front of him while one, half-empty, sits next to the phone.


“All right,” the A.D. says. “Some of the sororities and fraternities have scheduled a candlelight vigil for midnight outside the union. We’ve got the word out to all of the message boards for the team’s fans on the Internet. We’re hoping they’ll start having rallies across the state where effigies of the girl reporter will be burned.

“Oh, and the statewide paper’s sports columnist will have an editorial in tomorrow’s paper where he will symbolically hope this girl reporter will soon be hit by a large 18-wheeler carrying a load of trees. He’ll also throw in a few sentences where he ever-so-slightly questions her sexuality even though she’s straight. Finally, I’ve called the chancellor, and there will be an emergency Board of Trustees meeting in the morning. We still have some ‘Friends of W’ inside the FCC. We’ll revoke the license of this station faster than you can say How you like Cali now, Mitch?”

Coach slowly looks up to the A.D., his eyes are puffy and red. He stands and slowly walks around the desk to the A.D. Coach spreads his arms as if to embrace him.

“Oh -- by the way,” says the A.D. as Coach approaches him. “Have you thought about that five year contract offer I passed along to you?”

Coach drops his arms and clears his throat. An assistant coughs. It is an uncomfortable, yet short silence.

“So,” says the coach. “Have you been keeping up with Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami? Is that Scott a douchebag or what?”

President Obana, Parrots and Suppositories

Here's my "All Over the Map" for the upcoming Aug. 18, 2010 issue of Arkansas Weekly:

It’s long been said that wisdom comes from our elders, and I believe that to be true.

For instance, most mornings here at the Arkansas Weekly offices begin with a visit from Vurl “Buddy” Reeve, a retired used car salesman and former greeter at an area Walmart.

Vurl is nearing 85 and is usually chauffeured around town by his son, Marcus. Around 9 a.m. on most weekdays, I’ll see Marcus’ van pull into the parking lot and watch as he helps Vurl get out of the vehicle and point him to the direction of our door. When Vurl starts walking to the gynecologist’s practice next door, Marcus will gently take his arm and steer him back to our door.

Marcus will guide Vurl to my office where I’ll have a cup of coffee waiting on him, and as soon as Vurl is seated, Marcus usually runs back to the van and peels out of the parking lot in cloud of smoke. I usually have to call Marcus to retrieve Vurl an hour or two later when Vurl starts calling me Sally and says, “Buddy wants to cuddle with Sally.” Confusion is an apparent side effect of Vurl’s prescription strength laxative suppositories that Marcus has to administer every other day.

Anyway, I always treasure the mornings when Vurl visits because he offers a wealth of wisdom.

“Rob,” he said the other morning, “this country is going to hell in a hambasket thanks to that President Obana.”

“Um, do you mean handbasket and President Obama?” I asked.

“That’s what I said. Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, Rob, this country needs a wake-up call. This so-called health care plan? I don’t know how peoples gonna pay for it. This county has this hydro project? I don’t know how peoples gonna pay for it. This city wants this fancy water park? I don’t know how peoples gonna pay for it. What needs to happen, Rob, is the city needs to andex with Southside.”

“Do you mean annex?”

“That’s what I said. Don’t interrupt me. You’re like that parrot that lady brought to work at Walmarts.”

“You mean, the greeter with the fake parrot at Walmart?”

“Course that’s who I mean. And that parrot ain’t fake. It used to get into arguments with me about President Obana. I got fired after I strangled the dern thing. Stupid parrot told me I was always pronouncing the President’s name wrong and that Obana’s healthcare plan was the best thing since sliced pickles. Ain’t no parrot gonna talk to me like that. I love sliced pickles. Did you know that one of the country clubs in town won’t let you charge? I ain’t never heard of a country club not lettin’ you charge for supper. I don’t know how peoples gonna pay for it.”

“Well,” I noted, “maybe they shouldn’t be eating there if they can’t pay for it.”

“That’s what I said. Don’t interrupt me,” Vurl said. “I’ll tell you whose fault it is: President Obana. He’s charging everything to the China people, and I hear he talks to a parrot that Joe Bider keeps perched on his shoulder. Talking to a parrot? Have you never heard of such a thing? What kind of nut would do that, talkin’ to a damn parrot? I’ll tell you what kind: a nut that won’t let you charge your supper and who wants to build a fancy water park for people who supported the county hydro project. We just need to andex Southside with the city, and pass a law that will allow people to strangle all parrots.”

“I see,” I said.

“Oh, I’m getting tired,” Vurl said with a sigh. He looked at me for a moment with a scowl and one eyebrow raised. “Who are you?”

“I’m Rob.”

“I thought your name was Sally. Come on, let’s go cuddle.”

“Well,” I stammered, “let me call Marcus.”

Vurl looked alarmed.

“Oh, no!” he screamed. “No! He’ll tell me it’s ‘choo-choo’ time with that pill that goes to my bad place!”

“Actually, I think he told me earlier that he wanted to talk about how horrible President Obana is.”

The scowl came back across Vurl’s face.

“Obana?” he asked. “It’s Obama, you dummy. And where the hell’s my parrot?”

Rob and the actual Walmart "Bird Lady," Lesta Stroud.

Hippies, Long-Hairs, Dope Fiends and Alcoholics

Here's my "All Over the Map" for the Aug. 11, 2010 issue of Arkansas Weekly:



I imagine running an oil business can be tough.

Just ask Edward Mike Davis. Well, I mean, we should’ve asked Edward Mike Davis. We can’t ask Mike because Mike, you see, is no longer with us.

But thankfully, examples of Mike’s management style are still with us. You see, Mike owned a Houston-based company called Tiger Oil, and apparently there were a lot of inter-office issues that he had to handle. And, handle Mike did.

So, someone who appreciated Mike’s managerial genius has collected a treasure trove of memos from Mike and posted them on the Internet.

These memos are fascinating testaments of a positive, yet firm and effective management style that should be required reading in every Business 101 class in colleges and universities across the world.

Here are some sterling examples of how to handle things in the office of the business you own, Edward Mike Davis-style.

Date: January 3, 1978

This is a business office. All correspondence and other things pertaining to this office will be typewritten.

Handwriting takes much longer than a typewriter – you’re wasting your time, but more importantly, you’re wasting my time. If you don’t know how to type, you’d better learn.

Date: January 11, 1978

Idle conversation and gossip in this office among employees will result in immediate termination.

Don’t talk about other people and other things in this office.

DO YOUR JOB AND KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!

Date: January 12, 1978

I swear, but since I am the owner of this company, that is my privilege, and this privilege is not to be interpreted as the same for any employee. That differentiates me from you, and I want to keep it that way. There will be absolutely no swearing, by any employee, male or female, in this office, ever.

Date: January 12, 1978 (Mike was on fire on this day, apparently.)

Cleanliness is next to Godliness. I expect things to be clean and in order. That goes for all employees everywhere – that means the office and your personal appearance; righands included.

We do not pay starvation wages, and there are some people left in this world who want to work. I am not fond of hippies, long-hairs, dope fiends or alcoholics…

…Anyone who lets their hair grow below their ears to where I can’t see their ears means they don’t wash. If they don’t wash, they stink, I don’t want the son-of-b**** around me…

…There is one thing that differentiates me from my employees. I am a known son-of-a-b****, and I care to remain that way…Don’t act the way I do. I am the only one who can act that way.

Date: January 13, 1978 (The next day!! Man, Mike was on a roll!)

Do not speak to me when you see me. If I want to speak to you, I will do so. I want to save my throat. I don’t want to ruin it by saying hello to all you sons-of-b****es.

***

Boy, wouldn’t it be great if we all had bosses like Edward Mike Davis? I think it’s safe to say that America would not be in the economical shape it is in now if every business was run like Mike’s. Everyone would be focused on work. There wouldn’t be any nonsense gossip in the office. And every man’s haircut would be above the ears!

I would be remiss if I did not point out that Edward Mike Davis also had a remarkable sense of personal style, as well. One Internet article noted that Davis was known to wear a one-piece khaki polyester leisure suit with white dress shoes and a white belt to the office every day.

I would also be remiss if I didn’t point out that Tiger Oil went bankrupt in 1980 after drilling 49 dry holes.

But, so what? Edward Mike Davis left the business world a treasured legacy of how to handle unruly employees who can’t type, don’t bathe and want to be “polite” to their boss.

You will be missed, Edward Mike Davis.

***

To see these memos as well as more examples of Mike’s management style, head to www.lettersofnote.com, and do a search for “The Tiger Oil Memos.”

Bieber Fever

Here's my "All Over the Map" from the Aug. 4, 2011 issue of Arkansas Weekly:



I’m surprised my ears did not bleed.

Because after enduring a night full of glass shattering, high decibel screams of pre-teen and teenage girls, I’m convinced my eardrums are history.

This is, friends and neighbors, what happens when you take your 14-year-old daughter and two of her friends to see their generation’s David Cassidy – or, a more recent and apt comparison might be their generation’s New Kids on the Block.

Justin Bieber, for those of you unfamiliar with stars of today’s music, is a 16-year-old kid with perfectly feathered mop-top hair that’s never out of place and eyes that apparently make the little girls swoon.

He’s had one album (technically two if you count a remixed version of the album) and a rocket-blast pathway to success that’s been well-financed and perfectly fine-tuned by the corporate pop culture gatekeepers who struck gold when they apparently discovered him through the magic of You Tube videos.

He can sing, somewhat stiffly dance and has enough clean-cut cuteness that he charms the teenyboppers and their moms alike.

For the past six months, my daughter, Hannah, and her friends have been struck with “Bieber Fever” as they call it. I’ve heard his album, My World, enough times in my car when she’s with me that I unfortunately know about every word to every song. And when it was announced last Spring he was coming to North Little Rock, Hannah’s head almost exploded.

For weeks, I tried to toughen myself up for the certain sheer syrupy spectacle of the concert. I knew I’d be surrounded by thousands of bouncy, pony-tailed and screaming females of all ages and enduring songs so cheesy they could be slathered across pizzas if it were possible.

When it was finally time for the show’s date, my expectations were confirmed to the nth degree.

And I didn’t even have to step from my vehicle to experience my group of first ear-piercing screams.

As we passed by Verizon Arena heading to a pre-show dinner, Hannah and her friends saw a group of tour buses and immediately burst into a long series of screams that jolted me so much, I almost veered into the other lane.

“THERE’S HIS BUS! THERE’S HIS BUS! HE’S RIGHT THERE ON THE BUS! OH! OH MY GOSH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHH! OH MY – AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

And if you think I’m exaggerating, I will tell you that I’m actually being extremely conservative with the “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”’s

Arriving at the arena, I immediately felt out of place. Obviously, I was a 43-year-old dude surrounded by thousands of girls and their mothers, so I began to feel a little like an old fogy – particularly when Hannah and her friends commanded me not to come to their seats, lest they be considered un-cool with Hannah’s Daddy looking over their shoulders. I also apparently didn’t get the memo to wear a homemade “Bieber Fever” t-shirt. Or a “Bieber Buddy” t-shirt. Or a “Team Bieber” t-shirt.

So, I was left to walk the concourse, wandering around, feeling as if a mom was going to report the “creepy looking white-haired guy” to security any moment. I attempted, as a joke, to surprise Hannah and her buddies at their seat right before the show started, but she immediately began to freak out, screaming: “DAD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? LEAVE! GET OUT OF HERE!”

That apparently was “so un-cool” of me.

But really, it was her night. I snuck a seat in the upper level when Bieber finally took the stage, and while my eardrums were being sheared and sliced apart by the screams, I could see Hannah far below in her seat, bouncing wildly up and down in apparent, total bliss.

Later, as we watched videos she and her friends made during the show, one camera caught Hannah going nuts with joy as Bieber was lifted in a goofy, heart-shaped metal contraption right above her group’s seats.

“Oh my gosh, Dad!” said Hannah, as she pointed to the video screen. “See! See! He looked right at me! He looked right at me! He looked into my soul!”

And that’s something she’ll always remember.

Until next year’s Justin Bieber takes over her affection.