In a stunning development that will likely leave Lee Corso and “Herbie” Herbstreit looking like tiny ants waving their itsy-bitty antennae in a desperate bid for attention, the Lord God Himself has broken His silence and declared His allegiance to the University of Alabama and picked the Crimson Tide to repeat as 2010 BCS National Champions.

Long suspected of rocking the Houndstooth beneath the dense billows of smoke and pillar of fire which conceal Him wherever He goes, God came out of the cloud yesterday and ended all speculation as to His true colors (Crimson and White) before the season even started.

In an Ocular Fusion exclusive, special correspondent Mike the Redneck caught up with The Rock of Ages over a few slabs of ribs at Dreamland BBQ in Tuscaloosa last night following His press conference at The Walk of Champions which featured a spectacular bolt of lightning that simultaneously struck the statues of Bear Bryant, Gene Stallings and the spot reserved for the new monument to current Head Coach, Nick Saban.

The Creator of All Things was incognito, sporting a low-slung Bama cap, Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and a #22 Crimson Tide jersey, and was doing His best to kick back and blend in with the regulars–a difficult task considering His retina-burning luminosity which kept seeping out of His armpits and eye sockets and shooting corona-like laser beams onto the party of four from Eutaw at the next table. [...]

I’ve noticed a certain online phenomenon which seems to be on the rise along with the afternoon’s triple digit mercury: temperature taunting.

Temperature taunting occurs when friends in more moderate summer climes such as Seattle, New Hampshire, Michigan or Malibu post some ironic and sarcastic taunt on their blogs, Facebook or Twitter pages about how “godawful” their high-70s/low 80s/low humidity weather is and “However are we going to survive this heat wave?” or some such nonsense. If it were football season (and yes, Roll Tide, our boys reported for practice yesterday), these so-called “friends” would be flagged for a 15 yard penalty and loss of down.

I can think of several two-word retorts in reply to such contemptuous and gratuitous provocations, none of which I can publish here since this is a PG-13 blog (most of the time). But suffice it to say, we Southerners accept, even embrace, being slowly roasted like overcooked beef left too long in a crock pot.  It toughens us up and tempers our souls, burnishing us into a lively and colorful people who serve as rich grist for gritty, gothic stories that become instant New York Times bestsellers. Yankees may not wish to get drunk, sweat, shack-up, make love, marry, divorce, murder and remarry–all the while praying fervently to Jesus–at the same rate as we Southerners, but they do seem to enjoy lining up and paying big bucks to read all about it.

As our young men don their pads and helmets, an older man rolls up the sleeves of his white, long sleeve, pinpoint cotton dress shirt and loosens his skinny black tie at the end of his work day. From time to time, he has glanced out his window and watched the Hispanic landscape workers, their sinewy, well-muscled arms quivering from the violent rattle of mowers and gas-powered trimmers. Occasionally, they reach up and wipe the beads of summer sweat that glisten like small diamonds on their brows and merge into rivulets of rain that run down the creases of their leathery, brown jaws. They never seem to grimace or complain, and he admires their strength and endurance in the face of such hard labor. He reaches up and wipes his fingers across his own brow, finding it to be clean and dry like usual. He wonders if all the doctoring he does in the air-conditioned comfort of his office can truly be considered an “honest day’s work.”

He stands at the back door to the parking lot and hesitates to cross the threshold, knowing full well that when he turns the handle and tugs it will be like dipping his head into a steaming hot tub and drawing a deep breath; the first inhalation of liquid hot air will fill and sear his lungs, nearly drowning him. With a sigh of resignation, he steps into the sultry sauna, head bowed and braced against the brow-beating sun, and scurries quickly across the sizzling asphalt toward his car. It occurs to him during this short walk that perhaps his so-called life is a mere cosmic prank, that he is not really a rational, upright man, but instead a lowly, crawling ant fleeing the intense scrutiny of a mischievous 12-year-old boy with a very large magnifying glass. He parked in the long, morning shade of a large building, but the shadows have long since burned away, and despite leaving the windows and sunroof cracked, the car’s interior is a broiling inferno. The tan, leather upholstery is sun-baked, cracked like a parched desert floor in several places from years of exposure, and he wishes he could roll back the clock to 2002 and opt for the much-cooler cloth.

He sits on the hot seat just long enough to turn the ignition key. After he starts the AC, he steps back outside as the first wave of cooler air begins to push and disperse the heated gas through the open door and windows. A minute or so passes, and he sits back down, feeling the burning leather hermetically seal his back against the bucket seat, and quickly closes the windows and door to trap the cooling atmosphere for the drive home.  Off he goes, turning the car by gingerly touching the scalding, tightly-stretched leather of the steering wheel with the tips of his fingers, hoping it will cool off soon so he can grab onto it like he’s supposed to.

Once home, he parks in the garage and quickly closes the door. He slowly peels his sweat-soaked back from the seat and enters the house. The 25-year-old air conditioning unit is struggling to keep up, but it is still soothingly cool inside. You would think after surviving the drive home that he would quickly strip to his shorts and put on a fresh, white t-shirt, pour himself a cool drink, sit back in his recliner with the remote and call it a day.

But no, our man is not done yet. [...]

They say our stretch of beach was named for the Satsuma oranges that used to grow meekly there until the two consecutive winters of 1927-28 when massive frosts killed them off for good. Now long stretches of the formerly-white sands, which could reflect the sun so brightly they would burn your corneas if you weren’t careful, are marinated in oil. The orange-tinged granules spread like spilled Tang from the entrance of Perdido Bay, ringed off with long lines of floating boom, through Gulf State Park, past Gulf Shores and the stacked rows of new condos and beach homes rebuilt defiantly in the aftermath of Ivan and Katrina’s twin ravagings, and on to Fort Morgan.

And so, to this day, Orange Beach, Alabama remains appropriately named.

Many have hesitated to make their annual pilgrimages to the Gulf Coast in the wake of BP’s Deepwater Horizon oil spill. That much is evident on the first day as we cruise down a practically deserted Perdido Beach Boulevard around 4:00PM and gaze slack-jawed at the nearly-empty condominium and restaurant parking lots, normally overflowing in the middle of July. The missing masses are like the reluctant captains of Admiral David Farragut’s Union fleet as they encountered Confederate mines near Fort Morgan during the Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead,” Farragut purportedly yelled, urging his frightened flotilla on to victory.

The quote is most likely apocryphal, but we decide to co-opt it anyway. “Darn the oil, full speed ahead!” is our motto, toned down and euphemized a bit to conform to our more clean-cut Church of Christ proclivities. We could have called and threatened to cancel, and they would have immediately offered us a 30% discount. But that didn’t seem fair to mess with those decent, hard-working, put-upon people like that, given the troubles they already had. It would have felt a little like the kind of price gouging that often occurs after a natural disaster, only in reverse.

No, an annual beach trip is like a marriage; it’s on, for better or for worse, through patches of thick, metallic sheen and thin, non-metallic slicks, in both streaming, “rainbow” ribbons and frothy, sunset-red mousse.

Those are the types of descriptors coined by the pilots and crews of the helicopters and blimps that fly in grid-like patterns a few hundred yards off the coast and used in the “Oil Spill Updates” posted daily on the Orange Beach city website. But as I walk out onto my balcony on the first morning, coffee in hand, and scan up and down the coast while squinting against the rising sun, I don’t make those kind of distinctions right away. Oil blends covertly with blue-green surf, and the only thing I know for sure is that “something ain’t right.”

But as my eyes adjust to the light (a good pair of polarized sunglasses helps considerably) and start to observe the morning ritual of “skimming,” I quickly become an expert “spotter” myself.  [...]

“We were watching the soccer match,” Eyegal explained to the desk clerk at the historic Park View Guest House in the Garden District of New Orleans last Friday morning.

The US v. Slovenia match had ended just a few minutes before the 11:00 AM checkout time, but we had planned ahead and had our bags packed and ready to go. The “good” US National Team had taken the pitch in the 2nd half after the “bad” one, the U-10 squad that had showed up by mistake, had gone down 0-2 in the first.

Yet the 2-2 draw to stay alive in Group C play had left both of us a bit frustrated. Center Referee Koman Coulibaly, a native of Mali, had called back Maurice Edu’s apparent go-ahead goal on a “mystery call”, and the moaning and wailing that emanated from Room D on the first floor rivaled that of the spirits and specters who endlessly roam the grounds of Lafayette Cemetary No. 1 a few blocks away on St. Charles Avenue.

“That’s what the noise was,” Eyegal added helpfully.

“Yes, we were down 0-2 and came back and tied it and then hit the go-ahead goal but it was called back. Terrible call. Terrible, terrible call,” I blurted out.

The clerk turned his head to the right, gazing out on the hazy, green expanse of Audubon Park, already a sauna in the rising heat and humidity.  “So that’s what that noise was,” he said, smiling wryly. “I thought it was coming from out there.”

I’m not sure he believed our explanation. I think he thought we were…“you know.” But really, who could possibly think about “you know” at a time like that, you know? Right Capello? [...]

People look at you kind of strange when you tell them that you shelled out good money to attend something called a “Christian Scholars’ Conference” and that you actually enjoyed it. Reactions can range from “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like that?” to “Well, la-de-da!” But believe me, after a long season of Tim James political TV ads and rootin’ tootin’ “Ag Commish” wannabe viral videos, I was ready for a little more “la-de-da” in my life.

You know Eyegal and me–liberal arts geeks to the core. An itch like that doesn’t always get scratched sufficiently in a high tech town like Huntsville, Alabama. To get to those places that rocket science and computer chips can’t touch, we make an annual pilgrimage to The Christian Scholars’ Conference (CSC) at Lipscomb University in Nashville.

The CSC is a place where scholars (and poseurs like Eyegal and me) from Church of Christ-affiliated colleges and universities, as well as many other schools and denominations, meet and greet and explore new ways to integrate their faith with their various academic disciplines. Nashville is traditionally referred to as “The Athens of the South,” and Lipscomb’s commitment to academic freedom and to hosting a world-class event like CSC is rapidly raising her stock and placing her in the same league as her neighbors and longstanding paragons of academic excellence, Vanderbilt and Belmont.

This year’s theme was “Beauty in the Academy: Faith, Scholarship & The Arts.” What’s so special about a bunch of professors, writers, artists, musicians, poets and playwrights convening for some sort of “Campbellite Woodstock,” you ask? After all, didn’t we switch to a Fortune 500 model faith and chase weird-looking and funny-talking people like that out of the Church of Christ a long time ago and replace them with lawyers, engineers, doctors and “bizness men?”

Glad you asked. Well, when was the last time you heard a world-renowned poet and critic like Dana Gioia, devout Roman Catholic and former Chair of the Endowment for the Arts, issue a stirring and urgent plea for Christian writers to rise up and produce another Flannery O’Connor or Walker Percy who will inject a much-needed pulse of the transcendent into modern art and culture to satisfy man’s unconscious spiritual longings, followed by a public reading of his own work? Hmmm?

I thought so. Or how about sitting in on an intimate creative session with musicians like Sarah Masen and songwriters/performers Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist of the alternative/folk duo Over the Rhine?

Never heard of them? Neither had I. But now my iPhone is full of their soulful, sacramental songs, including Over the Rhine’s haunting, eschatological jazz piece, “The Trumpet Child,” a true fusion of faith and art that left the flood-weary crowd at the Friday evening “Tokens Show” leaning into the instrumental riff at the end and looking toward the sky for some soul-saving satisfaction and deliverance. [...]

In the most stunning political turn since Fort Sumter, University of Alabama football fans have ringed the State Capital Building in Montgomery with a barricade of RVs and double-wide mobile homes in an attempt to seize control of the state government.

They are demanding that Republican gubernatorial candidate Tim James cease and desist from his campaign and that Governor Bob Riley establish a new executive office, Beloved Athletic Ruler (B’AR), which would be co-equal with Governor and occupied by Alabama Head Coach Nick Saban.  Riley, an Alabama alumnus, is reported to be seriously considering the ultimatum.

The movement began suddenly this past week after James, an Auburn grad, allegedly made intemperate and ill-advised remarks regarding Saban in which he questioned the coach’s maternal bloodline and threatened to reduce his salary or even outright “fahr his a**!” if he was elected governor in the fall.

These alleged remarks were brought to light on a radio talk show hosted by Paul Finebaum, a humble and low-key man who has never been known to repeat a half-baked rumor just to provoke a reaction among his rabid listeners or boost his ratings. The resultant apoplectic meltdown and firestorm spread quickly throughout the Yellowhammer State, producing a mixture of bile and BS so profoundly dense that BP scientists are said to be considering using it for “top kill” to plug the Deepwater Horizon oil leak.

Predictably, James immediately blamed opponent Bradley Byrne and used his official Twitter account to issue a denial, thereby lending credence to the rumor in the first place and spreading it even further.

He is reportedly hold up in the clock tower of Samford Hall on the Auburn University campus where he vows to continue his campaign and lead a secessionist movement which will include most, but not all, of Lee County and a small band of Auburn-trained engineers who comprise what is left of the Huntsville Chapter of the War Eagle Club that meets for wings and beer once a month at the Chili’s on University Avenue and reminisces about “the good ol’ days.”

In response to reports of rednecks raisin’ a ruckus and burnin’ stuff near a government building, former-Alaska Governor and now TV host Sarah Palin, who had been scheduled to appear at a fundraiser at Faulkner University anyway, decided to come on down ahead of schedule in a show of support.

And as if all that wasn’t odd enough, now several thousand Hispanic immigrants, both legal and otherwise, have joined Alabama fans at the barricades. When asked how such strange bedfellows were possible, one movement leader, who wished to be identified only as “Mike the Redneck,” explained:  “Lookit, tweren’t that hard. All we had to do wuz tell ‘em that we wuz out to save ‘Alabama futbol’ and they came a’runnin’ from evra’ which way. Maybe it’s the kommon man in me, but sometimes it jist makes sense to speak a little Spanish–duz it to you, Tim?”

When reached for comment, Saban denied that he had been contacted about the “B’AR” position, said that he had no interest in the “B’AR” position, and repeated over and over that he would be the Head Coach at Alabama for a long, long time, a’ight?

A’iiiiight.

In a related story, Republican candidate for State Treasurer Young Boozer promised that if elected that he would immediately commandeer the Alabama State Alcoholic Beverage Control Board and once again legalize the previously “Banned in Alabama” wine label, Cycles Gladiator.

Finally, some real progress.

Dear AZ,

Nice try, but no cigarro.

We know you’re a little sore because “L” comes before “R” in the alphabet. And you probably felt a little trampled upon when we drove an armada of Crimson, elephant-festooned RVs with horns that blare “Yea, Alabama,” not once, but twice, through your state in early January on our way to the Rose Bowl and back (Roll Tide!).

But did you really think you could captivate the attention of the entire country with your so-called “controversial” new immigration law? You call that “controversial?” You call yourself “conservative?” Do the names “George Wallace” and “Bull Connor” ring a bell with you people? Please, in Alabama we put the CON in “controversial” and “conservative.”

Listen up Arizona, this is Alabama–we speak Redneck. If you want to hang with the Good Ol’ Boys, you better step up your game in a hurry. You could start by brushing up on your history and start watching more Jeff Foxworthy DVDs and Dukes of Hazzard reruns now. Because as long as all the politico-wannabes in the Yellowhammer State keep rolling out their campaign TV ads, by the time November rolls around, the only thing people are going to remember about you is that big sink hole that you guys keep calling a “natural wonder.”

Believe me, Tim James’ “This is Alabama, We Speak English, Dadgummit!” spot was just the opening shot. In fact, poor ol’ Tim is looking like a libruhl, soccer-loving, pinko Commie today compared to Dale “True Grit” Peterson, the guy whose “goin’ afta’” the “Ag Commish” office.

His TV add went viral in recent days–you may have seen it even way out there. Heck, we didn’t even know we had an “Ag Commish” until that ad hit. Folks around here got so worked up at the sight of his Winchester and cowboy hat that now they’re talking about him and Sarah Palin saddlin’ up together to take back The White House in 2012. A ticket like that might set the English language back a few centuries. I can see their first presser now–Sarah up there behind the podium, winkin’ and flashin’ that “You Betcha” grin of hers, and Dale right there beside her ridin’ shotgun, just darin’ some cocky, snot-nosed libruhl to ask her a real question.

Yeah, yeah, I know we have Bradley Byrne and Young Boozer who want to represent the New South and show that Alabama can be progressive. They’re actin’ all uppity and tryin’ to show off their phancy learnin’ and what not, but don’t pay them no mind.

Tim James and the True Republican PAC (which really isn’t) dug up some good dirt on Byrne who’s a Duke grad and is running for governor. Turns out all that phancy learnin’ led him to make a few sympathetic comments toward evolution “evilution” and biblical higher criticism a few years back, and Tim and his new best buds at AEA pounced on that like a cat on a June Bug. That slick maneuver forced Byrne into damage control mode to repair his fundamentalist Christian cred among the hoi polloi.

Well played, Mr. James, well played.

As for Young Boozer, the “serious leader” with the “funny name”, he’s a Stanford grad who’s apparently playing up his connection with Bear Bryant (God rest his soul).

Stanford, Bear Bryant–it don’t take a rocket scientist (and Lord knows, they’re a dime a dozen here in Huntsville) to know that dawg don’t hunt. All the Old Boozers down in Montgomery ain’t gonna take too kindly to that brand of monkeyshine.

Give it up Arizona, you don’t stand a chance. We’re going to see y’all’s silly little immigration law and raise you one Dale Peterson and two Tim Jameses. That’s right, ol’ Tim is about to go “nucular,” and Ocular Fusion has the scoop on his next campaign ad. Read ‘em and weep, AZ; it’s only primary season, and we’re just gettin’ started.

Reddest regards,

AL

I don’t always speak Spanish, but when I do, I prefer having Jose Rafael Rodriguez (aka, my translator “Danny”) somewhere in the immediate vicinity. I am neither the most interesting man in the world, nor the most bilingual.

I tried to memorize enough Spanish eye care phrases to get by on my recent trip to Guatemala, but despite my best efforts and intentions, I found myself leaning hard on Danny. I would usually start out the day doing a passable job-abre sus ojos (“open your eyes”), mira arriba (“look up”) –but as things got hot and busier and I became increasingly fatigued, I started to mangle my rote phrases more and more. I would then simply shrug and look at Danny and motion toward the patient with my head, body language for “Yeah, yeah, I know, go ahead.”

He knew I couldn’t get along without him and he relished it and wouldn’t let me forget. One of my favorite things to ask the patient at the end of the consult was Tiene preguntas? (Do you have any questions?). I pride myself on being the kind of doctor who doesn’t rush from the room to put out another fire until the patient has had their say. I would say the phrase perfectly (Prrrray-GOON-toos!) and wait for the patient to reply.

Nueve times out of diez, this came in the form of a quizzical stare and a cocked head. I would shrug and look at Danny and he would repeat the phrase word for word to the patients–the same way I had–and suddenly the proverbial light bulb would appear in one of those little fluffy, cumulus thought clouds above their heads. While the patients would launch into a litany of preguntas, more than I could count, really, Danny would simply look at me and grin. [...]

My earliest memory is of waking up around 3:00 AM demanding my bottle. My mother, desperate for sleep, stumbled into my room, leaned over the edge of the crib with half-closed eyes staring down at me, and handed me one.

It was full of Coke, not milk. I grabbed the bottle and eagerly started to suck its sugary teat. Minutes later, I was back to sleep, and so was she.

I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t read about that little trick anywhere in Dr. Spock. She was “winging it,” as they say. What would I want if I awoke crying at 3:00 AM?, she asked herself, and Voila! just like that she got a few more hours of precious snooze time, and our dentist, Dr. Fitzgerald, was able to send his kids to college.

Down in Atlanta, a board room full of Coca-Cola executives smiled broadly.

My Mom did things her way, regardless of what the book said. The book says that when you’re born with a rare genetic disorder and develop a brain tumor at age 19, or bacterial meningitis in your forties, or ovarian cancer in your fifties, or necrotizing fasciitis (“flesh-eating bacteria”) in your sixties, you generally just lay down and die.

But my mother never cared much for being told what to do. She was proud, independent Scots-Irish, daughter of Clyde McGuire, a man who worked for the Civilian Conservation Corps building the Blue Ridge Parkway during the week and ran a little moonshine on the weekends when he came home to Elsie. Knowing what I do of her, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn she was in the car with him, riding–literally–shotgun.

They say 3:00 AM is “The Devil’s Hour.” It’s around that hour and the two following that the blood enters a hypercoagulable state, thickening up and moving slowly like red sludge through the tiny vessels of our bodies. More people have heart attacks and strokes and die in those two hours than at any other time of the day.

And even if you do survive The Devil’s Hour, you can still pass through hell. If you’re world-weary and a little depressed, you can find yourself in that no-man’s netherworld between sleep and consciousness and suddenly realize with stark clarity that you’re going to die. The full force of your own mortality slaps you awake, and you lie there, or sometimes sit up, covered in tiny beads of sweat, realizing it was just a dream–for now. [...]

Number One Son and I had just been discussing what could possibly be on the palms of Alabama’s new Nike Pro Combat player gloves, and it didn’t take us long to find out.

We knew that the Crimson Tide was among several teams that would be receiving the new gear, which featured a particular avatar representing the “spirit” of each team, but Bama’s was missing from Nike’s preview website.

But when Heisman Trophy-winning tailback Mark Ingram scored his first touchdown in the BCS Title Game against Texas, he flashed the new gloves toward the camera for all the world to see.

Frankly, Scarlett,  they took my breath away.

The background consisted of a subtle, houndstooth-like plaid, symbolic of legendary Alabama football coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. But it was the bold, crimson script “A” emblazoned over the houndstooth that stood out the most. It’s the preferred brand symbol of a more progressive, “new Alabama,” a distinct wordmark that increasingly adorns everything from license plates, to lanyards, to university shuttle buses, to the top of the school’s official stationery.

To me, the message was clear: Honor your roots and remember those on whose shoulders you stand. But at the same time, keep your eyes up and looking forward. Don’t become so mired in the past that you can’t move ahead toward bigger and better things. [...]

If you’re going to stand in line in subfreezing temperatures in order to enter the holy of holies of college basketball, then you’d better know your stuff because every other Cameron Crazie wannabe standing in line with you sure will.

Well, mostly anyway.

When it comes to football, we were a motley crew, united only in our love for Duke basketball. Clemson, LSU, Georgia, Alabama, Penn State and Rutgers were just a few of the schools represented in our little knot of frozen fandom near the front of the line.

Kid Clemson, the guy in the Tiger hoodie in front of me, was a veritable walking encyclopedia of sports statistics. He was rattling off the dimensions of C.J. Spiller’s most recent feats and lamenting the future of Clemson football without him. When he found out Number Three and I were from Alabama, he hung his head a little and said, “The day that Alabama beat us last year was the worst day of my life.”

I told him that game surprised me a little too, but if that was the worst day he would ever have in his life, then he would likely die a happy man, old and full of contentment. He was probably about nineteen, and I’m not sure he understood the truth of what I was saying, but maybe he will someday.

Talk quickly turned to tonight’s National Championship game with Texas, and nearly everyone there agreed that if Alabama plays anywhere near their potential, they would likely walk away with The Crystal Trophy. Not everyone there liked the Crimson Tide, but Number Three and I were accorded instant respect–even from the LSU guy.

“I think Alabama has the best team this year, but I really don’t like Saban very much at all,” he said.

“That ‘betrayal’ just cuts too deep, eh?” I smiled and prodded. “Even though he brought you home The Crystal?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, “but he still has a lot of friends down in Baton Rouge. Truth be told, they’d have him back in an instant if he showed the slightest bit of interest.”

Kid Georgia was wearing a Duke hoodie and trying to explain how he could be a Bulldog fan in football season and root for the Blue Devils in basketball. “Look, I like who I like, okay? It doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but me.”

Amen, I thought, ’nuff said. [...]

Last year this time, I was hoping that he would be long gone by now, but the boy just couldn’t take a hint. You know, that boy: Captain America, Jim Thorpe and Billy Graham all rolled into one.

I was hoping that he would be safely tucked away on the sideline of some 2nd tier NFL team, doing whatever it is that former triple option quarterbacks do in the NFL (Hint: think headset and clipboard). Well, hope can do a lot of things, but it’s not going to stop Tim Tebow when he starts churning those Sequoia Tree trunk-sized legs of his for yet another run up the middle, and it’ll make little difference on 3rd and 5 when he flings a laser-guided cruise missile that comes screaming in, low to the ground, just past the outstretched fingertips of a cornerback and into the hands of a diving teammate.

No, there is only one thing that will stop Tim Tebow, and it’s not hope and good intentions, nor is it a Kryptonite-laced virgin daiquiri. More on exactly what that might be in a moment.

But first, let me say that when it comes to Tim Tebow, I am a conflicted man. I like the guy, I really do, and I’m sure I would be among the throng of True Believers if he had opted to don crimson instead of Gator blue. I’ve always said that if he had come to Alabama, that Mike Shula would still have a job there. That might be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your perspective.  He’s a great player (THE GREATEST EVER? Meh. I don’t know about that. There’s been a lot of those) and perhaps an even greater person. From all indications, he backs the talk by walking the walk.

I know I’m taking my chances by panning Tebow even just a little bit (in The Bible Belt, it’s a little like admitting you voted for Barack Obama), but there is still just something that makes me a little uncomfortable about all the Tebow hype. I’ve expressed my misgivings before, both here and here. But I’ve tried to take it in stride, stay above the fray, and not resort to tawdry (and all too easy) Tebow-bashing. He’s just a kid, I tell myself. Granted, one that looks like a hypermasculine, cut-from-titanium, football cyborg, but a kid nonetheless.

It’s probably not so much an aversion to Tebow himself, and certainly not to what he stands for. We wear different colored jerseys on Saturday, but come Sunday I’d like to think we’re on the same team, albeit with a different style offense. Wearing scripture-inscribed eye black and pointing toward heaven every time I nail a refraction or stop a case of blindness dead in its tracks may not be my cup of tea, but who’s to say there’s not a place for that somewhere.

No, I think it’s  probably more a phobia of hype in general. Probably comes from all those times I’ve bought into some myself, only to get burned by a poor return on my money. It’s just hype, I tell myself. It’ll go away, like hype always does. Just batten down the hatches, hold on tight, and this too shall pass… [...]

Gentle Fusioneers, allow me to tell you the story of how I just missed becoming an Ole Miss Rebel.

It was February, 1991 and I was nearing completion of my residency in Nashville. Number One Son had just turned two years old, and Eyegal was very pregnant with Number Two. We barely subsisted on my meager resident’s salary, but we were young and dumb and didn’t know what it was like to have money, so we were happy. Number One has early memories of us pushing him in the stroller through Green Hills Mall, looking in the windows and not buying a single thing. It left an impression on the little guy; to this day he’ll pinch a penny till Lincoln screams.

Still, with another mouth to feed on the way, it was high time to get serious about leaving my poor student days behind and getting a “real job.” I caught wind of an ophthalmologist, a cutter (that’s what we optometrists called our surgical colleagues) with a fine reputation down Mississippi way who was a “Member of The Church.” He was looking for a young, hungry buck of an OD like me who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty with a little eye disease and could “speak the language” to referring optometrists.

Since I fit that bill to a tee, off Eyegal and I drove down to The Delta, where the Tallahatchie and Yalobusha Rivers meet to form the Yazoo, to a town we’ll call “Graywood,” to meet with Dr. C., a dead ringer for Archie Manning, and his lovely wife who had no doubt held her own in some Miss Magnolia pageant in the past, and truth be told, probably still could. [...]

Pardon me, but does the goofy-looking nerd in the suspenders and top hat reading Mother Goose look like the type of guy who would strike fear in the hearts of murderous Ku Klux Klansmen?

Um, no, I don’t think so.

And if you had asked any of us who attended Harding University in the early 1980s the same question and what we thought of the future prospects of Jerry “Boo” Mitchell, first-class clown, favorite chapel announcer and author of the somewhat subversive “Fifth Column” which appeared weekly in the school newspaper The Bison, we would have likely laughed and said something like “high school speech teacher,” or “radio talk show host,” anything, really, other than the Civil Rights version of Gabriel Van Helsing.

After all, it’s one thing to poke some holes in Harding’s conservative bubble and to expose what’s really in that latest lump of mystery meat served up in Pattie Cobb cafeteria. But to help put the killer of Medgar Evers behind bars? Well, that’s a hole different pile of muck altogether.

Even Boo was somewhat circumspect when sizing up his potential in the school yearbook back in 1981: “With my speech major, I plan on being unemployed.” Byron De La Beckwith wished he had been. If he was still around, he’d probably be the first to tell you that it’s the quiet and unassuming ones that you’ve really got to watch. [...]

In July, 1970, my father loaded all of us into a blue, 1968 Chevy Impala sedan with newly-mounted, under-the-dash AC and headed west to Cal-ee-forn-i-a; swimming pools, movie stars, and the American Postal Workers Union Annual Convention at the Biltmore Hotel in downtown Los Angeles.

He decided that since this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip, we should hit all the highlights. On the itinerary were The Painted Desert, Grand Canyon, Disneyland, Yosemite, Sequoia, Vegas, Salt Lake City, Yellowstone, Mt. Rushmore and the St. Louis Arch. We even ventured off the beaten path and got a few kicks on Route 66 at some kitschy attractions like the Fort Courage Trading Post in Houck, Arizona.

But first, to get to all those iconic, picture postcard destinations, we had to pass through Arkansas.

That would have been Day Two of the trip. I remember because the first night we stayed on the Memphis side of the I-55 bridge in what was then a brand-spanking new Best Western but is now an abandoned, burned-out shell that you can stare straight through, front to back. The Brady Bunch was on TV that night, and Marcia, as usual, was reaping some praise or award while combing her flowing, golden locks and Jan, in a fit of jealous pique, had collapsed on the floor in one of her patented meltdowns.

The next day, we crossed the bridge into The (a la) Natural State and continued toward Little Rock. Accustomed to the towering Blue Ridge Mountains, I remember being appalled at the profound flatness of it all and watching out the window, slack-jawed, as I saw nothing but miles and miles of water, soybeans, alfalfa, rice, cotton, and for the first time in my life, houses on stilts.

But finally we reached Little Rock and civilization–such as it was. And I remember stopping for gas and a snack, and that’s when I saw the strange, exotic creature for the very first time.

It was a red pig on a postcard. I picked it up and stared at it and slowly read the caption–Arkansas R-a-z-o-r-b-a-c-k-s, Fayetteville, Arkansas. [...]