It’s a very busy day in the Deep South as the OMG! beautiful weather and the opening weekend of college football clash like two high pressure systems and create the perfect storm of God-given delight.

And while I’m sporting the new Nike Pro-Game Day La-Z-Boy Bama uni and fixin’ to head out for some eats and Crimson Tide football at a local culinary establishment, I’ve still managed to to hang out with some fellow wannabe writer types over at Elizabeth Esther’s uber-cool Saturday Evening Blog Post.

Maybe you should, too. After the games are over. Roll Tide.

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. [...]

Huntsville police and SWAT teams are currently at the scene of a hostage situation in the Medical District.

An optometrist (OD) employed at an ObamaCare-affiliated medical clinic (the one with the new Death Panel drive-thru window) is apparently fed-up to his eyeballs with all the incessant yik-yak from his patients, the constant sniping and backstabbing from co-workers and the drowning deluge of mind-numbing emails, bureaucratic buzzwords and meaningless acronyms (MNEMBBMA) raining down from his overlords on Mt. Olympus.

The OD–OMe! OMy!–has apparently quit his job and gone optical.

Police will identify him only as “Mike the Eyeguy.” According to a department spokesperson, Dr. Eyeguy has apparently been showing several signs of cracking recently. Area opticians have told police that over the past few weeks he has been transposing “minus” signs for “plus” signs, and vice versa, resulting in blurry eyeglasses and a spike in Huntsville metro area traffic accidents. In addition, other local eye doctors and health department officials have noted a recent epidemic of permanently-crossed “googly eyes” resulting from Coke-bottle lenses allegedly prescribed by Dr. Eyeguy.

One patient even said that when he complained about the blinding brightness of the light on the examining scope, the rogue OD, who was frothing at the mouth and quietly humming nursery rhymes to himself, turned the illumination dial all the way up to “11″ and suddenly erupted into peals of “BWAHAHAHA” evil scientist laughter.

Early reports indicate that when this morning’s first patient, who already had crystal clear, better-than-perfect 20/10 X-ray vision in both eyes to begin with, complained to the OD in a small, grating voice which sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard that his vision “still just wasn’t quiiite good enough” and commanded him to fix it “NOW!”, something snapped.  The OD has now taken several hostages and is reportedly threatening to use industrial-strength dilating drops and send them out into the bright sunlight without those little cheap, flimsy paper sunglasses.

In a rambling manifesto posted on Youtube, “Mike the Eyeguy” aired his grievances. The following is a portion of the transcript from that broadcast: [...]

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.  [...]

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

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. [...]

I learned a very valuable lesson yesterday. If you’re going to be using an iPhone in subfreezing temperatures, make sure it’s fully charged. You might even want to wrap it up in a heated, insulated blanket between uses while you’re at it.

I barely had time to snap a photo or two of the Duke University campus when it completely flatlined. Can you believe that? Sure you can! It’s an iPhone! My itty-bitty blue United States map was lit up and everything, and then it just up and disappeared like the lost continent of Atlantis.

Guess I can’t blame that one on AT&T since it was a hardware issue. Oh, what the heck, maybe I will anyway. Wait till Verizon gets a hold of this one.

But the ramifications of this unfortunate turn of events are obvious: I would be unable to live-blog, Facebook and Twitter while Number Three Son and I witnessed our first basketball game at historic Cameron Indoor Stadium as Duke took on Clemson in their ACC opener. Tragedy of tragedies, the world would be deprived of my random brain farts (aka “Tweets”) which would mark this storied occasion. Oh, the humanity!

But never fear Fusioneers, Facebook friends and Tweeps, for I am reconstructing here on Ocular Fusion my Twitter timeline which would have appeared had my expensive, much-ballyhooed, piece o’ junk phone actually worked like it was supposed to.

I can hear future historians breathing a sigh of relief even now: [...]

The first time I saw Cameron Indoor Stadium, I walked right past it without even trying to go in. I figured anything that storied and sacred was probably locked. I was seventeen years old and too wet behind the ears to realize that in order to gain entry to the places you wanted to go in life, sometimes all you have to do is walk up to the door and knock.

Instead, I walked over to the tennis courts and watched the men’s team practice. It was September 1979, and my father was having coronary bypass surgery at Duke Medical Center on the other end of the quad.  My mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, so I had decided to spend some time alone praying and walking off my worry. I also couldn’t help but ponder my future and wonder where I would be and what I would be doing come next year.

I played for my high school tennis team at the time, but it took less than a minute to figure out that my future would not include playing at Duke. These guys not only fired off wicked topspin groundstrokes in seemingly endless rallies, but they also called out calculus questions to each other in preparation for the next day’s quiz. Such multitasking seemed the province of young gods, not a country boy from the sticks of Virginia.

All the while, I kept glancing over my shoulder at the Gothic, gray-stoned walls of Cameron, wondering if someday I might finally get the chance to go inside. [...]

University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill security officers and local police S.W.A.T teams descended on Duke University early this morning in a daring “snatch and grab” raid to round up all Cameron Crazies who have ever said, or who in the future will ever say, anything negative regarding Roy William’s Tarheel men’s basketball squad.

The Crazies, sans wigs and facepaint since they were arrested while sleeping, are currently incarcerated in a barbwire-enclosed, gulag-style holding area outside the Dean Dome while Judge, Jury and Executioner Coach Williams decides between firing squad, gas chamber or lethal injection as the method of mass execution.

This preemptive strike at the heart of his archrival’s fan base comes on the heels of the ejection of a “drunk” and “abusive” Presbyterian College fan (who admitted to having a grand total of TWO beers prior to the game) from the Dean Dome by coliseum security at the behest of Coach Williams. The fan apparently had the audacity to yell “Hey Deon, don’t miss it!” as Tarheel forward Deon Thompson stepped to the line for the second of two free throws with six minutes left in UNC’s 103-64 thrashing of the Blue Hose. (Video here.)

In the post-game press conference, Williams, still wearing his powder blue oven mitt from an afternoon of baking Christmas sugar cookies for his team, got all folksy and Jed Clampett on everybody when asked about the incident. [...]

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… [...]

When I finally worked up the nerve to hand “Hank” some cash, he drew back as if I was coming at him with a knife. This startled me, and for a moment I wondered what kind of fix my attempted charity had gotten me into. Would he lunge back at me in self defense? Or would he start to channel the cacophony of voices inside his head and yell profanities at me instead? I braced myself for just about anything. I suddenly wished I had just left well enough alone and dropped off the money at the checkout counter, just like everyone else did.

If you’ve ever bought a Diet Coke, picked up a can of almonds or printed pictures at the Walgreens down the street from my office, chances are you’ve seen him. Once long and lanky, around 6’3″ if I had to guess, his upper back has now adopted the sloping, C-shaped bend brought on by osteoporosis and a catch-as-catch-can diet. His salt and pepper hair spikes upward like an over-the-hill punk rocker, and the wrinkles on his weather-worn, leathery face far outnumber his years. He seems to wear the same long, ratty coat whether it’s below freezing or triple digits, and he shuffles along lugging all his earthly possessions around in a large khaki pack. Occasionally, he stops long enough to converse quietly with the chattering demons inside his head.

Hank is King of the Corner of Longwood and Whitesburg, and from what I can tell, his dominion extends outward to about a 4-5 block radius from the front door of the Walgreens. But I have absolutely no idea where he sleeps at night.

On that corner, loose change from the steady stream of customers flows more freely. Like a savvy angler, he’s scoped out his “favorite spot,” and there he patiently bides his time, waiting for a nibble or two, or even the occasional strike. Sometimes he wanders inside the store, and since he never bothers anyone and always pays for his small items in cash, the employees and patrons there tolerate him and go on about their business as if he wasn’t even there.

But we see him. We’ve all gotten in the habit over the years, especially on those 100 degree days, of occasionally leaving our spare change at the counter for Hank. “Make sure he gets one of those extra tall bottled waters,” someone might whisper conspiratorially to the checkout person. “Here. Give him this bag of beef jerky,” another might add as she points over her shoulder toward the front entrance where Hank usually stands and then rushes past him and bolts for her car.

Still, that there is a pang of social consciousness at all is no small thing. In these parts, pulling oneself up by one’s own bootstraps is as sacrosanct a philosophy as holy writ itself. But something happens when a piece of honest-to-God, down-and-out flesh and blood shuffles past you near the intersection of the oral hygiene and feminine products aisles.
[...]

I don’t always do eye exams on Catholic priests, but when I do, I prefer to be blessed.

And that’s exactly what happened yesterday when I examined an honest-to-God padre, Father C. I’ve examined my share of Baptist preachers and various charismatic sorts, even a couple of Episcopalian rectors, but as far as I can remember Father C. was my first Vatican-verified vicar. He was Irish too, which was simply gravy on the potatoes.

He was the second patient in as many days to created a stir in the waiting room. The first one was the man with the Crimson Tide elephant hat, complete with long, gray trunk, who came in Monday still high on the fumes of Mt. Cody’s “Rocky Block.” But when the tall, white-haired Father C. walked in still wearing his black priestly garb and clerical collar even in retirement, there were no rounds of laughter and shouts of “Roll Tide!” It was as if a 2-star general had just walked into an NCO-club. All the usual cussin’ and hollerin’ ceased, and it became so still and quiet that you could have heard a church mouse scamper across the rafters.

My technician was the first to alert me that the next eye exam was likely to take on a spiritual dimension. “Heads up, Catholic priest in the chair!” he exclaimed as he poked his head in my office. I’m not sure what he was thinking–I always try to enter a room with an air of confidence, congeniality, and cool, cultivated professionalism–but I guess he wanted to make extra sure I would be on my best behavior. As for me, my first thought was, Good, I’ve got a few things I need to get off my chest.
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