Hey y’all, Mike the Redneck hear-uh. Wooo Doggey! Sometimes them thar dreams do come true. Check it out:

Naw, you ain’t seein’ dubble. Them thar’s actually 2 tickits to that thar Tide home opena’ with Western Carolina, and I’s the proud owna! How did this happin you ask? Well, one minute I was jis sittin’ thar waxin’ leer-ee-cal on Tha B’ar’s leg-uh-see and what not, and the next thang I know, them 2 tickits jis came floatin’ down into my hands like thahutt thar manna from heaven. They did. Only thang I can figger is thahutt Tha B’ar must have bin lookin’ down on me from thahutt thar great practice towa’ in the sky when I wuz doin’ all thahutt thar writin’ a while back and liked whut he saw. He did.

Thahutt’s raght, Tha B’ar dun up and smiled on me!

Well, y’all know I wuz jis messin’ widge ya. Them thar tickits actually came from a real nice lady in Eyegal’s Pie-lot-tays class at the jim who had a couple extra uns and wuz nice enuff to sell ‘em to her. Now Eyegal she gonna be outta town this weekend takin’ Numba Three ova to that thar Hotlanta to play that thar Communist sport, socca. That leaves me an Numba Two to head down to T-town and use them thar tickits. Now normally, thahutt wud be a problem cints Numba Two bin a UT man all his life. He has. But thahutt leads me to my secund piece of good news:

Numba Two dun up and converted to the Crimson Way!

You red that raght. We bin workin’ on thahutt boy a long time and he told me jis the otha day thahutt he dun decided to come outta the clawsit and make the a-nounce-mint. He figgered that even though he wuz born in Tennessee, thahutt he dun lived mosta his life in Alabama and thahutt he had to either cut bait or start fishin’. He did.

It wuzint easy for him cuz he knew thahutt the news wud upset a lotta people he knows. But sometimes you jis gotta leave yer uncle and forma’ youth minista’ behind and follow the raght path come what may. Now I know thahutt thar’s a phew othas of you out thar who need to do tha same thang. I ain’t namin’ names or nuthin, but you know who you are.

I jis want you to know it ain’t too late. Come now, ’cause the harvest is almost past and you don’t wanna git Left Behind! Jis come to the Crimson flood and warsh off all thahutt thar ugly orange face-paint and repeat the “Ramma’ Jamma’” 12, no, better make thahutt 13 times, and all will be forgiven. “Almost Per-sway-did” ain’t good enough, boys. If y’all don’t come on now, then I don’t wanna hear no “sad, sad bitter wailin’” come the third weekend of Octoba’, ya hear?

Now I know sum of y’all must be wonderin’ how we gonna get me, Numba Two and The Eyeguy through Gate 31 iffen we jis got 2 tickits. Well, thahutt ain’t too hard. Ya see, I’s small and I jis sit up on Eyeguy’s shoulder whisperin’ thahutt thar redneck jive in his ear but kan’t nobody see me ’cause I’s in-visee-ball. Three for the price of two–you kan’t beat thahutt.

He needs me ridin’ up thar on his shoulder, ya know. He tends to be a lil’ uptaght, bein’ a Church of Christ boy all his life and all, so my job is to loosen ‘im up a bit. If I’s lucky, I might even git ‘im to roll up his sleeves, jump up and down and shake thahutt thar crimson and white pom-pom when Koach Sabin and his boys come thunderin’ through thahutt thar tunnel for the first time. Now thahutt’ll be a sight to see. It will.

And don’t worry. The Eyeguy dun already told me thahutt come next week, he gonna be the wun writin’ thahutt thar post-game REE-port. But afta’ he dun with all thahutt thar “Field of Dreams” bull hockey, you kin bet I’s a’gonna git my two cints in sumway.

Roll Tide, Roll.

The 2007 college football schedule kicks off tonight with a real dandy: LSU v. Mississippi State.

Boy, I sure hope LSU brings their A-game.

But stay tuned to Ocular Fusion for a major college football announcement tomorrow. I promise you it’ll be a real dandy in the truest sense of the word.

I’m not talking about the Coldplay album–although it’s a good one. I’m talking about the rush of blood to the head that occurs anytime you take a good lick to your noggin’. For Garrison Keillor, a close encounter with a low-lying beam elicits the memory of his old battle-hardened, ex-Marine journalism professor at the University of Minnesota, Mr. Robert Lindsay. For me, it’s the memory of the understated brutality of my old, formaldehyde-soaked anatomy professor at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, Dr. Steven Zehren.

For the most part, I sailed through an academically challenging public high school and Harding University without too much difficulty. My string of academic success was severely threatened in the Fall of 1986, though, as I entered Dr. Zehren’s gross anatomy lab, located deep in the bowels of Volker Hall, just down the hall from the dungeon and the torture chamber. It was no mere anatomy lab–it was the place where dreams of a professional career go to die. Very slowly, and with considerable pain. Many entered, but only a few returned.

Or so they said. And I was stupid enough to believe all the hype and became convinced that I would finally, after all those years of being a “smart one,” be exposed as an academic fraud. Oh, it was tough mind you. My cranium expanded a few millimeters as I struggled to memorize millions of pieces of anatomical minutiae, and then, for heaven’s sake, apply it. But with the help of my lab partners and much encouragement from Eyegal (you must pass this class or we starve!), I lived to tell the tale. Still, a bump on the head does bring to mind images of Dr. Zehren, standing there in his yellow-tinged lab coat, a skull in one hand, an unclaimed humerus in the other, grinning that wicked grin of his.

Did I mention that he was from Wis-KAHN-son? Well, he was. As it turned out, so was one of my lab partners, Laurie. One of my other lab partners was Carl, from Elizabethtown, Kentucky. Carl would tease Laurie mercilessly about her accent. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

“Listen ta Laurie,” Carl would gleefully drawl. “You shore kin tell that girl’s from Wis-KAHN-son!”

One day, Dr. Zerhen approached our table and stood quietly as we worked away on our 300 lb. female cadaver whom we had affectionately named “Bertha” (well, actually “Big Bertha,” although we were careful not to call her that around Dr. Zerhen). He listened in as Carl started in again on Laurie and her funny way of pronouncing things.

In a very casual way, Dr. Zerhen leaned over our table to look at our dissection. He then looked at Carl, smiled an evil grin, and in his best Osh Kosh B’ Gosh accent proclaimed:

“Carl, I’m from Wis-KAHN-son too.”

The rush of blood from Carl’s head was extraordinary, leaving him just a shade whiter than Big Bertha. And for a moment there, I thought we had another cadaver on our hands.

Eyegal rightly pointed out to me that I left a very important show off my list yesterday. “Why, we used to rock Number One Son (she didn’t actually call him that but used his real name instead) to sleep while watching Star Trek: The Next Generation!”

And that we did. In fact, I used to think that I called him Number One because of the old Charlie Chan movies, but on second thought, maybe it was because of Lt. Riker (Picard–”Make it so, Number One!”).

Our two favorite episodes:

1. “The Inner Light.” The Enterprise is confronted with an alien space probe which shoots a nucleonic beam thingy at Picard, causing him to fall into a deep sleep. He “awakens” in a new world and finds that everyone knows him as “Kamin” and that he is married to “Eline.” He’s confused at first, having no memory of the events which preceded this, but over time he becomes convinced that he is indeed part of this gentle, agrarian society and integrates himself into the life and work of his community. He grows to love Eline, has both a daughter and a son with her, and enjoys the fellowship of his best friend, Batai. Many years pass, Batai dies, and it becomes clear that his planet is doomed to extinction by severe drought. Meanwhile, back on the Enterprise, all of this has actually occurred in only 20 minutes, with Dr. Crusher and the rest of the crew looking on anxiously as Picard comes dangerously close to dying. Back in Picard’s world, he is now a very old man and Eline has passed away. His daughter leads him to a site where a probe is being launched. Picard wants to know what is happening, and suddenly Batai appears to him, looking like he did in the prime of his life, and explains: “You saw it just before you came here. We hoped our probe would encounter someone in the future – someone who could be a teacher, someone who could tell the others about us.” Picard then turns as he hears another familiar voice–Eline. “Now we live in you. Tell them of us…my darling…” Picard awakens on the bridge of the Enterprise with the memory of a civilization which had become extinct a thousand years before. There is a box on the probe containing a flute that he had learned to play in his alternative life. The final scene shows him playing a beautiful melody, the same one that he played at the “naming ceremony” of his son.
2. “Darmok.” Picard and the rest of the Enterprise crew must establish relations and communicate with the Tamarians. The only problem is, the Tamarians speak a strange, metaphorical language that seems impossible to decipher. In a desperate attempt to bridge the gap, the Tamarian captain (Dathon) kidnaps Picard and together they are transported to the surface of the planet, El-Adrel IV. The Tamarians then set up a force field to block transportation and communication with the two stranded captains. At first, Picard thinks that Dathon wants the two of them to fight when he attempts to hand him a knife. Dathon keeps repeating the same phrase over and over: “Darmok and Jalad at Tenagra.” Through much pantomime and careful listening, Picard eventually comes to understand that Dathon doesn’t want to fight him, but instead wants him to fight with him–against a monster which threatens them both. Fight together they do, but Dathon is gravely wounded. As he is dying, Picard comes to understand that “Darmok and Jalad at Tenagra” is an epic story from the Tamarian past of two strangers who met and fought together against a common foe on the island of Tenagra. Dathon wants Picard to tell him a story too. Picard then relates another epic tale: Gilgamesh and Enkidu at Uruk.

Both of those episodes left deep impressions that remain years later. For one thing, it occurs to me that all of us want to leave a legacy, some trace of our time here on this earth, some evidence that we mattered, so that our memory will not be swept away in the dustbin of history.

Enter the blog.

And sometimes, just out of the blue and for no particular reason, I’ll repeat the phrase: Darmok and Jalad at Tenagra. It means, “To gain understanding or friendship through a shared struggle.” It illustrates to me the strength–and truth–of the “old stories” from our past. It gives me hope that in some times and some places, men and women from different backgrounds, even different worlds, can come together, listen to one another, and maybe even set aside their differences and work together for a common good.

It’s not often that Eyegal and I get hooked on a TV show. Usually, we’re much too busy in the evenings to become regulars at anything, but I can think of three times it’s happened in the past:

1) Thirtysomething. This was a show about angst-ridden yuppies in their 30s with young kids living in Philadelphia in the late 1980s. We watched this show during optometry school when we were poor twentysomethings who looked forward to the day when we would have enough money to be angst-ridden yuppies. It all looked so good at the time, but reality is rarely as good as the dream itself.

2) Northern Exposure. We watched this immediately after graduation when I was starting my career first as a resident then a staff doctor at a very busy ophthalmology clinic in Nashville. The show revolved around another young doctor who was sent off to isolated, quirky Cicely, Alaska to pay off his medical school debt. Most of the characters on the show were about our age (late 20s), and although roughing it in Nashville was not quite the same as doing it in the hinterlands of Alaska, we somehow could relate. Not all the shows were quality (some of the writing was pretty lame), but there is one episode involving pheromones and an itinerant optometrist making her rounds in the “Oculomobile” that was pure television-writing brilliance.

3) The X-Files. Another 90s classic that we just couldn’t get enough of. Numbers One and Two have memories of us throwing them and their younger brother in the playroom, shutting the door (with warnings to stay put NO MATTER WHAT), and retreating to the couch with a large tub of cheesy-popcorn to watch Mulder and Scully chase down aliens, government conspiracies and various and sundry paranormal phenomena. It never made a lot of sense to either of us, but it didn’t matter. We simply liked the fact that the show celebrated the theme that there was still, despite all the science and technology that dominate our lives, ample mystery out there to make life interesting and give it a little spice. My favorite episode is probably “Signs and Wonders,” a Flannery O’Connor-esque tale of a fundamentalist snake-handling preacher (ironically named O’Connor) and an oh-so-rational liberal mainline minister. The ending is about as twisted as a LA freeway cloverleaf–no way we saw that one coming.

So, what are we hooked on now? Well, thanks to Number One Son who tied us down and forced us to watch the first and second season on DVD before he went off to Bama, we now have a very bad Lost habit. He even provided us with a link that we could use to watch the third season online (which is not too bad really if you don’t mind all the Chinese subtitles). I was aware of the show and that many were excited about some of the religious and philosophical themes explored, but we had simply missed it with our busy schedule.

Boy, have we ever made up for lost time. Eyegal is a little disgruntled, though. She doesn’t think the show’s writers and producers have any idea where they’re going with all this and there are certain characters with whom she bonded who have not survived. Still, as we finished each episode in Season 3, she would always say, “Aw, come on, we’ve got time for another one.”

As for me? I’m totally Lost. And entertained. It’s like The X-Files all over again, only this time we don’t have to throw the kids in the playroom.

A guy gets into heaven. He sees an old man in a houndstooth hat walking on water.

“Hey,” he asks Saint Peter, “is that Bear Bryant?”

“Naw,” Pete says, “that’s God. He just thinks he’s Bear Bryant.”

Hey y’all, Mike tha Redneck hear-uh. Our boy Rick Bragg dun up and wayed in on that thar Risen’ Tide in this week’s Sports Illustrated. He did.

Now I no whut sum of y’all gonna up and say: we’s dun gone and got ourselves jinxed. But frankly, I’s frettin’ more ova the pro-specks of LSU at home and Florida State away than I am ova some cova hex.

Re-gahd-less of whut happins this year-uh, it shore is gonna be phun writin’ ’bout it. Ya’ll best be gettin’ them thar waders on, cause thathutt thar Tide, it be a’risen and Mike the Redneck gonna be all ova thahutt 24/7!

By the way, if y’all be wantin’ wun of them thar Nike Saban straw hats, you kin git yerself wun hearuh.

Roll Tide, Roll.

The following conversation recently took place in a local health care provider’s office. All names have been deleted in order to protect confidentiality and the sacred bong bond between doctor and patient:

Doctor: “I noticed that your eye pressure is up a lot today. Have you been taking your glaucoma drops?”

Patient: “Yup, sure have Doc–religiously.”

D: “I don’t understand. Your pressure has never been this high before, and as you know, you have very bad tunnel vision from your glaucoma and you can’t afford to have your pressure stay that high for very long. Has anything else changed in your life?”

P: “What do you mean?”

D: “You know, any extra stress, any new medications like steroids, any extra caffeine for instance?”

P: “Well…no…not that I can think of.”

D: “Are you sure? Think harder.”

P: “Uh, well there is one thing I should probably tell you.”

D: (on the alert now for extreme understatement) “Go on.”

P: “Well, you see, I’ve been smoking marijuana for years, and lately, I’ve started having some breathing problems. I told my primary care doctor about it, and she says that I’ve got to stop smoking joints. It’s killing me, but I’m really trying to go cold turkey.”

D: “That’s interesting, and it may explain why your pressure is up. You see, marijuana lowers eye pressure, and in your case, has most likely added to the effect of your eye drops. When you stopped, your pressure went up.”

P: (leaning forward, clearly interested now). “You mean to tell me that grass is actually good for my glaucoma?”

D: “Well, uh, it lowers the pressure, yes, but it may have other harmful effects for your eyes and obviously the rest of your body, such as your lungs. If your primary care doctor told you to stop it, you should. We have other eye drops and if need be, surgery, to treat your glaucoma. Those are safer options than marijuana–and legal ones.”

P: “Yeah, but, if my vision is that bad, and I’m only 48 years old, then don’t you think…”

D: “Listen, let’s add another eye drop to your schedule, and promise me you won’t smoke any marijuana. It’s very important that I be able to measure the effect of the extra drop only without throwing something else in the mix.”

P: (smiling) “Whatever you say Doc…”

3 weeks later…

D: (full of pep and optimism) “Good to see you! Your pressure is back down to a normal level. Quite low, actually. The new eye drop is apparently working!”

P: (smiling in a very mellow way) “Good to see you too Doc! Man, you look mighty fine today. Have you lost some weight? And that beard, that really suits you. Downright GQ!”

D: “Uh, thanks, yes I have in fact. (shifting gears) And how about that eye pressure! Are you getting your eye drops in on time every day?”

P: “I’m back on schedule, Doc.”

D: “Uh, ‘back on schedule’ with the drops I assume, right?”

P: “Uh, yeah, riiiight…”

D: “Well, okay then. Moving right along…”

It’s so dry in Alabama.

(Fusioneers: How-dry-is-it?)

It’s so dry that:

• The Churches of Christ are starting to baptize by sprinkling
• The Methodists are handing out wet wipes
• The Presbyterians are handing out rain checks
• The Catholics are praying for all that wine to turn back into water

(H/T Jill)

I knew that drop off day last Thursday would be busy and unpredictable, so I took Number One Son out to lunch at Little Rosie’s on Wednesday to serve up a little fatherly wisdom along with some steak fajitas, chips and gaucomole on the side. So far so good: no apparent E. coli poisoning.

I started off by saying that if I were to tell him everything that I know that he needed to know as a college freshman starting out, that I would flat-out fry his brain. Instead, I promised to keep it simple.

First, I wanted him to know how I “backended” into my career as an optometrist, having never even thought about that profession during college, but instead seeking it out after my first choice of clinical psychology “didn’t work out.” I told him that it’s certainly necessary to have plans, goals and dreams, but to be ready for unexpected twists and turns in the road which will make the trip more interesting and may lead to unexpected destinations. The important thing, I said, is to accomplish your daily tasks with excellence and careful attention (as if unto the Lord himself) and that a track record of conscientious effort will open up opportunities–even ones that didn’t at first seem apparent.

Next, I wanted to discuss a book that we had both recently read: Tom Wolfe’s I Am Charlotte Simmons. The novel tells the story of Charlotte, an outstanding student who enters a prestigious university after a sheltered life in the backwoods of North Carolina. Charlotte is eager to leave her rustic past behind and to experience the transcendent “life of the mind.” Instead, she discovers a campus that is for the most part given over to hedonistic rather than academic pursuits, and that ultimately, she is not as far above the fray as she first thought.

We talked about the eroding power of peer pressure and how it can cloud even the best of judgments in the heat of battle. The desire for social approval and status is (and this is a common theme in nearly all of Wolfe’s books) perhaps the most powerful force in the human psyche, and we talked further about how the Christian faith is often a call to stand apart from, and at times in opposition to, the relentless tug of self-gratification.

Finally, I wanted him to know about the first time that I met him and truly knew who he was. I told him about a week-long trip that his mother took in the spring of 1988 during the latter part of my second year of optometry school. I missed her greatly, and when she returned, we had a wonderful homecoming celebration, the kind where good sense, fine planning and appropriate caution get tossed out the window like a piece of charred furniture after an apartment fire (which, in some respects, it was). He smiled as I told him how I sat down in front of a stack of books about a month later, opened up a letter that had been left on top of my pathology book, and read the following words: Guess what, my love? I’m going to have your baby!

I told him about how in those early days, it was difficult to truly see him as my child, that he felt instead more like an “it,” and about how that suddenly changed when his mother awoke one morning bleeding. I told him that it was at that moment that I knew who he was–my child–and that I began to grieve at the possibility that we might lose him. I told him about how we rushed to the doctor’s office that morning–crying and praying all along the way–and the utter relief and joy at the touch of the ultrasound probe which revealed him safely ensconced in his mother’s womb, his heart pounding away a mile a minute.

I went on to tell him about the first time that we took him to church and how I was putting him in his ultra-safe car seat and accidentally knocked his soft little noggin against the back door (it took several days for that particular dent to work its way out). I told him that, really, if he can survive 18 years with parents like us, that college would probably be a walk in the park.

I’m glad I said all that, because Thursday really was a blur–but a pleasant one. There was no mass confusion outside the dorm–we pulled right up to the curb and his relatively small pile was inside his room within 15 minutes. As God would will it, we immediately ran into an old optometry classmate and his wife whose son was born only a few months after Number One and who is also a freshman at Bama. We had a wonderful lunch together (the food was hot and tasty and the wait minimal), and the two “optometry school babies” chatted away excitedly at another table, a second-generation friendship forming before our very eyes.

Number One let Eyegal arrange some of his stuff, but he soon let us know that he would do the rest on his own time and in his own way and that it was time for us to leave. A few hugs ensued, along with some increasingly moist eyes–but no high drama. He stuck out his hand to me, but I brushed it aside and gave him a hug instead. I stood back and looked at him, shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, and offered up the always appropriate, all-purpose phrase: Roll Tide.

On Saturday evening, we were sitting at a soccer field in Birmingham waiting for Number Three’s match to begin when Number One called and told us that he had been involved in a car accident only a few moments before. He told us that someone had run a red light and hit the passenger side of his Passat, but that he and his roommate, and the young lady who hit them, were all okay.

We walked him through some of the things he should do, and we told him that if you’re going to have bad luck that this was the very best kind you could possibly have (the kind that everybody walks away from) and not to worry too much or let it ruin his first week in school. I remembered about how I had chosen the Passat for him after reading about its stellar side-impact safety ratings and even felt just a little bit smart.

But mostly I felt relieved and thankful–just like another moment 19 years before. Eyegal and I looked at each other and shook our heads: Can you believe that? It had been his third “close call” of the year.

And then I thought about all my close calls, and the ones that I probably had but never knew about, and I realized anew a fundamental truth that is so basic that it often goes unrecognized or gets lost in the shuffle, but in such revealing moments, is burned into the conscience with laser-like precision and clarity:

Each moment is, and always has been, a gift.

We’re off to Tuscaloosa today to drop Number One off at Bama. That’s right, pull up to the curb, shove him and his stuff out the door, and then pedal to the metal baby!

I know, I know, it probably won’t be quite that simple. First off, you won’t be able to even find the curb for all the hundreds of cars ahead of you, and then there’s the small matter of getting the stuff up to his room. And do you think Eyegal is just going to plop all that junk in there without doing some “arranging?” I don’t think so. And even after all that, there’ll be a Wal-Mart run (or two), plus the obligatory “last meal” consisting of stone cold food served at some overcrowded local eatery and then, finally, the goodbyes, which I’m sure won’t take long at all.

Anyway you slice it, Eyegal and I will have an easy time of it compared to our parents. In her case, they dropped her off at Harding and then proceeded to move to Brussels, Belgium for a 5-year work assignment. In my case, the first trip to college involved a two day trek in triple digit heat from Virginia to Searcy in August, 1980 with my recently-widowed mother in a borrowed Pontiac family truckster loaded with all my worldy possessions (Number One is packing so lightly that it’s leaving us thinking: Are you sure you have everything you need?).

I even made a cheesy sign for the occasion and put it on the back of the wagon: Where in the World is Searcy, Arkansas? People would drive past us on the interstate, shrug their shoulders, and mouth the words: “You got me.” The more helpful ones would smile and point straight ahead.

As we drove across the Delta somewhere around Wynne, Arkansas, my mother had had just about enough of the endless sea of cotton, rice and soybean fields that stretched from one horizon to another. With tears streaming down her face, she turned to me and said: “I can’t believe you’re going to college in this God-forsaken place.” I tired to reassure her, but I remember thinking: I can’t believe it either.

But once we got to Searcy and she saw the beautiful Front Lawn and the rest of campus, she was finally convinced that Arkansas did indeed have some trees and she started to settle down a bit.

Yeah, dropping off a kid at college–no big deal. I’m sure it’ll be easy. After all, this is the way it’s supposed to be, right?

(sigh).

With temperatures in the triple digits this week, I had a flashback to a scene from a few years ago when our family sought relief from those sunburn blues in the form of a jazz concert at Big Spring Park in Huntsville. Afterwards, the muse struck, and the result was a wee little essay (or is it a beatnik poem?) which was published in The Huntsville Times about a week later:

A simmering sun burns off the last of the July haze and slips beneath the rim of the Von Braun Center.

Over by the Big Spring, the Grissom High School Jazz Band tunes up for its upcoming European tour in front of a hometown crowd. Hundreds are seated around the gazebo in their camp chairs and on blankets, hoping for some soothing relief from the sizzling summer heat.

Soon, the waves of samba, salsa and swing ripple through the sweaty throng, washing away their sunburn blues. A tenor sax sings “Sultry Sunset,” and we look at each other and collectively say, “Yes, that pretty much says it all.”

After a little more scat and some “do-wap-de-woos,” we arise, refreshed, and walk into a cooler darkness. We’re all jazzed up–and ready once again to face the angry, rising sun.

And Maynard G. Krebs said: Cool, man. Cool.

My tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek post of last week caught the eye of one Fusioneer who just so happens to be a former Federal gumshoe. Not only did she use her detective tricks-of-the-trade to “spy” a picture of me on the internet, but she proceeded to “Simpsonize” me as well:

Handsome devil, don’t you think? I think he looks more like a Freudian psychoanalyst than an optometrist.

Now I was already aware that this former G-person (let’s call her “June”) knew who I was because I found out that she did several months ago (I have my own sources, you know). But June is no stalker, and we’ve traded some good-natured emails about cyber-snooping and other topics that I’ve blogged about.

I also wasn’t too surprised that she could find a picture of me as well since there are several of them floating around out there in cyberspace. Everyone knows where I grew up, where I went to college, my occupation, where I live, what my family looks like, where my kids go to school and most can easily figure out where I go to church even though I’ve never mentioned it by name. The large majority of folks who pass through here regularly know who I am and what I look like and that I’m no big fat hairy deal.

Really, the pseudonym is, like many things on this blog, a tongue-in-cheek parody in and of itself, and the day will probably come soon when I will finally “reveal” my true identity to the minority who may still be in the dark. In the meantime, why not maintain a little mystery and have a little fun with it?

But still, this should serve as a lesson to everyone who blogs (anonymously or not) of how easy it is to tie the words written to the person doing the writing. The digital trail, even for those with a modicum of research skills, is relatively easy to follow. “Anonymity,” at the end of the day, is an illusion; assimilation is only a key stroke away.

Actually, now that June has finally “outed” me, I’m kinda relieved. The pressure of having to start each day looking like Pre was really starting to get to me.

Of course for some, dreams occasionally come true.

Oh yes, they call him St. Streak…

Come to think of it, it sure is hot down here in Alabama.

“The man and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame.”

–Genesis 2:25

“Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.”

–Genesis 3:7

Yesterday was Number Three Son’s first day of public high school. Like his brothers, he was homeschooled for the first eight years (oh my, the poor barefoot, sheltered, undersocialized, top-buttoned-up little thing!) and now we’re turning throwing him into the deep end of the pool. Sink or swim, son. That’s life.

He woke up considerably earlier than usual yesterday and made the necessary ablutions and preparations (including turning on the early edition of Sports Center). I asked him how he had slept the night before.

“Not very well at all,” he replied.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I kept having this dream. Every time the bell would ring and we would change classes, I would be standing in the hall buck naked and everybody else would have their clothes on.”

Ah yes. There is appointed unto man a time to be born, a time to die, and, in between, about a gazillion times to dream The Naked Dream. Last year, it was me dreaming the psychadelic stuff, and now it was his turn.

So far, I’ve been naked on a plane, on a train, at work, in a lecture hall in front of several hundred of my professional peers, during a piano recital when I was 10-years-old, in church delivering the communion talk, on the soccer field, running down the street in my Nike Air Max trainers, on top of Mt. Everest (with no supplemental oxygen!), taking National Board exams and roller blading down the street in front of my house.

Shoot, I’ve even had a few dreams where I was supposed to be naked but was standing there fully clothed! Talk about adding insult to injury.

As far as interpreting The Naked Dream, it’s pretty much Freud 101. Anytime we feel anxious and inadequate, fearing that we don’t have “the right stuff” to accomplish a certain difficult task, off come the clothes. I explained that to Number Three Son and told him that dreaming The Naked Dream was to be expected in this situation and that everybody does it.

I went on to tell him that as we gain experience and competence, articles of clothing gradually start to be added back on: first the socks (not much better), then the boxers or briefs (about the same as swim trunks, really), next the shirt (actually pretty cool–think Tom Cruise in Risky Business) and finally those blessed blue jeans.

Of course, you and I both know that last part’s not true, but I’m his father and I had to say something reassuring–that’s my job.

I’m pretty sure The Naked Dream is hardwired into our collective subconsciousness considering that everybody seems to dream it–a lot. Maybe it has something to do with that little “incident” which supposedly took place in The Garden a few hundred generations back.

Whatever the case, I hear tell that another day is dawning when we will return to our primeval nonchalance and walk around around–buck naked–using some kind of new body which (and may this be true!) will not respond so willingly to the relentless tug of gravity and won’t snap, crackle and pop when we get out of bed in the morning.

I know, I know, in this day and age, it sounds like a long shot. But hey, a guy can dream, can’t he?

Hey y’all, Mike tha Redneck hear-uh. Don’ch y’all go frettin’ nar none, tha Eyeguy is jist sittin’ this un out since it be time to talk a lil’ Bama football and all. In fact, he dun up and said thahutt I kin be his pahtna’ in this hear-uh blog bizness and have my own cat-tee-gory. He did.

Well, it be jist a phew weeks fo’ openin’ day and all, and needless to say, tha roomers they be flyin’ faster than one of them thar phancy French aeroplanes thahutt they dun grounded a phew years back cuz they wuz usin’ too much gas and all. Some of them thar roomers has dun caused a raght smahutt co-NIP-shun fit among the Crimson Nayshun, and I’m figgerin’ thahutt as one of tha more phair and balunced voices in this hear-uh blog-o-spheruh, that I need to sit tha rec-cord strait and do a lil’ roomer squooshin’.

First off, there be this roomer thahutt tha Tide dun got sum new uney-forms for this upcomin’ season made from sum kinda “new age fabric” from Nike. To make mattas wus, there be this roomer than win all’s said and dun, thahutt tha Tide uney-forms gonna be lookin’ like one of them thar tight “form-fittin’” uns thahutt them thar Orey-gone Ducks wear minus all them thar phancy poka dots and crazie cola’s. Speakin of cola’s, I also hear-uh tell thahutt theys gonna be a lotta grey thrown in on tha numbas (which gonna be on tha sleeves too) and thahutt tha hell-mitts still gonna be crimson, but they’s gonna use a urethane base instid of a lacquer un sews they kin have all them lil’ sparkles and all. They are.

Now I gotta admit, win I first hurd this un, it took me back a raght smahutt bit. I figgered that Koach Sabin dun gone offa his rocka’ cause they ain’t nuthin gonna git Tha B’ar’s ghost stirred up fasta than messin’ with them uney-forms which bin purty much tha same since 1958. [...]