Trump Loves Golf

And, I suppose, Trump would tell his followers he loves Ralph Reed, as well (if he thought there was a dollar in doing so).

The Fulton County Jail had only been open a few months when we moved into the house on Warfield Street at the corner of Tilden in what was then called (pre-gentrification) Knight Park. There were a lot fewer houses and hardly any trees blocking the line of sight to the Jail. There was a homeless encampment in shacks put up by the Mad Housers down in the meadow between Us and The Man.

The parking lot of the jail was empty except for some Sheriff’s cruisers and a shitload of abortion protesters stinking up the neighbourhood because Ralph Reed, suburban infection and founder of the Christian Coalition, was being held there for a few hours.

“Where you going with that?” Jackie asked as I headed out to the lawn with my golf bag. “Target practice,” I said.

The first ball was a high 5 iron swat that landed in roughly the centre of the mob. I saw three cruisers immediately leave and some other deputies running out to the car lot so I just sat down figuring I could spit on that protesting trash as I got hauled in past them.

My placard for a 2018 anti Trump march in London

“What do you call this?” yelled the guy in the middle car as they came to a stop in front of me. “Just trying to help out, sir.” He got out and chuckled in the sort of terrifying way Fulton County coppers do.

Then instead of kicking the shit out of me, he squatted next to me and, pointing at the structure said, “there’s ballistic glass in the windows over there so you can’t really do any damage to the building. Can you give us a minute to move the cars?” Turned out, they recognised me from taxi work (cops and cabbies deal with a lot of the same people) and the Checker sitting in our driveway had probably bought me a bit of good will.

I looked back at the house and waved Jackie off from where she was fretting behind the screen door, then gave her the universal, “bring me a bottle of beer when you get a sec,” hand sign. The other two cars left and the guy with me asked about the carbon fibre shafts on my driver and 3-wood, and if I used the Bobby Jones course a couple miles away. Another cruiser pulled up and tossed my first golf ball discretely on the bank of the culvert in front of us. “Titlest #4?” he asked then drove away before I could say, “thanks”.

A few minutes later, the Sheriff’s vehicles were gone except for the one I could see blocking the way into the neighbourhood down at Marietta Blvd (there are a lot of Marietta named roads in the area). Then, the guy I had spoken to came out to the parking lot near the protestors and, looking not-quite-in-my-direction, stretched his left hand up in the air above his head and blew three long, loud whistle blasts through the fingers of his right hand. I tee’d up as he walked back inside.

Atlantans don’t like it when outsiders fuck with them, Jackie reminded me a couple days ago when Trump’s fourth indictment came down. She also reminded me of this story and said that at the time she was only disappointed I wasn’t a better golfer.

Of course, Ralph Reed and his minions didn’t have Secret Service protection. And, I’m too old and too far away. Were but there only existed a scratch player/patriot.

Our placard, opposite side.

The Sunbeam, Wolverhampton

Pub #2601:

I have actively ignored the Sunbeam when I pass it from the rail station but the bus station adjacent was crawling with coppers so I figured this would be the date to set aside my doubts. A pint of Abbot and a window seat and then all the coppers packed up and left.

I continued to people watch outside since it was more like whale watching within. {Note: That is NOT “Fat Shaming”… those, ahem, people have no shame.}

Took some interest in the Queen’s Building out the window. It is Grade II listed and was the carriage entrance to the old rail station.

Oh, and speaking of fat people from Queens…enjoy your years in Reidsville, Mr Trump, sir. (The tears on my cheek are from laughter.)

Short Television Review: Tater, Tomater

Back in the Olden Times, if you wanted to see a television programme sometime after it aired you had to record it on VHS tape. PBS often had programmes scheduled to finish at the top of the hour but the actual documentary/foreign drama/what-have-you ended 15-20 minutes before then.

We recorded a show once that put a short film to fill the space afterward and, because there was a lot of tape remaining, we continued to use that cassette for other shows. As a result, for about two years every time we rewound to see the recent recording we would catch only the last 20-30 seconds of Tater, Tomater . I don’t think we ever watched the American Playhouse episode we taped it along with it (my link is to a copy from after it got picked up by a cable channel).

Our friend who visited in May lived a couple miles away from us just outside of Athens GA at this time and had also seen this a couple of times and finally insisted we watch it. It is a masterpiece of modern cinema and I implore each and every one of you to set aside 15 minutes for this.

The busboy in this is one of the guys from Jump Little Children. Phrases that have entered the lexicon of Tater Tomater-heads include:

“Oh I cut myself. I’m alright!”
“Can I help you with some bread tonight butter margerine?”
“Ladies what got har gots to wear a har net.”
“This sticky stuff won’t stay stuck.”

Then, there’s Doris’ moment of glory. This will make sense to you, once you’ve witnessed ‘the incident’:

Short Jurisprudence Review: Trump

Trump continues to dig deeper and deeper holes in all his criminal cases. You should be watching this.

Related: Some rats live in the neighbour’s shed and have started raiding our bird feeder. We named them after the Trumps with some others named Rudy (Giuliani) and Steve (Bannon), the sniffiest one is “Don Junior,” but they all have to die, now.

Bird Bath

We don’t yet have a proper bird bath but decided to give the guys some water in a vivid wash tub. Too deep for the robins and coal tits, we sought out a decent stone to serve as a perch or island. The one we found was under the Guns Lane bridge over the tram lines and looks like it has fallen from the arches.

The Black Cock, The Hop & Barleycorn, The Tower Cinema, and some existing benchmarks

One of the joys of TrigPointing, so far, has been the historical aspect. The databases I use have been transcribed and largely not updated since the Triangulation Point, Flush Bracket, or Cut Mark were originally entered.

The church behind the clock tower is gone and another is obscured by the YMCA tower next to the old cinema site

The Tower Cinema was opened in 1935 (first film was The 39 Steps) at a location that is now a car park near the Carters’ Green Clock Tower. There was a pin — essentially a rivet that served as a reference point for the Ordnance Survey — that came down with the building in the mid-1990s after a name change to ABC Cinema (in 1961) and a function change to bingo hall in 1969 (last film was Hot Millions).

I’m certain the Black Cock pubs I’ve been in were so-called for different reasons

The humorously named Black Cock public house sat just around the corner on Guns Lane but closed for business in 2002 after nearly 150 years. Its first publican raised fighting fowl and had a breed of black cock that the pub was named for. It is now a semidetached house. Someone plastered/screeded over the cut mark in the meantime (should be about a foot above the pavement facing the street near the fence).

The former Hop and Barleycorn pub on Dartmouth Street is a very short walk away, but the cut mark on it was destroyed with the house. It had become a drug squat in the 90s and was finally razed in 2005 ostensibly to make a family home but almost immediately became the Masjid that is there today.

Same trip, I managed to find some ‘good’ condition cut marks, photos at the map markers:

All good things, as they must…

Me, Jackie, and Jimi are all going to miss our Debra. But, her week overseas came to an end today as two of us rode with her to Manchester Airport to start the journey back to North Carolina.

Digital Camera

We figured that the last time we saw each other was during the 2016 election. I was at Debra’s on the front end of that trip and a Hilary Clinton campaign worker came to the door and was confronted with the two of us demanding he go and fetch us some Bernie Sanders paraphernalia. Drugs may have been a factor.

Not a dry canal

She hadn’t been on a bus in decades and never a double decker; nor, ever a tram; nor, ever a train. She knew cricket existed but none of the rules and had never seen a game. She’d never had fish pie, a pub lunch, or any proper Indian food. She thought our talk of canal walks meant we would be hiking dry canal beds. We set a those things to right and still she was like a newborn marvelling at the variety of people and things about England she was, pre-trip, misinformed about.

Her cat had to be put down about a year after our last visit to the States and she still grieves; but, Jimi warmed her heart and, after acclimation, her cot. She returned the favour with all sorts of affection and a couple of seagull feathers she found on canals.

Debra took lots of Jimi photos

And, so she’s gone. It’s back to work for us tomorrow while Debra is off until Sunday. It will be nice to have the house back — we haven’t spent a night in the mostly finished pile alone yet — but I already miss her. Safe journey, sister.

Short Documentary Review: Fight The Power — How Hip Hop Changed The World

I like big docs an’ I cannot lie, all you other viewers need to testify….
Okay, I’ve only gotten as far as episode 2 of 4, but it is riveting. You should see it.

Ort is no more

The obits are fast and furious this month. Another Athens icon has slipped the coil: William Orten Carlton has passed at the age of 73.

Our first day as residents in Athens, me and the the missus were waiting to get a document from a teller at Wells Fargo Bank and were next in line after Ort who without introduction, hesitation, or prelude of any sort started telling us about some records he found stashed at the bottom of the pile of clothes (fill a garbage bag for a dollar) at the Potters House Thrift Store (that’s what they call charity shops in the States, brits). When he took a breath, we both pointed at the unoccupied teller window and noticed the teller wince as he headed toward her and tried, unsuccessfully, to cash a check (cheque) for $1.37 which was declined because he had an account that required a minimum balance of $5. The negotiation went on for at least a half hour.

You’d run into Ort everywhere, though. At the Globe, in the library, or parked in front of the records or old magazines in another thrift shop near the 40 Watt when it was on Clayton (or Washington? long time ago, now). You could never be sure if he was a customer or employee at any of these because he always acted like he owned the place.

The photo I captured from the web is captioned, “Ort is in jail without bond for not cleaning up his yard” and why should that a) have happened and b) surprise anyone.

Rest well, weirdo.

The Grapes, Liverpool

Pub #2508:

We walked past throngs of fat Americans — but I repeat myself — in various Beatles, Rutles, and Oasis t-shirts (but I repeat myself) to do our own Beatles pilgrimage to The Grapes which was the only pub around here back when the lads were only a local thing. We had come to Liverpool on the Bank Holiday Weekend unaware that it was International Beatles Week, so this would also serve for us to recalibrate our scouse tourism efforts.

“What’s with all the Beatles stuff out there?” I asked the bartender as she finished drawing my stout. She looked confused then, following my pointing finger toward a behemoth in a Sgt Pepper themed shirt heading our way, answered, “I dunno…this doesn’t happen around here, usually.” “Strange,” I muttered, and headed out to join the missus to watch tour groups pass and to try to look annoyed for all the photos we’re inadvertently in.

We decided that Bond Street would work better for us and mapped our path over there but were not blessed with the time slip so many others have been. We also decided to come back some time less obviously tourism laden (say, mid-winter).