Monday Morning Coffee Pot Conversation

Nobody ever meets you at the office coffee pot on Monday morning and asks, 'Hey, what didn't you do this weekend?' But if I am asked, I have two biggies this weekend.




White Rock Marathon
The 2007 White Rock Marathon ran this morning. No mistake: I am in no shape to run another marathon (I'm still working back up to my 30-minute beginner's level), but in last year's Christmas card update -- because I couldn't think of anything interesting that I'd done during the preceding year -- I asked '2007 White Rock Marathon?'. Pfffttt! I have plenty of time, and how hard could it be to dedicate a few hours on the weekend and 45 minutes or so every day (for those of you who've never run a marathon, this kind of training is what leaves you walking somewhere around mile 17 . . . but I've put that behind me).

But, like the fool I am, since I'm not sure if I'll get Christmas cards out this year, I'll go ahead and ask here: '2008 White Rock Marathon?' I've got plenty of time.




John Fogerty
John Fogerty, formerly of my all-time favorite band Creedence Clearwater Revival, played Nokia in Grand Prairie Friday night; and, not paying any attention since I saw it posted a few months ago (Pffftt! I have plenty of time), I forgot to follow up on tickets and a babysitter.



Creedence Clearwater Revival was my first shot at 'rock 'n roll fan-dom,' and the band's album 'Cosmo's Factory' was the first non-country album I ever bought (Groves Pharmacy, lured to the dark side of 'hippie music' by one of those display racks right next to the pharmacist's counter, way in the back of the store). I'd always listened to the Hank Williams, Jimmie Rodgers, Charlie Pride albums and the like that my dad had and the Cajun and Gospel music that he played or my sister's left-behind Jan and Dean and Beach Boys albums. I think the only album I'd ever bought of mine own as Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison.

I sold my dad on allowing me to listen to CCR by playing the country-ish 'Lookin' Out My Back Door,' which was later covered by Buck Owens ('Dad, how much country could you want?'). My dad's early '70s rule was that no hair could touch the ears or my collar, but the photo of John Fogerty, at left (above) on a Harley, was everything I wanted to be. Long, full hair, flannel shirt and bandana, leather motorcycle chaps (probably covering a worn pair of Levi's) and boots. How much cooler could you be (hmmm? Except for the bandana and chaps, that's what I look like most of the time now)?

I've stayed a fan through CCR going from four members to three (I think it was John's brother Tom who left the band), then Fogerty's Blue Ridge Rangers album with 'Jambalaya,' and on to 'Centerfield.' Can't wait to hear his latest, 'Revival.' I've heard it's great.

But I sure wish I could be at the coffee pot tomorrow morning. maybe even sporting a flannel shirt and motorcycle chaps, and . . . well, maybe not . . .

Escaping the Witness Protection Program

I think my wife believes I'm part of the Witness Protection Program.

She's from Baltimore, and I'm from Texas. I've spent time with her family in Maryland and have met some long-time family friends and even some high school and college classmates. My wife's met members of my extended family, mostly at my Aunt Dorothy's beach birthday parties (yea, Bolivar!) or at weddings and funerals; and, although she's visited Port Arthur, she's never heard anyone say, 'I knew George when . . . .'

I grew up in Port Arthur, which for those of you not from 'round here, is about 90 miles east of Houston, 10-15 miles from the beach, and a quick drive 'cross the river' to Louisiana. Except for a high school friend now married to my ex-wife, she's never met high school or college friends from my life in Port Arthur. As a result, she must think that I made it all up and that I'm hiding from . . . well, somebody. Upside . . . at least I'm important enough to have to hide.

So, who cares?

As my kids have grown older and are beginning to leave home, I'm more disappointed that they've never connected with their heritage (my mother's was born in Jeanerette, Louisiana, and grew up in Port Arthur; my dad's from Mayfield, Kentucky, and moved to Texas after World War II).

Tell my kids that they're Cajuns -- coon-asses to some -- and that boudain, dirty rice and gumbo are heavenly delicacies (sorry, I'm not a crawfish fan), and they'll look at you like you're . . . well, just about as out of touch as their dad. I left Port Arthur right after college, didn't look back and didn't visit much, and before I knew it -- after I realized that my kids thought Cajun was a chicken sandwich at Wendy's -- my parents were old and soon died.

We live in suburban Fort Worth and have no family within a six-hour drive; no family that my kids know well within the two-day drive to Baltimore (don't cry for me, Evangelina; we have friends here from all over the country . . . all over the world actually, some we've known since our arrival in Fort Worth in 1990).

If you're still with me, you're asking what's set me off?

1) Nobody in my family will eat boudain or gumbo. Dirty rice is out of the question, just on name alone.

2) I Googled "'Port Arthur' and 1974" last week, and found the blog site of a former high school classmate who I knew but not well. We chatted (why couldn't any of us be that interesting in high school?), and she closed with 'Good luck finding other TJ classmates.'

I realized that I sounded like I was looking to re-live the 'glory days (or in my case, the gory days) of high school. In reality, I think I'm Googling for that recipe to mend the disconnect between our Chili's-Home Depot-Staples-Target-Dillards (and a bunch of teen-trendy. one-word-name mall stores) suburban lifestyle and our diluted Cajun heritage.

By the way, did you know that in Baltimore they steam their seafood and not deep-fry it? After rassling for a couple of ounces of crab meat, I ask for a cheeseburger.

So . . . know any good Cajun recipes? And if you know me, but don't know anybody named Corleone (remember the Witness Protection Program? . . . oh, come on; it wasn't that bad!), holler at me.