A Nole Fan’s Unified Theory of Football, Race, Sex, and Love — Part 1

What you are about to read is my surrender. For many years, I have wanted to write the definitive cultural analysis of major college football in the South — our benighted region’s most socially and historically consequential institution that doesn’t involve prison or bondage. Doubt me? Look at the aftermath of the Iron Bowl. Anything […]

Quieting the Murmur of Approval: The Suicidal Success of the Seven Sisters

Note: I’ve been working on this piece on and off since late February, when The Ledger’s Cary McMullen wrote a religion column documenting and lamenting the decline of mainline protestantism. It’s a little long and not terribly local — it grows out of my other project. But I hope you’ll indulge me. If not, well, you don’t have to.

I Guess Harassing Railroads Runs In The Family

I spent a not-small-enough portion of my Thanksgiving break rummaging through ancient, partially dry-rotted legal files stored in a small trailer on my aunt’s property in Palatka, my hometown. Among the dregs of my great grandfather and great aunt’s legal career, I was looking for files related to my Cross Creek Trial/Palatka Klan project that I wrote about here a few weeks ago. [Insert now shameless plug: check out the site “Blogging the Cross Creek Trial”.]

This was researching with accountability. You never knew which file would fall open to reveal superroaches, otherwise known as palmetto bugs, large enough to bark. I think the CDC could trace the balky throat I brought home and have carried around this week directly to the toxic air inside the trailer.

Anyway, one of the files I found both relates to my Cross Creek project, and, in a way, to that other endlessly rewarding family project–annoying predatory railroad companies. And I want to note it today in honor if the deeply entertaining special rail session of the Florida Legislature currently underway.

Banging My Head

So I was running an errand Wednesday night, flipping the stations as I drove, when I happened upon a familiar circa 1983 power glam beat, pulsing out of an oldies station. Took me a moment to place it, and then, oh yeah: “Bang your heeeeaaaaad, metal health’ll drive you mad.”

That’s right. Quiet Riot. One of the 20 or 30 indispensable bands of the golden age of hair and spandex.

If you think I didn’t crank the tiny rear speakers on my 10-year-old Honda Civic as loud as they would go, you are sadly mistaken.