A Blinding Glimpse
Of the Ice Storm
In My Bud's '56 Olds 88.
For Cryin' Out Loud, Cletus,
It Ain't Gunshots, but the Sound
Of Magnificent Trees Self-Destructing.
By Joe Dempsey
Saturday, January 13, 2001.
DATELINE: Pine Bluff, Arkansas
Special to corndancer.com
It's The Random Thoughts, Stupid!
When requested to present still yet another effort as a vaunted "Sa'tiddy Guest Writer," not unlike other practitioners of the craft, my overtaxed mental instrument immediately switched to the subject acquisition mode. After several attempts at retrieving findings unearthed by said search, only random thoughts popped up. Same last night. Same at 2:00 a.m. Same at 6:30 a.m. today.
Then something occurred. A "B.G.O." (In the advertising business that's known as a "Blinding Glimpse of the Obvious.") You've seen and heard BGOs by the ream and reelfull. A BGO might be a headline or copy lead, revealing the amazing fact that there is actually salt in the ocean. Usually after a BGO, the savvy reader moves on to whatever is next, abandoning the verbiage cleverly crafted to insult his or her intelligence. Verbiage thinly camouflaged as a solicitation to purchase the hapless client's good or services. Money flushed to oblivion.
No ways (that's good southern redneck usage thank you very much), it was almost like the clouds parted and this James Earl Jones voice said something to the effect of, ".... Look Clyde, we've been trying to send you a revelation, to wit: "Random Thoughts on a Less Than Spectacular Winter Day are O.K." Apologetically saluting, I had to agree.
For Cryin' Out Loud, It Ain't Like Gunshots.
In this neck of the woods, we've recently experienced Ice Storm I, Ice Storm II and Snow I — and the attendant cessation of electric service.
Actually, I was convinced, during this subfreezing onslaught, that another ice age had launched and archeologists, years down the pike when excavating Pine Bluff AR 71601, would discover mummified denizens in automobiles lined up for gasoline (only premium mind you, reg'lur wuz sold out earlier this ev'nin). Further pickaxing would unearth a plethora of five-k Honda Generators permanently frozen on warp-speed output, families huddled around a fireplace containing the last stick of a Haverty's genuine all wood-product dining room suite straining to deliver its last few BTUs, and a few dozen good ol' boys lookin' for folks to help with their four-wheel drive '82 Chevy truck, a chain, some Wal-Mart $4.95 one-time-use jumper cables and the remnants of a case of Bud heavy. Oops. I left out the chainsaw Cletus borried from his cousin Floyd. The above information was provided to you to set the following scene.
"It was soooooooo frightening, like gunshots you know." If I heard that once, I heard it until I ran out of Pepto Bismal.
It was as if the ice angel passed over every house, implanting this line, "...like gunshots, you know," as all that was needed to aptly describe the sounds of thousands of trees breaking apart. I've busted a few caps in my time and heard a few (very few, thank goodness) busted in my direction and I'll tell you the sound of magnificent oaks and tall pines self destructing has its own eerie sound.
First, you hear a little squeaking craaaaaaack.
Then the crack builds in intensity, pulsating with the destruction of a living thing until in a sforzando of terror, a limb separates from its parent tree with a final snap that sends chills up your bloody spine — it feels like a bone being crushed.
In its final throes of agony, the limb, obeying Sir Isaac Newton's (and God's) edict, crunches into your roof, you car, your dog pen, or mother earth, showered by shards of shrapnel-ice.
In Other Words....
"Well, you know what I mean.... In other words, like I said." Phrases like those rankle anyone who has at least a rudimentary appreciation of the language. If you need other words, you didn't pick the right frigging words in the first place.
Swing Low, Sweet Oldsmobile.
The blade of ignominy is poised over the waiting neck of an American icon, Oldsmobile. Wallowing in the disgrace of lackluster sales, spurned by boomers, despised by stockholders ... and mourned by possum-blonde bearded bon-vivants like myself, who fondly recall some initial "experiences" on Oldsmobile upholstery, the Olds will be missed. It matters not that my buddy's '56 Olds 88 would turn a quarter in 8.5 off the showroom floor. It matters not that my '62 Starfire convertible was clocked at 140 mph on US Hwy 65 North. It matters not that future generations, just in case they hear the song, "In my Merry Oldsmobile," will scratch their heads and ask, " ... whut th' hail izza Olds-mobile." Bye, Olds.
You Are!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????????
It is said, you are what you eat. I ain't goin' there today. 'Preciate the opportunity of sharing random thoughts with the world as we know it. IBADEEE, IBADEE, IBADEE ... that's all folks!
Joe
Dempsey
An Autobio
Written at
CornDancer's
Request.
The photo of me was shot on an Ansco or Brownie or something of that ilk when I was in the neighborhood of four years of age. My father's inscription on the back of the photo is included. [EDITOR'S NOTE: See larger photo below.]
My resume hasn't changed much since the last time I contributed to this collection of prose, but my cat is over diarrhea and he seems to be minding better. Thank God for the favors he grants us.
Much has changed, however, since that photo was shot.
I am a graduate of Ouachita Baptist College (now University) with a B.A. in art. I am a couple of hours short of a double major in art and journalism. Seems the journalism professor and I were at odds at the time and since it made him look good to have as many majors as possible in his department, I jumped ship and left him minus one major. I still don't regret it.
I have three sons. Two readily admit that I am their father. The third can't. He is profoundly mentally and physically retarded and is institutionalized. The two who claim me are gainfully employed by large corporations. I am gainfully employed by a teeny-tiny corporation. More on that later.
Wife, Dog, Cat, Car, and Waterbed.
I am now on my third wife, eighth dog, ninth cat, twelfth car, first waterbed (some twenty or so years of age) and my third job as a productive adult. I work for the meanest bastard in town: Me.
I am a partner in a small, but imaginative advertising agency in which I am responsible for most of the creative development, writing, and at least some of the production. We do political campaigns and have won more than we've lost. We also do banks and industrial accounts for the most part.
Having had more fun during my life than most, I will probably suffer more than others during retirement, should it become necessary for me to take that option. At one time, as they say in the south, " … the boy was bad to drank." The cure has descended on me and now I am dry as the Gobi desert in whatever its dry month is. And Lord willing, will probably stay that way.
At Least You Get to Jump out of Airplanes.
I went through the U.S. Army Jump School as a reservist "off the block" at the ripe old age of 31. I'd be lying if I said it was anything less than a bitch. But then afterwards, you get to jump out of airplanes, which ain't bad. Subsequently, the U.S. Army Reserve saw fit to promote me to Major and saddle me with command of Company A, 1st Battalion, 12th Special Forces Group (USAR), which I must admit was a fun way to spend weekends.
The choreographer of Corndancer and I have participated in several projects in which we mutually turned a profit. In that time and beyond I have grown to love and respect him as a person and as a professional -- whatever he is. Certainly not for his hairdo. I enjoy soaking up the missives, Epistles and dispatches and am privileged to be a part of this assault on the English language and those who insist on using it to nauseating perfection. So there!
Signed: Joe Dempsey
CAPTION:
Joe Dempsey on War I field piece in tilles (sp?) Park -- this gun was taken away for scrap during W.W. 2
