by Buck

September 18, 2007

M y grandmother used to tell me, “Buck, you’ll attract more flies if you use honey instead of vinegar.” Being a smartass kid I used to say, “Gramps why would I want to attract flies at all?” Another that I never repeated out loud was along the lines of, “I could attract all the flies I need if I took a shit in the kitchen floor.” You can understand why I didn’t consider it wise to share that one.

However, I digress. Instead of busting my balls about being slow to offer up copy of late, Jeff Kay decides to include me in his wealth once he’s hit the “Big One.” Friends, I haven’t submitted a column in more than a month—who knows how long it’s been—but instead of doing the appropriate thing and calling me a gaff-jawed work slacker, Mr. Kay hits me with loads of guilt. Gramps was apparently right. I see on the Haloscan that Lakrfool is guilt ridden as well.

Therefore, I return to the world of half-assery with the kind of update you’re probably expecting from your old friend Buck—dull, insensitive, and truly unnecessary commentary on mundane shit.

The reason for my hiatus has been an overload of bullshit in the workplace. I have to squeeze in this small, insignificant—but potentially very lucrative column—during my work breaks. Of late, those breaks have become few and far between. I won’t bore you with the insanity that is my job…but I’ll just let you know my absence isn’t from a lack of desire.

On to what’s going on. A neighbor in our housing development has procured a coon-dog which barks incessantly. I’m not kidding—that hound refuses to shut the fuck up. He barks non-stop hour after hour. He drones on and on and on at all hours of the night. My house is fairly soundproof, but there are times when he can be incredibly irritating. I’ve spoken to the owner—who’s a nice guy—and is very apologetic. He tells me for one thing, the dog is bred to bark. That’s just what he does.

Another problem, the dog is kept on the edge of woods where there are coons running rampant. The dog goes ape shit at the very thought of a coon. The owner has tried a shock collar to control the barking, but doesn’t like that approach. For one thing, he considers it a bit cruel—and secondly never knows exactly why the dog is barking. If the dog is going ape-shit over a nearby coon, the last thing he wants to do is correct him for doing what he’s being trained to do. I fully understand, but still it’s an irritating ordeal.

Good news, though—I have found a solution. I don’t know why, but the dog is absolutely terrified of a weed whacker. I noticed while trimming the hillside next to his kennel that as soon as I pulled the cord, he retreated into his doghouse and refused to come out for hours. The next time he went on a barking jag, I walked into the yard and gave a couple of yanks to the old string trimmer—and he was silent for the rest of the night. It’s amazing, but it works. Sometimes he loses his shit about 1:00 in the morning. So, I’m on the back deck in my underwear firing up the old string trimmer…a few moments aggravation for a good night’s sleep—it’s a fair trade off.

I’ve told you about my upbringing in the hills surrounding Big Stone Gap, Virginia. Did you know there’s a book called Big Stone Gap? A girl named Adrianna Trigiani wrote it. She’s a high falutin’ (is that really a word?) New York City writer now. However, she grew up with the rest of us. She was ahead of me in school, but I remember her brother and sister. They had little to do with me. However, her writing has brought tons of acclaim to our little mountain hamlet and now…get this…they are preparing to turn the book into a movie to be shot on location in Big Stone!!!!! Turns out the starring role may be played by none other than Reese Witherspoon (hubba, hubba).

Of course everybody will be clamoring to be an “extra” and hoping to be noticed by all of the Hollywood talent scouts. Good grief, it will be a mess. You just know for a month the whole town will be all to hell with long haired weirdos wandering around looking for a place that serves organic humus or whatever. Guess they’ll just have to adjust to deep fried everything and ice tea that is eternally sweet. Probably not though. You know all the hillbillies will want to act all high falutin’ themselves. Stringer’s Restaurant will start offering Peat Moss pitas and stop serving chicken and dumplings. Instead of a bag of Moore ’s BBQ potato chips and a sloppy cheeseburger at Dairy Delite, everybody will start eating trail mix and Boca burgers. Sigh. The only thing that is certain—is that nothing is certain.

It wouldn’t be our first brush with Hollywood fame. I remember the previous “big event” that put us on the map.   Elizabeth Taylor was married to Senator John Warner—who may have been governor at the time…I just can’t recall. Anyway, he was making a big show-off visit to town back when I was in middle school. This was when Liz was in her transformation from the Cleopatra hottie—to what we have today…translation—she was sucking down food like a Hoover pulls dust mites.

They had a big shindig planned at what then was the finest restaurant in town, Fraley’s Coach House. Apparently while Big John was out front pressing the flesh with constituents, Liz was back in the kitchen pressing the chicken flesh into her pie hole. She apparently was gorging on fried chicken and got a bone hung in her throat causing all manner of choking commotion. She had to be rushed off to the local hospital to be given a full-blown throat cleansing. It was a big to-do…the Paparazzi had a field day with it and it even led to a famous Saturday Night Live skit with John Belushi playing Liz and two fisting fried chicken—it was hysterical. Ah, good times.

Buck Out


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