ROOT BEER RANTS

There can be no debating that Barq's is the best-tasting root beer on the supermarket shelves today. I mean, no root beer is exactly terrible (and that includes the seventy-nine-cent Richfood brand in 3-liter tankards). Compared to the bite of Barq's, however, most other root beers don't even have teeth.

Despite my nearly 300 completed rounds of Putt-Putt (the sanctioned Putt-Putt, not some unchallenging kiddie course littered with jungle animals on every hole) in 2000, I have not even lofted my club once this year. Damn, I still love the game and all. It's just that I don't feel the need to play as much, having achieved my long-time goal of shooting under 30 three times last year. Why have I given up? I'm not even close to attaining my PPA (Professional Putters Association -- yes, Putt-Putt has its own pro tour!) card. Those PPA guys AVERAGE 26-28 per game, whereas my current lifetime mean score is approximately 1.5-under-par (or 34.5 per round). But for those three tour-de-courses in '00, my alter-ego John Daly Jr. was as close to being a "professional" something as he'll ever be.

I've told many people that when I turn forty, I'm gonna become a full-on Jimmy Buffett fan. The loud shirts, the sandals, the margaritas, the Corona's -- heck, I'll even play his songs from time to time. Sing one with me: "I've done my share of smuggling/And I've ran my share of grass/Made enough money to buy Miami/But I pissed it away so fast/Wasn't meant to last/Wasn't meant to last." Let's get another round: "Can't you feel them circling, honey?/Can't you feel them swimming around?/You've got fins to the left/Fins to the right/And you're the only bait in town." Waitress: "I like mine with lettuce and tomato/Heinz 57 and french-fried potatoes..." Alright, I'll stop ordering from the Holiday Inn menu, or else this pirate will be looking at forty alone.

In 1981, my bushy-haired, third-grade self was selected (by whom, I can't remember) to model the new line of Dukes Of Hazzard pajamas in the school's fashion show. Though I hadn't expressed interest in modeling, my mom encouraged me to go through with it. "Hey, It's a free pair of pajamas..." After some pleading, I told her I'd participate in the show. We picked up the pajamas at Leggett's in downtown Portsmouth (what part of that "town" wasn't "down"?). They were a banana-pudding color, not the red or orange I had hoped they'd be. Shit, the General Lee wasn't yellow -- why were the pajamas? The next morning, I went to school, dreading the 11:00 assembly. Shortly following that hour, I changed into the pajamas and wondered when I would make my entrance. The fashion-show coordinator told me I would be first on the stage. She also placed a teddy bear in my hand. Wonderful! I was already embarrassed enough by the yellow bed clothes, and now I had to hold some stuffed toy in front of everybody. Well, the curtain opened, which signaled me to do my walk. To the choruses of "Oohs, Aahs, and Awws" from adults in the audience, I clutched that bear as if to strangle it, did a couple of twists 'n' turns, and headed backstage as quickly as possible. My GQ Jr. day was done, and I never wore those clothes again.

Two weeks ago (7/7/01), Lovie and I were invited to a party. Our mutual friend Pedro told us to be there at 5:00 PM. The celebration would be held at a girl named Melanie's house. She's a nice person and very friendly, so a fine time would be had. We both got there around 5:00, like Pedro had said. No cars were in the driveway or alongside Melanie's house. The place had the look of its occupants being on vacation. I walked up to the porch to ring the doorbell, only to see a note which read: "Due to this house recently being burglarized, we are no longer answering the door. We're sorry for any inconvenience." Lovie and I drove off, looking for a pay phone. At a 7-11 with a ghetto-type clientele, I called Melanie. Answering machine. Then I gave Pedro a ring. Answering machine. Lastly, I tried reaching an expected guest named Mike. Answering machine. Done with the phone-tag, we sped to Mike's house to find out what the hell was going on. He tried calling Melanie several times, finally connecting on the fifth or sixth dial-up. She and some party-goers had been in the backyard all this time. Lovie and I headed back to Melanie's. Though we were the sXe-est people at the gathering, the two of us enjoyed talking to others and watching drunks literally fall down. Thanks for having us, Melanie. But next time you throw a party, take down all unwelcome signs.

If you're a white male between the ages of 40-56, you've probably owned The Steve Miller Band's "Greatest Hits: 1974-78" at some point in your life. Would this demographic also be behind Miller if he were to run for President of the United States? Heck, he already has a platform: 1)Feed the babies who don't have enough to eat. 2)Shoe the children with no shoes on their feet. 3)House the people living in the street. However, with "Fly Like An Eagle" being used to promote the USPS, Miller seems to be in line for another position. That of Postmaster General.

By and large, "Roseanne" was a fine TV program. The stories were mostly believable and the characters were well-developed. Unfortunately, the show had many overblown moments. During one half-hour, a plot device of Roseanne wanting ten minutes alone in the bathroom was turned into a Broadway musical. This gaudy exhibition proved two things: 1)John Goodman can't sing and 2)Roseanne REALLY can't sing. How about Roseanne's mom coming out as a lesbian? Wasn't that grasping for controversial straws? Why did Roseanne have to win the lottery? Because she no longer wanted to be "middle class," even on television? Should I mention the way the series wrapped up? The Conners weren't "real," rather, subjects in a book Roseanne had been writing. When the show's run ended, so did HER story. Arguably, so did Roseanne's credibility.

Tombstone Mexican Pizzas are muy tasty!!! They're more like gigantic tostadas than Italian-styled pies. My favorite is the Nacho Grande, but all of the varieties are worth sampling. No added toppings are really necessary, but I like having some salsa on the side for dipping. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Insert Tombstone. Bake 17-19 minutes. Ole!

My "Song With The Worst Lyrics Award" goes to "Ordinary Average Guy" by Joe Walsh. Don't take that the wrong way -- he's done some fine stuff like "Life's Been Good," "Rocky Mountain Way," "Walk Away," and "In The City" (I'll always think of the closing scene in "Warriors" when hearing that song). Also, his acting turns on "The Drew Carey Show" fit well with the "Cleveland Rocks" 'tude. But it's so damn hilarious that a major label let a former member of the respected Eagles sing, "We go bowling at the bowling lanes/Drink a few beers/Bowl a few frames...We like to spend Saturdays in the yard/Pick up the dog doo/Hope that it's hard/We're just ordinary average guys." The song was in light rotation on AOR stations for a couple weeks, before completely disappearing from radio. When they found the door, Ordinary Average Guy was asked to leave. It wasn't a hard decision.

Don't those kids-who've-decided-not-to-smoke TV spots have a "New Jersey" look and feel to them?