I accompanied my father to his general practitioner appointment today. I had to. I took his car away last week.

If you recall last month's post about Dad's decision to sleep-drive through a mailbox you will understand why I judged it necessary to take away his keys after three days in a row during which he couldn't remember that he wasn't supposed to drive to the pharmacy to pick up pills I had already picked up. Dad didn't take that well and chose to start a physical fight with me, further demonstrating that he wasn't thinking straight. I'm no toughie, but an 80-year-old man who runs out of breath tying his shoes shouldn't even try stealing candy from babies. Dad gave me the silent treatment for two whole days before he forgot that he was supposed to be mad at me.

On the way out of the appointment, the doctor pulled me aside to helpfully suggest that if Dad was resistant to surrendering his keys, maybe I should contact the state to have his driver's license suspended.

"Why would I do that?" I asked.

"Because he can't drive without a license," the doctor said with a totally straight face.

Thanks, doc. Given that the problem is that Dad can't drive now with a license, I think I'll get a second opinion.

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Happy birthday to me! Look, I'm not saying 51 is old, but this past Saturday I wore a cotton sock slightly sideways inside my sneaker and the toe seam left a bruise on my foot that would make you think I dropped a safe on it. A cotton sock was tougher than my foot. That never happened when I was 49.

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"What can I blog about today?" I asked the universe. The universe gave no immediate answer, so I put The Boys in the Jeep to make our regular daily visit to Dad and The Girls.

As I paused at the stop sign at the entrance of their neighborhood, to my great surprise, Dad's dingy white cargo van came into view. Only it was coming from the wrong end of the street and was totally unable to maintain a lane, slamming its passenger mirror into a mailbox before swerving past me and continuing back the way I had come up the busy road into town. I turned around and followed the van, contemplating my best course of action to resolve this situation without anyone getting hurt. Fortunately us all, Dad seemed to wise up and pulled the van to a stop on an unmarked gravel driveway. "What are you doing?" I asked when I reached his door. "I don't remember," he answered. The Girls just wagged their tails.

I called my aunt who lives down the street, and she arrived to help me transport Dad, The Girls, and The Boys back to his house, where I sorted out Dad's handful of daily medicines (which he hasn't been taking reliably since last Saturday) and ordered him to bed to resolve this latest bout of parasomnia that sometimes accompanies mistakes with his anxiety, kidney, and heart pills. Then my aunt and I went back to recover the cargo van. Barely had I turned the engine over when I was engulfed in the flashing blue lights of the county sheriff's department and a United States Marshal.

"What can I do for you?" I asked when the Marshal reached my door. He answered, "You can tell me what a stranger in a windowless white van is doing on my private property." Dad couldn't have known, right?

I relate this story only as a public service announcement: Never ask the universe for some entertainment. The universe has a very sick sense of humor.

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They say I complain about everything. They might be right. I'm a pretty sour individual who's no fun at parties. But tonight I have a new reason to gripe:

For most of the past two decades, I've made a point of turning on WXIA-TV at 11:30PM on Sunday nights to watch their weekly Sports Extra recap of Georgia sports. On tonight's episode, host Maria Martin announced the show has been canceled to make way for a longer regular newscast.

What terrible timing. Football season is finally just around the corner! I was anticipating another delightful season of watching each weekly Atlanta Falcons meltdown slowly grind Maria and company's determined optimism into a more appropriate pessimistic fatalism. It's the annual rite of passage in Atlanta sports!

I'm sure that WXIA has its reasons for making the change. At least it had The Pandemic to blame when it canceled Wake Up with Chesley in 2022. (For about a decade, it was the show I watched while getting ready for bed.) Television shows come and go, of course, and they keep telling me that no one watches late night television anymore. They might be right, but it still sounds like self-fulfilling prophecy when the networks are the ones canceling all the content that's worth watching. All I can say for certain is that I'll not be making the same weekly effort to watch an extra thirty minutes of "if it bleeds it leads" local news.

Such is life, sadly. Everything you love abandons you eventually, if you don't leave it first. Which perfectly summarizes a season of Atlanta Falcons football. I found my way to Sports Extra once upon a time. I can only assume I'll eventually find my way to another source of weekly local sports coverage. Turn, turn, turn.

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I interviewed Vince Sullivan at Comic-Con back in, I believe, 1993. I don't recall him saying he wanted a character that had unearthly powers. I think he just wanted one as colorful [as Superman] and able to do amazing things.

—Mark Evanier, newsfromme.com, July 6, 2026

If you don't know, Vince Sullivan was the first editor of National Allied Publications' Action Comics and Detective Comics when they both sold for 10¢. By all accounts (including Bob Kane's, right at the start of chapter 4, "A Vision Inspired by Da Vinci," in his notoriously inaccurate autobiography, Batman & Me), it was Sullivan who in early 1939 encouraged a young Kane to create a character that eventually became The Batman.

The point here is that by 1993, when Detective Comics cost $1.25, I had already been collecting Batman comic books for years. I eventually acquired most of the Batman comics that had been published during my lifetime, but I never seriously considered trying to own a complete run because the early issues seemed impossibly distant. Fifty-four years was a long time! No one could ever catch up on that many comics!

However, as the anecdote above about Batman's literary origin indicates, the man who ordered his creation was still very much alive and attending comic conventions at the time. (He died at age 87 in 1999 when Detective Comics cost $2.25.) Five decades probably didn't seem so long ago to someone who lived through them. And now that an additional 33 years have passed, I have to admit that 1939 is starting to feel closer than ever to me, too.

Which is not to say that I'm harboring any rekindled urge to collect 'em all. I quit collecting Batman when DC "killed" him off in 2009 when Detective Comics regularly cost $2.99 (though Batman's death was marked up to an opportunistic $3.99). Add that a copy of Batman's first Detective Comics appearance sold at auction in May for $1,525,000, and I think we can all agree that the best time to buy one has long passed me by. I wonder how long Sullivan held on to his?

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Last night I was lying in bed reading The Tick Omnibus comic book. Not to brag, but it's the 1990 limited edition first printing, numbered 1446 of 3000, hand signed by Tick creator Ben Edlund, art director/letterer Robert Polio, and editor George Suarez. You know the one. Anyway, the point is that I was reading Tick comics in bed, and what should start crawling up my leg?

It could have been worse. I could have been reading issues of Poison Ivy. Or Hellboy.

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The headline in today's The Athletic begins: "Ted Ginn, Jr, ex-NFL receiver and UFL coach...". Ted Ginn Jr? Now that's a name I've not heard in a long time. A long time.

Ginn, for those of you who haven't wasted the past few decades following the rotting corpse of a once great football team called the Miami Dolphins, was the 9th overall pick in the 2007 draft. He played his college football for Ohio State, where he set a record for scoring on punt returns. I presume that's why GM Randy Mueller (who had been installed as something of a figurehead GM during Nick Saban's head coaching tenure only to find himself in over his head when Saban abruptly skipped town) drafted Ginn as high as he did. Ginn had great foot speed but hands of stone. He was an immediate bust.

I happened to be in the stands when Ginn finally scored his first NFL punt return touchdown following the Eagles' opening drive in week 11. The Dolphins were to that point winless on the season, and I had already soured on Ginn. My brother, an Eagles fan, knew it. So when Ginn scored, he immediately taunted me with "Who's your fav-rit play-er? Ted Gin Jun-ior!" He would repeat that whenever Ginn's name came up in NFL broadcasts in the following years.

Admittedly, the 2007 coach and roster Mueller assembled didn't do Ginn any favors. (Can you name any of the three quarterbacks who started for the Dolphins in 2007? There will be a quiz later.) But after just three years in Miami, he was traded to the 49ers. Thereafter, he spent equally short terms with the Panthers, Cardinals, Panthers (again), Saints, and Bears. That's actually a pretty good career by NFL standards, and he wouldn't be widely considered as a bust if he hadn't been drafted so high by a team that needed so much help.

Anyway, all that is what I think of when I read the rest of that headline: "...arrested on DWI charge in Texas." I have to say that it's nice to know that some things don't change. Nearly twenty years later, Ted Ginn, Jr. continues to disappoint.

Pop quiz, hot shot! The Miami Dolphins 2007 quarterbacks: Trent Green (5 starts), Cleo Lemon (7 starts), John Beck (4 starts). Lemon was the only QB on the roster when Ginn was drafted. Later-career Trent Green was signed in June on a one-year deal to shore up a terrible roster. John Beck was the rookie QB taken after Ginn with the 40th overall pick, after JaMarcus Russell, Brady Quinn, and Kevin Kolb. There's a reason 2007 is considered one of the all time worst QB classes.

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Let's go ahead and put these three together:

6/2576. Francis (1950)
11/2581. Francis Goes to the Races (1951)
18/2588. Francis Goes to West Point (1952)

Once upon a time, one of my grandmothers expressed surprise that I'd never seen the Francis the Talking Mule movies. (Honestly, I don't remember which grandmother, and they're both long gone now so I can't ask. If I had to guess, it was probably Granny; she was a lifelong devoted fan of the "picture shows," even if she thought they got too coarse from the 1970s onward. In hindsight, I think she had a point.)

Thanks to TCM, I finally made the effort to watch the first three. (There are seven in all, but Donald O'Connor and Chill Wills are only in the first six.) I'm happy to report that these three are indeed quite enjoyable. I particularly enjoyed the talking mule providing secret assistance to the West Point football coach. The highest complement I can pay is that they make me want to read the book that inspired them.

More to come.

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My favorite barbeque joint is celebrating 100 years in business, so I painted them a birthday card:

That logo was designed by David Boyd and has been part of their street sign since at least 1992 when I worked my first ever summer job there as a curb hop, a position they have since eliminated, maybe because they had a hard time finding qualified curb hops. In my case, I just wrote whatever the customer said on my pad and handed it to the employee behind the register who re-wrote the order for the kitchen. Not that I didn't try; I think they just didn't trust me to take the orders correctly, and in all honesty, they were probably right. In addition to being my first job, it was the first job I was fired from.

(Don't feel bad for me. As lowest man on the totem pole, it was also my job to clean the barbeque pit every night. Being fired from shoveling grease out of an oven was an undisguised blessing. And I've since been fired from many jobs, so it would prove to be good training.)

Here's to one hundred more!

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Flower

I first heard of Phair in 1993 in the Mazda Miata with Mom during the afternoon rush hour commute between Emory University and Newnan when Phair's debut Exile in Guyville album was reviewed on NPR.

Thanks to the Internet, I can tell you that day must have been Tuesday, July 20,¹ when Ken Tucker reviewed Exile in Guyville, released in June 1993, for Terry Gross's Fresh Air. That was the summer before my freshman year at Emory, so what was I doing in the car? Was I working part-time in the Pediatric Infectious Diseases office with Mom before my work-study position started in August, or was I just killing time driving the convertible around downtown Atlanta while Mom was working? Could have been either.)

The Internet also makes it possible for me to transcribe Tucker's praise for this song in particular:

There's a thin quality to Exile in Guyville. It ends up making you think that Liz Phair is something of a dabbler, that If this rock thing doesn't work out, she'll take up painting or maybe just use her trust fund to live in Paris for a while. But there's a core of about four or five songs here that are really first rate, and one in particular, called "Flower," that I can't play on the radio but which is as fine and bold a song as I've heard about sexual obsession.

Obviously, I had to have any album with that kind of recommendation. I probably bought the cassette at the Tower Records behind Lennox Mall, and I recall playing it quite a bit during the long commutes between Atlanta and Newnan. Listening to Phair always made me feel rebellious and cool, as good rock music should. "I'll take you home and make you like it," indeed.

Thanks, Internet!

¹ The Internet tells me July 20, 1993², was the same day that the press box caught on fire at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium, which 90s Atlanta Braves fans will recall as the day that Fred "Crime Dog" McGriff made his debut for the team, in his third at-bat hitting a home run to drive in Ron Gant to tie the game at 5-5 in the 6th inning. The fire didn't start until 6, so I think we found out about the fire after we got home. The fire delayed the game start until after 9; I might have watched it, but I don't have any memory of that.

² You know what else happened on July 20, 1993? Some guy named Vince Foster committed suicide. And no one ever uttered his name again.

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