Pop Quiz!

Sharpen those pencils and put on those thinking caps, kids! The following quiz tests your knowledge of various recent events! Good luck!

1) Despite a sometimes overwhelming course load this semester, the author has not been prevented from enlisting in the ranks of "The Roosters" - a team that assembles from the deepest darkest corners of Rocky Top every Thursday evening to engage in which of the following sporting activities?

A) curling
B) medieval jousting
C) caged underwear wrestling matches
D) bouncing, shooting, and passing a basketball
E) knife fighting


2) At the outset of the season, it was generally agreed that "The Roosters" would meet little resistance in their quest for the league championship. But, lo! These lofty visions of glorious triumph and domination were quickly dashed upon of the rocks of despair when "The Roosters" suffered 3 consecutive losses, sending the hopeful team spiraling downward through which of the following four stages of grief?

A) Denial
B) Anger
C) Depression
D) Acceptance
E) All of the above


3) While shooting hoops at the UT gym, the author, much to his pleasant surprise, encountered and even interacted with which of the following national heroes / villains?

A) Reuben Haggar, the Terrible
B) Tobias Harris
C) Jason "Swashbuckling Stankusaurus" Stankus
D) Pete "Pit Stain" Freeburg


4) In an effort to make a positive contribution to the local community, the author recently volunteered his services at the Ronald McDonald House. In a grand reversal of fortune, however, the author, unaware of his surroundings as usual, came in contact with which of these wrecthed members of the plant kingdom, resulting in allergic outbreak?

A) Lovely daffodils
B) Aromatic lilacs
C) A lucky four leaf clover
D) Poison ivy


5) Mere hours had passed before the author discovered the first ill-effects upon his skin of coming in contact with above mentioned plant. Once noticed, which of the following imprecations involuntarily burst forth from the author's lips?

A) "Cursed weed from the pits of Hades!"
B) "God-forsaken vine of death and destruction!"
C) "Wretch! All is lost! All is ruined!"
D) "Alas! Smitten by this infernal devil of a plant!"
E) All of the above


6) On Monday, April 25th, the author was caught off guard by a sudden _______________ while walking from the UT library to the parking garage.

A) sudden torrential downpour of biblical proportions
B) bout of indigestion
C) desire to lay the entire city of Knoxville to waste
D) repressed urge to attach bells to my ankles and frolic around the campus in tights


7) The author's vehicle recently suffered a considerable amount of damage by __________.

A) a procession of unruly demonstrators hurling Molotov cocktails
B) a swarm of rare carnivorous boll-weevils
C) a violent thunderstorm producing golf-ball sized hail
D) a drive-by shooting in which a local gang who accidentally mistook my car for a rival gang member's.


8) During the author's morning commute to school on April 19th (the day after Tax Day), __________ caused him to rejoice greatly.

A) finally discovering the remnants of that long lost peanut butter & jelly sandwich under his front seat
B) narrowly escaping a potentially fatal encounter with those rare carnivorous boll-weevils
C) narrowly escaping the urge to succumb to the temptation of eating a value meal at the Burger King on Broadway - the worst restaurant known to man
D) the much-anticipated end to the tax season; mostly because the author would no longer have to encounter that annoying guy that paces the sidewalks dressed as the Statue of Liberty at the intersection on Broadway Street holding a sign for Tax Refund Loans


9) On April 19th, the author met his brother Jesse in Cleveland, TN to ___________.

A) plunder and pillage the town
B) defend the town against an incoming horde of barbarians
C) challenge him to a duel
D) cheer for him as Jesse's baseball team whipped the tar out of Lee University


10) From May 15th to May 30th, the author has plans to travel _____________.

A) to France & Switzerland
B) around the world in a hot air balloon
C) a depth of 20,000 leagues under the sea
D) back to the future, from whence he came


Bonus!) On April 26th, _____________ accompanied the author to Clingman's Dome, the highest elevation point in Tennessee (as well as the Smoky Mountains), to partake in a delightful sunrise breakfast.

A) a host of symbiotic parasites
B) an arsenal of automatic weapons
C) the mysterious and aromatic Kim Sanders
D) Conan the Librarian


Answer Key:

1) D. Every Thursday evening, an elite team consisting of 11 hand-picked recruits assembles from the deepest darkest corners of Rocky Top, collectively known as "The Roosters", emerging to compete in the Cedar Springs Basketball League.



2) E. Alas and alack! All of the above! In early March, despite being woefully unqualified, I was charged with the daunting responsibility of designing a scintillating team jersey for "The Roosters". While the degree of success of this jersey is questionable at best, it is still generally agreed that "The Roosters" are the snazziest looking team in the league. Despite having these snazzy uniforms and perhaps somewhat inflated expectations, "The Roosters" fell short their first 3 games, propelling them through every stage of grief. Denial and shock set in following their first loss. An even more heartbreaking 1-point loss in overtime happened the following week, which flared nostrils with the burning aroma of anger and frustration. And, despite their best efforts, a third consecutive loss wrought waves of depression upon the flagging team of fowls, but was shortly followed by a general sense of acceptance of the fact that "hey, maybe we're not that good after all? And, maybe that's ok?" Ironically, once this revelatory fact was accepted and embraced, the crestfallen "Roosters" finally plucked the sweet fruits of victory in their next two games. Go Roosters!


3) B. Tobias Harris! Although, it would've been just as pleasant a surprise to meet the others, I considered myself fortunate to briefly meet the star power-forward for the UT Men's Basketball Team. Holla!

4) D. Poison Ivy. Ick! Although I do not distinctly remember encountering the nefarious three-leaf vine, it announced its presence soon enough, in the form of boils and blisters spreading with an alarming rapidity on every limb of my feeble frame. Thanks to the wisdom and medical intervention of a certain Kim Sanders, however, the reaction was fortunately not nearly as severe or hideous as last summer's outbreak.

5) E. All of the statements included here, and many more, proceeded from my lips unrestrained directed at the vile effects of that heaven-forsaken vine.

6) A. This was no gentle April shower, folks. It was sudden, intense, and accompanied by powerful gusts of wind, the likes of which I had not seen since monsoon season in Korea. Though a mere 5 minute walk to my car, I was thoroughly drenched from head to toe, socks and all. As fate would have it, there were three perfectly good umbrellas awaiting me in my car.

7) C. While all plausible scenarios, it was a violent hail storm that was the culprit here. At 8:19 am on April 27th, golf-ball sized hail pelted and pummeled my car, damaging the entire body with dents and dings and even cracking the front windshield. While it is frustrating, I still consider myself fortunate in comparison to the poor souls in Alabama and elsewhere throughout the southeast who lost everything.


8) D. The Statue of Liberty guy. To my best recollection, he had been standing there steadfastly everyday since January through the harsh winter wind, snow and rain to advertise tax refund loans. He was last seen on April 18th - Tax Day - much to my joy. I often wonder why businesses in Knoxville employ people to dress up in ridiculous outfits and advertise for them at busy intersections, where a sign posted in the ground would be just as effective. I will be honest - despite this man's best efforts to lure me into a tax refund loan, I was never tempted in the least bit:


9) D. Jesse, my brother, and his squad from Cumberland University squashed the life out of Lee University, who was ranked #1 in their conference. Go Jesse!



10) A. I will be accompanying my noble sister and brother-in-law, a native of France, to tour France and Switzerland after this semester is said and done. Am I pumped about this? You better believe it, kid.

Bonus) C. If you said "the mysterious and aromatic Kim Sanders", give yourself a bonus point, old chap! Departing at 5:00 am sharp, Mademoiselle Sanders and I traversed more than 1.5 hours of Appalachian terrain to Clingman's Dome, hiked the short yet incredibly steep trail to the top, and delighted ourselves to the finest vista the Smoky Mountains can afford whilst partaking of a splendid breakfast at sunrise. Fun!

Alright! Tally 'em up! How'd you do, old sport?

The Curious Case of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles (Volume 3)

(...it is the heart-warming story of love, hope and redemption. It is the heart-wrenching story of jealousy, betrayal, and the inevitability of fate. It is the amazingly true story of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles, the neighborhood cat next door...)

Chapter 6. The Fall of the House of Myrtle.

In her pantry, beside the broom and canned squash,
to the right of the canisters of Metamucil and boxes of moonpies,
solemnly hangs a neon green leash, embroidered with the initials, C.C.W.

Peer into the kitchen! Among the dozen milk bowls, one is empty.
Homogenized milk once joyfully filled its brim, 'twas lapped up with gay abandon!
But, lo! The lonesome milk bowl now waits. Dry. Discarded. Forsaken.

Descend to the basement, and observe the abandoned litter box!
Yay, that which once waited, ready to sterilize all with its powerful deodorizing agents,
now longeth for a paw to rake its soiled contents once more.

In the laundry room, lay an assortment of hand-knit sweaters,
neatly folded, gaily accessorized with brilliant sequins and merry bells.
It now layeth silently atop the clothes rack, with none to adorn.

Come to the living room! Harken your ears, you sluggard!
The grandfather clock marks time in tandem with the rocking chair
as it sways to and fro, squeaking on its rusty hinges.

Momma Myrtle! Once so merry, once so cheerful!
She rocks slow, listless, and without expression.
Sullen is she, gazing quietly at a photograph in hand.
A photograph of an old companion.

'Twas a companion who would, at the slightest beckon, joyfully leap upon her lap,
and take great pleasure at nibbling the processed poultry product from her very fingers.
'Twas a companion who would, at the slightest beckon, joyfully leap into her bosom,
and take great pleasure at lapping up the leftover milk from her cereal bowl.

Oh, good Myrtle! Where now is thy companion?
Wherefore is light given unto her in misery,
and life unto the bitter soul, which longs for her furry friend?
Wherefore, good Myrtle, hath woeful tidings befallen your home?

Chapter 7. Rendezvous at the Riverside.

February 20th, 2011. 6:00 am. The much anticipated day had finally arrived. Bleary eyed and discombobulated, an involuntary yawn escaped as I rolled from under the warmth and comfort of my blanket. Navigating through the darkness, I staggered into the lavatory where I would go through the standard routine - cleanse the body in the shower, brush the fangs, and nick the chin multiple times shaving, applying small tatters of toilet paper to assist the blood clotting process. The next step in the routine is usually to stumble over to the mountain of clothes strewn about on the floor and selecting an attire that no sensible man would probably ever wear - sweatpants, moccasins, and coonskin cap. And, of course, the final step before darting out the door is usually to address the cries coming forth from the carnivorous abyss that is my stomach. This particular morning, these cries were silenced with a banana, which was systematically peeled and devoured whole. With face now checkered with white tatters of toilet paper, hunger pangs momentarily staved off, and dressed like one who has utter disregard for modern fashion, I was finally ready to greet the brave new world. My destination? Henley Street Bridge @ 7 am.

6:50 am. My arrival at the bridge was uncharacteristically early, so I took a little stroll on the riverside. A few eager rays of the morning sun visibly broke over the mountainous horizon. The sky itself seemed to be set ablaze; painted with fiery reds, pinks, and oranges.


How remarkable is it, I thought, that during a sunrise or sunset, even a dull and drab concrete edifice, such as the Henley Street Bridge, can be transformed into a most picturesque and sublime scene?


Or, how remarkable is it, I thought, that the same dull and drab bridge during the heat of day, can suddenly be transformed into a most romantic display at twilight, as it was during the holidays?


Below on the dock, in the early morning, were two Canadian geese waddling along, wing-in-wing, quacking quietly amongst themselves in low muffled tones.

I had always heard that Canadian geese are monogamous and mate for life. And, I had always wondered what their courting and mate selection process was like within modern goose culture? I imagine that all the young female geese blush when the young strapping goose who leads the "V" formation waddles by. And, what about their marital relationship? Once the "goose in shining armor" appears, once he woos (or is wooed by) his lover, and once the honeymoon stage is over and the chief aim in life shifts from mate selection to rearing the next generation of goslings, does the fiery passion of love subside? Do they have the occasional argument? Surely, they do. After the heated words have been shared and the feathers have been ruffled, I'm sure they're able to smooth things out, at least for the sake of the goslings. I wondered what these two on the dock below were discussing? Judging by their low muffled tones, it seemed to be a topic of great importance. Perhaps, they were planning on hatching another brood of goslings? Or, perhaps they were discussing their lifelong dream of early spring migration? Or, perhaps even a few simple words of gratitude, such as, "Thank you for catching that trout last night, sweetheart. And, the small insects. They were delicious."

7:00 am. The pair of geese flew away, probably because I looked suspicious. I sat down on a nearby bench at I glanced at my watch, which reported it was precisely 7 'o clock. Just after the second hand finished its revolution, my nostrils were suddenly overwhelmed by the sweetest of aromas. My olfactory senses, which are locally renowned for their keenness - so keen in fact, that I sometimes wonder if I should have pursued a career in a canine drug detection unit - my olfactory senses were in ecstasy as they scrambled to categorize the aroma. They concluded it was the scent of spring lilacs, and perhaps a hint of honeysuckles. And, sure enough, in my peripheral vision could be distinguished a tall slender figure ambling slowly in my direction.

And there she was...

Iris. Iris Peppercorn.

Chapter 8. The Rapturous Iris Peppercorn.

They say that punctuality is the politeness of kings, or in our case, the politeness of queens. She was as punctilious as she was meticulous. And, as her paces drew steadily nearer, the clicking of her sensibly low heels upon the concrete sidewalk grew steadily louder. My pulse rate hastened, for reasons I could not discern. Also indiscernible was what she was carrying in her arms. It seemed to be a medium sized suitcase, but then again, my peripheral vision isn't nearly as reliable as my olfactory senses are.

She walked at a leisurely pace, as if in slow motion. And as she did, a gentle leeward wind tossed her golden blond hair over her left shoulder, like mellow ocean waves being tossed ashore. Her black velvet dress seemed to undulate as she walked, in a way that would captivate a man's attention, and take his mind off of supply side economics.

We greeted one another and, after the usual civilities, she directed my attention to the suitcase, which, in fact, was not a suitcase at all - it was a small portable cat kennel. Had my attention not been so captivated, I certainly would have noticed the furry tail protruding from the ventilation holes. Or the razor sharp claws projecting outward from the caged front.

"Mr. Johnson, the case is closed. Say hello to Captain Cuddle-Wuddles." she said, with a cool impassivity, holding up the kennel in plain view.

A thousand questions raced through my mind. Where was he? Is it really him?

Well, that's only two questions, I know. But, it seemed like a lot more than that at the time.

"The Captain is safe and sound, Mr. Johnson." she said. "He was rescued by one of my finest agents. Allow me to explain."

Chapter 9. The Dramatic Rescue.

Iris proceeded to describe the events that had transpired over the last four weeks, how she had scoured the four corners of the internet in search of The Captain. With no luck from search engines, she resolved to conduct an old-fashioned investigation at the scene of the disappearance - Myrtle's home. After a thorough search of the residence, the case was looking more and more bleak, until a most peculiar piece of evidence was discovered partially concealed under The Captain's litter box. It was the following advertisement:


The "Happy Cat Cafe"? Written in a foreign tongue, presumably Korean? Initially, she placed little meaning on the advertisement, but, over the next few days, a gnawing suspicion began to plague her. Understand, dear reader, that a good private eye has a strong sense of intuition, and it is sometimes upon this intuition which he or she must rely heavily. It was a long shot, but she contacted her "sources" in South Korea, and forwarded the big case to him. Nothing was expected to come of it, but a mere week later, a shocking report was delivered to her office.

According to said report, her "source", a field agent codenamed Reuben Haggar, had cleverly disguised himself as an unassuming area garbageman, as seen here, practicing and perfecting his rummaging techniques:

Under this guise, he located the "Happy Cat Cafe" based on the address in the advertisement. He entered as inconspicuously as possible and captured undercover photographic documentation of the joint, which he describes as a "place where cats live in deplorable conditions operated under the deceptive pretext of a friendly coffee shop".

(Note: The following photographs may be slightly disturbing and may not be suitable for young viewers.)

According to the reports, the "Happy Cat Cafe" is not so happy after all. It is what the undercover agent described, in his own words, as "cat purgatory". Disturbingly enough, the cats allegedly...

...are subjected to indescribable suffering!


...languish away under miserable, squalid conditions!


... endure the weeping and gnashing of teeth!


...and endure the unfathomable humiliation of playing stupid games with the wretched humans!


...and fall prey to the perilous clutches of.... certain doom!


...are never allowed even a moment's rest under the watchful eye of the meddlesome customers!


... they run! they hide! in hopes of a nap! but all in vain!


...forced to wear hideous, and often unfashionable, sweaters! some of which display poorly English spelling/grammar! Oh, the humanity!


...forced to suffer loathsome, low-budget meals! and milk nearing its expiration date!


...and lead generally unhappy lives!


It was here, in the deceptively named "Happy Cat Cafe", whereby the long lost Captain Cuddle-Wuddles was fortuitously discovered by undercover agent Haggar. Bingo! He was found hunched over and cowering in the middle of the floor, making vegetative sounds, probably in fear of being forced to wear one of those hideous sweaters:


Initially, Captain Cuddle-Wuddles scorned and ignored the beckoning of Agent Haggar, escaping high into the rafters, beyond his reach.

But, Agent Haggar quickly garnered his affection, and ingratiated himself with some tuna-flavored snacks, just like the ones Myrtle hides on the top shelf of her pantry, right above the reserve case of RC Cola.


With a stomach full of yummy snacks, Agent Haggar lured The Captain into his bag, and made the dramatic escape:


And, just like that! Captain Cuddle-Wuddles was rescued from wretched confines of the "Happy Cat Cafe" - he was homeward bound.

Iris Peppercorn opened the kennel, coaxed out The Captain, and placed him in my arms. A tear welled up my eye at the sight of everyone's favorite neighborhood cat, partially from emotion but mostly from allegies. He was finally home. I held the furry creature in my bosom. He licked the remnants of banana from my fingers, and then proceeded to vomit on my shoulder, which I interpreted as a token of gratitude. He then began pawing at the white tatters of toilet paper on my face, which I had completely forgotten about in the hustle-and-bustle of the morning rush.

I wiped the vomit from my shoulder, peeled the remaining white tatters of toilet paper from my face, and thanked Ms. Peppercorn for her services.

"Don't thank me, kid. Thank Agent Haggar. He's the real hero in this case." she said.

We parted ways. Perhaps we would meet again, another day, another case. For now, there was only one place left to go - back to Momma Myrtle.

Chapter 10. The Glorious Reunion.

Harken your ears! Lift up your heads, Rocky Top!
To the sounds of celebration! To the sights of joyful dancing!
For the house of Myrtle celebrates the return of her prodigal kitten!

Prepare the fattened salmon! Prepare the fattened codfish!
Open the cans of tuna! Fill the milk bowls once again! To their brims!
Behold, the grand feast at the house of Myrtle!

Oh, Captain! My Captain!
Your fearful trip is done!
O, how you suffered the tragedy of wearing unfashionable sweaters;
let him now be adorned with the Amazing Technicolor Dream Sweater!
O, how you endured the bitter sorrow of low-budget meals and milk nearing expiration;
let him now be lavished with the finest of bumblebee tuna and the freshest of 2% milk!
Ready the neon green leash from the pantry!
Freshen up the litter box!
For the brave Captain, our brave Captain's fearful trip is done!

The Curious Case of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles (Volume 2)

(...it is the heart-warming story of love, hope and redemption. It is the heart-wrenching story of jealousy, betrayal, and the inevitability of fate. It is the amazingly true story of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles, the neighborhood cat next door...)

Chapter 4. Much Ado About Cats.

Some two weeks had transpired since hearing the terrible news about Captain Cuddles-Wuddles' sudden and inexplicable disappearance. Summoning every ounce of artistic ability laying dormant within, and armed with a 64 count box of crayons, I created what was, in my humble opinion, the most captivating flier to ever be conceived by any human being recorded in the annals of history. It was nothing short of a masterpiece. 100 copies were promptly distributed around town, in all the hot spots - Ralph's Five-and-Dime, the Rocky Top Café, Ronny's Feed-and-Seed, Connie's Cut & Curl, Jimmy's Discount Spatula Warehouse, the town dump, etc, etc, etc.

Taking it a step further, I won the hearts of local dairy farmers, who allowed me to post this, in my humble opinion, breathtaking portrait on the business side of every milk carton in the local area:


Pretty soon, the whole town was abuzz with the news. Local newspapers featured the story on the front pages. Special radio announcements were made, interrupting even the latest hits from local folk band "Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers". Candlelight vigils were held daily downtown. Republicans and Democrats alike joined forces, putting aside partisan politics, to raise awareness throughout the great Volunteer State. But, sadly enough, all to no avail. With every passing day, the outlook was beginning to look more and more bleak.

Chapter 5. Conjecture in the Café.

The first rule in any criminal detective work, as any good sleuth should be familiar, is to identify the motive behind the crime. What would be gained? Who is the beneficiary? Equally important is the question of assumptions, or more precisely, what underlying assumptions about the case have been neglected, not being given proper consideration?

It was these questions, and more, that I intended to ponder when I arrived home on the eve of January 20th, 2011. Befuddled and confounded by the lack of response to my fliers and milk cartons ads, and exhausted from another long weary week at school, I tossed my backpack in a dark corner where it would remain untouched for the entirety of the weekend, removed my deerskin moccasins and coonskin cap, poured myself a tall glass of sweet iced tea, sank deeply into the crevices of my rocking chair, propped my feet upon an old empty wooden barrel, and proceeded to ponder. And ponder. And.. ponder...

When I awoke nearly two and a half hours later in the same position, only slightly more molded to the contour of the rocking chair, it dawned upon me that my feeble brain was no match for such an incomprehensible case to crack. I needed help. I needed to harness the most brilliant, the most penetrating, and the most facile minds Knox County had to offer. I also needed a sandwich. So, dawning my moccasins and coonskin cap once again, I headed down to the proverbial wellspring of all human wisdom - the Rocky Top Café.

Just as I had hoped, the folks down at the Rocky Top Café were heatedly debating the whereabouts of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles. I ordered a smoked ham sandwich on pumpernickel rye. No tomatoes. Extra spicy brown mustard and a dill pickle. Large Marge, the 340 lb voluptuous cashier, took my order and Charlene masterfully assembled the respective components, creating a delectable work of art unrivaled by any other deli in the local area, a delectable work of art that was sure to knock my socks off and tantalize my taste buds.

As I waited, I made my rounds in the café, chatting with all the regulars and drawing upon the great well of wisdom. The general consensus was that The Captain had probably fallen in love and ran away on a tryst, as young naive cats are prone to do. Some surmised that he had become philosophical, contemplating the profound mysteries of earth and heaven - the absolute sovereignty of God, total depravity of man, and the immutability of his nature, and how all this relates to cats. Others, like old man Herschel, speculated that the Captain was restless, and unsure if he was ready to settle down and take up the fatherly responsibility of raising a litter of kittens. Others were of the opinion that he yearned for the profligate life of a stray once again. Still others suspected that he yearned for fame and success, like recent internet sensations Rocky the Standing Cat, or Joey the News-cats-ter, or that one cat who won first prize at the Westminster Dog Show? All plausible ideas.

Walter made the most convincing case, however. Citing an article he had recently read written by a prominent cat psychologist in San Francisco, he explained how "large households of cats, especially those with 10 or more, can often become a breeding ground of envy that can develop into contempt if not handled properly". Walter then cited another article from the same author explaining how "adolescent male cats (those aged 15 - 20 in cat years) often go through a period of rebellion where they are prone to drastic mood swings and temper tantrums, are susceptible to the temptations of the flesh, and even refuse to wear adorably cute outfits".

Fascinating. I suddenly recalled how Myrtle described the subtle changes in his behavior during the 4-week period leading up to his disappearance. He seemed somewhat aloof and withdrawn, no longer willing to lap up milk from Myrtle's cupped hand. He seemed somewhat irritable and emotionally unstable, crashing from ebullient highs to gloomy contemplative lows, and back up again. He shunned all beckonings and even refused to wear his custom knit socks. He was pugnacious, as evident by the increased scuffles with the other cats, especially Mr. Whiskers and Sir Snuffle Muffins. And, if my calculations are correct, did he not just celebrate his 17th birthday in cat years? Which would put him squarely in the middle of the troublesome age range that the cat psychologist described? The clues were suddenly falling into place, one by one.

"Smoked ham on pumpernickel rye!" announced Large Marge.

I thanked her, slipped her a five, and winked at Charlene.

"Keep the change, Margie." I said, with as much urbane suavity I was capable of.

I took my sandwich and when I glanced down at the counter, I noticed something that hadn't been there before. At least, not that I had seen. It was a business card, mysterious and incredibly low-budget:


As imperceptibly as possible, I slipped one of the cards into my pocket. Satisfied with the results of my intelligence collection efforts, and soon to be satisfied with a delicious sandwich, I bid farewell to the fine folks at the Rocky Top Café, and sauntered out the door armed to the teeth with valuable clues and conjecture, as well as this mysterious business card. My next step? Do what any sensible man would do - consult a private eye.

Chapter 5. Iris Peppercorn, Private Eye.

It took me a few days, but after scouring nearly every street in town, I finally stumbled upon the offices of Gary Litton, Private Eye. It was inconspicuously tucked away in an old dilapidated office building that sold used spy equipment, just as one would expect.

I knocked on the front door. Once, twice, thrice. On the third time, it suddenly opened, seemingly on its own accord.


I entered a dimly lit, empty room.

"Hello?" I could hear my own voice echo off the bare brick-and-mortar walls. Nobody answered.

The door latched shut behind me, which made the room even darker.

"Hello??" I yelled again, a bit louder. I peered down an adjoining hallway, and noticed a light glowing from under one of the many closed doors. I ambled slowly towards the door, and before I could even knock, I heard a voice from within. A lovely voice with a distinct northeastern accent.

"Come in, kid."

The door squeaked loudly as it opened. I stepped into a windowless room, with a low hanging ceiling lamp that swayed from side to side like a pendulum. It looked like some kind of interrogation room, the kind you would grill someone in for hours. The sole decoration on the wall was a topographical map of Tennessee with various cities highlighted in yellow. A few darts had been thrown into the map, some of which still dangled loosely and some which had already fallen below. The desk was covered in stacks of papers, file folders, a smoking ashtray, and a red notebook. Behind the desk sat a young lady, whose face was partially obscured by the low hanging lamp. From what I could tell, she was probably some secretary or assistant to Mr. Gary Litton.

"Mr. Johnson, I presume?" she said, in her melodious voice.

"Yes.. how.. did you know my name?" I asked, a bit startled.

"That's my job, Mr. Johnson. To know things. And, if I don't know the answer, to find out." she said, standing from her chair to file away some documents in the adjacent filing cabinet.

I could tell she was a classy lady. And, when she stood up from her chair, my suspicions were confirmed. She was tall, and appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore sensibly low heels along with a mesmerizing black velvet dress that fit the contours of her hourglass figure in a way that seemed to take a man's mind off Captain Whats-his-name, at least momentarily. Her eyes were hazel brown and like that of a sphinx - mysterious and magnetizing. Her golden locks of hair were well groomed and fell freely over shoulders and neck, partially covering her pearl earrings, like a grapevine might cascade down over its delectable green clusters in the summer.

"Look, Miss...." I stammered, mesmerized by her beauty.

"Peppercorn. Iris Peppercorn", said she, finishing my sentence. It was a name you would expect someone to have in the early 20th century, when names of flowers were wildly popular - Iris, Daisy, Daffodil, or Daffy, Petunia, Rosemary, Lilly, Jasmine, Myrtle, Violet, Ginger, etc. Although, I suppose not all flower names were big winners - Hibiscus, Hydrangea, Geranium, Snapdragon, Rhododendron, Chrysanthemum.

"Ah, yes. Ms. Iris Peppercorn.. I was expecting to meet a Mr. Gary Litton, the private eye. I found his card at the Rocky Top Café."

"Gary's out of town, busy busting up a molasses ring over in Johnson City."

"Well, Ms. Peppercorn, perhaps you could be of some assistance. I'm looking for a cat. A cat named Capt..."

"Captain Cuddle-Wuddles?"

"Precisely. You've heard of him?"

"I've seen the fliers around town, kid." She rummaged through her trash bin, and pulled out a crumpled flier - my flier. "I found this one in the parking lot at Ernie's Sewage Pump & Dump down the road. In my entire life, I've never seen such a pathetic attempt at a cat portrait. Hideous." As she said this, I could feel my sense of self-esteem shrivel away inside, as a spider web shrivels at the touch. How many hours had I spent on what I considered to be a masterpiece, the pinnacle, the zenith of human artistic ability?

"That's him, Miss Peppercorn. That's Captain Cuddle-Wuddles. I need to find him, and soon." I replied, with as much nonchalance I could muster.

She opened the red notebook on her desk, scribbled something in it, and said, "Listen up good, kid. I need four weeks to work the case. Meet me under the Henley Street bridge on February 20th. 7:00 am sharp." She closed the red notebook, lit up a cigarette, exhaled a ring of smoke, and said in a cautionary tone, "Be a minute late and people will be posting fliers of YOU around town. Kapeesh?" She crumpled up the flier and tossed it into the trash bin.

She was a mysterious figure indeed. I nodded my head in tacit agreement, backed out of the room and into the dark cavernous hallway. The front door opened once again, seemingly on its own accord, and out I went, reciting to myself the date and time of our planned rendezvous, committing it to memory.

"February 20th, 7:00 am. February 20th, 7:00 am. February 20th..."

(to be continued...)

The Curious Case of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles (Volume 1)

It is the heart-warming story of love, hope and redemption. It is the heart-wrenching story of jealousy, betrayal, and the inevitability of fate. It is the amazingly true story of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles, the neighborhood cat next door.

Chapter 1. Mama Myrtle, Local Cat Lady.

As the faithful and astute followers of this local news site are well aware, Myrtle is the sweet old lady across the street who, in the blossoming flower of her youth, once won the junior beauty contest at the 1929 Tennessee Valley Fair. It has been said that her beauty was unrivaled by any other in Rocky Top, and maybe even all Appalachia itself. But, the inexorable effects of time and age have caused those once long golden strands of hair to become all but gray and white; it has caused that once firm and fair skin to become all but wrinkled and shriveled, like a dried prune; and, it caused that voice, once so vibrant and youthful, to become all but shrill and unsteady.

In her twilight years, Myrtle had charitably turned her home into a veritable feline refuge, even purposely avoiding matrimony in the interests of the local stray cat community. To this community, her home had become a brilliant shining light, the fabled land of milk and honey, and a resplendent beacon radiating its rays of hope throughout the barren wasteland that is northeastern Knoxville. Some may call it an unhealthy interest, but whatever the case may be, she considers her cats as her own biological sons and daughters. This is just a rumor, but she is said to have taken out a moderately sizable life insurance policy for each of her kittens, and to her favorites - like Sir Snuffle-Muffins, Brother Freckles, Mr. Whiskers, Monsieur Mittens, Horatio, Professor Snugglepuss, Albert Feline-stein, Mr. Socks, and Captain Cuddle-Wuddles - to these, she had even included in her will and last testament. But, this is just the gossip around town.

Chapter 2. Special Delivery From Heaven?

December 25th, 2008. Christmas Day. It is a date that Myrtle claims to be indelibly seared into her memory. The story, as she tells it, may seem somewhat incredulous to some, but she insists upon its veracity, and is even willing to stand before a jury. She had just finished feeding her beloved flock of cats their morning meal of bacon and eggs, and was just about to clean the litter box when she suddenly heard a faint rapping upon her back door. At first, she ignored it. Must be the wind, she thought. She finished tidying up the litter box and yelled at Monsieur Mittens for leaving a such a stinky mess despite her repeated warnings. And, just when she was about to begin doling out the kittens' Christmas presents, she heard the same faint tapping again. Opening the door on its creaking hinges, she looked down in disbelief:


A wild raccoon holding a little bundle of joy? She rubbed her eyes and adjusted her spectacles, she said, but there it stood, looking up at her. Perhaps, this is a gift from heaven itself, perhaps to recompense her good virtue to the stray cat community? Speechless, she took it from the critter's arms and cradled it into her bosom, overjoyed with the miraculous new addition to the family. And, with the exception of that incredibly durable Tupperware set she received in the Christmas of 1972, it was the best Christmas present she could ever ask for. The bond was immediate. She took one look at the heaven-sent ball of fur, saw how cute and cuddly he was, and promptly named him "Captain Cuddle-Wuddles".

Over the next year, she reserved for Captain Cuddle-Wuddles the finest of 2% homogenized organic milk, warmed to slightly above room temperature, and fed with a bottle. As soon as he was old enough, she said, she was able to hand-feed him the finest of imported seafood- tunas, crab meat, bluefins, flatfish, eel, cod, salmon, etc. And, as if this wasn't enough, she even custom knitted an array of holiday sweaters for him; some for Christmas, some for Easter and Halloween. Others for the less popular holidays - President's Day, Vernal Equinox Day, History of the Buzzard Day, a full 28-day wardrobe for Black History Month, Cinco de Mayo, and even Mardi Gras, which was accessorized with actual beads that Myrtle had won during her more decadent years.

It was clear to me, as well as to most of the members of the stray cat community, that Captain Cuddle-Wuddles was the new favorite. And, if it wasn't obvious before, then it certainly became so this past Christmas when Myrtle handcrafted the finest sweater I had ever laid eyes upon. She dubbed it the "Technicolor Dream Sweater". It was multicolored and covered in flashy sequins and silver bells, and was highly coveted and gossiped about among nearly everybody in Rocky Top - not just the stray cat community.

"It just... looked dazzling." said Myrtle, tearfully reminiscing about the quality of the sweater, and how well it matched his natural fur patterns. "Spectacular."

Chapter 3. "Oh Captain, My Captain"

No more than 10 days has transpired after the unveiling of this so called "Technicolor Dream Sweater" that the beloved Captain Cuddles seemed to vanish into thin air. Where to? No one knew exactly. There was conjecture. There was speculation. But, all remained a great mystery.

It was the fateful evening of January 11th, if I recall - the same day I returned from a clandestine operation known as Operation Tango, a precarious mission in Salt Lake City investigating the migratory patterns of skunks. As soon as I stepped over the threshold of my front door, exhausted and oblivious to the whole situation, the phone rang. It was Myrtle.

I contemplated for a moment whether or not I should answer the phone. After all, it was Tuesday, and she was probably calling to invite me to play Speed Bingo at the local church again. I struggle with telling people "no" sometimes, so I find it easier just to say nothing at all, hoping not to incriminate myself or step on anybody's toes. Admittedly, it's probably not the best way of dealing with people. My intuition told my to answer, so I did.

"Hello? Ms. Myrtle?" I said, as politely as I could.

"Mr. Johnson?", replied a familiar, but quivering, voice.

If she's not calling to ask me to join her for some Speed Bingo, or to ask me to run down to Ralph's to replenish her supply of RC Cola and Moonpies, then it's usually to ask me to borrow a can of bumblebee tuna for her cats. The latter was the most probable.

"Are you running low on your monthly supply of bumblebee tuna again, Ms. Myrtle?" I said, half jokingly.

"No. No. I..." she stammered, without even feigning a chuckle, "I have enough to last until March. Maybe April. It's.. it's Captain Cuddle-Wuddles. I'm worried sick about him." I could tell by her vocal intonation that, whatever the problem was, it was grave. She went on to explain the whole situation.

Oftentimes people just need someone else to listen to them, without interruption or judgment. I was hoping this would be the case with Myrtle. I could simply express my heartfelt pity for the dumb cat, offer a few words of solace, and carry on with my grand plans of taking a nice long relaxing steam shower followed by one of those naps that are unrestrained by the bounds of time. Any hopes of doing so, however, would be dashed upon the rocks by her next six words.

"Can... you help me... find him?"

Well, what could I say? The responsibility and duty to care for the elderly and infirm falls on the young and the strong, does it not?

"Sure thing, Ms. Myrtle. I have a knack for gumshoe work. Let me see what I can do." was my reply, which wasn't entirely true. Gumshoe work requires one to effectively employ a high degree of deductive and inductive reasoning skills, as well as mental "horsepower". My reasoning skills seem to be on the same level as that of a sea cucumber. Or, maybe a goldfish, at best. As if this didn't already bode poorly enough for Ms. Myrtle, my degree of mental "horsepower" makes some people think I should shift careers from speech-language pathology to something more suitable, like maybe a parking lot attendant.

Scarcely was I aware that the next two months of my life would be centered around one mission, and one mission only, all the while, trying to balance the demands of being a college student by day, and a moonshiner by night. That mission? Not to rest until that dumb cat was safely nestled away in Myrtle's lap, dressed in a ridiculous sweater with bells and sequins, and being hand-fed better meals than I am privileged to eat on a daily basis.

But, here I am. On the case...

(to be continued...)

The Curious Case of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles (Prequel)

It is much to my dismay, gentle reader, that I say the following: over the past month, numerous letters have poured in expressing a growing dissatisfaction and criticism with my poor coverage of local events here in Rocky Top. Marcy Fisher, wife of local cricket farmer Jiminy "Cricket" Fisher, expressed her dissatisfaction in no uncertain terms, complaining that their "cricket farm was on the verge of bankruptcy due to the lack of local news updates" and threatened to "tar and feather" me if I "didn't get my head on straight" and "get the latest gossip from Ralph's". Ouch. Even the newly appointed Tennessee Governor, Mr. Haslam, expressed his concern, although in a much more diplomatic fashion, warning me that his "media team is currently re-evaluating the validity of this news site, and are possibly considering a downgrade from its current top-tier news source status to a third-tier tabloid status". Yikes. But, the most scathing of them all was sent from none other than the old grizzled Grumpy Frank Van Popple himself, who lives in the green mobile home on the outskirts of town. Below is an short excerpt from his rather lengthy 7 page letter:

"...leapin' lizards, if it ain't ol' sweet Sally himself! You call this news coverage, city slicker? Spit! I check this blasted website for news updates every dad-gum diddley day, and what do I see? Horse manure! Gobbledygook! You think just because you won that high-flutin' award last year for 'Tennessee's #1 News Source of 2010' or some other hogwash, now you can just ride high on the horse, huh? Well, you listen to me, young buck..... I've hung a man or two in my life, and that don't make me no judge or nothin', but phooey! If you call this chickenscratch 'news', then you're fuller than a tick on stump-liquor! .... Hey, if I were you, I'd call it quits and pick up some trade you might be good at, like quilting or crocheting, sissy boy! I'd call it quits and put it down like I put down my old housedog Rusty last year! He sure was a good dog, ol' Rusty was. Trusty Rusty, we call'd him, and I'd bet you a can o' beans and my wooden leg he could do a heck-of-a-lot better job deliverin' the news than you ever could. We outta tie a millstone to your feet and hurl you into the dad-gum Tennessee River, you snake-oil sellin' Yankee..."

Well, what can I say? One day, the people adore you and want to place a laurel around your head; and, the next day they want to tar and feather you, tie a millstone to your feet and hurl you headlong into the river. But, perhaps some of this criticism isn't without justification? If I were to enumerate every talent a human being could possibly have, extrapolate those talents linearly onto a spectrum, and then analyze where my own talents fall on said spectrum, they might look something like so:


As one can see, my one (and only) true talent in life is foraging, which, despite its playing an essential role to the survival of our distant ancestors who subsisted mostly on berries and roots, is not exactly an area that is likely to be considered "indispensable" by most modern societies. That is to say, my most innate talent in life places me in the same category as it would a small rodent, such as a squirrel. Or, maybe a chinchilla. This may or may not be a surprise to you. What will certainly be a surprise, however, is my second most innate talent, which was more of a recent discovery - rescuing stray cats. And, it is one that, unlike foraging, still retains a high degree of practical application here in the 21st century. All this to say what?

Allow me to elucidate, dear readers, the dramatic and redemptive story of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles, the prodigal kitten. Perhaps then, Mr. Van Popple, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, Governor Haslam and the thousands upon thousands of other blessed readers south of the Mason-Dixie line and east of the mighty Mississippi, perhaps then you will understand and maybe even forgive my apparent unexcused absence from the wonderful world of local news.

It all began on the incredibly uneventful and unremarkable morning of...

(to be continued...)

Facts and Figures from the Cereal Box

Hey kids! Hold on to your hats! Here are some quick facts and figures from the back of the (insert your favorite low-budget cereal here) cereal box! Hooray!

1. On more than two occasions in the past week, a feeble and borderline unsuccessful attempt was made to fry chicken embryos in a skillet for breakfast. Realizing that there would not sufficient time (or motivation) to wash said skillet, I did the next best thing - I filled it with water to mollify the charred remains, placed it atop the stove, and dashed off to school with reckless abandon. I returned hours later, only to discover my home permeated and my nostrils inflamed with an overwhelming charred odor originating from this skillet. This event led me to incorporate an amendment in my list of New Year's resolutions to "Try not to cook eggs if you know you won't have time to clean the skillet, or just leave the skillet outside, or something".
   
   
2. Speaking of New Year's resolutions, this year's list comes with many challenges: "Try not to talk with my mouth full", "Try to be a better listener", "Learn to play Asturias on the guitar", "Try not to eat the same meal three consecutive evenings in a row", etc. etc. - among all these, the most challenging thus far has been none other than my resolution to "Smell better". Not so much in the sense of sharpening my olfactory senses, but more in the general sense of not offending the olfactory senses of others. I feel this single step is the most effective way I can become a better person and make a positive contribution to western society in 2011.
   
   
3. In order to achieve the aforementioned lofty goal, I have devised a multifaceted strategy which consists of 1) doubling the frequency of showers from once to twice a week and maybe even three times in the remote possibility of having a date, 2) implementing and enforcing a "one day limit" policy to all undergarments, 3) abandoning my old cologne "Cats", maybe in exchange for something better, 4) maybe trying some scented candles?, and 5) remembering to be cognizant of other living breathing human beings in my proximity and making an honest effort to retain any bodily emissions that might potentially disrupt the peaceful public until the coast is clear.
   
   
4. There are over 27,000 students on campus at the University of Tennessee, at least 1/2 of which are female, leaving us with approximately 13,500. Let us postulate that, of those 13,500, it may be conservatively estimated that 10% (or 1,350) would fall into the category of "matches Erik's desirable criteria". According to the law of statistical probabilities, one might safely assume that I have had ample courage to approach at least one of these 1,350 females on a date (especially armed with the knowledge that I am possession of the fabled Knoxville Coupon Book, a veritable goldmine of discounts on various establishments and potential dating locations in an around Knoxville). Despite these overwhelmingly favorable odds, according to my records for the year of 2011, the cumulative number of ladies whom I have asked to bear the woeful misfortune of going on a date with me remain at a historic low: 0.
   
   
5. When I posed the aforementioned conundrum to my relationship expert, 7 year old niece, Grace, she offered me timeless advice: "Just tell them something nice, Uncle Erik. Like, 'Even though you are small and kind of ugly, I still like you". I thanked her for the sound advice, but honestly, I probably won't use it.
   
   
6. On my kitchen table, sits a 7 lb unopened can of baked beans. It has been there since October of 2010. I'm not sure what to do with this. (If you are interested, please email me.)
   
   
7. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least a little bit tired.
   
   
8. While browsing through the selection of classical literature at the UT Bookstore, I unexpectedly encountered one of my idols: Scotty Hopson, of the UT Men's Basketball Team. While I admire his ability to dominate opponents on the court, I realized what really impresses me about him is his hair. Awe-struck and speechless at this encounter in the bookstore, the best greeting I could muster was an ill-timed and unimpressive "S...s..s..scotty hopson!?", which went largely ignored, along with my attempt at a high-five.
   
   
9. An inexplicable surge of swagger, or perhaps a momentary lapse of reason, led me to follow the footsteps of Scotty Hopson and shave stripes in my hair. The general reaction to these stripes, which seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, was, "Well, don't worry. It'll grow out in a few weeks."
   
   
10. Despite repeated warnings and pleas from others to consider the ramifications of doing so, I have recklessly continued my downward spiral of fashion, as evidenced by my recent incorporation of sweatpants into my wardrobe, some of which are riddled with food stains.
    
    
11. I am currently reading "The Winter of Our Discontent" by John Steinbeck. I like it.
    
    
12. My greatest accomplishment thus far in 2011, I am ashamed to say, has been defeating my old arch-nemesis, "Soda Popinski" from the 1987 hit video game "Mike Tyson's Punch-out". Much to my chagrin, however, this seemingly impressive feat has not at all won the hearts of any ladies, as I had hoped. One may even further hypothesize that the more time I invest in pursuing fulfillment of my childhood quest of defeating Mike Tyson has a direct inverse correlation with my chances at ever meeting a desirable marriage partner.
    
    
13. Speaking of hit video games and unfulfilled childhood dreams, it was in the peaceful quietude of the UT Library whereby I discovered a hastily written and seemingly urgent email had been sent from my sister, simply entitled "Help!!!!!!!". Somewhat disturbed by the title, and concerned that perhaps some serious misfortune had befallen her, I was relieved to discover her plea for help was merely seeking advice on how to defeat the castle on Level 6 of the1991 smash hit "Super Mario World 3". Sifting through my foggy collection of video game memories from age nine, I offered the best advice I could - "Andrea, listen to me very closely. Use those fireballs. Stomp on those turtles and goombas. And, remember - when leaping from pillar to pillar, timing is everything! You can do it!"
    
    
14. Despite our best efforts, the Audiology and Speech Pathology department intramural basketball team is without victory for the 2011 Spring season thus far. (sigh)
    
    
15. It was on the cold dreary morning of February 9th where, on my morning commute to school, fate, or some other mysterious force, would tempt me to eat breakfast at the Burger King located on Broadway Street - a historic, yet run-down and dilapidated area of Knoxville. Despite a strong ill-foreboding premonition about this particular location, the forces of hunger and the temptation of convenience would overcome me, and, as fate would inevitably have it, this breakfast was the worst tasting food that had coursed through my lips and mingled upon my taste buds in recent memory. But, like a good economically-minded single man, I finished every last bite, including the coffee. Which, oddly enough, tasted just like turpentine.
    
    
16. On this same fateful morning, and on this same fateful street, I ventured to an AT&T store which I had serendipitously discovered the day prior. Having finally decided to purchase the replacement for my lost phone, I needed to reactivate my wireless service. I was greeted and assisted by a kind lady, although she appeared not to have slept all night, and when I inquired of her well-being, she revealed the source of her indisposition - a hideous and terrifying eye infection that I had somehow overlooked, and made me shudder to my core. Did I feel sorry for her? Yes. Did I resolve not to touch my eyes until they had been thoroughly washed, and did I took a silent oath never to visit any business establishments on Broadway Street again? Maybe.
    
    
17. Thus far this winter, I have spent an estimated total of 44 hours skiing, and plan to accumulate at least 10 more hours this weekend at Sugar Mountain, North Carolina. Skiing is quickly becoming my new favorite recreational activity, and will one day perhaps eclipse even basketball?
    
    
18. My cooking skills continue to improve by leaps and bounds. Last month, thanks to my dear friend In Kyu, I learned to make a mean plate of spaghetti. This month, I taught myself how to make macaroni and cheese. At this rate, I will have incorporated 12 rudimentary, yet still delightful, dishes to my cooking repertoire by year end.
    
    
19. To say that I do not miss all the great people in Seoul, Korea would be a dirty, filthy lie from the depths of Hades. I do. And, very much so.

Stay tuned for more, exciting quick facts!

Operation Tango in Salt Lake City (Pt. III)

(Disclaimer: Most of the photos contained here within are the property of Sir Caleb the Valorous and Lionhearted.)

Summary of Day Three - Brighton Mountain Resort

Sunday, January 9th. For whatever reason, I awoke on January the 9th, 2011 the same way I probably awoke on January 9th, 1987 - ridiculously early and full of energy. The biggest difference, I suppose, was that I wasn't eating a bowl of Lucky Charms while watching Mr. Wizard's World, or playing Pole Position on Atari. I leaped from the bed with unusual vigor, hastily dressed for breakfast, and glanced myself over in the mirror before greeting the brave new world. Despite how good I felt, I was shocked to see how haggard and beaten-down I looked, and suddenly realized why those ladies I had tried to make friendly conversation with at the ski lodge had looked at me with such repugnance and horror. Perhaps, I thought, I should keep my ski mask on next time?

I waltzed down the hall and into the cafeteria area, greeted the cafeteria lady, and sat down with Buttercup, who was seemed to be focusing his energies on the mastication of a waffle. Naturally, I was concerned about his knee after yesterday's tumultuous tumble, so I inquired about it. Much to my relief, he said it felt much better, enough so that he could even rejoin the ranks of The Old Squad in our grand expedition. As he was talking, though, another startling revelation dawned upon me. Perhaps, it was the mastication process itself - the elongation of the jaw and its subsequent closing and expansion of the cheeks - that finally made me realize he bore a striking resemblance to actor Dan Ackroyd, one of my childhood heroes due to his role in "Ghostbusters". I wasn't sure if he'd be pleased with this comparison, so I refrained from saying anything. But, let the noble reader judge for his or her self:


When The Old Squad had finished eradicating the remnants of their curds and whey, they bid farewell to the warmth and safety of the base camp and greeted the great outdoors, where a fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight. To ordinary men, this might pose a problem. But, the members of The Old Squad are far from ordinary. Snake-eyes, with his commanding voice, took charge and directed us all to our battle stations: Hammerclaw used a hammer and chisel to remove the ice from the windshield; King Cobra used small explosives to remove the massive snowdrifts blocking our exit from the parking lot; Snake-eyes and Stinger did combat rolls back and forth from the cars in a valiant effort to load the equipment; Buttercup wrestled a venomous colony of snow snakes; meanwhile, I did what I do best - forage the area for snacks and yummy treats, which I am proud to say that I discovered a large supply hidden in a nearby vending machine. And, just like that, we were off!

...through the snow-laden streets!


...over the mountainous terrain!


...where our entourage of vehicles finally arrived at Brighton Mountain Resort, or as we called it - "Checkpoint 143", at approximately 8:39 am MST. With the peak at a respectable elevation of 10,750 ft, it was more awe-inspiring than any mortal eye from Tennessee had ever witnessed:


A cold front had swept through overnight, which had caused the temperature to plummet to a staggering 3 degrees. This, of course, did not bode well for my fleece gloves, which I had foolishly neglected to dry out the previous night and, when exposed to the crisp 3 degree air, froze solid on my hands. I might at well have worn ice cubes on my hands. Or, maybe fishnets. Notwithstanding, King Cobra and Snake-eyes took no pity on me, for the word "weakness" is nowhere to be found in their vocabulary.

Being among the first to arrive, we were entitled with the privilege of carving up the virgin snow with gay abandon. And, The Old Squad wasted no time in spearheading the attack on the great mountain. A green line was quickly subjugated for a warm-up. A nameless blue line was effortlessly conquered. The rest of the day was spent scouring the black diamonds for Charlie. I was feeling better than ever, until King Cobra took me aside and pointed to the following peak and said, "Red Rooster, I need your help. Snake-eyes radioed in, reporting a possible Charlie sighting up there in the bowl. Follow me!":


The "bowl" that King Cobra referred to was the fabled double-black diamond named "The Widowmaker". I stood in awe at the base of the mountain, weighing the proposition on the balances of reason. The inner economist in me coldly calculated the risk-to-reward ratio of such an endeavor; while the inner savage barbarian in me urged me on; while the future father and husband in me pleaded more consideration. But, before I could reason or remonstrate with King Cobra, he was already on the ski lift! Gulp. I girded my loins, took the next available ski lift, and blindly followed him to dizzying heights, questioning my sanity and soundness of mind:



The time had come. This is where we separate the mice from the men, the wheat from the chaff. Without hesitation, Snake-eyes and Stinger zoomed down the precipitous precipice at terrifying speeds. Hammerclaw and King Cobra looked me. I looked at them. I looked downhill. Pairs of glowing eyes could be seen in the distant treeline - probably a pack of famished coyotes eagerly awaiting my demise. I lifted my eyes towards the heavens where buzzards circled overhead, cawing louder and louder as I inched my way closer to the edge. I glanced back at Hammerclaw and King Cobra. They nodded, as if to say, "The time for your great trial has come, Red Rooster. Go ahead. We'll follow close behind and pick up your skis and poles, and administer medical treatment if necessary." I nodded back, as if to ask, "Did you bring the smelling salts? Just in case?", to which they nodded back, as if to say, "Affirmative." I peered over the edge and involuntarily uttered an audible groan from the depths of my soul. And, down I went.

(For the reader's knowledge, the definition of a double-black diamond is, "a trail intended only for the most experienced skiers with exceptionally steep slopes and other hazards such as narrow trails, exposure to wind, and the presence of obstacles such as steep drop-offs or trees.")


I descended the "The Widowmaker" as slowly as humanly possible, in an almost horizontal fashion. Side-to-side I went, stopping frequently to rest. Any remnant of deodorant that had steadfastly endured until now was quickly vanishing. But, there was no time to worry about offensive body odors under the present conditions. Life and death were at stake. Or, at least serious injury. Side-to-side I continued, steadily descending the deathtrap. It took some time, and may even be considered as evidence for the existence of modern day miracles, but somehow I eventually reached the bottom of "The Widowmaker" with all 206 bones in my body still intact. I couldn't believe it. I breathed a sigh of relief. The flock of buzzards overhead dispersed in disappointment. The coyotes howled their songs of discontent. Nature's predators would have to look elsewhere for an easy 185 lb lunch.

The Glaufenhiens continued to push me beyond my physical and mental limits, and by the end of the day, we had dominated countless black diamonds, two precarious double-black diamonds, moguls, and even a few jumps. We came. We saw. We conquered:


Day Three of Operation Tango, by leaps and bounds, proved to be my personal favorite. I find it intriguing how much our individual personalities are revealed on the slopes. Being one of cautious and timid disposition, it naturally follows that my approach to the slopes, or anything new for that matter, is cautious and timid. This circumspection remains until there is sufficient confidence in my abilities to outweigh the fear. On the other hand, the Glaufenheins tend to throw caution to the wayside and embrace danger with reckless abandon, unfazed by the effects of fear. They are cut from a different fabric, or perhaps, a different breed altogether?

After a long day of dominating the hills, The Old Squad dominated T-Kono's - a Japanese hibachi grill dinner. Count it!

Day Three Statistics:

Total number of wipe outs: 16

Number of black diamonds attempted: Numerous!

Number of double black diamonds attempted: 2

Cumulative total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 1

Most frequently used phrase: "Keep those smelling salts ready in hand, King Cobra."

Number of Charlie sightings: 0

Summary of Day Four - Back to the Jungle

Monday, January 10th. At breakfast that morning, Snake-eyes didn't say much to anybody. He had rearranged with his spoon, perhaps subconsciously, the letters of his Alpha-bit cereal to spell out words like "CHARLIE", and "NO SKUNKS", and "LIES LIES LIES ". He was visibly vexed, and his eyes looked bloodshot, perhaps due to a sleepless night. In fact, he was beginning to remind of me of Captain Ahab and his monomaniacal quest for the White Whale. Admittedly, it would be considerably difficult to ski with one false leg made of whalebone, or in our case, skunk bones; but, if there were one man who could pull it off, it would be Snake-eyes.

On the other side of the table, he had unfolded a map of Snowbird and was marking it with a pen. "Here!" he said, as he unsheathed his serrated jungle knife and thrust it into the map, puncturing the wooden table. "Sierra Bravo! That's where we're going, boys. Back to the jungle! Suit up and move out!" My eyes grew wide at those ominous words, uttered with such a tone of unwavering determination. I was secretly hoping we would return to Brighton, as Snowbird had been the site of so much pain, tears, and bloodshed. But, as they say, Snake-eyes knows best. I hastily polished off the remains of my morning repast and prepared for what would become the most adventurous day yet.

And so, to "Sierra Bravo" we returned. Or, as normal civilians called it, Snowbird. The sky was still hazy, obscuring the light of the sun. It was still bitterly cold. And, the frigid wind still howled, perhaps even louder than it did on Day Two. I could feel the cumulative effects of this bitterly cold wind upon my chapped and chaffed nose, lips and cheeks. The one redeeming factor was that there were no mysterious streaks of blood in the snow this time - and, in this, I took great comfort.


Snake-eyes was first in line at the ski lifts. He was bending down, sifting handfuls of snows through his fingers, like sand. "Charlie...", he muttered. At this, he gave the signal to rally around him - a high pitched whistle. The Old Squad, almost instinctively, rallied around him. The morning sun was breaking over the horizon behind him, almost creating a halo around his head.


He spoke, and with each word, a puff of breath was could be seen in the cold crisp morning Utah air. "Gentlemen," he said in his powerful authoritative voice, "it's Day Four of Operation Tango. Your legs ache. You're exhausted. You can barely feel your fingers and toes. Your ration supplies of yummy snacks have rapidly dwindled to dangerously low levels. But! Is this not where The Old Squad thrives?! Did we not raid Raccoon Mountain under much more inauspicious conditions in 1997? Did we not search for and rescue Dean Chicowksi's runaway chicken under the unrelenting snowstorm of 1994? The finish line draweth nigh, my good men! Our glory dwelleth in yonder hills! Now," he said with ski poles uplifted towards the lofty mountain peaks, "follow me to the black diamonds, boys!"

There is something about Snake-eyes - he has always had a commanding presence about him, one that would inspire courage into even the weakest and most fickle of hearts. At these words, The Old Squad, filled with inspiration, released a battle cry so loud and stentorian, the mountains seemed to tremble and quake. "Long live Snake-eyes! And, long live The Old Squad!!", we cried with uplifted poles.

"To Johnson's Last Stand!", cried Snake-eyes. I found this name oddly coincidental, but this is where we spent the majority of the morning investigating:


Despite its ominous name, our treatment of "Johnson's Last Stand" can be described with two words: unbridled subjugation. Every square inch was scoured for any sign of Charlie.


Unbridled subjugation of mother nature, however, doesn't come without paying the price. Day Four of Operation Tango played host to many painful falls, two of which I remember most vividly:

1) Newton's First Law of Motion states, "Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it." I fell victim to this very "external force" Newton so eloquently described on a slope named "The Eviscerator". A well concealed tree root snagged my left ski, while zooming along at a moderately high rate of speed, sending me reeling airborne for about 10 ft. Thankfully, my already aching body landed in a mound of soft powdery snow.

2) Newton's Third Law of Motion states, "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." The action, in this case, was my right ski crossing over my left ski whilst trying to turn left at a moderate rate of speed on a moderate grade of hill. The reaction, in accordance with these immutable laws of physics, was me falling headlong onto the icy packed snow. This had happened dozens of times before, but never so hard. I could feel my cranium bounce off the icy snow, like a basketball, which was accompanied by an audible "crunch" in my neck. Needless to say, this was painful.

The Old Squad used every tactic and strategy in the book to hunt down Charlie. Buttercup even used his tried-and-true lure method, using this 2-inch long "snot-cicle" as bait:


But, to no avail! Despite another 8-hour exhaustive search under every stone, into every crevice, and over the entire face of the mountain - no signs of Charlie could be found!


By 4:00 pm, the sun was beginning to set over the horizon, and the resort was closing its doors. We had no choice but to call off the search, much to the chagrin of Snake-eyes. "Next year.." he kept muttering, "next year, Charlie." We had an 8:00 pm flight to catch, and there was no time to cry over spilled milk. We needed to return to Rocky Top. And, in a hurry.

Day Four Statistics

Total number of wipe outs: 24

Number of black diamonds attempted: Numerous!

Number of double black diamonds attempted: 7

Cumulative total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 3

Total tubes of chapstick lost: 1

Most frequently used phrase: "Total Subjugation"

Number of Charlie sightings: 0

Final Thoughts

What can we say? Operation Tango, that four day conquest of nature and inquiry into the veracity of a local Rocky Top rumor, was over. Had the battle been fought valiantly? Yes. Had there been physical injury? Unfortunately, yes. Buttercup, as we know, had injured his knee on Day Two. Day Four witnessed two more casualties: Stinger, while descending "The Bone Mangler", had tumbled down, resulting in three torn knee ligaments. And, King Cobra, while descending "The Line of Much Sorrow and Regret", had somehow overextended his left knee in a fall, and more embarrassingly, wet his pants in the process. Had there been any truth to the rumor about skunks seeking refuge in the Wasatch Mountains? Unfortunately, no. Even so, shall we categorically conclude that Operation Tango was an abysmal failure? Well, certain questions should be left for the reader to decide.

I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the fact that we had all worn the same clothes over the entirety of Operation Tango. At least, I did. Moreover, there had not been sufficient time or facility to shower after Day Four at Snowbird. One can imagine, as we convoyed from Snowbird to Salt Lake City International Airport to catch our 8:00 pm flight, how this myriad of odors from body and clothing would offend the nostrils and olfactory senses of anyone within a 5 foot radius. Some of us were not overly concerned about this. Others, however, expressed pity for whoever the poor passenger who would unknowingly be condemned to sit next to us on the flight.

I would also be remiss if I neglected to mention our extraordinary return flight. In the spirit of adventure and frugality, Snake-eyes thought it would be best to fly "standby". But, for brevity's sake, I will refrain from expounding further. If you wish to know the details, dear reader, take a trip down to the Rocky Top Café and look for a tall lanky man wearing a coonskin cap, deerskin moccasins, and gray sweatpants. That's me. They call me... "Red Rooster".