Las Vegas. This town once belonged to Sinatra. To Sammy Davis Jr. To Dean Martin. To Hollywood.
I was a Willie Nelson fan before most of today's Willie Nelson fans ever heard of Willie Nelson.
We had the Swingin' Medallions for a pre-Georgia-Florida football game party on lovely Sea Island, Ga., home of the five-star retreat, The Cloister.
My friend Ron Hudspeth, who gave up sports writing to write about how to have a good time, probably has seen more live country music acts than anybody else who doesn't promote them for a living.
I got old the other day. I ordered a Glenn Miller tape off television. That's a sure sign the aging process has settled in for good. First of all, if you're not old, why are you still up at the hour they advertise musical tapes from the '40s while you're watching a black and white movie with Stewart Granger or a young Richard Widmark? It's either because you're not sleeping like you used to, or you can't run with the big dogs anymore out there in the neon arena.
I got hooked on baseball standings about the same time I learned to tie my shoes. I would have been about 8. It's embarrassing to admit I didn't learn to tie my shoes until I was 8, but manual dexterity has never been my long suit and as soon as I got out on my own. I never bought another pair of lace-up shoes.
So it has begun. Writers in other parts of the country have targeted Atlanta as Spartanburg with skyscrapers and are referring to the 1996 Olympics here as the Bubba Games. The ignorant dolts.
I spent the afternoon drinking with Paul Bryant once. I had been to Athens with him for an autographing session for the book he did with John Underwood of "Sports Illustrated." We returned to the old Atlanta Airport. There were still a couple of hours before his plane back home to Tuscaloosa. "Let's get a drink," he said. The weather was awful. Rain. High winds. Good drinking weather. He took me into the Eastern Ionsphere ...
It was all over the Sunday paper about the recruiting of young athletes to play football at large universities in the region. It's that season. Children are snatched away from their mothers' arms back home in Twobit County, and the next thing you know, the Head Coach is saying, "Ol' Dram Bowie from down in Twobit County is the finest prospect I've ever seen."
There are those who would like to see all this come to an end. All this is 90,000 people showing up to see a football game between the University of Georgia and some less prestigious institution of higher education on a beautiful fall Saturday afternoon.
My dog Catfish, the black Lab, died Thanksgiving night. The vet said his heart gave out. Down in the country, they would have said, "Lewis's dog up and died." He would have been 12 had he lived until January. Catfish had a good life. He slept indoors. Mostly he ate what I ate. We shared our last meal Tuesday evening in our living room in front of the television. We had a Wendy's double cheeseburger ...
There was a letter concerning me on the editorial page of the Atlanta Constitution recently. It didn't take me long to figure out that the letter writer wasn't digging the viewpoints I often express.
It was a night of terror I shall not soon forget.
I read an article not long ago about police in St. Petersburg, Fla., using a pig to sniff out drugs and other contraband.
The fourth annual Gnat Days are under way in the hamlet of Camilla located about as far south as you can go in Georgia and still not be in the bordering state of Florida, where the Northern tourist (That's not the way we did it back in Buffalo") is the leading pest.