This week I went to Atlanta on business and met my brother Tom for lunch. An hour before, I called to confirm he was still going to be there. In the five minutes I talked to him on the phone, he brought up concealed carry laws, the Kirkwood City Hall shootings, the value of going to evangelical church and the foreignification of the old Georgia neighborhoods where we grew up - he thinks the Mexicans and Vietnamese have some kind of conspiracy hatching.

When he starts talking crazy like that, I talk crazy right back, hoping to scare him straight. I'll say stuff like, "The Mexican and Vietnamese street gangs? Joining forces to take over the neighborhood over there by the new mall with the Linens and Things store? Wasn't making the space shuttles crash and murdering Princess Diana enough for them, or were those just the first steps in their evil scheme? It won't be safe to walk into Williams Sonoma anymore, with the gangs shooting it out by the display of copper saute' pans!" *I start sobbing loudly*

I left that city in 1977 and it sure does look different thirty-one years later, but it hasn't shown me any evidence yet it's slid into the post-apocalyptic Thunderdome of a gangland my brother described to me. It's a progressive, friendly and energetic town, the Chicago of the South.

I got another dose of nutball in about an hour when he got to the restaurant. That's my brother. Fearing just about everyone who isn't a WASP - he even fears us Catholics, but I think he knows when we take over and form a one world government headed by the Pope, I'm gonna put in a good word for him and keep him out of Heretic Prison - the poor guy sleeps with a loaded handgun near his bed. Which is why I always stay in a hotel when I visit him. Ah, the joys of family. We must savor these moments.

On to a more pleasant subject: The Tom Jones show is coming to St. Louis March 11. I will be there with my brother Doug and some of his friends, my wife Linda, and my mother. A big group, plenty of family present. Last time I saw Tom Jones, it was at the Fox, like 1985 and it was a family affair back then too.

My mother was there along with one brother and a couple girlfriends. We really wanted Mom to see Tom Jones, the big 1960's he-man sex symbol. We were way up in the rear of the balcony. From that distance, the stage appears about the size of a large piece of toast, with a wiggling ant-sized figure in skin-tight pants and a pirate shirt standing on it. Yet, even from the stratosphere, anybody could see what appeared to be either:

1. Tom Jones' pet anaconda, which he keeps in his pants leg during his performances; or
2. a penis so excessively large that in Missouri, it may not even be legal to have one that big in your pants without a concealed carry permit.

Then, during "What's New, Pussycat?", I heard a continuous stream of lewd commentary coming from my immediate right, such as, "Whoa, that's a doozy! Mmm-mm-good! They grow 'em big in Wales! Who's your friend, Tom?" etc.. Wanting to see who this deviant heckler might be, I looked over, and it was MY MOTHER.

Mom was giddy with the sight she was ogling through a pair of binoculars. I thought, "Mom, what's got into you, looking at that thing? You never even had sex! What on earth do you know about penises?" To this day I'm not really sure if that monster donkey cock of his was real, or maybe just a whole salami he was keeping warm, for after the show.

It gives me the creeps, big time, to think of it, but if you think it's funny then, hey, mission accomplished. But it's my mother... *involuntary shudder*

Mom's coming to the March 11 Tom Jones show too, but this time she's too blind to see the whopper organ. I'm bringing the binoculars just in case. I have a suspicion it's big enough even blind people might manage to see an outline.

I was flipping through the program and there was a big color picture of Tom in nothing but a white bikini Speedo and red boxing gloves working over one of those big bags fighters beat on to practice. The man's chest was a throw rug of black hair. He was also wearing wraparound sunglasses.

Not that a man dressed in such a minimalist getup wearing boxing gloves isn't odd enough. They sprayed him all over with something to make him look sweaty, like he'd been going at that bag hammer and tongs. Even the lenses and frames of his glasses were perspiring. I guess they forgot to take them off before they sprayed.

Tom introduced his band at some point. There were three leads he singled out. "I'd like to introduce to you three of the finest musicians in the world, and I'm so very lucky to have them... Billy... Jimmy... and Chris!" No guessing who the star of THAT show was, and it wasn't Billy, Jimmy or Chris. It was the guy with the sweaty glasses.

The picture of Tom with the boxing gloves was great, looking butch and sexy. Being not all that tough – I’m more of a romantic than a brawler – I’d rather watch a fight than participate in it. Now let's get back to my brother Tom, who was a very good fighter back when I was in high school and had a punching bag just like Tom Jones'. My brother was a Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do, and personality-wise was just the opposite of the negrophobic wreck he is today.

Tom even talked me and my little brother into going with him deep into the ‘Hood to see “Enter the Dragon” at the Rialto Theater. There were three white people in the theater – just us. This would not normally be a big deal, of course, but the movie had this scene where these two white cops hassle Jim Williams, a black kung fu star. They say provocative stuff like “Hey, this jig’s carrying a passport! Where you going… JIG?”

At that moment this enormous slab of a black guy right in front of me whom I’ve been trying to see around throughout the movie starts talking a non-stop, angry stream of scary stuff. “That white motherfucker… who the fuck he think he is? I’d beat the white ass off that motherfucker! Goddammit, let me get my hands on that white son of a bitch motherfucker” etc., etc. We three marshmallow-white pussies sank down as low as we could, my mouth silently forming ancient and fearfully evil curses against my brother who’d got me into this damn mess. All so he could see an action movie.

Action movies, the kind with the Grand Guignol violence, are a man-treat. I said "Grand Guignol" a couple days ago while talking about action movies with a close friend. After saying it, I thought, "uh-oh, I've never said that one before", and had second thoughts about it. It seemed too fancy for me, for one thing. Like something a guy who writes with a quill would say. Also I wasn't even sure what it meant. Two strikes. Then I looked it up and lucky for me I had it right. I feel like I've discovered a magic wand of a new word, one that can turn me into a pompous fop with just one swish.

One more little story about action movies, this one with my mother in it: My brother and I took her to see "Rambo II", the one where John Rambo goes back to Vietnam to singlehandedly free the last POWs or whatever crazy macho thing he does over there.

This was during the scene where we first see the North Vietnamese soldiers. Rambo, our one-man army, is caught and they just walk up and point their rifles at him. It was very quiet in the theater at this moment of high dramatic tension. The Vietnamese uniforms apparently reminded my mother strongly of WWII Japanese Army uniforms, because she bolted to a standing position, looked around the theater, and yelled "they're JAPS!"

Ah, the joys of family. Such moments speak for themselves. Warms my heart to think of it.

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