Most people, however, aren’t quite so particular, and besides, who wants to wait a whole three weeks to start all those fun-filled summer activities that American families so enjoy? Things like packing up the SUV, taking to the road, and getting utterly lost because Dad failed to update the GPS map from the original version, which was drafted by Lewis and Clark.

The fact is, most folks depend on other cues to tell them that summer has arrived. There’s Hollywood, for one. When the summer blockbusters start making it onto the big screen, you know it’s time. And so, with the recent release of Hangover III—Hair of the Iron Dog-Man, we can be sure that the season is now in full swing.

Personally, I take the ending of the school year as my sign of summer. It’s not that we have kids of school age; we’re empty nesters, meaning that we have already exhausted our nest egg on tuition, book fees, and materials for science fair projects. Princeton’s College of Science has a more modest supply budget than do the parents of your average high school student.

You see, my wife happens to be a substitute teacher. What that means for us is that summer marks an end to the incessant morning phone calls, beginning early enough to wake the rooster, if we had one. But I don’t have a rooster, because I’m retired, and being retired, I have the right, as guaranteed in the Constitution (and if not, it ought to be), to sleep until the crack of noon. Instead, elementary school teachers from all over the district are calling the house in a desperate attempt to find someone, anyone, to take over their classes for the day. I say this judging from what she tells me about some of the students’ behaviors—that and the riot gear she puts on before leaving the house. When school is in session, we get more calls than if we had given out cards with our home number at a telemarketers’ convention.

In addition to being able to sleep in, another summertime perk is that of not having to suffer the anguish of driving through school zones. The main drag through my part of town seems to have a school on every block. So, if I want to go anywhere further than, say, my mailbox between the hours of 7 and 9 a.m., I have to plan the trip as carefully as if I were about to hike the Appalachian Trail. Actually, hiking the Appalachian Trail is easier, not to mention faster, than driving through the school zones.

I know this because I have a friend who once hiked the entire length of the trail, and he assured me that there is not one single orange traffic cone standing in the middle of it. The crossing guards place these cones in the street each morning, making it look more like a motocross. Instead of motorcycles, however, the course is navigated by soccer moms in minivans, who maneuver it while making hair appointments on the cell phone and scolding the kids for not washing the egg stains off their faces after breakfast.

Still, they do this with ease because they have been through the course countless times. They could easily back a horse trailer through it. I, on the other hand, only venture through these zones in times of dire emergency, such as when I’m completely out of coffee in the morning. This is why, when the crossing guards see me coming, they dive into the bunkers that they’ve set up for just this purpose.

So this summer, even though the phone will be silent, I may still get up early, so that for once, I can drive past the empty schools at full speed limit. I’ll do it because I was never able to on any stretch of road in Yankee Land, no matter what the hour. After all, this is Louisiana, where traffic jams are supposed to be as infrequent as Astros’ playoff appearances.

Except, of course, if you happen to be in the vicinity of a drive-through daiquiri stand.

Today, we define the word accompaniment:

ac-com-pa-ni-ment: a term descriptive of one’s working conditions, esp. with regard to large corporations.

“Brenda was pleased about her husband’s new position with the Wall Street investment banking firm, yet she was at the same time concerned that his job at such accompaniment he’d be working very long hours.”

If you attended this year’s Contraband Days Festival here in Lake Charles, then you were in for a special treat. A man in pirate costume was seen strolling up and down the midway with a guitar, playing seafaring songs to the crowd. No, that wasn’t the treat; that was me. The treat was the kangaroos in the Australian wildlife exhibit. Even on my best day, I couldn’t upstage a real, live kangaroo.

I’m a member of the Buccaneers—the official pirates of Contraband Days. As Buccaneers, our job is to go out in costume and interact with the crowd. After all, what’s a pirate festival if there aren’t a few pirates out there bandying about? We’re not real pirates, of course. We could never hack the conditions that real pirates were subject to: living at sea for days on end in wet, cramped, and foul-smelling quarters, often with limited rations; conditions seen in modern times only on a Carnival cruise ship.

Real pirate or no, I was determined to try something a little different this year in my role as a Buccaneer. Pirates are known to have loved music and singing. I’m not saying that they were good at it. In fact, singing was one of their primary methods for torturing captives. Many a prisoner considered it a mercy to walk a plank into shark-infested waters rather than hear a group of burly sea dogs belch out another verse of “Yo, Ho, Ho, and a Bottle of Rum.”

That’s why I figured the role of a singing pirate would be a good fit for me. Even though we’re not real pirates, we try to be authentic. For instance, didn’t all pirate ships have a deejay on board, blasting hip-hop music from a 5.1-channel Dolby surround system, as we have on our parade floats? Well, maybe not, but I’m sure they would have put the technology to good use had it been available during the 1700s. “Please, take the gold and jewels, and the Marquis’ daughter as well!” I could hear the captain of a Spanish galleon cry. “Just cool it with the Lil’ Wayne, please!”

So, armed with my guitar and a handful of shanties, I took to the street at Contraband Days, not knowing what sort of reception might greet me. I walked up to the first group of people that I could find and went into my rendition of “Blow the Man Down.” After I finished, one gentleman remarked, “Hey, hearing that makes me wonder what you’re doing singing here out on the street.”

“Oh, really,” I beamed. “Well, thank you very much, but where else would I play?”

“Isn’t there a crow’s nest way up high somewhere that’s maybe out of earshot?” At least someone thought that I should be moving up in the world.

One tactic that I found quite effective was to stop in one of the food tents and play a few numbers for the people as they ate. There, I had a captive audience, and who doesn’t appreciate a little dinner music? I knew it wasn’t much, but hey, you can’t realistically expect a string quartet while you’re eating pork on a stick. I counted my performances there as a success. I didn’t get jabbed with any pork skewers, and I’m sure those ketchup stains from the occasional airborne French fry will come out in the wash.

I most enjoyed playing for the children. They were mostly scared when I would first approach. After all, a pirate with a guitar does not have the same amount of star power among toddlers as, say, Santa Claus. They probably saw me as more of a cross between Freddy Krueger and Keith Richards. Still, after bribing them with enough doubloons and beads and other trinkets, and sometimes having to buy dad a cold one, I was able to get their attention long enough for quick run through of the “SpongeBob Squarepants” theme. Not exactly authentic, I know. I, for one, could not imaging a group of burly seamen hauling up anchor while belting out, “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea…” It’s the mark of a true artist to know when to take license.

All in all, my performance went rather smoothly. The only exception was when I got too close to the Australian Kingdom exhibit. “Please, sir,” the exhibitor asked as I began playing “Whiskey in the Jar. “You’re disturbing the animals.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Don’t the kangaroos and wanna-be’s enjoy music?”

“Not your kind, sir, no,” she replied. “And they are not wanna-be’s; they’re wallabies. You, sir, are the wanna-be.”

If you’d ever thought of getting a feeder for your back yard, in the hopes that you might attract a few colorful songbirds to brighten up your little corner of paradise; take my advice. Don’t do it! I allowed myself to fall into this trap earlier this spring. As I mentioned in a post back then, my feeder sat idle for a couple of weeks. I didn’t know what was wrong. Maybe they didn’t like the presentation. Perhaps there was a French family down the street that also had a feeder, but they would spend hours, painstakingly arranging the food, seed by seed, into attractive pattern, whereas I would just dump a couple of scoops into my feeder, much like a server in a GI mess line.

But lately, things have changed. I don’t know what it was, maybe a rude maître-d’ in the French people’s yard, but now the birds have all come flocking to my feeder, and they’re eating me out of house and home. Here I was expecting maybe a few little sparrows and a chickadee or two, and instead I’ve got an Alfred Hitchcock movie going on in my backyard.

And Lord, help me if I let the thing go completely empty. Just this past weekend we went away overnight, and when we got home the next day there were about ten doves milling about the empty feeder. When I came out onto my patio, I swear that every one of them gave me a look like I had just said something derogatory about their mother. And these doves were big. I think I saw one of them wearing a gang tattoo. I knew right then that if I didn’t fill that feeder up, and fast, my pickup truck would likely be a subject for target practice that would rival any exercise that the Air Force has ever conducted.

So now, I feel like the administrator of a government food program. I’m having sunflower seed delivered by the truckload. I’m checking with my accountant to see if birds qualify as a charitable tax deduction.

Today, our Yankee lexicographer supplies the definition of inopportune:

in-op-por-tune: a piece of classical music.

“Veronica was fine with her husband’s new found taste for classical music; she just wished he wouldn’t always be singing inopportune in the shower.”

Yankee Land is bracing for another invasion this summer.  This time, it’s not the French, the British, General Lee, or even the Beatles.  No, this one is much worse.  They’ll be coming by the millions, seemingly from out of nowhere.  Not a single hamlet will escape the onslaught, the sight of their alien figures striking terror among the local populace.

No, I’m not referring to the snowbirds returning from Florida for the season.  This invasion is much wider in scope, affecting more than just the cafeterias and bingo halls.  There is only one horde capable of causing such widespread disruption to the Yankees’ way of life, and that is the periodical cicada.

Every 17 years, these creatures emerge from the earth and take to the trees to engage in their reproductive ritual.  The air resounds with the clamor of their mating calls.  Imagine it, if you will, being subjected all summer long to the incessant droning of a legion of six-legged lounge lizards.  It’s reported that in North Philadelphia, you can’t even hear the sounds of the gunfire over it.

The uprising lasts for several weeks, after which, their life purpose having been fulfilled, the cicadas expire.  The landscape then becomes littered with their spent bodies.  And while people struggle to clean up the resulting mess, the birds that inhabit Yankee Land’s Wal-Mart parking lots rejoice in the added variety to their typical diet of discarded French fries.

I was still living up there during the cicadas’ last emergence, and I remember how annoying it all seemed at the time.  But now that I’m here in Louisiana, I’ve formed a much different perspective.  The cicadas are nothing compared to the pestilences that we have to deal with on a yearly basis.  For example, I would gladly trade them for our twice-yearly love bug swarms.  Let them buy their windshield washer fluid by the 55-gallon drum, I say. See how they like having their radiator grills look like they’ve been used to filter industrial waste.

Meanwhile, I’m sure that folks here would put the cicadas to creative use.  Fishermen would rejoice at the bounty of free bait; duck hunters would have new objects for target practice; still others may be apt to put on a pot of rice.  On top of that, a cicada would make a much better high school mascot than a love bug, if for no other reason than the way it sounds.  (“Here come the Fighting Cicadas!”)  It’s enough to strike fear in the hearts of opposing schools on the football field.  But the “Love Bugs”?  That name could only sound threatening in the context of synchronized flower arranging competition.

Folks here would have no problem dealing with the cacophony of the insects’ mating ritual.  I admit that it might be a bit confusing at first.  For some, their first reaction to hearing such noise coming out of a tree may be to throw a string of beads at it.  Still others might start jumping up and down thinking LSU had just scored a touchdown.  But I’m sure people will eventually get used to it.

When you get right down to it, cicadas aren’t much of a pest at all, at least not in Louisiana terms.  They don’t bite humans, and they’re no threat to pets or vegetation or the paint job on your pickup.  All they do is make a bunch of noise all over town.  They are the Barney Fifes of the insect world.  What’s more, they only come around once every 17 years, putting them well below  in-laws visiting from out of town on the pestilence scale.  Here in Louisiana, we have gravel that causes more problems.

So, cheer up, old friends in Yankee Land.  You have no cause to complain.  Take consolation in the fact in that you only have to tolerate a raucous orgy involving millions of intrusive creatures only once every 17 years. Floridians have to deal with it each and every year when Spring Break rolls around.

I’ve been thinking lately that I should be writing more pieces about what’s going on in the news. You always hear about how the American public isn’t well enough informed on current events, and that is not good for the efficient functioning of a democratic society. It’s as if the extent of most people’s reading is what they get from bumper stickers and tee-shirts, especially those worn by well-endowed women. Now there’s a thought—if we want a more informed public, just print the news on Hooters girls’ tee shirts. Do that, and every straight male in America would be totally up on situation in Syria. That might be happening soon, as I’ll get to in a minute. But in the meantime, I figured I’d fill the gap by providing some commentary in this space.

Which brings me to the first news item of the week. It’s reported that the Hooters restaurant chain is facing what they are calling a mid-life crisis. After thirty-odd years in the business, sales, if nothing else, have been flat. So they are launching a campaign to update their image. They’re planning to change their food offerings by adding salads to the menu and using fresh chicken wings instead of frozen. I’m not sure that many of Hooters’ patrons are going there for the food quality, but, okay, these things can’t hurt. They also want to (gasp!) change the servers’ uniforms. I’m not sure why they feel they need to do that. It’s not like McDonald’s is considering putting Ronald McDonald in hot pants or anything. On the other hand, if the change is to put the New York Times on their tee shirts, then they might end up doing a great public service, as I mentioned.

On a similar note, I read about a barbershop somewhere in Australia that is completely staffed by topless females. Some customers come in from 800 miles away to get a shave. If they had a place like that in Texas, what are the odds that the members of ZZ Top would be sporting a new look?

Well, that’s it for what’s been going on in the world last week. We’ll see what the coming week has in store.

Today, we define the word asbestos:

as-bes-tos: a valiant effort, usually in a failed cause.

“The Rutgers quarterback was no match for LSU’s defense; still, he tried asbestos he could.”

by Mike McHugh

If there’s one passion that is shared by guys the world over, it’s barbecuing.  Ever since our prehistoric male ancestors discovered fire, we’ve taken great pleasure in the act of tossing a huge hunk of meat over an open fire and roasting it to perfection, or, often, beyond, to the point where we’d just as well feast on the charcoal.

When you think about it, it’s puzzling how guys are so taken to the art of grilling.  Many of these guys would never even think about going into an actual kitchen.  No, they would not even be aware that their house had a kitchen, if it were not for the refrigerator where the cold beer is stored.  Even so, they have no idea that the kitchen is equipped with other major appliances, particularly a sink or a dishwasher.  They might sometimes become aware of the stove, but only in the wake of a major grease fire where the smoke is so bad that they can’t find the refrigerator.

The only possible explanation for guys’ fascination with the barbecue pit is that it gives them a good excuse to play with fire.  In fact, this is why, no matter the size of their current grilling rig, they are always looking for something that will burn bigger, brighter, and hotter.  The Manhattan Project began as a quest by few scientists, who happened to be guys, to find a quicker way to grill a hamburger.

So, you may believe that grilling is closely associated with man’s propensity for warfare, but nothing can be further from the truth.  In fact, the love of grilling, being how it is shared among guys of all nations, has the potential to be a great unifying force.  It is mankind’s one great hope for world peace.  It actually goes beyond that, as there is no reason to believe that males throughout the cosmos do not share this enthusiasm with us Earth guys.  If we were ever invaded by aliens, all we would have to do is fire up the grill and ice down a few Lone Stars.  By instinct, the alien guys would feel compelled to grab a fresh hunk of space kill from their craft and toss it on the grate.  If we’re lucky, they’d also haul out an ice chest stocked with premium Centauran microbrews and line the Lone Star bottles up along the fence for target practice with their laser guns.

I believe that if the Japanese had developed better skills with the spatula and tongs, they might have never felt the need to attack Pearl Harbor.  Their prehistoric ancestors must have been late in discovering fire.  This is the only reason I can fathom for the invention of sushi.

So you see, the real reason that our world suffers from so much armed conflict is due to the inequality of barbecuing skills among nations.  If only the barbecue-rich nations would share their technology and resources with the barbecue-poor, we would have little need for armies.  Do you think I’m kidding?  Well, how do you think Jimmy Carter was able to broker a peace deal between Israel and Egypt—at the time the most hated of enemies?  Simple, he summoned their respective leaders over to Camp David, where he showed them both how to properly cook a brisket.

Of course, Jimmy Carter was from the South, right smack in the heart of the Barbecue Belt.  It stretches from Atlanta to Austin and contains the world’s largest proven reserves of charcoal fuels such as mesquite, oak, and hickory.  It’s the real reason why Lincoln fought so hard to preserve the Union.  He feared that otherwise, he might never again taste a decent rack of ribs.

I thought that I knew my way around a barbecue grill when I first came here from Yankee Land, but I was in for a rude awakening.  The old reliable Weber of which I was so fond was but a tea candle compared to my neighbors’ big rigs, some of which looked like they were delivered on the backs of 747’s.

Of all the impressive devices contrived by the hands of men, it is these that give us the greatest hope for world peace.  All we need do is amass them together at a meeting of the United Nations General Assembly, and they will soon have their countries beating their swords into spatulas.

Come to think of it, all we really need to do is invite them to an LSU tailgate.

Four years ago, I pitched the idea of a column about a Yankee’s view of living in Louisiana to my good friend, Laruen, for her then-new publication.  We were at a party, and I made sure to wait until the time was right—that is, at least two-thirds of the way to the bottom of the Crown Royal bottle.  Now, exactly one hundred articles later, I’m still going strong, plus I have a line on selling Lauren’s side of the story to Hollywood for the next Hangover movie.

Since I’ve been writing “The Dang Yankee”, the first question I get from people when they see me in public—outside of when it’s open season on Yankees and I’m wearing camouflage—is, “Where’s your wife?”  I’ve learned that, around here, it’s frowned upon for a man to leave the house without his wife unless he’s carrying a fishing rod.  Even then, she’ll often be seen tagging along, and not to help bait the hook, if you know what I mean.

Another question I often get is, “How do you come up with your ideas?”  Well, it isn’t hard.  First off, it helps a lot when you’re married to someone where every day is like an episode of “I Love Lucy”.  It’s not a bad thing, really, except for the reruns, like the episode where she’s calling her cell phone in order to find it, only she left it on vibrate.  That’s the same one where I do a mean job of cursing in Spanish a la Ricky Ricardo.

Actually, my wife is the first one I’d like to publicly acknowledge for this column, because, let’s face it, I’d better.  But, more importantly, I’m fortunate to be married to someone who’s such a good sport about it all.  I could lampoon her in an article, and she’d just giggle over it as she reads the draft over our morning coffee.  Everything is hunky-dory, except for the strange odor of correction fluid in my creamer.

On top of married life, Louisiana itself is a veritable gold mine for the humorist.   This is confirmed by the world-respected Cajun think tank, Boudreaux and Thibodeaux Research Associates, LLC, on whose accurate data I have come to rely as a source for this column.  According to their studies, Louisiana has more jokes per capita than any other state in the nation.  (Fully half of them involve some reference to road kill.)  Of course, our state also has the most prison inmates per capita, and that’s counting

only the elected officials.

So there’s no shortage around here of subject material for a humor column.  I’ve written about hurricanes, high school football, and weed infestations that I could control only with napalm.  I’ve learned, however, that there are certain, sensitive subjects where I’d best tread lightly.  I’m talking grave issues where people hold strong, deep-seated views.  Chief among these is LSU football.  And while I do often hear people knock on the Tigers, I notice that these are all natives talking.  It’s a birthright.  If you were born in Louisiana, you could say all you want about Les Miles, like, maybe, how you’ve seen better X’s and O’s drawn on a Valentine’s Day card.  However, if I, being of Yankee persuasion, tried to say that, I’d find myself resting peacefully underneath a duck blind somewhere in Cameron Parish.  This is why I left the whole Honey Badger thing alone, even though, for a time, his comic value rose almost to the same level as road kill.

I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge my many loyal readers.  (I count at least ten, including my mother.)  So many of you have had such nice things to say about the column.  This has helped to keep me going, even though I’m sure most people do it for fear of otherwise having their names mentioned.  (It doesn’t work; just ask around.)

Finally, I have to thank my editor, Lauren, particularly for sticking with me through my early period (what the literary critics call my “Brown Period”).  She is an English major and reads Faulkner; I’m an engineer who did his senior-year term paper on Dr. Seuss.  (I got a “C”, mainly out of sympathy.)  She taught me a lot about writing, like how important it is to use the right word.  Mark Twain said it best: “The difference between using the right word and almost the right word is like the difference between ‘honeymooning’ and just plain ‘mooning’”.

So now, Lauren, are you sure I can’t get you something for that hangover?