A Tribute To Lewis Grizzard - 046

   If you grew up in the south or even have been a fan of comedy journalism, mainly during the eighties, you may recognize the name of the man I want to pay tribute to in this episode.    The writing style from which I draw my inspiration, at least the style you’re used to hearing and reading, was a constant companion of mine during my teen years. And it came from none other than a small town Georgia boy who grew up to make a name for himself as a journalist and best selling author. I’m talking about one Mr. Lewis Grizzard.    A review of this podcast recently compared me to him and while I would never plunge my torchlight in the same ground next to his, I have to say it was an honor to even be mentioned in the same sentence with a writer and comedian that held so much sway over my formative years.    I’ve recently decided to read back through his enormous and rich catalogue of work and thought I might start here with what I can only hope will be seen as a fitting memorial to, in my humble opinion, a southern literary genius.     I’m Michael Blackston and this is a special tribute episode of Funny Messy Life. _________________________      He’s been gone for a while now - since 1994 to be exact, but it still seems like yesterday that I anxiously awaited every publication of the newspaper out of Atlanta on the day that the new article was due from the man who hailed from Moreland, Georgia ... Lewis Grizzard.    He was an opinionated cuss and left no stone unturned when it came to the culture of the day.    I remember seeing his name on books in the school library and my uncle had a few of them on his bookshelf, but they didn’t mean much to me until I realized at fourteen that the world of literature was a magical place - a real one - a safe one where I could go amid the turmoil of my angst and difficulty understanding what was happening to me mentally and physically. I would find some solace in fiction, primarily Stephen King, and also a little Dean Koontz here and there, but my greatest discovery came when I first checked out a book titled, Don’t Sit Under The Grits Tree With Anyone Else But Me. It might a sound corny or cliche’, but his stories took me back to my own childhood, even then when I was still in it, to a simpler time. They were places I recognized because although I was still young, there were things I realized were gone for good and Lewis Grizzard had given me a tangible way to relive them, or something like it, as often as I wanted. Bike rides down old, forgotten roads in the woods, playing in creeks with my buddies and planning all of the awesome stuff we were going to do when we grew up. I was starting to have to make the real plans by the time I discovered Lewis Grizzard and there was a bit of a gut check for me that those innocent days had melted into a time when mistakes could be way more costly.    Mr. Grizzard was known for his outlandish titles, a lot of times compiled from past articles in The Constitution. That’s what we Georgians called the aforementioned newspaper. The full name of the paper is the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Some of the more hoity-toity folks who were already getting pedicures instead of cutting their toenails with a pocket knife called it, The AJC, and now that’s pretty much the go-to. Some of his other books, though, were biopic, such as If I Ever Get Back To Georgia, I’m Gonna Nail My Feet To The Ground. Mr. Grizzard unashamedly laid out his childhood and early adulthood for the world to see and he did it in a way that brought both laughter and tears. I’ll never forget the day one of his new books was announced. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a book dedicated to things of a sexual nature called, Don’t Bend Over In The Garden, Granny, You Know Them Taters Got Eyes and my grandmother was appalled.  She was never one of his fans, but she didn’t miss an article and our conversations about what he’d most recently written gave us a tie to bind our generations together.     I think that’s what drew me to him from the start. He was real. He told you what he thought and didn’t care if you disagreed. In those days, political correctness was a thing of fantasy. Unicorns and fuzzy-headed trolls sliding down rainbows were the only companions of the politically correct because back then, you could be you. It didn’t make you right all the time, but by heavens, you were entitled to your own opinion and if somebody didn’t like it, then they could just keep on walking, preferably north or west, to be with your kind. Around here, I believe he would have argued, we cherish our mamas, respect our daddies, love women the way Christ loves the church, and allow people to think for themselves. There ain’t no dang room for forcing our beliefs on people, so we don’t. An if’n ya don’t like it, then BYE! I relish those days and I won’t give any more commentary on the disintegration of common sense ...