The Old Rebel and crew during the 60's

Most kids of my generation remember growing up with Captain Kangaroo or Mister Rogers but if you happened to be a child in the Piedmont region of North Carolina during the 50’s, 60’s or 70’s then you had access to a very special bit of children’s programming known as The Old Rebel Show.

Aside from the fact that the host assumed the persona of a retired Confederate soldier and probable slave owner, something that surely wouldn’t fly in these more politically correct times, The Old Rebel Show was a treat for children for all races (NOTE: much like the television show in NC ethnicities only came in black and white at the time) as long as they lived within the limited range of the WFMY broadcast tower. That is to say you were pushing it if your house was further than a 20 mile radius from Greensboro.

Lucky for me, my father had a hobby of repairing television equipment. Not only did we have a TV in nearly every room but we also had a monster of a directional antennae jutting about 40 feet above our house. While my friends had to watch the Old Rebel through a snowstorm of interference, I enjoyed my kids programming with crystal clarity. Hell, the image on my 17-inch black-n-white was almost HD-like.

For nearly 30 years, the Rebel entertained audiences with a mixture of songs, skits, clowns, and cartoons.  The humor was kinda slapstick and certainly not pandering like the Barney Dinosaur dribble today’s kids are subjected to. And much like the show’s title the southern seditionist spirit carried over to the fan club theme song:

The massive antennae still towers over my childhood home.

“Some of us are rebels

And some are buckaroos

And we are very helpful

From our helmets to our shoes

And when we’re asked to lend a hand

We never do refuse.

‘Cause some of us are rebels 
and some are buckaroos.”

The Old Rebel also had a steady stream of guest appearances from just about every child in the Triad. In fact, I had my television debut on the show and got to play the “name game” with the Rebel. Though my only real memory of the filming was being annoyed at the studio crew blocking my view of the monitors showing the cartoons while we were taping. I clearly had my priorities straight.

Perhaps succumbing to the pressures of the civil rights movement in the 70’s, the show made an attempt to shed the Civil War connotation that it’s name suggests. Below is a rare video of the opening credits during the last few years the show was on the air. Notice the stock footage of African American children playing with fire hydrants in the urban streets (not within 300 miles of the broadcast area) interspersed with affluent white children raking leaves in front of their plantation-like suburban homes.

The Old Rebel Show went off the air in 1978 leaving a vacuum in local children’s programming that was quickly filled by the bizarre afternoon show Barney’s Army and it’s semi-interactive phone/video game hybrid known as TV Pow.

George Perry, who lived the role of Old Rebel for 3 decades passed away in 1980 and a large chunk of television history went with him. You can send those cardigan sweaters back to the land of make believe and put those marsupial-monikered naval officers out of service. For my money, there was nothing better than growing up watching the antics of The Old Rebel. George you are missed.

Links:

TV Party Site dedicated to The Old Rebel Show

Video interview with the Old Rebel’s Son and Co-host

Barney’s Army Site

Just two empty hands and the will to rock

If there were ever to be a Trailer Trash Olympics surely Air Guitar would be the main event. It is something that mulleted youth have been bred to do since they caught their very first riff of Nugent. The formula is simple. No tennis rackets or broomsticks necessary. Just a man with two hands, the desire to rock, and a distinct inability to play a tangible musical instrument.

Though it is sure to be a while before the South rises enough to bring Air Guitaring to the Olympic attending masses, that hasn’t stopped a motley crew of die hard head bangers from wielding their imaginary axes in front of an international audience. I know because I have witnessed it first hand.

Last Friday I attended the regional finals of the US Air Guitar Championships at The Independent in San Francisco.  Eighteen hopefuls gathered for the first of a two night event that would send its winners to the national championships in DC later this year and eventually on to Finland to compete against the greatest faux-rockers on the planet.

It is really hard to explain just how much these contestants put into their acts. One might think that rockin’-out sans instrument is a joke but in truth there is an element of danger involved. Last year the national winner broke a finger during his routine and one rocker chick limped onto stage for her performance due to having one of her toes amputated after a previous air guitar accident.  To my knowledge, there were no spectacular injuries to any of the participants this year but the audience was forever scarred when Dirty Airy stepped onto stage Chili Peppers style sporting just a sock. Caution: Video kinda NSFW.

The surprise performance of the night came from newcomer Tony Dilemma who busted out some amazing moves during an impromptu routine in the second round of the competition. The judges forced the 5 finalists to rock out to Michael Jackson’s Beat It unrehearsed.  Dilemma not only nailed MJ’s moves but also had the forethought to scrawl an epitaph to the icon on his chest prior to the show.

In the end, however, it was fan favorite Awesome that took the top slot. This beast looked more like a muppet than a man, his face completely obscured by his natural afro and mountain man beard.

Awesome saw no equal when it came to bringing down the house. He appeared to be the living embodiment of the trailer park. A white trash paladin that could carry on his bear-like shoulders the aspirations of all red necks.  We wish you luck in the nationals Mr. Awesome. And may Finland eventually cower before your empty hands as they adeptly imitate the melodious strains of another man’s music.

1st and 3rd place winners Awesome and Tony Dilemma

Sponsor Boone's Farm classed up the place

Links:

Official Air Guitar Championship Site

Hard Rock Chick’s Coverage Of The Event

The Independent in San Francisco

You have to start somewhere

The inaugural White Trash Tale, as with many of the other stories you will read here revolves around our lost friend Gary. You see, after he met Tonia he dropped out of sight. As is often the case with a new relationship, he didn’t have time to hang with the boys. We were amazed, however, with the speed and precision that Tonia employed in extricating Gary from our group. After only one blow-j behind the air conditioning unit at her mother’s house Gary was lost to us forever. It should be noted that, up until a few weeks ago, any Alamance County resident could receive similar treatment from Tonia for a mere $40.

Because Gary was totally off the radar we had to rely on 3^rd parties to feed us knowledge of his whereabouts. One day Bobby received a call from one of Gary’s ex-girlfriends. She had stayed close with Gary’s family long after the break-up and they had been telling her things about Tonia’s actions that she found disturbing. So she called Bobby to try and prompt an intervention.

The story she told was this: Tonia had been inviting men over to their trailer while Gary was at work. Seeing as how the trailer occupied the same land as Gary’s parent’s house and as such was in full view of said house, it probably wasn’t the most discreet thing she could be doing.

Rather than tell Gary what the love of his life was up to, his mother decided to confront Tonia directly. This altercation ended with Tonia smacking her future mother in law across the face and advising her to mind her own damn business. When Bud (of Jar Tree fame) caught wind of Tonia slapping his wife, he marched down to the trailer, kicked the door off it’s hinges, grabbed Tonia by the throat, and told her that if she ever lay hands on his wife again he would hit her so hard that it would forever ruin her only means of income (I am paraphrasing here).

Gary, upon learning of Tonia’s infidelity and mother abuse took the same stance that he would use for the great many other horrifying incidents he would endure with Tonia. That is to say that he did absolutely nothing.

After hearing this story, Bobby called me immediately to fill me in on the news. He then made me promise not to tell the rest of our group because he wanted to tell the story himself. He knew that we were all getting together for dinner later that night and it would be the perfect venue for story telling.

We all gathered at the Lone Star steak house in Burlington. It was a charming establishment where they serve roasted peanuts as an appetizer and the customers are encouraged to cast the shells onto the floor.  High class indeed for Burlington.

I was dying to tell the story after having sat on it all day but I knew I had to respect Bob’s wish to tell it himself. But Bobby, per usual, was late. And after sitting through the entire meal about ready to burst, I decided that rather than impart the story through oration I would use a story board instead. This would not be a violation of my promise to not “tell” the story.  Hey showing isn’t telling right?

Turning over my steak-stained placemat, I had the waitress supply me with a packet of crayons and I went about the task of drawing the following comic strip. (Click on the image to enlarge)

Click to enlarge

And so WTT was born. This placemat has adorned the side of Trey’s refrigerator for the past 11 years. It serves as a constant reminder that we have an obligation to you dear readers. This might have been the first White Trash Tale but there are still many more to be told.

Links:

Other stories of Gary and Tonia

Our county's two drive-ins before they turned to smut for profit.

The drive-in movie is one of those lost pieces of Americana that has sadly gone the way of the quill pen, rotary telephone, and manual typewriter. You would be hard pressed to explain the concept to a kid today without breaking out a copy of American Graffiti and even then you would have to get past their confusion about why the creator of Star Wars was able to make a movie that didn’t feature Jar Jar.

There was a time, however, when teenagers flocked to the drive-in to ignore moths and mosquitoes that flew in front of the projector while a poorly reproduced soundtrack crackled from shitty speakers attached by hook to a partially rolled down driver’s side window. All the while scarfing down popcorn and, with any luck, practicing making babies in the back seat. At least that is the drive-in experience that has been romanticized in popular culture. By the time I was born things were a bit different.

The 70’s were a decade of death for the drive-in. Though there were plenty still in operation (our county had two working theaters), it was clear that the activity was on the decline. In an attempt to remain economically viable, one of our theaters, the infamous Circle G Drvie-In, had changed over entirely to adult films. Allowing lone movie goers the freedom to rub one out in the privacy and comfort of their own vehicle. Keep in mind that this was long before the VCR made pornography a living room event for more discreet perverts.

Though my elementary school-aged self was understandably banned from the Circle G, there was still one drive-in in town offering a unique package of family fun for Alamance County residents. And they had only gone halfway down the path of their rival theater.

Located just down the road from Burlington’s Cum Park Plaza (that name is real even if it does work as nice foreshadowing for the rest of the story) was the East 70 Twin Drive-In. I have many fond memories of sitting on the roof of our family station wagon, eating beef jerky and some of the best movie bought pizza you will ever know, while watching a slurry of family oriented films such as Escape to Witch Mountain (long before The Rock was ever thought of) and The Rescuers. All the while my dad sat in the driver’s seat with a cooler full of Budweiser. By the time the double feature was over, the beer had been emptied and it was time to drive home. It amazes me how drunk driving was not part of our vocabulary in those days.

Yes this place exists

The drive-in would be a thing of the past before I ever managed to get my first date into the back seat, but it didn’t preclude the 70 Twin from being my first exposure to adult activity. You see, as the name denotes, there were two screens at this particular drive-in. One that showed the types of movies I was accustomed to seeing and another dedicated to a much more worldly crowd. What is odd about this dichotomy is that the two screens, while admittedly placed at opposite ends of the parking lot, were in full view of one another.

On one occasion, I distinctly remember being taken to see “Six Pack”, a wonderfully redneck film featuring Kenny Rogers as a race car driver that adopts a rag-tag bunch of orphans to serve as his pit crew. I guess that child labor laws at the time were as lax as driving under the influence penalties. Anyway, as we pulled up to the drive thru box office there was a poster advertising the feature on the second screen., a lusty looking lady in provocative attire lured male movie goers with the tagline “Emmanuel: She lives for love”. I read the words out loud as my father did his best to hurry past the gate and find a good parking spot in front of our screen.

It had been raining that day, in retrospect probably not the best drive-in weather, so I wasn’t allowed to sit on top of the car per usual. I had to settle for watching from the backseat as my dad and our neighbor sat up front maneuvering through what was most likely a case of Milwaukee’s finest. Every once in awhile I would notice my father peering into the rear view mirror. This was a behavior not uncommon for any parent forced to keep tabs on disobedient youth while driving. But I hadn’t been acting up at all. Why bother watching me? I soon figured out that it wasn’t me catching his interest but rather something behind us. When my curiosity got the better of me I decided to have a look for myself.

“Don’t turn around Jon”, my father admonished. This, of course, was tantamount to torture for a child. I could feel my neck involuntarily start to twist around, instinctually needing to know that which had been forbidden. But my father was now doing triple duty trying to keep up with the plot of the G rated film in front (probably so he could convince my mother that he hadn’t been watching porn), snatching glimpses of the adult entertainment behind us, and keeping watch over my fading innocence in the back seat.

Knowing that I was never going to win this war while under supervision, I announced my dire need to pee. This is something that all parents take seriously particularly when neglect could lead to urine spillage in the car. My father had to capitulate. I was set free to wander the length of the parking lot and find the bathroom.

Of course, my attention was more focused upon the rollicking adventures of Emmanuel than that of finding bladder relief. Needless to say that it took me an inordinate amount of time to return to the car. To this day I have a gap in my knowledge of Kenny Rogers movie trivia but there is no doubt in my mind of what Emmanuel was up to.

That’s the last time I recall going on such an excursion with my dad. I guess maybe we both learned something that night. Now we have the multi-plex with THX surround sound for a superior movie watching experience and the internet to cover our primal urges. Technology moves things forward but almost always at the expensive of our past experiences. I guess we are better off for it but I have to say that god I miss the drive-in.

No hitchhiking allowed

Though the construction company was actually quite pleased with the roadside art, even requesting that Carnevale build them another one, the local police were not as amused. Not only did they dismantle the creation and arrest the boy but they are also investigating other instances of street art displayed on Carnevale’s website.

So far hundreds of people have spoken out on Joseph’s behalf. All of them asking that the charges be dropped.

We at WTT are strong advocates of The Arts particularly when they are portrayed in such a menacing fashion as to frighten motorists. We wish you luck with your legal troubles Joseph and look forward to your next project involving police barricades and donut boxes.

Links:

MSNBC article about the barrel monster

One pizza too many

You would think that the mere fact that their single product offering is comprised of the number one junk food among American children would be enough to help them capture their intended demographic. Yet somehow they feel that rebranding their restaurants under a heading that calls to mind at worst a ramshackle hobo dwelling and at best the overweight galactic gangster scourge of the universe is going to up their numbers among the hip prepubescent youth.

In all fairness, I am pretty sure that the chain hasn’t served anything resembling an edible pizza in years. So perhaps this is a move to try to thwart any inevitable litigation that would arise from someone mistaking their product for that of our beloved Italian American monument to junk food. In the end Pizza’s good name is probably better off without them.

Links:

MSN Money article about the rebranding

A nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to go there.

Looks like Tonia “Babydoll” Pennington has as much trouble keeping her mouth closed as she does her legs. After being arrested at her place of work, the Paradise Strip Club, my friend’s ex-wife was charged with 14 counts of violating a local ordinance/adult entertainers; eight counts of a clothing violation; seven counts of sexually explicit behavior; five counts of violating a local ordinance by an owner/operator; two counts of conspiracy to sell and deliver cocaine; two counts of selling and delivering cocaine; possession with the intent to sell and deliver cocaine; and two counts of possession of drug paraphernalia (whew that was a mouthful).

She has now gone on record about her exploits with an official publicly posted affidavit that can be read in its entirety here: Download PDF Baby Doll’s Affidavit

It reads like a slutty syllogism so I will sum up the highlights for those of you with short attention spans and a lack of Adobe Acrobat.

Ms. Tonia Pennington

1. I am a resident of Alamance County, NC.
2. For the last eleven years, I have worked periodically as a bartender at the Paradise Club.
3. Ronald Lee Davis is the owner of the Paradise Club.
4. Ronald has a reputation for engaging in sexual activities with the dancers in exchange for money at the property.
5. On several occasions, I have engaged in sexual intercourse with Ronald Davis that the property in exchange for money.
6. On several occasions, I have danced nude in front of Ronald Davis while he masturbated at the property in exchange for money.
7. Each time I engaged in a sexual act with Ronald Davis at the property, he ejaculated (editor’s note: a 100% completion rate is something to brag about.)
8. On one occasion, Ronald Davis paid me $100.00 to engage in a sexual act with him at the property.
9. I have seen cocaine sold on the property.
10. I have seen dancers fighting inside the Paradise Club (editor’s note: that must have been awesome to watch.)
11. Further your affiant saith not (editor’s note: that is fancy talk for she finally shut up.)

It should be noted that the other two affidavits accompanying hers were much less forthcoming. You have to hand it to the girl, she tells it like it is. We will keep you posted as the story develops.

Links:

Our previous story on Baby Doll featuring video of her spectacular arrest

DigTriad news article about the Paradise Club closure

Paradise Lost

Long has this cinder block shack been the bane of Alamance County. My father even admitted to being in attendance at least once back in the 70’s when it went by the more artistic title “The Green Door”.  The Paradise Club was now a member’s only den of inequity for gentlemen that enjoy thrusting dollars at the bottomless skanks too wretched to make it in the comparatively higher-class strip joints of the greater Greensboro area.

Catching wind of the bust, my mother pulled up the article on the Daily Times News website and asked me to read it aloud to the family. I was more than happy to engage in this perverse version of children’s story time even though I was disappointed by the paucity of appropriate pictures to accompany with the words.

Baby Doll and her cohorts offer their services to a deputy before being hauled to jail

What started out as a fairly straight piece of factual reporting: 703 charges levied against 12 people, 50 sheriff’s deputies with 3 search warrants, $40 for a blow job $100 for around the world; quickly turned into the gossipy type of journalism that one can only find in the small town press. The reporter saw fit to include every aspect of the day’s events. Including remarks about how the deputies had banned him from using his cell phone and pager (just in case the raid bent the space/time continuum backwards to the 80’s) as well as seemingly irrelevant observations such as the following:

“Shortly after the sheriff’s department arrived on scene, several dancers were taken into custody. One, known as “Baby Doll” was pulled out of a trailer by Maj. Tim Britt, placed on the ground on her belly and handcuffed. While on the ground crying, a dog on the property riled up by the activity defecated beside her.”

Pulitzer worthy reporting to be sure. It was at this point I remembered that my friend Gary’s ex-wife  Tonia had at one time worked as a stripper in that part of the county and I thought that there was a high possibility that she might have indeed been an employee of the illustrious Paradise Club.  It wasn’t, however, until later that night did I find out that Tonia Marie Pennington not only worked at the Paradise but she also went by the name Baby Doll!

Yes, Gary’s long time lover and mother of his 3 children was THE Baby Doll that had the misfortune of being dragged from her brothel/trailer, hand-cuffed, placed face down in the dirt of the Paradise Club parking lot, and shat upon by an incontinent pooch that was overly excited at the prospect of perhaps playing fetch with a bevy of police deputies.

To add entertainment to injury, the Daily Times News posted video of the entire proceedings placing particular emphasis upon Baby Doll’s malodorous adventures.

Original Video: Baby Doll Busted

I would like to say that the news saddened me is some way but I really can’t. Long  have I told friends tales of my time spent growing up in rural North Carolina. Often they were so outlandish that I was dismissed for exaggerating. It was a great relief to have been vindicated by the above video. It was all true fellas. Every word of it.

We at WTT have so many stories of Gary and his poorly chosen partner that it will literally take years to recount them all. But it seems fitting to inaugurate this site with the latest tale of Tonia’s woe.  We promise to keep you all up to date as the news of her arrest/trial/and possible imprisonment unfold.

Links:

Burlington Daily Times News Article on “Trouble in Paradise”

Video of Baby Doll’s Bust

I vividly recall once ordering a gyro at a local restaurant, pronouncing the food correctly as “yee-ro”. The too-smart-for-his-own-good Elon kid taking my order felt the need to correct me before smugly walking away.  “Sir, it is pronounced jire row”, he said with the utter confidence of an imbecile.  Well deserved was the beating that I promptly administered to him in my mind.

Over the years the school has grown. The alumni must be doing well indeed because they kicked in the funds to pay for a slew of new buildings and maintenance for well-manicured lawns. Somewhere along the line they even managed to up their quota enough to change the name to Elon University. Fancy indeed.

As time heals all wounds and distance makes the heart grow fonder, I thought perhaps my disdain for the institution was no longer founded. And upon seeing a sign on Interstate 40 proclaiming that Elon has one of the top 10 MBA programs in the state/top 20 in the nation, I brushed aside the desire to make fun of any school that spends money on roadside advertising and decided that it was time to give credit where credit is due. Elon was all growns up and it deserved my respect.

That is until I saw video of the 2009 commencement ceremony.

Rather than provide an uplifting message about social responsibility or how to put their education to best use in these trying economic times, the guest speaker instead decided to take it easy on the outgoing students. He took it back to basics and made sure that each and every kid, before receiving their degree, knew the fundamental elements of the English language. Yes, he asked them to recite their ABC’s. And just to make it more fun (or to increase accuracy in their recall) he had them sing the alphabet song.

Let me just say that when the sum total of your 4 years at a privately funded ivy-league-wannabe school hinges on remembering 26 individual letters you can bet that mommy and daddy spent their money well.  Thank goodness that they all got it right. Though I am pretty sure that kid on the forth row wasn’t singing along.  Probably was an Economics major.

Over the past few years the western region of North Carolina has been working hard to become known as the Sonoma of the South.  Wineries have been springing up all over the Blue Ridge foothills and, for the most part, they actually produce some very good wines.  So I wasn’t as concerned about the “d’Vine” portion of the evening as I was the “Arts”.

You see the Piedmont has never been known as a hotbed of artistic talent. For years Jessie Helms did his best to suppress our creative urges replacing them instead with steady nicotine infusion to satisfy our souls. But I must say that in this post-Helms era the arts are flourishing and I think it is safe to say that the people of Kernersville are leading the charge. Gone are the coon jiggers of the past. No longer are lawn jockeys considered appropriate. Why you can even engage in lofty conversation while sipping tea and eating finger sandwiches at the local Pegg House Tea Room.

Yes art has come a long way in North Carolina and there is no better evidence of this than the image below.

The high water mark for southern art

I found this while walking down Main Street in Kernersville. It called to me begging for purchase. Had I not been unemployed and 3000 miles from my home I might have answered the call.  Alas this solemn midget straddling a magnificent yet miniscule equine remains on the market.  I can only hope that we will find each other again one day as there could be no more perfect pairing of art and owner.

Thank you Kernersville for awakening my love for art and fortifying it with enough free booze to almost make me part with my mortgage money.  I will most certainly visit you again.