So what was the holdup? Pretty simple: The fine folks at Dunn Construction have been busy. And instead of dropping everything to accommodate our schedules, they’ve actually been meeting their own deadlines. So, of course, we waited. And waited. And pestered them as often as we figured we could get away with it.

All that said, it’s a pretty dramatic makeover—both in terms of design and messaging. Speaking of which, Dunn Construction does business a lot like Dunn Building Company: Very easy to work with, and very professional—which tends to minimize their clients’ stress level, regardless of the job’s challenges. And since they’re also sister companies, so to speak, we figured they needed a plain-talk, reasssuring brandline that had the same general feel as Dunn Building’s (which is Do It Right. Consider It Dunn.)

Before you check-out the new site, Click Here to see what it used to look like. (Oh dear).

Now, Click Here to see what we did to it. Isn’t it lovely? We think so. More importantly, the fine folks at Dunn think so, too.

Click Here to open the PDF.

## The following “Farewell” column was written by Thomas Spencer for the 10/26/03 issue of The Birmingham News. It remains one of my all-time favorite pieces from that fine and venerable publication. ##

Lord Baltimore Gin was his balm and pork his passion.

Virtually every evening after work, Franklin Headen would hold court from a plastic chair on the front yard of his home in the Fairmont neighborhood of North Birmingham.

Friends would join him—just a couple some nights, and half dozen on others. He drank his Lord Baltimore straight, no water, no ice.

He’d share his cigarettes and gin, (though, if he’d bought a big bottle, he’d pour some in a smaller bottle and hide his big one, so his guests wouldn’t take it all).

He was quiet around strangers but friendly, humorous and passionate with friends and family. He was a mediator and a sentinel in the neighborhood with a sharp sense of justice.

When women were in his company, he insisted that men behave. No bad language, no unwelcome advances. If Headen saw neighbors whipping their children or speaking to them abusively, he’d yell across the street and tell them to stop.

When a friend experimented with drugs and got too high, Headen picked him up, threw him across his shoulder and carried him home, reassuring him that he’d be OK and warning him to stay away from drugs.

HARD WORKER
He was generous to a fault. One day, when neighbors needed gas money and Headen had none to give, he pawned his brother’s gun and gave them the money.

But he didn’t like being taken advantage of. After his mother died, he allowed three male relatives to move in and share the three-bedroom house. A year went by and they still weren’t contributing to the household expenses, and after much anguish and building anger, Headen decided to lock them out.

During the ensuing argument in the wee hours, one of the men fired a gun into the house. A bullet struck Headen, killing him. He was 49.

He had grown up in the same neighborhood, the youngest of 12 children. His mother doted on him. And he remained devoted to her. Aside from some years in the Army, Headen lived with her most of his adult life and helped care for her.

Toward the end of her life, she lost both legs to diabetes. And last year when she was being kept alive by machines, he was the last to agree to let her pass.

Headen never formally married, but had three children who lived in the neighborhood with their mother. He was close to his children and supported them.

Despite his fondness for gin, Headen was a diligent and hard-working employee. A friend who worked landscaping with him said Headen would work so hard and so single-mindedly, Headen would unfailingly find himself twisted with muscle cramps at quitting time.

BURNED PORK
And no portrait of Headen would be complete without a mention of pork. In the evenings, as his friends departed and Headen got hungry, he’d put a piece of pork on to boil.

He didn’t care for chicken or beef, and had no real use for pork barbecued or baked, braised or broiled. He just liked it boiled, in water. Any cut would do. A roast, pig’s feet or ears, even chitterlings.

Waiting for it to cook, he’d settle down on the couch. Often the ritual would end with Frank asleep, the water boiled away, the pork burning and the house filled with smoke.

Headen’s sister would rush over to get their invalid mother out of the house and turn off the pork. When she’d roust Headen, he’d grumble: “I don’t know what y’all are so upset about. I can breathe. All you got to do is stay low.” He’d eat what he would salvage.

It happened so many times the deep freeze was full of pots with burned meat. That was Headen’s method of avoiding cleaning the uncleanable. His sister gave him a slow-cooking crockpot, hoping to solve the problem, but he burned that up too.

Not long before he died, Headen’s sister saw him studying the television intently. It was a nature show about hippopotamuses, and she asked why he was so interested.

As if he were visualizing the operation, Headen answered, “If you cut that hippo up just right, I bet it would be just like pork.”

Maybe that was a little glimpse of Headen in heaven, sipping Lord Baltimore and supping on hippo, boiled to perfection.

I recently read (and, by the way, mostly enjoyed) Stephen King’s latest novel, 11/22/63. Which, to make a very long story short, is a book involving time travel. For some reason, it’s reminded me of a real life King-esque story from my own past. So join me as we return to a balmy evening in 1978—a couple months after I’d graduated from high school. That summer, I spent a lot of time with several people who’d graduated the year before me—which is interesting to me, because I’d never been a regular in their circle before that.

On this particular evening, Key Coleman, Greg Alldredge, Brenda Osband and I all piled into Charlton Crocker’s Checker Cab, and headed south down I-65. Joanna McClinton, also a 1977 Altamont grad, had invited her classmates to a party—and they figured she wouldn’t mind if I tagged along.

Joanna had rented a one-room cabin at Tannehill State Park—to ensure a complete lack of adult supervision—and most of the invitees were Joanna’s childhood friends from in and around Bessemer. Having spent my first 18 ½ years largely insulated from the world outside Birmingham’s Tiny Kingdom, I would conservatively describe the scene as Culture Shock. The moment our car doors opened, we could hear whoops, hollers and yee-haws through the cabin’s fairly throbbing walls and windows.

Most of Joanna’s other guests were younger than I was, and drunker’n all git-out. Conversation, particularly among the guys, was limited to topics that inspired frequent, enthusiastic high fives. Couples were wrassling under the blankets in each of the two beds (fully clothed, mind you, this was not that kind of 70’s party). And on the portable turntable, set to automatic replay—roughly two notches above distortion-level volume—was Side One of Queen’s News Of The World.

Which meant that, every 19 minutes and 14 seconds, steady as clockwork, the clearly-doomed speakers in the corner enjoyed a brief respite, followed shortly thereafter by the most familiar three-pulse beat in recorded history. Namely, the “We Will Rock You” BOOMP-BOOMP-TCHOCK that’s been blasted, at some point, during every team-sports event held in America for 35 years running.

To place the scene in context: Altamont gatherings at the time generally consisted of thoughtful teens gathered reverently around Dad’s state-of-the-art Hi Fidelity sound system, parsing the introspective subtexts hidden between the lines of Jackson Browne’s latest folk-rock confessionals. In other words, Key, Greg, Brenda, Charlton and I were now, for all practical purposes, visitors of an alien planet. Or, as we’d remember it in the years ahead, the best party ever.

But here’s where it gets really interesting. Early the next morning, hours before he’d planned to get out of bed, Key’s father instructed him and his younger brother Daniel to join him for a drive in the country. Which struck Key as slightly odd. They headed down Naizuma to University—where they took the Red Mountain Expressway to I-65 South.

Roughly 35 minutes later, Mr. Coleman pointed-out the exit sign for Tannehill State Park. “You know,” he said, “I’ve never been to Tannehill. Let’s take a look.” Which struck Key as more than a little odd. After they entered the park, Mr. Coleman noted the sign pointing to the rental cabins, and turned. At which point Key’s upper lip sprung a morning-after sweat mustache.

A couple hundred yards past the turn, Mr. Coleman suggested, “Why don’t we take a look inside one of these cabins?” And not just any cabin. The cabin. By which point Key lost partial feeling in his extremities.

They stepped out of the car. They approached the cabin. Mr. Coleman reached for the door. It was unlocked. He opened the door. They looked inside. The cabin was empty. And spotless. “These are pretty nice,” said Mr. Coleman. “We should stay here some time.” At which point, Key could see it in his father’s eyes: He had no idea what had transpired there just hours ago.

But this isn’t just a story of cosmic coincidence. It also has a time travel element. Or rather, I wish it did. Because that night, I discovered a talent of mine. If you can call it a talent. One I have since used sparingly—and only with the openly abrasive and/or self-important. I have the ability to mock certain people in a way that everyone in the room knows it but them; and that’s exactly what I did with the drunkest guy in the room that night.

We both had a great time whoopin’, hollerin’ and high-fivin’—and he never suspected a thing. But if I could find Stephen King’s time portal, I’d go back to that night and tell myself that you can have a lot more fun not being a smartass. And then, because I’m that kind of friend, I’d pull Key aside and tell him, “I know this is gonna sound crazy, but your father? I could swear I just saw him looking in the window.”

This column was originally published in the March, 2012 issue of B-Metro Magazine

Several years ago, during his press conference after a resounding victory (marred only by a couple of minor mistakes), Nick Saban described the outing as “a perfect game. We won, and I still had something to be mad about.”

So it’s in honor of our beloved coach that I thought I’d celebrate Alabama’s latest championship by taking the month off, and recycling—for your entertainment—a few choice rants I’ve authored myself over the years.

LETTER TO THE CEO OF ORAL B
I recently received an Oral-B Triumph ProfessionalCare 9000 rechargeable toothbrush as a gift. Nice gift. That’s not why I’m writing.

I’m a healthy 47-year-old man. College educated. Above average intelligence. Reasonably adept with my hands. And my fingers. Two of which now have nasty cuts on the knuckles—one of which has been oozing pinkish yellowy pus pretty much all day. That’s because I made the decision to actually remove the Triumph 9000 from its cardboard box—which, as you probably know, is itself sealed into a remarkably protective plastic shell.

That said, I’m not writing you for an apology, or for handy tips for opening my next Triumph 9000 box. What I’d really like is to see you remove the Triumph 9000 from its package. Better still, I’d like to see you open it without gloves or specialized tools. For that matter, if your grandmother is still alive, I’d like to see her open it.

I figure you could have your secretary videotape you or your grandmother (heck, even your mom) at your office desk. Then you could upload the file to You Tube. After that, just email me a link.

Look forward to hearing from you. And to seeing you—or whoever—have at it.

LETTER TO EDITOR OF NEW YORK TIMES
In the intro paragraph to her profile of Cathy Crenshaw, “Daughter of Birmingham Plans Revival”, Donna Paul writes, “…After a period of prosperity and growth, Birmingham was brought to its knees by the Depression and wracked by the end of segregation. Birmingham has never fully recovered its prominence. Its population today, 230,000, is less than it was in 1930.”

After reading that, I was shocked to find, outside my front door, not one tin shanty, nor a single rusted pickup on blocks. I was equally taken aback that the golf course outside my back door was fairly overrun with golfers and carts, rather than squatters and campfires.

Over the next several days I searched for, but found, no evident signs of the Depression-wracked Birmingham so vividly and heartbreakingly portrayed in Paul’s words. Which led me to think that maybe, just maybe, journalistic accuracy was sacrificed at the altar of melodrama.

But then, maybe that’s the point: Sometimes a story is just too good to shackle with mundane facts. Even in The New York Times.

LETTER TO CBS SPORTS (THE DAY AFTER THE MASTERS TOURNAMENT)
“GIT IN THE HOLE!” It’s hard to say what’s most irritating about this current calling card of the self-important, middle-aged white guy—although it is amazing that anything could have ever topped “YEW-DA-MAN!” for naked, unabashed gall.

Equally amazing is how commonly “GIT IN THE HOLE” was shouted this past weekend after tee shots.

Consciously or not, the man who bellows this at The Masters has somehow convinced himself that doing so enhances enjoyment of the tournament for his fellow attendees, the millions watching at home and the golfers. I’d like to meet a single human being who genuinely welcomes hearing it once, much less over and over and over.

Seriously, if The Masters can revoke lifetime ticket privileges for anyone caught on the course with a cell phone, they can pass a rule forever banning this surpassingly idiotic epithet.

A “REPLY ALL” EMAIL
(Background: I was once among dozens of recipients CC’d an email which sparked an incredibly tedious Reply All conversation between two of those recipients—who apparently assumed everyone would be fascinated by their conversation.)

LACK-OF-INTEREST AUTORESPONSE:
I will be unable to not ignore this discussion for the foreseeable future. Please send any additional submissions directly to my Spam Filter. Thanks.

This column was originally published in the February, 2012 issue of B-Metro Magazine

Almost true story: A fine Southern lady and her daughter are taking a cab through New York, when the young girl asks about several brazenly-dressed women standing at a nearby street corner. “Well, sweetheart,” her mother explains, “those women are personal escorts. Single gentlemen hire ladies like that to keep them company.”

“Aww comon, toots,” the driver blurts, “Tell her the truth! They’re hookers. They get paid to have sex.”

After a painful silence, the daughter asks, “But Mama, if that’s true, don’t they have babies?”

“Well, yes they do, darling. That’s where cabbies come from.”

What I love most about that adage is how, without abandoning her mannered gentility, Mama takes that cabbie to the woodshed like Bama whuppin the Gators down in Gainesville this year. As we’d say in the South, “Bless his heart, he didn’t know what hit him.”

And bless our hearts, but civility is becoming so rare in public discourse, these days I can even get a little giddy reading a graciously-stated opinion I disagree with. For example: In a September piece entitled Are Scientists Becoming the New Priests?, the San Francisco Chronicle’s Deborah Saunders (one of my favorite columnists) wrote, “For the record, I believe in evolution. But I also have respect for those who see God’s handiwork in the process — and see little reason to try to marginalize those with different personal beliefs.”

Naturally, I would prefer to see Deborah singing in the choir on Sundays, but I love the fact that she can weigh-in on one of the most contentious issues of our time without offending either side.

And that’s one of the beauties of a civil society: People can disagree with one another without disrespecting each other. Which (for example) is why, despite generally leaning to the right, I vastly prefer NPR to Fox News. Particularly the Friday-afternoon discussions between liberal EJ Dionne and conservative David Brooks. Two masters of the poignant zinger, whose political views are as diametrically opposed as the Tea Party and the Occupiers, yet who (unlike those two caustic coalitions) manage always to limit the aim of their occasional barbs to one another’s positions—not one another.

And boy do they ever disagree. But to hear them talk, I’m always left with the impression that these two guys are genuinely friends. So where did our public manners go? Personally, I’d lay most of the blame on the Baby Boom (of which, yes, I am a reluctant member); arguably the most self-congratulatory generation in human history, still endlessly celebrating—among other legacies—the righteous rallies of the Vietnam era.

Not that Vietnam wasn’t a terrible mistake. But imagine how much more effective the opposition might have been if they’d followed the peaceful-protest example of Martin Luther King—instead of staging an endless series of violent demonstrations that rarely amounted to little more than televised tantrums gone horribly wrong.

Imagine how the Watergate hearings would be remembered if they’d been led not by honorable elder statesmen like Sam Ervin and Howard Baker, but rather by the current crop on Capitol Hill. Particularly that new breed of politician, brilliantly characterized by my friend Hanson Watkins as “political suicide bombers”. They pretend to have our nation’s best interests at heart, but in truth they’re just professionally trained anger merchants—speaking across the proverbial aisle only through carefully-crafted, sarcasm-laden tweets and talking points.

To bring this all back home, if it wasn’t for my wife, I’d probably still be a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal myself when it comes to manners. Not that my parents didn’t try (and try, and try) to teach them to me. They just never fully sold me on the practical benefits of good manners, as a child. So while Martha has taught our kids by words and example, my primary contribution has been a fairly effective sales job for those practical benefits—which goes something like this:

If you have good manners, grownups will like you more than other children. They’ll do things for you they won’t do for other children. They might even buy you things they won’t buy other children. And some day, you’ll start having good manners just because you enjoy it.

In practical terms, that’s the ultimate benefit of a civil society: It simply makes life more enjoyable for everybody. Kids and adults. And if there’s one thing severely lacking in our culture these days, it’s a natural inclination to spread joy—no matter what the circumstances are. Now, if I could only remember that simple truth the next time I get behind the wheel.

This column was originally published in the January, 2012 issue of B-Metro Magazine

Shortly thereafter, Baggett asked us to develop an ad featuring a solo driver (in this instance, Johnie Mantlo).

Where this story gets really interesting is that, during my interview with Johnie, his comments touched-on the question above—and two more of the Top Four in McLeod’s research: 1) “Are you going to help me stay CSA Compliant?” and 2) “Are you committed to maintaining legal dispatch policies?”

We then added our own spin to the creative, based on our own research—which indicates that, lately, independent truckers have been having a terrible time getting financing from bankers (who have never been particularly popular among truckers anyhow).

CLICK HERE to see the ad.

(Special thanks to Randall Reilly rep James Hudson—who managed to snap a pretty good shot of Johnie during the Great American Truck show in Dallas).

CLICK HERE to see our fourth ad for Baggett.

Although Jo already had specific copy she wanted to use (“Wishing you a prosperous 2012…” etc, etc), the image—and its sender—struck me as deserving a British “spin”, if you will, on the message. And as a part-time, self-appointed, amateur Rock ‘n’ Roll historian, one song title immediately presented itself as the ideal copy solution.

Naturally, Jo opted for her own copy. But I still say our idea was more fun (particularly if you recognize the song that inspired it)—and entirely appropriate to the image.

That said, what I really love about this card is the design solution Allison banged-out in just a matter of minutes. It kind of reminded me of that fabulous Tiger Woods Nike spot (screen shot below)—which, according to legend, was shot in a single take.

Why would it remind me of that spot? Sometimes, you never fully appreciate a person’s extraordinary talent until you see what they can do when they’re just playing around. Is it any wonder we love our Art Director so much?

BTW: if you don’t know the song “Holidays In The Sun”
(which is OK, considering Jo’s British, and she didn’t either),
it’s the first track on this landmark release.

More importantly, Baggett (a family-owned company with less than 100 drivers) now commands a “talking about this” rate of nearly 19%. By point of comparison, the Facebook page for publicly-traded Schneider National (the nation’s second largest trucking company with literally thousands of drivers) has a “talking about this” rate of .0025%.

To put these numbers in perspective, we’ll quote the industry blog Social Media Today:

“A decent People Talking About number works out to be anywhere between .5% and 2% of your total fans. More than 2%, and you’re clearly a rock star.”

All of which is why we’re extra proud to announce Baggett’s new brandline: No Brown M&Ms.*

*For those of you under the age of 40: At the height of their popularity, Van Halen aroused the ire of many a righteous journalist when it was revealed that their concert contract included a rider demanding that all brown M&Ms be removed from any backstage candy dishes. Far from being the ultimate symbol of Rockstar Self Indulgence (as it was widely labeled), the clause was inserted by the band’s attorney to test whether or not promoters were actually reading the contract.

It’s 5:05 in the morning, and my next door neighbor’s retriever is barking right outside my son Fletcher’s bedroom window. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo about clocks Falling Back next week—because he and his two equally-vocal housemates normally don’t start until after 6:00.

To be perfectly fair, Next Door Dogs have come a long way since Mister + Mizz brought home their first little precious (a miniature dachshund)—who “introduced” herself to the neighborhood that day, and night, for 17 hours. Non-stop. I remember the day, and night, vividly—because I was more miserably ill than I’ve been since my senior year in college (1982), and I’d quarantined myself in the future-Fletcher’s room. Where I lay awake for 17 hours, listening to Little Precious, before finally pleading with Mister to take her inside.

Before I go further, let me assure you: I love dogs. My instinctive reaction whenever I’m near virtually any dog—acquaintance or stranger—is a slow, deep knee bend, with lowered hands gently extended. It’s a rare dog I can’t make an instant friend. Which is why it bears repeating: I love dogs. My problem is dog owners.

The first question we always ask ourselves whenever a neighbor’s dog barks long enough to get our teeth grinding is: How can they stand it? After all, they’re a lot closer than we are, there’s no possible way they can’t hear it.

Of course, that question has reached an entirely new level of bewilderment in recent months. On several occasions, Next Door Dogs have struck-up a three-part chorus loud enough to impede television listening in our living room. While they are indoors. With the windows shut. And Mister + Mizz are at home.

The second question I always want to ask Obnoxious Dog owner is: How can you stand being That Person? Much as Neighbor Dogs may irritate me, no barking dogs ever irritate me faster than my own. And lemme tellya: They know it.

Which is why it rarely takes more than a “Hush Lurleen” or “Shaddup Kitty” to restore silence in my back yard. And why I have always encouraged my neighbors (including Mister + Mizz—whom, despite my kvetching, I actually like) to tell us if our dogs are ever a problem. Because I never want to be That Person, who allows their dogs to make life miserable for everyone around them.

The toughest part about living near That Person, or That Couple, or That Family, is that a friendly request for considerateness (or two, or three) is rarely sufficient. And I am constitutionally unsuited for conflict. It fills my veins with vinegar. It makes my fingers shake. It just plain sucks.

All that said, the ultimate irony of refusing to rob one’s Little Precious of his quote-unquote “right” to unrestrained self-expression is this: An endlessly barking dog is not a happy dog. Let’s assume that being a good neighbor simply isn’t motivation enough. When you train your dog to be quiet, you’re giving him the gift of contentment.

On the bright side, there is that rare moment of poetic justice for the long-suffering. I once lived next door to That Couple, and no amount of pleading (friendly, not-so-friendly, or downright hostile) ever convinced them to be otherwise. One day, while I was home, burglars ransacked their house. And no, I was not aware it was happening.

That afternoon, the investigating officer came to our house. He asked if I’d heard their dogs barking at the time of the alleged 10-21 (That’s police code. I Googled it). “Yes, sir.” Disparaging glare. “So why didn’t you do anything?” Fair question. “The dogs always bark.” Brief pause. “Sorry I bothered you.”

Too bad for That Couple that they’d never had the same thought.

*NOTE: The title of this month’s column was taken directly from a poem by the same name (and on the same topic) by the 2001 – 2003 US Poet Laureate, Billy Collins.

This column was originally published in the December, 2011 issue of B-Metro Magazine