David Spates "Therefore I Am" Published July 23, 2002

I want to be buried in the
back yard with a scoop of vanilla

This is the column I was planning to do last week. Instead, my ire ranneth over. That's OK. The biggest tax increase in state history is worth a few extra column inches. I was going to mention the tax increase only briefly, as part of a hit-and-run column in which I'd touch on a few current events that had given me thoughtful pause.

So, with that being said, let's move on to the other topics that were bumped in favor of legislative venom.

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We've heard the saying, "All the nuts roll downhill to Florida." This nut settled and died in Arcadia. His dog did, too. You probably heard about Rick Georges, the guy who wanted to be buried in his back yard next to his beloved pit bull, Bocephus. Georges relayed his wish to his ninth wife (yes, ninth), Beverly, who vowed to make it happen. Beverly, incidentally, married Rick a week before he succumbed to liver cancer at 58.

Of course the neighbors are less than thrilled with the proposition of a dead guy resting in peace in their neighborhood, but something tells me this isn't the first time Rick, Bocephus and the Wife Du Jour have irked the neighbors.

City officials say the burial would violate city codes, diminish property values and set a bad precedent. The widow Georges and her attorney contend that city codes permit the burial because the home is near a real cemetery. The Arcadia City Council will have the final say next month.

My question is where will Beverly be buried? This guy had a rather strange attachment to his pooch, and I suspect Bride No. 9 took a back seat to dearly departed Bocephus. She may want to consider hubby's priorities before her lawyer milks her for more billable hours.

By the way, Rick's son says his father was a flamboyant gambler and drinker. Now there's a shocker.

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I saw Michael Jackson on TV playing the race card after his latest album, Invincible, had disappointing sales. Mike claims his label, Sony Music, conspires with other record companies to cheat artists, particularly black artists.

(Insert your own Mike-hasn't-been-black-in-years joke here. I like to keep the readers involved in the column, and this is fertile ground.)

Note to Michael: The reason your album isn't selling is because your routine is tired. Plus, you're creepy. You've become more and more annoyingly unpleasant every year. You were part of a cute little novelty group in the '60s, and you parlayed that into a huge solo career in the '80s. Take what's left of your cash and just go away.

Do record companies take advantage of their artists? Of course they do. The music business is first and foremost a business. The "music" part has become little more than an afterthought.

They record whatever sells. The sheep have shown that they're willing to shell out $17.95 for bad and unimaginative music. The record companies will happily deliver all the gruel we care to eat.

The recording artist's race, I'm convinced, has little to do with anything. Perhaps it did in the past, but not today. The only color that is of any consequence is green. If a performer makes a record company a lot of fast money, that's all that matters.

* * *
Speaking of boring and unimaginative, guess which ice cream flavor is America's favorite. I know, I know, I set it up. It's vanilla. I'm sure Michael Jackson will find a way to blame The Man for this, too.

According to the International Ice Cream Association, vanilla takes top honors with a 29 percent preference rating. What's our second favorite flavor? Chocolate, but it accounts for only an 8 percent preference rating.

I like vanilla, I guess, but it's certainly not my favorite. It's too, well, boring. If I'm standing at the ice cream counter staring down through the frosted glass at 31 flavors, why would I pick vanilla? Variety is the spice of life, and there's a pretty good chance that I've never even tasted 20 or so of those flavors. While I doubt I'm daring enough to shell out $3.89 for a scoop of garlic and Hawaiian ginger ice cream (yes, that's a real flavor), certainly I can find something more intriguing than vanilla.

In fact, one of vanilla's dictionary definitions is "relatively unoriginal, unexciting or uninspiring; ordinary." Look it up. Does that sound like a fun America to you?

So the next time you find yourself at the ice cream counter, dare to be different. Vanilla's not going anywhere. Unless, of course, there's a conspiracy at Sony Music to do away with the vanilla bean. Someone call Mike's lawyer.

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David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.