Travel & Leisure

Another Depressing Pancake with Chocolate Sprinkles 11/05/2016


Every first Thursday of the month I have breakfast with a group from the VFW post at our local pancake place. The place smells moldy and it’s expensive. I’m not sure why we keep going there but we rather enjoy getting together and silently not reliving the dreadful memories we share. Aside from that we play games from the period such as “I Spy” and “Leg of Mutton”. What puzzles me about this place is the other patrons. None of them seems to be enjoying himself. These people are eating towers of pancakes covered in syrups, fruits, chocolates, even ice cream, but they have these grouchy faces and tend to mistreat the wait staff. I observe this sort of thing frequently about town and it always begs a couple questions: What possible accident might occur for these people to find joy in something and why are there so many people like this in breakfast restaurants? Neither satisfied nor cheerful, these clones slump dolefully in the royal blue booths. Was it not a special occasion that brought them to eat red velvet cake for breakfast?
After cleaning their teeth with the check these grumps waddle out to their cars with bumper stickers that say things like, “Live, Laugh, Love”. The sight would surely depress their leader, Oprah Winfrey, who would agree none of her flock is doing any of these three things with the proper zeal.
After last week when a couple Waffle Huts were robbed my old friends all asked some version of the question “what’s the world coming to?” Robberies aren’t confusing. A heroin addict needs money a couple days prior to payday, a single mother can’t afford a pedicure, or perhaps it’s a professional thief just punching the clock. What’s paradoxical is watching someone eat cheesecake at ten AM in total misery.
Larry Thack has shaken the tennis ball off the end of his cane at some teenagers

Teens No Longer Scary 05/21/2016


School’s out and the hoodrats are takin’ to the streets. When I was a lad summer was everything. Oh the joys we had once school let out. I remember sleeping ‘til seven AM, then setting out through the neighborhood. We’d terrorize the old people first. Pushing over birdbaths and trampling flower beds. Then we’d start arguments over the un-justness of their wars. After a game of Knurr and Spell it was into town to harass the local shop-keeps. In that era all shop-clerks would foolishly stack their inventory in a doomed pyramid and our gang was always tripping and falling into them. This usually killed a lot of time and never got old. We’d get the stack of oil cans at Henderson’s Hardware, then the soup cans at Redwine’s General Store followed by a toppling of the displays at PC Haven, which remarkably, still survives.
I don’t see today’s kids doing any of this. They just wander along with these white wires hanging from their ears not doing any harm to anyone. No one’s scared of teens anymore. In my day we struck fear in the townsfolk. The stores all closed on Wednesdays due to a general fear we created in the community. Families would cross the street as we approached on our pine scooters, merchants would lock their doors and put up the old “closed due to the Dropsy” sign. And one thing’s for sure, that knucklehead Oddo family wouldn’t dare go campaigning down highway 85 waving at passersby like they’re the Carters in ’76. Me and my gang would’ve re-blocked his hat for sure.
I s’pose times are gonna change. I just figured I’d have a lot more young people to shake my cane at when I got old.



Larry Thack’s Snapchat Account- Now in Color!

I Have Won the Lotto 08/06/2016


Surely you’ve all seen the sign hanging in the window of the BP station at the corner of Grady Ave and Highway 54. Yes folks, it is I who has obtained the winning lotto ticket. For weeks I have been hiding from what I knew would become a spectacle that would further my celebrity status. In the shadows I’ve toiled to keep my lotto mastery and athleticism secret from the masses. Now, I come forward with my hopes and dreams that I shall create with this fortune.
I played the lotto with one goal in mind for the winnings- political access and influence. Everyone knows the way to get noticed by senators, congressmen, and pastors’ is to donate to their campaigns. I plan to incrementally spread the money among my favorite candidates. With my winnings I hope to finally get my key project in life off the ground:
As you know, I’m eager to repeal and make illegal Lee Greenwood’s song, “God Bless the USA”. It’s erroneously treated as some sort of secondary national anthem. Once I attain the ears of my elected friends they will see that this song is not only unnecessary but a distraction and annoyance. Also, Mr. Greenwood looks like a terrorist. Watching the music video on Youtube, which I only do when I need to relieve myself of deliberately consumed poison, was an eerie experience. I felt like my furniture was being covered in plastic and mothballs were invading my refrigerator as the scenes of America at its tackiest played out on my screen with no professional segues between. Sequined eagles tattooed with the flag made the once-proud bird appear angry and vengeful. It was like a virtual walk through a 1970’s gift-shop at Monticello and I don’t want anyone to either go through that horror or let others think it represents our country. The real problem is that propaganda like this song and its accompanying video will embolden terrorists who can only glean that we are slow-witted Philistines and simple targets.
If I can’t get the guys already in politics to hear my need for a 28th amendment I’ll create my own stooge. Someone I’d like to see in political office is that “My Pillow” guy. His passion is clear as he wrings his hands over the finely crafted American Made products he makes and also uses. The cross that protrudes from his shirt collar assures me he’s never used his product to smother a warehouse employee and his, on-the-verge-of-tears demeanor proves his passion. And that usually means his positions are correct, right? Well, so long as he fights against Lee Greenwood’s caterwauling canticle, he can sell smut for all I care.


Larry Thack’s underwater mortgage will be a topic of discussion this weekend when he meets with the Optimist Club

LT’s Bucket List 12/26/2015


I did very well with my Christmas list this year. I asked for faggots and I got faggots. I asked my children for faggots, I asked my friends for faggots, I asked my wife for faggots. I received an adequate amount of faggots from all. Nothing says you're living like throwing a prepared bundle of sticks onto a roaring fire. No longer do I have to wander around my yard collecting twigs when I have several faggots on my porch all prepared!
On the heels of my Christmas success in list-making I decided to tackle another list-: the so-called bucket list. My friends are always talking about their “bucket lists” so I decided to make one of my own:

1. Cut eye holes in a bucket and go to Publix.
2. Turn over the bucket. Sit on it. Place my head in my hands. Sob gently.
3. Fill with yogurt and go feed the homeless.
4. Have the world’s most awful fishtank.
5. Put it at my front door to collect the shoes of visitors.
6. Impress the guys at the barbershop with my man-sized spittoon.
7. Fill it with fruit and put it on my kitchen table.
8. Start a container garden for my quinoa plants.
9. Take it to the playground and use it as a jump-off so I can dunk a basketball again.
10. Remove the jackets from my LP records and store them in a bucket.

There you go fellas, looks like I’m in your bucket-game now.

Larry Thack herniated his jaw muscle from fake-smiling yesterday

Please Stop Building Community

How’s your day going? You ever had some flake ask you that?
Couple of problems with this. It’s a brazen test question and I have nothing nice to say. It always happens in the middle of some transaction- a transaction whose success depends on brevity. Think bank tellers, salesmen, delivery guys……These are the perps, but not always.
My first experience was with that little bitch-boy at the gym. Nice guy, smiles so hard when patrons come in, he looks like Stevie Wonder. Anyway, Peter had to re-run my card because it wasn’t auto-drafting. We determined that my card had expired and we began the miserable process of adding a new charge-card that also had available credit. While standing patiently as he clicked on his computer, he suddenly stopped working and said, “How’s your day going?” Say what? That came out of nowhere. Well, not so great, Pete, I’m just now realizing I maxed out my credit card collection two months earlier than usual and might have to sell my hair. And I don’t mind telling you folks, without this hair, I have very little reason to visit a gym.
The fish out of water is another source of this crime. Some septuagenarian out with her daughter in the big city might ask “how’s your day” because some UPS driver has done it to her a few times, and she figures that’s how we talk ‘round here. There’s no solution here but politeness. And that’s like opening the gate and letting the virus in.
It is also unwelcome from a delivery person. While I sign his tablet, I don’t want to build community. Please leave my porch before the steps fail. Further, I don’t need my neighbors seeing me. I wish to remain an Ivory-Billed woodpecker, who may only be spotted on Sundays when I roll my trash bin to the curb. But if you do foolishly answer his question with any detail you’re compromising the social cocoon you aim to live in. Worse, you’ll probably say something insulting or stupid- and surely, you’ll be thinking about it the rest of the night. And if he says something conversational, whoa Jesus. Now I’m standing there smiling- certainly not on my to-do list.
I would just like to know what you people are getting at? Who told you to do this? Listen up- you go back to your shack- I’ll go back to mine. No point in extending any of it.

Larry Thack Hopes to Arm Wrestle Sec. Hegseth in the Diggers Antiques parking lot, if he’s Man Enough to Show

Review: Comedy Show 09/25/2015

My shoulders still ache from the punishment they took on Tuesday night. That was the night I joined my wife and daughter at the Plaza Theater in Atlanta to see John Hodgman give a speech. His comedy show would start around nine so first we’d find a spot to eat.
Getting into town I should just make clear that I don’t like Freedom Parkway. Sorry President Carter. It’s gentrified and concretic. I find it disturbingly short of derelicts. I know they’re here somewhere, but the format of this road keeps them hidden. I much prefer grinding through Ponce De Leon Avenue to reach the numbles of Atlanta’s hip and urban eateries. Now I shall be among the people who understand me. Finding a place to eat in Virginia Highlands is a simple prospect. You just stroll down the street and duck into the safest spot before you’re trampled by a jogger. People who run in cities are quite different from the runners we see in Fayetteville. They have a spring and liveliness to their gait. Suburban small-town joggers crawl along slowly and always look injured. There are just a few regular joggers who plod down highway 85 and their pain is always easy to feel. I’ve never understood these public joggers who run in such conspicuous settings. Why would you choose to run on these crowded, polluted, and ankle-twisting streets when just yards away in the neighborhoods are miles of quiet, tree-covered, spacious roads to trod upon?
On to the show where we find that after a thirty minute delay our host makes us hold our hands above our heads for nearly five full minutes. I later find this is done in the military to torment recruits. Hodgman’s comedy tour bemoans the responsibility of dealing with multiple summer homes in New England. His bemused melancholy made for a wonderful evening of mirth and writhing uneasily in my seat. I highly recommend this show that will never again return to Atlanta and will come no closer than Durham, North Carolina sometime in late October.
After making direct eye contact with a number of deliberate and professional homeless people who reside on Courtland Street we stopped for a pastry and milk at the Hilton.


Larry Thack was dismissed from his Jazzercise class for lumbering

Name that Sandwich 12/20/2014

A friend of mine asked me what was on my Christmas list this year and I got to thinking: Christmas already? Why it’s still warm outside! Who is this guy anyway? My friends all died in the War.
After numerous decades of Christmases I’ve learned how to get what I want at Christmastime. Putting it on a list remains the most effective method, but you reach a certain age where one’s list “can gain no purchase”. Fortunately I’ve learned that simplicity and determination are the keys. My father was the easiest person ever to buy Christmas presents for. Every year it was the same list: handkerchiefs, a Fruit Cake, and these ill-fitting gray wool socks with orange rings around the tops. He understood the limitations of his gift-givers and got just want he wanted.
I will be just as easy this year as my request is simple. I want that German restaurant downtown to name a sandwich after me. I’m not their best customer or anything like that but it seems like a good fit for both of us. First of all they’re just about the only restaurant in the whole county that isn’t a chain and could pull off something like this. Secondly I’m a local celebrity that could add some class to their menu. Finally, I feel they owe me as the last time I went in there for a take-out cakerschnitzle the cashier gave me back ninety-eight cents in change- -not cool.
They could easily work my name in to something. Thackerschnintzle I’m thinking/ hoping. I can see the stars on a cold German night, pinned down in a crump hole…..weary and tired I’d fashion a tangy and satisfying sandwich from my rations. Having been stationed in France for a spell I was able to make a quick beurre de Montpellier and spread it on some bully-beef and a biscuit. Something like that might be nice. Then again, It’d also be nice if it were the vegan alternative on the menu so I could take my friend Steve there.
Earlier I mentioned something about determination that I’d like to withdraw.

Larry Thack will be ringing a bell in front of Big Lots this Tuesday. Please be generous.

My Battle Continues 08/08/2015

Lately I’ve noticed a troubling trend. Many of the people I see on a day to day basis have begun calling me sir or mister. Previously I had thought of these people as my peers and contemporaries but their subtle jabs at me with these offensive suffixes have left me alienated as I feel they’re only welcoming me into my eventual coffin.
But no! It’s not age that makes people grudgingly address me with respect. It’s due to the recent purchase of a cell phone holster-the equivalent of a top hat and cane in today’s society. This addition of class to my waistline definitely implies a sophistication you rarely see in our town. It’s quite the marvel of engineering too! My new cell phone holster has transformed my thin and sleek phone into a well-protected fortress, tripling its original size with layers of acrylic, steel, and leather. Now, I’m even more careful than ever not to drop it lest I harm the floor.
Possibly it’s because I now wear a bolo tie wherever I go. My desire to display a lifetime of refinement in these little ways is likely to blame for this newfound respect people seem to show me. Wherever I go in Atlanta valets come rushing up like never before. It must be the tie.
After careful consideration I have found what seems to be the culprit: an uncontrollable crop of ear hair that sits like The Raven. As one of the world’s beautiful people (see picture) I cannot allow myself to go in this way but nearsightedness has made it difficult to chop away at such a sensitive area.
I’ll put all of this behind me for a spell as next week I’ll be going on Safari in Zimbabwe with a friend.
Larry Thack waits patiently for the arrival of his new slippers

Poet Larry-At 06/13/2015


Perhaps you’re not aware of the most recent honor I have received. Yes friends, I have been named the Poet Laureate of Fayette County.
Traditionally upon being offered such a title one would slump further into obscurity but I plan to actually stay relevant and noticeable. This is actually nothing new for me as I served as the “PL” on my ship in the Navy during the Great War. Poetry was entertainment for common-folk in those days and I specialized in the limerick form. Here’s some classic Thack…
There was a young kid from Des Moines,
Who liked to go flipping his coin,
Both sides were heads,
So we gave him to the Reds,
And we drowned him in the Vologne.

After the dark days of the war I started to explore avant-garde movements which means I took a twenty year break.
As the PL for Fayette County I plan on releasing a poem or two a month that celebrates the spirit and pride of our county. Actually, it’s more likely going to be a poem every couple months and they’ll probably all be haikus. This job has already turned into a hassle. I’m not sure if you heard, but we poets don’t exactly bring our lunch pails to work, if you know what I mean. These cats at the library are on me all the time to produce. This gig’s turned into a real drag. I gotta wash the cat, here are some haikus…
• Our flags at half mast, there’s a sadness in the air, Rick Ross our hero.
• Drive down 54, watch as the horror unfolds, ‘tis Treemageddon.
• That dreaded stoplight, Hopeful Church restoration, great another church.
• Wandering downtown, tourists with white food boxes, the taco effect.
• Great Wolf Waterpark, quite a feather in our cap, sounds like fun- No Thanks!
• Asphalt and strip malls, top notch standard of living, fifteen Chickfilas.

It’s open mic night at the library on the 27th. Come see me recite Allen Ginsberg’s classic poem, “Howl” for the Fayette County Garden Club as they celebrate the induction of a new crop of members who should keep their distance from poets.


Larry Thack will be spending the weekend at Fiddy Cent’s condo on Tybee despite Rick Ross’ objections.

Birthday Wishes 05/02/2015

Friday I celebrated my unofficial birthday. I say “unofficial” because we didn’t make a big deal of these things when I was born and particularly in my family your actual birth-date was the day you first did something useful. So there’s no actual date for it but my mother would say I was born when the flowers were dusting us with poison and the gnats were perishing in our potables. We’re also not sure of the exact year but mother has significantly narrowed it down assuring me there was a terrible white man serving as president. Later in life I began to mix with people who cared about things like birthdates and having been forced to establish a date I settled on May 1st.
I was born in a log cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. Don’t let the log cabin thing fool you- we weren’t poor. The logs were actually reclaimed Italian olive from a monastery my father had once visited during his gap year after high school. Our cabin sat on a hill overlooking the peasants below who toiled in mother’s card-table factory. Her folding tables were world-renowned and this kept the town’s economy humming along. Mother ruled the economy of the town while father worked tirelessly as the county ombudsman. The earliest birthday I recall was when mother and father bought me a pet fish. I named him Floyd and we were best comrades. He’d wait for me after school then we’d swing on tires, walk the railroad tracks, spin yarns, and do countless other clichéd activities of the era. After a day at the horse races Floyd tragically died when we attempted to become blood-brothers.
Well this year I have but a few birthday requests that all involve the disrepair in which my horseless carriage finds itself. I need new struts due to the massive pothole that divides our town’s Ingles Market and Rite Aid. Please fill this with rat corpses from Starr’s Mill High School immediately. Also, the frame on my vehicle has all but shaken loose due to the curb over which I must rappel when traveling between the Michael’s shopping center (Hudson Plaza) and Wings and Things to get to Jeff Davis. A half day supply of those unused hand-wipes ChicFila is always giving you would serve nicely as a cushion here. Thank you very much ChicFila but I prefer a shower after my morning fruit cup! Also, the brakes on my ’71 Vega need replacing due to that superfluous stoplight just west of the Hampton Inn on 54 going to Peachtree City. That stupid road doesn’t even have a name, but if one car pulls up to that stoplight traffic is halted for nearly a minute. Don’t even get me started on all the stop signs I’d like to recycle.


Larry Thack just decided to run for Mayor

Larry’s Trip to Cuba
This is a compilation of articles from 1/24/15-> 2/21/15

As your newly appointed delegate to Cuba I will be representing Fayette County at the first annual Cuban-American Gala Ball and Silent Auction in Havana in a few weeks.
The opening of Cuba to US citizens is an exciting development that all started at a DC sandwich shop. This is not some high-minded attempt at diplomacy but rather just a mix of politics and revenge well-known to Washington insiders. In 2010 then Chief of US Naval Operations, Gary Roughhead was making a call on his cell phone while in line at a local sub shop. Behind him was Canadian Tourism Commission CEO David Goldstein who earlier that day had repeatedly called a local radio station to request the new Foo Fighter’s song. At long last the song was playing over the sub shop’s music system only to be drowned out by the chattering Roughhead. A frustrated Goldstein tapped Roughhead on the shoulder, shushed him, and changed the politics of the hemisphere forever.
Being the head of tourism for a place like Canada is a difficult job, but Goldstein was prepared for the task having left the helm of a salt-free potato chip company to take on his biggest challenge: convincing people to travel to Canada for vacation. After a few years without success trying to induce travel by means of the traditional methods for which I have no examples, Goldstein had an idea. Maybe they could just focus on being the middle-man for travel restricted by the United States. This has resulted in practically all of the leisure travel to Canada over the last few years and has made Goldstein a hero of Canadian tourism. If you haven’t guessed, primarily people are visiting Canada to get to places like Cuba. Roughhead’s rebuffal at the sub shop would result in a carefully orchestrated political maneuver to end Canadian travel domination to Cuba forever and return Goldstein to a mere peddler of Canada’s zero tourist attractions.
Over the coming weeks I will recount the events that led to our warming relations with the communist country. I will also be travelling to Havana for the gala ball and silent auction as well as stop by Hemingway’s favorite bars, track down the Cuban trogon or tocororo, and meet with the newly appointed US ambassador Cuba Gooding Jr.
Larry Thack was honorably discharged from the American Dental Association






Still Going to Cuba
As the Fayette County delegate to Cuba, I submit the following journal entry of my historic trip.

In his state of the union address last week, President Obama described our Cubo-American relationship as a “legacy of mistrust in our hemisphere”. I thought that had a nice ring to it so I’m christening my new skiff by that name. It will dock nicely in the garage next to my “Prius of Evil”. I will also be traveling in it to Havana next week from my sister’s home in Naples Florida. Sister Coretta is frail and consumptive due to the dropsy but I’m hoping she will fancy a ride on the boat.
Last week I recounted the story of US Navy Admiral Gary Roughhead and Canadian Tourism CEO David Goldstein nearly coming to blows in a DC sub restaurant. Their disagreement would lead to a US acceptance of Cuban relations. But that farcical meeting was just an excuse Obama was using to conceal the truth. In reality Obama and Vladimir Putin had made a small wager just prior to the Soshi Olympics. World leaders like Putin and Obama don’t bet on football games. They use a more sophisticated approach to gambling. During a late night when neither world leader could sleep, the two friends began texting each other. After their normal back and forth of how history would honor them, a dispute broke out. Putin debated that a strong hand and military force were the best ways to suppress a people while Obama argued that being helpful and friendly makes a population easier to exploit and control. Naturally the friends wanted to put their theories to the test.
After the Olympics, Putin got right to work in Crimea and Ukraine while Obama focused on his own population. One night the two friends were talking about the progress of their experiment and Obama accused Putin of “showing off” too much. Putin took this with his usual good nature, but suggested they up the ante- The US would have to work outside its borders and Europe doesn’t count. Cuba was the obvious choice as it was where the two originally met as kids. The terms of the agreement were simple. Winner is determined by the country that has the lowest percentage of eligible voters show up on election day in 2016. Loser has to spend the weekend with Jimmy Carter.
Larry Thack, just as Putin, “Works Like a Galley Slave”






From Fayette To Cuba
I will be sailing for Havana on Sunday from my sister Coretta’s house in Naples Florida. Coretta lives with her daughter Yves and her husband Cheche. The girls lead an uneventful existence rarely discarding their housecoats except for their weekly trip to Steinmart. In the morning they give me a boiled egg and send me off to meet Cheche who has agreed to help with my travel plans.
I find Cheche at the marina leaning on a rail carving an apple with a switchblade. His motorcycle parked in the adjacent handicapped spot gleams as cheche discards apple peels at its feet. This Cheche is a bit of a loudmouthed clod but a friend of his owns a human trafficking company and has allowed me to use his dock to port in Havana. It will come at a price however. I’m to return a package to Florida for the trafficker and Cheche has demanded a carton of Cuban Cigarettes. Cheche’s misunderstanding of Cuba’s only valued export will save me money and face as I have dread the thought of being a cliché tourist in search of cigars.
I will be traveling light to Havana as I plan to move around frequently as the guest of many dignitaries. The one thing I have remembered to pack is a recent copy of Fayette Woman Magazine which I will be holding as I’m photographed in front of some historic building. I’ve always wanted to be in that magazine! Helping me make the journey aboard The Legacy Of Mistrust In Our Hemiphere will be Manuel the cabin boy. I found Manuel the cabin boy from an ad on craigslist in which he claims to be able to drink seawater. Manuel warns that he is poor company, as he chooses not to speak, but he is capable of shouting warnings.
The trip over was pretty uneventful except I lost a considerable amount of time as my captain’s hat blew off the stern and I tried in vain to retrieve it from the ocean. We circled the hat for nearly an hour as it bobbed along just outside our reach. Finally the weight of the sea submerged the hat as Manuel sobbed.
With Cheche’s instruction I have little problem navigating Havana’s port and soon after we are greeted warmly by Ramon Machado. I say goodbye to Manuel who descends without a word into the hull. Machado is an engaging and kindly man who serves in some vague government position, and we instantly hit it off. He and I spent the afternoon on a sightseeing tour of Havana’s propagandist billboards.
Larry Thack has read all but three of Malcolm Gladwell’s books---
Editor’s note: this was funny in 2015


Sharing My Pop Tarts with the Cubans
2/09/15
Ramon and I have a wonderful afternoon on a sightseeing tour of Havana’s propagandist billboards then it’s time to retire to my hotel, the Best Western Habana. I prefer this hotel chain because there is a waffle maker in the continental breakfast room which always puts a smile on my face in the morning (see picture).
2/10/15
During the week I had hoped to visit some of Hemingway’s drinking places but Ramon instead took me to Havana’s Disney-style theme park, Isla Del Coco. We rode the Cosmonaut, a 1970’s style roller coaster that pitches a dozen or so children to their demise per annum. We also had a Cuban cake. What a wonderful discovery! It’s like what we call funnel cake, but the Cuban ones are made by communists. As a token of appreciation I offered the carnie at the cake stand one of our Pop Tarts which was invented by a Fayetteville resident! I have several boxes of Pop Tarts I am sharing with the Cubans to give them a taste of our homeland.
2/11/15
Today I will begin fulfilling some of my duties as the delegate from Fayette County. The warming of relations with Cuba means franchising and I will be attending several ribbon-cutting ceremonies today. On the list will be a new Rooms-To-Go (Recamara-To-Ghetto), a Bruster’s Ice Cream(Fidel’s Helado), and a La Hacienda(Wendy’s). There was supposed to be a McDonald’s going in at the train station but negotiations have stalled due to a spice dispute with the special sauce in the McCastro.
2/12/15
Today we visited the new Great Wolf Water park in Plumtree City, a suburb of Havana. It’s a wonderful amenity that I have seen in some of the finer bedroom communities in the US. If only we could have such a place near Atlanta. Maybe in Peachtree City? Actually, it’d be better suited for Senoia. That’s where the vibrant youth of the area seems to be moving. Only thing I didn’t care for was that the external slide towers were all painted these drab earth tones instead of the colorful slides you usually associate with water parks. I guess some Communist dictator had the final say on the color scheme.
Larry Thack is the Fayette County Delegate to Cuba


Gala Ball in Cuba
Last Saturday was the Gala Ball and silent auction. This was the event I, and the other US delegates, came to attend. As representatives of the United Sates and our warming relationship with Cuba both sides agree the best way to improve relations is to mix a humanitarian, charitable event with a little bit of fun. The event was full of A-listers from New York’s Anthony Weiner and Eliot Spitzer to South Carolina’s Mark Sanford. Even Toronto Mayor Rob Ford was there!
Although the event was held on Valentine’s day the theme had little to do with love. “The Benefit for the Preservation of Island Machismo” confronts a real problem in Cuba: the threat of the region’s evolving culture to its traditions. No longer are men lazing about, beating their women, and throwing dice in alleys. The Ball would benefit many organizations throughout Cuba that are working to repel these threats to their way of life and general indecency. My personal guide, Ramon, has set up the Society for Hoodlum Fellowship, a nonprofit organization dedicated to mentoring young hoodlums into adult criminals and keeping the culture alive. Ramon tells me of his forefathers who could barely afford to pick a pocket. His generation not only rose to the pinnacle of criminality but on a truly grand scale- communism. The only way to sustain what he and his contemporaries have built, argues Ramon, is to have young thugs ready to take his place when he’s gone.
I love silent auctions and I bid on a number of items. I lost a bid on some Bay of Pigs Tervis Tumblers that I really wanted, but Rahm Emanuel swooped in with a higher bid then blocked the bidding as he and Rod Blagojevich stood there discussing the benefits of communism in Illinois. You just can’t get between those two! I was able to win a couple of items like a black leather wallet on a chain embroidered with a colorful snow leopard. I plan to bestow on the Fayetteville Chamber of Commerce a commemorative Cuban iphone case for which I was the silent victor.
My time in Cuba has truly been historic and important but now I must return to Fayette County for the two for Tuesday Fish Sandwiches at the Luau.
Larry Thack is the Fayette County Delegate to Cuba

10/16/25 - 11/03/15
5 Articles compressed here- keep that in mind.

I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life: starting a business with my mother in law, trying to reason with junkyard dogs, siphoning gas on an empty stomach, leaving the bullet in, buying a meat thermometer at WalMart, advertising in the Panacea, choosing an elliptical over a treadmill, getting General Livsey that gift card to O’Charley’s, buying furniture at a grocery store, going straight at that Wendy’s instead of turning left. Anyway, never have I decided to do anything as foolish as take my nephews on a mountain biking trip. Chuck and Joey, ages 15 and 12. These guys would spend the next few days kicking me in the shins and repeatedly yelling “hurry up”.
We left town on a Friday with traffic as heavy as possible- my idea- and headed north of Atlanta a piece to Canton. There we arrived at Blankett’s Creek, a park full of mountain biking trails that’s considered one of the best in the world for that sort of thing. It’s really an impressive place. There is what felt like thousands of miles of isolated, lonely nature. The trails were hard-packed red clay, smooth and flowing. Most of the beginner trails felt like we were always going downhill. Unfortunately for old Thack they weren’t all beginner trails and what came soon after was a mistake that would haunt us each and every time we initiated pedaling- we would start down a trail without consulting a map. Joey, the eagerest of the group, would just shoot down any path and we were left to follow. Anyway we were suddenly ascending a trail so long and steep that my lungs would fill with bile and nearly force me to stop pedaling. Fortunately I was able to cough it out for the descent. A combination of rocks and roots covering the path on this forty-five degree plunge was a welcome sight for my lungs, but now I was reacting to what appeared to be a slow death right in front of me. Being feeble and weak I was unable to squeeze the brakes enough to stop, give up, and save my own life. As I mentioned earlier, we left town a little late and now it was getting dark. My fate was clear: I was to be airlifted out of the park with the full specter of emergency lights flashing.
Somehow we eventually escaped this trail without injury and made our way to the next miserable experience, somewhere in North Carolina.
Larry Thack will spend Saturday afternoon standing on the corner at the Old Courthouse holding a cartoon of eggs and looking into the eyes of passing motorists.



Roadtrip Further into Hell
If you recall from last week I’m spending some time on a roadtrip with nephews Chuck and Joey. We’re mountain-biking through the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains and nobody’s dead yet.
Between Canton, GA and the Trails at Tsali in North Carolina we stopped for the night at a motel in Murphy, North Carolina. I’d always wanted to visit the town that served as the haven for Olympic bomber, Eric Robert Rudolph, during his fugitivery in the nineties.
We arrived after eleven that night and didn’t get to see much but clearly could tell how welcoming the town must’ve been to a right-wing terrorist in his time of need. He was protected by these mountains for five years until captured behind a Save-a-Lot convenience store as he rummaged through the dumpster.
That night we discussed Rudolph’s crimes over Klondike bars from the motel commissary. Joey and Chuck were confused that Rudolph got so much attention for just two murders. The kids today only appreciate the mass murderers I suppose. It was noted that one of the two killings attributed to Rudolph was actually a death by heart attack suffered by a Turkish reporter running to the scene. Chuck pointed out that Rudolph deserves only an assist for that one.
These boys were too young to remember the Olympic bombings or the manhunt that ensued so it was nice to catch them up on the details and characters. The US basketball team had just trounced China at the Georgia Dome when a backpack was spotted in Centennial Park. I recall there was a real period of mystery after the bombing where there was no suspect and we all suspected each other. I remember being pretty sure at the time that the bomber was actually a close friend of mine but his only motive was an appreciation for violence so he eventually avoided any official scrutiny. Remember Richard Jewell? He saved the lives of hundreds when he discovered the bomb just prior to its detonation. The FBI then rewarded him by ruining his life. How about Rudolph’s older brother, Daniel? He sawed off his left hand on video just to show the feds he was “serious”. Of course, Eric Rudolph was just following orders while serving as a member of the “Army of God”. That sounds like the group that always wins the golf-cart decoration contest at our 4th of July parade.
The continental breakfast at the Holiday Inn was a culinary delight and Dorothy, its’ proprietress, took a real shine to me. I was not only allowed to take a plate to the oversleeping Chuck, but she took me aside and gave me first dibs on egg squares.
After some local antiquing we were off to the next deadly trail.
Larry Thack likes to hide under the covers and watch Vines on his phone.

Tsali- Our Tsecond Tstop
If you recall from last week I’m spending some time on a road trip with nephews Chuck and Joey. We’re mountain-biking through the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains and nobody’s dead yet.
Tsali was hell. It seemed pretty deserted to be what was billed as North Carolina’s top mountain biking trail and also rated one of the top ten in the world, but we soon came upon other bikers. We pedaled over the remains of boy scouts all the way to the top of the mountain. Clearly they were compelled by some scout leader to come have a “fun day” in nature on their bikes. None of those scouts would’ve thought an experience on a bicycle could be so unpleasant. Eventually we reached the top and found a view that surely is responsible for all the accolades this place gets. You could practically vomit directly into the lake a mile below and we could clearly see the edge of an approaching thunderstorm that felt close but was nothing more than unusually visible from this peak. As we solemnly enjoyed the view a father and son pedaled up the trail and disturbed our joy. It just so happened to be the scout leader who ruined the days of all those scouts. He was clothed in professional cycling apparel and appeared not at all affected by the climb he had taken. His suspicious and mute son also appeared to be a professional rider and they both agreed that they were “concerned” about the scouts below for whom they were responsible. They then recommended to us a spur trail we would later regret taking and pedaled off. We took a moment to enjoy the view a little longer, watch the encroaching storm, and create a buffer between us and our new friends. The trail down the mountain was nothing more than crushed boulders that lined a cliff in what would only be described as a path when viewed by satellite. There were no Boy Scouts on this side of the mountain and we had once again failed to consult a map. Several hours later we found ourselves back on the “fun part” of the trail where we’d once again run into the occasional human. Chuck’s seat had become broken on our descent and we were stopping every five minutes to repair it. I also keenly noticed that I’d been riding on tires that were nearly flat. This became clear at a rest stop we took where I collapsed against a ridge gasping for air. As I recovered my vision we were passed by two jolly riders who made some remark about how fine a day it was. One of them was older and fatter than me but rolled by with ease. These two likely public school teachers could be heard across the switchback having an easy conversation with no apparent lack of oxygen. The older of the two had some cycling-related t-shirt ideas he’d like to discuss. Well that “sounds delightful” the other phony jerk would say.
Larry Thack will to come to the aid of a deposed Nigerian prince as soon as he locates his routing number.



More Boring Details
If you recall from last week I’m spending some time on a road trip with nephews Chuck and Joey. We’re mountain-biking through the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains and nobody’s dead yet.
The western chin of North Carolina offers little for normal people. After our ride at the esteemed trails at Tsali we drove in vain for an eternity to find fast food. The only civilization to be found was a series of rafting outposts. How dreadful an activity is that? To be violently sloshed about as if you were an ice cube in God’s scotch and soda, all in the company of a bunch of strangers. The mountains here are full of repurposed school buses that ferry people to the start of the river. These buses slow traffic in a deliberate attempt to make you consider rafting one day. The scenery was breathtaking, the river looked inviting, and the rafters all appeared to have the time of their lives. Each of us remarked how awful it looked. Inhaling the diesel fumes of a pink and purple 1965 Blue Bird, as it groaned along the edge of a cliff, we concluded that we’d love to go rafting one day, if only we could avoid the people. I was proud to see my two nephews already fully aware that people are the worst.
We decided to eat granola bars and lint until we arrived in Asheville only an hour or so away. We were never quite sure if we were passing through or passing by the Cherokee Reservation we’d heard so much about, but we sensed it was close. Billboards advertising candidates running for “Principal Chief” were cut into the sides of mountains and hills along the highway. Sadly the candidate’s names no longer have the zip of their ancestors. Native Americans for generations have supplied catchy names to everything from US auto manufacturers to jazz bands. Generations ago the formidable Raven of Chota would govern these lands but now the mundane Michell(e) Hicks seeks the office. No longer will we look to great leaders like Hanging Maw or Outacite, as Timmy Ray Smith vies for the position. Old Hop and Dragging Canoe once ruled these mountains like Dennis Thatcher. Now they’ve been replaced by some guy named Patrick. One of the greats was simply named “The Glass”. I could go on and on, but it appears that I already have.
We zipped through the reservation and soon arrived in Asheville, NC which is like Little Five Points in Atlanta, but with sweater-clad retirees walking amongst the freaks, hippies, and bums. Just about everyone on the streets looked like someone I went to high school with. We were covered in dirt, sweat, and blood from our experiences at Tsali, but we had no problem changing clothes on a busy downtown street as it seemed consistent with the town’s weirdness.
Larry Thack would like to borrow Paul Oddo’s brown hat while he watches The Maltese Falcon on VHS this weekend

01/17/2015
This weekend I will be entertaining guests who’ll stay the night at the Thack Manor. We Thacks pride ourselves on our hospitality but we also expect a lot from our guests.
I begin by icing the walkway and steps to our home so only the most athletic and worthy may gain passage unharmed. Any fallen victims will provide the gathering with a conversation starter that will be returned to throughout the evening bestowing us with great laughter. Throughout the gathering areas of the house we like to have those phony fires, pellet fires, and any other such device that tempts guests to burn themselves. I find it especially delightful when the very young burns itself. Speaking of which, babies are a major distraction at these get-togethers and are not permitted.
Keeping our guests entertained is critical but with all the cooking, cleaning, and other such jobs a good host has there just isn’t time to socialize fully. That’s why I keep around a hyperactive half-blind dog. Not all my guests are social and I get that. When these soft-skulled nitwits aren’t playing with the dog they can amuse themselves with the various items and games I leave throughout the gathering area. From a magic eight ball to a tee-up the golf ball in a snow globe there’s little free time at the Thack house for the quiet and dull.
All this pillow-fluffing and sourcing of extra bed sheets can make me pretty cranky so maybe we’ll just order pizza tonight. The time to put the finishing touches on your guest’s rooms is right before and during the pizza delivery guy’s visit. Let your cadging friends handle this expense.
It wouldn’t be a proper reunion with old friends if we didn’t come up with some far-fetched plans for a future vacation together. This is the perfect time to introduce my timeshare.
Larry Thack was recently named official delegate from Fayette County to Cuba

04/27/2019
I took a trip over the Easter holiday to visit my shockingly still-alive parents. Our plans were simple- eat two very small meals at which mayonnaise was a key ingredient, drink an obscure nectar with a single cube of ice, then attend church.
My train arrived in Bluefield just in time to get a haircut before they picked me up. I always travel in a suit so it doesn’t get wrinkled in my carpetbag. I will rethink this in the future as my barber accused me of being a mortician. I’m not sure how I feel about being mistaken for a mortician- on the one hand they’re a creepy lot and should be ashamed of themselves, however it’s the only business that thrives on its customers’ dying- which is nice. I then ran into my old boss, Mr. Rosemond. He was recruiting ushers for the Easter service and my suit once again attracted flies. He explained that the church was downtown and I would be charged with shooing homeless families away from the doors. This obtained me a prime seat among the crippled widows to whom no collection plate was ever passed. I accepted the job!
Later I attended a museum alone as my parents claimed it was too expensive. It was free. I got in 18 holes of mini-golf with only a pair of unfinished holes. Eventually I ran out of quarters at the arcade and went home.
Church the next day was a treat. Epicopalians are the best- not once did I feel like I was among decent God-fearing, humble folk. I was home.
Larry Thack is doing a constant 62mph and will not budge from the passing lane