by Steve Jones
Allow me to be up front about this: I am not from around here. My family has not grown burley for umpteen generations and my great-grandfather did not hide his woman in the root cellar from General Sherman.
I am now well into my ninth year of living in Knoxville, but I know that even if I stayed another 90 there would still be a variety of subjects that confound me regarding this fair town. There are, quite frankly, just things that just make no sense. For example:
Why is NASCAR so popular? I suppose my struggle with this regional religion began when, stuck behind a pick-up truck with a malfunctioning exhaust system, I spotted a strange decal on the vehicle's window. I looked more closely. Yes, it was, indeed, a poorly bootlegged comic strip Calvin urinating on the numeral three. I know I had many more important themes with which to occupy my already taxed mental faculties, but I just couldn't help posing what to me, a simple outsider, seemed an obvious question: What did the owner of this truck have against this number? I began asking around, and later, after my na�veté had been exposed to wiser natives, it was explained to me that this guy obviously had a problem with a NASCAR driver who wore this number. My curiosity was definitely piqued. Had this evil #3 stolen the truck owner's VCR, shot his dog, run off with his wife, broken his tail pipe or some other dastardly deed to incur such wrath? No, no, nothing like that; he just didn't like that #3.
What an interesting "sport," I thought, to inspire such passion. I began to imagine Atlanta Brave supporters making their Calvins pee on George Steinbrenner or long-suffering football fans in Kansas City having theirs take a leak on John Elway's number. But then I suppose that would be making a mockery of the entire urination statement genre.
The more I pondered this NASCAR thing, the more I still didn't get it. What is this fascination with watching cars go around and around and around hundreds of times? Is it just a secret longing for thrills and morbid hope that one or more of these moving billboards might crash into another in a spectacular fire ball? And what is the basis for the hatred of this Jeff Gordon fellow? Okay, so he drives a stupid looking box of Tide on wheels. And so his wife has big hair, wears jumpsuits, and looks like a cross between Elle McPherson and Loretta Lynn. Why hold that against him?
I realize this will be a bitter pill to swallow, but NASCAR is just boring and dumb. I used to think that golf was the most tedious activity ever invented; then I experienced a new low: televised golf. But even this Sominex-substitute had now been eclipsed with something even more mind-numbing. Imagine, if you will, the absolute thrill of hearing the Doppler effect demonstrated every few seconds as these souped-up gas guzzlers whir around and around for your listening pleasure. That's right: it's live NASCAR coverage on the radio. I just don't get it.
Will the road construction ever end? As someone who hails from a part of the country where blizzards are really blizzards and pot-holes are as common as colds, I actually didn't mind the first time I experienced a bottleneck on I-40. That's okay, I thought, they're fixing the roads. That's a worthwhile endeavor, right? But, eight years later, they're still "fixing" them.
I don't understand. Just how long does this take? Don't get me wrong. I would probably have more patience if progress or improvements were actually being made. But instead of fixing the Gay Street Bridge or adding more lanes to the major thoroughfares for the daily commutes of ordinary working folk, what does Knoxville get? Multi-million dollar sidewalks by a brownish river, fancy lit tunnels welcoming people to a dying downtown area, and more convenient ways to get to Calhoun's. It kind of makes you wonder if Marie Antoinette is alive and well and working in the City-County Building, where she issues such pompous edicts as, "The people? Let them eat traffic jams!" What is the problem here?
What's the deal with the Sunsphere? Okay, so it was sort-of used during a World's Fair way back when. So what? It was so long ago that not only was Reagan in his first term, but the Alzheimer's probably hadn't yet set in. And let's face it: One hardly even needs two days of Psychology 101 to question the wisdom of a city having as its symbol a large phallic symbol which no longer does anything (if you know what I mean).
One needs only to have seen the Simpsons episode in which Bart and his friends knock the thing over to realize what a joke it is. Sure, it could potentially end up being the perfect platform from which to send the Jupiter II and Robinson family off to Alpha Centauri a few years down the road. But why can't we at least do something significant with it in the interim? Hell, Knoxville could always use another Krispy Kreme or Sonic. (Imagine the entertainment value of watching your car-hop ride her roller skates down a double helix spiral ramp with your chili cheese fries and half-pound artery-clogger. Will she attain light speed or just throw up from dizziness?)
Better yet, why not just make the Sunsphere into the permanent mayor's residence? Not only would this be the perfect vantage point for Victor Ashe to watch over his empire, but some might say that the grand structure's manly Freudian metaphor could finally begin making some sense.
And speaking of our noble leader... Does this community want a mayor, or a monarch? Think about it. Victor Ashe has led this community for as far back as most people can remember. He has the biggest office in town. He holds court every month with the common folk. His son is Victor II. When he desires more property for his town, he just takes it. And, were it not for that pesky Carlene Malone, he would have a unanimous rubber stamp for all that he wishes. Even his next "competitor" has contributed to his election war chest! All that's missing to complete the picture is a scepter and signet ring.
So these are a few of the big questions I have about Knoxville. Oh sure, there are other things that still make no sense to me. For instance, how do some people reconcile the First Commandment with their unconditional worship and near deification of Peyton Manning?
Why are some people still fighting the Civil War? (To paraphrase a popular bumper sticker: You lost...Get over it!)
How is it that the local citizenry seem to prefer westwardly expanding strip malls to a downtown that could be vibrant and a fun place to live and visit, instead of one inhabited by little more than bankers, lawyers, the homeless, and other assorted inmates?
Does the Vol Navy have a Don't Ask/Don't Tell policy?
Why is this the only city in America where Labor Day is called Booms Day?
How has Doug Sager avoided a pie in his face for so long?
Is there any truth to the rumor that Robert Neyland was really only a lieutenant?
Why do those nutty Bible-thumpers keep playing with rattlesnakes?
Do people around here actually eat road-kill?
If I could only fill these gaps in my knowledge, I might fit in a little better. So if anyone can help me make some sense of all this, please e-mail me at [email protected]. Then all I'll have to do is work on changing the color of my Alabama-hued blood in time for the fall sacrifices at the stadium.
(Local writer and photographer Steve Jones is worse at what he does best, and for this gift he feels blessed.)
| 
