Dan Jenkins' Lists

Mankind's 10 Stages of Drunkenness, one of the most essential lists I've ever come across. Here it is, copyrighted by Mr. Jenkins, of course:

Witty and Charming
Rich and Powerful
Benevolent
Clairvoyant
Fuck Dinner
Patriotic
Crank up the Enola Gay
Witty and Charming, Part II
Invisible
Bulletproof

If I didn't keep liking people and lending them Baja, Oklahoma, I could quote the lovely story in which this list is related. http://fareastcynic.blogspot.com/2005/06/10-stages-of-drunkenness.html lists them a bit differently but in a style that calls Dan Jenkins to mind.

But there's another list that three Jenkins characters — Billy Clyde Puckett, Shake Tiller and Barbara Jane Bookman, in Semi-Tough — came up with. I couldn't find it to link to,  so I had to hand-copy it out of the Google book. This is, to say the least, an interesting look into some Southern men's minds. Once again, quoting from Semi-Tough, (C) Dan Jenkins, American:

            "A long time ago, way back in college at TCU, me and Shake and Barbara Jane to a certain extent had worked up this rating system for girls, or wool.

            "Mostly, it was Shake’s terminology and we had never forgotten it.

            "Anything below ten was a Running Sore. That was something that only a Bubba Littleton or a T.J. Lambert would fool around with, but of course either one of them would diddle an alligator if somebody drained the pond.

            "From the bottom up, our rating system went like this:

            "A Ten was a Healing Scab. Had a bad complexion, maybe, but was hung and could turn into some kind of barracuda in the rack.

            "A Nine was a Head Cold. Good-looking but sort of proper and didn’t know anything at all about what a man liked.

            "An Eight was a Young Dose of the Clap, but pretty in a dimestore kind of way, and not bad for an hour.

            "A Seven was just rich.

            "A Six was a Stove or a Stovette. A Stove was over thirty and preferably married. A Stovette was just under thirty, divorced, talked filthy, and tried to make up for all the studs she never got to eat because she got married so young.

            "A Five was a Dirty Leg. She wore lots of cheap wigs, waited tables or hopped cars, was truly hung, might chew gum, posed for pictures, and got most of her fun in groups.

            "A Four was a Homecoming Queen or a Sophomore Favorite and a hard-hitting dumbass. Fours married insurance salesmen and got fat and later in life stayed sick a lot.

            "A Three was a Semi, which a Texan pronounces sem-eye. You had to beware of Semis because you might marry them in a weak minute. Threes had it all put together in looks and style and sophistication. They could drink a lot and dance good and hang out and make conversation.

            "A Two was a Her. With a capital. If a Semi was tough, a Her was tougher. You might marry the same Her twice. Or three times. Barbara Jane was a Her, or a Two.

            "And there just had never been a One. Ever."

Your share of genius

This piece I wrote in 2004 was originally published by MIND Bets, the newsletter of Suthern Nevada Mensa:
http://www.southernnevada.us.mensa.org/0304_mindbets/archive_012004/how.php3

“Redneck” is not an adjective most people associate with Mensans. On the contrary, most non-Mensans, no matter how smart they allegedly are, think of Mensans as sherry-sipping, opera-going, bridge-playing, erudite, refined (if occasionally snotty about it), lightning quick and only ill-mannered when they win Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit games, at which time they are indecently smug. (I know better, but I don't want Mensa's Advocate [think Homeland Security] on my tail about Acts Inimical to Mensa.)

On the other hand, most people think of what I call the “yellowhammer” when they hear the word “redneck.” And the yellowhammer — the banjo-picker on Deliverance, whose parents probably shared the same parents — isn't who comes to mind when I call someone a redneck. See, I've met yellowhammers. They're about useless, unless you need a fence corner stretcher, while a redneck invariably has all manner of handy talents. I used to think “redneck” = “yellowhammer,” I admit it: Now I know better.

I would never have called Mo a redneck, but he calls himself one — and he could pass the Mensa test but refuses to take it. (I already think he's the smartest, and he's too smart to mess up that situation.) He earned an A. A. degree in aerospace engineering, he can drive or fix anything that runs, and he designed and built our home without a mortgage. But he comes of humble, hardworking stock: “Aw, shucks, ma' am,” he grins. “Ah'm just an old West Texas redneck.” Yeah, right. And I'm Momma Theresa, tennis shoes and all.

What I really am, besides Mrs. Mo, is a writer and copyeditor. And before I tested positive for Mensan-ness a few years ago, I wrote a short piece for my local weekly newspaper, called “You Might Be A Redneck's Wife If .” It was full of the kinds of habits and skills you pick up when you're married to a triple Leo (Type A++) excavating company owner/operator with a strong sense of command. (Of course, it hasn't hurt that he has also wrangled, fixed and fenced cows, driven and mechanicked trucks and equipment, demolished and built buildings, and troubleshot and crewchiefed just about everything the USAF flies.) I got what I thought were amazingly few chuckles (or come-ons) in response to the article. I speculated that this paucity of feedback indicated how few cowboys (or real rednecks) remained in traditionally rural but growing Azle, Texas. Then I met Mensa, the High IQ Society(SM) and figured it out.

There were plenty of rednecks, plenty of good ol' boys left in Azle. They just felt threatened that some girl had the gall to tell them that, if a woman appreciated what they think of as their best qualities, she'd clean the engine grime out from under her fingernails by building something with mortar. Their wives weren't too tickled about it, either. That's when being Mensa material came in handy: Shortly after I wrote that article, I found my car full of dirty shop rags and a worn-out tire one day when I came out of the Kwik Shop. Realizing that I'd been patterned by a pro tracker, I changed gas stations, banks and grocery stores immediately.

What scared them was just a list of the things I'd never have figured out in a scholar's ivory tower, but have learned from watching and helping my beloved redneck do what he's a genius at. It has since dawned on me, however, that every very smart person, certified genius or not, probably has been curious enough to fill a whole new portfolio with skills and accomplishments that originally belonged to every person he or she ever loved and every job we ever had. Those knowledges would frequently astonish even close acquaintances, not to mention strangers.

For example, I find troubleshooting an interesting challenge and am always tickled to be asked to help. But who would think to ask the slightly plump, graying Grandmama ahead of him at Auto Zone what might cause that clicky squealing 10 days after installing a new CV joint, much less what bodily fluids can take the place of brake fluid in a pinch?

Conversely, no one looking at Mo's boots, boot-cut jeans, western shirt and crumpled Resistol straw would suspect it, but he recognizes all the Carmen music. He also knows that certain rare Georgette Heyer romances cost $75 and up — and that they're worth it. He can tell a genuine Webster dictionary from a pseudo-Webster, and he has developed a very good eye for the value of genuine Regency furniture and certain nautical watercolorists' work. He built the house, so I know how to straighten real old finish nails; I continually redecorate it, so he knows faux effects. We owned a bar, so I can tap a keg, stop fights and do inventory; I did the promotion work, so he knows advertising language.

What's more, such secondarily acquired knowledge can come in handy first-hand. Finding myself substitute teaching one day, I stunned a real teacher by quelling a class of high-school students with command voice and The Look (to my relief). I had successfully used the same high-handed attitude on waiters and watched Mo use it on a certain half-Brahma bull. Turn about, I have seen Mo use a familiar eyebrow lift on high-handed bureaucrats, then turn and grin so that only I could see.

More practically speaking, troubleshooting and preventive maintenance became second nature early in the mission. I would rather run back into freeway traffic than call Mo and tell him the engine seized up because I forgot to check the oil. So that's not going to happen — that's at least one of my used cars saved, not to mention two of my daughter's. He's never going to hang a shelf or a picture without my final okay, if he can help it; I won't store the antique plane on its blade, and he won't store the unabridged dictionaries closed, on the shelf. That's close to a thousand not spent on repairs to unlock a silent spouse's mouth. And we decided, close to our first anniversary, that we would never be or threaten to be “spring-loaded to the 'I'm outta here!' position.” That's one marriage saved. (I'm sending the recyclable anniversary card idea to Hallmark. Mo loved it.)

So what if diesel fuel has sometimes been essential to doing the laundry or cleaning the floor? So what if some of my pans have been used to test a thermostat? The counter people at parts and hardware stores treat me respectfully, and even Mr. GoodPliers doesn't try to sell me anything I don't need: This twinkly-eyed Grandmama can reload, troubleshoot and drive a grease gun. Not only that, but learning all these skills has taught me where to find the answer to just about any mechanical problem you can name. See, I've learned the most essential skill of all: Inside every genius lives a mensch with one fine practical ability. Speak to this king (or queen) appreciatively, and he will help: If he doesn't know the answer, he will even tell you; and you both will enjoy looking it up.