Standing up in support of the folks with the mojo | MARK HUGHES COBB

Given that a tech-bro billionaire, inflated by the gaseous bubble of fanboys and an enormous yet hideously permeable ego, has chosen to deem his location "assassination coordinates," let this be fair warning that my 2022 holiday cards will be sent via drone strike.

James Bond villains share similarities beyond sartorial affectation, physical quirks tied to high-tech gizmos, and whimsical selection in house pets, including the inability to not-monologue about motivations, grievances, and the foolishness of an unkill-able MI6 secret agent stumbling into their planmwahahaha, followed shortly by ker-plunk-sploosh-fwaggagahghghagHhhh! of said insufferably dim-witted knucklehead taking a banana-peel swan-header into his shark-infested pool, clutching a bizarre weapon that requires a winding and definitely plugged-in extension cord, and tipping over a bucket of chum, precariously and conveniently suspended on a nearby ledge.

Throw in a Mad Libs name, and that sentence goes further into character depth than most of Ian Fleming's baddies.

I make silly pronouncements and ludicrous misstatements on a regular basis, too, but as I'm not grotesquely rich or powerful, who cares?

More:Sorry, there won't be a Holiday Singalong this year | MARK HUGHES COBB

For many years, I'd convinced folks I was scared of flying, based on a single-engine flight from Dothan to Tuscaloosa when I was about 3, during which I was indeed startled because that rattle-trap was louder than a Norwegian death-metal band, only not as chortle-worthy. But that was rawr, being a kid, and misunderstanding, having read about Buddy Holly and a plane that took off in snow from Clear Lake Iowa, traveling only so far as a nearby field.

Did I mention we were flying because highways had been snowed in? A rare enough event roads couldn't be cleared in time for the wedding we were zooming up to, so rawr, snow, Buddy Holly, 3 .... Easy for older me to spin a web.

I've flown numerous times, and while I don't dig the waiting, the plastic-metallic wheezes of recycled air, and the sheer-ly silly tedium of our ongoing search for Shoe Bomber No. 2 — Seriously, when I was traveling with the Honor Flight to D.C., they were making nonagenarian World War II vets peel off belts and footwear — flying is just meh. Mainly too expensive, and despite relative speed, uncomfortable and inconvenient.

I don't love not being behind the wheel, it's true. Knock knock. Who's there you ask? Control Freaknowyousay "Control Freak who?"

On car sojourns, I tend to be behind the wheel, but I've met actual pilots, right-stuff fellas, combat vets, stunt flyers and the like, to whom I'd be perfectly happy turning over the yoke, as they possess not only skills and training, but confidence bordering on cockiness that comes from knowing you're darn good at a thing, like the way I can cross my little toes over the next. I'd tap Michael Jordan into a street game, Jimmy Carter into a theological debate, or Dolly Parton into an open-mic, over me. I'm perfectly fine playing side man to someone bursting with mojo.

By the way, for those I bamboozled about fear-of-flying, a gazelle is still that shady extraneous porch-like thing in the backyard; a gazebo's the fleet-footed animal largely treading African, Asian and Indian plains.

Despite the dangers of running with pointed shtick, I am nothing if not perseverant.

Not all the funny — aberrant, rather than laugh-inducing — comes by purpose. Years back, I discovered my not-so-secret identity: Awkward Turtleman The Neodymium-Iron-Boron Freak Magnet.

My superpowers include such weaponry as rapid-fire blurting from a stream of unconsciousness; off-putting responses so rapid they're actually, according to studies, arising even before stimulus appears; and an aura of gawk emitted vastly enough to encompass leagues, creating crudeness, ineptitude, and artlessness in others.

You know how it's said of some they can light up a room, or make you feel special, like you're the only one in the world? AT endarkens, and beguiles you to ponder if you've got something stuck to your teeth, shoes, or fly.

According to the chronicles of Awkward Turtleman, aka FB memories, this is my special time, rising from only the choicest of blunder patches, blurting non-sequiturs to all foolish enough to stand in my path, or within earshot.

One evening, enjoying our beautiful Tuscaloosa Symphony Orchestra from a balcony seat, I heard the scrape-scrape of a chair, presumably piloted by a sitter. She said "They're so good! If I was a man, I'd have a ...." word not suitable for printing. "Oh! I didn't mean to say that out loud!"

So the chair-sidling up to my earholes was what, uncontrollable phenomena, like reflex, reflux, or spontaneous combustion? No. Freak magnetism.

A few maladroit moves, from the wander brain:

∙ Crossing paths with a pair of fellow walkers, staring at fading light through treetops, in yet another attempt to avoid appearing threatening, which explains why I've nearly walked off the path and plunged down the Warrioriverbank, oh, sebenty-leben times. For some reason — perhaps to defuse the thrilling tension -- they politely speak. Rather than respond in kind, I raise volume on the song I was humming: "Pretty Women," from "Sweeney Todd": "PROOOOF of heaven/as you're living ...." With swooping razor gestures.

By the time regular words rose to the forebrain, they had passed, prestissimo.

∙ Almost bumping Into a pair of fellow tree-gazers, I hear them mumble-marvel at an adorable, fluffy-ish rodent nibbling away, crawling nimbly from spindly branch to flimsy branch.

I look up. "That's a rat."

The fact that I was correct did not make this exchange any smoother. Or the screaming any less chilling.

∙ Posting a FB joke ("Sober two months! Not trying to quit; there's just nowhere to go" during the height of the pandammit) and receiving warm affirmations for, yes, a joke, as I'm neither an alcoholic nor a quitter.

There's a litany of others, like when I yelled to a driver circling for a parking spot, having seen me briefly enter and then again exit my vehicle — "Sorry! Not pulling out for hours!" — or when I truly and honestly could not stop myself from saying to the lovely sales clerk helping me find the right size jacket, after she'd tugged at the buttons and said "I could fit in there," well, just imagine. It was probably both worse and better than you'd think.

Awkward Turtleman's aura of awfulness extends even to the bouncy puff-ball of down and shiny pink that I assume swallowed a human girl, who, on seeing wild rodents at the Riverwalk, cried out in utter delight: "Look Ma! Turtles!"

And now you know — insert Paul Harvey dead air discomfort — the rest of the chelonian.

I'll plug, as it's not just about me, but I'll be playing tonight, that's Thursday Dec. 22, at Loosa Brews, opening at 7 p.m. for a singer-songwriter you'll want to hear, after my ditties of grief, tequila, star-crossed carnies, doughnut waitresses with hot now attributes, and all the ambling anecdotes between. Her name is Grace Yukich, one of the UA theater and dance kids from about the time I led the house band for Guerrilla Theatre, The Damn Dirty Apes, and yes I know guerrilla from gorilla. Gazelle gazebo. Squirrel and turtle.

Know how when you don't lay eyes on a person for awhile, you tend to fix them in place from back when? I keep thinking of Grace as a kid, but she's a professor of sociology at Quinnipiac University who has lectured at Princeton, who's written a couple of books on religion, culture, immigration, race and ethnicity, social movements and politics. Oh yeah, and she has a mom, guitarist-singer in trio Corpse Flower, and has cut a solo recording of her original material, "Wisteria," which you can find at www.graceyukichmusic.bandcamp.com.

I'll be the awkward guy off to one side, supporting the mom with the mojo.

Reach Tusk Editor Mark Hughes Cobb at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com, or call 205-722-0201.

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: Standing up and to one side, for the mojo | MARK HUGHES COBB