THAT'S HOW I WAS RAISED AND I TURNED OUT TV

A Platteville, Wisconsin man is being sued after legally changing his name to Andrew Jackson Griffith in a failed bid for the Sheriff's office in Grant County. Griffith nee William H. Fenrick is being taken to court by the real Andy Griffith for violating copyright laws and encroaching on the privacy of the actor.

Fake Griffith says that the suit is unfounded because he received no personal gain through the use of Real Griffith's name, and that his sole intent was to use Real's "notoriety" to score votes. It is a reasonable position, as Griffith 2006 spent $5,000 of his own money only managed the support of 1,248 voters. He cited in his loss depressed turnout from southwestern Wisconsin's Mental Dementia and Postmodern Irony voting blocs. The winner, who countered by releasing his own plan to protect all pies on window sills, received 8,452 votes.

Nü Griffth said he did not believe that anyone thought he actually was the actor. He further accused the Matlock-Griffith of behaving in an "un-American" way for attempting to punish his political gimmickry and offered that he was merely working off the model of other idiots who have been elected on the strength of name recognition and resemblance to a fake law-man.

The legal ramifications of the case are unclear. One proposed solution is to have the two Griffiths dress in sheriff uniforms, wrestle, and let a representative from the Estate of Don Knotts shoot whichever one he feels is the fake Andy Griffith.

GONE TO THAT GREAT PORT WARWICK IN THE SKY

Just a quick word on William Styron, who died earlier today of pneumonia at his home in Martha's Vineyard. He was 81. He was the author of several books, including The Confessions of Nat Turner, Set This House On Fire, Sophie's Choice, and Darkness Visible.

Styron's writing inhabited a unique territory, running on the plain-spoken cadences of writers like Salinger and Vonnegut, without forefeiting lushness in style or drama. This was true whether he was writing about the glowing and idle rich in an Italian Villa, or his weathered, ossified father in Port Warwick, the fictional city modeled on my and Styron's shared hometown, Newport News, Virginia, or as he slowly waded his way through a stark and compelling deconsruction of his battle with clinical depression.

Styron's work was gorgeous and intricate without being ornate, and never lacked for humor or distinct and engaging drama. There was, to me, something particularly American about his prose: Golden Age of Hollywood plots with distilled human emotions as raw as any Beckett. He was careful not to give anything more tenderness than God had already provided. His was real romance, without sentimentality.