The Beach Bum Report

Thanks

2009-11-11T12:23:00.003-05:00

Last night I received the following email message from my friend Paul (Loopy):

Thank you, Kagnew Vets.
Thanks for serving this country and this flag.
Thanks for the difficulties that you who went to Viet Nam faced and endured.
Thanks for being part of a brotherhood that still endures today.
Thanks for sharing your knowledge and expertise in dealing with the VA.
Thanks for caring still in your elder years about where this country is going.
Thanks for disagreeing with a modicum of dignity when your brother rants and raves about our government’s direction.
Thanks for agreeing to disagree while still paying respect to the other's viewpoint.
Thanks for all the memories we share of everything that Kagnew represented.
Thanks for welcoming me into this group that has become such an important part of my life in retirement.
Thanks for your friendship.
Thanks for being my brothers.

May each of you have a safe and happy Veteran's Day tomorrow.

I would also like to say thanks to all the Kagnew Vets, especially those who made living in Africa bearable. Long lasting friendships were formed that still exist more than 40 years later.

Thanks to all Vets for sacrificing a part of their life to serve their country.

Thanks to all active military personnel who are now sacrificing, and may or may not become future Vets. I salute all of you.

Finally, a big thanks to Applebees’ Restaurants for serving a free meal to all active military personnel as well as Vets this Veteran’s Day.

The Beach Bum

Semper Fi

2009-11-10T16:19:00.002-05:00

Today is my youngest daughters’ birthday. She is now Jack Benny’s perpetual age. How time flies.

We usually have a few drinks together to celebrate, but this year she is 1000 miles away. I’ll just have to have a few extra cocktails tonight. She is in Maryland because her Great-Aunt had hip surgery yesterday. The surgery was successful and soon she’ll be walking around like a normal 85 year old.

Today is also the United States Marine Corps birthday, therefore the title of this Blog. My cousin was a Marine and served two tours of duty in Viet Nam. I have several friends that proudly served in the US Marine Corps; most of them spent at least one tour in Viet Nam. Two guys that I knew in High School died there.

Semper Fi is a shortened version of the Marine Corps motto, Semper Fidelis, the Latin for always faithful. They are faithful to the Corps, their fellow Marines, and most of all to our country. They do a job that few of us would consider doing and they do it well. Some die and others are injured for life; both physically and mentally.

Before I started to write this Blog, I stood at attention and rendered a hand salute to all present and past members of the Marine Corps. And then I said Semper Fi plus a prayer for them.

Mister President, please bring our troops home!

The Beach Bum

Chestnut Brown Canary

2009-10-23T15:16:00.006-05:00

A few days ago (or maybe it was a few weeks ago) I received an email from a friend that mentioned the names of several Folk Music groups from the 1950’s and 1960’s. He was in the process of transcribing his vinyl collection onto a more current media.

I went through this process about 4 or 5 years ago, but selected cuts from various albums rather than copying the entire album. I made two CD’s, one loaded with MP3’s and the other containing some favorites on a .wav format.

One of the Folk Music group mentioned in the email was the Chad Mitchell Trio. The Chad Mitchell Trio was the very first group that I saw in a live performance. It was in late 1959 or early 1960 (snow was on the ground – so it might have even been early spring 1960) at the Chicago Historical Society (if you ever go to Chicago, this is a place that you want to visit).

The group was performing nightly at a club (bar) a few blocks away at North Ave. and Wells St. (in Olde Town) and took the time out to do a gratis set on a Saturday afternoon at the Historical Society.

Fortunately I was there, with a few of my fellow students, attending a lecture about Chicago history.

After the lecture we were asked not to leave the auditorium, because we were in for a special treat. We would have a musical interlude, so to speak. Not one of the 40 or so people left the room.

Enters the Chad Mitchell Trio!

The first song that they performed (and the only song that I can remember by name) was “No Irish Need Apply”, and I was overwhelmed when hearing the live music. It sounded so different from listening to music on the radio or on the Hi-Fi.

I’ll never forget that day!

Now, here is how my neural processors (RAM) work!

I read the email, I think of the Chad Mitchell Trio, I think of the Historical Society, I think of my old friends, I think of a guy named Joe (who was at this mini concert with me) and then I feel compelled to speak to Joe about the “good old days”.

So I call him!

After the usual salutations, talking about the weather and our ailments, I switch the conversation to Folk Music.

Joe and I (as well as a few others) went to “Mother Blues” in Olde Town Chicago to see Joan Baez (with guest performer Bob Dylan – fairly unknown at that time) and we also went to a Peter, Paul and Mary concert (I believe it was at the Goodman Theater behind the Chicago Art Institute) in 1961.

Joe recalled the PP&M concert and asked me “Didn’t you have a crush on Mary Travers?” I answered by saying that I had a crush on “every thing in a skirt”. "Don't you remember our High School Art Teacher, Connie?” “I was like a puppy in Connie’s class, I would fetch for her and do anything that she wanted, just to be close to her.”

He remembered and he laughed!

As the conversation continued we spoke of other Folk Music artists. Joe brought up the fact that many of the 1960’s Rock Artists had a Folk Music background. I brought up the fact that some Folk singers never went over to “the other side”, they were purist. Sure, Dylan electrified his band, but he did continue to write Folk, not Rock.

I mentioned that one of Bob Dylan’s most covered songs is “Knockin’ on Heavens Door” which has been covered by many major rock groups throughout the years. But they’re not like the original version; they lack the compassion in Dylan’s voice.

Then he brought up Judy Collins (who did some Dylan). I had purchased her album “Wildflowers”, at the PX, while stationed at Kagnew Station in Africa, after hearing the song about “Clouds” (Both Sides Now) on the radio. I had a crush on Judy, but this time I was seemingly an adult. I still had the crush (I’m sure that this has to do with high testosterone levels in a young male viewing an attractive female on an album cover).

Joe then brings up Crosby, Stills and Nash. This was one of my all time favorite groups from the late sixties and seventies.

Joe then asks me it I knew the origins of the CSN song “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”.

I say no!

Joe then informs me that is was Steven Stills tribute to Judy Collins. Unknown to me, Stills had dated (was sleeping with her) Collins when he was with Buffalo Springfield. My friend Joe knew all of this information; and I think I know music trivia – silly me.

Two days later I get an email from Joe with a link to Youtube. It’s a video of CSN doing Suite: Judy Blue Eyes with Judy Collins.

Now, I can’t get this song out of my head: Every time that I hear a bird in the back yard warble I hear “Chestnut brown canary, Ruby throated sparrow” rushing through the canyons of my mind.

Thanks a lot Joe!

The Beach Bum

Politicians

2009-10-13T12:40:00.008-05:00

The other night I was speaking to my friend Loopy and I told him of this Blog that I was planning to write. It’s been taking me three or four day to write a Blog. Mainly because of my pains, I can only write when I am pleasantly anesthetized with alcohol. Usually by that point in time, I do not really feel like writing anything.

Back several decades ago I took a 200 Level English course. The main reasons that I took the course were that it had one of the shortest sign-up lines and all in the line were young ladies. Although it can become a distraction, a classroom full of young ladies is a good experience for a young male with high testosterone levels. It allows you to daydream if the class is boring.

There are many reasons that there are short sign-up lines for certain elective classes. The three predominant factors are listed below:

1) The class is highly specialized and usually boring. The people in the sign-up line more than likely need this class as a pre-requisite for another highly specialized and equally boring class.
2) The Bad Professor syndrome. Either you don’t understand what they are trying to teach you or they are very hard with their grading (I found this to be a major factor when signing up for a class with an East Indian teacher). Except for the gifted few, most students don’t learn a damn thing and inevitably drop out (take an incomplete) or get bad grades.
3) The class is scheduled at an inconvenient time or coincides with a mandatory class.

It was a good course, not too boring and a hot babe sat next to me (let me rephrase that last statement – I intentionally sat next to the hot babe). The subject of the course was Etymology, which would seemingly be boring, but fortunately we had a Good Professor.

But I have strayed, as usual, from the topic of my Blog; Politicians. But before I get to the point of this Blog, I must say something about my friend Loopy (Paul).

As I did, Paul took 4 years of Latin, but he also took two years of Classical Greek. He therefore knows a lot about the origins of words (Etymology) in this thing that we refer to as the English language.

In our conversation I mentioned the word Politicians and asked if he knew the Etymology of the word. Unsurprisingly we both came to the same conclusion; great minds think alike.

The Etymology of the word Politics according to Webster’s:
Greek politika, from neuter plural of politikos political.

However we, Paul and I, had a different take on the word Politicians. Let’s break it down.

Poli - (no Y’s in either the Greek or Roman Latin Alphabet) so this is the same as Poly, which is a prefix meaning many.
tic – (no C’s in the Greek alphabet) so let’s add K to give it the right sound. This turns it into tick. As we all should know, a Tick is a small blood sucking insect that bores under your skin and causes pestilence.
ians – a suffix from the Latin word “anus” (I kid you not) meaning “from, related to, or like.

Therefore the true meaning of the word Politicians is: Related to many small blood sucking insects that get under your skin, cause disease and expel feces.

The Beach Bum

A Perfect Martini

2009-10-10T13:14:00.002-05:00

For the past 13 days I have been enjoying one of the simple pleasures of life. The Martini! Only one per day; that’s what I had promised my daughter if she would be so kind to procure a bottle of Gordon’s Gin for me.

My daughter doesn’t really like me drinking Gin; she says that I get strange, at least stranger than my normal strangeness. Plus she mentions that I have the tendency to fall when trying to rise from a chair when I drink a Gin Martini. This phenomenon has only happened to me twice in the past 9 years; but unfortunately she was present at both times.

Some say that Gin is an acquired taste (as is any liquor or malt beverage coming from the British Isles), but I liked it the first time that I drank it, with tonic, when I was stationed in Africa. The Eritrean Bartender at the Service Club said that it was good for me; the quinine in the tonic water helped to prevent malaria. He explained, therefore the more that I drank the better it was for me; it would be good for my health. I bought into his theory because I wanted to drink more gin and tonics. Besides it was a plausible explanation.

I drank my first Martini at the Officers Club on Fort Meade, Maryland in 1969. I wanted to appear sophisticated and everyone who drank a Martini in the movies was stylish and sophisticated. I was at the club on my first date with a charming young lady that I had met the week before.

I ordered a Martini and she ordered a rum and coke. The bartender asked if I wanted it up or on the rocks, shaken or stirred and if I wanted an Olive or a Twist. I remember that James Bond drank his shaken and served up, so I ordered it shaken and up with both an Olive and Twist.

The first sip that I took nearly gagged me; how could anyone drink this concoction? My date asked if she could take a sip, I, of course, said yes and she took a sip. The look on her face was what I was feeling inside but afraid to show openly. I asked her if anything was wrong and she replied “How can you drink that horrible thing?” Nine months later she married me anyway; probably because I had switched back to gin and tonic.

In 1976 I went to a bar with my friend Les, who was a regular patron at this particular bar. Les' drink of choice was a martini, on the rocks with a twist. He didn’t have to order his drink because the bartender knew exactly what he wanted.

I watched the bartender prepare his Martini. First he put the Vermouth into the glass and swirled it around and then dumped it out. Next he rimmed the glass with a lemon twist, dropped it into the glass and iced the glass. Then he filled the iced glass with Beefeater Gin.

On the next round I ordered a Martini telling the bartender “The same as you made for Les, but make mine up and with both an Olive and a twist.” This time I enjoyed my Martini. Les told me that the key to a good Martini was to use as little Vermouth as possible. He was right!

Two years later, my favorite bartender, Bob and I created what I called the Perfect Martini (he called it George’s Special). 2 and ½ ounces of Gin (Gordon’s) and ½ oz of Vodka (Smirnoff) chilled on ice in a glass shaker (until the shaker frosted over) and then gently stirred. A splash of Noillly Prat Dry Vermouth and a dash of Bols Orange Curacao were poured into an up glass. Then ice was placed into the glass to chill it. The ice and liquid were then disposed of and the Gin was then poured into the glass (using a Julep strainer) and was garnished with both an Olive (Queen Size sans pimento) and a twist of lemon (the zest flavored the rim of the glass).

About 6 years ago, with a young (23 or 24) enchanting female friend, I went to a Martini and Cigar Bar in Tampa, Florida. This place had a list of more than 30 different Martinis with only 3 or 4 made with Gin. Prices ranged from $9 to $24 for a Martini. The crowd was young; in fact the guy sitting next to me was in his late 30’s and probably the second oldest person in the Bar.

My companion ordered a Stoli Cosmopolitan with Grand Marnier instead of Cointreau.
(Aside: this drink was invented in an Annapolis, Maryland Bar and Restaurant named McGarvey’s, by a bartender named Bill, for McGarvey’s owner Mike Ashford and his good friend and sailing buddy Walter Cronkite).

Then I explained to the bartender how I wanted my Martini prepared. I was going to play the stump the young blonde bartender game. She smiled and said that the bar only carried top shelve Gins (I chose Bombay Sapphire), and only had Marie Brizard Curacao, they did however carry my Noilly Prat Dry Vermouth (as well as several other brands). I was impressed (with her knowledge and her cleavage) as I watched her make the second best Martini that I have ever had in my life. It was close to perfect.

Our check for two drinks was $32 (and this is in Florida, not New York City). I left the young lady bartender a $20 tip and thanked her for making my day.

The Beach Bum

My Friend (Not My Cousin) Vinny

2009-10-02T11:57:00.003-05:00

In 1981, while in self exile from my marriage and my family in Maryland, I live in Cicero, Illinois. At times, these were the best of times and at others they were the worst of times. I really missed being with my children, yet I cherished my freedom from my wife’s domineering family.

I first met my friend Vince while walking to a Cicero ballpark to play softball. I was playing in a Bar-League softball game and carrying a bat (an old Jackie Jensen model Louisville Slugger with a thick barrel – I had it since High School). Vinnie was also carrying a bat and was walking a few paces in front of me.

I caught up with him and asked him if he was playing in the 2 o’clock game. He looked at me as if I were crazy; then he answered and said “No, I gotta break someone’s kneecap.” I thought that he was being facetious and laughed. The look on his face told me that he was dead serious.

The next time that I saw him, about two months later, was in an up scale Italian Restaurant and Bar (and there weren’t many in Cicero at that time); I didn’t recognize him because this time he wasn’t carrying a bat. He yelled across the bar and asked me “Did you win?” I was amazed that he remembered me; we had had a very brief encounter a month or two before. I yelled back that I didn’t remember.

He got off of his bar stool and walked over to me and sat in the stool next to me. In a soft voice he told me that it was impolite to yell in a Restaurant. I was going to say that he yelled first; but I wisely bit my tongue. He introduced himself and I did the same. Little did I know that this was a start of a beautiful long lasting friendship.

In our bar conversation I learned that Vinnie worked for a Dutchman nicknamed “The Weasel”; although others called him BO Billy (but not to his face). The Weasel was the biggest bookmaker in the western suburbs of Chicago. His bank was Vince’s father-in-law.

Vince is a White Sox fan and loves the game of baseball with the same passion that I do. I’ve gone to several Sox games with him (usually the best seats in the house). I’ve taken him to several Cubs games over the course of the years; he always complained that we were in the cheap seats (Bleachers or Upper Deck).

Vinnie now works for the largest Construction Company in Chicago and it’s probably one of the top 20 in the US. I think, but I am not sure, that his father-in-law bankrolled their expansion some years back. Instead of a bat, Vinnie now carries a pen.

For the past 6 months Vinnie has been hounding me (via email) for the $19 that I owe him from last year. Now this is a guy that makes a two comma annual income. He lives in what my Dad would have called a mansion in the far western Chicago suburb of Naperville (5 bedrooms, swimming pool, 3 car garage and a circular driveway – all this on 1 ½ acres).

Vinnie and I have a standing annual wager. He bets $20 that the Cubs do not go to the World Series (he calls it a sure thing) and I bet a dollar that the White Sox won’t go (there is a reason for this that I may or may not explain later). I can’t recall how many $19 checks that I have written over the course of the years.

Last April, I did not send him his usual check. When he didn’t get the check in July he began to harass me; calling me a piker. Last night I called him to say that the check (sincerely) was in the mail but that it was written for $38 to include my 2009 losses (as I may not be around to pay up in April).

We spoke for more than an hour and he said “You know why I talked to you at the Restaurant that night, years ago.” I said “No.” “Because you seemed to be a good guy and I didn’t know too many good guys at that time.” He also said that I always made him laugh; that I was a funny guy who always faced adversity with a smile.

We talked about my health and physical problems. I told him that he didn’t need a bat because my knees were already shot. He laughed. I told him that a good day for me was when I only vomited once in the morning and didn’t crap in my pants. He laughed and then he cried!

The Beach Bum

Good Fortune - I Doubt It

2009-09-11T13:41:00.004-05:00

On July 3, 1981 the crew of the Valiant sailed out of Burnham Park Harbor (Chicago) with a destination of Michigan City, Indiana.

We had slept on board the night before so that we could get an early morning start. The Captain had set the departure time at 7am (give or take 15 seconds – the Captain has always believed in punctuality). We didn’t want to be standing on the dock at 7:02 waving farewell to the crew as they headed toward the mouth of the harbor and onto Lake Michigan (as I’d seen this happen before).

At first I didn’t understand why we were going to Michigan City for the Fourth of July; Chicago had a far better fireworks display. I had found, in the past, that it was unwise to question the Captain about matters such as this. Later that day I found out from my cousin (The Admiral) that the Captain (who would turn 40 years old on the Fourth) feared a surprise party and wanted to get out of town.

The Captain plotted (manually with a chart) and then set the course for Michigan City. There was a moderate breeze from the Northwest and it was predicted that we would get there in about 7 hours.

About half way there (mid-lake) the wind died and we were just moving with the waves. It was like being in the doldrums of the Sargasso Sea, but without the seaweed. The Captain said that we would wait a while before turning on the engines and that it was a good time to have lunch. As we ate, a swarm of flies descended on us. This was the middle of the lake, where did they come from? It seems that they had been on a board that was floating in the water near the boat.

The flies were not going for our food, they were going for us. We only had two fly swatters and by the time you would zap one fly; two more would take its place. The Captain turned on the engine (this was a drastic measure, as the Captain did not like to waste fuel)! These flies were biting us like the abominable Wisconsin Deer Fly (People from Chicago call them Kamikaze Flies; they have a 5 inch wingspan and dive right at you).

In a short time we had left the Sargasso Sea, the wind picked up and we were able to kill or get most of the flies off of the boat. It was smooth sailing for the rest of the trip to Michigan City and a good time was had by all. End of story.

But, it’s not the end of this Blog.

During my life I have been attacked by about every flying insect that is known to mankind (I believe the tsetse fly is the exception). I think that these insects innately know that if they come near me, I will attempt to kill them. So like the Kamikaze Deer Flies of Wisconsin, they will tempt the fates by attacking me first.

Although it has been a rainy spring and summer, I have yet to see a mosquito. The avian population and the small reptiles that inhabit our yard must be performing their primary function; insect elimination. I can put up with the squawking birds, croaking frogs and chirping lizards as long as they do their jobs by ridding me of the flying insect population.

Earlier this summer we were besieged by sand flies; these are sneaky little (about a sixteenth of an inch long) blood suckers that you do not see landing on you and biting you. They will leave a welt the size of a mosquito bite that itches like hell.

Next came the invasion of the Gnats. I don’t believe that they bite, but they do have a tendency to fly up your nose and into your eyes (and mouth, if open). This lasted for about a week; the birds and reptile probably finally heard me cursing them for not ridding me of the plague.

Last week, while my daughter was in Maryland, it was my assigned task to take care of the dogs (they need to be walked several times per day). On one of my care giving journeys I noticed a rather large group of flying insects attacking a flower bearing shrub in the back yard. They were butterflies. As far as I know butterflies do not bite humans.

As I neared the shrub, one of them flew directly at me and landed on the left sleeve of my shirt. I was walking one of the dogs at the time and therefore moving. This was of no concern to the butterfly. In fact he moved to my chest about an inch above my hearth. Don’t think for one minute that I didn’t consider smashing the thing before he moved on; I did. It shortly left to join the others in his group, which probably saved his life.

After walking the dogs I called a friend who has a large butterfly collection adorning the walls of his Rec-room. I told him the story and described the butterfly and he said that he had one of those things on his wall. I then asked him what its name is. He sez “How the hell should I know, I just buy them for decoration purposes.” Then he tells me that in some cultures, a butterfly landing on you is considered to be the harbinger of good fortune. These must be the same cultures that believe a bird defecating on you is good luck.

We’ll see!

The Beach Bum

Potato Chips?

2009-09-04T13:00:00.008-05:00

In my last conversation with my friend Slow Eddie, about his tour of the old neighborhood, he mentioned that the old Pizzeria where we hung out on Fridays and Saturdays was still there and still doing business. He had thought about taking the grand kids into the restaurant, but after seeing the patrons he decided that it was not a good idea and decided to stop at the Home Run Inn on 31st Street instead.

The name of the restaurant was the Del Campo Pizzeria and it is located on the corner of Cermak (22nd Street) and Troy. It was about 6 blocks from our high school and less than three blocks away from Eddie’s childhood home and about 6 blocks away from mine.

We would go there after a Friday afternoon Football or Baseball games and for Saturday night get-togethers. The pizza was very good but did not compare with the Home Run Inn’s pizza. But the Home Run Inn was more than a mile and a half away from my house and an even farther distance for most of my other High School friends.

My Dad would get our pizzas (and pizza was never considered to be a dinner food – although I would argue that it contained all five essential food groups) from a Pizzeria two blocks away from our home. It was a thin New York style pizza but it didn’t have the cracker crust which I preferred.

It was owned by two brothers that had emigrated from Italy to New York City in the early 1940’s. They lived in Brooklyn and both went to work for a local Pizzeria; one as a busboy and the other as a kitchen clean-up man. The younger brother was the busboy.

This Pizzeria had no wait staff; you would get a number when you ordered your pizza and they would call the number when your pizza was ready.

Although his job was only to clean the tables and the floor (and restrooms), the younger brother took the initiative to get the pizzas for the customers. He'd say something like “don’t interrupt your conversation; I will bring your pizza to you”. His fetching the pizzas did not interfere with his job and the owners of the Pizzeria appreciated his extra effort. Plus he would usually find nickels or dimes on the tables when he went to clean them. Soon the nickels and dimes turned into quarters and although he was making less money per hour than his brother; he was bringing home a lot more.

I transferred into Cyrus McCormick Elementary School (Chicago) in the third grade. I knew absolutely no one in my class and they didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms. Most of my neighborhood friends, (which I had just met that summer) went to Catholic Schools.

The next fall when I entered the fourth grade there was a new transfer student. Now I was no longer the new kid on the block.

By this time I had become friends with several of my classmates. I was such an affable character that they couldn’t resist my pleasing personality, besides I was bigger and stronger than most of them and I knew how to throw a punch. A fifth grader was picking on one of my new found friends and I decked him (actually it was a sucker punch that was taught to me by my older cousin Bob). I gained the immediate respect from my fellow male classmates (however, my mom was summoned to the school to explain my inexplicable behavior). Fortunately this turned out to be a good move on my part because my friend’s parents owned the candy store across the street from the school and I didn’t get severely disciplined by my parents.

The new student’s name was Giuseppe. On the first day of class our teacher called on him and asked him to introduce himself to his fellow classmates. He said “Ma’am, I go by the name of Joey, I’m Italian but I was born in America.” A harsh silence fell over the classroom; both Joey and our teacher sat down. More silence.

I decided that I liked this kid, so after class I introduced myself to him and we shook hands. He lived about a half block away from the school and I lived two blocks away. When I walked to school in the morning he would be sitting on his stoop waiting for me and we’d walk the last 100 yards to school, every morning, together. After school I would often stop at his house and we would do our homework together. His Mom baked some of the best cookies that I have ever eaten.

One day Joey came to my house after school and one of the local kids, from my block, yelled “Hey George, who is that grease ball that you’re with.” That was the last day that Joey came to my home. Kids can be cruel. But one must consider the fact that I grew up in an extremely bigoted Bohemian/Polish Chicago neighborhood.

One day Joey and I were walking home from school and he continued to walk past his house. I asked him if he was coming to my house. He told me “No, I’m going to see my father at work.” I thought that it must be nice to have your Dad working so close to home.

The next day, at recess, I asked him where his Dad worked. He told me that his Dad and his Uncle ran a Pizza Parlor. He also said that his Dad worked 14 hours a day and he hardly got to see him. He asked me if I would like to meet his Dad and I said sure. He said that we could go there for lunch. I told him “not today” because my Mom would be worried if I didn’t come home for lunch.

After clearing it with my Mom, the next day Joey and I had pizza for lunch. I met his Dad and his Uncle Carlo. After that day Joey and I would go to the Pizzeria for lunch one day per week.

The next year I was invited to their home for the Feast of Saint Joseph (March 19th). It was on a School day so I went home to clean up and change clothes first. I arrived at about 4:30 in the afternoon. When Joey opened the door to let me in I received a blast of some of the most fragrant aromas that I had ever encountered. Joey said that his Mom had been preparing food for 3 days.

Joey’s Dad and Uncle were sitting at the dining room table (which looked like the worlds largest antipasto platter) drinking wine and speaking in Italian. The greeted me in English and welcomed me to their home (Uncle Carlo lived on the second floor of the two-flat house). The sideboard next too the table was covered with an assortment of cookies, cakes and tortes. Uncle Carlo saw the look on my face and said go on and take one. I reached for a round cookie that was full of holes and had powder sugar on top. Carlo said no no those are only for after dinner; try the Pignoli or the Biscotti. I chose the Pignoli.

Joey and I, his two cousins and his brother and sister went into the living room to watch television. I notice Joey’s Mom clearing the food from the table. I said “Mrs. *******, I haven’t eaten yet.”, she laughed and told me that I would eat soon.

I couldn’t believe the amount and varieties of food Joey’s Mother and Aunt brought out of the kitchen, it truly was a feast. There were so many types of pasta including Ravioli and Lasagna, three different sauces (they called them gravies), several meat dishes and one vegetable (actually a mixture of several vegetables).

Uncle Carlo sat at the head of the table (he was the oldest member of the family – the Patrono) and gave the benediction, said a prayer and the talked about family members for 2 or 3 minutes. I didn’t understand a word he said because he was speaking in Italian. Then he sat down and said Mangiare, I knew what that meant.

Joey’s Mother fixed me a basket of food and cookies to take home with me when I left that night. She said “Bringa back the basket.”

After Elementary school Joey and I rarely saw each other. His parents sent him to a Catholic school and I went to a Public High School. But on every March 19th I was there at his house to celebrate St. Joseph’s Day.

Now after this extremely long missive, I suppose you are wondering what this story has to do with the title of this Blog – Potato Chips.

On August 3rd I wrote a blog about snack foods and Potato Chips in particular. Somewhere in that Blog I wrote about Joey’s Dad’s Pizzeria having the best Spumoni that I have ever eaten. Writing that Blog reminded me of my old friend Joey.

The Beach Bum

A Pleasant Waste of Time - Sometimes

2009-08-31T12:59:00.004-05:00

In late June I wrote a blog about my signing up for Facebook. Against my better judgment, I signed up to please my daughters. They had signed on a week before at the urgings of one of the former “loves of my life”.

I have 22 Facebook friends (my younger daughter has more that 100); 6 of them are family members, 2 are former “loves of my life”, 3 are former roommates (they were really friends, because anyone who had the forbearance to live with me, had to be a friend) and 2 are former co-workers. The rest are childhood friends of my two daughters, who probably remember me only as “that crabby old man” who would go searching for his daughters when they were out past curfew.

Last week, a friend and former roommate tagged me. A tag is like a meme. I don’t participate in memes and I usually ignore tags (not that I get that many). But the topic of this tag fascinated me.

Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen movies you've seen that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes. Tag fifteen friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what movies my friends choose.

He then listed his 15 movies.

I’ve been known to occasionally bend the rules; almost to the point of cheating (if I knew I could get away with it). So I grab a piece of loose leaf paper and put it on a clip board. Within ten minutes I had a list of more than 30 movies.

It’s funny how the mind works. The first movie that I wrote down reminded me of other movies featuring one of the actors (actress) in that movie. Then your mind leads you to a director. My hand was writing faster than a speeding bullet. I write a lot faster than I can type; and I don’t have to constantly use a backspace key.

I sat back and looked at my list and decided that some of the movies on the lower end of the list should have been closer to the top of the list. It was a hopeless cause (where is St. Jude when you need him?). So I decided to give up on this tag game and not participate.

After speaking to a friend (Richard Feder) yesterday, I decided to bend the rules and edit my selections. But I would not put the results on Facebook; instead I would write this Blog. The first movie listed is still the first movie that popped into my mind. It was the first non-animated movie that I had seen in color. The second was also second on my original list.

The List:

1. The African Queen
2. Casablanca
3. On the Waterfront
4. Star Wars
5. Forrest Gump
6. M*A*S*H
7. Animal House
8. Blazing Saddles
9. Goodfellows
10. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
11. 2001: A Space Odyssey
12. The Godfather
13. North by Northwest
14. Alien
15. Raiders of the Lost Ark

Five movies that just missed the final cut were:

1. Caddyshack
2. The Maltese Falcon
3. Donovan’s Reef
4. The Terminator
5. Charade

The problem with these tag games is that the list requirements are either too long or too short.

The Beach Bum

You Can't Go Back To The Past

2009-08-26T12:05:00.008-05:00

I received telephone calls from concerned friends on both Saturday and Sunday.

The Saturday call was from my old Chicago friend Slow Eddie. After the traditional Howya doin’ conversation:
He sez “Howya doin’?”
I sez “Ok, howya doin’?”
He sez “Ok”.
We both lied!
He said that he called because I haven’t written a Blog in over three weeks and that he was concerned. Basically he was just checking to see if I was still among the living.

We then talked about Baseball. He a White Sox fan and I am a Cubs fan. He was boasting that he has watched more than 100 Sox games this year and even some Cubs games. He retired last spring so, like me, he has a lot of time to watch Baseball.

I boasted back saying that I have seen more than 250 games this year (predominately the Tampa Bay Rays). Plus I have seen every MLB Team play this year.

He also asked me why I was a Cub and not a White Sox fan, after all I did grow up on the south side. I told him that I had told him the story nearly 50 years ago and maybe I would blog about it in the near future.

After about 15 minutes of talking Baseball, he switched the topic to our High School days and the old neighborhood. A week ago Slow decided to show his grandchildren our old neighborhood and what once was Harrison High School. A big mistake says Slow, since he hadn’t been there for about 25 years. Slow has lived in Berwyn of more than 30 years.

His grandchildren live in a northwestern suburb named Schaumburg and except for going to the Lake or the Downtown/Grant Park area they have never seen the real city up close. Both of his sons will come to visit him in Berwyn and bring their children to see Grandpa. He told me the route that he took and I cringed. It was very similar to the route that my cousin, the Admiral, took to show my daughters our old neighborhood in 1996 (I remember him saying to “make sure the doors are locked and the windows are closed”).

Slow Eddie was surprised to see all the changes on 26th Street (South). He said there was a sign in one store window that said English Spoken Here. He said that it must had been a joke because he didn’t a single white person on the streets that he traveled (Eddie considers Spanish speaking people to be non-white – it has something to do with the Moors invading the Iberian Peninsula).

The kids couldn’t wait until the tour was over and neither could Eddie. He took 31st Street back home and stopped at the “Home Run Inn” to get a pizza for lunch. He decided to take it home because “except for some of the staff there wasn’t a white person in the place”.

After the story about the trip to the old neighborhood, he decided that he is considering moving from Berwyn to Schaumburg, He would sell his house and buy a condo outright. I asked him if it was to be closer to his children and grandchildren. He said that and the fact that some Salvadorians had moved in across the street from him and that they do not speak English. Besides he was tired of mowing the lawn and shoveling the snow.

So I sez “how do you know that they are Salvadorians?” He sez “the Mexicans that live three doors down told me.”

Slow Eddie closes the conversation with “I’ll really miss the neighborhood Bars, all that they have in Schaumburg is high class yuppie places.”

The Beach Bum

A Pip of a Chip

2009-08-03T13:02:00.006-05:00

I don’t eat a lot of snack foods. Not that I don’t like them and the hollow calories that they provide (if my body craves hollow calories, I usually drink a beer), but it is a habit (one of the very few good habits that I have) that I developed as a child.

My parents didn’t keep snack foods (except for potato chips, which were only to be eaten with lunch) in the house. My Mom would always tell us that these foods would ruin our appetites for supper. Snacks were only eaten after supper. And most of the time we were too full to eat them before nine at night.

The snack foods that my Dad ate were pickled herring, sardines in mustard sauce and occasionally popcorn. Needless to say, as a child and a teen the popcorn was the only one of these snacks that appealed to me.

We also always had Ice Cream on hand, but Ice Cream was considered to be a dessert and not a snack; the only time we ate it was after supper, as a part of our dinner. My favorite was Spumoni which we would get from a nearby Italian Pizzeria (more about this in my next Blog).

As usual I have digressed from the main topic of this Blog; which is Potato Chips.

When I was a kid my parents would buy a Potato Chip Brand named Jays (not to be confused with Lays); these were Chicago’s most popular potato chip, at that time. Their slogan was “A Pip of a Chip”. They came in one and a quarter ounce bags (I believe that there were also family size bags available). My Mom said that this was the prefect portion to accompany a lunchtime sandwich. If we bought the larger bag we would tend to eat more than we should and therefore ruin our appetites. She also monitored the bag count daily to make sure that no one was cheating on their potato chip intake.

I have always enjoyed eating potato chips with a sandwich.

The other day I ate a sliced chicken breast sandwich, and of course, I wanted potato chips to accompany this sandwich. My daughter had purchased a box of (fifty count) one ounce bags (vending size) of Lays Potato Chips at Sam’s Club. When I buy chips, I usually buy the 12 and ½ ounce to 14 ounce bags (ounce for ounce it is less expensive – especially when they are on sale – but is it really less expensive?).

Here is what I found in the one ounce bag. There were 85% whole chips, 15% broken chips and no crumbs. In the big family size bags you are lucky if you get 60% whole chips, 25% broken chips, 12% bits and pieces (not worth eating) and another 3% crumbs (also not worth eating). You end up feeding 15% of your purchase to the birds and insects, or worse yet putting it into the trash.

I used to attribute this to the grocery store’s mishandling of the bags when stocking the shelves, but now I’m beginning to wonder. Does Frito-Lay put their scraps in the larger bags so that they can put them on sale more often? Also, why aren’t potato chips packaged in clear bags as Doritos are?

I want to know!

The Beach Bum

A Perfect 9

2009-07-24T11:14:00.010-05:00

In modern day Major League Baseball it is rare to see a pitcher throw a complete game. Rarer yet is seeing a no hitter pitched. Before yesterday I had seen six no hitters and one of those in person. But the rarest pitching feat in baseball is the perfect game.

In my lifetime, I would estimate that I have seen more than 7000 MLB games. Two of those have been Perfect games. Actually two and a half (I was able to watch the last four innings of Don Larsen’s perfect game in the 1956 World Series – I’ll never forget Yogi Berra jumping on Larsen after the last pitch).

The first perfect game that I watched was on our new 17 inch color television. I believe that my Dad (who would always say “color television hasn’t been perfected yet.”) had bought it so he could watch Baseball games in color. It sat on top of our old 27 inch B&W on which he would watch almost everything else.

This game was the Cubs versus the LA Dodgers in Los Angeles. Sandy Kofax was pitching for the Dodgers. Although we were both die hard Cubs fans we found ourselves cheering for Sandy during the 9th inning. My Dad had never seen a perfect game.

Yesterday I was fortunate enough to watch my second perfect game. It was an afternoon game between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Chicago White Sox. Mark Buehrle was the White Sox pitcher. It was shown in the local market by Fox Sports Florida. The announcers were Dwayne Staats and Brian Anderson (I would have much preferred to hear Steve Stone and Hawk Harrelson call the game but it wasn’t on WGN America).

During the eight inning, Staats spoke about the possibility of Buerhle getting his second no hitter in the last three seasons. Shortly after that statement Pat Burrell slapped a ball up the left field line. Fortunately it went foul and Burrell lined out to third base on three pitches later to end the inning.

At the beginning of the top half of the ninth inning both Staats and Anderson intimated that Buerhle was flirting with a perfect game as well as a no hitter: mentioning that the Chicago fans had not seen a no hitter in their ballpark for a long time. This is usually the “kiss of death” as players as well as fans tend to be superstitious. In the old days it was an unwritten rule that broadcasters did not mention these possibilities.

At this time Sox manager Ozzie Guillen made a defensive move placing Dewayne Wise in center field.

The first Rays batter in the ninth inning was Gabe Kapler. After a two and two count Kapler whacked a pitch to center field; it was heading for the center field stands and would surely be a Home Run (Gabe, Mark and I knew that "crack of the bat" sound well). This would end the perfect game, the no hitter and the shutout for Buerhle.

But center fielder Wise timed his move perfectly, jumped high and caught the ball just before it went into the stands. The look of amazement on Buerhle's face was an awesome sight to see. Now, for me, that’s baseball excitement!

Two outs later Buerhle was swamped by his fellow players; he had pitched a perfect game. I cried, thinking about the time that my Dad and I watched Kofax’s perfect game.

The Beach Bum

My Evil, Evil Ways

2009-07-16T12:34:00.001-05:00

During the past 9 days I have started to write 5 different Blogs. They sit here in a folder waiting to be completed along with 8 others from the past 6 months.

It’s not because I do not have the time or inspiration to complete them; but for the reason that I have become easily distracted lately.

I’ll begin to write and then get an hour long telephone call from a friend or sometimes the pain that I suffer within my body becomes too intense for me to bear.

Talking to my friends and family is very important to me because I have no social life where I am now living. I’ll receive two or three calls a week and make another three to four calls. The average length of these calls is usually over an hour long.

One of my shortest recent calls was from my friend Lurch, who lives in the hoity-toity Brentwood area of Los Angeles. He called to get my address (which he already had, but couldn’t find) and we were on the phone for about 30 minutes. Lurch is really a character and a half; in California they call him Dr. Demento.

As for the pain and suffering; most of it has been self inflicted over the course of the past 50 years. What were just aches 20 years ago, have now become major pains. I never took care of myself when I was younger; feeling that I was indestructible.

I don’t take prescription medicines; although they have prescribed them for me at the VA. The Doctors there plan to do a major psych evaluation on me because I refuse to take pain killers; to ease my pain. I refuse to go back there because I feel they are going to lock me up and throw away the key. Of course, they say, that it would be for my own well being.

I medicate with natural supplements, alcohol (a natural pain killer) and nicotine. The Doctors (and some of my friends) think that I am crazy for this course of action. But then again, back in the spring of 2004, the Doctors gave me 2 to 3 years to live if I continued my evil, evil ways. I, of course, ignored them. I, like Dr. Demento, enjoy doing evil things. And five years later I am still amongst the living.

I’ll catch up on my Blogging soon.

The Beach Bum

For My Good Friend Raymond

2009-07-06T13:03:00.008-05:00

My very good friend and brother in arms, from Texas, Raymond, recently left a comment (well, actually two separate comments) on my Blogs from last week

I first met Raymond at Kagnew Station in Africa in 1967. He was a quiet person that didn’t hang out with the people in my coterie. We worked on the same shift (Trick) and saw one another on a daily basis. I found his Texas drawl and the colloquialisms that he used to be very amusing. I was a city boy from the North and was amused very easily with the language that southerners used.

Raymond was what we called a “ditty bopper” (Morse Intercept Operator) and I worked as a Non-Morse Communications Analyst. He spent seven eights of each work day listening to the high pitch sounds of Morse Code (He did the same while stationed in Viet Nam), I, on the other hand, wore headsets for about two hours per shift.

I have a little impaired hearing in my left ear. Raymond is on VA Disability with total hearing loss in his left ear and has to wear a hearing aid in his right ear. Others from our unit suffer the same problems, but to a lesser extent.

One of Raymond’s comments was “NOW this is the ZAZZ I love to read.”

For years Raymond has lived vicariously through some of my emails about the former loves of my life. Most of these stories are not exaggerated or embellished (maybe slightly to make my physical prowess look better than it actually was).

Therefore I will relate a story (on this Blog), for Raymond, that I have not previously told to anyone living or dead.

The Story!

It was in the spring of 1969 that I met a lovely young lady who worked for the Central Intelligence Agency at a party in a neighbor’s apartment in Laurel, Maryland. I was still serving in the Army at this time.

This girl, Nancy, was a Columbia graduate and had been recruited by the CIA in her senior year of college. She wanted to become a field agent but instead was put into an administrative position. She was not a happy camper! But the CIA kept leading her on and she continued to work for them.

She was from Glen Cove, Long Island but lived with her grandmother, just off New York Avenue, on 1st Street NW in Washington DC. Not one of nicest neighborhoods in DC.

Nancy and a few others of her female co-workers (as well as several young ladies that worked for the FBI and No Such Agency) would travel to Laurel, Maryland on the weekends to attend the bacchanalian parties that were held at a place simply referred to as T-2 (the apartment number). They came to drink, dance and find male companionship.

As I recall, there were usually more female guests at the party than male guests – this was good odds for me.

The night in question I was chasing after a blond named Dewey who worked for the FBI and lived in Arlington VA. The farther the distance from the party the better chance that you had with the young ladies spending the night. Plying them with alcoholic beverages also helped.

After drastically failing with my pursuit of Dewey, I moved on to Nancy. We danced and we drank. She was a nice girl and I was a bad guy. Opposites tend to attract.

At roughly one in the morning, I suggested that we adjourn to my apartment a short block away. She agreed.

When we arrived, we immediately headed for the bedroom (which I shared with a roommate - Marty). Much to my chagrin, Marty was laying planks with Dewey. I grabbed my pillows and a blanket and headed onto the living room floor with Nancy.

We made love for several hours (not an exaggeration), and then exhaustedly passed out. We lied naked on top of the blanket.

At the un-Godly hour of 9 in the morning there was a knock at the door. It was our upstairs neighbor, who also served in the same Army unit as I did. We never locked our door, so after a brief knock, he entered to find me and Nancy lying buck naked on the floor of the living room.

The funny thing was that he was more embarrassed than we were; we just laughed and covered up with the blanket.

Nancy went back to Glen Cove in early July; tired of the CIA feeding her Bullshit. We had three good months together; a lot of love making and mad passionate sex.

The Beach Bum

Fireworks

2009-07-05T13:02:00.005-05:00

Last night, at dusk, I left the relative safety of “the Shed” and relocated to the Pool Deck to watch several neighbors’ fireworks displays. It seems that they compete between themselves to see who can garner the most oohs and aahs from the other neighbors.

In 2006, my daughter and son-in-law participated in this neighborhood event; spending more than $300 on fireworks. Their display couldn’t even come close to the competitive neighbors’ displays (costing $500 to $750).

All day long I heard firecrackers and M80’s being shot off. Our dogs are not too fond of this type of noise and barked continually during the day. At times their barking drowned out the sound of the distant fireworks. Bang Bang Bang and Woof Woof Woof simultaneously.

The neighbors on the street behind our house were also shooting off fireworks (their displays were not worth watching), in fact, it seemed like everybody within a quarter mile radius of the house had some sort of fireworks.

After the “competitive neighbors” finished their pyrotechnical show, I remained on the Pool Deck to finish my evening cocktail. I could still hear the sounds of other fireworks going off throughout the neighborhood.

The sulfurous aroma of gun powder permeated the air.

I closed my eyes and used my imagination. With your eyes closed, it allows your other senses to be heighten.

The acrid smell of gun powder was now more prevalent. The distant sounds of fireworks reminded me of mortar fire, rifle shots, automatic weapon barrages and grenades exploding. One sound reminded me of the small Howitzer, at Fort Meade, that was shot off every night at Taps.

After five minutes I began to daydream and vividly saw American soldiers fighting in a war. I though that I heard them screaming and yelling (but it was just the neighbors across the street partying). The smell, the sounds and the muffled voices became all too real. It was like taking a trip on LSD. Maybe I was having a flashback.

Therefore, I immediately opened my eyes and returned back to “the Shed”; turned on the television with the volume up loud enough to drown out the noises of the continuing fireworks outside.

While in the Army, I fortunately never saw any combat. But on occasion, I dream about fighting in a War (probably from watching too many War Movies), and these are not pleasant dreams.

Bring our troops home!

The Beach Bum

Sacrifice

2009-07-02T13:01:00.012-05:00

Saturday is the Fourth of July, the day that we celebrate our Independence from the British Empire.

Tomorrow morning my son and grandson will be driving down to Florida from Maryland. They will spend Friday night and Saturday morning with me and then they will pick up my son’s live-in girlfriend (actually he is a live-in boyfriend – it’s her place) at Tampa International.

They are spending the weekend in a motel, on the beach, at Treasure Island. There are much better pyrotechnical displays and a lot more things to do there than here in Nowheresville, Florida. I’m sure that he’s bringing his rods and reels and plans to do some fishing in while he is here.

He misses living in Florida and plans to move back some day.

Also on Friday morning my older daughter is driving from Maryland to Florida with her two boys to see the father of her children. She’ll be spending most of the summer here, so that the boys get some quality time with there father (he’s good with the boys, but bad for her). She said that she would see me next week.

Younger daughter is currently away from home, working on “legal stuff” for her maternal grandmother (AKA The Wicked Witch of the East) in Maryland, and will be arriving Saturday on the same flight as my son’s girlfriend. She’ll probably spend about a half hour or so with her brother at the Airport; before she returns home, and he, his son and girlfriend go to the beach.

Personally, I don’t really care to watch fireworks displays. But whenever I see fireworks I think about Francis Scott Keys words “the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” And I’m reminded why we celebrate the Fourth of July as a National Holiday. We celebrate the sacrifices that were made for freedom and liberty from tyranny.

These sacrifices are still being made today, more than two hundred years later. And by those who will not be watching a pyrotechnics display, but the real thing, the “rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air”, in the Middle East.

On Saturday, I’ll be thinking about and saluting our troops that are currently sacrificing for us. I will stand each time I hear the National Anthem played and ask God to bless our troops (even though, I know, for a fact, that God doesn’t listen to me).

When I was a kid, I asked my Dad (a WWII vet) why we had to stand before the ballgame began. He told me “to honor our flag and those who gave their lives defending it and our country.” I have never forgotten this and will do so until the day I die.

Have a good Independence Day, but don’t forget why we celebrate this holiday.

The Beach Bum

Lime in Beer - Yuk

2009-06-24T13:10:00.011-05:00

Yesterday I spoke to my friend The Prince who is probably in Atlanta, Georgia as I write this Blog. Yesterday when I called him, he was in Tallahassee visiting with our friend World Traveling Dave. He planned to spend the night with Dave and then trek back to Wisconsin, stopping to see a business associate in Atlanta and then having a sleep over in Nashville before returning to Wisconsin.

I was going to wait until he returned home before calling him, but after the tongue lashing that I received from my daughter; about being a bad host (I let The Prince cook our dinner on the grill and then allowed him and his wife to clear the poolside table on which we dined). This was a faux pas in hospitality etiquette; but they volunteered to do so and I feel that one should treat their guests like members of the family.

So yesterday, I called him to apologize for my breach of good manners. He just laughed! He and World Traveling Dave were working on their fourth or fifth Corona, with lime, at the time; therefore there was no apology necessary.

I had bought a 12 pack of Corona for The Prince but he only drank three in 5 hours because he was driving north that evening. If he had stayed for the night they would probably all be gone. But I had no lime; which also probably slowed his beer drinking down to nearly a halt.

I don’t drink Corona (there are far better Mexican beers) nor would I ever put a lime wedge in a beer. It’s the same thing as ruining a glass of water with a lemon wedge. I like the citrus taste, but only in a Martini, a Bloody Mary or a tonic drink.

This all reminds me of a story that I have told to people for many years.

After the Seventh Love of My Life and I parted ways (I was not marrying material), I went in search of a new Love of My Life. This is usually a long involved process; at least for me it is.

I found that the best test of compatibility was to spend 4 or 5 days together at a Beach Resort, especially in a foreign country. You learn a lot about a potential bed partner on these trips.

In the screening process I chose a candidate to accompany me to the Mexican island of Cancun. We stayed at a wonderful Hotel (on the beach) called the Cancun Palace. Our room (with King Sized Bed) faced the beach, the pool and had a Jacuzzi on the balcony.

Our first full day consisted of having breakfast, then we'd have a few Margaritas and go to our room and make love, get in the Jacuzzi, after having a few more Margaritas and we had lunch. After lunch we would return to the room and again make mad passionate love. Then we would sit on the beach for a few hours drinking beer.

Soon it was dinner time, so we ate and then would go to a place called Carlos and Charley’s for a few shots of Tequila and a few more beers. By ten at night we were back in the room having sex.

We did this routine for three straight days and on the fourth day we took a trip to the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza, it was her decision not mine; I’m not much into tourism. I missed out on having our afternoon sex break that day, but we made up for it on our last night in Cancun.

After returning back home to Maryland, she became the Eight Love of My Life.

Enough of this jibba jabba and I will finally get to the point of this Blog.

The first day while lounging on the beach our server brought us each a beer. In the beer there was a lime wedge. I pointed to the lime and asked her “why did you put a lime in our beers?” She smiled and said “to keep the flies out, senor.” The College kids that go to Cancun for Spring Break probably never asked this question. These Spring Break kids would drink the least expensive beer available (Busch in Florida and Corona in Mexico). When the Cancun breakers got back to their local College Bar they began to ask for a lime in their beer. The rest is history.

The Beach Bum

Two Good Days for the Beach Bum

2009-06-23T12:32:00.008-05:00

I had planned to write this Blog yesterday, but a good friend from Wisconsin (The Prince – I gave him the Nickname 42 years ago) arrived at the Beach Bum Shedquarters earlier than I expected. Although we speak on the telephone often, there have been no in person visits for two years. He and his wife still look the same. And though he wouldn’t admit it, I have changed for the worse during the past two years (I know because I see myself in the mirror on a daily basis).

And now to change the subject, which I get better at doing with each passing day.

Years ago I told my children not to waste their money on Birthday or Father’s Day Cards. Unlike my wife (she probably has to rent a storage bin for them), I usually don’t save these cards unless something very special has been written on the card. I’ve saved a few for posterity’s sake; perhaps my grandchildren will read them some day.

This Father’s Day I received two cards; one was a hard copy and the other was an E-card.

The hard card was delivered to me by one of my younger daughter’s dogs (Sanibel). Both dogs know me as Grandpa. When I speak to them, I refer to my daughter and son-in-law as Mommy and Daddy. I’ve been spending a lot of time with the dogs lately because of my daughter’s frequent missions of mercy to Maryland to help her Grandmother with legal matters.

The E-card was from my eldest daughter (42 years old). I would like to share it with you (without her permission). It made my day!

Although it is always spoken and implied, my daughter rarely puts her feelings in writing.

This was the best card that I have ever received on Father’s Day!

Hey Dad!

Just want to let you know that I'm thinking about you. I know I don't tell you very often...but I think the world of you. You've always been there for me. Whenever I've needed someone to talk to or to just listen to me...you're my favorite person to come to! I miss you a bunch! I miss your b-b ques ...all that yummy chicken and ribs or steak that you loved cookin'. I miss hangin' out and having a beer (one of yours...no doubt LOL) with you and just talking about old times. I just miss being close to you. Some of my best and funniest memories are with you!!! You always make me laugh that's for sure!!! Anyways, I just want you to know that I LOVE YOU with all my heart and I miss you...especially this day.
Happy Father's Day, Dad!
Love, Kim xoxoxo

The Beach Bum

About Face

2009-06-21T11:37:00.004-05:00

Well I finally did it; I succumbed to pressure from friends and family.

No, I didn’t go to the Doctor.

About a month ago the seventh “Love of My Life” had told me that she had opened a Facebook account and that I should get one also, “They’re free”; she said. I declined the offer, mainly because I have little time left after I to do the other asinine things that I already do on the internet. Plus I don’t like things that are said to be free; there is always a catch.

Nearly three years ago my son had me sign up for a My Space account, I’ve never used it. I don’t even remember the user name or the password.

Love of My Life 7 (LML7) lives in the same Annapolis, Maryland suburb as my Eldest Daughter and they see one another often. They are 5 years apart in age and both have children and despite LML7’s relationship with the “~~mean~~ dirty old man” they have been friends for 20 years.

LML7 got my Eldest daughter to sign up for Facebook, who in turn got Younger Daughter to sign up also. Younger daughter then shows me that she had garnered 6 friends in 2 days. I knew most of them from my days living in Maryland.

So I said “OK, I’ll sign up.”

The reason that I don’t like Facebook is that you cannot use a pseudonym (“that which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet”); I enjoy my anonymity; actually I cherish it. People that are friends and family know who “The Beach Bum” is in reality; but why should I let the world know? I might as well post my Social Security number and Bank Account numbers on this Blog.

Since signing up for Facebook last week I have received four friends. Two are family, one an ex lover, and the latest is a young fellow (currently in his forties) that I drank with on occasion and also had attended his wedding (he is now divorced) 15 or so years ago.

Facebook, as well as, My Space is for younger people and not for old pharts like me.

The Beach Bum

Slammin' Sammy

2009-06-19T12:59:00.005-05:00

Wednesday I read some rather alarming news. I was really shocked to find out that Sammy Sosa was on the list of over 100 Major League Baseball players to test positive for performance enhancing drugs in 2003.

Give me a break; who didn’t know this? I was actually shocked when they found his corked bat; I guess that he had to make up for the discontinued use of steroids somehow.

Then yesterday the Chicago Tribune polled their sports writers (the ones that are eligible to vote on the Hall of Fame ballot) to see if they would vote for Sammy. There was one yes, one undecided, and the rest basically said hell no. I wasn’t surprised. I read these writers online on a regular basis. Most of them don’t really cover the sport as I think that it should be covered. If I want to read opinions I go to the Op-Ed page not the Sports section.

Also most these Baseball writers are not as knowledgeable as some of the broadcasters; such as Steve Stone, Bob Uecker and Peter Gammons. In fact, I as well as some of my friends know the game better than the writers do (of course we are much older and have followed baseball for a much longer time). Sometimes when reading their columns I chuckle and just shake my head.

Should Sammy be kept out of the Baseball Hall of Fame? I think not.

I never was a big Sosa fan; in fact I was upset when the Cubs traded George Bell (a fellow Dominican) to the White Sox for him in 1992. Sosa was then hitting in the low .200’s with no “Pop and Hop” and was a satisfactory outfielder at best. Steve Stone was broadcasting for the Cubs on WGN back then and he held the same opinion (of Sosa and the trade) as I did. Great baseball minds think alike.

The Sammy started to play on a regular basis and his numbers went up. The Cubs Fans started to like him, more and more.

Then in 1998, Sosa and Mark McGwire (St. Louis Cardinals) battled it out to see who would beat Roger Maris’ Home Run record (61). Everywhere that they (Cardinals and Cubs) played the attendance records would skyrocket. WGN (a Tribune Company) broadcast all of the Cubs games and I’m sure that they raised the cost of an advertising minute during these broadcast. The Cubs and Sammy Sosa were being seen across the nation on almost a daily basis.

People that would not normally watch these games were now watching. It was bringing excitement back to Major League Baseball and building a broader overall fan base. It essentially rejuvenated baseball.

The fact that both McGwire and Sosa were more than likely using performance enhancing drugs was mentioned, but not really an issue at the time (I knew it, the Sports Writers knew it, and MLB knew it). It’s the same case with Barry Bonds breaking Hank Aaron’s career Home Run record. In all three instances, the fan base and attendance increased. Is this bad for Baseball?

The same Nanzy-Panzy Sports Writers that had previously lauded all three of the aforementioned players are now condemning them.

Is the using of performance enhancing drugs good for Baseball? Definitely not! Should their use of these drugs keep the users out of the Baseball Hall of Fame? Definitely not! These players created a lot of new Baseball fans and brought back some old fans. Their records are tarnished, but they still are on the books.

The Beach Bum

Camping In and Camping Out

2009-06-16T13:04:00.004-05:00

Last night an old friend called me; I hadn’t spoken to him since January. That was shortly after his son, daughter-in-law and their two boys moved into his house. He wasn’t very happy at that time; I could hear it in his voice.

His son had lost his job in July 2008 and the wife was not making enough money to pay their rent and utilities. The son was drawing unemployment, so they had food on the table. They had a little savings and fortunately they had low credit card (which they stopped using) debt and could make slightly above the minimum payments.

Their lease was up on January 1st, so the son asked his father if they could move back in with him until times got better. It’s hard for a father to say no; so they moved in a week before Christmas.

My friend owns a three bedroom house and he and his wife, of 40 some odd years, slept in separate bedrooms. In January he told me to accommodate the incoming family they would have to sleep together; which they hadn’t done for years. To add some levity to our conversation, I mentioned the fact that my wife and I also sleep in separate bedrooms: hers in Maryland and mine in Florida.

When my friend called yesterday he was elated. His son had been working for the past two months and they (the family) were planning to move out in late July. This time I heard happiness in his voice.

To commemorate the occasion he was sending the boys (ages 9 and 12) to camp for 4 weeks after the July 4th weekend. Peace and quite was his motivation.

Our topic of conversation then changed to going to Camp. I had gone to camp for one year and he had gone for three years (he was a Boy Scout; I wasn’t).

My camp experience was when I was 8 years old. My Mom was due to have a baby within weeks, so my parents sent me off to Camp Sokol in Willow Springs, Illinois. I was there for 5 weeks before they bailed me out. When I came home I had a little sister.

In the Bohemian language the word Sokol roughly means physical health. Most of the camp activities were centered on strengthening our bodies. We had daily calisthenics in the morning after breakfast and gymnastics before and after lunch. This would have been great if I was a teen, but it was no fun for an eight year old. Eight year olds just want to have fun.

I did learn how to swim and how to recognize Poison Ivy, Poison Sumac and Poison Oak; valuable lessons for later in life. They taught me how to shoot an arrow from a bow; although I was never really very good at Archery at camp – if the arrow came close to the target, I was happy. We also learned how to canoe and make a fire using a flint.

At night we would sit around a campfire, toasting marshmallows (these were the only sweets at camp) and singing songs. Bedtime (lights out) for the Peewees (8 to 10 years old) was 9pm; the older kids were allowed to stay up until 10 at night. The teenage barrack’s counselors were up until 11 (probably having sex near the dying embers of the campfire – we were a co-ed camp).

I had a good time at camp, but it would have been better if I were 4 years older at the time. I missed my neighborhood friends and didn’t really make any new friends at the camp. Most of my roommates were from different parts of the city and suburbs; I would never see them again.

The Beach Bum

Flag Day - Proud to be an American

2009-06-15T12:00:00.016-05:00

Yesterday was the United States Army’s 234th Birthday. It was also Flag Day, which commemorates the adoption of our flag, by the Continental Congress, on June 14, 1777.

I got a treat yesterday; WGN America broadcasted the Cubs versus the Twins game. WGN is one of the few stations that does not cut to a commercial break when then National Anthem is played and it is preceded by God Bless America. I like this because I can stand up salute and cry (this year I have also been crying more after the Cubs games than in the past few years).

The Colors were presented by Honor Guard soldiers that serve in the training Brigade at nearby Fort Sheridan (Highland Park, IL). They had all seen action in Iraq. I rose from my chair immediately after they walked onto the infield, and presented the flag.

First came the singing of God Bless America; then our National Anthem. I snapped to attention and rendered a hand salute. It took about 5 seconds before the tears were pouring out of my eyes. I cannot listen to Star-Spangled Banner without thinking about those that have given their lives and their futures in defense of our Country.

The only criticism that I have of the WGN production crew is that they pan the audience, rather then concentrating on the flag. I did however notice everyone in the stands were standing and several men were saluting; the same as I was doing.

In comparison, I had attended several Independence Day celebrations (On the Beach concerts) on Treasure Island, Florida where people milled around, stayed seated, chatted or spent the time stuffing their faces. For shame, for shame.

When complaining to a friend about this, he said that I was overly patriotic; he is no longer my friend.

Yes, I am a flag waver! I love my country and support its authority and interests. I support the President, the Congress and the Supreme Court; whether I agree with them or not. And I often disagree with their decisions. I carp and complain, as many others do; but I still respect them and their decisions. Our system of government isn’t perfect, but it’s the best that you can get.

If my paternal great grandparents and my maternal grandfather hadn’t left Eastern Europe to come to America, I probably would not be here today to write this Blog. I am very thankful that they did make that decision many years ago.

I am proud of my Bohemian heritage, but I’m more proud to be “in the land of the free and the home of the brave”.

I will continue to be patriotic and will always salute our flag. If you cannot, in your heart, bring yourself to do this; you should go elsewhere. If you cannot bring yourself to support the Constitution and the President; get out of the US as fast as you can. We don’t need you here; whether you are a citizen or not. If you cannot bring yourself to honor our flag; leave the country immediately and go dishonor another Country’s flag.

The Beach Bum

Blogs Of Note

2009-06-09T15:17:00.004-05:00

Today I spent about 3 hours, earlier today reading other Blogs; over an hour on one in particular.

When you use Google’s Blogspot to blog they give you what they call a Bloggers’ Dashboard. This is where you go to post and/or edit your Blogs. There are also other features (tabs) such as Blogs I’m Following (I follow 3) which tells you when one of your favorite Bloggers has just posted a new Blog. Blogger Buzz which gives you tips on how to improve the physical appearance of you Blog (I never go there, what I don’t know about improving my Blog won’t hurt me). Then there is the last tab that says Blogs of Note.

Seemingly the staff at Blogspot has nothing better to do all day but to visit Blogs – there are millions of them on Blogspot alone. How they make their decision on what they choose to be a Blog of Note has always amazed me. I guess that if I was a younger person, I would understand their reasoning.

About once every month or so I will check out the most resent Blogs of Note. I usually leave disappointed at the staff's selections!

The staff tends to select Blogs filled with photos of mainly Flora and Fauna. They are very good photo’s, but usually there is no writing of any sustenance. The pictures of the Flora usually make me sneeze just thinking about the pollen that they are putting out. Pretty pictures!

I like dogs, but not show dogs. Looking at a well groomed Poodle makes me want to vomit! The comments below the picture are usually inane. “Here’s Spot – See Spot pose for the Camera!”

Then there are the Bloggers that post pictures of birds. Birds can be pretty to look at, but if you have to live with them in your back yard – they suddenly lose their beauty. Their beaks should be duct tapped together until sundown.

Today I got a breath of fresh air. The Blog of Note for June 8th was Roz Savage, Ocean Rower . I had read about her several years ago when she single-handedly rowed across the Atlantic Ocean. She is now rowing in the Pacific Ocean. And she writes of her voyages very well.

She’s a Greenik, but I don’t hold that against her, as I am getting more and more Green with every passing year. Soon my friends and family will be calling me Kermit.

I have placed a link to her Blog on the right sidebar, it’s well worth reading.

The Beach Bum

A Gifted Student

2009-06-07T14:19:00.016-05:00

On Friday I read an article in the Saint Petersburg Times about a local young lady named Jem Lugo. She just had graduated from High School and was the class valedictorian. She graduated with an un-weighted 3.98 grade-point average and is going on to Harvard University on a scholarship.

Not many students from this neck of the woods will ever be going to Harvard, let alone on a full scholarship. This is a gifted young lady.

Valedictorians must give a commencement speech at the graduation ceremony. The School Administrators had informed her several months before, that she was graduating at the top of her class; so she did some research on the internet. She read some former Valedictorian speeches (High School, as well as College) to get ideas and found them all to be blasé and unmoving. She wanted to say something that made a difference to her classmates.

She, of course, had to submit her commencement address to the “powers that be” prior to graduation. These powers rejected the speech as being too realistic and asked her to tone it down. This she did, out of deference to the ‘powers that be”. Not only was she a good student, she also respected the system.

I have read both the original and diluted versions. You should also! - click here

Back in my day, our speeches were not censored or even read by the teachers or administrators before they were given. My class Valedictorian was a girl named Marie. She sat directly in front of me in many of our classes (we were seated alphabetically – for what reason, I never understood). When taking a test she would move her head to the side so that I could see her paper. This was not to cheat, but to see if my answers were reasonably correct.

Marie was a real Plain Jane and she was considered to be a Wallflower (what we irreverently called a mouse). She never went to High School Football games or came out for Pizza with the gang. She was always at home or in the library studying. We were friends in the classroom, but not on a social level.

Her commencement speech was excellent. She quoted and/or paraphrased some of the lines in John F. Kennedy’s New Frontier speech (when he accepted the nomination for President in 1960).

“We can have faith in the future only if we have faith in ourselves.”

Marie's own words were also very stirring; this I never expected from her, as she was never outspoken about anything. I sat entranced and wondered why I had never gotten to know her better on a more personal level. She spoke powerful words; spoken by a seemly un-powerful (but extremely intelligent) person. A Dormouse!

Recently, I spoke to one of my former High School teachers. Both he and his wife, who also taught at the same high school, remembered Marie. They didn’t remember me, only my name, although I finished in the top 12% (64th - probably thanks to Marie, and the class Salutatorian Mikki who were my study partners in several of my classes) of my class of 532 students.

You always remember the number one (student or athlete), and sometimes forget about the others as the years pass.

I was a good, but not an exceptional student. Marie was exceptional, and her commencement exercise words still ring in my mind to this day.

I hope that Jem Lugo’s teachers and classmates will remember her commencement address also.

The Beach Bum

They Say It's Your Birthday

2009-06-05T13:44:00.002-05:00

Today is the anniversary of the date of my birth. Actually the precise moment was at 0649 hours UT (Zulu) this morning. I celebrated last night!

I have received several emails (most of them calling me a real old Phart or a Geezer) today from friends that are older than me. If I am an old Phart or a Geezer; what does that make them? Are they older Pharts and super Geezers?

I have received one telephone call (actually two – one yesterday from a Chicago friend late last night) today, I hope that my eldest daughter and my son remember to call me later today. I don’t really care about this birthday crap; I just want them to call me for a change (instead of me calling them).

For my birthday dinner I desired a juicy Rib Eye Steak grilled to perfection. But after eating a hamburger last week, that gave me extreme gastric and intestinal distress; I think not. My second choice is Chinese food, but that type food does not agree with my digestive system either. My third choice is a Home Run Inn Pizza, but I am unable to fly to Chicago to get one (the frozen ones sold in the local grocery store are not that bad; but they are just not the same). I’ll probably end up eating a healthy salad.

On the brighter side, this morning I found the pesky and cunning fly, that has been bugging me for a week, dead on one of the window sills. I guest that it was his birthday present to me. Without ceremony, I escorted his remains outside so that the ants could give him a proper burial.

The Beach Bum

Cajun Cooking

2009-06-04T16:06:00.003-05:00

Few days ago, the infamous forwarder of emails, Cazzo, forwarded an email about Cajun Cuisine. I read some of the recipes and thought about an old female friend that I called the Raygen Cajun. I was in between live-in girlfriends at the time.

Her surname was very French and she was originally from the New Orleans (Nawlins) area of Louisiana. But she didn’t look French, so I questioned her about her heritage.

She told me that it was her former husband’s name and it sounded better (for business purposes – Real Estate Sales) than her maiden name. Her father was of Spanish and Arcadian French descent and her mother was Turkish. Both parents were educators at Tulane University.

She was a petite woman probably weighing in at 90 pounds. She couldn’t drink more than two alcoholic beverages before getting wild, crazy and very passionate. She was an inexpensive date, to say the least. If she had three drinks, she was like one of those young ladies that you see on the “Girls Gone Wild” videos. I bought her three drinks many times.

On one of those three drink nights she began to reminisce about New Orleans. I had been there, as a young man, for Marti Gras; but never really saw the much of the city or the surrounding areas.

I asked her if she would like to visit her parents. Her eyes lit up like sparklers and she asked me “really?” I said yes, we’ll go in the morning. We then adjourned to my bed.

On Saturday morning we took the first flight from BWI Airport to New Orleans. I believe that it was on American Airlines. We arrived before noon, rented a car and proceeded to her parent’s house which was west of New Orleans proper.

The house was an old Plantation House that was built in the 1880’s. The original house that was built in the 1700’s was razed. The house sat on about 5 acres. The property had been sub-divided several times over the course of the years. Her father told me that it was originally on more than 1000 acres of farmland.

This house had six bedrooms and one bathroom. Each bedroom had French doors that led to a veranda. My bedroom had a steel mesh chair and table on the terrace and faced west. It was the ideal place to have a sundowner cocktail.

The first night there we went out to dinner, courtesy of her parents, to a New Orleans restaurant named Brennan’s; I ate the blackened Red Fish.

On Sunday morning, I accompanied her father to the local seafood market where he bought 3lbs of fresh (caught that morning), head on, shrimp. He told me that he was making Gumbo for us for dinner that night.

I had had Gumbo before, but never like this Gumbo. It was made with fresh okra and Cayenne peppers that came from plants in the back yard. This was authentic Cajun cookery. I helped to prepare the dinner by dicing the onions, chopping a knob of garlic, beheading and peeling the shrimp and slicing the okra (about 3lbs). I also had watched his every move in the kitchen.

First, in a large cast iron skillet, he put bacon grease and lard and heated it to a moderate temperature. He then placed the diced onion and some sliced shallots into the pan. When they became translucent he drained them with a sieve and placed them into a stainless steel pot, returning the liquid to the skillet.

Next into the skillet were the garlic, hot peppers and the okra. This was constantly stirred until softened. This was put into the pot, grease and all, along with the shrimp and a local smoked sausage (sliced). Two cups of water was added as well as what her dad called fillay powder which thickens the Gumbo.

I have duplicated his recipe many times, but using olive oil instead of bacon grease and lard and using Habanero peppers in place of the Cayenne peppers. Hillshire Farms smoked sausage is a reasonable substitute for the Cajun smoked sausage. Served with rice and beans, it is a great meal.

Although it was a memorable and pleasurable trip; my lady friend and I hadn’t had sexual relations for three days. For me, it was good to be home again!

The Beach Bum

Invasion of Privacy

2009-06-02T13:16:00.012-05:00

My privacy has been invaded. I’m being bugged close to the point of madness.

Last Thursday my daughter allowed a musca domestica to enter my office (better known as the Shed). This housefly has been buzzing around me for more than five days.

This is no ordinary common housefly; it is a cunning and crafty housefly. It has evaded death. Although I have tried my best to rid myself of this pest, its still buzzing around me.

The best way to whack a fly is when it lands on a window or a screen. This fly never seems to land anywhere; it’s in constant motion when I have my back turned. If I am watching for it, the fly will hide. Where it hides I do not know. This is just a 22X16 foot room. But it has managed to find places, to rest, that are not normal places that a fly will land.

As I mentioned before; this is a very shrewd fly. It never comes out when I am watching for it and am armed with a swatter. It patiently waits until my back is turned and I am looking at the computer monitor or typing on the keyboard.

Then it will buzz me or quickly land on me and then quickly depart. I never see where its final resting place is. Its ability to elude my attempts to destroy it is unbelievable. It’s a super fly.

Perhaps I should let it live out its life, which should be short because there is no food or water available in “The Shed”. But then again, I’m wondering if it told its friends and relatives about the marvelous space that it is currently occupying. They might all want in and I will have to buy an extra Fly Swatter.

The Beach Bum

A Warm Fuzzy From A Friend

2009-06-01T22:06:00.007-05:00

Tonight I received a very touching email from an old Army buddy. He is a member of my email group of old Kagnew Station friends. I recently admonished the group for being too political and for their one line obscene comments (that are made all in jest and friendship). It’s not that I mind obscene language; I hate one line emails. I feel that email should be the same as writing a letter and sending it to a friend (would you waste the cost of a postage stamp on what you have just written?).

I knew my re-found friend Paul (Loopy) for only a very short time at Kagnew. I was a new guy and he was a short timer. I have one black and white picture of us sitting together in the enlisted man’s club (Oasis) with several other guys and two local young ladies. He was more of a friend of a friend than a personal friend. But he was a character that one could never forget. He had a quick wit with very good verbal acumen. I, as well as others in our group, had searched the Internet for years seeking him. Surprisingly he found us.

I would like to share this email which he sent to me tonight:

Every so often I sit back and think about members of my family who I knew so well but never "really knew." I grew up with my 2 brothers and my sister who were all a bit older than myself. As each reached the ripe old age of eighteen, they one by one moved away from home to begin their own lives. The people I thought I had known became strangers as they formed new friendships, new experiences, and new ideas and ideals.

At eighteen, the age when all young men believe that they know everything, I was learning about myself and my world. My eighteenth birthday was celebrated as part of a basic training company at Fort Ord, CA. I made friends there. I served in other units from Fort Lewis, WA to Fort Huachuca, AZ and then got out of the Army. There were more new friends at each new duty station. I re-enlisted in 1965 and found myself at Fort Devens, MA, the place of my birth. My Father was a career Army man stationed there in 1942 with the 18th Inf. Rgt.

My return to Fort Devens was as part of the Army Security Agency, which was totally misnamed as we were training in Intelligence, not Security. I served in different duty stations during the last 4 years of my hitch. It was at Kagnew Station, a strategic listening post located atop the Hamassian Plateau in the then Province of Eritrea, Country of Ethiopia, where I met more young men who I called "friends."

Many years have passed since I last saw or spoke to any of them and some I knew of but really didn't know since we all wore the facade of the people we wanted so desperately to be seen as being. About eighteen months ago, I happened upon a web site dedicated to that long ago duty station and while scanning the visitors log, happened upon several names of old room-mates. Only one had a current phone number and I became reacquainted with a group of these grizzled old Vets.

This group of old Vets remind me of the family I used to have when I was a kid. The vulgar jokes, ribald stories, exaggerations that become greater every time an old story is retold, petty spats, hurt feelings and making up again all remain just like they were in those old days of my childhood. These men have become my family because of all the shared experiences, good and bad. I have come to depend upon the morning ritual of turning on the computer and checking for incoming mail. This group of men have been together as a support group with an annual reunion for a number of years before I stumbled upon them and I know that they looked for me as they did each other.

Due to my responsibilities as a full time caregiver for my bride of almost 40 years, I am unable to attend their reunions, but I hope that they know that I am with them in spirit. My bride asked me recently how long I had known these men. There was only one answer I could possibly give her that would tell her, them, and the world just how much they have meant to me. That answer was, "Not long enough!"

Loopy

Thank you, Paul, it made my day!

The Beach Bum

Saluting

2009-05-31T22:45:00.004-05:00

On Saturday I watched two MLB games; the first game was between the Marlins and the Mets and was presented on our local Florida cable sports network the Sun Sports Network.

The second game was on Fox featuring Minnesota at the Tampa Bay Rays.

Both Florida teams won their games.

I should have been happy, but I wasn’t; in fact I was a bit perturbed.

Saturday May 30th was the real Memorial Day, at least in my opinion. The Federal Holiday was last Monday. This change (of dates) was created to give government employees (federal, state and local), as well as bank employees and Wall Street, a three day weekend.

First of all, Memorial Day (Decoration Day) shouldn’t be considered as a day to celebrate, party and shop, but a day to honor our soldiers. It’s a day to honor the dead that served their country. And served it with the ultimate sacrifice; their lives.

Back to Saturday and the ballgames.

Both the Sun Network and Fox switched to commercials when the National Anthem was played. This really angered me. I had planned to stand up and salute (it is now allowed for former serviceman to salute during the Anthem) to honor our fallen soldiers during the singing of the Anthem.

The Cubs (and White Sox) games on WGN always show the singing of the National Anthem before the game and then they cut to a commercial. I usually stand and salute (and get tears in my eyes)!

Saturday was a special day and to salute my fallen comrades I had to go to youtube. This is a shame!

The Beach Bum

Cheering for the Home Team

2009-05-24T14:01:00.010-05:00

For the past two nights I’ve been watching the Rays and Marlins (no, not the sea critters, the Baseball teams) and I am watching the rain delayed game now. The Interleague games are being played at Joe Robbie Stadium (now Land Shark Stadium) in Miami. This is not a Baseball Park it is a Football Stadium which is adapted to look like a baseball field. It doesn’t look like a ballpark.

The seating for Football is in the mid 70 thousand range and cut back to around 40,000 for Baseball (the seating is expanded when the Marlins are in the Playoffs or in the World Series).

The Marlins are a marginally profitable Baseball team; they have very low attendance at most home games. Therefore they trade away their good players just before it comes time for them to become free agents. More than several of the best pitchers and hitters in Major League Baseball are products of the Marlin’s organization. They are no longer on the team because the Marlins could no longer afford to pay them. What do the Marlins get in return; some more top prospects, young players that will work cheap until they get a shot at the big money.

The Marlins average about 17,000 fans per game. Although the cameramen try not to, all you see in the outfield is empty seats. Also when you watch the game on television the (amplified) crowd noise is not that loud. Imagine how it sounds to players at this large stadium. The players tend to play better when there is a large crowd cheering for them.

I remember going to Wrigley Field on weekday afternoons in the late 1950’s with attendance under 10,000 fans and it sounding louder than what I am hearing on amplified television today.

A friend explains this phenomenon to me by saying old people cannot yell too loud (plus most are half asleep during the game – “Wake me up if someone hits a Homer”). Kids can yell loud and tend to cheer for their team much more than the older crowd.

When I was a kid I went to a lot of Cubs games at Wrigley Field. I would arrive there for batting practice and talk to the players. One of my all-time favorite players was Ernie Banks. Ernie would talk to all of the kids and sign autographs. He would genuinely thank us for coming to the game to cheer on the Cubs, saying that we should make a lot of noise for the home team. According to Ernie this made a difference to the players (he told us “we want to hear you”).

If I were David Sampson (President of the Florida Marlins) I would give 10,000 General Admission tickets (per home game) away to kids between the ages of 11 and 16 when accompanied by an adult paying for a half priced ticket (and fill up those empty seats). Not only are you building a fan base but you are also making money on concessions that you wouldn't have otherwise. Plus the players get to hear a lot more cheering for the home team.

The Beach Bum

An Unsolved Mystery - Solved

2009-05-23T23:09:00.005-05:00

Thanks to my friend Al (Alfredo) I have spared myself from an embarrassing moment (talking to the neighbor about his tropical birds). Al left a comment on my Wednesday Blog about the new bird that has been driving me to the brink of insanity (a short trip). Contrary to popular belief, I do read all of the comments that are posted on The Beach Bum Report.

In his comment Al posted links to MP3 files of bird songs. The first one was right on the money. This was the bird that I have been hearing for the past two weeks. It is not a tropical bird as I had suspected, but a bird indigenous to North America.

It’s a big Woodpecker called the Pileated Woodpecker. This particular Woodpecker has decided to take up residence in my neighbor’s tree that overhangs the wooden fence between the two properties. It, the bird, at times will visit the trees in our yard; I hear the pecking on the tree behind my office (The Shed).

I first noticed it about three weeks ago when I heard a rapping/tapping sound emanating from the rear of the shed. At first, I thought that it was my son-in-law doing yard work. I went out to investigate and saw the largest Woodpecker that I had ever seen. The bird took one look at me and fled the area immediately.

Obviously the bird was angered by me making it depart our yard and has decided to remind me that paybacks are hell. It laughs and cackles every morning and afternoon; and it will do so for hours.

Cazzo – please ship that rifle as soon as possible.

The Beach Bum

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

2009-05-22T14:00:00.007-05:00

It has been raining here in my part of “sunny Florida” for the past 5 days. It’s not like our summer rains which last about an hour on a daily basis; it’s an on and off all day affair. Rain is a good thing at this time of year, especially since we had an extremely dry March and April.

For years I was a very deep sleeper (I have slept through an earthquake that dislodged me from my bunk). In fact, my cousin “The Admiral” once said that anyone that could snore (I also have sleep apnea) as loud as I did and not wake himself up must be a very sound sleeper. Our “Captain” had this same ability; he slept through his snoring as well as mine. When you are in close quarters on a boat the nasal sounds of sleep seem to be magnified.

I am no longer a deep sleeper. I’ve always had a hard time falling asleep, but in the old days once I went down; I was down for the count. I use alcohol (a carbon molecule away from the gas Ether) to lull me into that never-never land. For the most part it works and is a lot less expensive and more pleasurable than taking Ambien (Zolpidem – see I actually pay attention to the commercials on television) on a nightly basis.

Every morning, shortly after daybreak, I awaken to the singing, chirpings and squawking of the birds that habituate the trees in our back yard. Not to mention the raucous noises emanating from our neighbor’s rookery (at least his tropical bird collection wait until mid-morning to start to annoy me).

Now I have new aggravating noises because of our recent rainfall.

It took me two additional Vodka drinks and an extra hour to fall asleep last night. I can’t blame this one on the birds; they were all sleeping as I should have been. I blame it on the rain.

Thunder or the pitter patter of rainfall doesn’t stop me from sleeping. These are normal noises to which I have grown accustomed. It’s the damn croaking frogs.

They start their singing shortly before midnight and continue until dawn (probably to keep the predator birds awake all night). Actually they are mating. The male frog sings to attract the female. As water is their source of life, the five days of rain gives them a lot of areas in which to procreate.

Unfortunately they are not baritones and basses like the Budweiser Frogs; they are all tenors or altos.

The mating ritual will last for a few more days and then I'll return to my bitching about the birds. At least I’ll drink less Vodka and get more sleep.

The Beach Bum

Shooting the Bird

2009-05-20T12:00:00.005-05:00

The other day my friend Cazzo (AKA Mr. Clean) called me to gripe about his financial woes. He is in his upper sixties and draws full social security benefits. He also has his own home based business that is marginally profitable and works part-time in firearms section of a nearby Sporting Goods Store (his feet hurt after working and they probably also stink – I can empathize with this because for many years I worked in the standing position).

Our conversation covered many topics; both of us are proficiently adept at changing the subject in mid conversation. To keep the conversation pleasant we usually stay away from politics; he’s a Republican and I am a Conservative Liberal (or possibly a Liberal Conservative). He has called me a switch hitter.

The topic of our conversations usually reverts to the time that we spent in Africa together. The friends that we knew and places that we had been, with an emphasis on the bars and brothels that I frequented. He’s still in denial!

In our latest telephone conversation I asked a question that he couldn’t answer; I can’t either.

It is a well know fact among my friends that I do not particularly like things that fly. This includes, but is not exclusive to, insects and birds.

The question that I posed was about the old 1940’s and 1950’s movies and television programs that took place in the African jungles; especially the Tarzan movies and Ramar of the Jungle on television.

When strangers (usually bad persons) entered the jungle, the birds would begin chattering (sounding like laughter), next the Chimpanzees would start to chatter and then the Elephants would start to trumpet. This would warn the hero that impending danger was on its way. This was an excellent, though primitive, communications system.

But what is the name of the bird that makes those sounds? Cazzo didn’t know the answer.

Since we were in the Ethiopian highlands, and not the jungle, we had never heard these birds or saw a Chimpanzee (although there were lots of Baboons that would shriek at you and throw rocks – nasty primates). Even when I traveled to the Kenya wildlife preserve in 1968, I didn’t see a Chimp nor hear these birds.

I have always wondered if those birds really existed (or were made up by Hollywood sound effects crews).

Last week I got my answer; they exist. My neighbor (who raises tropical birds for fun and profit) has one, but I still haven’t asked him the name of the bird.

The bird has been driving me crazy for more than a week and I’m waiting for Tarzan to come and rescue me. Or maybe I should just buy a rifle from Cazzo’s gun shop.

The Beach Bum

Turning My Brain into a Mass of Creamy Goo

2009-05-16T12:09:00.005-05:00

On Super Bowl Sunday, the premier date for some of the better television commercials that we will see all year, the pickings were sparse. Bad economy, I suppose! However we were treated to a good game and, in my opinion, an above average half-time show.

The Monster.com Moose commercial was by far the best. The second best featured Alec Baldwin as an Alien touting Hulu.com. I had never heard of Hulu so I checked it out. Hulu features television programs with minimal commercial interruptions. Most of what I saw (that was available) was newer programming in which I have no interest. I departed the site.

Last month I saw a new Hulu.com commercial featuring Seth MacFarlane (the creator, animator and actor on one of my favorite television programs – Family Guy) as another alien trying to turn our brain’s gray matter into a mass of creamy goo matter, by allowing us to watch television programming on the internet.

Earlier this week I returned to Hulu. This time I decided to use “my head for something more than a hat rack.” I used their website search option. I love animated programs (Cartoons) and my all time favorite is a Jay Ward series called Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends (later named Bullwinkle and friends). The cast was made up of old Stan Freberg alumni doing the voices of the main characters and William Conrad (radio’s Matt Dillion - Gunsmoke) as the narrator. During that time it was cutting edge humor geared at adults and teens.

Much to my surprise Hulu had it; the full first season of Rocky. I’ve watched 15 episodes from Rocky’s first season since last Tuesday. Each show is uncut (except for the original commercials) and lasts about 26 minutes (including about 4 – 30 second or less modern commercials; which are not of the obnoxious variety).

Then I started to think (a dangerous thing for me to do), if they have Rocky they may also have one of my all-time favorite sitcoms; McHale’s Navy. And they do and I have watched the first 15 episodes of that series. I can’t wait to go back to Hulu and search for more of what I call classic television programming.

So what if it’s turning my brain to mush and goo. At least I am returning to the “Golden Days of Yesteryear”.

The Beach Bum

Surrogate Mothers

2009-05-12T11:30:00.003-05:00

While I am in still in that nostalgic craze about my time spent in Africa in the 1960’s; I thought that I should write this story.

There was an older lady (in her early 50’s – we were all in our early 20’s) that many of us GI’s from Kagnew Station knew intimately. We called her Mama Kathy or Mama K. I am not too sure if that was her real name. But we all called her Mama out of deference.

Mama K had a cheese and wine shop bordering on the street in the front yard of her house; it was more like a kiosk. She sold Italian cheeses, sausages, fruit and wine. For about $2 you could get a plate of food for lunch with a glass of wine.

As a youth I ate a lot of different types of cheese, primarily Wisconsin cheese. But none of those compared to the Italian cheeses that Mama would serve. Hard cheese, soft cheese, goat and sheep milk cheeses that were served with spicy sausage, fruit and a glass of cheap red wine (Barbera). It was an epicurean’s delight. I became a regular patron.

Mama K and I had many conversations over lunch and coffee.

When Mama K was much younger, she was a Padrona (the word she used) to an Officer in the Italian Army that was stationed in Asmara. In 1941 he was sent back to Italy and she accompanied him as his mistress (I’m not sure if he was married or ever had a wife).

The Italian Officer was killed in battle and in the early 1940’s Mama returned to Asmara. She was pregnant and wanted her child to be born in her native country. She had a son. Several years later, through an affair with a local Asmara businessman (also Italian), she had a daughter.

Her son managed a local Italian owned Night Club, famous for its European performing acts; including dancers, singers and acrobats. He didn’t like us Americans being in the club nor did he like us visiting with his mother. He was well known for shooting at cars driven by US Servicemen near his mother’s house and the kiosk. Therefore this place of business was Off Limits to military personnel. I visited regardless.

The daughter was a couple years younger than me. She was sent off to college, by Mama, to Pennsylvania in 1967. I often wonder if she returned to Eritrea or stayed here in the States. I had met her one time when she was working in the cheese and wine shop; she was cute.

I have always wanted to get more details about Mama’s life. A few people that were stationed at Kagnew Station in the mid 1950’s have written (to me) about her, but they called her “Miss K”. She was a legend and a wonderful person to know and to be acquainted with.

The Beach Bum

A post script note: (Mr. Richard Feder – Please note that I have intentionally ended another sentence with the preposition with).

Bad habits last forever – good habits die too soon.

An Incredible Story

2009-05-11T11:29:00.001-05:00

The second leg of Dave’s journey through Ethiopia takes us to Axum (Aksum). Both Dave and I had been to Axum while we were stationed at Kagnew Station in Asmara.

Axum is a small town that is very rich in Ethiopian (Abyssinian) history. It is best known for its Stelae (Obelisk) Field. The Queen of Sheba purportedly ruled her empire from this small town. Many Ethiopians as well as Eritreans consider Axum to be a very sacred place.

A few days before my journey to Axum, I was speaking to a local friends’ mother about my impending trip. As a child she had been to Axum with her mother (who was the mistress of an Italian military officer, her father, stationed in Ethiopia). They had traveled on a pilgrimage from Asmara to Axum for the Feast of Saint Michael.

In vivid detail she told me of her journey; what took us about three hours took them 3 days. The best part of her story was that on the feast day, the priests carried the “Ark of the Covenant” from the Cathedral to display it to the faithful that were gathered there in the Lord’s name.

I was in awe, because basically, this unbelievable story was being told to me by a woman (in her late 40’s) that I shared breakfast and coffee with several times a week. We had previously spoken about many things, but never religion. I knew that she and her daughter were Catholics because of the Asmara church (St. Antonio) that they attended.

Personally I do not believe that the Ark exists. I’ve never seen it. I have never seen God either, but I do believe that there is a “higher power”.

Without further ado, below is Part II of my friend Dave’s story (with more excellent photographs) about his trip to Ethiopia. As before, you can click on the photos to enlarge them.

The Beach Bum

Ethiopian Travels Part II

2009-05-11T11:16:00.004-05:00

After Addis Ababa, Bahar Dar and Gondar, I went on to Axum. And although I had been there some forty years before, I didn’t remember a thing. Not that the town is all that big, it’s quite small in fact – you can cover it on foot from one end to the other in about 30 minutes. It’s just that other than the Stelae field, a church or two, and a few tombs, there just isn’t that much that is memorable. At least not 40-years memorable.

But as elsewhere in Ethiopia, maybe even more so, the people were friendly and welcoming – lots of smiles and hellos and invitations to coffee. I even met a few older folks who still spoke some Italian and greeted me first in that language. Like the old gal stationed outside St Mary of Zion who seemed half blind but had a great sense of humor despite her apparent disability,

A Bill Cosby look alike who insisted on buying me coffee,

and Berhane, the gatekeeper at the Stelae field.

Axum is in the Ethiopian province of Tigray, which adjoins the Eritrean highlands and is most similar to that country, culturally, linguistically, geographically. So it was here in the far North of Ethiopia that I had the strongest sense of having returned. I felt a real connection, with the place, with the people.

I was met with friendliness, hospitality, and good humor at every turn. Even at my hotel, where I might have expected the help to be somewhat blasé about tourists, the wait staff in the bar always seemed ready for a laugh.

Later my first morning in Axum I met two sisters, Roza and Helen, whose mother Azeb ran a kind of coffee shop in their house near the Stelae field. They insisted on treating me to coffee.

That same morning I also met Aregay, owner of the Abyssinia Handcraft Shop, who invited me to his house for coffee and popcorn, where I met his wife and a friend.

And still later that day, while walking to lunch, I met a young student, Nestenet, on her way to her afternoon classes. After I snapped her picture, with her OK, I got the idea she wanted me to buy her a dictionary for her English studies. Now the Lonely Planet travel guide warns of a minor scam down in Lalibela, where the kids ask for school notebooks, and after the obliging tourist has moved on, they return the item for a refund. So I was somewhat suspicious, and definitely noncommittal. I ended up blowing it off and never did go back to where she said I could meet her.

Two days later, however, as I was heading out from my hotel, who should I encounter but my young student acquaintance. And, as it turned out, there was a bookstore just a few doors down, which had a nice Amharic-Tigrinya-English dictionary for about two dollars. When I heard the price, I figured even if I was being scammed, it wasn’t all that much, and I ended up springing for two different dictionaries. But she seemed so pleased by these books; it was hard for me to think she was going to return them for cash. Indeed, after our purchase, she invited me to her house to show them to her mother. By the time we arrived we had picked up a whole entourage of kids. Mom, however, wasn’t about to have a pack of curious children staring at the faranji in her house, and she drove them off with a cupful of water as they crowded around the doorway of the living room/coffee shop. Actually, it wasn’t a coffee shop – she made and sold sewa, the somewhat sour, homemade beer made from millet, corn or barley. The sewa wasn’t ready that day, however, and she rustled up coffee and popcorn.

In the course of drinking the traditional three cups of coffee, I was introduced to little brother, a young neighbor who sat politely on the threshold the whole time, grandfather, and an older couple who seemed to be visiting, but who I never did learn if they were friends, relatives or customers.

On my last day in Axum I stopped by Azeb’s for a tea and met Abraha, who cut an almost dashing figure with his natty (sans dreadlock) rasta look.

On the way back to the hotel I ran into several of Nestenet’s friends who seemed pleased to have their picture taken.

Text and Photographs by World Traveling Dave

Memories of Ethiopia

2009-05-10T10:59:00.011-05:00

Two of the photographs that I decided not to post on the Guest Blog by my friend Dave, evoked several powerful memories of the time that I spent in Ethiopia.

After seeing them, my first thought was of the children that I had met in the rural areas outside of the city of Asmara. I had worked, with other GI’s, on several projects (including building a windmill) that benefited the local village population. Many other US military people did much more than I did for the people of our host country.

The children would gather around us (and as Dave says “they loved to ham it up in front of our cameras”). Although they never begged, we would give to them tokens of our friendship; usually small change and sometimes even an Ethiopian dollar (40 cents US). We would also bring items to these children such as paper, pencils and clothing from the Post Exchange at Kagnew. Many of these children had never left their village and had never seen the city of Asmara, just 30 miles away.

To the rural population outside of the city of Asmara, an Ethiopian dollar was a lot of money, considering that their annual family income was about $60 US (in 1967) or less. They bartered livestock (goats and sheep) for grain (mainly Teff) and other food stuffs. In drought years the grain was sparse and the livestock were very lean (little spare food or water to give them). But there were always hot peppers that would grow in any soil and under the most adverse conditions. These peppers were a staple in many Ethiopian dinners.

Ethiopia is where I acquired my taste for spicy foods. There was a local dish called Zigny (Zigne) that made Curried foods seem tame. Zigny was a stew that was seasoned with many spices that were roasted to make a powder called Berbere (Beri-Beri) which predominately was made up of local hot peppers. Just looking at the powder would bring tears to your eyes.

The most common Zigny was made with goat meat. It was served in a community pot placed in the center of the dinning area (usually a two foot tall table) and often accompanied by an equally spicy lentil dish. A flat sourdough bread called Injera (made with Teff flour) was used to scoop the Zigny from the pot. As in very many Mideast and African countries no utensils were used; you ate with your right hand only (never your left).

I had been honored several times, by locals that invited me to their homes for a Zigny dinner (one time we brought a live goat as a gift for the host). As my friend Dave said the people there were amazingly friendly and looking for nothing in return but a pleasant conversation.

Unlike my world traveling friend Dave, I’ll never return to Ethiopia; perhaps I should have never left!

The Beach Bum

Guest Blogger III

2009-05-08T11:20:00.002-05:00

Last October my world traveling friend Dave took a 5 week trip to Africa. We had both been stationed in Africa, at a place named Kagnew Station, in the mid to late 1960’s. Dave was an Italian Linguist and I was a Communications Analyst.

We, as well as many of our Kagnew friends, often rue the fact that we didn’t take in more of the African culture and sights when we were given the opportunity of a lifetime, to do so, compliments of the US Government.

I took several short trips including one to Axum to see the obelisks. My only major trip was a camera safari to a wildlife preserve outside of Mombassa, Kenya.

Last January Dave sent a bunch photographs that he had taken on the trip. He added personal comments to many of them. I recently asked him to expand his comments because I thought that I would make a good TravelBlog.

One of the things that I noticed was that things haven’t really change much since I departed over 40 years ago (Dave and I left Africa a day apart in October 1968). Things still look the same and the outgoing friendliness of the people (to complete strangers) still remains the same. Dave mentions being invited into homes for coffee (Ethiopian coffee is great) on several occasions.

I am breaking his story in to two parts. Below is Part I and Part II will follow in a few days. The pictures are beautiful and each tells a story. You can see them at a larger size by clicking on them.

The Beach Bum

Travels in Modern Day Ethiopia

2009-05-08T11:10:00.002-05:00

After 40 years I was back in Ethiopia – it was 40 years to the month since I was discharged from the U.S. Army Security Agency in the highlands city of Asmara, now the capital of Eritrea. I had spent 37 months as an Italian translator at Kagnew Station in Asmara, one of the army’s best kept secrets (in more ways than one). Now, in late 2008, I was back for five weeks of travel and exploration, mostly to visit places I had never seen before.

Addis Ababa, the capital, was a disappointment – sprawling, unattractive, devoid of any charm whatsoever. I didn’t meet a single Westerner who liked the city. But the place did have some interesting attractions, and even though I had never been there, it invoked a vague sense of familiarity. One constant was the role of the church, and how simply touching the cathedral seemed so important to the devout. As was reading the bible on cathedral grounds.

Something else that hadn’t changed was how kids could so totally enjoy a game using just a few pebbles. Or seeing women carrying firewood. Though I did find that a bit surprising in a capital city of three million.

But where the sense of familiarity was particularly strong was in the countryside and smaller towns. I had taken an overnight minibus from Addis up to Bahar Dar, and as the sun came up it was as if nothing had changed – people streamed along the highway out to the fields, some carrying a wooden plow, others driving a herd of goats, men with their arms propped on the staff they carried across the shoulders, some barefoot . . . beneath the surface almost nothing had changed.

Bahar Dar is on the tourist trail for good reason – Tisisat Falls and the monasteries on Lake Tana’s islands are so very colorful. But one of the things I found most interesting was how the monks and priests seemed to genuinely relish showing the tourist their biblical manuscripts and processional crosses.

Another pleasant surprise was the genuine hospitality of so many people. So many times as I was walking down the street, someone would invite me in for coffee, for no apparent commercial purpose. As did these three women.

Across the street from my Bahar Dar Hotel (Taken from in front of my hotel, located to the right, and out of the picture) were a series of small shops. These were basically little rectangular stalls, from 6-10' wide, maybe 4' deep, along the side of the street. They were open only on one side, and only above the counter. A few had display cases under the counter. Some were made of corrugated tin, some of old boards, some a combination of materials. One shop that I passed daily was operated by two sisters (Their place is down toward the end on the left). Whenever I passed by, they would smile and say hello and wave me over. Despite their limited English, it was fun joking and talking with the two sisters in their little stall. Unlike a shop, that you have to enter, you're closer and much more connected to stall keepers as you walk along. In fact you're much more connected to other people in Ethiopia just about everywhere.

Unchanged, too, was the kids’ desire to be photographed - so many of them are hams. Like this bunch in Bahar Dar.

To be continued .......

No News Is Good News

2009-05-06T12:00:00.002-05:00

My Dad had adages for just about everything and anything. When I was a youngster, back in the Stone Age, many of them puzzled me. I’d think “What did he mean by that?” But I did remember what he had said. And today I use many of the same wise sayings.

One of the most confusing was “No news is good news”. Did he mean that there was never any good news or that not hearing any news was a good thing? If I asked what he meant, I risked being called a bumpkin; therefore I usually didn’t question the meaning of his sagacious advice. Later I learned that he, in fact, meant the latter. Not hearing any news was in fact good news.

I have used this phrase (“No news is good news”) throughout my life. Sometimes I use the phrase as there is never any good news and at other times I use the phrase to denote that I haven’t heard any bad news. Like my Dad, I like to confuse people.

I spend two to three hours every day reading online Newspapers and Blogs. I try to get both the Liberal and Conservative viewpoints on any topic that I find of interest. That way, I can bias my opinion on any subject that I espouse.

Back in my High School days I was on the Debate Team. I learned how to take either side of an argument. There you are taught how to champion principles that you do not believe nor are an adherent of (never end a sentence with a preposition – supposedly improper grammar – but I do it all the time when I speak and my writings are just an extension of my speaking).

During the past two days there was no news that adversely affected me or my family; therefore “no news is good news”.

The Beach Bum

Throwing in the Towel

2009-05-03T13:25:00.006-05:00

In summer of 1969, I was still in the Army and stationed at Fort Meade, Maryland. I lived off post (Laurel, Maryland) with three roommates that had been previously honorably discharged from the same Army unit in which I was currently serving. We all had the same College backgrounds – we were mid 60’s dropouts. That’s what landed us into involuntary servitude in the first place.

We had the party apartment of our complex. There was a major (forty to fifty attendees) theme party (Saturday night) at least once per month, plus a weekly impromptu get together with friends and neighbors. We even had a 3 Keg Perlick Beer Cooler as the focal piece in the living room of our apartment. It was like living in a Frat house, only better.

We had all served in the Army Security Agency (ASA) and our final destination was Fort George G Meade; the home of No Such Agency. I was the only roommate that was still in the Army. I had even bought a George Harrison style wig (I wore it at all the parties – it impressed the young ladies in attendance) to cover up the fact that I was still in the military.

All three of my roommates had done time overseas.

One was stationed at Harrogate, England (it was known as “Menwith Hill”) for two years until it closed down and was turned back over to the Brits. He had some great stories about the local “Birds” and pubs in nearby Leeds.

Another roommate had been stationed in Sinop (The Second Pearl of the Black Sea, AKA “The Rock”) Turkey. This was considered to be a hardship tour (no wives – no women). In this all male environment, sophomoric antics were certain to reach their peak. Occasional trips to the local Karahani (Sp?) relieved them of some of their pent up testosterone.

My third roommate was stationed at Kagnew Station in Eritrea, Ethiopia, East Africa. This was the same place where I had done my overseas duty. He had left shortly before I arrived, but through our conversations we found that we had a lot of friends in common.

On non major party Saturday nights we would sit around talking about our overseas adventures. There were really some great stories told. Of course they were slightly embellished by the teller of the story.

My roommate who had done time in Turkey suggested that we write a book or even a screen play about our adventures in the ASA. Being the most illiterate and youngest of our group (but with the best sense of humor), I was chosen to chronicle our stories and adventures. Besides, they told me that they all had real jobs and I was still in the Army (I never understood their logic).

I spent much of my free time (I had a lot) in my Army Job writing the definitive screen play about our lives in the Military service. I borrowed some concepts from Joseph Heller’s book Catch 22 (without actually plagiarizing him), that I had read in the mid 1960’s.

After supper (after quaffing a few/many beers), I would read my daily writings to my roommates soliciting comments and input. And most of the time they laughed at the dialogs that I had written. This was a good sign.

I was about 3/4's finished with my work of a lifetime, when in February 1970, I saw the Robert Altman movie M*A*S*H. It had better dialog than mine, but the same concept (different time period). I left my work unfinished. I was heart broken.

Several years later (1973), while attending the University of Maryland, I decided to write the ultimate screen play about growing up as a teenager in the late1950’s and early 1960’s. Again I was stymied, this time by George Lucas and his film American Graffiti. I finally gave up. I was twice bitten and twice heart broken.

Although my friends and professors encouraged me to continue writing; I haven’t. I know when to throw in the towel!

The Beach Bum

Swine Flu Attacks the Blogosphere

2009-04-30T12:00:00.004-05:00

During the last three days I have read more about the impending Swine Flu epidemic than I have about the President or the US Economy. Maybe this is good news.

Not only are all the major newspapers and news services bombarding us, but also the Blogosphere. Some of these Bloggers are seemingly bordering on the brink of insanity about this topic. Just do a Blog search on Google for Swine Flu and you’ll see what I mean.

For example one Blogger writes (in depth) that this is an Al-Qaeda plot to eliminate their enemies (the infidels) via biological warfare. Members of the Islamic faith do not eat pork (or at least they are told that they shouldn’t eat pork), so therefore, there are no pigs in Islamic countries (well at least none of the four-legged variety).

But the Blogger fails to mention that Al-Qaeda’s arch enemy, (Israel and people of the Jewish faith) does not raise pigs nor do they eat pork (or at least they are told that they shouldn’t – something to do with the Bible – cloven hoofs, chewing cud and all that nonsense).

Another Blogger espouses a theory that it (Swine Flu) is the Obama’s administration’s way of distracting the media away from his first 100 days in office. If this is true, it has worked. Unlike the Blogger, I don’t think that Barack Obama has done a terrible job, just a little less that I expected. I never understood why a benchmark for the presidency is 100 days. Given what he has to deal with, I give him a higher rating (for his first 100 days) than Bill Clinton or George W. Bush.

Finally the Blog theory, about the Swine Flu, that I like the best.

This Blogger alleges that the Swine Flu "pandemic" is an US Government plot to keep Mexicans out of the United States. He goes on to state that it is the intention of the US Government is to ship all illegal aliens back to Mexico (does this include illegal aliens from countries other than Mexico?).

If this is true (which I doubt) I will stand up and applaud the people in our Government that have fostered this cause. I salute them for their ingenuity. Let’s keep the Swine Flu and illegal aliens in Mexico where they both belong.

As for me, I’m staying out of contact with any Mexicans or friends and family that have been in contact with a Mexican during the past two weeks. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

The Beach Bum

Blowing Smoke Up My Ass

2009-04-28T12:00:00.006-05:00

Here is another Blog that I had started to write but never finished. The file was last modified on March 20, 2009 at 2339 hours. It was a follow up to a Blog that I had written three weeks before titled Up in Smoke. I’ve revised and added to it.

Earlier that day (March 20th) I had called 1-800-Marlboro (the last o is superfluous, but most people dial it anyway). I had made several calls the day before to ascertain why the cost of cigarettes increased before the 62 cents per pack added Federal Tax due on April first.

Let me preface this by saying that I have smoked Philip Morris cigarettes for more than forty years. I started with regular Marlboros but switched to Merit 100’s (lower tar and nicotine) in the 1980’s and continued to smoke Merits until Marlboro Light 100’s became discounted ($6 less per carton) in 2001.

I have smoked as many as three and one half packs per day. But that was back in the days when they cost less than $20 per carton. Even at that price I had a $2500 per year habit. But I always rationalized that if I had been doing a drug besides nicotine, I would have been spending much more money. An addicts thinking is usually askew.

On the 18th I found out that my cigarettes (Marlboro Light 100’s) had gone up by five dollars per carton; nearly two weeks before the Federal tax increase. Why?

The next day I called the local Gas station (cheapest cigarettes in town) that had raised the price. The manager told me that their distributor had increased the cost to them by the same amount as they were charging me. I asked for the distributor’s telephone number and was accommodated.

Next I called the distributor and they told me that Philip Morris had increase the price, by the same amount of their increase to the retailers, on all of their products. At this point in time I am emotionally festering and I decide to call Philip Morris. Fortunately, for them, they kept me on hold for more than 10 minutes (over my limit of listening to bad music, a message that tells me that all of their representives are busy and listening to their commercials for their products), so I decided to call them back when I was in a more balanced frame of mind.

I approach telephone conversations with a company (business) in one of two directions. Usually I am a sweetheart with the milk of human kindness running through my veins. But then again, I can be a real SOB when I don’t get appropriate answers to my questions or if they give me the run around.

When I got through to Philip Morris the next day I spoke to a sweet young lady named Vanessa. I asked about the price increase prior to Tax increase. She suggested that I call my Congressmen to complain. She knew nothing (just a person who had stock answers to questions that might be asked).

Therefore I didn’t vent my frustrations and asked if she could connect me to her supervisor. She told me that I would have to hold and listen to more bad music. This didn’t deter me so I said OK.

Finally I got through to the “Supervisor”. Her voice reminded me of Rosa Klebb from the James Bond movie “From Russia with Love”. “Sir, how may I help you?” I could hear the daggers in her shoes through her voice. I decided to go on the offensive.

“Why did you raise your cigarettes by five dollars a carton in Florida?” Klebb sez “Because of the Federal Tax increase.” I sez “but today is March 20th and the increase doesn’t go into go into effect until April 1st.” She sez “The tax will be on the current (as of April first) inventories at the manufacturer and distributor’s level.” At this point I am getting irate. So I sez “So let me get this straight, you are raising the price of cigarettes before the tax takes effect so we can get used to the tax increase.” A long silence! Then I sez “Isn’t this profit taking to make up for the probably decrease in sales after April 1st. Another silence and then she sez “It’s not us, you should call your congressmen.”

I then told her that I had and that I had also sent an email to President Obama (I received an email response from one of his staff members) about the unjust Tax. She half-heartedly thanked me for my call and concern. I hung up and said to myself – bitch you have just lost a customer.

Last week on April 22nd I received a letter from Marlboro (Philip Morris):

Dear George
Thanks for taking the time to call us. It was great to hear from you. Please enjoy these coupons on the Marlboro cigarette of your choice. We really appreciate your loyalty.
Your friends at Marlboro

I had discontinued smoking Marlboros some weeks before – I’ll pass the coupons on to someone else.

The Beach Bum

Business as Usual

2009-04-23T12:03:00.008-05:00

Yesterday I received an Email from a friend who lives on Treasure Island. I said to myself “What the hell, I Blogged about this topic more than two months ago”. Before sending a flaming email, I checked and I hadn’t.

When I write a Blog I first write it in MS Word. While going through my files I found that I have 8 unfinished Blogs; one dating back to last October. What usually happens is I start writing at night (when I am pleasantly intoxicated) and plan to finish the next morning or afternoon. But occasionally the next morning I get a new divine inspiration for a Blog and pigeon hole the previously partially written Blog. Being the good procrastinator that I am; sometime weeks or months go by before completion. In most cases time is not of the essence.

I started to write a Blog early last February and for some unknown reason never finished it. I was to be titled Trickling Up II - Addendum Part III. It concerned possible alternatives to the government’s master plan, of the allocation of our tax dollars, to get the US economy back on track.

But then I read the following article in the business section of The Saint Petersburg Times and had planned to plagiarize (adopt and adapt) some of the ideas written by readers of the newspaper.

I don’t know if the newspaper’s staff listed them by relevance; but the first was the best idea:

Put America first

Patriotic retirement: There are about 40 million people over 50 in the work force … pay them $1 million apiece severance with stipulations.
They leave their jobs. Forty million job openings — unemployment fixed.
They buy new American cars. Forty million cars ordered — auto industry fixed.
They either buy a house or pay off their mortgage — housing crisis fixed.

David Otterson,
Largo

Add to this my friend’s (“Indiana (Indy) Bob” - He probably got his nickname from the household dog) concept that all people that can (more than a million families), should give, their children a tax free gift of $12,500 with the stipulation that they spent it and not hoard it.

These are both very sound ideas, but neither will fly in today’s society.

Our business as usual Congress and the people who have the ability to give their children a tax free gift, both travel to a beat of a different drum. After all, they will long gone before the full impact of the bailout effects the next generation.

The Beach Bum

Cutting it Close

2009-04-20T22:21:00.006-05:00

Last Saturday was haircut day. My son-in-law and I got our bimonthly haircuts from my daughter. One of the many schools that she attended was a Cosmetology School. She was nineteen years old and thought that it would be fun plus very profitable to become a beautician. This career lasted for about a year and a half before she decided that she needed a more formal education and move on to bigger and better things.

First she went to work for a Title Company owned by a friend of mine. Then she went to study to be a paralegal. After that I can’t remember what she wanted to be, but as we all should know; going to school is a lot better than going to work. But the bottom line is that she gives very good haircuts.

Later that evening I reminisced with her about going to first Barber Shop that I could recall. I knew that I had gotten haircuts before this time but couldn’t recollect where.

I was eight years old and had just acquired a new Dad (my birth father had passed away). I moved from the north side of Chicago to the southwest side of the city. My new neighborhood was predominately Bohemian and Polish with an added mixture of Italian and Irish. Needless to say it was a very Catholic neighborhood.

There were two neighborhood Barber Shops, both under 3 blocks away from our house. They were Union Shops, so the prices for tonsorial services were the same at both shops and posted on the wall.

The shop that my Dad frequented was a 3 chair shop with two barbers. One of the barbers was Polish and the other was Italian, plus they had a shoeshine man. Both barbers were close to my Dad’s age (late 30’s – early 40’s). The other local shop had younger barbers and no shoeshine man.

Dad's favorite Barber Shop had mirrors across two walls (in front and back of the chairs), a seven seat waiting area and a 17 inch black and white floor model television (which was only turned on for baseball games and news programming). There were usually 2 or 3 old geezers sitting in the waiting area, reading newspapers or magazines (Field and Stream, Readers Digest, Popular Mechanics etc; they hid the Esquire Magazines when a kid came into the shop).

The barbers, the customers and the geezers would talk about world events, sports and the weather. Occasionally they would tell a joke. If it was a dirty joke it would be told in Polish if I was in the shop.

The Black Shoeshine man spoke both Italian and Polish; he had worked at the shop before the current barbers owned it. He was the source of many of the dirty jokes.

A shine cost 10 cents but my Dad usually gave him a quarter; probably because he spoke Polish.

My Dad would get a trim every two weeks for 50 cents. Until I turned 13 years old my haircuts were only a quarter and I went once per month. I think that my Dad went to the Barber Shop more so for the banter and repartee than the haircut.

A shave was 25 cents (I first indulged myself with this luxury when I was 16 years old (to cut off the peach fuzz). You were shaved with a straight razor that they would sharpen on the strop the hung on the barber chair. Steaming towels were first wrapped around your face to soften the beard. The shaving cream was applied with a brush out of a mug. The entire process was a little slice of heaven.

Since that time I have always sought out Barber Shops rather than going to the Unisex Hair Salons, such as the Hair Butchery (Cuttery). When I lived on Treasure Island I would drive 6 miles into St. Petersburg rather than visit one of the several salons on the island. It was well worth the drive! It brought back good childhood memories

The Beach Bum

Number 42

2009-04-16T11:58:00.005-05:00

When I was a preteen there was a phrase that you always heard when you went to the Ballpark; “You can’t tell the players apart without a scorecard.” I always bought one because I usually got to Wrigley Field during batting practice and would try to get the players autographs. I didn’t really need it to “tell the players apart”; I had their baseball cards and had seen most of them on television. Besides the public address announcer would name them before the game and again during their first at bat in the game.

Yesterday I watch three games on television. Only one of my favored teams won; the Marlins. The Rays came close against the Yankees and the White Sox decided not to hit the ball against the Tigers. The best part about the Sox game was being able to hear Steve Stone’s commentary once again. I believe that Stoney is one of the most knowledgeable people in Baseball; he knows the game better than many managers (especially former Cubs manager Dusty Baker).

Yesterday was Jackie Robinson Day and every player, on every team, wore the number 42 in his honor; even a scorecard would not have helped a neophyte baseball fan at the Ballpark. I never got to see Robinson play in person but saw him several times on Black & White television.

For you non-baseball fans, Jackie Robinson was the first African American to play in the Major League of Baseball. Branch Rickey, then president of the Brooklyn Dodgers, first signed Robinson to a minor league contract and brought him up to the majors the following year.

There were many players in the Negro League that were better and younger than Jackie Robinson. But Rickey chose Robinson because he believed that Jackie could handle the pressure and harassment by fans and from the other players more easily. Jackie did and in a few years became a fan favorite; the rest is history.

Had Rickey (or someone else) waited another 4 or 5 years to break the color barrier in Major League Baseball, we may not have celebrated Jackie Robinson Day yesterday. “Say Hey”, it could have been Willie Mays Day.

The Beach Bum

I Still Have Some RAM Remaining

2009-04-14T12:48:00.008-05:00

A month ago I wrote a Blog about my High School days. An old friend (much older than I am) had attended the same Chicago High School but graduated the year before I entered. Using the nom de plume of Hardware Bob he left a comment on the aforementioned Blog.

In his comment he questioned my memory about our Journalism teacher’s first name. Like me, he was on the Herald staff as a Junior and Senior. He was going to find a Yearbook (Harrisonian) and look it up to prove me wrong.

My yearbooks are well hidden away somewhere in my sister’s attic. The last time I went looking for something in my sister’s attic I was missing in action for three days; this attic makes Fibber McGee’s closet look barren and well organized. Therefore there was no sense in calling her and asking her to find one of my old yearbooks.

I tried calling a few old High School friends with no avail; they agreed with me about the first name. Next I tried to find some of my old teachers. Most of them had common surnames and it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

However I did find a telephone number for my Biology teacher (he had a unique surname), who was also my academic advisor. I tried three different times within a two week period without any success. I left messages on the answering machine; stating my name and the years that I attended the high school. No reply! I gave up and said “Oh well.”

Finally, this past Saturday, we made contact.

Much to my chagrin, he remembered my name, but not me personally. I’ve always thought that I was an unforgettable character. How could anyone forget, in my opinion, one of the most brilliant Biology students in his class? Of course, I was in a classroom full of geniuses (Honors Students) who got upset when they only received an E (B). In fact our class Valedictorian (Marie Z) received only 2 E’s in High School, the rest S’s (A’s). My former teacher said jokingly that the E's were probably in Gym.

We spoke about several of my other classmates including my old friend and co-conspirator Mykhiala (Micki). She was our class Salutatorian (she probably got 3 E’s). She and I went together (as Forrest Gump would say) like Peas and Carrots. Her brain power (not that I wasn’t a genius) and my quick wit made a good team. We wrote a one act play together in our Sophomore English class. I found that teaming up with her (as a study partner) would improve my grades.

Ironically, my former Biology teacher’s wife was one of my Sophomore year English teachers. I had forgotten that he had married her in my junior year (and was forced to transfer to another school in my senior year – some silly Chicago Board of Education rule). She remembered the play well, as many of the characters in the play were loosely based on our perception of our teachers. It was a comedic farce about attending high school in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. Unfortunately the Drama Club never preformed the play. I wish I still had a copy (it may be in my sister’s attic)!

After more than an hour long pleasant conversation, I got to the bottom line. “Do you remember Mr. Wiley, the Herald Staff Faculty Sponsor?” “Of course I do, Joe and I were friends, and he also was in charge of the Yearbook Staff (this I didn’t remember).”

Shortly thereafter I call Hardware Bob to crow.

The Beach Bum

Shoot First - Ask Questions Later

2009-04-11T11:58:00.005-05:00

I, like so many others, have been following the latest Somali Pirates episode. The media is bombarding us with the most current pirate attack. We hardly heard anything about the other 5 ships that they have commandeered during the past week or so.

Now it’s a different ballgame. This time the Somali pirates attacked a ship flying a United States flag with an American crew. As my Dad would have said “They really pulled a boner.”

For years the pirates have been seizing ships in the Gulf of Aden and holding them and their crews for ransom. Most of the pirates are militarily trained and have a good arsenal of weaponry. It’s not like the days of yore with just cannons and swords.

To prevent them from taking ships from the heavily traveled Gulf of Aden a joint naval task force was established in the Gulf and surrounding waters. This curtailed the piracy for a few months. Now the pirates have to go elsewhere to collect their booty. This is a more costly endeavor for them, therefore ransom amounts must increase.

Freighters and other ships have been avoiding the Somalia coastline and have ventured farther out into the Indian Ocean for this reason. Realizing this, the pirates have also gone farther offshore into the Indian Ocean.

Now here’s what I don’t understand about this entire situation!

I would assume that all of the captured ships had radar plus a GPS navigational system, and in most cases they are linked together. They also have a radio (VHF) of some kind which includes a Global Maritime Distress Safety System (GMDSS). Many sailboats and smoke pots on Lake Michigan are so equipped (it’s great to have these electronic devices if you are in the middle of the lake and caught in fog; listening to the fog horns emanating from one of the ore barges traversing the lake).

Small craft radar units and linking GPS units sell for $2000 or less. The radar has a range of about 24 nautical miles. I would imagine that the larger sea going ships have a much more sophisticated system. Or at least I hope they do. But let’s say they don’t.

Let’s assume that I am the Captain on a heavy laden freighter, 300 miles off shore, in the Indian Ocean, moving at approximately 12 nautical miles per hour. My low cost 24 mile radar/GPS system detects a ship coming at me doing about 36 knots per hour. There is a simple mathematical formula used to calculate how long it will be before I am overtaken by this ship. But I don’t need to use the formula because my GPS system informs me that I will be overtaken in roughly 48 minutes.

Being the astute Captain that I am, I assume that any ship traveling towards me at that speed, in pirate infested waters, must, in fact, be a pirate ship. Therefore I send out a distress signal. But there is no help available within 500 miles of my location. I now have only 45 minutes to plan my strategy. What to do, what to do, what to do?

I could pull a MacGuyver by making a few Molotov Cocktails to greet my attackers or heat up cooking oil to 500 degrees and dump it on them as the attempt to board my ship. I also have several rescue flares that could be used to ignite the flammable materials that I have just used to fend off my attackers.

But the pirates have threatened to sink the ship and kill my crew if I don’t comply with their demands. I’m no hero and I don’t want to risk the lives of my crew.

So let’s get back to reality and replay the scenario.

Now I have a 60 nautical mile radar system with a GPS interface. This system advises me that there is ship heading towards me at high speed. Again, I assume that it is a pirate ship. No warships in the vicinity will arrive before it overtakes my vessel. But now I have a lot more time before the pirates arrive. So I get on the horn (VHF).

I know that both the Ethiopian and Yemeni Air Force have bases within 400 miles of my position. I also know that both Air Forces have fully armed MIG aircraft capable of exceeding 600 knots per hour. Twenty minutes before the pirates reach my ship, they are blown out of the water. The country responsible for the kill would be handsomely rewarded for their effort. They have now become bounty hunters, so to speak.

At least this is my simple solution to the Somali Pirate problem.

The Beach Bum

Sunday Afternoon in the Shed

2009-04-06T11:59:00.004-05:00

Yesterday afternoon there was quite the commotion out here in my Office (AKA “The Shed”). I was in the process of making one of my many daily trips to the bathroom inside of the main building. This is my main source of exercise so I try to drink as much beer as possible; more beer equals more trips.

On my first trip of the afternoon, as I opened the shed door, I was greeted by a young (18 to 22 inches long and skinny) Black (Racer) Snake. He was lying on the concrete threshold sunbathing.

The sound of the door opening must have startled him so he therefore decided to rapidly depart the area. He had a choice of four directions in which to travel; three leading into the back yard and one into the shed. Yep, you guessed it, he chose the shed.

I attempted to grab him but I moved too slowly. There is a reason that they named them Black Racers; they are fast as hell. His first move was to go behind my chest of drawers. When he saw me looking for him, he moved to underneath my adjacent television stand. At the same time I was feeling the urgency to relieve myself. I figured that when I returned, I would corner him and return him to the great outdoors.

On my way back to the shed I related the story to my daughter. She told me that it was imperative that I remove the snake from the shed. I said that I would do my best.

Armed with a three foot long stick, I began to poke around the area where the snake was last seen. Bingo, once again he was on the move. This time he traveled behind my Dorm size refrigerator into a corner. I had him where I wanted him to be, in a corner. As I approached he coiled; this was another good sign.

I moved slowly (let’s face it slowly is the only way I move) so not to frighten him. My hand was three inches from the snake when he once again bolted towards the television stand area. At this point in time I realized that he was much too fast for me to catch.

Option number two was to open the door and try to get him moving in that direction. He would see a shot at freedom and get out of the shed. I began to poke around again and once again he was on the move. But instead of heading out the door, he crossed the room to behind my computer desk. He again decided to go in a corner and coil. Unfortunately it was a corner that I couldn’t reach by hand. Again I used the stick in hopes that I could get him to move the 12 feet to the open door. As usual he went in the wrong direction, this time he was out of sight. I gave up, closed the door, grabbed a beer and sat down, somewhat exhausted. He would eventually have to surface.

My daughter comes to the shed and asks if I had removed the unwanted reptile. I told her that I didn’t know where he was. Now she has an idea. She would bring one of the dogs to the shed and the dog would find the snake, and chase it out of the shed. It sounded good to me because the dogs don’t like any other animals invading their turf. They can hear or smell a squirrel, cat or armadillo within 100 feet of their territory. No such luck.

My daughter then asks if I looked behind the bookcase and the couch. I said yes. Just to make sure, she took a look. No snake. She did however notice an accumulation of dust, dirt and a dead insect in that area. I was told to move the couch forward and to vacuum the area. I have always felt that there was no need to clean an area that nobody ever sees. The illusion of cleanliness is the important factor. She had a different opinion on the subject. I vacuumed. This whole episode was really cutting into my drinking time.

About 10 minutes later she came back to check on my progress. “Have you found the snake?” I said that maybe it had slithered out the door while I was cleaning. We began to search again and there it was nestled on my stack of computer CD’s on the bottom book shelf. I attempt to grab it again. It was too fast as usual and headed to the area behind the couch. This time we both had sticks and were position on either end of the couch. As hard as we tried we had no success.

My daughter then calls her husband to join the search team. He almost had it held down with the stick but it fled before he could capture it. This snake was out thinking and maneuvering three humans with agility and ease.

Finally my son-in-law got the ultimate snake capturing tool; a broom. My daughter and I got him into a corner, where he again coiled up. My son-in-law seized the opportunity and trapped him, caught him and removed him from the shed into a wooded area on the other side of the yard.

The Beach Bum

Prioritizing Things

2009-04-02T11:17:00.002-05:00

The reason I haven’t been Blogging much lately is that I have been very busy studying. During the past week or so I have been reading to a great extent everything that I can about the upcoming Major League Baseball season. I do this every year at this time.

I ‘m busy preparing for my Fantasy Baseball League’s draft this Saturday. This is our league‘s 25th Anniversary. It’s an Old Farts league but it didn’t start out that way. Most of the guys were in their early to mid 30’s when the league was formed 25 years ago.

It will be held, as usual, in Forest Park, Illinois. Five team owners will not be in attendance because we live too far away to make it practical to for us attend the draft; especially the team from Hawaii. The last draft that I attended was in 2003.

In the past, by not attending you had to make frequent telephone calls for updates. You also would miss out on the Pizza break; not to mention the constant chiding and harassment by the other team owners.

Five years ago I partially remedied the situation by setting up a chat room. Several of the guys will bring wireless notebooks to the draft and will type the barbs as well as the picks seconds after they are chosen. This has sped up the drafting process by nearly an hour.

For now, I’ll have to go back to doing my homework and somewhat put my Blogging on hold for the next few days.

The Beach Bum

Making a Short Story Long

2009-03-27T15:36:00.002-05:00

Once again my wife is visiting my daughter’s domicile. This means that the main television stays tuned to news or talk shows during most of the day. Of course there are exceptions; American Idol, Soap Operas and Hollywood gossip programming. This doesn’t bother me because I have my own television in my office (AKA “The Shed”).

Yesterday on one of my frequent trips to the bathroom I noticed that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was on the television talking about Mexico. The day before I had read some of her comments and just shook my head in disbelief. She was blaming the American’s “insatiable appetite for drugs” for problems that the Mexican Government is currently facing.

Being the idiot that I am, I couldn’t resist making a comment as I was heading out of the room to go back to the shed. I should have known better than to open the flood gates of repartee with the wife. We occasionally exchange pleasantries and talk about our children, but other than that I usually refrain from having more than a two minute conversation with her.

My comment was that I couldn’t stand Hillary years ago and that I like her even less today (actually the words I spoke were not that nice, therefore no quotation marks).

The wife asked if I knew her when I was still living in Maryland. I curtly answered no, attempting to end the conversation. She quickly asks (before I could get out of the door) me, how did I know her years ago. Now I’m trapped. I have to relate the story of my meeting Hillary Rodham (Clinton) when I was a teen in Chicago.

The story should have taken 2 to 4 minutes to tell. But nooooo! Telling a story to my wife is like being interviewed by Mike Wallace; many questions in between each uttered passage.

Now here’s the story. In parenthesis are the wife’s interrogatives followed by a hyphen and then my answers to her questions.

I met her in November 1960 (Did she go to your school? – No she lived on the North side), (How did you know that she lived on the North Side? – By the way she was dressed), (How was she dressed? – She was wearing a Parka and Ski Pants), (What color was the Parka? - I believe that it was light blue), (But what made you think that she was from the North side? – Girls in our neighborhood wore regular winter coats, skirts and leggings, may I please finish the story).

It was a Saturday (How do you remember that it was a Saturday? – I was not in school at eleven in the morning and answered the door), (Well then, it could have been a Sunday – No my sister would have been in Church at 11am and she was home watching cartoons on the television), (Are you sure about the time? – Yes, give or take 10 minutes, I was eating lunch at the time; now can I continue the story).

There was a knock at the door, I answered and there stood this young girl with a clip board in her hand. (How old was she? – Hell I don’t know, a few years younger than me). She asked me if my parents were at home. I answered that my mom was home and that my dad would be home in about 45 minutes. I closed the door (That was rude, why didn’t you invite her in? – She wasn’t sexually attractive, she looked like a frumpy wingless Cherub), (I wonder what she thought about you? – I didn’t care).

Without taking a breath I continued my story.

I sat back down and continued to eat my lunch. The knock came again and this time my mother answered the door. The girl told her that she was canvassing the area about the last Presidential Election (Kennedy/Nixon). There seemed to be some concern that Chicago Mayor Richard J Daley had rigged the election (How can a Mayor rig an election? – The same way that Bush won Florida). That shut her (the wife) up.

Our Ward (Chicago’s 22nd) as well as our precinct was falling under close scrutiny by the Cook County Republican Organization. (Why? – Because there were only 8 votes for Nixon in our Precinct and Kennedy carried the Ward by 94%), (I can see why they were concerned – Not if you knew the neighborhood; predominately Catholic and Democrats, we didn’t even have a Republican Precinct Captain).

That’s when I first met Hillary Clinton and decided that I didn’t like her (How did you know that it was Hillary that knocked on your door? – As you well know, I never forget faces, names maybe, but never faces), (When did you realize that it was her? – When Bill Clinton was running for President and I saw her on television; I was watching the news with the then current “love of my life” and exclaimed “I know that broad”), (You’re crass – Thank you, I going to the shed).

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

The Beach Bum

Paying the Price for Gas

2009-03-24T12:00:00.005-05:00

I read today that a 14 year old Florida boy has been suspended from riding the School Bus for three days. These suspensions usually arise from unruly behavior; such as fighting or throwing things at the other students.

Not in this case. The boy allegedly passed gas on the bus. Although he didn’t admit to the heinous act, he laughed about it (a possible admission of guilt). The other students on the bus (although they didn’t hear the fart) said that a noxious odor was emanating from his direction. I guess it was one of those silent but deadly farts.

The article went on to say that it was also a suspendible offence (in Florida) to pass gas in a class room. If you feel a fart coming on, you must raise your hand, be acknowledged but the instructor; then ask permission to be excused from the class and hustle to the nearest restroom.

When I was young I rarely had to pass gas in the daytime hours; it was usually an hour after supper. But if I did, it was one of those urgent farts. I wouldn’t have the time to raise my hand, let alone, wait to be called on. I just hoped that it wouldn’t be a loud highly embarrassing one.

Now that I am in my sixties practically everything that I eat or drink gives me intestinal gas. I’m an old fart machine. The urgency is still there and I usually do not have time to run to the bathroom, to let one go. I just sit there and grin. I don’t even try to blame it on the dogs.

When I was in the Army (stationed in Africa) I knew two guys that could pass gas at will. One of them would always say “pull my finger”. That was our cue to rapidly leave the room. The other guy could not only fart at any time that he desired, but could also belch at the same time. We considered this to be an art form. It’s a male thing.

My wife’s sister’s husband could also pass gas at any given time. This usually occurred during family gatherings and our poker games. He would do it with flair. He would stand up and raise one leg off of the floor, then let a big on go. I admired him for his ability to do so. I had tried the same thing but without any tangible results.

Guys have always been able to find humor in farts. Women, on the other hand, usually find them to be an obscenity.

I’ll bet any amount of money (with odds) that both the Bus Driver and School Principal were women. No sense of gastric humor.

The Beach Bum

Taking From the Poor and Giving to the Rich

2009-03-18T15:12:00.004-05:00

I shouldn’t be complaining because I am currently living off of tax payer’s dollars. I draw a monthly Social Security check and my medical treatment and hospitalization is provided by the Veterans Administration. I do not work and therefore do not put any monies into the tax pool (except for Federal taxes on Tobacco and Alcohol).

I will say this for myself; I will not go on the Government dole until I reach 68.2 years old. This is accounting for a 6% benefit increase annually and the monies that I and my employers had paid into Social Security taxes (FICA).

I will also go on to say that during my last full year (1969) in the Army I earned $3719, whereas my civilian counterparts were earning three and a half, if not 4, times that amount per year. The civilians would argue that I got free room and board and medical care. This is true. I got a cot with a two inch thick mattress in a 14X16 foot room, in the barracks, shared with another GI. If I had been of a lesser rank, I would have been in a 32 man bay. The food that I rarely ate in the Mess Hall was free, but instead I paid for food outside of the Mess Hall, especially after I saw a local Pig Farmer picking up the leftovers. I guess that the pigs liked green beef liver.

However, I do feel a compulsion to complain when something truly appalling is in all of the online newspapers and the television newscasts 24 hours a day. There is story after story after story without any definitive answers.

Monday night, Steven Colbert said that it was time for us to pick up pitchforks and torches. Meaning it was time to go after the monster called AGI. At least that’s the way that I understood it.

AGI CEO Edward M. Liddy justifies the $165 million in bonuses, by saying that they were promised and that they were only going to “the brightest and the best” executives. Eleven of whom are no longer working for AGI. The best and brightest seemingly are like rats deserting a sinking ship; but they still want their full ration of Rum and Hardtack. It appears that the “brightest and the best” didn’t do that well in managing AGI. I say no more Rum!

Years ago my Dad told me that “promises were meant to be broken; just listen to any politician.” But CEO Liddy says that this promise should be kept so that AIG can keep “the brightest and the best”.

My solution is that our Government (since they – meaning the taxpayers - are now a major investor in AGI) should decide who, if anyone gets a bonus. If it were up to me, I’d scrub the entire executive staff and hire new people.

Maybe we can hire the Chimpanzees featured in the youtube video posted below. I'm sure that even they would do a better job and work for bananas and peanuts and not expect a Bonus.

The Beach Bum

Elementary (Grammar) School Daze

2009-03-16T13:07:00.004-05:00

This is a prelude to my last Blog concerning my High School days.

I entered the Chicago Public School system in the third grade. Prior to that time I was in the Parochial (Catholic) School system. I won’t go into the details, but the Dominican Sisters told my parents that I was an incorrigible child.

One of the greatest benefits in transferring schools was that the Public School (McCormick) was only two blocks away from our house; the nearest Catholic School was 5 blocks away. When you are a kid toting books (in the days before backpacks) to and from school, 3 less blocks made a big difference, especially during the Chicago winters.

In addition, the teachers in the Public Schools were much kinder to their students than the Sisters were. I was accustomed to being whacked on the knuckles (with a ruler) or slapped on the head for just smiling. Even worse punishment would ensue if I had made what was considered to be a “smart alec” remark. I recently told a Catholic friend that we should have sent the Dominican Sisters and Jesuit Brothers down to Gitmo.

The grading system in the Chicago Public school system was also different. Instead of ABCDF we had SEGFU (Superior, Excellent, Good, Fair and Unsatisfactory). Our report cards were graded 4 times per semester; the final period being your final grades for the semester. During my first two semesters at McCormick I had a consistent E average. My grade average would have been higher, but I consistently received F’s in deportment (I guess the Sisters were right – I was a smart alec).

Most of my friends in the neighborhood went to Parochial schools. When I boasted about my E average, they would shrug it off by saying that I was learning at a lower level. They had been told by their parents that the Chicago Public schools were substandard. That way they could readily accept the corporal punishment that they received in the Catholic school system. They were getting a better education; therefore they should endure the pain!

I can’t imagine that there were better teachers than I had during my 6 years at McCormick Elementary School. They worked with the slower students and pushed the brighter students. The bulk of them were old women that had been teaching most of their adult lives. Two (Mrs. Bowlen and Mrs. Garvey) finally retired when my class went on to High School. They were both in their 60’s and had taught some of my classmates parents at our school.

Mrs. Bowlen was my favorite teacher at McCormick. She was my seventh grade homeroom teacher and the senior science teacher. If you wanted to learn, she made learning easy by guiding you (not beating you) into the right direction. She was stern but fair. I (as well as my Mom) stayed in contact with her, until her passing in 1990.
When I was stationed in Africa, she would send me a weekly letter, detailing her life in Thermopolis, Wyoming. In return, I would write about the people that I met and the places that I had visited in Ethiopia (sans the sordid details).

In the second semester of the Eight Grade we took what were called High School Placement Tests (basically an IQ Test). I had always tested well and scored higher than I should have. Mrs. Garvey (my Eight Grade homeroom teacher) almost went into shock when she saw the test results; she realized that I had actually learned something while pulling my usual classroom shenanigans.

About 3 weeks before the school year was over we were visited by staff members of the local Public High Schools. Can you believe that you actually got to choose your High School? I had a choice of three schools; Harrison Tech, Farragut or Lane Tech (an all male school).

Farragut was just two blocks away from my house, but I chose Harrison (a mile away from home) because several of my friends were planning to attend that school and my Dad was an Alumnus. Lane was out of the question; nearly an hour away by bus and no girls.

The Harrison representatives touted me for the Honors (College Prep) classes (English, Science and Math). They told me that they were accelerated classes; however a G would count as an E and an E as an S towards my GPA. They neglected to mention that the homework was basically double than that of normal classes.

Near the end of my freshman year, I met with my Faculty Advisor Mr. Dyokas. Even with the extra credit I was maintaining less that an E average. He told me if I planned to go to College, I better get my grades up a notch. He also told me that it was important that I participated in as many extracurricular activities as possible; this looks good on a college application.

After 4 years of High School I had been a member of The Science Club, The Jazz Club, The Drama Club, The Debating Team and The Newspaper Staff. I had taken Mr. Dyokas’ advice.

The Beach Bum

High School Daze

2009-03-13T13:10:00.005-05:00

The last two Guest Blogs by Loopy made me reminisce to the first semester of my Junior Year of High School.

At the close of the sophomore year we had to choose our elective classes for the following Fall Semester. My Student Advisor suggested that I take Journalism; he said that I should do well. The teacher of this course was one of my past English teachers and I thought that he was pretty cool; so I said OK.

That left a half credit (minor) class, and there weren’t many to choose from on the list, for me to select. Most minor classes only met two or three days per week. Looking over the list, I noticed that Public Speaking was taught 2 days per week. It was also a ninth period (last of the day) class. When you didn’t have a ninth period class, you could go to the Library, study hall or go home an hour early. The light bulb above my head lit up and I chose Public Speaking as my second elective.

The first four weeks of Journalism class were easy; mostly reading and lecturing by our teacher and very little homework. After the sixth week we were given assignments to write about various events that were happening in our neighborhoods; using the journalistic principles that we had already learned in class. I spent a lot of time reading the Chicago Newspapers to learn how to write a good new story. Prior to this time I would only read the Headline stories, the Sports section and the Comics.

Someone in our class dubbed our journalism teacher Superman (Disguised as Joe Wiley, the mild-mannered Faculty Sponsor for a great High School newspaper; fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way!) because he was tall, in good physical shape and wore Clark Kent style glasses. He even like the sobriquet.

After 8 weeks of class, 3 of us were invited (by Superman) to join the newspaper (Herald) staff because three seniors were graduating at the end of the semester. I felt honored to be chosen. The three of us were given the worst assignments and not allowed to write anything that would be printed (like Jimmy Olsen; we were gofers). However, the senior staff would often plagiarize articles that we had written.

We felt that this was unfair so we rebelled. Our complaints to Superman were of no avail. The leader of the revolt was the second best (GPA wise) student in our high school (the first being a Polish girl named Marie). Mykhaila was of Russian/German ancestry; she entered High School at the age of 12 and had just turned 15 years old.

Her plan was simple; we would fabricate a plausible news story and let the senior staff read it. They would, of course, reject it and then re-write it and publish it (which they did).

When the next edition of the Herald was published, our story was on the front page. We took the paper and our original draft to Superman and told him that it was a spurious story that we had written to get back at the seniors. He laughed!

The next semester Mykhaila was the Herald’s editor-in-chief and I was promoted to galley editing. These were both senior student positions and we were second semester juniors. We had won the battle!

Later, as a senior, I wrote the Sports Column (which Superman basically called a Gossip Column – I was a name dropper) and continued my galley work.

Mykhaila and I were also in the same Public Speaking class (we had the same advisor). She went on to be the Captain of the Debating Team in the second semester of our Junior Year. I was an alternative until the last semester of my senior year; after she graduated a semester early.

In a mini reunion with some of my High School classmates, some 40 years later, I was told that Mykhaila graduated from the University Of Chicago at the age of 19. The question was posed; why hadn’t I stayed in contact with one of my favorite high school friends? For lack of any other answer I said “I wasn’t physically attracted to her”. It’s a sad commentary, but it’s true.

The Beach Bum

Analysis Of A Speech

2009-03-09T12:02:00.006-05:00

My friend Loopy (Paul) has decided that he needed to add an addendum to his Guest Blog that was posted yesterday. As I have said before, for an Old Fart he is still as sharp as a needle.

Loopy's Addendum:

When listening to a speaker, what do you hear? Do you hear the words behind the words? Politicians in particular have a case to make for or against a subject, a political position, or a pending piece of legislation. They must bring as many of their listeners to an acceptance and, hopefully, a belief in their position. How do they do this and how do we, the public, evaluate intelligently what they are saying?

The following steps were part of my college class taught by that wonderful professor whose name I still can't remember. These questions should be asked and answered by each listener.

Analysis of a Speech

1. Does the speaker show two-valued or multi-valued orientation?
In other words, is the speaker using a plus/minus, good/bad, orientation in the speech or are there layers within the speech that span an entire spectrum of thought and ideas.

2. Are facts presented? Are they slanted?
This point speaks for itself. If facts are presented, does the speaker use loaded words to twist the facts to support his position or tear down his opponent's position?

3. Is the language directive or informative?
Are you as a listener being verbally pushed into accepting a position that you would normally not accept?

4. What are the goals of the speaker?
Know the background of the issues and the speaker. What does he have to gain or lose by his style of presentation?

5. How many devices of propaganda does he use?
This takes you back to the previous blog where the devices of propaganda are discussed.

6. What is the context of the language?
Is it physical or verbal?

7. What will be the consequence?
The end result of acceptance or rejection of the position of the speaker.

8. Does he distinguish between observation, inferences and judgment?
The difference between what is truth, what he thinks is truth, and what he wants truth to be.

9. Where is he on the abstraction ladder?
As explained by that great semantician, Dr. S. I. Hiyakawa. Does he speak about the herd or does he bring the abstractions down to the level of cow number one and cow number two?

10. What words used in the speech need definition?
Does the speaker misuse these words? Don't be afraid to look up words used in the speech that you don't understand.

These are all little tricks to enable the average person to feel a sense of empowerment in their ability to choose who to accept or reject in the world of politics, business, and especially in our current environment of economic chaos. When the leaders of the big banks, insurance companies, investment firms, and multi-level conglomerates issue statements about their strength, safety, future plans, and past history, make sure that you understand what they are actually saying. This way you may also gain an understanding of what they've done.

Posted by Loopy

What Are They Saying?

2009-03-08T14:24:00.010-05:00

My Second Guest Blogger (Paul) is also a friend from the time that I spent in East Africa. I didn’t know him that well when I was stationed a Kagnew Station; we probably shared cocktails together 3 or 4 times. I was a new guy and he was a short timer, getting ready to ship out. I liked him because of his comical exploits, his intelligence and his razor sharp wit.

So without further ado, here is Paul’s Blog:

Whenever I hear a politician speak, I always flash back to my much, much younger days. While attending Phoenix College back in the very early '60s,I had the good fortune to sign up for a class taught by a wonderful instructor whose name I can't even begin to dredge from my memory.

While I cannot remember his name, I remember some of the things he taught me, such as how to analyze a speech and how to recognize and utilize the various elements of propaganda.

These are important things to learn, use, and pass on to our offspring as they are most likely not taught in this decade's schools. Since I still have my little notebook wherein I have written and saved treasured tidbits of information, poetry, paragraphs from loved books, and my own thoughts and ideas, I would like to share these elements of propaganda with you. My teacher gave great credit to Miller & Minsky, Copy 1937, for these gems. Perhaps we can cover the salient points to remember and practice in analyzing a speech at a later time.

1. Name Calling is used to condemn a person, a company, a religion, a country, or a race, etc. Have we ever seen this in the news?
2. Glittering Generalities are used to build up a person, a political party, or any other entity. This is sort of the opposite of Name Calling.
3. Devices of Transfer use the name of something good, honored or revered to build up something that is less than savory. It is also called Symbolism.
4. Testimonial Devices are selected phrases to build up or tear down the status or reputation of someone or something. Examples are what the right wing pundits are using on President Obama right now by their stressing the word "socialism" as it applies to his efforts to rein in corporate greed and abuse. Link the negative term to someone long enough and often enough and many of the easily led will begin to believe it to be the truth.
5. Plain Folk Devices involve changing the language and bringing the usage of words down to the level of the intended audience. In other words, using simpler and smaller words to an audience of a lower educational level or using regional jargon in those areas of the country where it is a part of normal discourse.
6. Band Wagon is the practice of misrepresenting the truth in an effort to achieve a particular political or business goal. We hear this daily on the news and in the newspapers where an individual only tells one side of an issue as if it were a fact. This was most apparent in the recent presidential campaign.

All of these items have been in my mind throughout the recent election and its aftermath. Just because I use these things to help me make decisions on issues and candidates doesn't make me any more intelligent than anyone else. It does help me to cast what I hope is a well thought out vote in an election and it does help me to decide which news programs or news people I will no longer watch or read.

I have decided to continue to read The Beach Bum Report.

Posted by Loopy (Paul) Guest Blogger #2

Desperate Times

2009-03-06T12:47:00.003-05:00

Today I read some alarming facts and figures about the Florida County in which I currently reside.

First is the unemployment rate. On December 31st it was at 10.9%. On February 28th it was 12.6%. The available County work force is less than 65 thousand (30% of the County’s residents are age 65 or older and retired). In addition twenty three percent of the people that are employed work out of County.

The County’s largest employer is Wal-Mart (2 Super Wal-Mart stores, a distribution center and a Sam’s Club). Wal-Mart recently laid off many of its part-time employees and cut hours of some full-time employees during the last two months. Our newest National Retailer, Kohl’s, has already cut back on its staff.

I’m not really sure, but I don’t think that the Unemployment figures included people that are unemployed and not collecting unemployment compensation. If so, this would increase the unemployment percentage as stated above.

Second is the housing market. Back in 2004/2005 there was a housing boom in this County. It drove up the prices of the existing homes. This wasn’t unique to the County, it was happening throughout the US.

Many of the new (construction) homes still lie vacant and they no longer have sales agents on duty in the model homes, just a number to call for a showing. I doubt that the phone rings very often.

In our zip code (probably the largest residential zip code in the County) there are 490 single family homes listed on Realtor.com, of these 450 are Bank owned. In addition realtytrac.com lists 1137 in pre-foreclosure and another 240 as Sheriff Sales (unpaid property taxes). I would guessitmate that this is more than 40% (if not 50%) of the single family dwellings in this zip code.

Third is the small business crisis. Last year (2008), 47 small businesses closed in our County. Some were franchises. In addition, some businesses, with multiple locations, have consolidated. The shopping centers have many “For Lease” signs in the vacant storefronts. The place where I got my Chicago Hot Dogs and Italian Beef Sandwiches has been closed for 8 months. When your sales do not cover the cost of your rent and utilities; you close (I wish they would have warned me – I would have bought their Vienna Franks supply).

And finally a not so shocking statistic, but nonetheless alarming. In 2008, County applications for concealed weapons permits had increase by 28% over the last year. In December alone, it was a 21% increase over the previous December. I haven’t seen the figures or the first two months of 2009 yet, but I’m sure that the numbers are escalating. It’s a Fear Factor, when people are desperate they will do desperate things. One has to be prepared for the worst case scenario.

The Beach Bum

Guest Bloggers

2009-03-04T12:01:00.000-05:00

Back in early January, when I was crying in my beer because I had a lack of regular readers, a friend a suggested a way that I might increase Blog readership. He suggested that I have guest Bloggers. The guest Bloggers would tell their friends and some might become regular readers or even guest Bloggers.

I’ve seen this done on other Blogs. But it was just regular readers that were in the blog roll on the sidebar.

A week later I decided to give it a shot. So I asked my old Army buddy Al (who made the suggestion) if he would be my first guest Blogger. He said sure, but he was currently working on a photo project (photos that were taken when we were stationed in Eritrea, Ethiopia) and it might be a week or so.

I gave him the parameters. It could be on any subject, but, no vulgarities (euphemisms allowed), no ethnic slurs or epithets and it should have no higher than a PG13 rating. And it should be 500 words or less.

Weeks passed and nothing from Al, so I assumed that he had forgotten or was too busy with his political agendas. Al is a liberal Democrat (on the social scale, a little to the left of Teddy Kennedy) and is active in a grassroots’ movement in Kentucky (this way he gets to meet a lot of young ladies – eye candy).

Much to my surprise, last Sunday, he sent me his Blog with the caveat that it might be too political for my Blog. I read it and it fit within the parameters that I gave him. It’s posted below this Blog. Mission accomplished.

In case, by some remote chance, anyone else is interested in becoming a guest Blogger, I have posted a link to my email address in the right hand sidebar.

The Beach Bum

A Liberal's Viewpoint

2009-03-04T11:54:00.002-05:00

I know that the insurance industry won't like the idea that they'll have to bid competitively to continue offering Medicare coverage, but that's how we'll help preserve and protect Medicare and lower health care costs for American families. I know that banks and big student lenders won't like the idea that we're ending their huge taxpayer subsidies, but that's how we'll save taxpayers nearly $50 billion and make college more affordable. I know that oil and gas companies won't like us ending nearly $30 billion in tax breaks, but that's how we'll help fund a renewable energy economy that will create new jobs and new industries. I know these steps won't sit well with the special interests and lobbyists who are invested in the old way of doing business, and I know they're gearing up for a fight as we speak. My message to them is this: “So am I.”

This is beautiful framing of the issue. His statements decry subsidies for banks and tax cuts for the oil companies.

When the Republicans try to oppose Obama's agenda, they become allies of the greedy few. When the Republicans drag out the "S" word, Socialism, people don't know what it is and don't seem to care anymore. Their brand is so discredited, that if they say something is bad, then it must be good. When they cry "Class Warfare" the people say, well it's about time we fought back. The rich have been waging class warfare against us for decades.

Obama's words sound tough, but it may not be that tough a fight. The party of the Lords and Barons and their benefactors in industry are bordering on looking anti American.

In "The Shock Doctrine" Naomi Klein demonstrates how authoritarian governments cause or exploit a crisis to transfer power and wealth to the rich and powerful. Obama is turning the Shock Doctrine on it’s head by using this crisis to take away the power of the moneyed few, and returning it to the working class. The moneyed few won't be hurt; he's just returning our tax system back to where it was in the 90's. We did very well back then and so did the rich.

Posted by Alfredo (Guest Blogger #1)

She Looks Like a Butterfly but Stings Like a Bee

2009-03-03T11:15:00.008-05:00

One of the headlines in yesterday’s St. Petersburg Times was “Prostitution Sting Nabs 10 in Clearwater.” The first thought that came into my mind was that they were cleaning up the streets before the Spring Breakers (Clearwater and Clearwater Beach are very popular Spring Break destinations) arrived. By running these sting operations it keeps the Hookers off of the streets for a while.

As I have stated before, I am for legalizing prostitution. I’m one of those people that believe that prostitution is a victimless crime (unless the prostitute has AIDS and doesn’t inform you of that fact). Obviously the City of Clearwater, Florida is also in favor of legalizing prostitution; just Google “Escort Services Clearwater Fl”. An Escort can cost as much as $400 per hour. Some even have a minimum of 3 hours.

There are also several (meaning more than 6) “Gentleman’s Clubs” in Clearwater; where you can get 4 to 5 minute semi-nude Lap Dances for about $25 to $35 a pop. If you are a high roller (5 lap dances plus extra tips), there is a good chance that you can set up a rendezvous for later that evening or the next day with your favorite dancer (future tip negotiated before services rendered). The guy says something like “What time do you get off tonight” or “What are you doing tomorrow” and then leaves his address or a hotel room number written on a cocktail napkin.

The girls that work for the escort services as well as the lap dancers are very attractive women. As a general rule, the girls that work the streets are, well, not quite that attractive. But they charge one hell of a lot less for services rendered. Seemingly there is nothing more appalling in the public eye than a cut-rate prostitute.

Last year there were several sting operations in Pinellas, Hillsboro and Hernando counties. The police go to areas that are known for having “Streetwalkers” and set up shop. They make it known (how, I don’t really know) to the real prostitutes that they will be working in that area for the weekend. So the real hookers stay home or work elsewhere.

Last fall a 6 day sting operation, in Hernando County, netted 16 guys looking for a little Nookie. One defendant’s Lawyer argued that it was entrapment, saying, that the officer dressed, sounded and acted like she was a prostitute. She walked up to his client, smiled and said Hi. She approached his client first, but he was the one to make the offer. If something looks, sounds and acts like a goat; it must therefore be a goat. Good argument, but faulty logic. But horny men do not act logically.

This past Sunday, there were 10 guys sitting in the Pinellas County Jail waiting for Monday’s arraignment. They were not so innocent victims of a victimless crime. I’ll bet that they were swearing off goats forever, or at least saving up their money for a Lap Dancer or an Escort.

The Beach Bum

The Lizard and the Fried Egg

2009-03-01T13:19:00.004-05:00

I have a very unique filling system. The papers, letters and notes that I save eventually go into one of four boxes. These are not the regular store bought cardboard boxes (some assembly required – very dangerous words), that fall apart at the seams, if they are inappropriately handled; these are sturdy empty beer bottle cases. My four boxes are from four different beers.

The way that my system works is very simple. I let papers etc. pile up on the shelves of my computer desk. When the shelves get three quarters full, I transfer the material to one of the four boxes. But first I have to sort through the box and remove stuff that I no longer need to save; to make room for the new stuff that I no longer need to save. This can be an arduous time consuming task.

The other day my wife (who is currently visiting, here in Florida) asked me about some financial notes that I had made last year. I knew right where to look; Samuel Adams Winter Ale. I remembered that this was the last box that I had sorted through last March. How I remember this even amazes me; I’m the guy that can’t remember what he ate for dinner three nights ago.

I found the papers, but more importantly I found a letter written to me by a friend (Greg) on December 26, 2007. My friend lives in the Hotsy-Totsy Brentwood section of LA. In fact, not far from the Swartzneggers (he and Maria shop for groceries in the same store - well la-di-da). He is more of a Beach Bum than I am; he spends a lot of his time on the beach in Santa Monica (he’s friends with Bobby Shriver of the Kennedy Clan) and at Malibu Beach. He is still (mentally) living in the 1960’s and early 1970’s (he even continues to wear tie-dyed shirts). “Surf’s up, dude.”

In his letter he writes (among other things):

“Got your singing Christmas Tell-E-Gram. Nice to hear your single malt juiced, Marlboro cracked contralto. Slay-belles, my rectal obtrusion.” He was referring to me calling him on Christmas night and singing Winter Wonderland on his answering machine.

I met Greg when I was stationed at Kagnew Station in 1967. Someone had nicknamed him Lurch (because of the way he moved his head while making guttural sounds – just like the Addams Family character did) it stuck and to this day we all call him Lurch.

Lurch is an extremely intelligent person, but if you didn’t know him well you might think otherwise. To say that his sense of humor is a little off-center is a gross understatement.

The day that I met him he was crawling down the hall in the Barracks like a lizard. He did this to perfection. If a fly (and there were many flies in Ethiopia – we called them the National Bird) flew past he would try to zap it with his tongue. This was very impressive to say the least. He fit in well with us other nut cases.

Another sight gag that he preformed was the Fried Egg. He learned this from a guy nicknamed Waldo. Together he and Waldo would do variants of the Fried Egg, such as two over easy and a fried egg with bacon. Again, as with the Lizard, this was a true art form appealing to the minds of the demented. In fact, it was better then the fried egg on the anti-drug commercials (and that was a real egg).

He was also very proficient at shooting and killing flies with rubber bands. But he was best known for his putdowns of senior NCOs and Officers. He did this with class and finesse. The victim rarely realized what he was doing or actually saying to them. That was truly a gift.

Tonight I will drink a single malt scotch and smoke another Marlboro in his honor. And perhaps I’ll sing Winter Wonderland. It’s a good excuse for me to indulge in all of my bad habits.

The Beach Bum

Up In Smoke

2009-02-28T13:30:00.005-05:00

The other day my daughter asked me what I was going to do when cigarettes go up on April first. I believe that she was hoping that I’d say that I was going to quit smoking.

The Federal Government has added an additional sixty-two cents per pack in taxes. Actually it will come to sixty-six cents after adding the Florida State Retail Sales Tax. This is one thing that I never really understood; how can a State Government tax a Federal tax? Some Counties and Municipal Governments also so do this; so you end up paying a tax on a tax on a tax.

The Government claims that they have raised the cigarette tax, partly to discourage young people from smoking. This is a good idea. I’ve been a smoker for more than forty years and I tell young people to stay away from cigarettes. Some of them call me a hypocrite because I continue to smoke. My retort is “Don’t end up like me.”

I’ve tried, several times, to quit and had actually gone nearly nine months smoke free. I’ve used the nicotine chewing gum (which burned my gums and tongue) and the patch and I still craved cigarettes. The doctors said that I have a psychological addition rather than a nicotine addiction. I think that I have both. But I have noticed that I crave cigarettes more when I do certain things.

Why did I start in the first place? When I was young, it was in the vogue to smoke. Several of the best radio and television programs (in the 50’s and 60’s) were sponsored by cigarette companies. Most of my favorite movie and television stars smoked; John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, etc. Even the stars that didn’t smoke pretended to smoke in the movies. This made smoking a lot more attractive than just simple peer pressure telling me that it was cool to smoke.

Then, when I joined the Army, in the mid 1960’s, I was encouraged to smoke by the cadre (“Take 10 and light them up if you have them”). We also received a free four pack of cigarettes in every box of C or K rations. In the PX (Post Exchange) cigarettes cost 20 cents per pack or $1.80 per carton. They were even less expensive overseas where you could buy them (Tax and Duty Free) for $1.05 per carton in the PX and for under a dollar in the commissary.

As far as I know, the US Military is part of the Federal Government (DOD). Therefore the Federal Government promoted the smoking of cigarettes, even though studies existed that linked cigarette smoking to cancer and lung disease (there were even warning on the packs when I was stationed overseas). The Government encouraged me to smoke and now they are taxing me (more and more) for my mistake of listening to them.

In 1970, the following message began to appear on cigarette packs; Warning, The Surgeon General Has Determined that Cigarette Smoking is Dangerous to Your Health.
I was still buying cigarettes in the PX at Fort Meade for $2.75 per carton at this time.

In my opinion, any Federal Tax on cigarettes should not be paid by military veterans who continue to smoke.

Also, I recall President Obama’s campaign rhetoric saying that there would be no new taxes on the middle class. The majority of smokers are either in the middle class or close to the poverty level (Social Security or pension). Senior (62 and older) smokers should also get a tax exemption on any Federal Cigarette Tax (past, present and future).

If we are taxing cigarettes (at the Federal level) because they are hazardous to our health, why don’t we also tax Fast Food equally? Trans fat and Cholesterol are known producers of heart disease.

Now I’m not picking on McDonald’s, but here’s a link to wikipedia’s nutritional breakdown of the Big Mac. Add to this a large order of fries (how can anyone eat a Big Mac without French Fries) and the fat content will almost double.

If President Obama is going to tax the middle and lower income classes he should do it equally!

The Beach Bum

Baseball, Hamburgers and Politics

2009-02-26T13:39:00.006-05:00

Last weekend I spoke to a friend and fellow Cubs fan. I hadn’t spoken to him since last October. As always, the first 20 minutes of our conversation centered on the Cubs and Baseball in general. Once the 2009 season begins we will be on the phone nearly once a week.

Then we moved on to health concerns, particularly mine. This lasted for about 3 minutes; he has no major health concerns (except for high cholesterol – he takes Lipitor) and mine are Status Quo.

Finally we moved on to meatier topics. Our new President, the Bailouts, the Economy and Hamburgers.

This part of the conversation began with Hamburgers. I asked him if he remembered the name of a certain restaurant in Melrose Park that served the best burgers that I have ever eaten. When I lived Berwyn in the early 1980’s I would take my girlfriend there at least once every ten days.

I began to describe the Restaurant and within seconds he said “Come Back Inn.” How could I have forgotten? I then asked him if he been there lately and he told me that it was closed several years ago. I said “What? – Why?”

He then asked me if I remember why he moved from Cicero (Cook County) to Downers Grove (DuPage County) in 1990. He had lived on the southwest side of Cicero for 38 years (from birth until 2 months before his 39th Birthday). The house that he bought in Cicero was just two blocks away from his parents’ house. So I said “To be closer to work (the Company that he work for had moved to Schaumburg the year before)?” He laughed and said “Guess again.”

My second guess was lower taxes. Wrong again! “OK I give up.”

He answered “The demographics (in Cicero) were rapidly changing, the crime rate was swiftly rising and the Democrats were outnumbering the Republicans (Cicero and neighboring Berwyn had always been a stronghold for the Cook County Republican Party). The same thing happened in Melrose Park, but at least the criminals there spoke a version of the English language; when they asked you for your wallet, you understood what they were saying and didn’t get knifed or shot.” Now it was my turn to laugh.

Next, I said “I guess that you’re not happy with the outcome of the last election.” He then said “What do you mean, I voted for Obama.” For a few seconds I was thunderstruck. All that I could say was wow. After the shock wore off, I asked him why?

He gave me the same reasons that other Chicago suburban area lifelong Republicans had given me.

For that one moment, they put aside the bigotry that they were taught (as I was) as children. They voted with their minds rather than their hearts. I hope that President Obama proves their decisions to be right.

The Beach Bum

Somebody's Watching Your Every Move

2009-02-23T12:15:00.009-05:00

In his Friday and Saturday Blogs, The Curmudgeon at the Second Effort Blog wrote about the proposed VMT (vehicle miles traveled) Tax. This would replace the gasoline tax. Fortunately President Obama quashed this proposal made by Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood (I wonder why his parents didn’t name him Robin – I would have).

The Curmudgeon brings up some interesting ramifications involved with adopting a VMT Tax:
“The system would require all cars and trucks be equipped with global satellite positioning technology, a transponder, a clock and other equipment to record how many miles a vehicle was driven, whether it was driven on highways or secondary roads, and even whether it was driven during peak traffic periods or off-peak hours.”

Now this is a real scary thought.

I have a good friend that lives in the Western Suburbs of Chicago. Some our mutual friends will say that he is extremely paranoid.

He says that the Government is gradually usurping our right to privacy.

Some years ago he bought a Cell Phone. The only time that he used it was when he went on his annual August fishing trip in the back woods of northern Minnesota (to keep in contact with his elderly parents). He’d buy minutes at the Walgreens. Then he saw a NCIS episode where they could track a person by his cell phone; even if it was not in use.

He now gives the phone to friends and asks them to keep it in their cars for several days. Then he takes it back and passes it to another. His friends humor him. He still uses it in Minnesota.

He will no longer buy a GM made car (for 30 years he only bought Buicks) because of the ONSTAR system. Even if you don’t subscribe to the service, he says that it’s there and can track your movements. He doesn't own a GPS for the same reason ("what kind of dummy cannot read a road map".)

Many years ago he said that the government was trying to turn us into a cashless society. Credit and Debit Cards could then be used to track our spending habits. Like my Dad did, he only uses cash for his purchases and has never had a credit card. He hopes that he dies before this happens.

Our mutual friends also say that he must have a cloaking or jamming device in his house; their Cell Phones only work 15 feet or more away from the building.

Perhaps we should all be getting a bit paranoid, as my friend is, about our rights to privacy.

The Beach Bum

The Kiss of Death

2009-02-21T14:44:00.006-05:00

In September 1999, Tropical Storm Harvey was in the Gulf of Mexico and his projected path was heading directly towards the Tampa Bay area. Harvey had sustained winds of 55 MPH and there was conjecture that before landfall (after passing through warmer water) that he would become a Hurricane.

They posted a voluntary evacuation for the barrier islands, such as Treasure Island. By the next morning they would know more and there was a possibility that it would be upgraded to a mandatory evacuation.

At this time, I was lusting after a beautiful young cocktail waitress that I worked with several nights per week. She was also a model and an actress. But the only paying work that she was getting was in local television commercials and catalog modeling. She had started working at my place of employment, in July, because she had just broken up with her boyfriend who was paying her rent. He was 3 years younger and she was 21 years younger than me. It was obvious that she went for older gentlemen.

I digress, back to Tropical Storm Harvey.

It was a Tuesday night and Harvey was still about 90 miles offshore. The winds were coming from the southwest at 15MPH. It had been a gorgeous day, not a cloud in the sky, and it was topped off by a beautiful sunset.

Shortly before sunset I received a telephone from the lovely young cocktail waitress asking me if I would join her at one of my favorite watering holes. One of her favorite one-man-bands was performing there that evening; he did a lot of late sixties, early seventies music and southern rock.

I jumped at the opportunity to be with her. I showered, change clothes and walked the quarter mile to the bar. She was there when I arrived. She lived a half mile from the bar (a quarter mile from my apartment) and had taken a taxi (the intelligent drinkers always took a cab) to the watering hole. The Treasure Island Police Department’s motto was “Come on vacation, leave on probation.”

We left the bar at one in the morning, she had decided, rather than take a taxi back, she would walk home; she needed the fresh air. Being the gentleman that I am, I said that I would walk there with her and then walk back to my apartment.

About half way back to my apartment the winds suddenly picked up force and were gusting up to 35MPH. Then the rain came, not heavy rains, but substantial. The rain was coming at us at a 45 degree angle to the ground; right into our faces. The rain and the sand stung our faces and our arms and legs.

It took us about 6 minutes (normally 2 minute walk) to walk the remaining 1/8 mile to my apartment. We were soaked. When we arrived I told her that I would call a taxi for her. She asked if I had any clothes that she could wear and if she could take a shower to wash the sand off of her body. I said sure and gave her a tee shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

While she was in the shower I began to write an email to my friends describing the events of that night. I went into detail about the storm and what I had experienced on the walk home. I’m a slow typist and after a half hour had passed I noticed that she hadn’t come back into the living room. I went to check and found her asleep in my bed. Being the consummate gentleman, I didn’t join her in my bed: I slept on the sofa The main reason for my action was to avoid the risk of losing her trust in the early stages of our relationship. All relationships are based on a matter of trust.

The next morning TS Harvey turned to the south and she took a taxi home.

End of story.

And now, at long last, I’m getting to the point of this Blog, which the Blog title refers to.

The next day I received several emails commenting about what I had written about my experience with Harvey the night before. There were Kudos, Kudos and even more Kudos. One email reader proclaimed me to be the next Hemingway (one of my all-time favorite authors).

For me, this was the “Kiss of Death”.

How could I ever live up to this standard again? I had reached my pinnacle and there was nowhere to go but down. Although I enjoyed the praise, I knew that it was a hindrance and not helpful thing.

Well it’s happened again, this time via a comment made to my last Blog.

My good friend Richard Feder comments:
“This is one of your best tales. It has drama, humor, and last, but not least, pathos.”

Once again I get the “Kiss of Death”.

The Beach Bum

Grunts and Groans - Aches and Pains

2009-02-18T12:55:00.004-05:00

When my Dad was in his late sixties he began to make strange noises. Each noise was associated with a certain movement that he made or a task that he preformed. The first one that I noticed him making was a groaning sound as he got up out of his chair.

I asked him if there was something wrong and he looked at me as if I were crazy. I didn’t probe any deeper.

Over the course of the next 5 or 6 years there were more and more noises. There was the tying of the shoe noise, the walking up and down the stairs noise, the bending down to pick up something that had fallen on the floor noise and (my favorite) the opening of the door noise. He even had a noise for opening the refrigerator. Not to mention the noises that he made in the Bathroom.

The noises became even louder with each passing year. Afraid to ask him, I asked my Mom if he was in constant pain. She told me no. And that if he had pain he would go to the Doctor. She said that these noises, that he was making, were his way of relieving his aches. She also said that he didn’t realize that he was grunting and groaning.

After a while I could tell you exactly what he was doing, even if I was blindfolded, from the sounds that he was making.

Back then I was in my mid forties. The only time I vocalized my movements was when I experienced pleasure or relief. My noises basically consisted of Oous, Aahs and Oows. When I drank my first beer of the day, I would make the aah sound. Five or six beers later when I had to go and relieve myself, I would make the oow sound. The best sound was the oou sound, which I reserve for when I had an orgasm. There were a lot of aahs and oows, but never enough oous.

By the time I reach 60 years old, I had added several other noises to my vocabulary. And with each successive year I’ve been adding more and more. Most times, unless it has been brought to my attention by my daughter, I do not realize that I am grunting and groaning. It just comes natural.

I’m turning into my Dad. But it could be worse; when I stop grunting and groaning, I’ll be in an urn.

The Beach Bum

Doing the Right Thing

2009-02-15T12:06:00.005-05:00

I have an old Army buddy that we (in our group of miscreants) call Cazzo. The name Cazzo is a shortened version of the Italian phrase testa di Cazzo. He has also been called Cazzopiccolino, a more endearing appellation.

When we served together in Africa his nickname was Mister Clean. Not only because he shaved his balding head, but also because he took at least 3 showers a day (even during the drought year of 1968) and had a locker full of bars of Ivory Soap.

I call him the King of Email Forwarding. I get at least 25 Forwarded (FW:) emails from him per week. I read some of them, especially if the Subject line intrigues me. To top things off, he never Snopes the info that he is passing on. The ones that I automatically delete are the double Forwarded emails (two morons, instead of only one, passing on disinformation).

Only twice in the past 5 years have a passed on one of his forwarded emails (and I had copied and pasted them with a new subject line).

However, on occasion, he does send out something good.

Last week Cazzo sent one about reactions to various scenarios 50 years ago, compared with today’s consequence. Most of these scenarios applied to teens and High School students. The one that struck home with me was:

Scenario:
Billy breaks a window in his neighbor's car
and his Dad gives him a whipping with his belt.
1957 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal,
goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman.
2007 - Billy's dad is arrested for child abuse.
Billy removed to foster care and joins a gang.
The State psychologist tells Billy's sister that she remembers
being abused herself and their dad goes to prison.
Billy's mom has affair with psychologist.

My story, relating to the above, takes place in either 1961 or 1962. I attempted to pinpoint the year, but others that I spoke to, weren’t exactly sure of the year either.

Back then we used to play a game (and I don’t remember the name) of softball in the streets. We used a 16 inch softball called a Clincher; this was a real soft ball, you didn’t need a glove. The older it was the softer it got.

We usually played with four man teams; pitcher, catcher, middle fielder and outfielder. You had to hit the ball, in the air, passed the pitcher. If the ball touched the ground before it reached the pitcher it was an out. Any ball caught by a fielder was an out. Parked cars were foul territory any foul ball was also an out. Usually if you hit a car it would do no damage (it was a very soft ball and cars were built like tanks back then).

You had about a 12 foot wide window and the best way to get a hit was hitting the ball between the pitcher and middle fielder (a single) or between the middle fielder and outfielder (a double), Home Runs were next to impossible. We were allowed four swings at the ball and no balls or strikes were called; so you could wait for your pitch.

The day in question was in mid June (we were out of school for the summer). We were playing 3 man teams and the last batter was catching. My team had men on second and third (you didn’t actually take a base; it was assumed that you were there) and I was up to bat. I noticed that the outfielder had taken several steps in towards midfield after the first pitch. He did it again after the second pitch, wanting to prevent a two run scoring double.

Here was a great opportunity for a rare Home Run. I’d be the talk of the neighborhood. I let two more pitches go past. Then I saw one coming into my sweet zone. I swung with all the force that I could muster. Unfortunately I swung a bit too early and put it into the windshield of a parked car. It was an out. It also shattered the windshield.

It wasn’t just any windshield; the car belonged to the meanest man neighborhood, who hated children, especially teens. He would yell at us for sitting on his stairs or his car. Even worse yet, if we walked on his lawn or if we had gone into his yard to retrieve an item that had errantly fallen into it; he would blow his top. Therefore we grabbed our bats and ran like hell.

When I got home, I told my Mom and Dad the story. All my Dad said was “Are you going to do the right thing?” To me the right thing was to lay low for a while. Ten minutes later I was knocking at Mister W’s door. I told him what I had done and there was a fiery look on his face. He didn’t yell at me, he just walked down the steps to examine the damage to his car.

He sternly told me to come back on Monday evening and he would tell me how much I owed him for the damages. It was $50.

At the time I was working part-time for the A&P and netting about $22 per week. I told him that I would be able to pay him within three weeks. He made a counter offer. He said that if I would mow his lawn (hand mower), pull weeds and trim the bushes for eight weeks; that he would call it an even trade off. We shook hands and I called it a deal.

Many years later, his son (who is a very good friend and five years older than me) told me that his Dad once said that I was the best kid in the neighborhood. This coming from Mister W was truly an accolade.

The Beach Bum

A Good Interview - A Great Baseball Player

2009-02-12T13:30:00.004-05:00

Last Monday night I watched an interview on ESPN. The interviewer was Peter Gammons. I don’t particularly like Peter Gammons, but I do respect him for his knowledge of the game of Baseball. He is extremely perceptive; however he comes off as being very dry when making his comments.

Monday night’s interview was with Alex (A-Rod) Rodriguez of the New York Yankees. I have always been an A-Rod fan and in my opinion he is currently the best player in Baseball. Many other Baseball fans share this opinion. He is a team player, rather than being someone like Barry Bonds; who tended to look at his teammates as a supporting cast for his show.

The last time that I went to Tropicana Field (St. Petersburg), several years ago, was not to see the Rays play, but to see Alex Rodriguez play. I can’t stand the Trop; it’s a crappy Ballpark. Many others came to the Ballpark that night and the three game series with the Yankees set a record in attendance for a three game series.

The subject of the Monday night Gammons’ interview with Alex Rodriguez, was centered on his taking of performance enhancing drugs during the three years that he played for the Texas Rangers. He tested positive in 2003.

A-Rod said that he took them because of the pressure to perform up to the expectations of the fans and the Texas Rangers management (he had just signed a 10 year contract for $252 million – the highest paid Baseball player ever). He also said that he stopped taking performance-enhancing drugs in 2003 and that he has not tested positive since Major League Baseball began penalties for testing positive in 2004.

I looked up his career Stats on Baseball-Reference.com. From 1998 though 2000 A-Rod hit 125 Home Runs while playing for Seattle. In his three years with the Rangers he hit 156 Home Runs. However he played 47 more games in those three years than he had in the past 3 years with Seattle. Not to mention the fact that playing 81 games per year in Texas (historically) helps the player’s Slugging Percentage and Home Run production.

A-Rod never specifically said what he was taking and where he got it. He did however say “Back then, you could walk into GNC and get four or five different products that would probably trigger a positive test.” He also intimated that many other players were doing the same as he did, when he said “The culture was pretty prevalent.”

I hope that this doesn’t blemish Rodriguez’s accomplishments. He had the guts to tell us about his drug use and he also apologized to his fans and to all baseball fans, for falling into a trap.

Instead of diminishing my admiration for A-Rod, the interview increase my appreciation of him as a player and a person.

The Beach Bum

Taking Pride in What You Have Done

2009-02-11T14:10:00.006-05:00

I am proud of three things that I have done (concerning this Blog) during the past two weeks.

First and foremost, unlike some other Bloggers that I read on a semi-regular basis, I have not commented on President Obama’s lack of support (for the Economic Recovery Bill) in the Senate. I believe that he is trying to do his best. Nor have I commented on some of his pre-Inaugural statements about hiring the right people for the right jobs on his Cabinet and Executive Staff. Let’s give him 100 days before we start shooting (figuratively not literally) at him. Therefore I take pride in my restraint.

Secondly, on February 1st, I finally deleted my two Blogs concerning Haulover Beach. I had threatened to do so long before, but I didn’t follow through because I did not want to see the numbers on my Stat Counter drop. I was getting at least 20 visitors per week from people that Goggled a variety of Haulover Beach terms and another 5 or 6 from alot.com. I finally decided that quality readers were more important to me than the quantity of readers. I take pride in my decision.

Last, but surely not least, I have become someone’s favorite Blogger. Some of my friends and relatives have told me, in the past, that I was their favorite Blogger. I, of course, asked them “How many different Blogs do you read per week”? The most common answer was “just yours”. Wow, what an accolade.

But the person who called me her favorite Blogger isn’t just the average Blog reader. She is a renowned editorial Cartoonist and a Daily Comic Strip author. Signe Wilkinson. She posted a note on her Facebook.com Page on January 28th; stating that I was now her favorite Blogger. Signe Wilkinson. I really take pride in this accomplishment.

The Beach Bum

Jamaican Holiday

2009-02-09T13:55:00.006-05:00

Preface:

Saturday afternoon I related, in a telephone conversation with my World Traveling friend Dave, a story about my experiences on my first trip to Jamaica. This story tied in with a Blog that I wrote about two weeks ago.

I finished writing this Blog Saturday afternoon, but did not post it because it tied in with another Blog that I was planning to write. But the other Blog should follow (for continuity purposes) this Blog and not precede it. If you understand what I am trying to say here, you are as off kilter as I am.

The Blog:

The first time that I visited Jamaica was in January 1987. At that time, I was working 70 plus hours per week and my partner told me that I should get away from the business for a while and take a vacation. He told me that I was burning out and that it was time for me to recharge my batteries. It was a slow time for our business, so I agreed.

My eldest daughter was working for a travel agency, so I called her to set me up with a 5 day vacation, leaving on Sunday and returning on Thursday. I was thinking Fort Lauderdale or even the Bahamas (I had been to the Bahamas before). But she said “No Dad, go to Jamaica”.

So I called the seventh “Love of my Life”; she was at home watching Soaps. I said “I have good news.” She replied quickly “Call back in 20 minutes when Days (The Days of Our Lives) is over.” and hung up. I was a little bit put off, but I knew better than to push the point. We had lived together for nearly 4 years at this time, and I knew her ins and outs and ups and downs. I called back 25 minutes later.

I told her that we were going to Jamaica on Sunday. Her response was “Great, we’ll have to go shopping for new clothes tomorrow.”

When we left BWI Airport it was 18 degrees and when we arrived in Montego Bay it was 80 degrees. We had changed clothes in the airplane lavatory and stashed our winter clothes in my carry-on.

The first thing that you notice when you enter Customs at Sangster Airport is a large wall size sign that list about 10 to 12 slang terms for Marijuana (number one is Ganja). At the bottom of the sign it was clearly stated that possession of the above substances was illegal and punishable by imprisonment.

After we cleared Customs we moved on to the lower level Baggage Claim. From there we went to our tour operators Kiosk about 25 feet away. While waiting in line, we were approached by a man who asked if we wanted to buy some Ganja. We figured that it was a set-up, and said no, and that we didn’t use drugs. That night we were approached on the beach by another Jamaican trying to sell us Ganja. We said no thanks.

The next morning we were walking to the Resort's Restaurant that served Breakfast and we notice several employees of the Resort smoking Ganja. After breakfast I questioned the Desk Clerk about this. He laughed and said that as long as we did in private it would be “No Problem, Mon.” He also cautioned us about trying to take it out of the Country.

The following day we took a trip to Dunns River Falls. On the way there I noticed a large field of Hemp plants, visible from the road. When we arrived at the Falls our Tour Guide (the guy who walks you up the Falls) was a big Jamaican man in his forties. While waiting for the tour group to assemble he lit up one of the largest joints that I had ever seen. He asked me if I wanted a drag, I said no but the 7th Love of My Life (pictured above) took him up on his offer.

After we returned to the Resort we were again approached with the offer of Ganja for sale; this time we accepted. Two days later we left the remainder of our stash with a $50J (about $8 US) as a tip for the maid.

The Beach Bum

The Drug Store

2009-02-09T13:53:00.004-05:00

When I was stationed at Kagnew Station (Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia, East Africa) in the 1960’s recreational drugs were legal in that Country. But it was illegal for us, in the United States Military, to buy them. In fact, the downtown Asmara Farmacia was off limits to all US Citizens except for the Peace Corp personnel. This was not imposed by the Ethiopian Government, but by the US Government.

In the Farmacia, one could purchase prescription medicines and narcotic drugs over the counter. Tetracycline (the drug that the Post Hospital would give you if you caught Gonorrhea from the biweekly blanket exchange) was fairly inexpensive. A lid (one ounce) of very high quality (at least that was what I was told) Hashish cost 5 Ethiopian dollars ($2 US dollars). Opiates were just slightly more expensive. Since we were not allowed to go into the Farmacia, we couldn’t legally take advantage of these great prices. Only the locals, tourists and the Peace Corp could. Hmm!

When I returned to the United States in October 1968, I was told, by a friend, that a lid of Hash was going for $35 to $40. To put this in proper perspective, a Big Mac, Fries and Coke cost less than a dollar.

According to the inflation calculator, what cost $1 in 1968 would cost $5.90 in 2007. However, I was told by a neighbor (about a year ago), that the cost was about $100 to $125 an ounce. He doesn’t use the stuff, but a friend of a friend does.

I questioned why, in this time of inflation, is the price so relative low? He said “Hydroponics and Grow Lights.” He also said that the quality of the product (THC levels) is much better than in the past and that the plants have higher yields. Growing cannabis in a garage or basement has become a cottage industry. It cost very little to produce and it’s easy to grow.

The hard part is not getting caught selling it.

NORML has been trying to legalize Marijuana for years. But let’s say that we make it illegal to sell it, but not to grow or use it. The Government would set up a Farmacia style chain throughout the country (this would employ a lot of people); they would also buy it from the people who were now allowed to grow it (more employment) legally and sell it in their Drug Stores.

The Government would sell it to the consumers at a lower cost than the Drug Dealers charge and still make a profit.

But this is a moot point because we are too moralistic and using drugs is very immoral.

The Beach Bum

Warning Signs

2009-02-07T23:25:00.007-05:00

There is a warning label on every beer that I drink. Although I do not read and heed them, I know that they are there. It is a generally agreed to fact that the consumption of alcoholic beverages in more than moderate quantities is not good for your physical well being.

The warning on the label of the beer that I am now consuming reads:

GOVERNMENT WARNING:
1)According to the Surgeon General women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects. 2) Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery and can cause health problems.

There is no warning label on my Vodka bottle. Why? Is drinking beer more dangerous than drinking Vodka? My beer is less than 10 proof – my Vodka is 80 proof.

The cigarette that I am now smoking also has a warning label on each pack. The warnings vary from carton to carton. The current warning reads:

SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING
Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema And May Complicate Pregnancy.

It is a known fact that both tobacco and alcohol contribute to heart disease. Yet I continue to put myself at risk even though I am aware of these facts and the statistics.

However what I don’t do is eat a Super-Sized Big Mac and Fries with a large Coke (not Pepsi). This food combination is known to clog the arteries and cause Heart Disease if consumed on a regular basis.

This now brings us to the Question of the Day:

Why isn’t there a Government or Surgeon General’s warning on the Big Mac and French fry containers that you get from McDonald’s or any other Fast Food Restaurant?

The Beach Bum

Trickling Up II - Addendum Part II

2009-02-05T12:02:00.003-05:00

My world traveling friend Dave left a comment (I read it after posting my Addendum Blog) on my Trickling Up – Part II Blog. He puts forward some interesting questions about my proposed Economic Recovery Plan.

First he asks if “it would include well-off folks who can afford their mortgage payment with no problem?”

It depends on what is considered to be well-off.

Three years ago I considered myself to be well-off. I paid all of my bills (including rent) before the due date. I had no debt. I dined out at least once per week. I went to my favorite watering hole at least two nights per week. I could easily afford my bad habits (drinking and smoking). I was able to take a two week (unpaid) vacation every summer. My Medical costs were fully paid (Prescriptions, if any, cost me $7). I could lavishly entertain out of town guest when they came to visit me. Yet I was still able to put money into savings each month.

But there are millions of people that were far better-off than me. There are people who are able to pay their mortgages and bills with ease and yet put a good amount of money into savings. These same people were able to take two or three extended overseas vacations per year.

But since we are giving away the taxpayers money; let’s add Subsection A to Amendment #1 (People that own homes (outright) valued at $750,000 or less would get a one time cash payment of $10,000).

Subsection A, would give the above benefit to Homeowners (homes valued at $750,000 or less) that the people who own there homes outright get. With the stipulation that the money would be paid to them after they had spent the money on Durable Goods purchased in the USA (receipts required).

Dave then goes on to ask “And shouldn't it be considered an interest-free loan from the government (from the taxpayers, actually) that has to be repaid when the place is sold, at least to the extent there's a gain from that low market value?”

I though that this was implied in the original Blog. We are giving the money to the people rather than the Corporations and Banks. The Banks and Corporations would be getting it as a loan; therefore the people that we are bailing out of foreclosure would have to repay the loan when their property sold.

Dave then states “But more importantly, it ain't a stimulus if it goes in the bank, and as you pointed out, this money definitely goes in the bank.”

My point as well as Jon Stewart’s; was rather than give the money directly to the Banks and lending institutions, give it to the people, who will in turn give it to them. This way the Banks and lending institutions get their bailout money indirectly from the Government. The homeowners now have lower affordable mortgages. And with the extra money they are saving, on their mortgage, they spend it and therefore stimulate the Economy.

Thanks for your comments Brother Dave.

The Beach Bum

Trickling Up II - Addendum

2009-02-03T14:19:00.004-05:00

Both yesterday and today I received many comments on my recent Blogs about the Economic Recovery. Unfortunately they were delivered by email or on the telephone.

One point that was made was that I hadn’t included any benefits for the Old Pharts who own their homes outright. It’s a good point because there are many retirees, on a limited retirement income, that still must pay property tax and land or condo fees.

So the first Amendment (this is sounding like a bill in Congress) to my proposal is:
People that own homes (outright) valued at $750,000 or less would get a one time cash payment of $10,000.

Another point made was that I excluded people whose homes did not decrease much in value, but have lost their jobs (or have been laid off) and their unemployment compensation barely covers their mortgage and utilities. Somehow I forgot about these people.

Therefore we must add Amendment #2. Individuals on unemployment compensation would get up to $1200 per month to pay their housing costs until they were reemployed. But this would only apply to people that made less than $150,000 per year before becoming unemployed.

The third point that was made was the most interesting of them all. “What are you going to do for the people that have already lost their homes to foreclosure?” I will assume that they are currently renting and would qualify for the rental segment of my proposition in my last Blog.

But just for fun, let’s add a third Amendment. People in this category would get what they lost in mortgage payments. But, this money is only to be applied to the purchase of another home of lesser or equal value. The FHA would grant the loan regardless of credit history. This will give them a second chance to either do well or screw up again.
Finally, one friend, who worked in the Banking Industry for years, postulated the following plan in his email to me:

"Good ideas - another package idea - people to people-no government hand outs.

There has to be at least 1 million parents capable of giving the tax free gift of $12,500 to their children. Assume they have 2 kids- $25,000 total.

Multiply 1 million x $25k - $25,000,000,000 into the economy instantly.

How about parents buying their kids something valued at $1500? I am sure there are 10 million parents that can afford to spend $4500 or even $3000.

10 million x 3k = $30,000,000,000

Multiply the numbers- they are staggering."

The Beach Bum

Trickling Up - Part II

2009-02-02T19:48:00.010-05:00

I enjoyed the Super Bowl yesterday – it was a very good game, for a change. However the Commercials were not as good as they are normally. The Halftime Show was good but not as good I had expected. And I’ve been a Bruce Springsteen fan since 1973.

Now let’s go back to Jon Stewart’s Trickle Up proposition. I’m sure that at least one person on President Obama’s staff watches the Daily Show. I’m also sure that the President himself has viewed the Gwen Ifill interview. This should give him something to think about when they re-hash (or should I say un-pork) the Economic Stimulus Bill.

Don’t bailout the large Corporations or the Banking Industry; give the money to the people. Give the money to the people is something that I have been saying for the past 7 or 8 months.

I have a simple plan and here’s how it works. And this plan will stimulate the Economy.

The first issue that I will address is Mortgages.

Many people bought overpriced homes between 2003 and 2005. They panicked because prices were escalating monthly. There was a construction boom here in Florida at that time. It kept a lot of Illegal Aliens of Spanish descent working. But it also increased the price of the used homes on the market. Real Estate Agents use a tool called comparables to judge the market value of a resale home.

At the same time the banks and mortgage brokers were loaning people money that were marginal credit risks at best.

For example – there is a house on the market (2 miles from where I am living), that was built in 1997, it has 3 bedrooms and 2 and ½ Baths, with a screen enclosed swimming pool, mahogany flooring, nearly 2000 sq. ft. of living space, sitting on a half acre plus of property. Assessed Value of $207,000 (Public Record) and an asking price of $132,905 (this is not a short sale).

The people that bought it in 2003 and paid $170,000 for the property went into foreclosure last year and the bank took it back and has listed it with a Realtor. It’s been on the market for 238 days. No nibbles no bites.

My proposal to use the Economic Recovery money wisely is:

1) The Fed would pay the mortgages down to the current fair market price of the property (For example; if you have a $200,000 mortgage and the fair market value of your home is $140,000 they would give $60,000 to the lender, reducing the mortgage to $140,000) This money would go directly to the lending institutions that are holding the mortgage. In turn these institutions (or others) would refinance the new loan at current rates. Thus lowering the mortgage payment.

This would only apply to people that have owned and lived in their homes for at least a year as of December 31st 2008. The homes must be valued at less than $750,000 to qualify (most of the homes over that amount have probably increased in value, despite the current economic downfall).

Now this is an Economic Stimulus.

The Government would have to create about 5000 new jobs (knowing the way the government (HUD) works probably closer to 10,000 jobs) to work this program.

Now this is an Economic Stimulus.

What about people who rent? Shouldn’t they get a break? Yes they should.

For people paying less that $2500 per month (if you pay more than that for rent, you are either well off, insane or live in New York City) in rent, the Government should pay 6 months of their rent in advance. This is a maximum total of $15,000 per household. This program would also create new Government jobs.

And what are these people (home owners and renters) going to do with this money saved. They will spend it, invest it or bank it.

Now this is an Economic Stimulus.

Parts III and IV will follow shortly.

The Beach Bum

Trickling Up

2009-02-01T13:26:00.006-05:00

I had originally intended to write this Blog last Wednesday, when the topic was fresh. I didn’t because I was suffering from one of my gastrointestinal aliments. I was in pain! I don’t use pain killers or analgesics of any kind. Therefore the thinking and reasoning part of my brain doesn’t function as well as it should. In other words - I cut back on my alcohol intake.

Last Tuesday night’s guest on the Daily Show (on Comedy Central) was Gwen Ifill touting her new book “The Breakthrough: Politics and Race in the Age of Obama”. Near the end of the interview, Jon Stewart (the Daily Show host and inquisitor) turned the subject to economic policies.

Speaking about the billions (or a trillion)of dollars for the bailout, Stewart said “Give us (meaning individuals rather than the banking industry) the money, but only for consumer debt and mortgages.”

Stewart called it his “Trickle up” theory of Economics. The people get the bailout money and give it to the financial institutions.

I had written several Blogs last summer and fall advocating that the Government give the bailout money to the people rather than to the Corporations that had raped us and put us in the economic crisis that we are currently facing.

Last week I was looking at the Economic Stimulus Bill that passed the House. I don’t see many of sections (of the bill) that will help stimulate our Economy. If you have a few spare hours to waste you can view H.R. 1 here.

Jon Stewart didn’t go into depth on his “Trickle up” proposal.

I have my own proposal for trickling up the Economy. I’ll Blog about that later.

The Beach Bum

Kicking Off the Tourist Season

2009-01-30T15:01:00.012-05:00

I spoke to a former co-worker this morning. He’s a bartender at a Restaurant/Nightclub on Treasure Island.

After we exchanged the usual pleasantries, we spoke about the Super Bowl. The conversation centered on how it (being here in Tampa) will effect the bar business. More importantly how it will affect his pocket.

January is generally a slow month for Bars, Restaurants and Motels on the Beach. Although the snowbirds are already there, the tourists don’t start rolling in until mid February. Who wants to go to the Beach when the temperatures are in the fifties to low sixties during the day and in the 40’s at night?

My bartender friend told me that business was better than usual last night – a lot of Steelers’ fans. He also said that they expect to have a busier than normal Friday and Saturday. Pittsburgh fans do like to “drink and party; they just don’t tip that well”. The best case scenario would be the Jets playing the Bears; his team against my team. They drink and tip very well.

I asked him if there were any Cardinal fans on the beach and he said “nope, they are all in Tampa.” He also added that the cocktail waitress and the lap dancers in Tampa will be making a killing this weekend. I said “good for them, they deserve it.” He chuckled and said “Yeah, they’ve been having a bad year due the economy.”

I asked him if he was working on Super Bowl Sunday and he said “Nah, I’m going to a house party in St. Petersburg.” “I’m not going there to watch the game, just the Halftime Show with Springsteen and the Commercials.” I told him that I would be doing the same at home; not watching the game but the Commercials and Springsteen Show.

The Beach Bum

A Possible Answer to Our Financial Woes

2009-01-27T11:56:00.009-05:00

In November I wrote a Blog titled “A Possible Solution”.

I was attempting to be facetious when I wrote it. In fact, one of my labels was – Just for Laughs. It was about the bailouts and other possible solutions rather than giving our tax dollars to incompetent CEO’s and the irresponsible individuals that got us into our current financial crisis.

While catching up on my viewing of editorial cartoons this morning (on the Chicago Tribune online site), I ran across one from January 15th. I couldn’t stop laughing.

The author of the cartoon was Pulitzer Prize winning editorial cartoonist Signe Wilkinson now part of the Washington Post Writers Group. She also does a daily comic strip named Family Tree which I read online. Following in the footsteps of another editorial cartoonist, David Wiley Miller (who signs his strip Non Seqiutur - Wiley), she signs both her editorial cartoons and daily strips - Signe.

Signe must have read my aforementioned Blog or at lease someone told her about it. I can dream, can’t I?

I snatched the following from the Chicago Tribune Website (Click on it to enlarge):

The Beach Bum

March Madness in January

2009-01-25T12:02:00.007-05:00

In a telephone conversation yesterday, my friend Richard Feder from Fort Lee suggested that I write the following Blog. He also strongly suggested the Blog title (which I used out of deference for him). Thank you, Mister Feder.

Several months ago I was watching the movie “Protocol” with Goldie Hawn. I’ve always liked Goldie even though she married Bill Hudson, a second rate musician, in the mid 1970’s, instead of me (this might have had something to do with the fact that I was married). Nonetheless I enjoy most of her movies.

I always watch the closing credits of a movie. Because the music is usually good and not because I want to know who the Best Boy or Key Grip was. The music for the closing credits of the movie Protocol was a March song that I have heard thousands of times. At least one band in every parade that I have seen has played it. This is my favorite March music.

As I watched the music credits at the end of the movie credits line I did not see the name John Phillip Sousa. I wonder why they would omit this credit. I checked Amazon for a Soundtrack listing for the movie – none available.

So the next day I called my friend Feder (I recalled that he had played in a High School Marching Band in the late 1950’s). I then hummed several passages from the March. He remembered the March even though he said that I had hummed it off key (I should have played it on my Kazoo). I sez “Name that tune” He couldn’t, but he said that he would listen to his albums of Sousa Marches and get back to me.

A few weeks passed and I once again asked him to name that tune. He said that it was not on either of his Sousa Albums. I said “Oh well” and we dropped the subject.

That is until last Tuesday, when I heard two different Marching Bands play it in the Inaugural Day Parade.

Again, I called Feder, last Wednesday and he suggested that I try to get the play lists of the bands that were marching in the parade. I did, to no avail. The result was three hours of Google searches and the watching of many news station videos of the Parade.

This was pure madness; I had to know the name of that March. Why? I don’t know (Third Base), but at this point it was becoming an obsession.

On Thursday, I did even more searching on the internet (listening to sound bytes of more than 60 Sousa Marches) and made a few telephone calls; no luck. By this time it was so bad that I couldn’t fall asleep, I was hearing the March in my head. I had to know the name of that March.

Shortly before one in the morning I was again searching on the internet. Forty five minutes later I found it. I immediately sent Feder an email, knowing that he was in the arms of Morpheus I didn’t dare call him, with a link to the full version of the March.

Feder didn’t get my email because it was stuck in the Postini trash filter (whatever that is). By this time, it (or perhaps I) was driving him to the brink madness. Friday morning, at work, he remembered that a co-worker had been in a Marching Band. He found him and hummed a few bars for him. Voila, in last than 5 seconds the March was named.

The name of the March is National Emblem and it was written by Edwin Eugene Bagley and not John Philip Sousa. There are several videos on Youtube of Marching Bands preforming this March.

The Beach Bum

An Act of Kindness Never Goes Unpaid

2009-01-24T14:06:00.007-05:00

The Curmudgeon at the Second Effort Blog has done it again. As he often does, he has evoked vivid memories of my youth. And as often is the case, my response to his Friday Blog would have been too long to post as a comment.

His story is very humorous, but at times it made me cry because it made me reminisce. It starts out with his working a cafeteria while in college. It ends with a moral that we should all pay heed to.

I have eaten in many different school cafeterias (the best food was at the Georgetown University teaching Hospital – no, I wasn’t a student), but I have never worked in one. Most of the food in school cafeterias is very nutritional but lacking in flavor.

The Curmudgeon tells us of his serving food to the other students, some of whom he knew. And what a thankless job it was; nobody acknowledged that they knew him. Subsequent to that experience, he made it a point to make eye contact (with the servers who were serving him) and greet them.

I had learned this lesson many years before he did. I was in a school cafeteria line and trying to decide which entrée to select. I heard a sharp voice boom out at me, “Watcha you waitin’ fo, can’t you see there be a line of students behind you.” I looked up and saw a heavy set Black Women with fire in her eyes. I saw her name tag (initially thinking that I should report her) and I said “Dorothy, I just can’t decide what will upset my stomach the least.” She laughed.

Later I would always go through her line and greet her by name. We would always have a short conversation and she would advise me on what to select (I’m sure that she had tasted everything). Each year I would give Dorothy a Christmas card with five dollars (back then $5 was a lot of money – you could buy a full tank of gasoline and still have some money left over).

Later in his Blog, The Curmudgeon states that he “learned a valuable lesson.” He applies the learned lesson to the beggars, bums and homeless people working the downtown streets of Chicago.

My Dad taught me a valuable lesson about beggars, bums and homeless people when I was 11 or 12 years old.

As we did almost every Sunday, we would walk two blocks to the News Stand to get the Sunday Newspapers. One day, on the way there, a Bum (my Dad called them Panhandlers) approached my Dad and asked for money. My Dad dug into his pocket and gave him three quarters. I was a bit perturbed at this because my allowance was only $1 per week and I had to do a myriad of chores to get it.

Waking back home I asked him why he did it and said that he could have increased my allowance instead. He told me "He needs it more than you do.” He then said that “Jesus smiles down on those that perform acts of charity.” In his lifetime my Dad preformed many acts of charity, including acts of charity to me.

Eight years later I was interning (working for less pay – for doing the same job as my co-workers) at a downtown Chicago Bank. The Bank had a cafeteria but I would usually walk 3 blocks to a Coffee Shop in the building where my girlfriend worked, and we would have lunch together.

One day, a half block away from the Coffee Shop, I was approached by a Bum wearing a raggedy plaid long sleeve shirt (it was August), a Native American, who asked me for a quarter for a cup of coffee (back then you could get a cup of coffee for 15 cents). I told him to come with me and that I would buy him the coffee and a sandwich too. He reluctantly came with me; I’m not sure if it was because of the way that he was dressed or that he rather have had the quarter to buy some cheap wine.

When I walked into the Coffee Shop with him, my girlfriend was already there. Both she and the waitress gave me an icy stare.

After lunch, I walked him out and give him a five dollar bill and said “Now you can get your wine.” His eyes lit up like silver dollars and he thanked me profusely. In return I got a very warm feeling in my heart.

I'll never forget Dorothy or the Bum. Thanks Curmudgeon for rekindling these precious memories.

The Beach Bum

The Pros from Dover

2009-01-23T13:17:00.004-05:00

A good friend of mine and sporadic commenter to my Blogs called me yesterday. We generally write voluminous emails to one another, so I was surprised that he called. When I answered I said “Hi Mike, who died?” He just laughed.

My next question was “Why do you do me this honor?”

He had just read my Mister Knows Most of It Blog. He mentioned a conversation that we had in January 1989. “You said the same thing when we attended the Inaugural Ball for George H. W. Bush.” Now it was my turn to laugh. Because it brought back some bittersweet memories.

I was unemployed at the time and Mike (a High School Teacher) had lost his part-time job working for me as a Bartender. My live-in girlfriend (The Love of My Life #7) had left me just before Christmas, after 5 years of having great casual sex (for some silly reason she suddenly wanted more from our relationship).

A business acquaintance, who owned a Restaurant in Annapolis (Maryland), called and asked me if I knew any Bartenders that didn’t work on Friday nights. He was catering one of the many Inaugural Balls and was having a hard time finding enough Bartenders.

I asked him what it paid. He said “only $75 but the tips should be more than $200.” I said “I’ll get back to you.”

I called Mikie and asked him if he would be interested in working a 7 to 8 hour gig for $75 plus tips. I called Ron back and told him that I had 2 Bartenders for him. He asked if they were good. I told him that it was me and my former Service Bartender. He gave me the address and said to be there before 6 on Friday night.

Much to my astonishment we made over $600 each that night – we told Ron that he could keep the $75. Ron called us the Pros from Dover (a reference to the movie M*A*S*H). We laughed.

When we left the Ballroom it was probably 10 degrees outside and we had a three block walk to the car. I said to Mike “Why don’t they hold these things in May or June?" I had forgotten that I had made that statement.

The Beach Bum

Mister Knows Most of It

2009-01-22T14:25:00.002-05:00

The third love of my life (aka my wife) is currently here visiting her daughter and tormenting me. I guess that I was not a good boy last year and “that invisible man in the sky” has decided to punish me.

But I will admit that she does have her moments. The other day asked two questions about the Presidential Inauguration. Why was held in January, when the weather is so miserable in Washington D.C. and why Inauguration Day wasn’t a National Holiday (so that more people could attend or watch it on television).

Being a “Mister Knows Most of It”, like my friend Richard Feder, I gave a snappy reply. She bought my answers; they made sense, whether they were correct or incorrect. That’s the good part about being a “Mister Knows Most of It”, if you are right 75% of the time, people tend to believe you are right the other 25% when you don’t know Jack about the topic. The quicker you answer, the more believable you become.

In a telephone conversation with Mr. Feder (he’s right 75% of the time and answers quickly) last night we discussed the issue of the January Inauguration. We both knew that Inauguration Day had been in March and that it was changed to January in the Twentieth Century. Feder then tells me that it was change to lessen the transition time between Presidents. This made sense – so I bought his answer.

My next question was is why we hold our elections on the first Tuesday in November? He answered that it was because of the Farmers (at that time we were primarily an agrarian society). He also informed me that it isn’t always on the first Tuesday (if the first Tuesday falls on November first - All Saints Day – all of the farmers would be in Church rather that at the polls). Feder is usually 75% correct so I believed this without looking it up.

Here is my proposition. If after one year Barack Obama is doing a good job and has a high approval rating, we should change the dates of the General Election and Presidential Inauguration. I believe it will take a Constitutional Amendment to do so. We change Election Day to the first Tuesday in April and Inaugural Day to June 20th.

Why did I choose these dates?

First, it will remind the voters of their tax obligation and what the current President has done to relieve their burden. And the day before the Summer Solstice is usually a nice day.

The Beach Bum

Leave it to Granny

2009-01-19T11:14:00.004-05:00

I recently read a story about a couple that lived about four miles from my daughter’s house (where I currently reside). The man is 21 years old, but the article did give the age of his wife.

The article stated that for the past six months, “He and his family (I assume that there is a child involved otherwise they would have written "he and his wife")” had been living in his wife’s grandmother’s home. He was arrested for cultivating Marijuana, after the grandmother called the Police about some “suspicious tomato plants growing in a large box” in her garage. She had gone to check the garage because her electric bills had been “significantly higher” during the past few months.

She must have really hated her grandson-in-law. Either that or she spent her life living in a plastic bubble. Even my Dad, who died in 2004 at the age of 89, knew what a marijuana plant looked like. Ok, let’s say she had bad vision. But why didn’t she go to her granddaughter and ask her why those lights were hanging over the plant box in the garage.

It was a short two paragraph article that could have been developed into a human interest story. But it wasn’t. Why? Because it was drug related.

When I read the short article the two questions that immediately lit up the light bulb in my shallow mind were; why were they living with the grandmother and why were they growing more pot than for personal use?

We are currently in a bad economy. Unemployment is soaring to mind staggering numbers and a great number of people are losing their homes.

Perhaps they were living with Grandma because they had lost their home and their jobs. And to supplement their income and to provide for their child; they grew and sold marijuana.

Who knows?

The staff reporters (no byline) didn’t write about the underlying causes, which they should have. But they like many others – they really don’t care, it’s just a job (and they still have their jobs). They just report the news as they (or their Editors) see fit. It’s all the news that is Print to Fit.

The Beach Bum

I Love Denny Crane - Ergo - I Must Love Myself

2009-01-17T12:01:00.007-05:00

I spoke to two friends last night, one was a friend from my days (and nights) spent at Kagnew Station in Asmara, Eritrea and the other was with a young friend (53 years old) who lives in the western Chicago suburbs.

The second conversation consisted of reminiscing about people and events that happened more than 40 years ago. Old Army buddies tend to do that sort of thing. Inevitably the conversation will turn to our current ailments and how nice it was to be young and indestructible. That and the weather are the primary topics of conversation when people over 60 shoot the bull on the phone.

The earlier conversation with my young friend from Chicago was of a different nature. He had called me on Wednesday night, but I didn’t answer the telephone because I was watching Boston Legal on the ION Network and was totally engrossed in the episode. I could have put it on pause on the TIVO, but I didn’t.

I returned his call early last night, as I knew that he would be going to our favorite Forest Park watering hole at 8. We talked about the Chicago Cubs and Baseball in general. He mentioned that he was planning a trip to Florida (Clearwater) in March and that perhaps we can get together during that time.

He then asked me why I didn’t answer his call on Wednesday night.

(Since this is not a verbatim conversation there are no quotation marks).

He Sez – Were you out getting laid?
I Sez – No, I was watching Boston Legal!
He Sez – It’s been cancelled.
I Sez – It’s in syndication on a local channel (Six episodes -in order- per week).
He Sez – I’ve watched it from the beginning, it’s a good show.
I Sez - I didn’t start watching it until 7 or 8 weeks ago. I really like the show, I especially like the William Shatner character Denny Crane.
He Sez – That doesn’t surprise me.
I Sez – Why?
He Sez – Because you are Denny Crane! You like yourself.
I Sez – I’m not wealthy and I’m not a Lawyer.
He Sez – No, but you have all of his other attributes.
I Sez – What do you mean?
He Sez – You’re biased, bigoted, a lecher, a cavorter, a philanderer and a homophobe. You’re over opinionated and you don’t care whose feelings you hurt. However, you never let your friends down and everyone of your friends respect and tolerate you for that reason. That is why you are Denny Crane. And that’s probably why you like yourself.
(After a short pause, while I was thinking of a good comeback).
I Sez – So what do you think about the Cubs chances of going to the World Series this year?

The Beach Bum

I'll Be Back

2009-01-16T15:10:00.002-05:00

I’ve finally come to a decision about continuing or not continuing to write the Beach Bum Report.

First let me say that my little experiment in human nature hasn’t gone that well. I have gotten email responses from some of my friends saying that they don’t know 10 people other than our mutual friends (who already read the Blog on a semi regular basis). This is disheartening. And it is indeed a sad commentary.

I have more than 50 names in my new OE address book (created last October); 35 are what I consider to be close friends and 8 are relatives. Granted, I don’t write to them as often as I should. Unless they send me a personal – not forwarded or group – email, I don’t answer unless I have something to say on the topic; which has now become a rarity. I get 50 to 100 emails each day, and I read all of them no matter how inane they may be.

Add to this the fact that I do not type well (I use three fingers and one thumb and have been clocked at the lightning speed of 28 WPM). My mind is usually moving faster than my fingers (and thumb), therefore there is much use of the Backspace key. Plus, as most people that read my Blog know, I tend to be a bit loquacious. It will take me up to 30 minutes to answer a simple email and more than an hour to write a Blog.

That being said I have decided to continue writing the Beach Bum Report. But neither because of the increased traffic (and comments to my Blog) that I have received during the past four days, nor because of the emails that I have received from friends imploring me to continue to write.

But the real reason I decided to carry on is that a fellow Blogger, the Curmudgeon of the Second Effort Blog, took some of his (he’s a Chicago Attorney) valuable time to write about my Blog last Wednesday. As usual, his Blog was very well written. He also wrote a second blog that day titled “Strange Requirements at the Soulless Megabank”.

The Curmudgeon writes about his family and the world around him. He blends humor (sometimes sarcastic), pathos and rationality into his Blogs. At times his Blogs make me laugh and at other times they make me cry. That is a sign of a great writer, and I believe the Curmudgeon is great writer. He’s far better than I will ever be.

The Beach Bum

Exponential Growth - Fishing for Readers

2009-01-13T02:03:00.010-05:00

Years ago there was a television commercial (I believe it was for a hair care product) that stated that if you told two people and they told two people and they told two people etc. Shortly the screen was filled with 32 beautiful young women (Models), all with gorgeous hair. Just the thought of that commercial makes me horny.

This is basically the theory of Exponential Growth. The opposite theory is called Exponential Decay. It is taught in an abysmal course of mathematical science called Statistics. At one point in my life I knew the mathematical formula for Exponential Growth, but have long forgotten it. As well I should have.

However I do believe in theory, but with some addendum's, if it is applied to human behavior vurses bacterial behavior (both theorems work when applied to Bacteria, but not to Humans).

But bacteria isn’t cognizant and to some extent humans are – some less than others; which explains why our correctional institutions are busting at the seams.

The 2X2X2X2 theory doesn’t allow for Diminishing Returns. Diminishing Returns is a theory advocated by the British Economist Malthus in the late 1700’s. Nearly two hundred years later, in the 20th Century, The Club of Rome expounded on his theory in a treatise named “Limits to Growth”. Although I do not totally agree with the way Malthus or The Club of Rome applied the theory; it still has some validation when applied to human nature.

For instance, if I email 10 people and ask them to visited my Blog and in turn ask them to invite 10 people who are not in the CC: list of that email to visit my Blog. Then have these 10 people to ask another 10 people to visit my Blog – this equals 1000 potential visitors. Fat chance! Why? Because only 8 of them (at the most) will follow through; Diminishing Returns. And of the possible eight that do, only 6 of their friends will follow through; again diminishing returns. And so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby (my apologies to Sly Stewart).

So here is my proposition to test these theories; let’s call it a test of behavioral science.

To all my 18 semi-regular readers (I had forgotten about Steve from Oregon when I had said that I had only 17 semi-regular readers in a past Blog). You should send the following email to 10 friends and ask them to past it on to 10 of their friends not in the To: or CC:. Who in turn should send it to 10 others on their email lists.

You can copy and paste the following (I will assume that everyone knows how to do this):

I read a Blog titled The Beach Bum Report (http://thebeachbumreport.blogspot.com/) on a semi-regular basis. It’s not a great Blog, but at times it has its moments. I thought that you may find it an interesting read. Read his Blogs and leave a comment (positive or negative) on any of his Blogs. And then pass this message on to ten people not on the To: or CC: list in this email.

This is an experiment in human nature.

Thank you for your (my semi-regular readers) support!

The Beach Bum

Nuts, Hot Nuts, You get them from the Peanut Man

2009-01-12T11:57:00.008-05:00

The weekend after Christmas I received a Christmas card from an old friend (Fonse). He had originally sent it to my old address on Treasure Island. The Post Office returned the card to him saying that the time for forwarding mail to my new address had expired. However they included my new address.

If I had sent someone a Christmas card and it was returned to me, I would have put it in the circular file next my desk. But not my friend! He put in a larger envelope and sent it to my new address.

I was touched by this, so I called him. He wasn’t at home so I spoke to his spouse (who used to dislike me with a passion because of a canoeing trip incident in 1981). But two days later, I finally reached him. We spoke for nearly an hour; I have a tendency to get long winded when speaking to people that I haven’t seen or spoken to in a year or so.

In the course of our conversation, he brought up the fact that I hadn’t fulfilled a promise that I had made to him 17 months before. I made the usual excuses, but decided that come hell or high water, I would keep my promise to my old friend.

My friend is a member (of high standing) in the Tau Kappa Epsilon Fraternity. He attended Millikin University (Decatur, Illinois) which has the Beta Chapter of TKE. As he explained to me once; it is a part of the Golden Triangle (original chapters) of Teke Houses in Illinois – Alpha (Illinois Wesleyan – Bloomington), Beta and Gamma (University of Illinois - Urbana) chapters.

The old saying on Illinois campuses, back in the early 1960’s, was “If you can’t go Greek go Teke”.

It has been purported that the film Animal House was based on the activities of the Fraters at the TKE Gamma Chapter. And in that movie the band (Otis Day and the Knights) that played in the Delta Frat House was based on a group called Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts.

And now, at last, I am finally getting to the point of this Blog.

In 1963 I bought a Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts album titled On Campus. It was a collection of bawdy songs that were popular in frat houses throughout the US. We would play it at all of our parties (along with Rusty Warren’s Knockers Up) in the 1960’s. Needless to say the album is scratched very badly.

My good friend Fonse asked me to transfer the songs from my vinyl album to a CD (something I had done for others in the past).

Fonse is still active in the TKE Fraternity system and wanted the younger Tekes to know what it was like to be a Teke in the late 50’s and early 60’s. He wanted them to be able to sing along with him when he sang Barnacle Bill and Roly Poly (Two Old Maids).

Although the Hot Nuts are still an active R&B band, very few college kids know who they are and what they were known for in the 1960’s.

I started the project in July 2007, but put on the back burner when I moved that August. I started working on it again last week and hope to finish soon.

After all, how can you break a promise to an old friend that spent an extra 42 cents (a total of 84 cents) in postage to send you a generic 25 cent Christmas card?

The Beach Bum

To Blog or Not to Blog

2009-01-09T12:40:00.007-05:00

My sincerest apologies go out to my 17 semi-regular readers (most of you are either friends or family). Two have sent me emails and one has called me; all three asking me why I haven’t written a Blog since December 9th.

I could answer them by saying it was due to health problems. Both physically and mentally I have been dealing with pain and anguish during the past 4 weeks. “‘Tis the season to be Jolly” is a bunch of horse manure. It seems that (every year) between Thanksgiving and the New Year every ailment that I have reaches its peak for the year. So this would not be an untruth.

Or I could answer them by saying that I have been spending the time that I would usually spend Blogging on the telephone. I get very nostalgic in December. I’ve logged in more hours of phone time in the past 30 days than I had during the prior 11 months. I called an old neighborhood friend who I hadn’t spoken to for over 40 years. I called others that I hadn’t spoken to for nearly 30 years. Two of the people that I attempted to contact had passed on, so I spoke to their wives at lenght. So this would not be an untruth.

Perhaps I could answer them by saying most of the things that I have been writing about lately heightens my state of depression. As much as I try to resist writing about the economy and the sorry state of affairs that our nation is in; I can’t. So this would not be an untruth.

Better yet, I could answer them by saying that I have been spending a lot of my time with a marvelous gift that I received 10 days before Christmas. I am now the proud owner of a DVD set of all 77 of the Amos and Andy Episodes that were originally broadcast in 1952 and 1953. I watch a few episodes every afternoon and I’m about half way through the collection. So this would not be an untruth.

But the real reason is that my Blog has a very limited following; with the exception of 4 semi-regular readers, I can call or email everyone who visits my Blog on a regular basis. I had greater aspirations when I began the Blog. I average 60 visitors per week, most coming from Google searches for Haulover Beach (I have written two Blogs on this subject).
I’m about to delete them so I don’t get the bogus visitors that spend less than 10 seconds on the Blog and leave after they do not see any pictures of naked people.

The people that are regular readers that I may or may not know:

1) Uses an IP from the Headquarters United States Army Information Systems Command
2) Uses an IP from the State of Maryland –Annapolis
3) Uses an IP from New Port Richey Florida

If I know you please leave a comment on this Blog. Even if I don’t, leave a comment.

The 4th is the Curmudgeon from the Second Effort Blog – He writes some great stuff! I visit his Blog often. A link to his blog is on the upper right sidebar.

If you are one of my semi-regular readers please leave a comment as to why I should continue Blogging. If you like my Blog please pass it on to your other friends. Maybe I get some more regular or semi-regular readers.

The Beach Bum

Christmas Parties - Bah Humbug

2008-12-09T12:19:00.004-05:00

Last Friday, the Curmudgeon at the Second Effort Blog wrote a Blog titled:
Avoiding disasters at office Christmas parties. I was planning to leave a comment on his Blog but decided not to do so, because my comment would have been longer than his Blog on the subject.

I try to avoid all Christmas parties for fear that I will make an ass of myself. I have done so in the past. Unfortunately, I could not avoid the office parties. Since the mid 1970’s my office parties were always held in a Restaurant/Night Club; because that was my office.

I will now relate a Christmas party story that should brighten up your day by allowing you to laugh at the foibles of others. It took place in 1978.

My partners and I would close our Restaurant on the third Monday in December for the employee Christmas party. The party would begin at 5PM with hors d’oeuvres and cocktails; a full dinner would be served a 6:30. Management would do all of the cooking and serving. We’d get a bartender from a nearby Bar to serve the drinks. At 8:00 everyone would adjourn to the cocktail lounge and the Band would start playing at 8:30.

Between the band’s first and second set, the Secret Santa gifts were distributed. This year I was chosen to be Santa; in full costume.

The job entailed sitting on the bandstand’s edge, calling out the recipient’s name, handing them the gift, and then making a witty comment about the gift. The band gave me a microphone so I didn’t have to shout; it was a large lounge.

Putting a microphone in my hand is a very dangerous thing to do. I suddenly become a cross between Don Rickles, Lenny Bruce and Rich Little. I always wanted to be a professional comedian.

I’d pick up a gift, call the person to the stage (they would sit on my lap), ask them what they wanted for Christmas, make a witty comment, hand them the gift, they would open the gift and I would make another witty comment. The entire process would take about 3 minutes. With 30 gifts to pass out it took an hour and a half.

After 10 minutes I was parched and asked the next recipient bring me a beer on her way to the stage to receive her gift. After 2 beers (in 15 minutes) my comments became wittier. People were laughing. This spurred me on to make even more witty comments.

About half way through the passing out of gifts, I was now drinking Grand Marnier with my beer. I became very glib as well as witty.

At last I was down to the final 4 gifts. The next gift was for a stunningly gorgeous young cocktail waitress in her early 20’s. I called her to the stage saying “sit on my lap and we’ll talk about the first thing that pops up.” She also was a little toasted at this time.

She came up and sat on my lap and gave me a big kiss (tongue and all). I then said “Wow, and what do you want for Christmas little girl.” She then grabbed my crotch and said “I want this.” I smiled and said “I would love to give it to you.”

I had forgotten that my wife was sitting at a table just 20 feet away. She stormed out of the Restaurant and went home. My partner and his wife also left.

After I gave out the last three gifts, I went to the bar and had a few more drinks and danced with several of the female employees (thank God the cocktail waitress had already passed out). One made the comment that she had always thought that I was a “stuffed shirt”.

This party caused my first trial separation with my wife. We separated two years later.

Did I learn a lesson?; of course not.

In 1981, I was in self exile in Chicago; the woman that I was seeing invited me to her office party. It was at Kelly’s Pub on Chicago’s near north side. I managed to embarrass her with my Christmas party antics. The end of another relationship!

The Beach Bum

Paying Your Fair Share

2008-12-08T23:46:00.002-05:00

For several years a good friend has been telling me to watch a television series named Boston Legal. He told me that I would like it. I said OK, but never did watch it. I rather wait until a program goes into syndication (if it’s good it will). This way I can see several episodes each week or even each day.

Last week on a local Tampa Bay TV channel I watched an episode of Boston Legal. It was a second season (2006) episode named “Stick It”

In this episode the William Shatner character (Denny Crane), said to the James Spader character (Alan Shore) “Do you have any idea what would happen if the little people stopped paying their taxes?”

Shore answered “The rich people would have to start paying theirs.”

Crane responded “exactly.”

This is the same thinking that got us into our current bailout mess. Let’s screw the little people. And by little people I mean the people that are 90% or more of the working population (many of whom are now unemployed).

In the early 1990’s a friend from the 1960’s wrote a book titled “Beyond Revolution”. He advocated that we not pay our Federal Income Taxes. He was a hypocrite because he always paid his taxes. But it was a good concept.

In the mid 1970’s I wrote a thesis concerning the dissolution of the IRS and replacing it with a Federal “Ad Valorem” Tax. This was not a fresh idea, as there have been proponents of a graduated user tax for decades before I wrote my paper. I just had a different approach to the subject (300 plus pages worth).

I could write about this topic, ad infinitum, but I won’t because I am currently in a state that is commonly referred to as being “half in the bag” (so please forgive my bad grammar). It’s rapidly closing in on midnight (the point at which the reasoning part of my brain no longer functions), and the time that I usually fall into “the arms of Morpheus”.

The Beach Bum

Right Man, Wrong Cabinet Position

2008-12-07T14:29:00.001-05:00

How ironic it is that on the anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, President elect Barack Obama has named retired General Eric Shinseki (who was as born in Hawaii to Japanese-American parents) to be the next Secretary of Veterans Affairs. Personally, I like this guy, because, at the cost of his job, he stood up against the Bush Administration’s policies in Iraq.

However, I don’t think that the Secretary of Veterans Affairs should be a former high ranking military officer. But if it must be a retired General or Admiral; Mister Obama made a good choice. General Shinseki is a Viet Nam Vet who led his troops in combat. He wasn’t a desk jockey officer.

But I feel that he would be better suited to be the Secretary of Defense. In his June 2003 retirement speech, Shinseki admonished those who display "mistrust and arrogance" in military leadership and warned against over-committing the Army.

But if I were the President elect the person that I would chose for the Secretary of Veterans Affairs, would be one who never rose above the rank of Lt. Colonel or Navy Commander. Preferably a Doctor who spent his/her enlistment time in a military or VA Hospital. Or perhaps a retired CPO, Gunny or Master Sergeant, that had spent time with his troops rather than performing administrative and command functions.

Although I don’t believe that General Shinseki is the right person for the job, I do believe that he will do an excellent job as Secretary of Veterans Affairs.

The Beach Bum

Playing with Numbers

2008-12-06T12:00:00.002-05:00

Last week I read that spending (last weekend) in Retail Stores and online was 3% higher than the past year’s sales. In addition the average consumer spent 7% more than they did during the same weekend last year.

The article coupled these facts with the fact that the on sale (deeply discounted) items on Black Friday were less expensive this year. And that this was an indication that consumer confidence was coming back.

I love facts, figures and statistics. Why? Because, they are easy to distort to suit one’s needs. The Government and the Media do this constantly. The bad thing is that many people believe it.

The question that should be asked is; why, in an uncertain economy, have people increased their spending.

My answer is simple.

Let’s say that last year during the first 27 days of November I consumed 100 gallons of Gasoline at an average cost of $3.29 per gallon. This equals $329. And that this year I used 95 gallons (I learned how to conserve during the $4 per gallon July) at an average cost of $1.89 per gallon. This equals roughly $180. Therefore this year in the month of November I’ve spent $149 less than last year (all other things remaining the same).

Wow, now I have more money in my bank account.

Now let’s say that last year I spent $350 (very close to the average) over the Holiday weekend. This year I spent 7% more or roughly $374. This means I still have $125 more than last year, at this time, in my bank account.

Therefore I haven’t increased my spending. I’m actually spending less than I did last year. I’m just diverting my dollars from one sector of the economy to another.

The Beach Bum

Never Give A Sucker an Even Break

2008-12-05T13:38:00.003-05:00

In one of his movies, W. C. Fields said that his grandfather's last words, "just before they sprung the trap", were "You can't cheat an honest man; but never give a sucker an even break or smarten up a chump."

Big Business and the United States Government (Strange Bedfellows) seem to be using this quote as their motto.

I consider myself to be an honest man and yet I’m being treated as sucker and a chump. My mistake was to trust our Government to make the right decisions. Therefore, I am a sucker and a chump.

But I’m not alone, over 90 percent of our population fall into the Sucker/Chump category. I like being in the majority, but this is one majority that bothers me. I don’t want to be in this majority, but I’m trapped and cannot find a way out.

My Dad always used a phrase about my spending habits; he said that “I was throwing good money after bad money”. Dad never said that to the “powers that be” in Washington. He should have!

Now the Big 3 Auto Makers are looking for a Federal ~~Bailout~~ Handout. Their CEO’s are even willing to reduce their pay to $1 per year.

Phooey! They (the CEO’s) just want their shares(those additional compensation words after their posted salaries) in their respective Companies to be worth more money or at least be worth something.

We are being told that we must invest in America. I have invested in America; I bought US Savings Bonds. As an honest man, I never looked to make a quick or an exceeding high profit on my investment.

Honest men, as a general rule, do not get conned by a con man.

But, obviously, they do get conned by their elected officials and their government. We are all suckers and chumps.

The Beach Bum