Chestnut Brown Canary

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

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

My Friend (Not My Cousin) Vinny

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

Potato Chips?

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

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

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

My Evil, Evil Ways

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

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

Two Good Days for the Beach Bum

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

Camping In and Camping Out

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

Cajun Cooking

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

A Warm Fuzzy From A Friend

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

Shooting the Bird

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

I Still Have Some RAM Remaining

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

Prioritizing Things

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

Guest Bloggers

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

The Lizard and the Fried Egg

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

Baseball, Hamburgers and Politics

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

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

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