Good Fortune - I Doubt It

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

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

Cutting it Close

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

Making a Short Story Long

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

40 Years Ago

On this date, October 18th, in 1968 (40 years ago) at 11:10 am, Ethiopian Standard Time (GMT +3), I was walking on the tarmac of Asmara International Airport. I was about to board a flight to Athens, Greece, then on to Rome, Italy and from there to JFK Airport in NYC. Including layovers and time zone changes, it was a travel time of 77 hours.

As I reached the top of the boarding stairs, I gave a final salute (this was a tradition) to the guys that were seeing me off on my long voyage home. They returned the salute and I boarded. No tears on either side, just smiles and laughter.

Although you were losing a buddy, a friend, and a brother, you were happy for them. They were going home, as you would be doing yourself in the near future. I went through this ritual many times during the 6 months before I left Kagnew Station, Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia.

I have kept in contact with several of my olds friend from Kagnew. Many of us couldn’t wait until our tour of duty at Kagnew was over; so that we could return home to the States to see our families and friends. Today we will admit that we should have stayed there until the termination of military service commitment. It was a great tour of duty and some of the best times of our lives; only we didn’t realize it at the time.

The Beach Bum

Happiest Days of My Life

At the behest of my daughter and her husband I have been going through my possessions which have been cluttering up their garage for the past 13 months. I was told to do this before I moved last August; but somehow I would always find something more urgent to do with my free time.

The bottom line is that I do not relish this task. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow? But tomorrows tend to turn into weeks, then months and finally years.

Given the ultimatum that either I start doing this extremely unpleasant chore or having my prized possessions and keepsakes all end up in a dumpster; I chose the former. So now, every 5 days or so, I get a Rummermaid storage container to sort through. I am almost finished.

I divide the stuff into four categories. Stuff that I want ready access to. Stuff that I cannot part with, which can be sequestered into the attic (where I will probably never see it again). Stuff to be shredded. And stuff to go directly into the dumpster.

Unsurprisingly the last two categories have amounted to 60% of the stuff that I brought here with me when I moved in August 2007.

I now have a very large pile of paper that requires shredding. Two years ago my daughter gave me a shredder as a Christmas present; it was still a virgin when I moved here (at least I had taken it out of the box - I think that I had done this so that my daughter would think that I was actually using it, when she came to visit).

The trash pile was the largest. As I was going through my stuff, I wondered why I had kept some of this stuff. The were many computer and peripheral manuals including a 300 or so page DOS operating system manual and one for a Dot Matrix Printer. At least 150 Floppy Discs, a goodly amount of homemade audio cassette tapes (Fortunately I had gotten rid of my eight track tapes years before) and CD ROMs (including 5 different versions of AOL).

I saved photographs, books and other things that had a special meaning (such as items that I collected during my illustrious 4 year military career).

One of the photos that I didn’t even know that I still had, was of the first “Love of my Life” It was a professional photo probable taken for her High School Yearbook. I showed it to my daughter and she knew who it was without me uttering a word. She even remembered her name. I was impressed!

Viewing the photo reminded of a song from the early 1980’s (I associate many things and events with music). The song is by Chrissie Hynde and the Pretenders – Back on the Chain Gang. The lyrics that were running through my mind – “I found a picture of you; those were the happiest days of my life”.

The picture reminded me of my age of innocence; a time with very little worries or cares. It was before I ventured out into the real world. And that is why those were the “Happiest Days of My Life”.

The Beach Bum

A Labor of Love

In 1969, the same as in 2008, Labor Day was celebrated on September First. Although the Autumnal Equinox is 2 plus weeks away, Labor Day is considered to be the official end of the summer season.

The “Summer of ’69” evokes many special memories. I was in the last year of my four year enlistment in the US Army and stationed at Fort Meade in Maryland. I was living off-post in an apartment complex in nearby Laurel, Maryland with three former members (civilians) of my unit. Our apartment was the ultimate party mecca. The focal point of our living room was a wall rack stereo system and a three keg beer cooler. It was more like a Frat House than an apartment.

They call the summer of 1967 “The Summer of Love”, but for me it was the summer of 1969.

We would have theme parties (e.g. the Moon Walk party in July) at lease once a month and sometimes more often. It wasn’t unusual for 60 people to crowd into a 860 sq ft apartment on a Saturday night. The liquor and the beer flowed and the young ladies were hot to trot.

We had a diverse crowd, but mostly, military personnel and Government employees predominately from Intelligence and Law Enforcement Agencies working in the Washington DC area.

Our last party during the summer of love was held on the Saturday before Labor Day. It was our farewell to summer party. Without knowing it, at the time, I would meet my future wife at this party. She came with the girl that one of my roommates was seeing at the time. Being the perfect host, I offered her a drink and then roamed off to find the girl that I was sleeping with at the time, never getting her the drink that I promised.

The mornings after were usually brutal. The place would be a disaster and bodies could be found just about everywhere (on and under furniture).

One of my roommates had awakened before I had and had brewed some coffee. I grabbed a cup and sat down in the living room. He was watching TV; it was a telethon for MDA featuring Jerry Lewis. By noon all of the roommates (as well as left over guests) had risen and were watching the telethon. We decided to take up a collection and make a pledge. We later collected (from our friends) more money than our original pledge.

This afternoon, after the Cubs game on WGN, I saw that Jerry was still doing the telethon. He looked very old and haggard, and spoke with a voice more raspy than mine. For Jerry this is truly a “labor of love”. God Bless Him.

The Beach Bum

Ernie

Today I read that there was a movie on the Hallmark Channel called “A Grandpa for Christmas”. It will be repeated again on the 30th of November. The review stated “A cheerful if woefully predictable holiday yarn that weaves in a couple of musical numbers and plenty of caroling to flesh out its 85 minutes, "A Grandpa for Christmas" is a true throwback, leading a wave of Hallmark Channel fare clearly designed to fill a niche the major networks have mostly abandoned.”

The Hallmark Channel is not one of the channels that I watch n a regular basis. Why? Please note that the movie run-time is 85 minutes. When placed in a 2 hour time slot this means 35 minutes of commercials or 17.5 minutes of commercials per hour. Considering that the first 20 minutes of the movie are usually commercial free, this leaves us with 35 minutes of commercials in 100 minutes (35% commercials and 65% movie). This means that there will be 7 minutes of commercials and 13 minutes of movie for every 20 minutes of programming.

As unbelievable as it may seem, I still would like to see this movie. It’s about children and old people, two of my favorite topics. But the main reason is the star of the movie; Ernest Borgnine. I didn’t even realize that he was still alive and still acting. This is ironic because I watched one of his earliest movies on TCM last night (From Here to Eternity) and wondered if he was still living.

My favorite Borgnine role was that of Quinton McHale on television. McHale’s Navy was one of the funniest programs in the early 1960’s. The crew of the PT-73 was a bunch of misfits that always came through in the end. The supporting cast was great; especially Tim Conway and Joe Flynn.

As bad as the review of “A Grandpa for Christmas" was and given the fact that it will be inundated with commercials, I will still be watching it this coming Friday. Just to see Ernie in what might be his final role.

The Beach Bum

The Loss of a Friend

44 years ago today (November 24th) I wrote an essay for an English class. It was the Sunday before our Thanksgiving break and I had a paper due on Tuesday. I had a tendency to put off my assignments until the eleventh hour. I felt that I did some of my best writing when under pressure.

Why do I remember this date and the essay so distinctly? I wrote it two days after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The theme of essay was about the loss of someone that you love and admire. I did love and admire the president. But the essay could have just as well been about a family member or a friend.

The essay came straight from my heart, full of pathos and bereavement. The title of the essay was “The Loss of a Friend”. I never mentioned the President’s name, but everyone knew who it was about when I read it aloud in class.

I was deeply touched and impressed by President Kennedy’s speeches and his charisma. When he spoke to the youth of America, he won our hearts. “We stand today on the edge of a new frontier - the frontier of the 1960's - a frontier of unknown opportunities and perils - a frontier of unfulfilled hopes and threats." He made my generation feel that they could make a difference, and he gave us hope for our future. "In each of us, there is a private hope and dream
which, fulfilled, can be translated into benefit
for everyone."

Most people my age can tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news that the President had been shot in Dallas. Classes were suspended and televisions were turned on in all of the classrooms. The girls all shed tears and the guys (who are made of much sterner stuff) sat quietly with somber looks on their faces.

Reality had set in.

I pondered the ramifications of this loss of a friend for hours before writing my paper. I have often wondered how things may have changed had John F. Kennedy lived and had served two full terms in office. My idealism disappeared on the day Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as President; my life had been changed.

The Beach Bum

Celebrity

Last Saturday night we watch the movie Asteroid on the Si-Fi Channel between 700 and 1100. It was originally a 1997 two part made for television movie, that I had fortunately missed. The acting was mediocre but the writing, editing and directing was much worse. Plus the concept of the movie was scientifically implausible.

So why did I sit there watching this movie for four hours (one and a quarter of which were commercials)? I watched it for a very simple inane reason. Uncle John (my brother-in-law) appeared in three scenes of the movie as an extra. The film was shot in the Denver area and John had nothing better to do at the time. In addition to getting free food on the set he was paid $60 per day to just stand around and hobnob with some of the actors in the movie.

Uncle John takes pleasure in associating with celebrities. He always has. He is what people refer to as a Groupie. He seeks them out so that he can have future bragging rights. He spent a lot of time on his cell phone Saturday night calling people to alert them of his appearance in the movie; which amounted to less than 10 seconds of screen time. (“Remember that picture of me and so and so the actor; well it was taken right after this scene.)

As a general rule I don’t appreciate people talking though a movie that I hadn’t seen. But as this movie was so bad, I didn’t really mind John’s constant jabbering about the actors and the movie (“he was a real nice guy”, “this scene was shot 4 miles from my house”, “they gave us the same food that the actors ate that night” etc. etc.).

In my lifetime I have met (and had conversations with) many individuals that have been considered to be famous people. It’s really no big deal; for me it’s just a memory. I rarely crow or brag about meeting them. Most of them are just people like you and me; only they tend to be wealthier or more prominent in the public eye.


In my eyes the most impressive of the famous people that I have met; was an Admiral (not my cousin “The Admiral” although he is also an impressive person) who I met in the early 1970’s. This Admiral was one of the first WWII Navy flying aces and was feature in a book authored by John Gunther. His wife was a former Miss America. I would stand, spellbound, for hours listening to his stories and his opinions on current affairs. At that time he was the Director of the National Security Agency. I thought that he would eventually become the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He didn’t make it to that position because he was apolitical.

He is one of the few celebrities that I will boast about meeting.

The Beach Bum

A Return To Normality

It’s back to normality for me. I have spent the past five days cavorting with a group of my old Army buddies. The members of our group that are still allowed to drink alcoholic beverages consumed them in mass quantities. Given the choice of taking prescription medicines to prolong my life or to continue to drink alcohol and kill myself; I chose the latter. Pleasure is much more important to me at this juncture in my life than keeping myself alive and being totally miserable in doing so.

We spent most of the time telling stories about the time that we spent in Eritrea (Ethiopia, at that time). We had four newcomers to our group this year and we heard a bunch of new tales. Including one about me (extremely exaggerated and embellished), which I emphatically denied. The Tale-Teller was confusing me with another friend, but nonetheless it was a good story.

Unfortunately some of the regular reunion attendees were unable to attend this year or it would have been the largest reunion that we have had in the past five years. We spent a lot of time talking about them and cutting them down (since they were not there to defend themselves). We also signed a Happy Birthday card for Donald Rumsfeld (one of last year's reunion attendees), who will be 75 years old in a few weeks. Some of the comments on the card were hilarious.

At the Saturday Night Banquet we all took turns berating ourselves and others in our group. It was like a Dean Martin Celebrity Roast. When it was my turn, I saluted our fallen comrades with a toast. Somehow I managed to do it without choking up.

Thank you, my Brothers! I had a great time and can’t wait until next year’s reunion, which is already in the planning stages.

The Beach Bum

City of Dreams

Yesterday I received a belated birthday gift. It was a book from a good friend who will be visiting me on Thursday, titled “Asmara – Africa’s Secret Modernist City”. It’s a book about Asmara, Eritrea’s Architecture. There is also a DVD called “City of Dreams” available on Amazon.com concerning the architecture of the colonial Italians.


Asmara was the most beautiful city that I had seen when in Africa during the 1960’s. The Italians who occupied the country of Eritrea until the early 1940’s wanted it to be the “New Rome”. In the 1930’s, they sent Architects and construction crews to Asmara. The new buildings were built in the Art Deco style that was popular in Italy at that time. The design of some of these buildings would make Frank Lloyd Wright hold his breath and say “Why didn’t I do that?”

We tend to think about Africa as we see it (or, I my case, had seen it) in the Movies. Before being stationed there in the 1960’s my impressions of Africa were from movies like “The African Queen”, “Mogambo “and “Hatari”, and from pictures in National Geographic Magazine. Representations of Eritrea and Ethiopia were never on film, but I expected it to be the same as what I had seen in the movies. At the time, I thought it was just another African country and they were all the same.

Asmara is a beautiful city and the people living there were beautiful too, especially the women. Several of my Army friends married Eritrean women. I had also considered it (marring) for a brief moment, but decided I was too young and still in love with my girlfriend back home.

This Thursday thru Sunday I will be spending time with friends that I had shared time with at Kagnew Station, Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia. We will look at the pictures of the “City Of Dreams” and reminisce. We’ll recall great stories about the time that we had spent that in Asmara.

Most of us now look at the term that we spent there as one of the best times of our lives.

The Beach Bum

The Bard

I just received an unexpected and interesting call from a female acquaintance that lives in Saint Petersburg. She got my number from a friend that I had worked with for 6 years.

What was most interesting about the call is that she remembered that it is going to be my birthday in 3 days. She also recalled a conversation that we had some years ago about my love for the theater and Shakespeare. She was inviting out to see Othello this Tuesday; the anniversary of my birth. I told her that I would think about it and would give her a call back.

I was being honest when I said “I would think about it”. Usually when I say that I will think about it, it means no way in Hell!

The last live theater production that I saw was Cats in the mid 1980’s. The last time I saw a production of a Shakespeare play was in the 1960’s before I went into the Army.

In High School, I hated my first forced reading of Shakespeare. It was Macbeth and was required reading in my first semester sophomore English class. What a drag for a 14 year old. What tedious reading, almost as bad as having to read Thoreau’s Walden!

It was announced in the syllabus of the second semester sophomore English class that we would be reading two more plays by the “Bard of Avon”. I had never seen so many frowns on the faces of my classmates (except those from the girls in my Freshman Biology class when we were told that we would be dissecting a Frog).

The first play we read was Hamlet. I liked this play much better than I did Macbeth. It was probably because the key quotes were much easier to memorize.

The second was Twelfth Night, or What you Will. After two tragedies, a comedy was a refreshing read. As an added bonus our teacher offered to chaperon us at a local production of this play in the Chicago suburbs. It was on a Saturday afternoon and I had much better things to do on a Saturday afternoon. However my parents told me I was going on this field trip or I would be restricted. It was a tough choice, but I went.

Seeing Shakespeare preformed live is nothing similar to just reading the play. There is so much more emotion in the words that he had written. Even mediocre Shakespearean actors can make your heart jump and flutter. Your eyes are riveted on the stage and you wait for the next line to be spoken. You begin to understand why Shakespeare was as highly acclaimed as a writer as he was.

Seeing Shakespeare preformed live is like eating peanuts. You can’t stop at just one. It is a good idea to read the play before you see it. Just to know the characters and their motives. But the words mean nothing unless they are spoken and when you hear them spoken you will be enthralled. You must remember that Shakespeare wrote them to be preformed, not read.

My favorites are his historical plays and his comedies. One of my favorites is Henry V. An excellent production of this play was brought to the screen by Kenneth Branagh; it was almost as exciting as seeing it performed live in the theater.

When Harry the King delivers his emotion packed speech to his men before Battle of Agincourt, it reminds me of my time spent in the military and the lasting friendship and brotherhood that I had established:

“We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is called the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, and rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, and say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember, with advantages, what feats he did that day. Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; and Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in England now-a-bed shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

The Beach Bum

Shooting the Moon

A new world’s record has been established. 18,000 people in Mexico City’s Zocalo Plaza posed nude for American photographer Spencer Tunick. Tunick said in a press conference. "I think all eyes are looking south from the United Sates to Mexico City to see how a country can be free and treat the naked body as art. Not as pornography or as a crime, but with happiness and caring."


This same photograph would have been more interesting if it had been taken from a different angle. An 18,000 person Moon seems a bit more exciting than a bunch of naked people bent over in the fetal position. That would really be art.

Mooning was a popular sport in the 1960’s, especially on College Campuses. There were also variations of the standard Moon; the Pressed Ham, the Red Eye, the Baggie and the Double Inverted Baggie. Shooting a good Moon at the proper place and time was truly an art form.

I was stationed in Africa in the mid sixties when mooning was at it peak, and we attempted to take mooning to new heights. Several of us would climb up antennae towers (more than 100 feet tall) so that we could shoot a moon to Ethiopia. We also did Pyramid Moons and the Banana Split Moon.

But our most famous Moon was accomplished on a bridge on the road that led from Asmara to Massawa, Ethiopia (now Eritrea).


The above photo of this event is in Michela Wrong’s book about Eritrea; “I Didn’t Do It For You.” Michela writes:
“What is it about Anglo-Saxon males and their bottoms? A Frenchman or a Spaniard does not seem to feel the same compulsion to bare his bum, a gesture psychoanalysts would no doubt interpret as blending primeval defiance with homo-erotic bonding. Like generations of fraternity fellows before and after them, the Kagnew men, delighted in exposing their buttocks to the world.”

It was fun and it was a sport or contest. It was a distraction from the world of chaos that had existed around us. We were young and impetuous. We enjoyed ourselves and didn’t care about what others thought about us or our antics.

As we got older, some of us lost this feeling along the way. We became what are known as adult humans. I haven’t and I think that I never will. I didn’t want to turn into Jackie Paper:

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

The Beach Bum

Toga, Toga, Toga !

I enjoy drinking Beer. Let’s face it; I enjoy drinking anything with an alcohol content. But beer is my alcoholic beverage of choice. My friends tell me that I don’t really like Beer because of the fact that I drink the Lite variety out of a can. They go on to say that beer should have flavor and my Lite beer tastes more like water and aluminum.

I do occasionally drink good beers (Ales and Porters) but I find that they fill me too quickly and cause me to belch. Plus after five or six of them I begin to sound like former Chicago Cubs announcer Harry Caray did after the seventh inning stretch; slurring my words and calling people by the wrong name. After a few more of these good beers my short term memory begins to fade and I have a tendency to repeat what I had said just ten minutes before.


The other day I viewed an interesting photo captioned “College girl turns herself into human beer bong”. Not Exactly! It looks more like doing a body shot or drinking Champagne at the "Y" than a Beer Bong.

I first experienced seeing a beer bong at a tailgate party, before a Jimmy Buffett concert, 17 years ago. I said “Wow, what will they think of next”? I was then informed that the practice of beer bonging had been a popular college campus activity for years. And that it was especially popular with the female students.

For the uninitiated, a beer bong is a device with a funnel attached to plastic tubing. The end of the tube is then placed in your mouth and pinched closed near the top. The funnel is then filled with beer and the pinch on the tube is released so that the beer flows rapidly into your mouth and down your throat.

I’ve never participated in one of these events; however it is fun to watch. Occasionally the participant will have beer shooting out of her nose, or worse yet, she will vomit. Obviously doing a beer bong is not an advisable thing to do after you have just eaten. However, if you are bulimic it serves the purpose well.


When I was a youth, back in the “Toga Party Era”, and before there were beer cans with pop tops, we had a similar drinking event. It was called the Shotgun. We would shake a can of beer; put it as close to our open mouth as possible and then open it with a church key. More of the beer would end up running down our chins than in our mouths. Another favorite was chugging a 60 ounce pitcher of draft beer. This was a timed event and the loser would have to pay for the beer. It's a shameful thing to say but I rarely paid for my pitcher of beer.

The foibles of youth, including my own, never cease to amaze me.

The Beach Bum

"I Didn't Do It For You"

This morning I received an email from an acquaintance here in Florida who had just read British Author and Journalist, Michela Wrong’s book “I Didn’t Do It For You”. One of the chapters in this book features me as the main antagonist. The title of this chapter is "Blow Jobs, Bugging and Beer". It is a well written work of non-fiction about the small African Nation of Eritrea and how the people living there have been screwed over and over again.

My friend said that she was “rolling on the floor laughing (ROFL)” when she read Chapter 10 of Michela’s book. And that the portrayal of me in the book was “so unlike the person” that she knew. Another comment that she made in her mail was “you actually have a human side”.

I have a lot of human faults and have always had them; however I generally do not let the people here in Florida know about by sordid past. The persona that I have here is different from the persona that I had in Maryland (where I had lived for 30 years), different from my younger days in Chicago and definitely different from the time that I spent in Eritrea in the mid 1960’s.

A former lover once called me a Chameleon and said that I changed my facade to suit the current situation. This was a clever observation that she had made. She asked me why I couldn’t just be myself, as I was with her. I told her was that there is a public me and a private me. She retorted that she enjoyed the private me much more than the public me. But which is the real me? Only my children and sister know the answer to this question.

I am an empathetic person by nature, but I have learned that you cannot allow anyone but your inner circle of friends and family know this fact. Therefore I disguise myself with the facade of the other me. It’s like a dual personality or an alter ego. Just like the Chameleon, I adapt to my current situation, looking for self-preservation.


I can’t lie about my past but I have learned how to skillfully evade questions about that past. I’ve become very good at telling half truths and dancing around a subject. The only time that I have a problem skirting the issues is when I have been drinking alcohol to excess. I often do this with family and friends, but rarely with acquaintances. In Vino Veritas!

"I Didn't Do It For You" by Michela Wrong is available on Amazon.com - there is a convenient link to Amazon on the right sidebar of this Blog.

The Beach Bum

The Easter Bunny

On Friday I received an email from a good friend with the picture on the left attached to the mail. The caption was “Due to circumstances beyond our control, the Easter Egg Hunt is canceled this year”.

I laughed and thought to myself that my friend, as I do, has that Gary Larson (The Far Side cartoonist) sense of humor.

When I was a child we didn’t have Easter Egg Hunts. I had seen cartoons on television where a bunny rabbit would be running around and hiding the Easter Eggs. This action usually took place in a wooded area with high grass and shrubbery. My old Chicago neighborhood had none of this. One year I suggested to my Dad that he take my sister and me to a nearby Forest Preserve to look for the Easter Bunny’s eggs. That’s when I learned that there was no such thing as an Easter Bunny. Next, I thought, Dad would be telling me that there was no Santa Claus.

We colored our eggs on Good Friday. We used small pieces of tape to make the sign of the cross on each egg before we put them into the dye (my sister says that this is now done with wax or a white crayon). Every egg would have a white cross on it when we were finished with coloring them. My Dad would say that this symbolized our love for our Lord, Jesus Christ.

On Holy Saturday, we would fill baskets with meat, bread and the colored eggs and take them to the Church to have them blessed. After a short mass and benediction, the Monsignor would say something in Latin, which none of us really understood. He then sent the priests out with a scepter type devices, that they dipped into Holy Water, to splash on our baskets filled with food. He would then say something in English, asking us all, too, in charity, remember all those who suffer want and hunger. They then passed the basket for donations.

My Dad would fast on Holy Saturday. I never did understand the reason for fasting. I occasionally fast now, but it is for health, not religious, reasons.

The Feast of Easter was always one of my favorite days. After Church we would gather at my Grandmother’s home and the food was out of this world delicious. Almost better than the food that the neighborhood Italian families would have for the Feast of Saint Joseph on March 19th.

Very fond memories, Happy Easter.

The Beach Bum