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

Elementary (Grammar) School Daze

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Beach Bum

High School Daze

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Beach Bum

Doing the Right Thing

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

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

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

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

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

Last week Cazzo sent one about reactions to various scenarios 50 years ago, compared with today’s consequence. Most of these scenarios applied to teens and High School students. The one that struck home with me was:

Scenario:
Billy breaks a window in his neighbor's car
and his Dad gives him a whipping with his belt.
1957 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal,
goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman.
2007 - Billy's dad is arrested for child abuse.
Billy removed to foster care and joins a gang.
The State psychologist tells Billy's sister that she remembers
being abused herself and their dad goes to prison.
Billy's mom has affair with psychologist.

My story, relating to the above, takes place in either 1961 or 1962. I attempted to pinpoint the year, but others that I spoke to, weren’t exactly sure of the year either.

Back then we used to play a game (and I don’t remember the name) of softball in the streets. We used a 16 inch softball called a Clincher; this was a real soft ball, you didn’t need a glove. The older it was the softer it got.

We usually played with four man teams; pitcher, catcher, middle fielder and outfielder. You had to hit the ball, in the air, passed the pitcher. If the ball touched the ground before it reached the pitcher it was an out. Any ball caught by a fielder was an out. Parked cars were foul territory any foul ball was also an out. Usually if you hit a car it would do no damage (it was a very soft ball and cars were built like tanks back then).

You had about a 12 foot wide window and the best way to get a hit was hitting the ball between the pitcher and middle fielder (a single) or between the middle fielder and outfielder (a double), Home Runs were next to impossible. We were allowed four swings at the ball and no balls or strikes were called; so you could wait for your pitch.

The day in question was in mid June (we were out of school for the summer). We were playing 3 man teams and the last batter was catching. My team had men on second and third (you didn’t actually take a base; it was assumed that you were there) and I was up to bat. I noticed that the outfielder had taken several steps in towards midfield after the first pitch. He did it again after the second pitch, wanting to prevent a two run scoring double.

Here was a great opportunity for a rare Home Run. I’d be the talk of the neighborhood. I let two more pitches go past. Then I saw one coming into my sweet zone. I swung with all the force that I could muster. Unfortunately I swung a bit too early and put it into the windshield of a parked car. It was an out. It also shattered the windshield.

It wasn’t just any windshield; the car belonged to the meanest man neighborhood, who hated children, especially teens. He would yell at us for sitting on his stairs or his car. Even worse yet, if we walked on his lawn or if we had gone into his yard to retrieve an item that had errantly fallen into it; he would blow his top. Therefore we grabbed our bats and ran like hell.

When I got home, I told my Mom and Dad the story. All my Dad said was “Are you going to do the right thing?” To me the right thing was to lay low for a while. Ten minutes later I was knocking at Mister W’s door. I told him what I had done and there was a fiery look on his face. He didn’t yell at me, he just walked down the steps to examine the damage to his car.

He sternly told me to come back on Monday evening and he would tell me how much I owed him for the damages. It was $50.

At the time I was working part-time for the A&P and netting about $22 per week. I told him that I would be able to pay him within three weeks. He made a counter offer. He said that if I would mow his lawn (hand mower), pull weeds and trim the bushes for eight weeks; that he would call it an even trade off. We shook hands and I called it a deal.

Many years later, his son (who is a very good friend and five years older than me) told me that his Dad once said that I was the best kid in the neighborhood. This coming from Mister W was truly an accolade.

The Beach Bum

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

Magical Mystery Memories

Yesterday afternoon I watched a movie on IFC (Independent Film Channel) that I hadn’t seen since the summer of 1964. It was the last movie that I had seen with the first “Love of My Life”.

We traveled by El to Downtown Chicago to catch the matinee showing of the movie. I believe that it was playing at the old United Artists Theater on Randolph and Dearborn, across from what is now call the Richard J. Daley Civic Center.

The theater had about 1700 seats and was more than half full when we arrived (it was almost at capacity when the Movie started). I couldn’t get an aisle seat (my preference) in a desirable location, but we were dead center screen about half way between the screen and the last row of seats.

The average age of the audience was probably 16 years old or less. I was one of the oldest people there except for some parents that had brought their children to see the movie. Although it was filmed in Black and White it was thoroughly enjoyable and I never left my seat (no need for that aisle seat).

The following summer I saw the four stars of the movie live in concert at Comiskey Park with the second “Love of my Life”. Our seats were in the upper deck with a very good view of the stage on the infield. I enjoyed the movie much more than I did the thirty minute concert; you could hardly hear the Beatles sing with all of the girls screaming.

The movie, of course, was A Hard Day’s Night. And I sincerely feel that it was much better than the Beatles follow up movie (filmed in color) Help!, which premiered in Chicago about a week or so later. In watching "A Hard Day's Night" you get the feeling that you know these four guys. They are regular people, they are just like you, but celebrities.

I was and still am a big fan of the Fab Four. I have every album (vinyl) that they made before they broke up as a group. This includes two versions (British and US) of “With the Beatles”, "Introducing the Beatles" and “Sgt. Pepper”. Plus I have a few compilation CD’s.

My friend and former neighbor, fellow Chicagoan, Dave Corzine put them all on audio cassette tape in 1979, it was great listening to them all again.

I will never forget the Beatles and the impact (through their music) that they made “In My Life”. The third “Love of my Life”, later to become my one and only wife, enjoyed the Beatles as much as I did.

Thank you IFC for bringing back such great memories!

The Beach Bum

The Songs Remain the Same

I spent a lot of time yesterday afternoon reading the reviews about the Led Zeppelin Reunion Concert at the O2 Arena in London on Monday night. It was a charity event that was held in memory of former Atlantic Records boss Ahmet Ertegun, who originally signed Led Zeppelin.

John Bonham’s son, Jason, took his father’s place on the drums for this concert. John’s death (by choking on his vomit) in 1980 caused the group to break up at that time.

Led Zeppelin News
Led Zeppelin was one of my favorite musical groups in the in the 1970’s. I still enjoy their music a much more than most of the Rock music of the last 20 years. But then again, I still enjoy Frank Sinatra more than I do the modern day crooners.

While sitting and waiting to receive a “Divine Inspiration” for a Blog about Led Zeppelin, my worthless brother-in-law (Uncle John) turned on the television. I feel that he does this intentionally to distract me from my writing. He obviously doesn’t care about what he views or he wouldn’t watch the garbage he usually does.

Lo and behold, he put on a program that was of interest to me. It was on VH1, a channel that I rarely, if ever, watch. It was the Woodstock Festival Concert from August 1969; 4 hours long including commercials.

In 1969 I was still in the Army and living off post (Fort Meade) in Laurel, Maryland. My across the hall neighbors were from Pennsylvania and had bought 4 tickets to the Woodstock Festival in New York.

They were planning to take two hot babes to the concert for a weekend of Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll; the babes bailed out, so they offered the tickets to me and my 3 roommates.

We all passed. 24 bucks, plus the cost of the trip, was more than we could afford on our military salaries. Instead we had a Woodstock house party on that weekend (the aforementioned hot Babes attended our party). It was the same Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll, with somewhat better sanitary conditions, yet in a different venue without the cost of the concert and traveling expenses.

To this day I do regret not attending the Concert on Max Yasgur's Farm in Bethel, New York. But when they had a Woodstock Reunion Concert in 1989, I also took a pass. No regrets, this time!

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

Eating Crow

Now I am currently eating Crow. My cousin,”The Admiral", has corrected my Faux Pas about the name of our old Neighborhood. Pilsen was the neighborhood just to the east of our neighborhood (I looked it up). We were in fact called Lawndale, actually South Lawndale. Although I hate to admit when I am wrong, I will do so.

According to Wikipedia – the bane of Steven Colbert:

The Little Village is a neighborhood on Chicago's West side, historically designated "South Lawndale" it was popularly known as "Czech California" for many years due to the largest ethnic group being of Bohemian heritage. It is home to the largest Mexican-American population in the Midwest, and was formerly the home of large Italian, Polish, Czech, Irish, Lithuanian, Croatian and Slovene ethnic communities. It is located south of the BNSF Railway tracks that run south-west from 18th St and Western Ave to 26th St and Cicero Ave and north of the South Branch of the Chicago River, and west of the north/south railroad tracks just west of Western and east of the city limits at Cicero Ave.

The name "Little Village" was reportedly coined by a realtor in the early 1970s to "capture the Bohemian character of the community". Famous past residents of Little Village include Mayor Anton Cermak, who lived in the 2300 block of S. Millard, across the street from Lazardo Cardenas Elementary- grade K thru 3 grade. Pat Sajak was also a Little Village resident. He attended Gary Elementary School and Farragut High School.

The bulk of Little Village falls within the aldermanic boundaries of the 22nd ward. The commercial strip along 26th Street is said to have the second highest business revenue in the city after N. Michigan Ave.

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Please note the mention of Pat Sajak in the above wikipedia article. Gary Elementary was about 6 city blocks from my home. Many of my High School buddies had gone to Gary. Sajak wasn’t one of them as he was a year behind me and attended Farragut (2 blocks from my house) rather than Harrison (my High School, more than a mile from my house). Farragut did not offer Latin as a course of study. I wanted to be a Lawyer, Doctor or Biologist (at thirteen there are so many options) so I decided that I must learn the Latin language. After four years of Latin, I still don’t have a clue as to why I didn’t take 2 years of Spanish (Our second Language, instead).

I attended Pat’s wedding in Annapolis, Maryland in 1989. I was invited by his wife’s parents and not by him. We were from the same neighborhood and close in age, but we had never been friends. His wife’s parents were my friends in Maryland.
The best part of Pat’s wedding was meeting Vanna White. She actually looked good without makeup and could actually hold an intelligent conversation. She is not the dumb "letter turning" bimbo that she portrays on the Wheel of Fortune. I wanted to knock her socks off, but I was unfortunately there with the current love of my life. I now cannot recall her name, but can I recall that she was the one between Valerie and Michele. I believe it could have been Diane or perhaps Vicki. She couldn’t have been that important to me and I should have hit on Vanna White. Who knows, I could now be Mr. George (Vanna) White.

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