The Citadel Man

I'm not sure why I went there.

The Citadel.

I think it was a combination of things, reasons—some vague, all somewhat silly, and none, by themselves, substantial enough to fortify such a momentous decision:

1. My cousin Jimmy had gone there.
2. Uncles and other cousins had and were attending.
3. Everybody in my family thought it was a terrific school.
4. A number of my good friends were going to enroll.
5. My girlfriend thought it was a neat idea.

Did I want to go there?

I don't think I gave it much thought.

Anyway, there I was, sitting in the barber's chair in Mark Clark Hall in the late summer of 1958 getting my head mowed to military standards. Needless to say, this new lifestyle required a radical adjustment on my part. Being an only child and being raised by a mother and grandmother, whose parenting methods were somewhat permissive, my only brush with anything resembling discipline had been playing high school football. That had not been sufficient to prepare me for The Citadel.
First of all, a person with low self-esteem is not a suitable Citadel candidate. The process of becoming a cadet during your freshman years strips away torso-sized chunks of your self-esteem, so if you have very little to being with, two things will happen to you, neither of which will be good.

You'll become an emotional wreck and be kicked out or quit. Or you'll suffer the indignities, pain an humiliation—driven by the thought that you, yourself, will someday attain the lofty status of upperclassman and eventually the rank of officer, only to replenish your near-emptied tank of self worth by doing unto future freshman what was done unto you.

I guess the first scenario would be the less disastrous. You'll spend a little time in therapy, but you probably needed to anyway.

However, the second scenario, in which you are transformed into what the cadets call a "military dick," is the one to which the awful aspect of permanence is affixed. You become a one-dimensional, mean-spirited, acrimonious, humorless, trifling, boorish Napoleonic figure whose every waking moment is devoted to harassing, if possible, torturing, and debasing freshmen cadets. Your entire value system is predicated on shoes with a quarter-inch of shoe polish, glistening, unscratched brass, lint-free field caps, skin-tight shirt tucks and clean, perfectly oiled rifles. In brief, these guys case lots of trouble and everybody hates them.

Fortunately for society, most of these obnoxious people enter the armed services, where they are usually killed by friendly fire either in combat or sometimes during boot camp.

Based on my family's overestimation of my abilities, I had normal self-esteem and suffered no permanent psychological trauma. Oh sure, I was chewed out and berated by the "dicks" and some of the more emotionally well-adjusted officers, but so were all of the other "knobs," "dumbheads" and "squats." (There were some of the printable names they called freshmen.)

Some guys were harassed more than others and you could always tell just by looking at them if they were going to be prime targets. Frequently, it was the sort of nerdy looking guys, especially the pudgy ones.

Sadly, many of these kids are sent to The Citadel by misguided fathers who feel the school will make "men" of their sons. More often than not, these poor souls end up quitting after a few weeks. My first two roommates were such people. The first, John Brown, lasted two weeks. I was sorry. He was a husky, not bad looking guy with blonde hair, but he had a complete disregard for personal hygiene. Our room began to take on odor similar to the monkey cage at old Hampton Park. John, it seemed, never bathed or brushed his teeth, which were of a brownish yellow hue, and also had a serious bed-wetting problem that was as personally threatening as it was offensive, being that he occupied the top bunk. Naturally, John was completely unable to adjust to the strict code of military fastidiousness, and was raked over the coals by practically every upper-classman in the barrack for his gross appearance.

A few days after John's departure—though he was still "with" me for at least a week—Dave Berenson moved in. I wondered how he'd lasted this long. H was just the kind of oddball that upperclassmen feasted on. He was about 5'9" with a little waist and extremely wide shoulders. He had thin hair, so his crew cut made him look almost bald. He spoke through his nose, had Dopey-sized ears, and eyes that had that vacuous Dan Quayle look. His shoes seemed much too big for him which gave him a slightly clownish air. His pants were too long and bunched up around his waist, so he could never hold a shirt tuck.

Dave was like a live cartoon character. And I guess because Dave's shoulders were so big, Gold felt he could carry one more burden, so he made him a Yankee with a heavy New York accent and laced him at a school where in 1958, 80 percent of the students were Southerners still incensed about losing the Civil War. He stuck it out almost to Christmas. I think the upperclassmen—the sadistic ones anyway—hated to see him leave. They would scream at home till the veins in their temples seemed near bursting. All poor Dave could do was stare cavantly ahead and answer in his strange little cartoon character voice: "Yes, sir," "No, sir," or "No excuse, sir."

Dave's departure was a given the day he forgot to open the glass door to Mark Clark Hall before through it. He spent a while in the infirmary, which gave him time to clear his head and make the rational decision to get the hell out of there. And he did.

My next roommate, Don Hinson, made a relatively uneventful adjustment to the school, which had some disadvantages for me, since in comparison to my first two roommates, even I was considered military sharp.

My first six to eight weeks were grueling, as I was frequently given demerits for "lint on cap," "improper shoe shine," "improper shirt tuck," "tarnished brass" and so on. I walked enough "tours" (marching with your rifle back and forth on the quadrangle for hours) to lose about 20 pounds. A serendipitous even occurred when I met another freshman, James Sumners, who had been in the Marine Reserves. He taught me how to do correctly all the little military requisites at which I had been failing so miserable. Within weeks, I learned how to receive, maintain, as well as give magnificent shirt tucks. Frankly, James gave better shirt tucks than I did, and other freshmen were always asking him for one. He probably could have charged for them. It would have been well worth it. I think an enterprising young cadet could still supplement his education this way although in the 90s it maybe too risqué, a double entendre to be known at The Citadel as a guy who "gives good tuck."

But this was the 50s and with James's help, I became one of the "top knobs" in the company. I mean, after all, this was quite easy, I soon figured out. Shining shoes, polishing brass, having a skin tight shirt tuck, learning the manual of arms, marching. How much intellect did this take? I became obsessed. Some upperclassmen even complimented me now. I made the freshman drill team.

On the other hand, that aspect of college that requires mental skill completely escaped my attention. When I should have been studying, I was polishing and shining. When I did open a book it was only because there was a test the next day I was an academic zombie. When I received my first semester report, I was not only shocked at the abysmal state of my grades, but at the fact that I was receiving my grades in January. I didn't even realize the college year was divided into two semesters, not that it would have mattered. Once I discovered how to interpret grade point ratios, my plight seemed even worse. My God, I thought to myself, they want you to be both a military and an academic genius at this ridiculous school. It was certainly easier to do the former, so I decided to aim my efforts in that direction and sort of do like I did when I was in high school—give the least scholastic effort possible to maintain a passing average. This was to prove very difficult for a person whose idea of a study habit was biting his nails while reading. I continued my maximal military/minimal academic plan of action into the second semester.

Despite my becoming a "squared-away squat," I was still treated with contempt and complete disrespect by some upperclassmen, and there was always an ambitious junior corporal (this was the highest rank a junior could obtain) lurking around somewhere to scream, "Halt, dumbhead, where do you think you're going with your chin sticking out like that? Rack that chin in! Pull your shoulders back!" The junior squad leaders were, perhaps, the most oppressive of all the upperclassmen, because they were constantly bucking for rank. If they had a John Brown or Dave Berenson on their squads, their chances for promotion to officer could be jeopardized.

But even their bilious antics did not impress me as much as the senior officers. For some reason, these guys looked like grizzled war veterans, although, at the most, they were but 22 years old, four years above myself. They had 4 o'clock shadows at 10 a.m. They strode through the barracks with unmitigated self-assurance. They had made rank. There was no one left to impress. Some of them looked like figures out of war movies and comic books I'd seen 10 years earlier. There was our company commander, Jim Ridgeway. He had one of those rotund, powerful voices that all company commanders should have; and his heavy drawl seemed more like that of a Confederate officer. Our platoon leader, Tom Clark, when dressed in fatigues, looked exactly like one of those bedraggled bearded, slouch-shouldered soldiers in "The Sands of Iwo Jima." Neither one of them seemed thrilled about chastising freshman, and only did it when it was blatantly necessary. The general impression was that this was their last year. The ranting and raving at freshmen had been delegated to others.

There was one salient exception to this rule—our first sergeant, Stan Robinski. The guy was the prototype first sergeant—a tough, irritable, bellicose, by-the-book tyrant, who only smiled when he would read pain in the eyes of his quarry. When the sergeant stopped you, even though you kept saying to yourself, "This is not a serious situation. This is a military school and what he's doing is just part of the process…Mommy!" He would get about one inch from your face, glare at you with hot ingot eyes, as though, if the school allowed, he would pull a pistol from his side holster and blow a hole through your skull to preserve the integrity of the corps. Even without the tirade that always followed, he was intimidating just to look at.

The first time I encountered him was as I was running down the stairwell (required of freshmen), I quickly gave a salute: "Good morning, Sgt. Robinski, sir."

"Hold it, idiot!" He stared contemptuously at me. "You don't salute a non-commissioned officer. Do you understand (screaming one inch from my face), Mr. Cos—(trying to pronounce my name)? What's your name, Mister pop off?"

"My name is cadet recruit Coskrey, W.R., sir." I shot back, successfully avoiding a stammer, but not a very blatant voice crack on "sir."

He leaned around to my left ear and screamed so loudly into it, I knew my eardrum must have burst: "If I catch you saluting me again, maggot breath, your ass is mine. Do you hear me, Mr. Coskrey!!!???"

I thought to myself, "No, I don't hear you Sgt Markoff, especially since I am now permanently deaf in one ear." But not being a total idiot, I answered, "Yes sir, Sgt. Mar—Robinski, sir."

"You better get my name right, too, Mr. Coskrey. Now get the hell out of here," he shouted as he watched me run down the stairwell and march away, accidentally bumping into a metal trash can in my haste. I think Sgt. Robinski was personally responsible for at least a dozen freshmen not finishing the year.

If you're wondering whether we freshmen ever got a break, we did, and it came in the form of the senior privates. They were the Hawkeye Pierce types. They couldn't have cared less about the military system, coming to formation sipping up their patns, tucking in their shirts, wearing scuffed-up shoes and selling donuts, ice cream and Playboy magazines in the barracks lat at night. The selling was, of course, against regulations, but somehow, they managed to get away with it.

They got their occasional demerits—usually from the army tactical officers—but the cadet officers seemed to look the other way. These people, assuming they were just as intractable in their freshmen year, must have really gone through hell, so I guess the cadet officers felt it would be cruel and unusual punishment to persecute them again.

Whenever a senior private stopped you, you could relax. In fact, that's what they'd tell you, "Relax, Mr. Coskrey. At ease." But they were not usually doing this out of humanity, they always had an angle. Either they were selling something, or in my case, since I was a local boy, they would want me to get them a date or at least introduce them to some prospects, usually at the Tea Dance, where Charleston girls unknowingly risked soiling their reputations by socializing with some of the horniest men in existence. Once these guys got on the subject of females, the conversation quickly degenerated into the most libidinous details of what they fantasized a certain girl at the Tea Dance would be like if some kind of miracle would allow them to "get lucky" for once.

My only unpleasant experience with a senior private was with Chris Matthews. I knew him because we had gone to the same high school, but not well, since he was four years older. Christ was a big guy, about 220 pounds or so—of fat. He was no athlete. One day at mess, he asked me and another freshman, Robert Hanley, to make him a peanut butter sandwich and bring it up to his roon. He said he wouldn't be there, so we should just leave it on his table. Robert and I, instead of just doing what we were told, decided (a little irrationally) that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for freshmen to take revenge on an upperclassman. We decided to make Chris a peanut butter sandwich that would last him several days, despite his apparently abnormal appetite.

We used two jars of peanut butter and had to use four slices of bread to keep the contents from breaking through. I guess the sandwich weighed a couple of pounds. We put it in a paper bag and left it on Chris's table, as ordered. I guess we plebes were as stupid as the upperclassmen said we were because this was certainly a very stupid plan. I mean Christ had to only look at the sandwich to see that it was not your regular 6-ounce peanut butter variety. Did we really think he was going to start munching right into it, then get halfway through and start choking before he realized he was attempting to ingest 2 pounds of peanut butter? Maybe we did.

I think all freshmen at The Citadel undergo bouts of temporary insanity. It's a sort of coping mechanism.

Anyway, a couple of hours later, Christ burst through the door, but not the friendly, pudgy Chris who was a former high school mate. No, this was Chris, the enraged 220-pound senior private, who was transformed:

"Get your asses to attention, when an upperclassman enters your room, dumbheads!"

Both Robert and I jumped up from the study table simultaneously, each of us glancing at one another from the sides of our eyes.

Chris: "What are you two fairies looking at each other for?" I brought you two wise asses a present, this 10-pound peanut butter sandwich you made for me. I've decided to go on a diet, but I remembered how thin and emaciated you poor guys looked, so I want you to eat the sandwich. Actually, I don't want to be unfair, so I made another 10-pound sandwich, so that you can both have one. Now I'm very concerned about you boys, so do make sure you eat them. I'm going to stay right here till you both finish. Here (screaming) eat them now."

We opened the sandwiches and started eating.

Chris: "Faster, we'll be forming to go to dinner in 20 minutes. I want those sandwiches to disappear in 10 minutes."

Me: "Sir, can we get some water, sir?"

Chris: "Hell no, you've got nine minutes."

Robert and I finished our sandwiches.

It wasn't until three days later that our bowels functioned again. It wasn't until 1978 that I ate peanut butter again. In late spring, we had our company party at The Citadel Beach House. That's where the freshmen were "recognized" by the upperclassmen (an acknowledgement that the freshmen had successfully completed the plebe system). There was a lot of handshaking, beer drinking and a number of fist-fights between junior corporals and vindictive freshmen. Chris, Robert and I laughed over the peanut butter sandwiches. Robinski got knee walking drunk and completely blew his image. I suffered the not unexpected indignity of being placed on academic probation and never resumed my studies.

I have my memories. I have the life skills I learned that year at The Citadel which serve me to this day. Without a doubt, I have the best shirt tuck in my office.

Last Call

March 1999
Last Call
By Bob Coskrey

It was an unseasonably balmy day in New York City last November 24th, as my wife, Barbara, and I sat in the Stage Delicatessen with “M” and “L,” * two of our oldest and best friends. I have known “M” (the husband) since about 1960, before he had met “L” and before I had met Barbara, even “M” is that special category of old friend, not someone I had played basketball or football with, or shared bouts of pre-test anxiety, or even hormonally bonded moments of libidinous leering into Ashley Hall dormitories from its on-campus cave.** “M” had earned that special beer bottle shaped asterisk next to his name. He had served—and served honorably—with me in the Budweiser Brigade, the Remy Martin Regiment, the Absolute Army. “M” is that particular pal, that charter member cohort, that prototypical and proverbial accomplished accomplice—the Drinking Buddy.

And not just a run-of-the-mill, everyday variety. We had shared tragedy, ecstasy, humiliation, hilarity, terror, boredom, and ennui, even a jail cell (sometimes all in one day), but additionally, and just as important, “M” had provided me with years of non-stop, over-the-top, uncensored, free entertainment, because he would always do and say things, most so outrageous that I, as “disgusting” a writer as I am, won’t even be able to repeat here. I will only say that alcohol was always involved, girls usually, clothes occasionally, and inhibition never. In fact, his lack of inhibition and propensity for saying what others only dare to think, remind me of none other than the present day “King of all Media,” as well as all that is vile and immoral, and this similarity in personality is certainly one reason why I am a Howard Stern fan.

New York is my favorite place to visit, with its thousands of terrific restaurants, theatre, nightlife, museums, history, and just plain non-stop excitement, so the idea of my wife and I spending five days there with “M” and his wife had kept me revved up for the moment like a kid counting down the days to his first trip to Disney World.

“L” and Barbara would browse around the stores on 5th Avenue pretending they could afford to buy things, while “M” and I would move from bar to bar like well-buzzed honey bees sampling the mood altering nectar of each. By the time we were all ready to go out for the evening, “M” would be in peak performance condition, and it would not simply be a night of entertainment, but I would have tons of material to draw from. Who knows, maybe even a novel would emerge from this meeting of New York and “M.” There might even be a movie similar to those Dracula or Abbott and Costello, Tarzan, or Ernest in New York (I didn’t see that one, of course): “M Swills Manhattan,” or “M Tells Big Apple to ‘Bite Me’.”

And so not only lunch but launch time had arrived and we all sat at the table and prepared to fuel up for blast off:

L: Heineken.
Barbara: Miller Lite.
Me (stuttering in nerve tingling anticipation): A…A..Huh…Heineken.

The tension built in my chest, as my heart palpitated faster, and I tried to appear nonchalant reading the upside down menu.

I looked up at the waiter and I thought I saw that nefarious glint take hold, as he kicked off the opening ceremonies of the New York Swingathon 1998 with the words: “I’ll have a water, please.”

I looked around for Allen Funt or Rod Serling. I thought about running outside to see if the sun was setting in the East. All is chaos, the world is in disorder, cares would be driving on the sidewalk, the Central Park horses would be riding in their own carriages pulled by blubbery tourists, and Jesse Helms and Ben Vereen would be dating publicly.

Apparently unaware of my demented state, “M” let the other shoe drop.

M: Yeah, I haven’t had a drink in two weeks. I had a physical and I’ve got borderline liver problems. I’ve even joined A.A. I feel great.
Me (thinking): Well, I don’t! I’ve been looking forward to this for six months. This is like taking Christie Brinkley back to your apartment and somehow she turns out to be David. And couldn’t you have waited a few more weeks? What a liver among friends? You just get another one and then you can drink even more.

Ashamed of the selfishness of my thoughts, I managed to utter a, no doubt, unconvincing “Great, great.”

Mixed feelings? Osterized is more like it. On the one hand, I was, of course, happy that one of my oldest and dearest friends had taken a monumental step in his life and seemed sincerely happy about it, but at the same time, I was profoundly disappointed that I would not have a first class ticket on the “Mr. M’s Wild Ride Through Manhattan,” and that tradition would now compel me to cross out the beer bottle shaped asterisk next to his name.

Even more depressing was the gradual realization that of my original list of drinking buddies, there was now but one left and he lived two states away. Over the years, two had stopped drinking, one had died, and another had unofficially resigned in protest of my, making him pay for damage to a window he had stumbled into.

And so here I am at a crossroads. Do I really even need a drinking buddy at the age of 59? For the past 15 years, with all of them living out of state I only saw them a grand total of maybe four times a year anyway. But all guys, no matter how geeky, are supposed to have a drinking buddy, so how can I look in the mirror and call myself a man without one?

Could I go to a bar and recruit? I don’t think so. Sounds a little gay.
Thinking: Me (sipping a beer in a downtown bar): Excuse me, but I’m looking for a drinking buddy. Can I buy you a beer?
Man (Look of disgust on his face): Get away from me, you old queen.
Me: You misunderstand. I’m as hetero as you can get. I’ve got a V-chip in my TV that permanently blocks out the Lifetime Channel. I once removed my own tonsils rather than paying a high deductable. Sometimes, during cold spells, I go running without shoes, or pants either for that matter.
Man: Get away from me, you creep!
Bartender: Hit the road, Jack, we don’t want your kind in here.
Obviously that approach won’t work, so with Bill Macchio’s permission, here goes:

Married, white, flagrantly heterosexual, 59 year old male seeks a male drinking buddy. Marital status, age, race or sexual orientation unimportant (though gays or bi’s should be forewarned—the relationship will never go beyond the dancing stage). Must have or appreciate cynical view toward people and life in general; should enjoy talking about sports, movies, books, current events, should enjoy talking about politics for its comedic value only; must be capable of saying and doing outrageous things for my vicarious enjoyment; extroverted “Howard Stern” like personality a plus; must be physically healthy; mental health unimportant as long as you’re not dangerous. Most important of all, must be willing to sign a contact stating that you will continue to function as my drinking buddy till only death do us part. Leaves of absence will be given for medical treatment for high blood pressure, pancreatitis, and liver transplants, if necessary.

Also, should be willing and able to travel to New York next November with me and my wife as proof of commitment.

Please write care of this magazine. Auditions (“wet runs”) will be given at Crawford’s Tavern in Mt. Pleasant.

Bottoms up!

*I am using initials only to protect the innocent and guilty alike.
**The school has (or had) a cave-like structure on its campus.

The King is Dead (Try to tell that to his fans)

I don't like Elvis. I never have.

There, I've said it. I've been wanting to say it for years, but could never muster the courage. However, I realize that Omnibus is a fairly safe forum for making this confession. I doubt it has very many Elvis fans among its readers. But if word somehow filters out to the wrong people, I may soon be sharing an apartment with Salman Rushdie.

It's not that I have a personal dislike for Elvis, the person. It's his music, his style, his showbiz persona that I always found less than appealing. In fact, if I were asked to rank Elvis for entertainment value on an ascending 1-to-10 scale, I probably would place him at number 2—just above Dick van Patten but right behind Charro.

Blasphemy, you say? Un-American at least? In some quarters, no doubt, both descriptions are apt. If I were to satnd at the corner of Rivers Avenue and Remount Road with a large Elvis Slept with Cale Yarborough sign next to an Iraqi soldier burning an American flag, the soldier would have enough time to run two blocks toward safety, while I was being tire-ironed to death.

Of course, it would be absurd for me to deny that Elvis had a great voice, that the majority of his pop music would proclaim him "King of Rock and Roll," and that he was apparenrly not just an immensely talented guy but also a very nice one. (Nowhere in the mountainous volumes of posthumous print about Elvis do you ever hear an unkind word about him.)

So how could I not like him?

Maybe it had something to do with the first time I saw him on TV. I think I was about 15. Here was this guy with sideburns, a grease-gun-style hairdo, a tacky looking shirt, tight pants and blue suede shoes. I couldn't relate, although the media reported Elvis and instant hit with teenagers across the country. I sure didn't have any friends who looked like that.

In fact, to me, Elvis looked a lot like what the adults called a "drugstore cowboy." I think I first heard the term at 8 or 9 when my mother pointed out this guy walking down Meeting Street. And sure enough—perhaps only by coincidence—he was headed toward the Central Drugstore. Up to that point, I had been somewhat impressed. I had mistakenly thought this person and other like him were real cowboys. And in 1948, Roy Rogers was my ultimate hero; so anyone in cowboy garb really got me excited. I never got a satisfactory definition of "drugstore cowboys." I was only told they weren't "real" cowboys; they probably came from Nashville or even North Charleston.

But Elvis was no real cowboy either. Cowboys didn't wear black leather jackets. He also looked a lot like some of the thugs I'd see at high school dances or football games hanging around their motorcycles or cars, checking under each other's hoods. (Hey, maybe that's why we called them "hoods.")

So I guess I saw Elvis as a kind of combination Drugstore Cowboy/Hood.

As his music evolved, and his celebrity exploded, I continued to find each new hit more offensive than the previous one. Sam Cook, Fats Domino, Johnny Mathis, now those were people whose songs became entrapped within my musical memory bank, very much to my enjoymen! "Sentimental Reasons," "Blueberry Hill," "Chances Are," I could listen to their tunes to the exlusion of all other sounds—especially Elvis renderings such as "Blue Suede Shoes" (I never knew anyone who wore them), "Heartbreak Hotel" (Motel would have been more appropriate, or "You Ain't Nothin' but a Hounddog" (Why?).

I didn't like the way any of his music sounded. His style was outrageous—for those days at least. But then I liked Little Richard's music and he had no competition when it came to outrageous performances. Perhaps it was the Hillbilly tinge. But in those days there were some songs by Ferlon Huskey and Faron Young that I liked, so that really doesn't explain it either.

Elvis made a lot of terrible movies in the 60s. This was sort of overshadowed by the emerging British rock groups in the mid-to-late 60s. In the 70s, Elvis discovered Las Vegas, and it was the uniting of these two show biz Leviathons that finally made me see what it really was that I didn't like about Elvis: the while rhinestone-studded, crotch-hugging suit with the flared pants, the 1-foot-high collar open to his navel, the gold chains and the equally garish cowboy boots. Here, with the longer, blacker and better-lubed hairdo, performing at the neon and sleaze capital of show business was the essence of tawdriness, the epitome of bad taste. This was the tackiest human being on the face of the planet.

Thank God, being an American citizen, I was allowed the right not to listen to or look at him. And being a fervent supporter of the First Amendment, I never tried to prevent others from revealing their low thresholds for entertainment.

Then at the zenith of his tackiness, after having produced one of the worst songs of all times (even for him) "A Hunk of Burning Love," Elvis died, under very tragic circumstances. I felt sad that a genuinely well-liked human being and music legend had passed on prematurely. I also felt relieved that there would be no follow up to "A Hunk of Burning Love."

Little did I know that his demise would cause an even greater sensation than his life For in death, he somehow spawned a malevolent pod, a seed that grew into an entity more grotesque, more foul than the sum total of all his horrific melodies, movies and outfits—the eternally grieving, forever worshipping, insufferably obnoxious Elvis Fan.

Indeed, he may have provided me with yet another reason to dislike him—his legacy. These people are a sort of "Night of the Living Dead" sub-culture or maybe even sub-species.

I think I first noticed them on the first anniversary of Elvis's death. The TV news showed thousands of them moving en masse toward Graceland. I don't think there were that many then. They seem to be multiplying though.

It's my theory they rise up from the bowels of trailer park septic tanks. I don't know how else to explain these people who all seem to be in the same age range (late 40s to mid 60s). Most of them are women. My theory here is that most of the males are charged with protecting the Elvis paraphernalia in their trailers during tornadoes, while the females take shelter elsewhere. Tornadoes, incidentally, are one of only two ways to destroy an Elvis fan. The other is to trap one and force him to listen to a Doors album in Dolby for at least 45 seconds.

These are truly wretched looking people. The women wear either bouffant hairdos or greasy, stringy long hair. The men wear caps advertising automotive parts. They all smoke or have a chaw in their cheeks incessantly, unless there's a tornado alert, since they must then focus their limited mental abilities on the emergency.

Unfortunately, they can never afford to move out of their doomed trailer existence because they spend every last cent on collecting the ever-increasing volume of Elvis memorabilia and making pilgrimages to Graceland.

This group is also responsible for the proliferation of another cultural blight. Tabloid magazines. These were once on the decline due to limited subject matter—UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot. Then came stories about Elvis ghosts and Elvis sightings. Can't you imagine the "editorial" meeting?

Editor to staff: "You won't believe this but I have a group out there that is infinitely more stupid and more gullible than our regular readership."

And the music industry quickly followed with its perpetual market saturation of Elvis music. We now have Elvis Day, week and month. We have Elvis film festivals and TV movie reruns. Sometimes in changing my car radio stations, I'll run into an Elvis song on two or three stations simultaneously.

And not to be forgotten are the millions of Elvis impersonators, who enter every talent show from the Citadel's to Ed McMahon's. And, of course, they have become such a formidable force, they have their own conventions now. Maybe one day they will align with the more mundane Elvisphiles and form their own country—right there at Graceland.

It would be fine with me if we could just give them the entire state of Tennessee. It would be the world's largest trailer park. I and my fellow non-Elvis fans could have the rest of the country and all the Elvis freaks could all live happily, together, where they could inundate their existence with Elvis music, movies, books, newspapers, impersonator contests and séance groups. None of that would be allowed in the relatively normal remainder of the country.

Oh, of course, that will never happen, but I can dream, can't I? As a matter of fact, I had a very salutary dream last night:

Elvis, being the nice guy everyone always said he was, appeared during the halftime ceremony of the world monster truck demolition derby with this very succinct announcement: "I'm dead, people. Get a life!"

Eau de Loquer–Rhum

Perusing an old Rivers High School annual, I came across some pictures of myself on the football team. I hadn't even attended Rivers, but this was 1957, when Charleston High, Rivers High, and Murray Vocational High had to combine their collective gridiron resources to come up with enough people for a team. I don't even possess a Charleston High School annual anymore, having lost them all moving from one place to another.

Seeing those pictures brought back a lot of memories, the first of which was the aroma of the locker room, an incredibly pungent smell of post-pubescent sweat, unwashed week-old jock straps and socks so stiffened they had permanent folds and creases that caused pressure sores—a smell so powerful that if they could collect it, they could use it against the Iraqis, or at least as a cheap substitute for smelling salts or paint remover. On the other hand, maybe the EPA should get involved; this may be a major contributor to acid rain or the ozone layer holes.

As Dana Carvey's "grouchy old man" would say, "Sure, it stunk like Hell, but we liked it!" It was my only year of varsity football, as I finally succumbed to a nagging algebra injury in my senior year. We were an all white team, this being the pre-integration era. We were also very light, our offensive and defensive lines averaging probably 150 pounds, but we were deceptively slow. If through some kind of time warp we could be allowed to play today's high school, we would be soundly thrashed—unless we could use our superior slowness to our advantage, sort of like a change-up pitch in baseball. Opposing players, expecting our runners to be at least average speed, would be trying to tackle them two or three yards ahead of where they were. Maybe we could at least win one game before the rest of the tams made the right adjustments and our losing streak began to approach infinity.

I will, however, pray there is not a time warp. We had a hard enough time winning against the competition 33 years ago.

I weighed about 160 pounds at the time and played guard on offense and linebacker on defense. I had never played organized sports prior to high school, and I can recall my first practice as a somewhat frightening experience, although, of course, I could never display my feelings. I, as most everyone else, wanted to play a prominent position. I wanted to carry the ball, make a touchdown, so my girlfriend and the entire student body could echo my name throughout the stadium: "Goooooo Coskrey!"

However, the coach, after carefully noting my natural ability to run, carry or catch the ball, decided I had what it took to be a lineman, that same aptitude that annoyed my mother during my kindergarten years—an innate proclivity for grabbing hold of someone's leg(s) and never letting go. How many times during a game would a referee have to blow his whistle and scream, "Number 31, let go of his damn leg!" Or an opposing player say to his recently tackled teammate, "I think that strange kid at linebacker was calling you 'Mommy.'"

Our team was a bizarre amalgam of varying backgrounds and social strata, being composed of guys from aristocratic, below Broad families; middle-class families (Charleston High School); a lot of Jewish kids from Rivers; and those mostly from working families (Murray). During the other sports seasons, we all became rivals again and played for our individual schools. In this, my junior year, we intermixed an element that was alien to all of us—two kids from what we called a "reform school" in Florence. In a modern argot, you might say there was a great deal of "hype" surrounding this event. These guys were rough. They were very mean. They could even beat up the guys from Murray. They were athletic psychopaths who sublimated their violent behavior into the socially acceptable game of football. And they were going to kick some butt at practice.

The big one, Brandon, weighed about 185 pounds, we were told, was an All-State candidate, and, much to my concern, played my position, guard and linebacker. The average-sized one, Ollie, played halfback.

The first anxiety-packed day of practice, there they were in the locker room. I wondered if their specialized admixture of sweat and body odor would have an exacerbating effect on the already semi-noxious locker room environment. Would a cumulus cloud form at locker-top level and occasionally pelt us with acrid rain? Might there even be lightning bolts with a residual smell of rancid socks instead of the usual ozone?

Fortunately, none of this occurred, but I had a more pressing reality to deal with—Brandon Anderson, who was now undressing to get into his practice togs. In 1957, there were no weight training programs for high school athletes. Apparently, however, Brandon had found a way to get around this. Either they had a weight program at the reform school, or, I thought, maybe he got that way breaking rocks, because had the build of a 30-year-old construction worker. In observing him—in a very manly, heterosexual way, of course—I was surprised to find that there were a distressing number of places on my body where muscles were supposed to be, but weren't.

Happily for me, I never had to butt heads with Brandon because we both played on the same side of the line—except once during a painful practice ritual where a lineman tries to fight off a blocker and tackle the runner. I was the tackler and Brandon was the blocker in this case. We stood about ten yard apart with the runner directly behind Brandon. Brandon made his usual snarling noises and yelled, "Meat! Meat!" Brandon normally saved his best for the game and took mercy on his less developed teammates. "I've got nothing to worry about," I thought. "This is all show."

At the coach's signal, Brandon and the supremely secure runner came straight at me. Brandon was still screaming, "Arrggghhhh!" His eyes were glaring and feral. I was prepared for the worst. If I were doing to die, why couldn't it be in a game, where I might at least achieve fame or martyrdom? Too late now, I thought, as I braced in preparation for the collision, hoping that Brandon might somehow stumble, and I would not only be able to live but also make a clean tackle. Brandon threw a steel-hard, crunching body block into one of my numerous soft spots, my defenseless lower abdomen. I felt pain enter and wind leave my body. I also felt a stinging sensation and a spreading warmth in my bladder area. Yes, he had knocked the you-know-what out of me. But, miraculously, I was able to grasp the runner in my famous "Mommy-Leg" tackle as he tried to run over my crumpled form. I was in my "Mommy-Leg" trance now with my arms locked desperately about his legs. He tripped trying to extricate himself and fell. Brandon extended his Arm & Hammer trademark arm to help me up: "Nice tackle, Bob, but it sounded like you said something like, 'Mommy, Mommy, never leave me.'"

I quickly responded in a strained, breathless voice. "Must have been Carl (the runner). He's kind of a mama's boy, if you get my drift, Brandy."

"Oh yeah, I get ya, Bob. Hey, please don't call me Brandy, okay? That's for girls and dogs."

Me, apologetically: "Sorry, Brandon, no offense."

Brandon: "No problem, Bob. By the way, the front of your pants are wet. Did you wet your pants?"

Me, with my voice now almost normal and in my most masculine tone: "Oh yeah, I know. It's no big deal. It's just that I love bein' out here hittin' so much. I don't want to take the time to go to the bathroom. Know what I mean?"

Brandon, looking at me a little curiously: "Uh, yeah, right, Bob. We better get back in line."

I think I gained some measure of respect from Brandon that day, and I would occasionally catch him pointing at me, smiling, and talking to Ollie, when he thought I wasn't looing. Yeah, I think that tackle really impressed him, because he hardly ever hit me hard any more, and never again below the waist.

We went on to a 5-5 record that year, quite an accomplishment for us.

Brandon went on to become All-State. Ollie didn't, but they both became important personages at Charleston High. Today, Ollie is a legitimately successful businessman. Brandon became a city policeman, then a car salesman. I've lost track of him since then. I last used the "Mommy-Leg" tackle in 1982 to catch my runaway collie.

I occasionally have locker room flashbacks in Texaco station restrooms.

Beyond and Beneath the Tourist Information Center

As all well-informed tourists and most residents are aware, Charleston’s reputation as a virginal reservoir (though perhaps a little stagnant now) of singular beauty (albeit, frequently brick deep), unparalleled graciousness (unless one becomes too aggressive at White Point Gardens), and superlative achievements (though nothing particularly noteworthy—other than the celebrated horse-diaper/manure controversy—has occurred since 1861) is not longer the well-kept secret of Civil War (“War Between the States”) freaks, antique hustlers, Citadel alumni and aficionados of the regatta circuit.

Charleston is now visited regularly by people who previously had gone to the Catskills, Williamsburg, New Orleans, Key West, or even to sleep, perhaps. These multitudinous pilgrimages began about two years ago, and, of course, the Spoleto Festival has acted as a phenomenal catalyst.

Of our city’s manifold attributes, I feel its lengthy list of notable achievements is possibly the key to maintaining its now burgeoning growth rate as a super-tourist Mecca. People (and tourists as well) are always impressed by superlatives. For after all, it is the American credo to extol being successful, winning, and being Number One—and, by God (or without Him), no matter how one gets there.

Without a doubt, Charleston can claim some very impressive achievements and statistics: 1. The oldest city museum; 2. The oldest municipal college; 3. The most churches per capita; 4. The fort whose siege signaled the beginning of the Civil War (“War Between the States”); and on an on.

However, in looking to the future (a word which many Charlestonians recoil from as Dracula did from daylight), I fear the day may come when the tourists’ appetite for these achievements, and the landmarks which represent them, may become cloyed. They may one day reflect upon the historical and architectural significance of the Nathaniel Russell House’s flying circular stairway and say, “Who the hell cares? I’m never coming back to this place again!”

Not wishing to witness this mortifying turn of events, I have taken it upon myself to preclude, or at least delay, its occurrence. After assiduous research and lucubration, which resulted in my missing “Hogan’s Heroes,” “the Virgil Ward Show,” and “Scream Theater” five weeks in a row, I have managed to exhume some heretofore unknown bits of “Charlestonia” that well may serve to whet the appetite of the most mercurial tourist and, perhaps, even enlighten and impress many Charlestonians as well.

My investigation revealed the following information:

1. Charleston hold the record for having the largest number of people with interchangeable first and last names in attendance at a single social event (24 at the Bachelor’s Society Ball in 1961): Legare Moultrie and Moultrie Legare, Townsend Pringle and Pringle Townsend, Jenkins Mikell and Mikell Jenkins, Rutledge Prioleau and Prioleau Rutledge, Hastie Stoney and Stoney Hastie, Drayton Ball and Ball Drayton, Bissell Middleton and Middleton Bissell, Rhett Gibbs (male) and Gibbs Rhett (female), Manigault Johnson and Johnson Manigault, Whaley Bailey and Bailey Whaley, Thomas Pratt-Wilson and Wilson Pratt-Thomas, Barnwell Buist and Buist Barnwell.

2. Charleston (this actually occurred on James Island; my study included the entire metropolitan area) has recorded the greatest number of people attending a single sporting event with the sobriquet, “Bubba”: 16 in a slow-pitch baseball game between the “Ram Room” and the Uncle Bunny’s Supper Club” on July 11, 1975. The previous record, incidentally, was nine at The Summerville Speedway in 1963.

3. Charleston is the city which recorded the greatest number of people receiving orthopedic and/or spinal cord injuries as a direct result of somnambulism during a public event (11 at the Charleston Pirates/ Gastonia Rangers baseball game on July 22, 1977).

4. Charleston the city which has the largest municipally owned inner-city lake having central fountains less than ten inches high and less than eighteen inches in diameter.

5. Charleston is the city having the most practicing attorneys per capita.

6. Charleston is the city have the most attorneys practicing on the same street (Broad).

7. Charleston is the city having recorded the greatest number of attorneys simultaneously out of their offices before 11:30 a.m. (439 on Broad Street, June 24, 1977).

8. Charleston is the city having recorded the greatest number of attorneys at the scene of a two-car wreck (413 on Broad and Meeting streets, June 24, 1977).

9. Charleston boasts a furniture store which recorded the greatest number of end-of-the-month sales within a one-week period (8).

10. A North Charleston, Mr. Eddie Camshaft of 102 Grits Lane, Creosote Estates, established a new distance record for tire marks in a business zone by scratching of and burning rubber for a span of 3 ½ city blocks on August 18, 1973. This record was thought to have been bettered in February, 1977, by Mr. Camshaft’s uncle, Fireball Ferguson, when he burned out a startling 7 ¾ blocks. Mr. Ferguson was disqualified, however, when a school safety patrol member was found wedged under his rear wheels, giving him extra traction.

11. The Charleston area also holds a number of records in the musical category, such as: a) the most nonconsecutive plays of a single 78-rpm record in a twelve hour period (490, “Sixty-Minute Man,” The Platter, at the Seaside, on Friday, July 7, 1958); b) the most consecutive plays of a record of a patriotic nature in a twelve hour period (601, “Dixie,” at American Legion Post 110 on Saturday, June 10, 1968). An attempt was made at a 24-hour record. However, this was aborted after seven hours, when twenty-two year-old Marine Lance Corporal Wendell Suggs of Biloxi, Mississippi, was accidentally thrown by his dancing partner, “Big Betty” Bouffant, against the juke box, thereby rendering the machine inoperable. Nevertheless, the night was one of no mean accomplishment, as Corporal Suggs, who received a permanently debilitating back injury, became the first person to be awarded V.A. disability benefits based on injuries caused by a Wurlitzer product; and still another record was established for the most Rebel Yells given in a 12-hour period (1,208). The old record, 1,701, had been set at the Battle of Chickamauga, Georgia, in 1863.

12. One of Charleston’s TV stations bas the distinction of producing the only known film footage of a man taking picture of a pile of horse manure, followed by an investigative interview with the photographer. Actually, although this was, of course, a nonpareil happening, it was not totally unexpected, since local TV news shows are often forced to furnish their viewers with an abundance of meaningless crap in one form or another.

13. Another Charleston TV station diligently shrouds the uniqueness of having a sports announcer who has never attended, much less played in, an athletic event. This same sport also established an “inarticulation” record by being unable to pronounce a one syllable category proper name (Bert Jones) on seven successive tries on October 10, 1975.

14. Charleston also holds the record for having registered the greatest number of nonmilitary males in a three block area, not marching in a parade, and not belonging to the same society or organization, but who were all dressed the same: 302 with blue blazers, khaki pants, and regimental stripe ties on March 22, 1978, on Broad Street, between East Bay and Meeting.

15. Charleston also holds the record for the greatest number of females with identical hair adornment, driving cars valued in excess of $14,000, within a two-hour time frame: 183 with white-patterned blue scarves in Mercedes between the hours of 2:30 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. on June 7, 1977.

16. Charleston possesses the greatest number of Jeeps, Jeepsters, Jeep Wagons, Landrovers, and station wagons with plantation names on their sides. This practice, as well as those referred to in Numbers 14 and 15, are some of the city’s myriad, distinctive contributions in the category of emblems of social status. Gaillard Pinckney Cheves VI set an Atlantic Coast record in 1976, when he had Patricians’ Point emblazoned on all six of the family’s vehicles, not to mention bicycles, tricycles, skateboards and, finally, his wheelchair (he had become temporarily disabled in an accident when he lost control of his Country Squire, while admiring its reflection in a King Street store window). Though most of the plantation names have regrettably been profoundly unimaginative and typical (“Tara Hall,” “Shenandoah” and “Trade Wind,” for example), some of the more recent appellations have shown a definite inclination toward originality and a more degage attitude: “Basil Hall,” “Dawn Hall,” (which before some remarkable restructuring—interior and exterior—had been known as “George Langley Hall”), “Huntz Hall,” and “Break Wind.” It is perhaps even more significant to note that a Cadillac wagon bearing the name, “The Kunte Kinte Manor and Sweetshop,” received an award from both the NAACP and the ACLU for making an important contribution toward the achievement of racial harmony.

17. The city’s morning newspaper will corrall a record when in the very near future it becomes the first major southern paper not to have a comics section. The paper sagaciously decided to discontinue the comics when a survey indicated that 84% of its readers rated the editorial section far above the comics in humorous content. Unfortunately, another more recent poll, which the paper was obviously not aware of, also showed that this same group of readers felt that the comics (with the exception of “Dick Tracy”) were intellectually and morally superior to the editorial section.

18. The International Benne-seed-cookie/She-crab Soup Sculpt-off was claimed for the 32nd straight year by the same Charlestonian, 82-year-old Minerva Lowndes Townsend Rutledge Buist Gibbs Barnwell Smythe Johnson, who sculpted a very graceful and intricate piece entitled “God Blessing the ‘Holy City’, as Seen Through the Eyes of the Historic Charleston Foundation.” The materials used in this prestigious contest, for those who are not artistically knowledgeable, are authentic Charleston She-Crab Soup (congealed) and genuine Charleston (of course) Benneseed cookies. Lamentably, the event was blemished somewhat this year, however, when, due to a defective air-conditioning system at the awards ceremonies, Mrs. Johnson’s 32nd masterpiece completely dissolved, revealing to the shocked and somewhat nauseated audience the faintly smiling remains of her pet Angora, the late “Roxy of Lamboll Street,” who, the venerable dame forlornly admitted, “was quite fond of she-crab soup, to the last.”

Of course, I could continue this Charleston braggadocio indefinitely, but I think the information I have unearthed is sufficient to pique the curiosity and interest of the most cynical tourist or the most apathetic resident. And that is my purpose for writing this: to reveal to these people the multifarious but rare charms and achievements of this extraordinary city—to reveal the Charleston beyond and beneath the Tourist Information Center.

(Originally published June 1978)

Getting Tough on Tourists

Slow moving clumps of them inching down our streets, young and tanned, old and varicosed, colorful carriage loads dragged by herniating horses, creeping carloads ogling architecture, Charleston t-shirted zombies shuffling toward the irresistible odors of frying fish meat—tourists—can't live with them, can't live without them. They're Charleston's biggest industry. Without them, the city would time warp back to the pre-Joe Riley days, when there were 3 or 4 good restaurants on the entire peninsula, Market Street was lined with sleazy strip joints, and the only visitors were relatives, lust-driven sailors and history nerds.

They have become as intrinsic a part of the culture as the attractions they come to see. You have "Rainbow Row," St. Michaels," "Fort Sumter," and "The Charleston Tourists." Perhaps some enterprising artist should start doing water colors of them.

And so, I have acknowledged the "can't live without them" part of my keynote statement. I have paid honorable homage to the Charleston tourist.

I am now ethically justified in elaborating on the "can't live with them" portion of that affirmation, or more specifically, why I, along with many other residents, sometimes find these people's behavior extremely annoying.

But this will be no distasteful diatribe, for as the duly elected chairperson of cranks (Citizens Resolved to Act Not Kindly to Strangers), I will also offer meaningful suggestions on rectifying this dilemma:

Annoying Tourist Behavior #1: They are continually walking down the middle of busy streets, totally oblivious to the cars swerving and screeching brakes to avoid hitting them. I refer to this as the Disney World Syndrome, where visitors of course, are allowed to meander mindlessly through the streets with vehicular impunity. You even hear complaints from downtown residents about tourists invading the sanctity of their walled gardens—first one, then two, then a rampaging mob: "Tourists of the Living Dead."

Solution: The reintroduction of cowcatchers, those included attachments that were fastened to locomotives in the last century to push cattle off the tracks. Of course, they could be made of "Nerf" material to prevent injury. You could call them "Charleston Tourist Thumpers," and they could be sold by Market Street vendors. They could even make smaller ones for bicycles, and perhaps a size that would fit on residents' shoes.

Annoying Tourist Behavior #2: Groups of overweight tourists walking 3 and 4 abreast down the sidewalk forcing others into the street.

Solution: The city should pass an ordinance that states if at least one of two or more tourists (or anyone else, for that matter) has a girth in excess of 42 inches or has to be loaded onto a carriage with a crane, they will be compelled to walk in tandem.

Annoying Tourist Behavior #3: Excessively hair men (and occasionally women) who enter eating establishments wearing tank tops.

Solution: Authentic Australian sheep-shearers could be stationed at restaurant entrances. Those refusing to change into more concealing attire would be torso-shaved and perhaps even dipped just for good measure. Those who objected to this would become involuntary dinner guests at an especially created tourist attraction, "High Battery's House of Primates," where they may even feel less "evolution-challenged."

Annoying Tourist Behavior #4: Overly-muscled, strutting macho men tourists wearing no shirts.

Solution: If they refused to put on shirts, their names and telephone number will be engraved in the men's room at the Tree House.

Annoying Tourist Behavior #5: Tourist couples who dress alike. This action says to me: "Individually, you may be of the opinion that each of us sucks, but in our spunky matching outfits we shall overwhelm you with our collective cuteness.

Solution: This is a very serious psychological problem, possibly based on each person's desire to become the other or at least the other's better half, which, if carried to its natural conclusion, could result in each partner surprising the other by having a secret sex change operation. All couples will be given copies of Dr. Joyce Brothers' new book, "Successful Couples Don't Dress Alike," in which she gives multitudinous illustrative examples such as: Sonny and Cher, Lunt and Fontanne, Hepburn and Tracy, Smith and Wesson, Sacco and Vincetti, J. Edgar and Clyde, Ozzie and Harriet and Penn and Teller.

Annoying Tourist Behavior #6: Twenty of more tourists blithely riding in a carriage pulled by a single, nearly collapsed old horse.

Solution: When the carriage reaches the furthest point from its origin will be unhitched and placed into a luxury horse trailer. The tourists will be given two choices at that point: They will pull the trailer back to the stable or they can participate in an extemporaneous sculpturing contest by reaching into the horse's diaper and pulling out two handfuls of end product. The first tourist to fashion the most technically correct hose sculpture will get to wash his hands before walking back to the stable.

There are, of course, additional forms of obnoxious behavior displayed by these sight-seers from Satan, but there's no need for overkill (I could write an entire article on the Tourist introduced "Change Belt").

Critics may carp that our own natives commit these interrelational atrocities, and I concede that they do but I contend we learned this over the years from the tourist hordes. I don't recall the people of my or my parents' generation exhibiting any of the aforementioned behaviors in the pre-tourist occupation days.

Of course, all my proposed solutions are after-the-fact reactions. They are emergency measures that do not attempt to preclude the behavior before it occurs. Therefore, I am recommending that instead of erection of the much debated convention center, we build the Trident Tourist Transformation Center. All tourists would be required to be processed there. Although "hooks" like midnight tennis, golf and bowling leagues might make it more tourist-friendly, the centers' main fare would be a required 3-hour "Seminar on Civilized Behavior" taught by Ashley Cooper.

I urge you, the reader-residents, to join my cause. Tourist coddling is the futile gesture of cowering citizenry. IT's time to get tough and take back our streets!

Dead Give Away

July 1999
Dead Give Away
By Bob Coskrey

Recently, I read that British actor Oliver Reed had died, which I was quite sorry to hear, because I always thought he was an excellent performer, who often played oddball roles, one of the more daring—for the late 60’s anyway—being that which involved a memorable nude scene between him and Alan Bates in “Women in Love.” (Don’t make any unmanly assumptions about this recollection.)

But what really caught my attention in the article were the circumstances under which Mr. Reed made his final exit: he collapsed in a bar in the city of Valletta, Malta, where he was on a movie location. So, I got this mental picture of him alternating singing and carousing with a mixture of colorful local citizens and artsy types, swilling down vast quantities of absinthe and occasionally making witty comments on esoteric subjects such as Marxian (Brothers) philosophy and the impending removal of “Penthouse” from the Wal-Mart on the Isle of Gozo.

If one is going to die, this was certainly an interesting way to do it, especially compared to the mundane avenues most of us take to make our mortal departure, e.g., dying in a soiled hospital bed in a room full of gawking, will-contemplating family members, keeping over from a heat stroke during a whiffle-ball tournament, or maybe worst of all, strangling to death on a pretzel in your lazy boy on the first day of your retirement.

If I could choose, I would expire blissfully in one of my two favorite cities: 1) New York, succumbing painlessly to a stroke, as I and my running pals, Neil Simon and Howard Stern, were sprinting through Central Park, to a lunch date at the Plaza Hotel; or 2) Paris, on the steps of St. Julien Le Pauvre, a small church on the Left Bank that has a night club in the basement, where I had just given a reading from my new historical novel The Post-Rodman Years: A Time for Deep Reflection, or following my being awarded the Legion of Honor and being nicknamed “The Jerry Lewis of Literature” at the Hotel de Ville.

But of course, neither of these things will come to pass—not even close. In fact, I predict that my death will be neither spectacular nor commonplace, but instead an illuminating moment of extreme mortification for myself, family, and friends. While we’re all here together, why don’t we have some fun with what is normally labeled a morbid subject? I’ll list some probably scenarios of my death, and you, the readers, will select one. If you are correct, you will win $5,000 (I will set up a fund) and my egregious egress will result in a substantial reward for a faithful reader. We’ll call it the “Dead Give Away.”

I should add that all Goose Creek and North Charleston residents will be ineligible to participate for two reasons: 1) They may try to influence the outcome, and 2) There’s no need in giving them the money since my demise, in itself, will be reward enough.

The List. I will die…

1. In the parking lot of the Chateau Theatre, with the disturbing contents of a large shopping bag strewn about me, including one which will self-inflate.
2. After being literally torn asunder and eviscerated on Red Bank Road in Goose Creek by a hostile mob of the town’s citizens in a “Night of the Living Dead”-type scenario.
3. After collapsing in a Dollar Tree store while doing Christmas shopping for my wife.
4. In the toilet-paper-bereft bathroom stall of a Texaco station, after having experienced the serendipity of a practical use for the “City Paper.”
5. Along in my bedroom, dressed in my old Nehru suit, with a “Best of Ravi Shankar” CD playing.
6. In my wrecked car on the way to work, having once again forgotten to put my pants on.
7. In my 1958 MG at the topless car wash in North Charleston, where I had innocently misinterpreted the word “topless” to mean a special service for convertibles.
8. At a Slim Whitman concert from burns caused when my upheld cigarette lighter accidentally touched some of the omnipresent polyester.
9. In drag in a gay bar, where I had been doing diligent research for my scholarly tome about male homosexuality, “Queen for a Day.”
10. During a combined FBI/ATF raid of a secret, anti-government Depends Wearers’ meeting, while giving an emotional speech (there wasn’t a dry seat in the house).
11. In a sleazy Rivers Avenue motel in a bed littered with erotic 1940s Walt Disney comic books, and two videos, “The Discovery Channel’s Mating Habits of Ruminants,” and “Mae West—Raw and Raunchy Octogenarian.”
12. Shot by an unknown assailant, shortly after suggesting that some of the Spoleto performers donate some of the excess vowels in their names to the vowel-starved Kosovars.

To increase your chances of winning, you will also be allowed to send in “death scenarios” of your own. Idle threats cannot be substituted. Mail your entries to Bob’s Dead Give Away, P.O. Box 22617, Charleston, S.C., 29413.

Winning a Race

Just once before time's cruel sense of humor recudes me to brisk walking with a stick and prune-loading, I'd like to experience the heady exhilaration of winning a race. I've always found the word "never" extremely depressing, but it is painfully appropriate when the question of this event is posed. My chances are about as good as Momar Khadafi's winning the Nobel Peace Prize or Farrah Fawcett becoming a member of Mensa.

As with the majority of mediocre runners, I console myself by concentrating on less spectacular, but more realistic goals; such as setting a PR or breaking a specific time.

A more competitive but sometimes psychological crushing mind game we run of the mill runners play, is that of familiarizing ourselves with other runners who appear to have race times comparable to ours and then competing (incognito usually) with them. This will increase one's chance of success. However, in my case so far this fall, not only have these runners been beating me (I don't even see them at the finish line), but a few of the others who always finished far behind me are defeating me by demoralizing margins.

Quite frankly, I am not beginning to feel some desperation mixed with my anxiety. I am no longer able to rely on the aforementioned rationalistic goals to prop up my teetering ego, and as a last resort, my psychic defense mechanisms have called upon fantasy to forestall my spending the holidays at Southern Pines.

My initial fantasies used two approaches to accomplish my objective of becoming a winner: the first though base trickery and deceit and the second through groveling and self-degradation. With the former, I would either try to prevent the better runners from participating in the race or reduce their effectiveness. In the first plan, I considered disguising my voice as Cedric's and calling them the night prior to a race, to say that the site had been moved because of some unfortunate circumstance. I.E., Better Runner: "The Cooper River Bridge is going to be run across the New Ashley River Bridge?"

Me, disguising my voice as Cedric's: "Yeah, a last minute safety check determined that it was hypothetically possible for the bridge to collapse if 5,000 or more runners happened to run in unison for at least four seconds. The start is at the Ashley Plaza Mall."
The other fantasy was throwing a free beer bust and laxative laced Texas Chili party for CRC members the night before the race. I would, of course, abstain.

In brief, I began to imagine a fantasy which involved my presenting my case to the other CRC members and officers at a regular meeting:

"My fellow club members. I am 44 years old. I've never placed higher than fifth place in a race (a very depleted age group). I run 20 to 25 miles per week – seven to six minute miles at the very best. I've got a bad back and a starting to recede hairline. Who knows how much longer I can run at all, much less win a race. I've got a working wife who cares and knows nothing about running, a 13 year-old son who has chosen to be functionally deaf rather than remove his walkman head phones, an overweight wimpish Collie, and two cars that have the automotive equivalent of AIDS. I'm not asking for money, fame, a better job, or a fresh start; and I'm not even prostituting these multiple deficiencies as Rodney Dangerfield does."

"All I want is to win just one single race. You don't even have to speak to me after the race, or ever again. I just want to feel that one brief moment of victory (who cares if it's hollow?). Then I'll gladly return to the bland anonymity of my mediocre runner's life, and you'll never hear from me again. I won't even write my stupid articles anymore. Whattya say?"

Returning to reality, I guess I could really start a vigorous training program with increased mileage, a proper diet, strength exercises and speedwork. But that's a lot of trouble, and for what—maybe I'd come in fourth. I think my only shot is to show up at the next CRC meeting and simply throw myself at the mercy of my fellow runners (play out my fantasy). It's 50-50 and that's a lot better than my current odds. Either I'll lose a little (more) self-respect, or I'll get my chance to win a race. By God, it's worth it!

Doublemint Smack Down

It was a little after 10:00 a.m. in September, 1953 in Mr. Griffin’s 8th grade American History class at the High School of Charleston. The strained silence of feigned reading-your-assignment-at-your-desk is suddenly rent asunder by Mr. Griffin’s thunderous voice:

Mr. Griffin: Miss Johnson, are you chewing gum?

Miss Johnson: Uh, no, sir.

Mr. Griffin (again, sternly): Miss Johnson, I’m guessing that you’re not a member of one of the ruminant species and that you have no relatives by the names of Guernsey or Holstein, therefore, you must be chewing something else other than regurgitated food particles. Miss Johnson, please take the chewing gum out of your mouth, bring it to the front of the class, and drop it into the trash can.

And so, Crudella Johnson was peremptorily outed as being a member of one of the 50s most popular youth clubs, the “Chewing Loudly on the Doublemint Society” (or “CLODS”).

Of course, you will never see this humiliating scenario repeated in today’s schools, with teachers’ attentions being focused on drugs, weapons, and various kinds of sexual activity. And since these types of behavior are certainly more serious than gum chewing, they were right to have removed this relatively innocuous one from the list of don’ts.

Unwittingly, however, with this laissez-fair attitude, we have allowed the creation of several generations of gum-smacking goofballs who see nothing wrong with displaying their visually and auditorally disturbing antics anytime, anywhere.

Actually, I really don’t have a problem with gum-chewing itself, if a person simply keeps his or her mouth closed. And I imagine that if these inveterate gum-smackers who feel compelled to chew with mouths as wide open as possible, also masticate their food in the same irritating manner, then obviously the gum is not the major culprit. It’s just that some people tend to chew gum all the time, so it has sadly become the international symbol of all those people who chew with their mouths agape and make those awful noises of smacking.

Gum-smackers also have the advantage of being able to create exterior as well as interior bubbles and then pop them with an ear and Dendron-splitting “crack” that most food chewers could not replicate unless they were gnawing on something like taffy-filled condoms, which, of course, you will only find at Mardi Gras or perhaps on some future episode of “Temptation Island.”

Unfortunately, it is not just teenagers who practice the intensely unappreciated art of gum smacking. Celebrities, both show business and the professional athlete type, are in the vexating vanguard of gum-smackers. Just watch any of the post or pre game interview and you’ll see that more than half of these mesomorphic heroes will show off, along with their athletic skills, perfectly synchronized sports clichés, God-crediting, as well as enthusiastic outbursts of gum-smacking.

But frankly, the showbiz types have exceeded their more physical brethren, since it appears to me that at least 75% of them are want to fill their non-stop mouths with those wondrous wads that resultantly afford us, their loyal fans, not only with superstar quality smacking, but rare opportunities to view, with impunity, the deep recess of their mouths, where we might actually be privy to Arnold’s adenoids or Enya’s epiglottis. The most shocking instance of this phenomenon came at one of those countless awards ceremonies last year when one other than Jack Nicholson regaled us for about 20 minutes with some high-powered chomping and smacking that we were actually privileged enough to see the appendix-sized lump of gum itself, as he expounded, rhino-mouthed, on the accomplishments of Sean Penn, who, appropriately, got up and tried to outdo Jack with his own version of Gumapalooza.

I haven’t seen any politicians do it yet, but if there ever were a likely candidate, it would certainly have to be our ex Goober-in-chief, Bill Clinton. In fact, I can’t believe that we’ve never seen him do it. I can only guess that he probably has a mouthful of gum most of the time, except on those occasions where it’s displaced by cheeseburgers and friends and that Hillary (or Al, maybe) must make him spit it out before appearing in public.

As for Monica, probably the only time she didn’t chew gum, was when she was with Bill, for obvious reasons:

Bill: Damn, Monica, how am I going to explain this to “The Warden”? If I could chew gum that way, I might just have to join the circus.

As for how we can destroy these generations of ill-mannered Frankensteins we have produced, I’m not sure that we can. Electric prods, pepper or laxative-laced gum might deter these people temporarily, but perhaps we should take a lesson from David Letterman, who, although he is dentally equipped to create some spectacular bubbles himself, has chosen to be the adult rather than the incorrigible child. Whenever a celebrity comes on his show, no matter how important they are, he simply resorts to what Mr. Griffin did those almost 50 years ago, by asking the somewhat startled star to give him the chewing gum, which he then places into a Kleenex and politely disposes of. Just think, if all the talk show hosts did this, what positive effect this might have, not just to the performers themselves, but also on their easily influenced fans.

In the meantime, we foot-soldiers can d our part by taking the initiative to go up to a person who’s chewing and smacking gum in public and asking the simple question, while graciously extending a Kleenex: “May I have your gum, please?”

So I want you all to start doing your part in promoting gum smacking and chewing awareness right away. And if any of these hardcore smackers and chewers give you a difficult time, just explain to them that you are there to help them and make amends for the educational system and society, in general, having failed them. I feel confident they will understand and accept the sincerity of your efforts, but, if for some reason, they still do not respond in the affirmative, and display even the faintest sign of hostility, then you simply say: “Hey, if you got a problem with this, see Eddie Hogan, our regional coordinator.”
Editor’s Note: Make that Brian Lindren.

Note from Brian Lindgren: Make that Smoky Weiner.

Note from Smoky Weiner: Huh?

Note from all of the above: Make that Jimmy Hoffa!

Life After Death

The recession is undoubtedly upon us. I saw a guy driving a BMW today using a rotary dial phone (rim shot). Let’s face it, we’re all going to have to find ways to cut back. In fact, my wife and I have agreed upon some mutually cost-saving, as well as money-producing, measures which you could also practice.
It has always vexed me that people spend so much money on funerals, so Barbara and I have made a pact to spend no more than $500 on each other’s internment. Barbara has not released any details of her cut-rate arrangements, but I am eager to share my ideas with anybody who’s willing to read them. The first step toward funeral frugality is simply not to contact a funeral home. Who needs them? Just buy some large—maybe eight gauge—trash bags and stick me in one. Just drop me in a hole in the backyard next to my two collies. They didn’t have all these elaborate amenities, and they were my best friends—so why should I? As you can see, my burial will not even cost $5.00, much less $500, and maybe not even $4.00 if you buy store brand trash bags.
Also, I don’t want any of my good suits to be wasted by burying me in them; in fact, not even my “yard shorts” should be wasted. Somebody else can use these clothes. Give them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. On the other hand, if Barbara could locate my old leisure suit and my disco boots, she can dress me in them. That will not be a waste; for certainly, even the most desperate of the homeless would not be seen in these fashion horrors. And, since I will request that there be no viewing of the remains, my being eternally out of style will be of no consequence. (Incidentally, I have also requested that the word “remains” not ever be used in reference to my body, since unless I am run over by a riding mower or attend a smokers’ convention at Herbie’s Famous Fireworks, this term seems gruesomely inappropriate.)
On second thought I cannot be buried in my leisure suit, since it’s mostly polyester and I don’t think it’s biodegradable. Therefore, being ecologically conscious to the end, I will be buried in the nude, and once again, it will make no difference at all, since no one is going to be gawking at me and making statements like: “Eaww, disgusting, yet sad—at least they could have laid him on his stomach.”
Of course, is there is some way my wife can turn a profit on my demise, then I would be willing to make an initial posthumous investment. For instance, I could be hollowed out and stuffed with used Odor Eaters and potpourri bags. Barbara could sell me for a piece of New Age sculpture—maybe an atrium centerpiece—or put me in my yard shorts and display me as a sort of “Yard of the Living Dead” lawn ornament. Or better yet, dress me in a little jockey outfit, fun off some plaster copies and market me in the ghetto as “Lil’ Waspie.”
As long as I’m on the “death as a money-making enterprise” bent, let’s dispense with the usual morbid ceremonies and just have a yard sale which includes not only my belongings, but also my taxidermic carcass. List it in the classifieds section of the newspaper, not the obituaries. It should read: “Huge yard sale of belongings of dearly departed extensively unknown writer Bob Coskrey. Clothing, furniture, unpublished and/or rejected manuscripts. Large overstuffed chair with moderately stuffed and environmentally safe cadaver.”
The post-mortem financial opportunities are practically limitless. Barbara could have me disemboweled and “Swansonsized” (deboned), then inflate me with helium and sell me as the “Anatomically Correct (well, pretty damn close to it) Bob-Balloon.” As adults have been slow to discover, kids really enjoy some of the more grisly aspects of life anyway, so you can imagine the joy I would bring to some eight year old, as he trick-or-treats around the neighborhood, pulling my hovering hull on a long string.
She could also stuff me with acorns or soybeans or whatever they use to fill beanbag furniture and sell me as a “Bob-bag chair.” Actually, I think I’d prefer to be filled with cashews, though they’re a bit expensive, since I’ve always had a gustatory fantasy of stuffing myself to larynx level with these delightful kernels. Another fruitful idea would be to preserve me at normal body proportions but give me a slightly maniacal expression, then put me in a standing-up posture on wheels, with an exe in my hands. I could be marketed as a “Scare-Solicitor”—I could be rolled to the door whenever those annoying individuals show up pushing their wares (e.g. encyclopedias, make-up, penetrating anti-mime mace, “The Watch Tower”).
Lastly, I don’t want my friends, relatives or in-laws wasting money on expensive flowers. I would prefer a modest contribution to either of my favorite organizations: SSAP (the Society for the Spaying of All Politicians. Motto: “Don’t Pay ‘em!” Spay ‘em!”); or SCUM (Senders of Continually Unknown Manuscripts. Motto: “Rejection is the mother of frustration, but ineptitude is the mother of editing”).
So, as you can see, the death of a spouse does not have to be equated with completely unnecessary expenses. It costs enough for couples to live. Why should the survivor—a term ripe with multiple meaning—have to shell out vast sums of money just to dispose of the dearly departed non-survivor’s soulless pod, when by following any of the above suggestions he or she can not only avoid the sparse existence of widowerhood or widowhood, but even turn this lugubrious event into an economic bonanza.
Just ask yourself: “Would he/she have wanted it this way?”

Bubba Olympics

November 1997
The Bubba Olympics
By Bob Coskrey

FIELD EVENTS

High Jump

Qualifications:
1. Must register at least 3 times the legal alcohol level.
2. Must be able to stand without support for 5 seconds.
3. Must have body fat percentage higher than an elephant seal (approximately 98%)

From a standing position, the competitor must jump up and sit on a barstool, holding a 12-ounce mug of beer in each hand, without spilling any of it.

Hub Cap Throw

Hub caps, American cars only, are hurled for distance. They are also fetched and returned by coon hounds.

The Stuff, Hock and Spit

Contestants stuff their mouths with chewing tobacco, augment this wad with a hefty hock, then spit for distance.
Drooling, spraying on bystanders, or the accidental launching of dentures will be grounds for disqualification. Judges as well as contestants will be requested to wear protective welding visors.

12-Guage Shotgun Put

A loaded shotgun is tossed for distance to a teammate. Points are scored when a successful catch is made without the gun firing. Half-points are gained when opponents are accidentally shot.
No fans are allowed in the stadium during this event—except for lawyers who will be seated in the front row.

WRESTLING

Bubba-Redman (Mud): While in knee-deep 100% Mississippi mud, men wrestle with their mouths filled with an extra large wad of Redman tobacco. Drooling or loss of any tobacco externally or internally will result in disqualification.
The first person who successfully places his opponent into a Willie Nelson, a hold halfway between a half and a full nelson, will win automatically.

WEIGHTLIFTING
SUPER HEAVY WEIGHT DIVISION ONLY

One Qualification: Must weight a minimum of 300 pounds.
Must consume a meal consisting entirely of pork products, except for a side order of either steak smothered in brown lipid gravy or French fries cooked in cholesterol, and then be able to lift oneself from the table in less than 2 minutes.
EMS personnel, as well as hearses will be on hand.

GYMNASTICS

The Beam Beam

Contestants must finish off a quart of Jim Beam then mount and walk across the 4” wide balance beam. Police background checks will be done to screen out individuals with lengthy DUI records, since it is felt that participation in the walking portion of field sobriety tests would give that person an unfair advantage.

The Horizontal Bar

An endurance test held in a drinking establishment, the person who imbibes the longest without becoming horizontal wins.

TRACK

Monster Truck Pull Demolition Derby Non-High Hurdles

Planned automotive chaos, which has been canceled every year since its inception due to a lack of competitors; to qualify, the driver must pass a pre-event sobriety test.
Competitors in all events, as well as spectators, must have designated drivers.

WATER EVENTS

100 Meter Heatsroke

Qualifications:
1. Must be unable to see feet from a supine position
2. Must have at least border-line high blood pressure
3. Must be knee-walking drunk
4. Must wear hunting or cowboy boots
5. Must be able to float

Assuming every competitor will have at least a heat stroke, the first one that touches the end of the pool, without having a heart attack or expiring, wins.

Team Water Displacement Diving

Two teams of 5 guys who must each weigh in excess of 275 pounds must bellyflop into two separate pools. Whichever team empties their pool first, wins.
The last diver will receive a free Olympic status funeral with full honors.
The pools will be skimmed regularly to minimize barbecue grease slicks.

Totally Unsynchronized Swimming

Teams of two guys each, in full hunting gear, will perform underwater acrobatic and ballet movements. Degree of difficulty will increase due to the competitors eschewing nose clips in favor of just squeezing their noses closed between their thumbs and forefingers. The team that finishes its routine without requiring artificial resuscitation wins.

First Night/Frost Bite/Worst Night

If we continue to have these frigid, early winters, I am recommending the above for the new title of First Night Charleston. And since we seem to relish being different from other cities, let’s start celebrating New Year’s in April like the Romans used to do, which would certainly increase our chances of warmer weather—or maybe just have the entire event in Citadel Mall.

My wife and I and our friends, Joe and Judy, trudged through the 22-degree night from the Gaillard to the King Street Christmas tree and back to the Maritime Center, respectively, although I was occasionally slowed by the feeling that icicles were forming on some of my internal organs. Of the events that we attended, two were outside and one (in a garage) may as well have been. At the peril of being called a Warm Weather Wimp or a Cotton Belt Coward by Hoary-breathed Minnesotans and New Englanders, I must confess that it was, at times, less than enjoyable standing benumbed on frozen asphalt for an hour at a time and watching equally cold performers trying to coax dulcet tones out of nearly crystallized instruments with lifeless fingers and petrified lips. In fact, I’m surprised there were no reports of musicians leaving parts of their lips or tongues stuck to their instruments similar to that kid verses the flagpole incident in Gene Sheppards’s “A Christmas Story.”

As for the events themselves, two bands, two singing groups and an improv troupe, if I were giving out grades for entertainment value, they would range from F to A+. I’m certainly no musician and I don’t expect Broadway caliber performances for an average ticket price per event of $2 each, but the first event we attended almost put an instantaneous but premature end to our Arctic Odyssey at 4:16 p.m. I have nothing against senior citizens, especially since I happen to be one myself, but when the venue for a musical entertainment event is a geriatric residential facility, that should be a tip-off to any rationally thinking person that any audience members holding up their cigarette lighters here will be less a tribute to the performers than a vain attempt to quell the aroma of human mustiness, and all attempts at mosh-pit diving are certain to result in an epidemic of broken hips rather than endless opportunities for group groping. The group, whose name I won’t divulge for fear of retaliation (prune-pelting can be very painful, especially if the puts are not removed), was composed (nearly decomposed) of four middle-aged females, who harmonized jazz, swing, blues and big band and show tunes a cappella.

In truth, they were really not that terrible, and I can actually recall being a big fan of Manhattan Transfer in the 60s, but this was more of a derailment than a transfer—with injuries, and the 45-minute performance seemed more like three excruciating hours. (Grade: F)

Al thought I usually enjoy Gospel music, this group, who shall remain nameless along with the rest, despite having some great individual voices, in my opinion, had too many intractable soloists who were given to gratuitous outbursts of a flavor that ranked somewhere between “Star Search” and “Amateur Night at the Apollo.” (Grade: C)

The improv group, which I’d seen a couple of years ago, had all new actors this time (two males and two females). They were good, but one of the male actors was so much better than the other three. It was like Jim Carrey appearing with one of those awful SNL casts of a few years ago. Plus the venue was in a garage-like building surrounded by roll-up doors, and we had to stand up because there weren’t enough seats. The most talented performer even made a comment about their appearing in garages throughout the South. (Grade: B)

The bluegrass band consisted of a mandolin, a guitar, an upright bass, a banjo and something called a dobro. Although I’m not a bluegrass devotee, I really enjoyed their act. Everybody in the crowd was stomping their feet, yee-hawing—including myself—and dancing, with some opportunistic guys humping instead of swinging their partners—which did not include me. I have a bad back. (Grade: A)

The best and simultaneously coldest even was a band (2 pianos, 2 horns, a sax and a drummer) composed of University of Dayton students, who performed on an outdoor stage next to the King Street Christmas tree. They played pop favorites from the 70s and 80s with the two pianists taking turns at singing. They sounded great and played with a great deal of enthusiasm. Most of the audience was college age, but as the group continued to play, more and more older people began showing up and, eventually, there was a large clapping and dancing crowd, along with a long conga line of students that snaked its way through and around eh rest of us. Again, there were intermittent acts of spontaneous humping in the guide of dancing, although I began to think that his may be a new dance, with which a well respected member of the “out crowd” such as myself was simply unfamiliar. Who cares? This group was terrific. (Grade: A+)

We all left at 11 p.m. to celebrate the New Year in the toasty confines of our den instead of sticking around to watch the fireworks display and further challenge the gods of Hypothermia.

While overall I enjoyed First Night Charleston, if next year’s weather is anything like this one, we’ll be spending it indoors with our usual, fun-loving friend, Dick Clark. At least next year there will be some added interest and intrigue in seeing what drops first…NYC’s big ball or Dick’s facelift. And just like Madonna said, “There’s nothing worse than a Dickless New Year’s Eve.”

Sixty-six and not counting

Next month I will neither observe not celebrate my 67th birthday. I can see no logical reason for it. There’s no law requiring me to observe it, as long as I don’t try to take the next step of changing my date of birth on any official records, although I could probably find someone to change it on my driver’s license for a price. Let’s say I change it from 2/11/40 to 2/11/70, but that would mean I would have to repudiate the existence of my son, since I would then be one year older than he is, and I would have to make sure Social Security and the State Retirement Fund did not find out, because my pensions would be stopped and I would also owe them a lot of money. But almost as bad would be the predicament when a cashier asked for my ID when I cashed a check. (Yes, I’m so old I still use checks.) There would be at least a minute of this perplexed person looking at my date of birth, my picture, and me over and over again, and wanting to ask something such as, “Did you used to work in the desert for a long time?” “Were you involved in some kind of sulfuric acid accident?” Or “did you use one of those plastic surgeons out of the back of a magazine?” “Mad Magazine?” I would be compelled to preempt her verbalizing these thoughts with the old stand-by, “I’ve had a hard life.”

So probably changing the ID date of birth is less than feasible, unless I were “W,” of course, then I would simply deny the infeasibility, since once he gets an idea, it’s “stay the course,” no matter how lame-brained. I apologize to the reader. I was sure I could get through two paragraphs, at least, before I made a political reference. But as far as observing my birthday’s from now on, it’s “all systems not go.” Someone eons ago decided we should start keeping track of how old we are, but I’m not going to give that individual the satisfaction of researching him or her for details on the computer. It’s more fun to just make up stuff as I go along, sort of like you-know-who. This person, undoubtedly, stood to profit from this practice and either he or an accomplice then probably came up with the idea of beginning the tradition of celebrating a person’s birth date every time the Earth revolved around the sun.

To be fair, I guess I can understand the reason to celebrate birthdays when you’re in your youth, since at that time you’re really only celebrating getting presents and attention. It’s not till you’re long past the days of carefree, unburdened frolicking that you realize that it’s exactly that kind of lifestyle you should have been rejoicing about all along. But now, it’s too late. I recall that when I was in my 40s, I used to lament about it, then when I reached my 50s, I’d lament about that and wish I were back in my 40s again. Now that I’m in my 60s, I look back on my 50s with a nostalgic yearning. Right now, I’m picturing myself taking my first AARP card out of the envelope and tears are beginning to could my vision, or maybe it’s an incipient cataract. Sentimentality aside, the belatedly learned lesson is that I should just enjoy the decade that I’m in at the time before it roars past and not pine for the ones irretrievably locked away in the vacuous vault of my memory bank.

And while I reflect upon the saturnalian orgy that has been my 6th decade, aware of Caligulan comparisons and Hef’s envious eyes, I approach the 7th, lurking ‘round the corner like some drug-fueled mugger with in-your-face temerity.

Well, I have employed the cheap trick of exaggerating a bit to keep you interested, but the point is I’m not going to weep over the bygone decades or be terrorized by the next one. I’m just going to enjoy the one I’ living in .I could simply observe my birthday every decade, but that, for God’s sake, would be even worse. I would certainly reduce the number of birthday recognitions, but at this stage, this could be my last one.

As the shrinking group of familial bystanders continues to applaud my inexorable descent into the rising river of senility, despite my protestation, I must also prepare myself for the onslaught of patronizing compliments and cloying clichés:

1. You certainly don’t look your age. (You look older than your age.)

2. Your mind is still as quick as ever. (You should thank God because your body is really a mess. And if your wife’s lucky, you’ll be able to thank him in person very soon.)

3. Today, you’re 67 years young. (Yeah, you believe that, you old goat. The only person in their 60s who is young is Neil.) 4. Or an aside: Ooh, look how spry he is. (How much do you want to bet he breaks his hip before the end of the day?)

I’m grateful that no one has asked me the secret of my longevity yet, but that will probably take place in another decade, and when it does, I am already prepared.

Well, you young whippersnapper, if you insist on knowing, these are the reasons for my excruciatingly long life:

1. During the Vietnam conflict, I was briefly adopted by a couple in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

2. I did not take part in the Bada Bing Social Club’s Drive By Turkey Shoot.

3. In 1968, upon witnessing an elderly woman being robbed by a young tough guy, I immediate stationed myself behind a concrete wall a block or so away and began praying vigorously.

4. I did not participate in the Spruill Avenue Garden Club’s Lethal Weapon Scavenger Hunt.

5. When using the NYC subways, I avoided eye contact by learning to move about while starting straight down at the ground.

6. During the Sexual Revolution, I always eschewed unorthodox and dangerous positions and not only stayed the (inter)course by adhering to the missionary position, but took it that extra step by limiting my sexual partners to actual missionaries, going straight to the source, so to speak

7. I have learned to hold my breath for 4 minutes, exactly the amount of time it takes me to drive through North Charleston on I-526. 8. When traveling abroad, I always tell people I’m Canadian.

Of course, I realize that all this fuss is simply about not wanting to grow old, or to be more clinically specific, I have a severe case of Vigodaphobia (a fear of ending up looking like Abe Vigoda). So never mind about the birthday defense. It’s a bit too superficial. It’s all in the attitude. From now on, as far as I’m concerned, with people living so much longer now, the 60s are the new 40s, the 70s, the new 50s, and so on. I’m just going to see how I can function without ever looking in a mirror again.