Take it sitting down

I returned from the bathroom to my keyboard, having quickly supplanted one urge with another. In those few minutes, I had decided that I could no longer waste readers’ times with another forgettable article aimed at eliciting a few inexpensive laughs, while a topic of major importance was gurgling beneath my summit ready to explode. And it is a subject I have meant to address many times before, but had always relegated it to my burgeoning “Later” file.

No more! This is something that must be discussed now! And even though it is a matter that related directly to males, it should be of some secondary importance to females as well. I’m talking about the “Twin Leaks,” the “Double Elimination Toilet Tournament,” Urinary Bifurcation, or more descriptively, the inability of middle-aged men, during urination, to emit a solitary stream. Actually, I may be a bit too presumptuous. Since I haven’t mustered the energy or nerve to survey others in my decrepit demographic group, it’s possible that I may be the sole victim of this affliction, but I’m willing to bet otherwise. It has been happening to me for the past couple of years, and each instance seems to be exponentially more aggravating than the prior one. Usually, it’s a horizontal release, so generally what happens is that I produce a stream that goes straight and one that ventures 90 degrees to the left or right, but occasionally, I manage, involuntarily of course, two 90-degree mini-gushers, either of which necessitates a clean-up of the sides of the bowl and sometimes the surrounding area. I’ve tried various types of manual manipulations and adjustments that I feel sure you will not want me to describe, all to no avail. I’ve had a 90-degrees-plus incident, which resulted in the front of my pants getting soaked at work one day, which I attempted to disguise by slashing basin water on my pants area above the danger zone, so I would simply explain it away as an accident subsequent to overly powerful spigot pressure. Fortunately, I’ve had no vertical mishaps, which would have necessitated my investing in disposable coveralls and even goggles.

I have considered the remedial option of some sort of funnel, but it would have to be custom made, and I can’t envision my being measured for it, or for that matter, going through the humiliation of the supplier smugly recommending a thimble with a hole in the end.

Ironically, this disorder has not caused me any trouble in public urinals, so far, since the single apparatuses have sufficient separation between them and the trough type does no more than offer a tantalizing lateral distance challenge, but with the added danger of physical retribution, should I prove to be a poor marksman: “Did you just pee on me, boy? I’m gonna hurt you.” And quite possibly a one-way ticket to Eunuch City.

Using the lemons-to-lemonade analogy, I concluded that perhaps this could be turned into a positive. Maybe competitions in bars, where guys would relieve themselves while simultaneously trying to fill cups on either/both sides. There could be gradually increasing distances, and even a contest to knock a cigarette out of someone’s mouth, with additional points awarded if the cigarette is put out. What kind of moron would volunteer to hold the cigarette? A Howard Stern fan, of course. Those people will do anything. Naturally, this is not going to happen everywhere. This ain’t no Red State game! In fact, it might only happen in dive bars in NYC, and over time, spreading to Europe, initially gaining a foothold in Amsterdam.

Then again, I theorized I could avoid all this controversy simply by sitting down on the toilet from now on instead of standing. If it were in a public restroom, there would be no way any other guys who happened to be in there would know what I was doing, and I could, at least, perform a natural function without being concerned about the ramifications, the mental image of Arnold Schwarzenegger taunting me with (“Terminator” to “Urinator”) “Girlie Man! Girlie Man!” not withstanding. This corrective action, if adopted by other progressive minded men, would also spin off to women the added bonus of not having to worry about having to put the seat down after us.

I am happy to report to you, however, that I have been utilizing the “Sitting Down” method rather successfully except for a single run-in with the government’s newly formed “Gender Appropriate Police” or GAP (knocking on the door of my stall in the restroom of a local restaurant): “Our poopometer detects no ‘movement.’ Please step out of the stall with your arms up and your pants down.” I was charged with “Gender Inappropriate Activity” and forced to memorize each item of a 600-piece Sears Roebuck tool set before I could be freed. Nevertheless, this was but a small setback, and I still find the “Sitting Down” method the most successful. I simply load up with Jalapeno peppers a few hours in advance, if I know I am going to using a public restroom, thereby not only warding off the GAP harassment, but guaranteeing the bathroom all to myself, if you get my drift.

For further information and answers to questions regarding Urinary Bifurcation, please email me at gowiththeflow.net.

New York State of Mind Not So Blue After All

I’m a Liberal. There, I’ve said what John Kerry couldn’t. He hedged, saying he was a Liberal on some things, but conservative on others, but then I guess he has more to lose than I do. How this happened to me, I don’t know. I’m almost 65 years old, have lived in Charleston all my life, and my parents and their families were all Conservatives. 99% of all my friends and most of the people I’ve worked with over the years have been Conservatives. Was I a drop-out, a Hippie? No, didn’t have the nerve, but I always empathized with them. I think it’s just the way my personality developed. I’m extremely laid back, as was my mother t a lesser extent, and I guess you could say that if I have any kind of basic guiding rule of life, it’s “that consenting adults should, in general, be left alone to pursue whatever makes them happy as long as it doesn’t infringe on somebody else’s right to do likewise,” and that attitude sort of blends into a high threshold for tolerance of other ideas—even if they’re stupid. I haven’t done very well in the area of proselytizing however, since my wife is more of an independent, while my son is a Libertarian, but perhaps, I may have, at least, unconsciously prevented them from straying into the invective-lobbing encampment of the Far Right, simply though my sterling example.

I was shamed into outing myself upon finding out that a neighborhood family was Liberal, and they had been courageous enough to place a Kerry-Edwards sign in their yard. Since we live in Mt. Pleasant, a roiling caldron of conservatism, this act would have been tantamount to Ann Frank hanging a “Zion or Bust” flag out of her window in the last 30s. I wish I could say I lived in a small blue enclave, but I don’t. It’s just me and these neighbors against the Red Hordes (Boy, if they read that, they’ll be some furious Bible page flipping, looking for some references that apply specifically to me just like they did with the gays with that passage in Leviticus: “Eureka, I’ve found it right here in verse 4: ‘A man of 3 score and more who toilet as a scribe for a publisher of alternative views shall lie down with the Devil,’ Sayeth the Lord.”).

And since I’m in a revealing mood, I may as well go the whole way: I’m not simply one of those vile creatures that Rush and Sean have warned you about on a daily basis, I am the bane of not only 51% of Americans but Christianity itself. I am something more foul than the ungodly spawn of Phil Donahue and Barbara Streisand. I am more detestable than a staggering army of pantless Ted Kennedys. I am, my defenseless readers, a Liberal that loves NYC. Now, that’s different from a NYC Liberal, because all of those people don’t love NYC. In fact, a lot of them have forsaken their birthplace to move here, initially because of the weather, but later because of the lifestyle, to the extent that a trip to the Hunley is more exciting for them than one to Grant’s Tomb, a meal at Bowen’s Island is more enjoyable than one at Tavern on the Green. You think “Massachusetts Liberal” is the vilest epithet in a conservative’s lexicon? Well, “NYC Liberal” is the term that always precedes a slap in the face and a pistols at 20 paces, according to Zell.

NYC, after all, is the Liberal capital of America, and it is, of course, my favorite city. I go there once a year, but not for the ostensible reasons that others do: art, entertainment, culture, history, and great food. I go because it’s an ideological necessity. Because I exist 359 days a year in one of the most conservative areas in the U.S., I have to spend at least one week in the Mecca of all that is Liberal just to regenerate myself. Actually, it’s more on the order of being born again, and I’m sure about 5 million Bush foot soldiers can identify with that. It’s a beautiful experience being dunked in the Hudson—unfortunately, the image is soiled somewhat by my hazmat suit—but I rise up, helped by Alec Baldwin and a transsexual priest, rejuvenated and ready for the next do-gooder cause.

Of course, the reality of my yearly NYC pilgrimage is somewhat different, but pretty much what most Conservatives would expect: I stand at the plane’s doorway and, cheered on by a raucous crowd, leap confidently into a writing mosh pit of the usual Liberal purveyors of all that is immoral: Gays, antiwar demonstrators, Earth Firsters, prostitutes, various and sundry fornicators, Free Speech protectors, trial lawyers, unwed mothers, bloody smocked abortionists, child pornographers, socialists, serial masturbators, and a beaming Bill Clinton, who whisks me off in a Russian made limo to Scores, a popular “gentlemen’s club,” where we reminisce about the “good old days,” while getting lap-dances by dwarf transvestite strippers. The rest of my visit is spent doing the typical tourist things—there is such a thing as overload, even for us Liberals. However, my last day, I once again revive expectations by appearing on The Howard Stern Show with Norman Mailer for a discussion of how stem cell research might have helped Larry Flynt.

So there, my fellow Liberals, there’s no need to rush off to live in Canada or Australia. A yearly trip to The Big Apple is sufficient. And on the brighter side, just think, after just “4 more years,” George Bush will be gone!

Show Me The Endorsement

July 1998
Show Me The Endorsement
By Bob Coskrey


Endorsements, the economic lifeblood of the 80s and 90s, for athletes, gravitationally challenged Hollywood types, and “I’ll do anything for publicity or money” politicians. We’re used to the archetypal image of Michael Jordan, as well as those of people such as June Allyson, and even Bob Dole, but it’s very apparent—to me, at least—that there are probably thousands of self-absorbed celebrities out there just waiting to prostitute their waning wares for a few hundred dollars and a little electronic media exposure.

An Ellen DeGeneres closet organizer.
Ellen: My closet looks so good now, I wish I’d stayed.”

Dennis Rodman for AC/DC converters.
Dennis: When switching is a way of life, you want dependability.

David Letterman for The Gap.
You wouldn’t even need audio, just Dave in a baseball cap with one of his goofy grins.

The Madonna dress-mattress combo by DKY-Serta. A dress whose back opens up into a small, inflatable mattress.
Madonna: For those occasions when you just don’t have time to find a motel.

An immediate success for a lot of our less physically alluring notables would occur if one of the large pharmaceutical companies came up with “visual laxatives.” Illuminated 8x10 photos of lurid luminaries such as Carol Channing, Lyle Lovett, or Faye Dunaway (without makeup) which even viewed in the dark by the digestively impacted victim, would be guaranteed to scare the “you know what” out of them.
The slogan would be: A picture can be worth a thousand enemas.

To provide employment for our possibly prematurely retiring president would be the “Bill Clinton Trou Clapper” by Ronco.
Clinton: Simply clap your hands and your trousers drop. No more fumbling around with sometimes unreliable and even dangerous zippers. Surprise unsuspecting secretaries, and impress overly aggressive interns.

Even outcast organizations such as the KKK might manage a slightly above detestable approval rating with some creative breakfast cereal endorsements.
General Mills presents Special KKK and Whities breakfast foods for discriminating people.

And while we’re discussing pariahs, another product endorsement of destiny would be the “OJ one-size-fits-all-but-you gloves.”
OJ: A special self-adjusting feature enables you to proclaim with impunity, on those very special occasions, that these gloves are obviously not yours.

The need for quality senior citizen care in a residential setting should be available to all demographic groups, as would certainly be the case in the “Frank Sinatra Home for Old Broads.”
Frank: I’ve known a lot of broads in my day, baby, but once they get to a certain age, they belong in a home. Hey, baby, if I meet a “Stranger in the Night” I don’t wanna trip over her walker. “That’s Life.”

The very popular Richard Simmons could swish his way to the bank with “Richard Simmons Wrist Supports” for the genetically limp-wristed.
Richard: Because of my inclination toward wristbreaking, I was continually inuring myself during workouts, but with my wrist supports, I have been injury free. And they’re so fabulous looking that both Marv and I wear them to the disco—yessss (sings) “You can stay at the YMCA.”

Bob Dole is a natural. He was actually in the test group for Viagra, the universally applauded cure for male impotence.
Elizabeth Dole: Hey, Bob, is that pencil in your hand again, or are you just happy to see me?

To move to the other end of the political spectrum, why not Ted Kennedy for Samuel Adams beer and ale?
Ted: You think John Jr. had a hard time with his law exam. I’ve never passed a bar in my life.

No doubt, by now, you get the point. There is almost an endless supply of these lens-lusting icons just waiting to be signed up.
Just in the spirit of, say, encouraging more letters to the Editor, let me close on this one.

Me as a world class non-celebrity, doing a gratis endorsement for the Goose Creek Center for Cultural Affairs.

“Everyone is invited to enter the Goose Creek Art Contest. Entrants are reminded that they are required to pass a basic arithmetic skills test, if they are competing in the ‘Paint by the number Division.’ Those entering works in the ‘Elvis on Velvet Division’ are reminded that, because of the city’s strong anti-drug position, we are only accepting pictures of the ‘King’ in his early years. Thank you very much.”

“The Prairie-Not-In-My-Home Companion”

Every Sunday morning, while running, I used to enjoy listening to the “Prairie Home Companion,” Garrison Keillor’s show, on my Walkman. I enjoyed the clever skits, mostly created by Mr. Keillor, who is obviously a very intelligent and witty man, and the banter between the host and his guests, but unfortunately, my reaction to everything else on the show, which usually involves music and singing, ranges from gag reflex triggering revulsion to just turning off my Walkman.

Although he occasionally (alternate leap years) lands A-list singers and musicians, most of the “artists” are as obscure as—let me think of a good analogy—me! And it only takes a few seconds to figure out that, except for this brief interlude, this will be an obscurity of profound, but merciful permanence. Except for county fairs, weddings, or maybe The Loyal Order of The Norwegian Wharf Rat Annual Spring Rites Festival, I’m sure that Mr. Keillor’s show is these people’s only gig. He, in fact, seems to specialize in featuring them, and even has a yearly “talent” competition for performers from small towns. These individuals usually represent good old American folk music of various genres, or as Queen Elizabeth might phrase it, “Musica Americana Horribila.” And three groups, Blue Grass, country western, and zydeco, none of which I enjoy, seems to predominate. Zydeco, in particular, which is French and Caribbean influenced music that allows players of the accordion and washboard to show their stuff, produces the vilest “music” I’ve ever heard, and is just one more reason to hate the galling Galls, since it’s obviously those people and not the ones who gave us Harry Belafonte and the Marleys who screwed it up.

The performers, I will admit, are certainly unpretentious, unspoiled by fame and destined to remain in this pristine state. They have not been badgered by publicists and agents to change thir names to something more edgy. So you hear a lot of Molly Sue Johnsons, Lars Nordquists, Moon Pie Wilsons, and the Suggs Brothers Jug Bands instead of more au courant appellations such as Phlegm Bucket, Bootie Bumpers, Colostomy Baguettes, and the Wizard of Ooze. But unfortunately, while the names are pure Americana, the music is pure torture, so when that portion of the program begins to exuce these mind-numbing melodies, I immediately click off my radio for the more otic friendly sounds of the traffic.

Easily remedied, you say. True enough, but tragically, there is no simple sure, when Mr. Keillor, himself, decides to join in. Of all the voices I’ve ever heard, no, let’s make that of all the sounds imaginable, from Ethel Merman’s ear drum shattering scream to Nosferatue scraping his fingers across a blackboard, to my unconscious, prenatal recollections—while treading amniotic fluid—of first heard noises pursuant to my mother’s visit to an all-you-can-eat sauerkraut bar, what spews from Mr. Keillor’s oral crater is bar far the most irritating. It sounds as if he starts off his day with a brisk Clorox gargle, finished off with a few dollops of preheated kerosene sprinkled sand.

And it’s not as though Mr. Keillor occasionally accompanies his guests. He simply shoves his venomous voice box into every available musical crevice, ruining whatever miniscule chance these people ever had for success. He even achieves what had seemed to me the audibly impossible by making the Zydeco music sound even worse. I’m sure it’s a mixed blessing for these poor souls to make an appearance. They will have an opportunity to perform for a large radio audience, but once on stage, they know that this avenging voice of horror may at any second decide to sweep down and rip the throat out of their tenuous careers. And all the while, the oblivious Mr Keillor, who must have some sort of rare hearing impairment that enables him to hear every sound but his own, continues to wreak music havoc.

But the fiendish quality that differentiates Mr. Keillor’s voice from the show’s other horrendous noises is its endurance. Once you hear that terrifying tone, it stays with you for days, although, thank God, it does finally go away, which makes me think that the most devastating mental illness would be “Garrison’s Schizophrenia,” in which the victim would continuously hear Mr. Keillor singing.

However, even a few more seconds of this sound is more than I can bear, so since I can’t anticipate his spontaneous offerings, I just don’t listen at all anymore. Now, when I run, I listen to my new CD, “Fran Drescher and Rosie Perez Sing The Vagina Monologues.” If my taste seems a bit questionable, I guess I can blame listening to Mr. Keillor over the years has lowered my music appreciation threshold. So what, comparatively, it’s a huge step forward.

The Dreaded Annual Xmas Letter

December 1997

The Dreaded Annual Xmas Letter
By Bob Coskrey


Dear Norma,

I enjoyed your Xmas card and letter. I know how proud you must be of little Ashley being accepted to Duke at the tender age of fifteen. I had no idea that David Duke had a whole university named after him. Boy, am I stupid.

Oh, coincidentally, while we’re on that subject, my eldest daughter, Busty Betsy, was just selected Miss Daisy Duke 1998 by the local Transmission Workers Union.

I am so proud of her, I could burst and so should she, for that matter. She also made the cheerleading squad, although I overheard one of the neighbors’ boys saying she had made the football and men’s basketball teams, too, but I must have misunderstood him. I really think my hearing is going.

So your Biffer is in his senior year at Harvard. Terrific.

Our little Billy Joe took advantage of his recent incarceration to study condom machine repair. And, the Lord works in mysterious ways, when the judge learned that one of those girl scouts was 18, Billy Joe’s sentence was reduced from 6 years to 2.

We’re really catching “you know what” from the rest of the trailer park since we purchased the double-wide. They all us social climbers. Of course, it is sad that they feel that way, however, as you know yourself, one must move forward. But you know us, we’ll always be the salt of the earth (is it salt or scum?), even if we have 3 pickups and go to Myrtle Beach every month.

I got myself one of those celebrity hairdos. I got a “Paula Jones,” you know, long and teased, with a cute little poofy thing in the front. I wore a mini-skirt and some white Barbara Mandrell boots when we took Grandma Gaskins to the monster truck rally and one of those groovy pit crew boys told me I made his transmission shift into gear. I guess I’ve still got what it takes.
Eddie took me out to a move for our 25th anniversary. I wanted to see a Steven Seagall one because I think trying to figure out their intricate plots provides good brain food, but we finally decided on one of the “Smokey and the Bandit” movies instead (III, I think). Boy, that Bert Reynolds always turns me on, the way he chews his gum.

Give Parkhurst a kiss on the cheek for me for getting that big promotion to CEO.

Eddie says he got some very interesting pictures of his boos and someone named Tina Tetons at the American Legion convention. He expects to be getting promotion, not to mention a bonus, very soon—or else, if you get my drift. Ha, ha, ha! Whatever it takes, I always say.

Well, I got to be going. Y’all have a fantastic time on your trip to Paris.

Eddie and I will be doing something very similar when we go to Dollywood for “French Day” next month. The way it works is that any time you hear somebody speaking French or eating French Toast you are suppose to thumb your nose at them. The smug, frog-eating, little foreigners. I think they must have given Dolly a hard time or something.

Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Love,
Tanya Faye

Essence of Innocence

In the 40s, when we stayed at my grandmother’s house on Sullivan’s Island each summer, we went crabbing at least every other week. “We” consisted of my mother, her sister Gert, sometimes her son Jimmy, who was 10 years my senior, and various assorted friends of the family. I was totally involved in this family pastime from the age of 4 through approximate 12, or more specifically, until Tsunami-sized waves of hormones swept me in a less wholesome direction.

We would always go to the same spot, the back beach near Brach Inlet (Sullivan’s Island side), a place now dominated by monstrous mansions and rampaging jet skiers. We would take a large galvanized metal tub to carry the unfortunate creatures back home, crab lines, sinkers, nets, chicken necks and backs, a large cooler filled with adult beverages, plus a few RC Colas for me, and some sandwiches, potato chips, and chocolate-covered graham crackers, my favorite sweet, till an afternoon of gormandizing an entire bag by myself the edge of nausea, caused me to avoid them for about five years.

A crab line consisted of a 30- or 40-foot length of heavy twine with the sinker (a lead weight to keep the bait from floating) and the chicken part tied to one end, and the whole thing being wrapped around a sturdy stick. To get started, you simply unraveled some line, tossed it about 20 feet out into the water, then jammed the stick firmly into the ground to keep the crab from pulling everything away. Then, all you had to do was occasionally check the line for nibbles. If you pulled the line taut—or the crab did—you could feel the clueless crustacean tugging on it. At that point, you would begin pulling the line slowly toward you, the word being “slowly,” since an rapid movement would frighten the crab away.

I became an expert immediately—at least, according to my overindulgent mother and aunt. Actually, thought I was thankfully unaware of it at the time, this, I’m afraid, was to be my first and only area of expertise, unless you count my beer-guzzling feats of the early and mid-60s.

Eventually I was promoted to “scooper,” the person who, using a net attached to a 5- or 6-foot pole, scooped up the crab sinker, bait and all, out of the water. This task required you to stand very still next to the spot where the puller would draw in the crab, then place your net beneath him (the crab) while the puller lifted him closer to the surface. If the water was too shallow, then the job was a bit more difficult, beacuase you had to quicly—in one stroke—place your net directly behind the crab this time, and with a sweeping motion., flip the crab from the bottom of the ocean into the net.

I became the most enthusiastic crabber in the group, possibly because I was the youngest, not to mention most sober, running back and forth to check each line, to scooping while someone else pulled. Sometimes, at the pinnacle of my skills, I would do both, no doubt causing my mother to pray that one day there might be an Olympic crabbing event so I could represent the U.S.

While I focused on the chores of crabbing, the adults spent—what I thought then—was an inordinate amount of time availing themselves of liquid refreshments, which mainly consisted of Bourbon with Coke or ginger ale. In those days, my parents and their friends had a special method of consuming alcoholic beverages: It was called “drinking shooters,” which meant you first swigged down the contents of the shot glass—usually two ounces—then “chased” it down with your mix. It afforded very little gratification for your taste buds, but guaranteed a nearly instantaneous buzz, sometimes followed by a trip to the “DisOrient Express.”

Sometimes, my Aunt Adele, who was a lesbian, and a “friend” would come along. I, of course, was unaware of her situation, as were many adults for that matter (after all the was the 40s) however, I was keenly aware of her unusually short haircut (for a woman), severe mannish clothes, and orthopedic-looking shoes, which, at the time, made me a little embarrassed, especially in front of my friends. I would always try to explain her unorthodox appearance by telling them that she worked for the Secret Service in Washington, DC, (which she did) and that she was working undercover as a man. She was actually a secretary for that agency, so I was at least half truthful. Well, that’s more than a politician can say. At times, people on the beach would stare at her, but that didn’t seem to bother Adele one bit, who I noticed tossed back her “shooters” faster than anybody, despite her 4 feet 11 inch, 80 pound frame. Prior to hitting the beach, we would always stop at Mr. Magwood’s store, which was right there nestled in the undisturbed dunes bordering the inlet. It was sort of a very small general store that sold fishing and crabbing supplies, groceries, hats, beer, and cigarettes. We would pick up some extra lines, and inevitably at some point during the day, I would be sent back to buy someone a pack of (un)Lucky Strikes, an event which always prompted the same remark from Mr. Magwood: “Why, Bobby, I thought you smoked Chesterfields.”

We would all grease up with suntan lotion on the first trip of the summer, but never use it after then, once we all had acquired our pre-carcinogenic hues.

Once the tub got about half filled, or one or more of the grownups got so red—sun or alcohol induced, they began to get woozy—we packed up and went home.

Then the fun really started: :Live crab boiling. The rub would be placed on the kitchen’s linoleum floor, and one of the family members would begin lifting the crabs, with tongs, one by one out of the tub and dropping them into a huge pot of boiling water, which sat on the gas stove. The poor crab, one hitting the water, would struggle to swim briefly, then suddenly freeze—though that certainly seems like the wrong verb—and turn a bright orange in a matter of seconds. It was a gruesome yet morbidly fascinating sight, especially for a kid who exulted in shooting the neighbor’s annoying children with a sawed-off Red Rider BB gun, filled with sand, flame-torching roaches, and blowing up ants and roaches with cherry bombs. I was allowed to play the part of lord high executioner myself, a role which was not perfected without numerous mishaps, mainly the dramatic escapes of many of the barnacled brethren, as they managed to struggle free of the “Terrible Tongs of Doom” and scuttled to freedom, some of whom were found days later, with the involuntary assistance of olfactory systems.

Fortunately for myself, my family, and the rest of the family and contrary to recent psychological studies, these evil inclinations proved only to be temporary, and, in fact, I don’t even like to crab at all any more, much less boil the poor devils in the “Cauldron of Agony” because I no longer want to be part of such an inhumane process. However, this will not prevent me from enjoying the crab in all its delectable dining manifestations.

I think this makes me a Wimpocrit, an undesirable category somewhere between a wimp and a hypocrite. But after waking up in the middle of the night over the past few days with an ever increasing urge to retrieve my still sand-loaded BB gun from the attic for use as a road rage equalizer, I’m starting to feel that there are even more important reasons why I should not be returning to any of my borderline sadistic childhood activities, the betterment of mankind being the main one. By the way, did you know that Jeffrey Dahmer, in his youth, was an avid crabber too?

Weather or Not

Perhaps my timing is bad from some perspectives, but I think the local TV stations ought to consider making the weather reports one minute in length. Well, okay, if there’s a hurricane involved, make it one and a half minutes. They give us entirely too much information. All I need to know, unless there’s a hurricane or a tornado, is what the temperature is and whether there’s going to be any precipitation or not. And in fact, if I wanted to, I could simply stick my head out the window and give the report as accurately as some of these people. That could well be the method they use to forecast, for all I know, and the fact that many weathermen have tans only on their faces and necks may be all the proof we need.

You may note that I am referring only to the male prognosticators. Blatant sexism? Not really. But the male of the species—Meteorosaurus Rex—seems to want to dominate the media, while most females appear to be less aggressive and just content to do innocuous map-pointing. I like to see people who are really enthusiastic about their jobs, like Chris Matthews, Paul Shaffer, and even those two strange little twin brother antique experts (Duncan and Phyfe? Henry and Don? Broy and Hill? Whatever.) on the “Antique Road Show,” but these weather guys take it a bit too far. I have no doubt that each of them sees the weather as his life, business and personal. And I wouldn’t doubt that it’s been a life-long obsession. When 13-year-old Bill Walsh or Rob Fowler’s mothers frantically ransacked their rooms, looking for salacious clues to explain their never leaving them, they didn’t unearth a veritable pornographic time capsule, as Pee Wee Herman’s traumatized mother undoubtedly did, but rather a pile of weather maps, quite possibly stuck together, a battery operated anemometer, and autographed pictures of Karen McGinnis and Willard Scott.

Of course, hurricane season only heightens the rapture for this group, as each wave off the coast of Africa seems to have a Viagric effect, enabling them to prolong their reports and endless updates for days, even weeks. Terms like isobar, ridge, funnel cloud, vorticity, and trough are spewed forth with orgasmic abandon, but when an actual hurricane is created, TV viewers may as well read a book—and some still can, you know—because there will be nonstop interruptions of programs or at least little maps in the corner of your screen ensuring that you are aware of the storm’s exat location at all times. At some point, when it appears there may be a chance the storm may be heading our way, then ti’s time for the “Rainbow Rambos” to break out the big guns. Citizens need not be afraid because these guys have got “Super Doppler 5000’s” and “Live Vipers” and they’re casting out “Hurricane Nets” and hunkering down, “loaded for bear” in their “Storm Centers.” And apparently, once this meteorological mobilization starts, there’s no stopping it, even if the forecast is, God forbid, erroneous and the storm misses us. Fearless reporters are sent forth with orders to give the totally helpless viewers live coverage of the horrible devastation and pathos. More often than not, this results in some permanently humiliated new employee at the station watching 9 inch waves roar ashore at a local beach or another guy observing the 5 o’clock traffic rush, and remarking with an air of faux solemnity that the street is wet. Although I will admit I recently witnessed a display of stultifying honesty during tropical storm Gaston recently when a reporter executed a calamitous career move by stating that “It really doesn’t look too bad out here.”

Perhaps, sensing that the station is struggling to make a macroburst out of a microburst, or either just wanting to be part of the big “story,” audience members frequently call in: 1. “The pine trees in my yard are swaying” (Big deal, that could be caused by a flatulent St. Bernard); 2. “My joggling board is soaked”; 3. “It blowed the flames detailing off my damned Camaro”; 4. “My wind chimes were making a death rattle sound”; 5. “Well, maybe those damned Yankees will stop moving down here now.”

But certainly, if a weatherman wants to show dramatic and complete destruction to his audience, there’s always one horse he can bet on, one unnatural phenomenon that’s even more predictable than “Old Faithful” or a Neocon with a service deferment: The trailer park. I really don’t understand it. Why are there some people who live along the coast or in Tornado Alley who insist on living in a trailer? Of course, I understand that some people may not have the money to buy a house, a situation I was in at one point in my life, but we took our $80 and instead of renting a prefabricated rectangle on wheels, we rented an apartment that was in a building fastened to the earth with pylons, steel and concrete. Don’t you people watch the news or look at the newspaper? Well, let me give you one final tip. What’s another name for a trailer? That’s right—mobile home. Mobile, move. Get it?! You have a Mobile Home; a home that can move. A big wind comes along, and that’s what your home does—it moves. Oh, sometimes it may take a while because it does it piece by piece, but you get the point. And no, surrounding it with cars on cinderblocks won’t help.

See, if the weathermen were public service oriented, they would have lectured the mobile home owners as I did, instead of inundating us with hurricane preparedness pamphlets, boring our school children to the point of committing violence with their mind-numbing presentations. “Well children, Jim Carrey had to cancel his appearance today, but that’s okay because we’ve got somebody else just as entertaining—the guy who wasn’t afraid of mean old Mr. Hugo, the hardest working meteorologist in town—actually the only one…Rob Fowler.”

However, I do recall during some of the 45mph gusts of Gaston, when I surely felt that all was lost, after not being able to try out my home colostomy kit due to a power outage, that it was one of our local weathermen on my battery-operated radio that yanked me out of the abyss of despair with these simple, but inspiring words, “I am on the air and I’ll be here as long as I’m needed.” Visions of Alexander Haig’s courageous utterance after President Reagan’s assassination attempt, “I am in control here at the White House,” floated through my tired brain as I peacefully dozed off, knowing that despite the climatological turmoil about me, my weatherman was still there.

Sure, Rob and Bill, and the other guy whose name can’t recall, sometimes you’re all annoying, self-important, ridiculous meteorological megalomaniacs, but you’re always there when we need you—or even otherwise.

Thanks.

Keep Your Word (To Yourself) Please

It’s always embarrassing to a writer to make a grammatical error in an article, especially when you have to wait a month to explain that you knew better and that it was simply an oversight. But it’s even more embarrassing to bring it up at all, since the reader probably doesn’t care or has already sized you up as a semi-illiterate. I’m not even going to tell you what it was, but if you find it, Eddie will buy you a beer. In fact, if Eddie finds it, I’ll buy him one. (Editor’s note: Don’t believe everything Bob says!)

Speaking of beer, which I did in that article, my lovely wife’s remark, after reading it, was, “Anybody reading that who doesn’t know you will think you’re an alcoholic.” I replied, “I don’t think so,” although I later reflected that most of the male readers of Charleston’s Free Time probably have had very similar beer-related experiences during their formative years (which for me were ages 16-53). And I’ll bet that most of them are not alcoholics. In fact, Eddie said he did a quasi-scientific survey of his male readers in 1997 by asking them what kind of beer they preferred with their cereal, and based on those results, only 44.3% appears to have had a significant problem, with 51% of that group reporting they sometimes skipped the cereal. So there!

But to be borderline serious for a minute, the man-beer relationship is simply an unofficial rite of passage for us guys. And if the Anheuser-Busch and Miller companies recognize this, why can’t everybody else? In fact, now when I think about my wife’s cautionary statement, I envision myself standing in front of a group of people as Jack Lemon did in “The Days of Wine and Roses,” except that they’re all men, and enunciating with great gravitas, “My name is Bob Coskrey and I’m a Guy.” The courageous admission is followed, of course, by slowly building applause and cheers.

Incidentally, I’d like to apologize for using the word “gravitas,” sine every self-important dufus within arm’s reach of a microphone is using it, context be damned, even those who still can’t pronounce “nuclear.” Why? Because they think it gives them—gravitas, I guess. But I just wanted to see how it felt to use it in an article. I don’t have the cajones to use it in conversation. And you’ll be happy to know that I really don’t feel too good at all after typing the word and can assure you I’ll never do it again. In fact, I just imagined myself standing in front of another group of people and confessing with an appropriate air of pathos, “My name is Bob Coskrey and I’m a Creep!”

Since I have brought up the subject of people speaking pretentiously, I’d like to mention a few examples that I find particularly nausea-provoking: First, people who like to end their sentences with “as it were.” The dictionary defines this phrase as: “as if it were so” and “in a manner of speaking.” Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not using any of those phrases, except maybe just as a sociological experiment the next time some guy in one of those monster pick-ups covered with Confederate flag decals, a gun rack and a baseball bat velcroed to his dashboard cuts me off in traffic, I’ll pull up alongside him and shout, “Hey, you, engine blockhead, you almost ran me off the road back there, as it were!”

Should I survive that, or more specifically, once I fully recover from the anal baseball batectomy, the next one I would never think about saying is “if you will” which the dictionary defines as meaning “if you wish to call it that.” Now, this was somewhat of a surprise because it seems to me that people seem to use this phrase interchangeably with “as it were.” In fact, I have just had an epiphany. Most of the social misfits who drag these bizarre word combinations into a conversation don’t even know what they mean, they simply like the way they sound. And if through divine intervention one of them found someone to marry, and on the honeymoon, he sensually implored, “Would you like to make love again, my dearest?” he would simply smile ignorantly, as she responded, “Oh, I’m sorry, my sweet, but I have a headache. Otherwise I would love to make love again—if you will.”

“Be that as it may.” This one doesn’t even appear in my dictionary, though it seems to mean something close to “nevertheless,” although even that word seems a little stilted to me, at least, in speaking. In fact, if anyone ever says, “be that as it may” to me, I don’t think I could continue the conversation. Maybe I’d just feign temporary deafness or say, “No comprende English,” and walk away shrugging my shoulders. Or if I felt confident enough, I might fight fire with fire and respond haughtily, “Alas, you presume too much, it simply may not be as that,” but with my luck, there would be a rapier-like counter-response beginning something like, “Inasmuch that you have revealed the crassness of your character, and if the truth be known…” and I’d have to just turn tail and run.

Certainly, the most egregious example of affected speaking I have ever heard of was some guy my wife knew through her job years ago who liked to pepper his sentences with “i.e.’s” (“that is”), i.e. (just kidding), “Oh, I did the usual things growing up in Charleston, i.e., joined the Carolina Yacht Club, spent the summer at your Sullivan’s Island home or at Camp St. Christopher, Blowing Rock in the fall, then back to Gaud School, i.e., before it merged with Porter to become Porter-Gaud, although I attended Porter too, military academy, i.e., before launching off to Exeter, i.e., Phillips Exeter Academy.” Had I been around this person, even for a few minutes, my mind would have constantly been filled with villainous thoughts, i.e., stapling his tongue to his nose, putting white-out in his coffee, or giving him a “Luca Brazzi” with a letter opener and an extension cord.

Lastly, since I’m on the subject of annoying words in general, I’d like the FCC to get off Howard Stern’s ass and really do something worthwhile by fining people for using the verb “vet,” which means “to subject to expert appraisal or correction; or to evaluate.” Of course, it’s not obscene, and frankly, I’d never even heard the word till recently, but it’s just used entirely too often, and something needs to be done about it right away. I think one of our military leaders in Iraq used it in a press conference and now all the politicians, miscellaneous pundits (damn, there’s another one), and even local news guys have made it a minor life goal to use it at least in every other paragraph just because they think it gives them an air of toughness, or to be more to the point, masks their “wimpitude.” Actually, I think it’s those “Neocon” people, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Wolfowitz, etc., who are promoting the saturation bombing with this word, which, not insignificantly, has the additional attribute of being one syllable, so you-know-who can master it in a matter of days. But the be fair, Democrats have used ita s well, so maybe the liberal-minded PR people (the “Ad-libs”) should come up with a less irritating replacement. How about going “old school” with “evaluate,” which, of course, has the extra attribute of having four syllables, this guaranteeing it won’t be stolen by the other side.

In the meantime, you may rest at ease, as I will continue to be the eternal watchdog for pompous pontificators, dragging them out into the bright light of reason and good taste…well, as long as it doesn’t get in the way of my beer swilling.

Things the Southern Baptists Dislike Most About Gay Pride at Disney World

1. Evil Queen in Snow White played by Dennis Rodman.
2. The libeling of a fine Negro man (“He’s almost one of us”) like Charlie Pride.
3. Gipetto dressed Pinocchio in a “wood” tight leather outfit, gave him a pouty look, and a yearning to dance on Broadway.
4. Pirates of Caribbean made victims “mince” the plank.
5. Donald Duck spends way too much time with his nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie.
6. That new attraction, “Bath House Land”
7. In the Presidents Hall of Fame, it’s totally disgraceful that Richard Nixon speaks with a decided lisp.
8. Adult video, “Mickey and Goofy Play Choo-choo Train.”
9. “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” does not involve any sort of vehicle, just a Budweiser-bloated bull dyke frog.
10. New 8th dwarf: “Fruity”
11. Ellen Degeneres’s Fairy Godmother is over-the-top.
12. Robin Hood constantly refers to his Merry Men as “The Boys in the Band,” many of whom are played by members of The Village People.
13. “Long” John Silver is overexposed (if you know what I mean).
14. Vile spectacle of Uncle Remus accidentally “Zipping his Doo Dah.”
15. At Space Mountain, many of the guides kept their “pocket rockets.”
16. Michael Jackson singing “It’s a Small World.”

Roach on the wall

October 1999
Roach on the Wall
By Ravenel Roach and Bob Coskrey

Well, this is my first article for “East Cooper Monthly.” I have been reading some of the back issues, so I could get a geel for it, kind of get an idea of what these people are trying to say. Finally, about 20 issues later, I have concluded that if the inpatients of a mental institution—let’s just use that group from “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” for mental imagery purposes—were to publish a paper, it would probably bear a remarkable resemblance to the “East Copper Monthly” (and I mean that in a good way of course), though the former get its issues out on the street in a more timely manner due to a slight number’s superiority in obsessive-compulsive staff members.

Therefore, figuring that if the readership really enjoys this rag, they must be at least equally as loony as the staff, I thought I might as well follow the “E. C. Monthly’s” writers’ preparation regimen: Stay off any anti-psychotic medication the week prior to beginning an article. Unfortunately, thought, being a roach, I don’t need to take any mood-altering drugs. Despite the unrelenting and unspeakable oppression by you so-called humans for over 4.5 million years, we roaches are a very well adjusted species.

Enough! The readers are asked to disregard the last paragraph, just as you juries do when instructed by your reality-challenged judges.

Having observed over the years that you guys are so abysmally insecure that you really get off (sometimes literally) over learning about the humiliating and sometimes painful misfortunes of the rich and powerful, I have decided to give you not what the doctor or Nurse Ratchett ordered, but rather exactly what you want, in the form of excerpts from the entertainment column of our own daily newspaper, the “Roachly Reader.” There will be quotations from our eminent critic, Rex Roach, taken from his column, “Roach on the Wall,” based on the often quoted human phrase, “If only I were a fly on the wall,” but in this case, strengthened by our supernatural ability to read negative thoughts (see my interview in “East Cooper Monthly” August ’99 issue). Needless to say, the world is teeming with Rex’s correspondents, so we can dig up dirt on anybody, anywhere, and anytime we feel like it—which is frequently. You people, especially the ones you worship as your icons and role models, are, euphemistically speaking, very interesting to say the least, and you have the nerve to call us disgusting.

In this article, we will reprise a conversation our roach on the wall correspondent overheard recently at the home of Warren Beatty and his actress wife Annette Bening, where the former was elaborating on his decision to become a presidential candidate:

Warren: I am very concerned about the disgrace Bill Clinton has heaped upon the office of the presidency.

Annette: Yes, I am afraid he has left an indelible stain, figuratively and literally.

Warren: (flashing mild anger in his Beatty eyes) This is not a time to make cute remarks, Annette.

Annette: (consoling) Okay, okay, but I thought you went along with most of his policies and felt that his personal life, no matter how morally revolting, was irrelevant to his being qualified for the job.

Warren: That’s true for the most part, except for one thing that really bothers me…(long pause)

Annette (finally getting tired of Warren to finish his thought): And-that-one-thing-is? (Thinking: My God, it’s no wonder no one invites you to do talk shows.)

Warren: It’s…it’s…it’s his grotesque taste in women, or better, his taste in grotesque women. Just look at that gaggle of gruesome political groupies—or better, gropies—that bevy of big haired trailer trollops, and assorted bow-wows who’ve been lighting up his Tiparellos over the years. What must the American people think?

Annette: About his indiscretions? Absolutely nothing, just like us.

Warren: No, you’re not getting the point. The part about Americans accepting his moral lapses-

Annette (interrupting): You mean collapses.

Warren (continuing, irritability once again showing in his eyes): -is a given. The crisis is that they are mortified that their elected leader would have such atrocious taste in the women he chooses to have affairs with. JFK set the standard with Marilyn Monroe, Judith Exner, and others of that ilk, but this guy hasn’t even come close. You see, if you will allow me to speak briefly in Sternian (Howard) parlance, both guys and chicks dig a guy who can score with hot broads, whether he’s married or not. When Billy the Boinker-

Annette (interrupting) Oinker Boinker.

Warren (continuing): -When Bill the Oinker Boinker ran the anchor leg of the great presidential philanders’ race, he fumbled the baton hand-off from JFK.
Annette: Maybe he was just confused or perhaps he was simply the victim of one of JFK’s practical jokes when the presidential prankster stuffed his baton down his pants, prompting the Boinker to respond at the crucial moment, “Jack, is that your baton or are you just happy to see me?”

Warren: Whatever. He’s no JFK, that’s for sure.

Annette: Okay, we’ve established that already. Now what?

Warren: Now, I announce as a candidate for the presidency.

Annette (dumbfounded): You what? Have you been drinking that funny tea with Shirley again?

Warren: No, dear, not at all. Listen to me. What this country needs is a-

Annette (interrupting): Good five-cent cigar, but they’re not going to smoke any of his.

Warren (continuing): If I may continue – president with a proven record of amorous conquests of world class babes. And that man, my dear, is none other than yours truly. I’ve got a record that nobody can top for the past 35 years, from Natalie Wood to Candace Bergen to Julie Christie. I could list 20 or 30 more of them, if I wanted to, right off the top of my head.

Annette (thinking: Which one?): Don’t bother, why don’t we just record the names you always shout while we’re making love?

Warren: Oh, for “Heavens’ Gate”—I mean sake—that’s all in the past. Nobody’s better than you, honey. After all, you’re the one I married.

Annette (thinking: Yeah, because nobody else was interested in you. Who else would put up with a used up Lothario who wears Depends under his Bikini underwear.): Okay, you may be right, I guess I could put up with the rehashing of all your old affairs, since it is, after all, for a worthwhile cause.

Warren (a bit meekly): Well, my little Benin Cookie, that’s not quite the whole plan.

Annette: Let me guess. Charlie Sheen’s going to be your running mate?

Warren: No, but that’s a damn good idea. Actually, what I’m thinking is that my sexual resume, though impressive, reads like ancient history. It needs to be updated.

Annette (affecting a Clint Eastwood glare): Meaning what?

Warren (unconsciously making himself smaller and blinking nervously):

Meaning I-ah-need to have a – an affair. I can’t smugly live off the glories of my past. The American electorate needs to know that I still have what it takes.

Annette: And just what patriotic prostitute will you be enlisting?

Warren: It will be nothing like that. Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of simultaneous affairs with 3 (thinking: Lucky) women, but not just any women. They would need to be beautiful and classy. Specifically, I’m thinking about Gweneth Paltrow, Cindy Crawford, and Halle Berry. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I won be going this for any base, libidinous reason. You and I will be doing this for our country. With the knowledge that their leader is a discriminating stud, once again, Americans can walk around with their heads held high (thinking: As will I, heh, heh.) Well, what do you think, honey? It’s a chance to serve your country.

Annette: Right, Mr. Lion King. I serve and you service. You’re going through a middle-age—or rather old-age—crisis, and is simply an elaborate borderline psychotic scheme to satisfy your needs. There’s a better chance of a studio coming to you and begging you to make Ishtar II than there is of my agreeing to this screw ball idea.

Warren (sheepishly): But you’ve got it all wrong, Bunny butt-

Annette (interrupting): I’ll tell you what, why don’t you get Shirley to channel up some of your old dead girlfriends through Hillary, then you can do your public service bit by satisfying that poor soul, and I’ll go take care of Billy the Oinker Boinker personally? Not to brag, but I think his liaison with me will be sufficient to elevate the prestige of the office to the JFK standard. Now, you get back in your office and start sublimating some of that pent-up sexual energy into doing something rational like making a new movie. In fact, how about one about your and Hillary’s affair. Your trysting place could be Blair House, the vice-president’s home, and then you could call it “The Blair Bitch Project.”

Warren (patronizingly): Honey, I get your point loud and clear. Actually, I think an affair wh Gwyneth along will suffice. (Suddenly, Annette grabs a nearby Tiffany lamp and hurls it violently. It smashes on the wall next to Warren’s head.)

Warren (frightened): Wha--?

Annette: Oh, calm down, you big fruit. There was a roach right there on the wall. You know how I hate those damn things.

Warren (still a bit anxious): Well, you missed. He just disappeared into an air conditioning register. AT least, it wasn’t a fly on the wall. That’s probably where the tabloids get all their information.

Annette (displaying a dominating Hillarian glare): Why don’t you call Shirley now and get things started, dear?

Warren: Right away, baby (thinking as he fumbles with the phone: Just my luck, she’ll only be able to channel Eleanor Roosevelt).

Suddenly, a stern female warden-like voice thunders through the receiver: Hillary Rodham Clinton speaking.

Warren slowly begins a fetal fold, as he feels his manhood shrinking. He’s only able to manage a tiny gurgle.

Hillary: Monica, if that’s you, you bloated bimbo, you stay out of my life ‘til I become a senator. After that, you can have the whoring hillbilly!

A click is heard on the other end.

In Quest of a High Style

I have lived in Charleston all my life, and though it both galls and embarrasses me to admit it. I have never achieved that certain recognition that all Charlestonians of even borderline eminence must luxuriate in before they pass through that Great Sword Gate in the sky.

Yes, despite feeling like a guy coming out of the closet at a teamster meeting, I will confess that I have never once appeared in the “High Style” section of the Post & Courier. And until I do so, no matter what I have accomplished—“Honorable Mention in the Most Beautiful Baby Contest” 1942, High School of Charleston “King of Hearts” 1956, or third place “National Association of Free Newspapers” feature article category 1992—my legacy will still be shallow and pathetic.

And so, after finally deciding that I must do all that’s possible to ensure that my progeny does not inherit this worthless estate of affairs, I came up with a plan:

Since obviously I am never going to be on the guest lists of any events that warrant “High Style” attention, I will have to have my own event. Therefore, I called the editor of “High Style,” An Glo-Saxon, to find out just what I needed to do to make my even worthy of their lofty consideration:

Me: Good morning, Ms. Glo-Saxon, my name’s Bob Coskrey and I’d like to have “High Style” cover a little even I’m putting on.
AGS: Bob Coskrey, you’re the one that writes those revolting article for East Cooper Monthly.
Me: I was thinking of having a Fourth of July party that would unite all of eh citizens of the Great Charleston Area, especially after the divisive Confederate Flag issue and the general lack of civility between various political, religious, and ethnic groups. I’m simply going to call it “America’s Birthday Party.” And I’ll invite everybody: all minority groups, whites, liberals, conservatives, gays, Christian Coalitionists, ACLU members, NRA members, pornographers, politicians, South-of-Broaders, Goose Creekers, flag haters and supporters, and on and on.
The theme will be: WE may hate and disrespect one another, and behave like total a-holes for 364 days of the year, but for this one day, let’s all just get s-faced, eat hamburgers and hot dogs, and pretend we actually like one another.
AGS: Well, it’s certainly a noble though, despite its rather crude manifestations.
Me: Yeah, I know all that, Ms. GS, but here’s the most important question: Will you cover it and will I get my picture in “High Style”?
AGS: Well, Bob, let’s answer it this way: I’ll give you our “High Style” qualifications criteria, and we’ll see if your ambitious little shin-dig meets them:
1. Unless it’s Kwanzaa, Cinquo de Mayo, or one of those other ethnic celebrations, there must be at least 75% WASPs to others ratio.
Me: Well, I certainly can’t guarantee that, especially when one of purposes is to promote cultural diversity along with unity.
AGS: We’ll consider your point, Bob, but let’s move on.
2. There must be at least one white female in attendance with the same Missy, Sissy or Muffy.
Me: Actually, I think I may be able to arrange that.
AGS: They will have to have either ID or someone of unimpeachable character (more likely of the same background of course) who can verify the name.
Me: Well, that might be harder, but I’ll do my best. What else?
AGS: Spoleto is over, there can be no more than 1% of gay attendees.
Me: I don’t know. How can you always tell who’s gay and who’s not?
AGS: Simple, you do the same thing that the Republicans do at their conventions; random lisp testing.
Me: What?
AGS: You stop the guys and ask them to say the word “fabulous.” If they lisp it, you simply ask them to leave. Oh, you may miss a few of the Rock Hudson or Raymond Burr types, but at least you’ll get the “flamers.” In fact, that’s what the Republicans call it: “Putting out the flames.”
Me: I’ll do what I can, but I want all groups represented. What else?
AGS: 3% Swarthies limit.
Me: Swarthies?
AGS: Swarthies. You know, Mediterranean types, Italians, Greeks, French, plues the Spanish ones. The Spoleto waiver has been rescinded for them, too.
Me (noticeably frustrated): Okay, okay.
AGS: There must be at least 15% of the people with the last name of a Charleston street.
Me: Translation, please.
AGS: Funny, you don’t seem as dense in your articles. Do you have a ghost writer?
Me: Of course not, but having never experienced the intellectually stimulating environment of a “high styler,” I am naturally a bit slow on the uptake.
AGS: I understand perfectly, Bob. What I meant by people with the last name of a Charleston street were, you know, Rutledge, Huger, Maybank, and Ashley, and so on got it?
Me: Sure, but with all due respect, why?
AGS: It’s just a whim of ours. Indulge us, unless you think you have a choice.
Me: All right, what else?
AGS: There has to be at least one guy in a white linen or seersucker suit, wearing a bow tie.
Me: Once more, I feel an irrepressible, but perhaps foolhardy, urge to ask why.
AGS: Certainly understandable, Bob, but again, if you have to ask why, then obviously you just don’t get I – the High Style Philosophy—and I will be wasting both of our times if I try to explain it. It would be like me asking my father why every New Year’s Eve he gets drunk, takes off his pants, sticks on a fireman’s helmet, and put out the fire in the fireplace “naturally” yelling “Hose Man to the rescue!”
Me: Okay, I’m will to accept a lot in life, as pitiable as it is. Anything else?
AGS: Yes. There has to be at least one glassy-eyes local celebrity with his arm around an attractive female who’s not related to him.
Me: Okay, and I won’t ask why this time.
AGS: But, for once, you should have, because the answer is, “It’s just the Jerry Springer in us,” tee hee hee.
Me: Hey, now I get it.
AGS: How quaint.
Me: Okay, we must be getting near the end.
AGS: Yes, for you, Bob, perhaps. (Snicker)
Me: Oh, you are way too much for me, Ms. Glo-Saxon. May I be so bold as to call you Ann?
AGS: The answer to that question is that it depends on whether your supreme quest for “High Style” status is successful or not, Bob.
Me: Thank you for allowing me a secondary life goal almost as lofty as the first.
AGS: Does the term sychophanticide mean anything to you, Bob? Never mind. Your next to the last criterion is, of course, that everyone, even minors (this is Charleston, after all) must have a mixed drink in his or her hand—whether they drink or not. Surely you are aware that this is a time-honored tradition of the Holy City, even among the ungentrified, such as yourself.
Me: Oh yeah, probably the best one of them all, Ms. Glo-Saxon, and one that I fervently support.
AGS: You know, Bob, occasionally, you display faint flashed of civility, if only for a few precious seconds.
Me: I’m unworthy of your flattery, Ms. Glo-Saxon, but shouldn’t we start the drum roll introducing the final qualification criterion?
AGS: Actually, a drum roll would be perfect, since this is the e I think you will really like, Bob. There will be absolutely no residents of Goose Creek or Ladson in attendance, and North Charleston residents can be present only in a menial or service capacity.
Me (beaming): Thank God for your common, I mean uncommon, sense, Ms. Glo-Saxon. When I included them, I was obviously stretching the limits of multiculturalism. But what if some of them are wily enough to disguise themselves (though this is most unlikely)?
AGS: Simple, Bob. Set up a clogging demonstration. Anybody who watches it gets kicked out. It works every time.
Me: Suddenly, I feel very differently about you, Ms. Glo-Saxon. There, you see, there is always a common ground. Sometimes, one just has to blow away the leaves of hate and misunderstanding. Do you know the words to “Cumbaya”?
AGS: Isn’t that one of those Kwanzaa songs?
Me: Oh, never mind. Did I pass or not?
AGS: I’ll be in touch, Bob. We have to do some perfunctory background checking, too.

And so, I sit in agony, awaiting Ms. Glo-Saxon’s (or Ann’s) call, praying that her relentless investigation into my past will not somehow uncover a young writer in 1979 watching a clogging contest at the Coastal Carolina Fair, purely out of idle, but innocent curiosity.

Undoing the Charleston

Maybe I've lived here too long (49 years).

Maybe I'm upset because nobody told me about the Calcutta Ball.

Maybe I feel disenfranchised because I don't have a jeep wagon with a Wild Dunes decal and frustrated because even if I stole a decal, it would only inspire sniggering on my Toyota.

Perhaps, I'm just feeling sorry for myself because I know that even the most accomplished genealogist couldn't find a Pringle, Rutledge, or Middleton in my family tree without divine intervention.

Or, this whole thing could be a delayed post-traumatic stress reaction to learning that I could never join Charleston Society.

Whatever the reason—I could put this more delicately, but I'll just blurt it out instead—"Charleston, you're really starting to annoy me."

I feel better just having said it. But, there's the real possibility that very soon I'll be covered with she-crab soup and ridden out of the city on a joggling board.

Twenty or thirty years ago, only the Chamber of Commerce proclaimed Charleston to be "America's Most Historic City," no one above Columbia referred to us, even derisively, as "the Holy City," and only the aristocracy and a smattering of surging parvenus whore expensive, traditionally styled clothes (Ivy League), drove luxury cars (Cadillacs, Chryslers, Country Squire Wagons), dined frequently at haute monde, restaurants (Perdita's, Henry's, The Cavallaro), and had beach houses (Sullivan's Island or Isle of Palms) for the summer.

But now, Charleston is touted in international magazines as "America's Most Historic City." It's "quaintest," it's "most charming," not to mention its "most livable."

We have an international art festival, scores of chic restaurants, fashionable clothing stores, boutiques and antique shops materializing overnight, and swarming hordes of local artists mass producing enough pictures of Rainbow Row to cover the ozone hole.

People in Butte, Montana, are wearing "I love Charleston" t-shirts.

And thousand of affluent newcomers have poured into the city, overflowing into Mt. Pleasant and the surrounding islands where they've renovated historic homes, contrasted walled, but so far moat-less subdivisions, and are fighting valiantly to wrest the standard of self-aggrandizement away from the ruling class and established Charleston as a world ego center.

It is a very curious battle. The competitors all wear similar uniforms designed by Ralph Lauren, drive the same kinds of cars, live in the same kinds of houses, and, in general, pursue identical lifestyles, often interrupted by instances of one-upmanship: "Oh God, look honey, the Martins have added a St. Tropez decal to their BMW."

Of course, there is a name for these people, the Nouveau Charlestonians, the medial love to continuously describe as upscale, fashionable, upwardly mobile, movers and shakers, and I had earnestly hoped to avoid the most familiar term that describes this ever-increasing population of "the Great Washed"—the dreaded "Y word," the word that has the same effect on me as a tongue depressor gone too far. Yuppie.

Thirty years ago, an evening walk down Market Street would be an adventure, admittedly not always a wholesome one. One would come upon B-girls, lust-consumed sailors, and an assortment of "Charleston Characters," sober and otherwise, as they tripped back and forth between Henry's, The Owl Club, The Cove, and the Carriage House.

There were no unnaturally glistening rails, furbished bars, and ferns, and any male uttering the word, ambience, would probably engender suspicion about his sexual persuasion.

People drank Pabst Blue Ribbon or Budweiser—even Schlitz. No one ordered white wine or Stolichnaya neat.

There were no expensive, room-illuminating light fixtures or chandeliers ("Y People" like to be noticed by other "Y people"). The bard were always dark. The people and the roaches like it that way.

No one had ever heard of a boutique and most of the antique shops looked like Twilight Zone sets, heavy with hallucinogenic strength mustiness, run by people from another century, and viewed only as weird museums by occasional visitors.

There were no imperiously pointing "Y women" exclaiming, "I must have this for the drawing room, Brett," or "Y husbands" mock-scolding, "Oh Megan, you know that will just never fit n the Jag. Why don't I call Biffer on the 'celly' (car telephone) to bring the rover?"

Obviously, the old days in Charleston were devoid of some of the even more basic niceties, but in nostalgic retrospect, I prefer them to today's Disney World for the Self-important.

Arguably, Charleston has always had a reputation for quasi-psychotic vainglory, but fortunately, not many outside of our state were affected by it.

Now that it is world renown, we are in very real danger of becoming the municipal equivalent of Barry Manilow ("We are the town that makes the whole world sing.")

The best treatment might be an injection of humility. Someone needs to provide proof:

--that Moline, Illinois, is actually America's Most Historic City
--that a key secret ingredient of benne seed cookies is horse manure
--that a Hell's Angel is buried in St. Philip's Church cemetery
--Mayor Riley has a pair of fuzzy dice on his car's rearview mirror
--Gain Carlo Menotti has one Country Western

Hey, Charleston. Lighten up!

(Originally published July 1989)

Best Confederate Flag Supporter Website

Caucasian States of America.com, created by that dynamic of occasionally delusional Internet duo known as “Colonel Arthur and Major John G.,” offers a plethora of educational and entertainment information for ardent flagellates.

Once you have registered, there is an immediate financial reward, the opportunity to purchase the organization’s own credit card, the Massah Card, and item that not only provides low interest rates and high prestige, but commands that certain other members of the community “keep their places.”

True believers will also be excited about the password, “s-l-a-v-e,” an audacious acronym for the organization’s registered name, the Southern League for the Acquisition of Valued Employees.

Once safely within the inner sanctum of this glorious group, you will be eligible to join some of its august sub-groups, such as the Mystic Knights of the Confederacy, where on bowling nights you will use modified Confederate cannon balls and go for strikes against set-ups that include a Martin Luther Kingpin.

You will also be presented with a free KKK-Mart charge card and be able to shop at this very special discount department store with a 1940s atmosphere tastefully decorated ith quaint “good old days” signs, such as “Colored” or “White” over the restrooms or drinking fountains, or “Whites Only” at the lunch counter. Believe me, you would cut the nostalgia with a whip. Additionally, you will receive discounts at the store on your Mystic Knights white hooded robes. Amusingly enough, many members have found out that the hoods also make excellent dunce cap covers.

You will be invited to the organization’s annual conference and, coincidentally, it will be held in the charming Community of Ladson, SC, this year, where there will be endless parties, during which you will, no doubt, spontaneously join in group chantings of the CSA’s inspiring mantra, “If at first you don’t secede, try, try again.”

You could also be lucky enough to meet online the CSA’s only black member, George Jefferson Davis, who always arrives at these events in an armored car with bodyguards, nonetheless shaking with trepidation, a condition cleverly referred to by the group’s more traditional members as a case of the “plantation shudders.”

Finally, there is a virtual tour of Colonel Arthur’s thriving lawn jockey factory, where, as a special bonus, you can pick up one of his special celebrity models that range from Dennis Rodman to Colin Powell.

Every April 12, as a member of the SCA, you will be able to celebrate “Secession Day” by drinking a mint julep from your CSA shot-glass, before smashing it enthusiastically against the wall, to commemorate the “shot-glass heard ‘round the world.”

And logging off, the Caucasian States of America ends with a defiant declaration, “The South Will Rise Again!”

Happy surfing, you Flaming Flaggots!

Indecorous Decorations of the Lowcountry

December 1999
Indecorous Decorations of the Lowcountry
By Bob Coskrey

Some people take Christmas decorating very seriously. My wife, Barbara, likes to ride around and see how these serious people decorate their houses and yards and, indeed, many people put a great deal of effort and expense into it, with the results being tasteful and beautiful creations that not only deserve subdivision awards but maybe a visit from House Beautiful photographers, as well. However, the results are not consistently so positive, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, because there are a number of homeowners who take it just a step too far, those who are not satisfied with a simple wreath on the door and white lights in the windows, but rather feel that the more strings of lights there are covering the house and engulfing every last millimeter of flora—not necessarily excluding any fauna that may happen to get in the way—the more radiant and Chrismasty the overall effect is, and certainly, this approach does achieve supernova quality, with the only thing lacking, at times, being a neon “Viva Las Christmas” sign.

There are also those who practice the theme park method of decoration, with their roofs, yards, and porches teeming with Santas, reindeers, elves, candy canes, and toy soldiers, not to mention perpetually playing holiday music beckoning sense-accosted passersby to stop and gawk. And, of course, there is always one house in every neighborhood that outdoes all the others. We’ve all seen it before and if we have small children we always take them to marvel at it.

And surely the key word that connects all these monstrosities of merriment is that one whispered to Dustin Hoffman in “The Graduate”: Plastics!

Not ceramic, wood, or Phillip Simmons styled wrought iron, but the synthetic, nonbiodegradable, and totally indestructible substance that has been the archetype for cheapness and tackiness since the 1920s.

Plastic, leering, psycho-Santas with expressions that probably scare the Christmas brownies out of little kids and unintentionally sacreligious manger scenes consisting of celluloid Sons of God and Virgin Marys (“Our Lady of Polypropylene”?). Flashing animated sleighs on top of houses with elaborate and potentially lethal electrical wiring requiring a family’s entire monthly budget to operate, stared at by awestruck neighborhood children earnestly praying for one of those scenes from that Chevy Chase Christmas movie, or perhaps even a life-bettering-art one, where the street is rocked by a deafening “pow,” followed by a total blackout, and Mr. Johnson’s toasted torso is discovered in a melted-out hole in the snow.

Naturally, decorating styles differ with each community. Whereas in downtown Charleston and some of the tonier subdivisions most houses will be rather traditionally adorned, some S.O.B.s may actually string their fences with lights, but only for practical reasons of “accidentally” exposing a bare wire here and there to “zap the hell out of a few of the damn nosy tourists.” This same group of normally innocuous people have also been known to drive around with loudspeakers blaring yuletide music interloaded with subliminal phrases—also targeted at tourists, such as “Go to Myrtle Beach! Go to Myrtle Beach!” or the even more forceful “Go to Myrtle Beach if you know what’s good for you! And Marry Christmas, by the way!”

Our illegitimate sister city of North Charleston will once again charm sightseers with their customary red and green painted car-supporting cinderblocks and walkway border tires. And there is a rumor that representatives of North Charleston’s most lucrative industry, prostitution, will very tastefully leave a single green light in their windows along with the more traditional red one. Ho, ho, ho, indeed!

In the sleepy (partially lead-paint induced) community of Ladson, they’re already prepared, since they very pragmatically leave the strings o flights on their trailers from year to year. However, the “Festival of Fork” will be reprised this year. During this celebratory event, all its citizens dine alfresco at the open air flea market and make another attempt at eating with “one of them new-fangled utensils.” Visitors may also experience the serendipity of coming upon Klansmen in their resplendent red and green Christmas sheets and may perhaps even be fortuitous enough to be serenaded by their homespun rendition of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas (in addition to the other 364 days, as well).”

Certainly, I will not neglect my most favorite of Lowcountry burgs, Goose Creek, whose citizens will, for the 3rd year in a row, forego decorating their trailers (the competition with Ladson had become a trifle heated) in favor of their now world-famous “Monster Sleigh Rally” in which modified sleighs complete with racing stripes and oversized tires alternately perform daring jumps over 15-foot effigies of myself in a “Grinch that Stole Christmas” costume or smash headlong into one another.

So, just as in the past, Barbara and I are looking forward to driving around and experiencing the Lowcountry Christmas splendor and, of course, anticipating that some members of our north-of Charleston communities many no entirely appreciate my sense of humor, as expressed in this publication, we will be riding in our holiday decorated Wells Fargo armored truck.

Benched for the Name Game

October 21, 1997

Benched for the Name Game
By Bob Coskrey

When it came time to name the publication, no one, not even Jeff Schwaner, asked for my input, but perhaps as you read o, you may appreciate his wisdom.

Nevertheless, to begin with, it would seem logical to name it “Upwith Herald” again, but apparently that’s legally prohibited now, so why not just use one or two of the three words from the old name, thereby reducing the amount of the lawsuit by one or two thirds? Hey, we need to reduce our operating costs as much as possible in the beginning.

Then again, the name should deliver the message of the paper. Just what is it that we want to say and to whom do we want to say it?

If we came out with a defiant “who cares if you read us, we’re the best” attitude, we could call ourselves “Up Yours Herald.” In fact, we could dedicate each issue to a special person every week, by changing the word, e.g. “Up Yours, Gilliam” (local), “Up Yours, Beasley” (state), or “Up Yours, Camilla” (international). But then that’s really a bit too negative.

We could signal a proclivity for self-deprecating humor with the “Up Ours Herald” or even project an “it’s them, not us” perspective with the “Up Theirs Herald.”

Then again, maybe we should eschew the attack mode altogether with the “Upwith Herald Angels Sing.” We could all acquire that “Upwith People” look—freshly scrubbed v-neck sweaters and white shirts. We could write about nothing but superlative examples of human behavior.

E.g. “Ecstatically happy postal worker runs through post office hugging and kissing fellow employees and thanking his supervisors for the chance to work with such a great bunch of people.”

Or, “Driver in bumper to bumper traffic jam shoots self out of fear of being mistaken for a tailgater.”

But let’s be candid. If we wrote only about examples of exemplary human behavior, we would quickly be out of business. Who would read a two page paper?

We could try to expand our reader base by going after the hip-hop community with the “Downwith Herald,” but I doubt they’ll be down with no bunch of line-dancin’ white guys with closets full of Vanilla Ice CDs.

We could sell all our advertising to one client, Food Lion, by shamelessly naming ourselves the “What’s Upwith Harold,” transcending the now hackneyed “Where’s Harold,” but then we’d probably be inviting ABC to surreptitiously through our news stands for papers with expired dates.

Maybe the “Upchuck Herald” would catch on, in which we would devote our writing to the grosser aspects of life such as “Mr. Ed’s Revenge: Horses’ Diaper Explodes Onto Carraige-Load of Overweight, Hot Dog Gorging Tourists in 98 Degree Heat” or “Nude Hot Tubbing With Dan Moon.”

But despite all these splendid, if not always tactful ideas, they decided upon “the Current,” which certainly is very good, though “Hip” would have been just as effective in my book (which incidentally looks a lot like the one Jack Nicholson’s character was typing away in “The Shining”), though maybe not quite as with it as “Now” or “Happenin’.”

“Au Courant” would give us a nice Euro flavor, but how they could have possibly rejected “Alternating Current” completely befuddles me. And along that line, “AC-DC” wouldn’t be bad, except that we might be forced to fill our pages with personal ads of a certain bent.

“Current,” “Current.” As I said the words I got a mental picture of a swift moving river roaring down King Street filled with interesting people from all walks of life and writers struggling to write about them as they bob between whitecaps. It’s the swiftest Current I’ve ever seen, and then suddenly I overheard my fourth grade teacher saying to my mother, “Mrs. Coskrey, your son, I , uh, don’t really know how to say this, but he’s, you know, NOT TOO SWIFT!”

I looked at “The Current” again. To be or not to be.

Riding this Current is going to be an exciting trip. I figure as long as I keep writing I can stay afloat.