Reasons Why I Love St. Patrick’s Day

(originally published March, 1998)

1. Always enjoy the re-enactment of the St. Patrick’s miracle with local lawyers and politicians playing the parts of snakes.

2. The colorful contrasts of bright green outfits with brilliant red faces.

3. The Long Distance Barfing Contest outside the Knights of Columbus Hall.

4. Seeing people with naturally green teeth looking proud instead of self-conscious.

5. I’m looking forward to the Christening of the new Mart Street Vomitorium.

6. The friendly wagering on which old drunk guys won’t finish the parade.

7. Observing the morning-after hysterics of guys who drank green beer and now mistakenly think they have urinary tract infections.

8. Raucous boasting by guys at the Hibernian Hall about who has the biggest Shillelagh.

9. Seeing restaurants unloading their green with mold she-crab soup as “Kilarney Crab Chowder.”

10. That new race, the 5k Guinness Stagger.

The Idle Poor

As we all are aware, thanks to programs like "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," not to mention the daily stories carried by the national and local media, rich people, old or nouveau, growing weary of laying on chaise lounges eating grapes, and ordering others to "amuse me," sometimes have to dig deep into their shallow reservoirs of creativity to keep themselves interested. That's why we see them doing bizarre things, such as, buying complete wardrobes for their neurologically afflicted rat dogs or racing each other in giant hot-air balloons that I secretly wish would disappear into the sun (Well, I guess it's not a secret anymore). However, I am here to aver emphatically that boredom-precipitated aberrant behavior is not the proprietary expression of the well-to-do. The term "idle" can be pejoratively applied to the poor as well as the rich, take none other than myself for example.

During what I refer to as my "Fallow Years," 1960-63 (I was in my early 20s), when I endured some times in which I neighter was availing myself of educational opportunities nor experiencing gainful employment, I managed to subsists solely on an unemployment check of $37.00, although this was supplemental by occasional odd jobs such as sanding a friend's sailboat one summer, for which he paid me through a beer tab at "Big John's Tavern." Being a very caring and insightful friend, he was unburdening me from the excruciating, moral dilemma of having to decide whether I would apply my hard earned wages to something so spiritually unsatisfying as rent or a utility bill or temporarily fill up the vacuum of a vacuous life with unlimited pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon. 45 years later this munificent gesture still brings tears to presbyopic eyes.

But, when the occasional jobs dried up, I was forced to move back home for a while, an act which to most parents is tantamount to having a huge banner covering the front of the house screaming, "Welcome Home, My Son, The Loser!" I would always have to save most of my money for the weekend, not being able to afford to go out during the week, which was just as well, since all of my friends wee either still in college or working and wouldn't want to carouse on week days anyway. Being stuck with an abundance of personal downtime, I had to think of ways, preferably non-productive, to amuse myself, that is once I'd come up with some ostensibly worthwhile pursuit designed to bolster my foundering self-esteem. To address the latter, I decided after reading an article about playwrights one day to pursue the totally spurious goal of becoming one, and this was before I had ever written anything for publication. To legitimize this mirage, I would go to the library every day and read plays, from Odets to Cocteau to O'Neil to Chekhov. I would spend hours in the Charleston County Library. Did I ever write a play? No. What's worse, despite my ill-founded diligence, the most I can say about the experience is that I learned that plays are much more enjoyable seen than read, and I didn't find this out till 35 years later.

But what I did enjoy was my daily game of Mantle-Ball (which had nothing to do with "The Mick."), a semi-vigorous solo endeavor played within the confines of my mother's small living room, which involved my taking a carefully rolled up wad of paper and trying to toss it into a small brass vase located on the mantle piece. I would always pretend to be a Boston Celtic, and would imagine it to be the last few seconds of the game. Of course, I was also the announcer as well as the crowd: "the ball goes in to Russell, with time running out, and he tried an off-balance scoop shot under the outstretched tree trunks of Chamberlain—the Celtics win!" I see myself making the incredible shot in the large mirror strategically located directly behind the vase. This is accompanied by self-generated crowd roaring, which as most guys know, can be created by breathing out as if you're trying to fog up your glasses prior to cleaning them, while simultaneously whispering the word, "haaaaaaaay." Then I would briefly acknowledge the frenetic crowd with a wave (we didn't dance around with our arrogant index fingers raised in those days). As quickly as the game ends, another one begins, as I, in the form of John Havlicek this time, fire off a floating jumper from the top of the key. This continues with different Celtics for about a half an hour or until my mother or some other semblance of reality interrupts me. And before you condemn this as a pathetic and wimpy pastime, let me douse your flash-fire of obloquy with the bulletin that Mantle-Ball is a lot rougher than it appears, as the pinkish scars on the knuckles of my shooting hand injured by the oaken mantle itself while executing a particularly vehement, backwards dunk from behind the coffee table will attest.

For pure relaxation, though, "Baseball Cards"—and I don't mean the kind you trade—was the best. It was a relatively simple game in concept. These were games of winding down, after all, following an intense day of all out self-imposed reading at the library, occasionally exacerbated by continuous hours of complete physical non-involvement, as a result of my mother occupying the Boston Garden/living room to watch her soap operas. I would use an "ordinary deck of cards," as the magicians feel they must say, with each one representing a specific baseball action: Aces were homeruns, the King of Spades was a triple, queens were doubles and all Jacks and tens were singles. The red kings were walks, the King of clubs a hit batter, the Joker an error, and black twos were double plays. There were no cards designating things like steals, blacks, triple plays, bunts, infield flies, or interference. I just wanted to have fun, not prepare for a Mensa test. Then, I'd like the lineups just like the box scores that you see on the sports page. It would always be the Yankees against the world, sort of like it is now. There would be Maris, Mantle, Richardson, Ford and company against Killebrew and the Twins, Kaline and the Tigers, Mays and the Giants, and so on. I would simply deal out the cards until one team won, usually the Yankees (no, I didn't cheat), and when it was over, I would then figure out the batting averages and ERAs. And, of course, I didn't calculate the slugging or fielding percentages. What do you take me for? Some sort of creepy misfit with no life? Sometimes, I would substitute scrabble tiles for cards just to show a bit of my wild side.

Near the end of my "Fallow Years," I briefly lived in Florence, SC, with two friends who were attending what is now Francis Marion College and was then the USC extension at Florence. It was my intention get a job there and go to school, as well. The job never came though, so neither did the school, but fortunately, the $37.00 check continued. Pathetically, I had more money than either of my friends. We shared two rooms in a motel till we could find an apartment and it was there at the Colonial Court Motel, our outside social activities being limited by our communal poverty, that we spent much of our time play my single, socially interactive game of this period, the only one I cannot take credit or discredit for creating. It came in the form of an electronic football game that I had had for about 11 or 12 years. I just came across it in a bunch of old packed away stuff and brought it with me, envisioning delphically that it would might somehow fit into our social (in)activities. This, as the others, was a very rudimentary game, a perhaps 2 ½ X 1 foot metal football field whose surface would vibrate when you turned on a switch.

Then there were 22 flat, one dimensional football players on a small metal base with 2 square, vertical plates beneath, facing fore and aft that slanted backwards. Once the switch was pressed, these little figures would start moving around the board. The ball was an oval shaped piece of felt, which could be wedged into any one of the figures so it would seem as though he were carrying it. There was also an extra man who was the kicker. You would load the ball into a catapult-like device attached to him, and you would aim at the tiny goalposts, squeeze and let fly, and maybe 8% of the time you would split the uprights. If you were on offense, you would basically try to arrange all your blockers into a wedge and hope they would push through the defense, whose men you would line up between two blockers so that they would split them. You could also bend the action plates, so that a player could make an end run, but you would have to be close to the goal or else he would simply go in a circle or maybe end up scoring for the other team. Once the ball carrier was touched by an opposing player, the ball was downed there. This game, as with the rest, did not require an abundance of gray matter, fortunately for us, but as is common with most indoor games organized by guys, it did inevitably inspire/require a lot of beer-swilling. In other words, a game designed for Ward Cleaver-like dad to spend quality time with their 10 year olds became one that many former child stars would probably like to play now, a loud, sloppy drinking game, but without the drugs. I make a first down, you chug down half your beer. You stop me, I do likewise. I make a touchdown, you chug a whole beer. You take over on down, I chug one. I make a 100 yard field goal, you drink 2 beer in 10 minutes. You tackle me in the endzone or recover a fumble, I swig 2 in 10 minutes. In reality, while the primary goal was to win the football game, secondary one of being the last man to throw up and/or pass out gradually evolved. Since there were three of us, two would play, while the odd man out would be the referee and scorer, but he would also have to bet on either the offense or the defense on each play. If he chose the loser, he would have to drink the same amount of beer. We didn't want some wiseass sober dude laughing at us.

The game would end after two hours, and whoever was head at the time, was the winner, with ties being decided by whoever emitted the longest belch.

It's been 42 years since the $37.00 unemployment check finally ran out, as did my roommates, and now, instead of creating inane games, I write crap like this, although I still occasionally make a brief contest of tossing a piece of paper into the trash can. Not playing cards very often, I've had no opportunities to segue into baseball cards again, and I don't know what happened to the electric football game, but if I ever see one on eBay or the Antique Road Show, I'll probably try to buy it.

An article on the "Idle Middle Class?" No such thing, we're all holding down three jobs, trying to survive in George Dubya's America. I apologize to my conservative readers. You're probably thinking the whole article was a setup for this last comment.

The Wrongs of Spring

March 1998

The Wrongs of Spring
By Bob Coskrey


That magical season is nearly upon us again, when the drab dreariness of winter suddenly dissolves to carpets and canopies of vibrant green. Big damn deal!

All this means to me is seven straight months of cutting grass and trimming hedges, 700 man hours of indispensible time deducted from my rapidly decreasing longevity.

I can painfully recall the time about 20 years ago when I actually enjoyed doing yard work, witlessly spending meaningless days plodding golem-like back and forth across my lawn, yanking up truckloads of weeks, lugging sprinklers, and soaking a gasping earth with megagallons of carcinogenic insecticides, destroying every last molecule to unknown depths, perhaps even exacerbating our already shakey relationship with China, not to mention the possible snuffing out of innocent birds, pets, and even the occasional trespassing neighborhood kid.

On some days, I would complete my daily four to six mile run, then launch myself, exhausted, though enthusiastic, into my mowing, trimming, yanking, spraying routine. I always thought of this as my Middle Class Marathon, and my inevitable attainable gold medal would be an exquisitely manicured yard.

I continued this obsessive compulsive pattern until one day during a conversation with a similarly afflicted neighbor, when he said to me with retrospectively inappropriate passion, “I love it, when after I cut the grass, I can sit on the porch here and see the parallel cutting paths running up and down the length of my yard.” This somewhat excessively reverential statement frightened me, but not nearly as much as my too eager response, “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

The man was a Mower-Ron, a Yard Yahoo, a Weed Weirdo, a Centi-pederast, a Mulch Monkey, a Herbicidal Maniac, who was as whacky as his Weedwahacker.

And I was becoming him. It was at that point that I seriously reassessed my life and my over-involvement in the pursuit of “God’s Little Acre” (actually half of one).

I was 50 years old, with my life freight-training past me like a rewinding video tape. I shouldn’t be devoting 10 percent of my life, much less 25 percent, to pointless yard drudgery. In these, my golden—not verdant—years, I should be spending my leisure hours reading, writing, traveling, and spending time with my lovely wife, who, incidentally, is well adjusted enough never to have done any more than a total of eight hours of yard work in her entire life.

Did this epiphany suddenly result in the cessation of my lawn labor frenzies? Of course not. One does not stop deeply ingrained behavior like this overnight. At the present, I do just the absolute minimum that will deter my property value conscious neighbors from riding me out of the subdivision on a hedge trimmer.

The key is that I no longer get a kick out of doing it. In fact, I despise and resent its chlorophyllous intrusion into the precious last third of my existence, and if you ever see me standing on my porch after I’ve spend a 90 degree F / 90 percent humidity day toiling in the turf, I won’t be waxing orgasmic over the splendiferous results, but rather praying for a thunderous herd of rampaging mole crickets to decimate my property down to the last dandelion and finally free from this recurring seven months of Hell on Earth.

So again, do I rejoice at the arrival of spring? No, on the contrary, I curse it as a photosynthetic precursor of personal misery and wasted time.

Actually, when I think about it, the only truly joyous springs for me were followed by the word “break” in the days when the only sap flowing was of the glandular kind and the popping “Buds” drowned out the blooming ones.

But that’s another article.