Other rejected promotional ideas of the Charleston Riverdogs Besides the Father's Day Vasectomy

1. Free brain transplants for KKK members

2. Ball Day/Hump Day (no one under 18 allowed)

3. On rain-outs have Calhoun/East Bay Streets Regattas or VA Hospital Parking Lot Swordfish tournament

4. All you can drink beer night (alcoholics only)

5. Sponsored by the Citadel, as a public service, "Goose Step Night," featuring longtime school favorites such as "Goose steppin' out with my Nazi," and Colonel Terry Leedom in blackface as "Goose Steppin' Fetchit."

6. Free one-day pass to Charleston's new virtual reality rage, "Market Street Massacre," in which the player is allowed to grind under street hogging tourist-pedestrians in a Charleston green Bradley tank, complete with cannon and machine guns for those hard to get at alleys and alcoves.

7. "Windy City" Night at Joe Riley Park, during which fans are given all the Mexican food and sauerkraut they can eat. For that night only, all the expensive seats will be upwind.

8. Special Promotion: Pest-Away-Decibel-of-Death Night. First 500 fans will be given a hand-operated automobile horn. It consists of a tape of the late Sam Kinison's eardrum-rupturing scream, which can be used to frighten away various humanoid pests, such as Jehovah's Witnesses, Girl Scouts and charity collectors, but especially attractive to Charlestonians will be the tourist tape: "Get out of the damn way, you street-glutting hicks from Hades! Arrrhh!"

9. A Dr. Henry Jordan t-shirt giveaway with the following words on the shirt: "The 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Be An Intolerant Asshole."

10. Cellulite Night: Give away of special liposuction attachment that can be connected to your vacuum cleaner.

11. Howard Stern Night: 1) Ball players and female fans compare cup sizes; 2) Lesbians get in free.

12. Seventh Inning Stretch This Night: Marv and Giff wander through the stands getting up close and personal with unsuspecting female fans.

13. Baseball Gropie Night. In pre-game activities, male adolescents (gropies) are taught the manly art of public groping of their private parts. Prizes are awarded for the longest frontal grope without secondary arousal (an automatic disqualification) and the deepest posterior grope (arm length exterior to the surface is measured).

14. No Spitter Night. Fans are awarded white t-shirts, if they choose a pitcher who goes a full game without spitting. If he does spit, the fan is awarded a white t-shirt emblazoned with an authentic brown splotch on the front.

15. Drink at your own risk night. (10-cent beer followed by closing of the restrooms. Thirty minutes after game time.) Named affectionately by the Native Americans as "The Night of the Yellow Grass."

originally published July 1997

Dear President-Elect Obama

Dear President-Elect Obama:

First let me ensure that this gets off to a positive start by declaring, “I’m a 68 year old demographic escapee white guy who voted for you, and although you face colossal challenges, I am confident that that you and your team of rivals and cohorts will be up to the task.”

I am also aware that you are a very intelligent, thoughtful, and perceptive man who wants to restore the greatness of our country, however—and I hesitate to say this— I have a deep, gnawing sensation that you and your team may have seriously underestimated the internecine, Machiavellian guile of some of your still-evolving political peers “across the aisle,” and may be even under the aisle in some sort of dank catacomb. Perhaps you---and I as well---were simply overcome by the extraordinary significance and emotion of this moment in not just American, but world history, and that even after our pulse rates returned to normal and the confetti, along with a lot of painful memories of the not too distant past, were swept away, we failed to notice that you may have become the unwitting victim of an insidious plot.

We have all seen those movies, whether it’s a sci-fi, western, or war one, in which the leaders of a group decide to send in one guy to perform an impossible and life-threatening mission. “Send in Johnson. He can do it.” And Johnson rushes bravely out to take on an army of killer robots, a dust storm of rustlers driving 5,000 head of crazed longhorns, or a German Panzer regiment, armed only with a flare gun and a Swiss Army knife minus all its features except the bottle opener. Of course, Johnson may or may not complete the mission, but two things are inevitably constant: Johnson never makes it back and most notably, Johnson is always a Black guy.

You may think me impertinent or possibly loony, Mr. President Elect, but your situation, I fear, is eerily similar to any of these scenarios, except for the salient difference of it’s being a live performance on the world stage.

And it is, I feel, the Neocons who are the parlous plotters, and that revelation, of course, requires no stretch of even the staunchest Heritage Foundation member’s credulity. These Neocons, a word which is, indictingly short for Neoconmen, are a shrewd and nefarious bunch, in fact, I think they should replace Iraq as the third member of the Axis of Evil, though I doubt you’ll be borrowing that phrase or anything else from their arsenal of pejoratives . These people eventually realized that they screwed up not only the Iraq situation, but the entire War on Terror, the environment, healthcare, energy policy, our reputation in the rest of the world, and finally, the 7th Horseman of the Apocalypse, the economy. And being of cowardly natures, they certainly they did not want to take on the task of trying to resolve possibly the greatest disaster in our nation’s history, America’s real life version of deadly robots, stampeding cattle, and predatory Panzers. But, “Hey, Carl Rove thought, “We’ve got a Black guy running for president. It’s perfect. May be those dumbass Evangelicals are right after all. GOD IS ON OUR SIDE!”

Then it was ( “What a total” ) Dick Cheney who snarled excitedly, “That’s it—Evangelicals! We’ll get McCain to pick one for his VP running mate. And he’ll do our bidding or we’ll just make up some more stuff about him and his family again. He’s 72 years old. Even the most rabid Republican ideologue won’t want to put one of those Bible-toting whackos in direct line to the presidency.”

Hence Sarah Palin entered and John McCain exited stage far right, dragging her and her mangled sentences behind.

The stage was set and you, President Elect Obama, entered stage left, and adroitly walked to center of the stage.

And so here you are, President Obama, poised with your brilliant and highly capable team, ready to take on the economy, the first of the multiple imbroglios foisted on you by the aforementioned nasty Neocons.

But, as I said in the beginning, I have complete confidence that you will succeed, and I also am aware that you can’t do it alone, since you did say, “Yes WE can, not yes I can.”

Therefore, I do have a suggestion ( my contribution ) besides watching out for Neocons: I would like to see you put Carl Rove on your team, and the next time you need someone to deal with the robots, cattle, tanks, or the like, you can send a doughy white guy. At least, may be the movies might change.

Respectfully,
A Can-Do American

New Ideas for a New Season

Last year I contemplated for the first time running a marathon. However, my quest was curtailed by a chronic lover back problem. I had made it up to 14 miles before having to give in. This year, inspired by the salutary results of Williams Flexion Exercises, I began training enthusiastically once more. My maximum is now twelve miles. A very depressing thought, the realizing that I will never be able to run a marathon, especially since it seemed to be my one last attainable major goal, with my Olympic medal and Pulitzer Prize possibilities receding rapidly into the horizon. But enough about me.

Once again, Fall—as it is wont to do in Charleston—is toying with us. One day we’re blasting along through 58-degree temperature and equal humidity; the next, we’re plodding drenched in sweat. When I do my post-run exercises, I literally have puddles of perspiration beneath me. In fact, it’s a shame no one has discovered a practical use for this socially unacceptable byproduct. Such as, perhaps, a cheap source of brine, a marinade for seafood, or for boiling shrimp or even peanuts. Of course, since the average person may be offended by this idea—and I will admit even I am—it would need to be made attractive. Hence, we might have vials, jars or gallon jugs of famous runners’ or athletes’ or other notable person’s perspiration, although many may never perspire. We could bottle Steve Jones, Sydney Maree or Joan Benoit sweat or even collect large tanks of William Perry Industrial Strength Perspiration after a Bear ballgame. Maniacal collectors may be interested in vials of Mary Decker Slaney or Carlos Lopes’ perspiration. Or some sweatless wimps may cherish a few dabs of Eau de Craig Virgin to make them appear (or smell) more macho. Of course, if they didn’t want to pay top price, they could just settle for anonymously collected perspiration (or Workout Cologne).

If you are impressed by those ideas, how about these:

1) The Annual Run Like the Wind 10k. This would depend on the weather, since it would only be held in hurricanes. It would start at Patriots Point, cross the bridge and end at West Battery. Running against the win might seem impossible, but a downwind course would undoubtedly result in a multitude of PR’s.

2) The Charleston Roach Stomp. This would be a 10k race run at night in the summer through steamy, downtown Charleston streets. The race, being a public service, would probably be sponsored by the city and the Health Department. Stomp verification will be done by College of Charleston Entomology staff at the finish line. A clean sole will warrant disqualification.

3) The Quarterly Run to Eradicate Yuppism. This even would raise funds to sponsor a lobby whose sole purpose would be to gradually accomplish the long overdue extinction of a boorish and boring lifestyle and quasi-philosophy. This would be achieved by subsidizing various manufacturers not to produce and/or import items such as: Mercedes, Volvos, BMWs, Saabs, Ralph Lauren products, outdoor clothes/paraphernalia, Jeep wagons, fettuccini and quiche, polo equipment, and shoes of any type made in New England. I am absolutely certain of this idea’s success since it would essentially cut off the life’s blood of the Yuppie movement, materialism. It would also have the benign side effect of forcing the media to find something more worthwhile to talk about. What about Yuppie runners, you ask? And I know there are some. (Moss Brown, LL Bean, Eddie Bauer all sell running gear now.) Well, they will simply have to make a choice, “To Be or Not To Be.”

4) My last idea, I feel, is equally as helpful as the preceding, but much less controversial. It was precipitated by an archetypal runners’ thought: the urge to run a “bad race” all over again. The one where your goal was to break 40 minutes in a 10k, and you don’t even break 42 and are also beaten by someone who you’ve never lost to before. It happens to all of us every racing season at some point and to me every race. My plan would be to hold the race again the summertime. We could use Northwoods Mall as I mentioned in the last newsletter, so the heat would be no problem. Say you did poorly in the Turkey Day Race, you’d simply wait till the July Turkey Day race and hope to redeem yourself. This would also enable us to race all year long. By the way, they would be called the “Summer Re-Runs.” (I hope no one has such a base opinion of me that they think I wrote all of the aforementioned just to springboard a pun.)

I will close (appropriately) with the forewarning that I will be trying to think of a suitable anthem, so to speak, for runners. Baseball and football have their “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and “Mr. Touchdown” respectively, and the theme from “Chariots of Fire” is too august—and does it have words? Running, as I see it, is in dire need or a song. Since I don’t write music, this may be very difficult, so I am soliciting help from any musically talented runners. Please let me hear from you.

(Originally published: November 1985)

Yankees to Spankees

I have been a New Yankees fan since the 50’s, sticking with them through the banner years, as well as the lean ones, so the news that their first baseman, Jason Giambi, revealed that he wears a gold lame’, tiger-striped thong to bring him out of hitting slumps sort of caught my attention. This is the same guy that although he never admitted to using steroids, he apologized for it. Too bad he didn’t use that same ( il )logic here: “Yeah, I’m apologizin’, but not for no ( baseball players are notorious users of bad grammar ) gold lame’ tiger-striped thong. Mine is camouflaged with Red Sox scalps hangin’ from it.”

Of course, a professional athlete, or anyone else, for that matter, has a right to wear a vibrating, strobe-lit, crotchless thong if he desires, the last feature naturally allowing him to engage in some double entendre bragging about swinging heavy lumber, but unfortunately, this story stepped down to a different level when Giambi, apparently, generous, not to mention stupid, to a fault, decided to lend out his thong to any teammate who was having difficulty at the plate, and he insists that it worked for them as well as it did for him. He even went so far as mentioning their names, citing retired Yankees, Paul O’Neill, Bernie Williams, and Robin Ventura, and current players, Johnnie Damon and Derek Jeter. Now as far as these former Yankees are concerned, this epiphany, of course, is going to present for them some situations where they’re going to, as Frank Sinatra used to say, “have to do some ‘splainin’”( balladeers too are known for their atrocious grammar ). As for Johnnie Damon, he’s a may-be-not-so former Red Sock, and every Yankee fan knows those guys would play naked, wearing red and green Maxipads to get an edge on New York.

But Derek Jeter, for God’s sake, the team captain, “Mr. Yankee”, “Mr. new York City”, with the international reputation of being a super batsman both on and off the field, boasting a .317 lifetime average in the former category, but well over .500 in the latter, connecting with the likes of Scarlet Johansson, Mariah Cary ( in the pre-cellulite days ), the Jessicas Beal and Alba, not to mention a coterie of others on the “Maxim” magazine’s list of 100 most beautiful women, why in the world is he wearing Giambi’s awful undergarment?

And now that I think about it—and obviously I’m doing too much of that---why does Jason Giambi even own a gold lame’, tiger-striped thong in the first place? I’ve heard of ballplayers wearing a lucky jersey or cap, but unless you’re a male stripper and/or gay ( not that there’s anything wrong with either ), you don’t buy one of these tacky undergarments because you read in the “Village Voice” sports page that they bring you good luck. It seems to me that Giambi made this purchase, because he was making some sort of fashion statement. The fact that it brought him or anyone else luck with the bat (well, not Jeter’s kind ), was serendipitous.

And how do Jeter and the others end up with the thong? Does one of them say, “Hey, not that I was checking out your package or anything, but, gee, that’s a swell thong you’ve got there. It really accentuates your “Louisville Slugger” and glutes. Do you think I could borrow it after the game?”

Or does he, being the ultimate team player, simply explain to his teammates why he’s wearing it and offer it to anyone who’s in a hitting slump.

Even more important, since ballplayers usually don’t wash their lucky garments, do the borrowers just accept it as is and return it in the same state ( New Jersey?) ? If so, it must be at the stage by now where it slides right off, if you get my drift ( or its ). And Mariah, Scarlet, and the Jessicas, et al are going to be very unhappy when they realize that they have indirectly been dating half the Yankees team.

And what about the “Red Sox Nation”? I have visions of Jimmy Fallon reprising his SNL Red Sox fan routine: “I always thought them ( Red Sox fans are salient grammar abusers ) Yankees were a little funny. Now we know. Parading around the locker room, with their fairy thongs on, slappin’ each other on their bare buttocks. “The New York Spankees”, that’s what they are. If only Nomar was here.”

There is one silver lining for Giambi and the Yankees in all this. If he had been a long time steroid user, there is no way, he would be wearing anything that would call attention to that area of his body. He would have to be a little nuts.

Nevertheless, as a Yankees fan ( and a proud American ) I am sorry that he ever aired this story, and certainly Derek Jeter and the rest of the Yankees are not pleased. My advice to other gold lame’, tiger-striped thong clad ballplayers: Keep it in your pants!

Voices from the Village

It’s sort of amusing to imagine the occasional tourist, who, on his way from Charleston to the Isle of Palms, contracts a severe case of directional delirium, and instead of proceeding north on Coleman Boulevard, veers to the right onto Whilden Street then, totally disconcerted, takes a fateful right onto Venning. Imagine his growing bewilderment as he stops briefly at the end of Pitt Street, and then continues straight to Bennett, where in a trembling Midwest accent, he is forced to tell his wife that not only is he lost—a male admission more shameful than impotence or gender confusion—but that they are apparently stuck in some kind of time warp.

“My God, Hester, look at these old white frame houses, these narrow streets, the picket fences, the old oak trees. We’ve just bought a ticket to the Twilight Zone.”

A serendipitous turn into a driveway with a street sign “Toomer Lane” brings him face to face with a Mercedes 580 series convertible. Turning back onto the tree-darkened street he begins to realize that time is not at a standstill—in every driveway is either a late model Mercedes, BMW or Volvo. He completes his emasculation by asking a young couple directions and heads back toward the beach. “Pretty place, but it sure had me going there for a minute…”

Mt. Pleasant’s “Old Village,” historically upstaged by its more sophisticated cousin across the harbor, has some into its own during the past 10 to 15 years. At least as far as real estate value is concerned: Homes may sell for more than a half million, suggesting an upwardly mobile group of inhabitants. But the Villagers, I prefer to believe, choose to live like Lucille Odom, the protagonist in Josephine Humphreys’ Mt. Pleasant-set novel, Rich in Love—“in a hidden house in a hidden town.”

When I set out to talk to a few of The Village’s longtime residents this past fall, to ask their thoughts and feelings on this unique area of the Lowcountry, the town was far from hidden. Rich in Love was being transformed from book to film, and many of the Villagers were charting their daily walks near the MGM film site on Bennett Street. Names such as Albert Finney, Jill Clayburgh, Kyle MacLachlan and Piper Laurie were better known to the local I sought: Realtor and former Mt. Pleasant mayor, Francis F. Coleman; MUSC president and former governor Dr. James B. Edwards; Raleigh Johnson, owner of the H&R Sweet Shop, as well as Jo Humphreys, the Charleston writer whose novel has spawned much of the recent attention.

Not possessing the chutzpah to request a Playboy¬ style roundtable discussion, I spoke with them one at a time.

Francis Coleman, a very engaging and opinionated gentleman, was born in the Village 84 years ago. We met in his real estate office, filled with pictures of his family and such political figures as Ronald Reagan and Strom Thurmond. There is one of Coleman in 1946, during the early days of his first mayoral term (he served until 1960) and one of Boone Hall Plantation circa 1950. Mr. Coleman’s accent sounds like an old Charlestonian’s but I guess it’s an old “Mumplesson” one—and a dialectologist could detect a difference. He’s a perpetual font of interesting facts with his early memories of life in the Village. He recalls taking the ferries, which left from the foot of Hibben Street, the same street on which he runs his real estate business. He remembers the trolley tracks which stretched from the south end of Pitt St. to the Isle of Palms and talks of the long, rattling rides. “In those days, in the 1920s and ‘30s,” he recounts, “the Village was strictly a farming community and the few grocery stores were mostly owned by German families like the Patjens and the Schuzes.” There was no commercial shrimping, he says, till the ‘40s; only the occasional recreational shrimper tried his luck. With the lines of docks and restaurants stretching along the creek today, this description seems almost primeval.

“The Village is prettier now than it was then, because young people with money are moving in and renovating the old homes.”

Renovation restrictions posed by the Board of Architectural Review, he says, are for the most part needed. “though the requirement that a tin roof which has been damaged must be replaced only by another tin roof is ridiculous because those old tin roofs were only bought because people couldn’t afford anything better during the depression days.”

Somewhat wistfully, he says the 15 years he served as mayor were the “best years of my life.” But his most memorable Village experience was when ,as an eight-year-old, he jumped in the water at the foot of Venning Street where he had been playing, to save a drowning six-year-old boy who had fallen out of a bateau.

Dr. James B. Edwards moved to Me. Pleasant with his parents in 1938, arriving on one of the old Hibben Street ferries. “There were only about 750 people here then, and everybody knew each other. Nobody had any money, but we didn’t realize we were poor. It was a great place to live.” The kids used to meet at the Hay family’s wharf at the foot of Venning Street every day for a swim. And there was a boys-only spot on Shem Creek for skinny dipping—just outside the village, about where Shemwood II subdivision is now.

Dr. Edwards, who served during the Reagan Administration at Atomic Energy Commission director, could compile a book of short stories filled with his Tom Sawyer escapades. But his time spent with Peter Simmons, the local blacksmith, “a short but powerful black man,” seems to bring the biggest smile to his face. “I used to take the horses from my father’s farm to him to be shoed. He’d let me pump up the bellows while he hammered on the anvil.

“Back then you could have bought the entire Village for what you would pay for a single house today. Real estate has definitely soared. The houses are much more impressive now. But, it’s still a great place to live.”

A local realtor confirmed that Dr. Edwards was not hyperbolizing. Village homes average $94 to $127 per square foot, an increase of about 1,000 percent during the past 25 years. Generally the real estate is higher the closer you are to the water.

About three blocks back from The Bluff, at the intersection of Whilden and Royal streets, stands the H&R Sweet Shop. Its proprietor, Raleigh Johnson, lives next door in a 150-year-old yellow house. He’s an affable 77-year-old business man, who stakes claim to the oldest black-owned establishment in the area. He has worked very hard all his life and maintains an air of modest dignity despite his medical setbacks. His right side is partially paralyzed and he has arthritis as well, but he still manages to get about the neighborhood with his cane. He sat in a chair beneath a picture of his late wife, Harriet—the photograph taken on their 50th wedding anniversary last year. A very devoted orange and white cat—named “Cat”—sits on the left arm of his chair, occasionally interrupting with a brief meow, while staring inquisitively at his owner.

Raleigh Johnson, nicknamed “Pat,” has operated his business since 1960. Born in the Village, he went to New York City when he was 20. He did a lot of odd jobs there, including stints as a porter and as a short order cook. After work, he went to barber school at night. He also spent a few years in the Army in the quartermaster corps, where he learned still more about cooking. He became especially proficient at making different kinds of ice cream syrups. When he was about 40 he decided to return to the more peaceful and slower paced environment of Mt. Pleasant.

“When I came back, all I had with me was my barber supplies and a little bit of furniture.” He set up shop in what was to become an ideal location near Laing High School. It led him to decide that besides giving haircuts, he could also sell ice cream and candy. His parents already owned the property, so all he had to do what borrow the money—which he did—from an individual, not a bank. He named it the H&R Sweet Shop, the “H” standing for his wife’s name, the “R” for his.

He decided to get out of the barbering business because, “in those days,” he says, “most black people just cut their own hair.” And although he had been trained to cut white people’s hair, he never got too many white customers.

When the school closed about 20 years ago Johnson realized he would have to try to attract a different type of customer—adults. That’s when he stopped selling ice cream and candy in favor of offering beer and adult food—sandwiches and dinners including fried fish, fried chicken and his specialty, barbecued ribs. Locals, mostly black, and some white, crowd his shop now.

Raleigh Johnson retired just last year; his son Larry now runs the H&R. He still drops in the shop to chat with customers, and visits the senior citizens center right down the street. “Most of the old people are gone. I don’t know many of the young ones.”

Times have changed, Mr. Johnson agrees. But mostly, at least for ahim, the changes are a result of his age. Having worked since he was about six or seven, his earliest remembrances in the Village are work-related. “I liked picking chickweed in the fields and selling them. Sometimes, if I made enough money, I’d go to Mr. Patjens’ store and buy a cinnamon roll. They were really good.”

Raleigh Johnson enjoyed talking, but he’d rather be working, if he could. He’s had more than 70 years of conditioning.

Before talking with Josephine Humphreys, I visited the set of Rich in Love, a two story waterfront house, down a gravel driveway off Bennett Street. As it ruend out, I had to settle for posing my questions to her by telephone. But as we talked, I imagined our conversation taking place at the Odom family’s home—really the Grange Simons home at 223 Bennett. I fancied us sitting in the old Charleston Green chairs on the first floor porch and chatting while a salty breeze lifted my note paper.

Josephine Humphreys has never lived in the Old Village, much less Mt. Pleasant. Her home is in downtown Charleston. In fact, she made a point, while in the midst of writing the novel, to stay away from the area. “I prefer to use m imagination rather than my memory.

“The Village has always remained mysterious to me since my childhood. Whenever we would ride through it on the way to the beach, I would wonder who lived in those homes. That’s why in the book I refer to the Village as a hidden town.”

The book is not based on a particular family and there is no particular time setting. “It’s timeless, just like the Village itself. And I was really amazed that the movie people picked up on this. Even the clothes of the actors are not representative of any particular time period.”

Such timeless places as Charleston (Dreams of Sleep), Mt. Pleasant (Rich in Love) and the nearby islands (Fireman’s Fair) seem suited to Ms. Humphreys’ writing. And in general she agrees. “They allow me to make full use of my imagination.

“In many ways the Village looks the same today, but a lot of the houses have been fixed up, and there are Mercedes and swimming pools. And of course, the real estate is out of sight.”

With the release of the movie, what remains left of the Hidden Town’s timeless nature will be revealed in larger-than-life proportions. The Odom’s unrenovated house, with its worn-thin Persian rugs, the unpretentious, cluttered rooms with old, well-used furniture, including an ancient barber chair, the heady smell of musty memories frozen in time and the weathered porch, face a fresh present—a Bluff full of freshly painted, beautifully detailed homes.

But it’s the old house, like the one Ms. Humphreys reveals to us in her book, that the old residents know so well: The mysterious and imagination-provoking set fulled with timeless relics and old voices rich in love with the Village.

(Originally published December 1991)

Reasons Why Charleston Needs an Aquarium

August 1997

1. When longliner boats finally deplete local waters of all their fish, we'll still have a fully stocked resource.

2. In the event of a catastrophic food shortage, a special heating mechanism can transform the aquarium into a giant bouillabaisse.

3. Shark tank can be used as an effective behavior modification tool for unruly school children.

4. Mayor Riley will enjoy snorkeling in the main tank because being viewed through the glass will make him seem larger than many of the grammar school visitors.

5. Addition of City jail underwater "drunk tank" should be a popular attraction.

6. Monthly Shark-Lawyers Swim Party (previous experiments have proved that they can coexist in the same environment).

7. Kids' Night: Free peanut-butter and jellyfish sandwiches.

8. Shock Jock Night: College student who can drink the most beer while keeping an electric eel in his athletic supporter earns the Shock Jacques Cousteau Trophy.

9. Fat Chance Friday: Overweight persons who can swim the length of the killer whale tank without being attacked or sexually accosted get to eat their weight in fried shrimp.

10. Recurring Dream: Fiddler on the Wharf Playhouse presents: "Hootie and the Blowfish." Magically talented blowfish achieves oceanwide stardom only to be "dissed" by schools of alternative rockfish for "being so bland even tartar sauce won't help."

11. Charleston "Chum" Society: Any tourist caught pushing his/her way into a private Charleston garden is made a member of the Charleston "Chum" Society, whose first initiation event is a dip, sand scuba gear, in the special underwater Tiger Shark tank.

12. Abeerium Night: Individual 5,000-gallon tanks are filled with beer and guys are allowed to swim in them and drink from them, while relieving themselves, if necessary. This will, of course, create a beer-drinkers' Nirvana, a never-ending supply of brew, as the participant drinks, relieves, drinks, relieves to infinity, or until the aquarium closes, whichever comes first.

13. "Flipper Night": Horrified parents grab their offspring and flee when a cavorting man in a porpoise suit continually shoots them the bird while screaming, "Eek, eek, eek!"

14. Rent-A-Crab Program: Domesticated, non-pinching fiddler crabs will be rented out by the day or week to those aspiring to be cutting edge jokesters.
a) Be the gross-out king of the kegger when you stuff some of these scuttling crustaceans in your shorts and have them crawl out your pants legs while you're discoing.
b) Shock the guys at the ballpark urinal by having some tumble out of your fly.
c) Put some in your roommate's bed when you know that special someone's spending the night.
d) Sprinkle a few in his underwear drawer just for good measure.

15. The aquarium can save considerable money by drawing its water from the nearby Calhoun Street/East Bay Reservoir whenever it rains at high tide.

Top 15 Reasons Why Tourists Love Charleston's Festival of Homes & Gardens

1. They are always amazed at the astronomical number of grains it must take to make one of those rice beds.

2. Naïve tourist guys believe legend that hot and horny female ghosts inhabit some of the homes.

3. Light moments such as when during the description of a home's cannon bombardment, someone always shouts out, "Incoming, hit the deck!"

4. The irreverent lawn jockey with the O.J. mask at Drayton Hall.

5. Half-crocked residents often provide spontaneous happy hours—even in the A.M.

6. Joggling Boards great for hemorrhoids.

7. Acetone Pyrotechnics by Citadel cadets during intermission are entertaining.

8. Awe-inspiring experience of meeting aristocratic superhero, "Captain Blue Blood," Cotesworth Rutledge Pringle Prioleau Middleton Loundes Ravenel Rhett Heyward Maybank, who's ironically recovering from a severe hernia suffered while attempting to lift his Coat of Arms.

9. Fun to watch tour guides play time-honored joke on tin horn tourists of giving them the "old Southern aphrodisiac" secret of filling their undershorts with steaming hot grits.

10. Participating in tourist spring ritual of setting up faux trailer park in White Point Gardens and counting the stroke victims.

11. Love the idea of keeping all the yellow bicycles you can find.

12. Appearance of the "Leprechaun Mayor" at the St. Patrick's Day pre-festival kickoff is a nice touch.

13. Like the realistic historic flavor of some of the elderly residents screaming epithets such as "Go the Hell back to New York, carpetbagger swine!"

14. It beats bumping around behind a diaper-load of horse crap, dodging demented local drivers.

15. Enjoying new, hip tourist game, such as seeing who can spot the most queens on the Queen Street Tour.

Scream of Consciousness #5

1. Skullbuggery: Anatomically specific sexual pervasion occurring among British archaeologists.
2. Lewis and Clark: Another Jerry Lewis based comedy team that failed when the four star general dropped out due to Jerry’s insistence on ending each joke with his screaming, “Ladeeeee!”
3. Semicolonoscopy: A half-ass gastrointestinal procedure.
4. “The Busy Beaver”: Jenna Jamison’s autobiography.
5. “Believe you me”: Grammar assdumb.
6. Came-a-lot: JFK’s unofficial Secret Service codename.
7. Needing heart conservative: Dick Cheney.
8. Family Values Added Tax: Last ditch legislative attempt by Democrats designed to stop the Republicans from continuing to overuse the phrase “Family Values.”
9. Old Glory Hole: guys go patriotic with Flags and Fags décor.
10. “No Country for Old Men” who are willing to sacrifice the lives of young men for a hundred years, if that’s what it takes to win.
11. Sh*tshead: Noun used when referring to more than one.
12. “Loaded for Bear!”: Hunting status often preceded by “loaded with beer.”
13. A double-wide: Dolly Parton’s bra size.
14. Super delegate: An undemocratic Democrat.
15. Little Orifice Annie: Famous but ephemeral porn star.
16. Stroke of good luck: the one that finally finishes Cheney.
17. Froogalism: Economic philosophy based on a 60s dance.
18. Dom Deluise: A full-bodied, excessively fruity champagne.
19. Instant Karma Sutra: Abbreviated version of well-used instructional book.
20. “My size fits all!”: Ron Jeremy’s boastful claim.
21. Nipplelodeon: Adult version of the popular children’s show.
22. Down Time: In business, when there is no productivity. In prostitution, just the opposite.
23. “Yes and no”: In an ideal world, a response justifying the death penalty.
24. Fecal matters: Usual topic of discussion at the monthly sewer commission meeting.
25. Lay person: P.C. term for prostitute.
26. Senior Citizen: 15% of males over 65.
27. Brave Fart: Flatulent Scot who led his countrymen to victories over the British.
28. Amber Dextrous: Digitally gifted young porn ingénue capable of performing simultaneous reach-arounds.
29. Ball Pain Hammer: Most dreaded of all “Jackass” props.
30. Dump truck: When a port-o-let just won’t do the job.
31. BONUS ENTRY: Southern Simultaneous Football Conference: A league created by me in which teams split up and play three or four other teams at the same time solely for the purpose of preventing coaches from ever being able to say again, “We’re gonna take it one game at a time.”

Run Silent, Run, Ahh, Not So Deep

As far back as I can remember, people have commented on my taciturnity, usually kiddingly, sometimes insultingly, and other times, I guess, just out of plain curiosity. Last night Barbara, our nephew Jeff and I were talking—well, they were, mostly—and Barbara asked me how long I thought I could go without talking. Well, I haven’t answered her yet, and the countdown has begun. Just joking. I told them I thought I could go for months, a statement which even shocked Barbara, since she was thinking in terms of weeks, although we all agreed that talking or even singing to oneself would be allowed. Talking, in this case, would be defined as communicating verbally with another human being. Conversing with animals would also be permitted, as long as they didn’t talk back to me. And since I have mentioned it, I must admit I enjoy talking to animals, well, dogs mostly, maybe because I can stop any time I want to—even in mid-sentence—and the dog won’t care, plus I can get away with saying things like, “Ooh, it’s a good boy,” or “That’s a Mr. Boonkie Doogie,” without getting ridiculed or punched in the face, unless it’s one of those brainy Border Collies, in which case I might receive a well-deserved chomp.

I’ve tried to remember when I became a non-talker and whether it’s congenital or environmental in origin. Both my parents, while not blabber-mouths, talked a normal amount, so I’m thinking the possible causation might be related to something that occurred in the first grade, when my teacher, Ms. Kornahrens, sent a note home saying that I talked too much in class. I don’t recall consciously shutting down, however she did call me down in class a couple of time; this being the same teacher who had whispered to me that turned out to be the correct answer in a poster naming context. So maybe there was the psychological trauma of being tragically demoted from teacher’s pet to class pain-in-the-ass right there in front of everybody.

Well, whatever the etiology, here I am writing about it with no small amount of catharsis. I may have been influenced over time, as I witnessed others talking and gradually realized that in at least half of the cases, the results of talking were less than positive; many of them saying things that would easily have been trumped by the aforementioned Border Collie, had that animal been afforded a voice box.

Some people have been deluded into thinking I am in deep creative thought or I am some sort of mute intellectual biding my time before I unleash a verbal tsunami, washing away the puny comments of lesser beings. Of course, this is light years from the truth, as anyone who knows me can attest, but sometimes I am slow to correct this misperception, allowing my shriveled self-esteem a fleeting nanosecond in the sun. And I guess people who have that opinion of me are just being charitable anyway, probably thinking that if someone is that quiet, there must not be any brain activity, and they’ll wonder why someone doesn’t shut off my life support, even if they’re Republicans. In truth, sometimes my mind seems to be somewhat vacuous, to the extent that in conversations—very one-sided, of course—with very loud people, there is a definite intracranial echo. Hopefully, they can’t hear it.

I think that up until my late teens I probably talked more than I do now. It was at this point that I discovered that I had a modicum of writing skill and that I actually enjoyed the process. This was, indeed, the death knell for any possibility of being an active member of the conversational community. Initially, my writing was effective in my relationship with my girlfriend when I was a freshman at The Citadel, much more than the spoken word. I could make amends for some Pabst-induced egregious behavior over the weekend by a carefully worded, flowery explanation and apology, thus paving the way for the opportunity to do the same thing the next weekend, and accomplishing this without the messiness of oral—I mean, verbal—intercourse. And I have just given you an example of writing over speaking. In conversation, if I had said “oral intercourse,” it would have been too late to retrieve it. In writing, I had a choice of leaving it in or not, or as I did, leaving it in and at the same time correcting it.

Upon entering the world of work, I discovered the “memo,” just one more serendipitous substitute for the draconian task of person-to-person communication. As a supervisor, I managed by memo for over thirteen years.

I don’t think it’s based on shyness, because even after my vocal chords are well lubricated with alcohol, I’m not any more talkative, although there was an occasion back in the early 60s when out of curiosity I washed down a couple of barbiturates with some J&B and transformed into someone who could have held his own on “The View” for a couple of hours. I don’t recall too much about it, except that my vocal chords were sore for days.

At this point in my life, quietness is expected of me—and by me—as if I have taken some sort of agnostic’s vow of silence and, if I dare break it, people, especially those who depend on it, simply will not accept it. They have become used to carrying the conversational load. Besides, they want me to continue in my role as a listener. After all, anyone who contributes as little as I have to the verbal communication in all these 68 years is obviously an extraordinary listener. Okay, all of you fools who have been participating in this delusion have a seat. I don’t want you to hurt yourself when you faint. I haven’t heard a damn word you’ve said. While you’ve been yammering away, secure form Verbus Interruptus, I’ve been thinking about whatever interested me at the time, from my concern about Roy Rogers playing the guitar too much and not shooting enough bad guys to daydreaming about winning a case of Old Milwaukee for having the highest shuffleboard score of the week at Raben’s Tavern to paranoia about something going haywire with the voting machines and George W. becoming president for a third term to “Wow, did you see that set of casabas?” And incidentally, whose “hmmms,” wows,” and “reallys,” which can’t be counted as conversation, were stimuli to keep you talking and me not. Though unfortunately, in my myopic zeal to remain word-free, I may have created an entire generation of really boring people whom I have convinced that they are scintillating conversationalists. And you know who you are.

In closing, which of course means the challenge to talk can’t be too far away, I want to take this opportunity to apologize to my dear wife who has endured living with what I guess you might call a “silent partner” for 41 years, without ever losing it, the closest coming to a long car ride, when she looked at me with reddened eyes and screamed, “For God’s sake, I’m not Ms. Kornahrens, you can speak!” However, I think she is finally becoming quite serious about getting me to talk, based on the brochure I happened to see on the bedside table this morning, “Water Boarding, the Home Kit.”

A Festival, A Park and Pizza-Sized Spatters of Bird Poo

May 1992
A Festival, A Park and Pizza-Sized Spatters of Bird Poo
By Bob Coskrey

Dear Muffie,

You won’t believe what’s happening in Charleston. As you know, we’ve reached that time of year when we have more males with ponytails than females, when there are more parties going on than during deb season, and where half the people you meet at the parties have a last name ending in a vowel and speak with such heavy accents, it’s like living in a foreign country. Yes, before you know it, it will be time for the Charleston Spoleto Festival again. Or “Spoletorama” or “Arts are Us,” as I like to call it.

During the next few months, our once hidden, beautiful city will be attacked by a group of dilettantish carpet-baggers pushing something called “site specific art.” According to the tenets of their movement, they have the artistic freedom to do whatever the hell they want. This year we’re liable to see the old Exchange Building painted Miami pink, John C. Calhoun’s statue dressed in drag, or St. Michael’s bells may toll “Mood Indigo” every hour on the hour. Actually, Gian Carlo Menotti, the festivals fabled founder, is not really happy with this group either, so maybe we won’t be avant garded too closely.

But anyway, that’s not the big news. The local headlines are that the artists and the environmentalists have declared war on one another. Why, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, Muffie, would these two normally aligned groups be fighting one another? Have the artists been spilling their oils into the marshes while painting our tidal vistas? Have the environmentalists become so omnipresent that they keep popping up in the artists’ line of vision as they try to paint the landscapes? Neither of the above, old girl.

All the controversy revolved around a bird called the yellow crowned night heron. It seems that these poor creatures, after having their normal habitat destroyed by Hugo, not to mention a tidal wave of developers, have started nesting every year in—of all places—Washington Square. Yes, that very same Washington Square where our nannies took us to play many decades ago.

The artists use the park to showcase their work during Spoleto, but they complain that the propagating “herons from hell” are interfering with their livelihood by continually bombarding them, their canvases, their customers and the entire park with pizza-sized spatters of bird poo. They also lament that the area frequently becomes more foul smelling than my Uncle Goodie’s fur-lined bedroom slippers in late August.

They want the city to run the birds out.

The environmentalists, on the other hand, staunchly affirm that the birds were residents of the Lowcountry before the artists were, and that the artists have some nerve treating wildlife so crudely, since it provides the inspiration for many of their creations.

Our sagacious mayor, caught in the middle of this ornithological imbroglio, is attempting a prudent solution by filling the park’s trees with plastic replicas of owls, the heron’s bête noir. He claims this will only discourage some of the birds from taking up residence. I guess he means that some of the bird-brained members of the group will catch on to the game after bees begin building hives in the owls, a near-sighted sparrow builds a nest on one, or some wild-ass kids eventually shoot them to pieces with BB guns.

Of course, the environmentalists don’t like this plan, because they feel that eventually the herons will be driven out of Charleston altogether, even ending up in Myrtle Beach, where blinded and disoriented by the glare of neon, they will endanger their existence even further by trying to take up residence in the gears of various amusement park rides or miniature golf course props.

The artists, equally recalcitrant, feel that the herons who remain in spite of the bogus owls will still effect serious damage, and their fears have been further inflamed by a swirling rumor that some of the herons may have emigrated from near the Savannah River Nuclear Plant and that mutant 70-pound heronodactyls are a possibility in the very near future.

Muffie, we’re really getting sick of all this tacky public bickering. It’s no North Charlestonish. So last week at the Junior League meeting, some of the girls, you know Sissie, Bitsie, Ditsie, Boopsie, and the rest came up with some really nifty ideas to end this tawdry altercation to the satisfaction of both parties.

The major theme of their suggestions is one of compromise; after all, these SOBs have become involuntary experts in the art of compromise from their efforts to control the hordes of tank-topped, tube-socked tourists who leer through their iron gates and trample on their secret gardens.

Heron dropping art.

It could be the foundation of a whole new genre, beginning with the heron-dropping sculpture. I mean, here you’ve got this endless supply of media to work with. TI’s right there in front of you, so why not take advantage of it? Oh, you might need to mix in a little Lysol disinfectant. And, if the stuff looks like it needs a little more body, some cheese for the birds.

The artists could also introduce “natural painting,” just like some artists have let elephants and chimps create with paints, you could set up a horizontal canvas in the park and let the herons have at it. The artists could even feed them food injected with food coloring, though that would, of course, sully the art’s organicity. I think the “site specific” group could really “get into” this, if you know what I mean.

There are also practical possibilities for the heron’s gift. And maybe that’s how we should all think of it—as a gift from one of God’s creatures. And, of course, when someone gives you a gift, especially God’s emissary, you accept it graciously, you don’t insult or embarrass him—even if he’s from Berkeley County.

So one very practical idea that we’re sure Mayor Joe will love is to use this stuff to full city potholes. Heck, if it works, with all the potholes this place has, we’ll need to bring in even more herons. For that matter, if this stuff is as hard as they say it is, we may be able to build the new Cooper River Bridge with it.

Another mayor-pleasing idea has a culinary twist. This stuff could be a great delicacy. Who knows? We love our oysters, don’t we? And we know what they eat. It would depend on the birds’ diet, I would think. Say you feed them she-crab soup, benne-seed cookies, shrimp and hominy and other Lowcountry delectables, maybe you get something really extraordinary. Of course, we would have to find people willing to sample it. What we would do is take a big bowl of it into one of those country western/clubs on Dorchester Road and present it with some Ritz crackers as something like Charlie Daniels salsa or Elvis Dip. If they don’t like it, somebody will raise hell and a big fight will break out. If they like it, then the city can patent it and sell it as a Charleston Spoleto delicacy, perhaps naming it something like Pate de L’Arbor Truffles (Tree Truffle Pate). I realize, of course, that our taste test subject are, perhaps, two or three evolutionary links behind the average Spoletan, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Muffie Prioleau thought of this one. (Can you believe it? They have three Muffies in the league.) It’s a children’s game to be called Lovin’ Spoonful. You give out 500 spoons to 500 children and they run around the park trying to catch heron poo before it his anything. Anyone caught scrapping it up will be disqualified. And a one-minute, time-out penalty will be assigned to those who catch any pigeon poo. The first one to full up a 16-ounce cup wins. Wholesome recreation for the kids and a fun way to keep the park clean.

Another very original idea which espouses a quid pro quo approach for the environmentalist is to fill the park with plastic statues of art critics with faces that look like Jesse Helms. This also might have a beneficial secondary effect of enabling some of the artists to empathize with the herons.

We were reminded of that unpleasant national news coverage given our lovely city during the horse diaper dilemma which, of course, led us to consider the same solution for the herons. This idea was initially discounted because we felt no one would want to perform the gruesome task of changing the diapers after catching the birds with huge nylon nets. However, we soon decided this might be a good community service sentence for those in violation of some of our newly proposed city ordinances: 1) Tourist suffering from “Bourbon Street Syndrome,” who walk blissfully down the middle of our streets failing to acknowledge the presence of motor vehicles; 2) Anyone caught using a toothpick in public; 3) Anyone driving a car with personalized plates.

The last suggestion was that we would commission an artist to paint a picture of the herons nesting at the park and present it to the Maestro Menotti. Then, of course, all the rest of the artsy crowd would want paintings of the herons as well. The tourists would soon follow suit, and next you would witness the artists removing the plastic owls and stumbling over their easels trying to turn out the most heron paintings. “Oh, what’s a little bird poo here and there?” they would say.

Hey, the environmentalists just came up with a good slogan today. It was on their pickets as they marched back and forth in front of our beloved park: “Plastic owls in Washington Park’s trees. Can plastic flamingos be far behind?”

It gives me chills, Muffie. All these weird looking people, all these tourists, all the notoriety. I don’t know what’s happening to our once charming and dignified city. Mark my words, in a few years, Geraldo will be here interviewing our new mayor, Chip Menotti.

Well, if you’re coming to see me, you had better make it in July. On second thought, don’t come at all; it will be too depressing for you. I’ll come to see you. I don’t care if you do live in Greenville.

Love,
Your old friend Buffie