Personally Yours

Recently, I spent some time—brief, of course—reading the personal ads in New York magazine. I always enjoy reading the “personals” in various publications, but the ones in New York are very distinctive. I’ll give you a couple of typical examples:

1. “Diplomat? Journalist? Academic? Beautiful writer/lecturer, extremely accomplished, sensual and cerebral, lyrical and analytical (5’8”, size 8) seeks similar man (to 45, 5’10” plus), equally accomplished, very educated, self-knowing, resonantly humane. Describe background.”
2. “Sensitive and romantic male, Ivy educated and very successful, but would always put the right person first. Outgoing, energetic, and fun, excellent appearance. Loves all sports, but also enjoys quiet evenings at home. Enjoys right- and left-brain activities. Seeking a female, mid 20’s – 80’s. Photo/note.”

Believe me, they all have this same smug, self-idolizing format. An immediate question that probably occurs to anyone reading these ads is, “If you are such an all around superior person, why are you taking the degradingly desperate measure of advertising in the back pages of a magazine—even if it is New York? And since you are, no doubt, seeking an equally superhuman partner, why would you think he or she would also be resorting to this same humiliating and pathetic means of communication?” Four possible answers to these questions might be:

1. These people are all members of the cultural/cognitive elite, who simply cannot find anyone to measure up to their lofty standards using the normal channels of socialization.
2. They—the placers of the ads and the responders—are all outright liars, simply recreating themselves with Walter Mittyish fervor.
3. They are holding back some significant information, e.g., a man who has all these excellent qualities, but he has only one tooth—and it is in the middle of his forehead, or a woman who is a truly extraordinary individual, but is so uncontrollably flatulent that a clause in her lease bans her from using the elevator in her own apartment building. Or lastly,
4. They are purposely misleading. For example, a statement by a man such as, “I’m often told I’ve got that ‘Newman sort of look,’ may actually be referring to “Alfred P.”


If I were asked to choose one of the above answers, I could not. More than likely the placer of these atrocious advertisements has a combined profile of answers 2 through 4—a liar who leaves out relevant facts and attempts to allure though deception, but there is also a possible, unifying quasi-stalker mentality.

As I began to consider which of the various people I have encountered over the years who may, at some Grand Canyonesque level of loneliness, have succumbed to this last ditch grasp at human contact, it also occurred to me that since the chances are slim that any of you who have toughed it out this far in the article knew any of these people, it might be more entertaining (and it is always my intention to entertain rather than instruct) to imagine what kind of “personals” some of our well-known celebrities might be driven to write, since as we all know from our secretive glances at headlines during out checkout line waits, everything is not always coming up roses for the rich and famous.

Despite a sickening feeling that I may have taken on the aura of those clichéd comedians of 20 years ago who always began their acts, “So if (fill in the star) were a service station attendant, he would sound something like this…” I will courageously continue with this premise, even though now that I have planted this bad seed, you are surely already imagining me quickly turning away from the audience, then spinning back around “in character” with some identifying prop or facial expression.

Nevertheless:

1. “Reborn again male Christian, who learned in prison that love is a ‘give and take’ proposition, is looking for that special, big and burly someone. Large hands, which indicate more than an ability to carry 3 or 4 collection plates at once, a must.” – J.B.
2. “Recently divorced, follicle-challenged actor seeks a broad with a high threshold for drunken tirades, old Smokey and the Bandit re-runs, and Dom DeLuise sleepovers.” – B.R.
3. “High intelligent, liberal, married (to a ‘dufus’) female, with above average futures market prognostic skills, seeks trim and faithful lover, who does not eat cheeseburgers in bed.” – H.R.C.
4. “Separated male, ultra-preppy type, 40’s who sometime enjoys dressing up as a giant sanitary napkin, seeks matronly, Waspish female. Warning: Can be a royal pain in the arse.” – P. of W.
5. “Formerly black, marginally male pop singer desires purely platonic relationship with early adolescent male; must love animals and enjoy bath-time games such as ‘scrub the snake’.” – M.J.
6. “Ironically surnames, retired Senator needs immediate inspiration for steamy, dew diary entries.” – B.P.
7. “Gap-toothed comedian/talk-show host seeks free-spirited female, early 20’s, prone to bare-breasted desktop dancing. Comedy-writing skills a plus. Those who have previously broken into my home need not respond.” – D.L.
8. “Rotund, right-wing radio talk-show host, worn down by aerobics instructor wife, seeks equally conservative, white female who is anti-exercise and not too stuck-up to substitute a food trough for a dining room table.” – R.L., EIB (Egomaniac in broadcasting) Network.
9. “Shaved-head, married, ultra-right-wing, ex-con radio host, willing to discount family values for one night with a morally corrupt, liberal, commie/pinko sex kitten. I will literally blast you into ideological submission with my 160mm crotch cannon!” – G.G.L.
10. “Married former drummer with legendary rock group and president of Identity-Seekers Anonymous, seeks relationships (ASAP) with an attorney of either sex, at any cost, who can get me out of 30 years plus pact with the Devil.” – R.S.


Fortunately, reason has finally triumphed over stream of consciousness, and I have ended, although it occurs to me that I still may not have rendered a plausible answer as to why these people placed their ads in New York magazine, but as I mentioned earlier, I write to amuse, not to edify.

However, I will leave you with an idea that my chronically unemployed muse splattered upon my legal pad (the legal pad being the only think Pat Conroy and I have in common), more to awaken me than to stimulate my creativity:

A new idea for a daytime TV talk show: The placers of personal classified ads—all publications, not just New York—get to meet their responders. No more predictable confrontations between serial-killer former nerds who take revenge on society as a result of high school locker room towel stinging episodes. Instead, every day we will have stalker-fringe, lying, misleading self- and other deceiving writers of fantasy encountering their similarly flawed responders. It would be done like the dating game, with the “placer” choosing his/her favorite. Of course, what we will have essentially is myth meeting myth; instead of “spy vs. spy,” lie vs. lie. Revelation, exposure, drama, agony, hostility, rapture (not hardly ecstasy—of course not) but flesh-rending humiliation and pathos? Yes! And not insignificantly, we will finally know who these people are. Give the people what they want, I always say.

Perhaps, I’m being a little smug—or self-deceiving—myself, but I feel that although I have resolutely stood by my vow never to instruct my readers, with the contribution of this media revolutionizing idea and its social and moral ramifications, I may have inadvertently provided a public service, perhaps even laying an infinitesimal cornerstone in the TV wasteland.

(Originally published December 1995)

May I Speak With God, Please?

Mike Tyson, Jim Bakker, Charles Colson, and lots of less famous people have all met him—God, that is. In a church, mosque, or synagogue? While communing with nature? At the scene of some holocaustic disaster? During an operating room out-of-body experience? Of course not. They met God while serving time for willful, malicious crimes against society.

Sounds logical, of course. Just about every human being since the beginning of recorded history has shared the single, archetypal goal of obtaining an audience with the Divine One, so out of all these scantillions of lurching, stumbling, George Romerian souls, which ones are awarded the eternal—not to mention pre-terminal—grand prize? Criminals?

We who have struggled bravely in an unincarcerated condition—and I include myself, since holding cells don’t count—to maintain virtuous, unselfish lives, can only hope to meet our maker after our life-sapped bodies have collapsed and our frantic spirits await their summoning. But there’s no guarantee. We may end up toiling next to Richard Nixon in a subterranean tape restoration lab or seated behind a dozing Jack Kennedy at an infernally eternal lecture on marital infidelity.

And these fiery scenarios give painful rise to the question of why these people are being contacted by God rather than by the Evil One? And, furthermore, if jailed malefactors are conversing with the Heavenly Father, does this mean that those who aspire to magnanimity can expect to be schmoozing with Satan? Will a leering Lucifer start accompanying Mother Teresa on her leper colony tours? Will there be a Black Knight riding in the Billy Graham crusade? And most unthinkable of all, will the name B. Elzebub show up on a mailbox in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood? Could this pattern of spiritual intervention for the iniquitous simply be a celestially sponsored part of the prison rehabilitation process? And does this imply that God is, indeed, a Liberal? I mean, he is reputed to be extremely tolerant and very heavily into saving people from themselves. Then, of course, there are the long hair, beard and sandals. So what does this make the Conservatives? Children of a lesser God? And Newt, the anti-Christ (literary suspension of disbelief optional here)?

And if there is accuracy in my assertion, is it fair to continue to reward these terrorizing transgressors with this consecrated treatment? Is there no limit to the depths of disgusting human seepage who would merit this theistic therapy? Is Charlie Manson a good candidate? Had he been caught and locked away, would Hitler have qualified? Dr. Mengele? Well, then, to raise the stakes of turpitude a litter higher, how about Nazi mimes? Child-molesting used car salesmen? Puppy-pummeling attorneys? Leona Helmsley? Axe-murdering cloggers? Don King? Accordion-playing rapists? Kathie Lee Gifford? And Cody? Where will it all end?

Perhaps, the most disturbing premonitive thought that I have is that since more and more politicians are serving time, that they will now be eligible for these heavenly encounters, resulting in the eventual release upon a helpless populace of individuals with an even more exaggerated sense of megalomania than they had before.

Campaign commercial: “George Graft for Senator—the Chosen One. What more do you need to know?”

And on a more grass-roots level, will ordinary citizens now start committing crimes because incarceration is possibly the only guarantee of salvation? Will lawyers immediately capitalize—as they are generally predisposed to do—by offering advice on which crimes will assure the greatest likelihood of Godly interdiction with the least punishment?

Will O.J. deliver a bombshell when he reveals that he was visited by God in jail? His claim that God is a soft-spoken, 300-pound black man will result in Mark Fuhrman’s attempted suicide. Geraldo Rivera will counter that in O.J.’s obviously confused state, he mistook former football player turned minister, Rosie Greer, for the Holy One.

Larry King will announce he will have both God and O.J. on the show together. Both will later be bumped for Tom Hanks, although Johnny Cochran will insist he was going to cancel the interview anyway because God’s P.R. people wouldn’t give him a list of questions he might pose to his client.

It’s quite obvious that we have not only a very inequitable situation on our hands, but one that may portend the direst consequences. It’s also painfully obvious that we cannot prevent God from communing with people of this ilk. No doubt, he has some long range ideas that he doesn’t plan to share with us. Banking on the “lick ‘em, join ‘em” theory, our only option is to do whatever we can to enhance our odds of communicating with him ourselves.

I am, therefore, asking you, law-abiding readers of Charleston’s Free Time to join me in demanding the legalization of all hallucinogenic drugs for religious purposes (the Indians knew what they were doing). And in the meantime, all they can do is arrest us and put us in jail—we can’t lose! Let us inhale.

(Originally published October 1995)

Stereotypical Deliverance

Recently on the “Tonight Show” Jay Leno had on an entire family of hog callers, each of whom, in turn, demonstrated their widely unenvied prowess to the mocking delight of the roaring audience. Incredibly, it was easily noticeable that these people were peacock proud that their wading level gene pool had produced these show-stopping results, and they were all totally oblivious to the fact that they had not only replaced “Jay Walkers” (Jay’s on-the-street quizzing of our spectacularly ignorant populace), but that they had also attained an even lower level of media loserdum, “DFTSC” (Destined for a “Talk Soup” Clip).

But the worst thing about this whole episode was that these people were South Carolinians. Thought by now you would think I would have become inured to this continuous airing of our not necessarily dirty laundry, but let’s just say it’s all tank tops, “Daisy Dukes,” overalls, and Dale Earnhardt jackets. In addition, there have been other awful emissaries from our state, such as turkey-callers, a tree-climbing dog named “Flatnose,” and some guy who artistically fashioned jewelry out of pigeon poop, all shoved right out there in front of millions of TV viewers.

“Lookie here, America! See what we can do. Yeehaw! And don’t you forget now. We’re from good old South Carolina, the birthplace of such legislative luminaries as Arthur Ravenel, Fritz Hollings and Strom Thurmond.”

Of course, there’s nothing inherently wrong with these agrarian artistes, although I don’t know why a person has to call a hog anyway. Aren’t they penned up in a sty so you can just walk up to them? They’re not going anywhere. And turkeys. Aren’t they supposed to be the world’s stupidest animals? They probably can’t even recognize a turkey call. You can just walk up to them, axe in hand. I’m assuming that’s the only reason they’re called in the first place, and the poor hogs, too, for that matter.

As for “Flatnose,” dogs don’t belong in trees. That’s trifling with Mother Nature, not to mention their imminent peril from squirrels during nut gathering season. Lastly, the pigeon pooh sculptor certainly could find a more aesthetically and sanitary pleasing medium, for example, some of our state’s naturally occurring by-products such as peanut shells, toothpicks, beer cans or hub caps.

But, the point is, we don’t need these kinds of images of S.C. constantly propagated by the electronic media, which simply reinforce our mortifying national stereotype. Why can’t we have a researcher who’s discovered a cure for cancer on Leno? A Pulitzer Prize winner on Charlie Rose? Or a Broadway star on Letterman? Actually, there was a young high school student from Goose Creek who made national headlines by conducting the Boston Pops Orchestra. He could play a dozen instruments, won a prestigious music scholarship and is obviously going to make a name for himself nationally. My God! If Goose Creek, a city whose typical resident is routinely rejected by the “Jerry Springer Show” for fear of besmirching the show’s reputation, can produce someone like this, why can’t the rest of the state?

We have to face it. Most of America thinks our entire population is nothing more than a macrocosm of the Clampett Family Reunion.

I, in fact, am personally affected by this indelible stigma, at least on an annual basis, whenever I take in a comedy club on my trip to New York. Although enjoying professional comedy is always the apex of all my Big Apple activities, I am still forced to pay the fiendish fiddler because my laughter is constrained by shudders of start terror, as with each wisecracking performer, I anticipate that dreaded contact of eyes followed by the inevitable:

Comedian: And where are you from, sir?

Me: Uh, Wisconsin.

I’ve even gone to the extent of rending “Fargo” and studying the dialogue, but I don’t think I could fool anybody. Luckily, I have a flat Charleston accent, which is certainly not typically Southern, so perhaps I could get by claiming to be from somewhere else, but I would still be fearful that somehow the comedian would know the truth, and then, of course, it would be even worse. Or the black desk clerk from my hotel would stand up at her table and shout while pointing accusingly in my direction.

“That boy ain’t from Wisconsin. He’s from SOUTH CAROLINA! And I think we know what that means, mmm hmmm.”

Then the comedian would be on me like the stain on that notorious blue dress:

“Well, that explains why your hair’s messed up. You drew the short straw (and it was a real straw) and had to ride in the back of the pick-up tonight. Is that your wife or your sister with you? Actually, in your case, I guess she could be both. Look, don’t think I’m not sympathetic. I know it’s a big adjustment for you here in the biggest of big cities, but actually it won’t be that bad, really, once you get used to wearing shoes.”

My only reasonable option would be simply to sit there and take it, although it would definitely be tempting to get up and make a mad dash out of the place, if I didn’t think it might resemble that scene in “Marathon Man” when Lawrence Olivier (Dr. Mengele) was recognized by his Jewish holocaust victims and chased through the streets of this very city.

Thankfully, none of this has happened to me yet, but only because I have taken the somewhat extreme, but obviously effective measure of sitting way in the back of the room, never looking in the comedian’s direction, and scotch taping the outside corner of my eyes back in order to appear Asian.

Actually, the time has almost passed for us to correct this absurd perception of our citizens so, in desperation, I have taken matters into my own hands. I have already been selected to be on “Millionaire,” where I plan to proudly announce that I am a South Carolinian. With the national expectations for South Carolinians having success of any kind being extremely low, I figure if I just get the $100 question right, I will have done more for my state in that ephemeral moment than Strom, Arthur or Fritz could do by retiring.

Regis: Well, Bob, you’ve told us that you’re a freelance writer and Mensa member, whose interests are nuclear physics, Post Jacobean Cinema Verite, Chinese Mandarin crossword puzzles, classical music, pre-Columbian Abstract Expressionism, electrical engineering, and poisonous lawn darts au naturale. But are you ready to play the game?

Me: Bring it on, as they say (ha ha ha).

Regis: Okay, Bob, here goes. What is a Pig Pickin’? A) A Rosie O’Donnell look-alike contest; B) Something a pig does to his nose to make it look that way; C) A Southern barbecue cook-off/outdoor dinner; D) Pre-abbattoir porcine selection day.

And, thus, my Catch-22 dilemma would be revealed in all its irritating irony. Of course, giving the correct answer (C) would move me on to the $200 question, however in so doing, I would simultaneously reinforce the Southern Billy Bob stereotype. Answer it wrong, and while I don’t advance, at least, I drop an oblique hint that all those lies I told Regis about myself may actually be true.

Well, readers, I’m not going to ruin the quasi-suspense by telling you how I would answer such a question, should I be so unfortunate to get it. I can only assure you that I will do my very best to rectify our state’s horrendously embarrassing image. So, check your local listing and prepare to be Palmetto Proud!

Beer Truth

I haven’t written for Charleston’s Free Time in quite a while, so I had to ask Eddie who reads his paper. His answer was the same as before. “People who like music and beer.” What a great demographic, I thought. My kind of people. When I think back over my life, especially my teens and young adult years, those were two constants, beer—occasionally supplanted and/or augmented by liquor—and music. Frankly, beer was the predominant factor, starting from the age of 16. Music, as in a movie, a grade C one in this case, was significant as a mood setter, important, but relegated to the background.

My first taste of beer was in 1956 at the Charleston Yacht Club, which, at the time, was located where the MUSC Family Medicine Center is now on Calhoun and Barre Streets. This was not to be confused with the more exclusive Carolina Yacht Club on East Bay Street, where lineage was not only a requirement for membership, but just to set foot on the property, and most of the people there had last names the same as the streets they lived on. The Charleston Yacht Club was more of a workingman’s organization, and although most of the members had one thing in common, boats, all them had another thing in common, drinking.

But what was really great about the place was that you didn’t have to be a member as long as you knew one who was willing to let you be his guest, a task easily accomplished, since these were the days when Charleston was a much smaller place and everybody knew everybody. And what was even greater was that you could buy a pitcher of Bud draught for $1.25. They also had a juke box, so putting those two elements together, the Charleston Yacht Club was the cheapest place you could take a date in Charleston.

For that matter, if you had even a borderline attractive date, you would get in without knowing a member, since the membership was 100% male and the officers, who were generally older, were 150% horny. It became a very satisfactory symbiotic relationship. Young, impecunious dudes like myself could take their dates to a place where they could both get blasted and dance all night for $5, and the lecherous old dudes could sit at the bar and leer, trying to jump-start their booze-soaked libidos.

As a side bar, I always thought it was interesting that the head officer of a yacht club was called the commodore, and I wondered that if a Russian submarine had been detected off the battery in the late 50s, if the commodores of the Charleston and Carolina Yacht clubs had been pressed into rallying their flotsam-bound flotillas to defend the city, would they still have been battle-ready, after first negotiating their heavy seas of alcohol. Actually, since there was no such thing as SUI (sailing under the influence) in those days, these guys were pretty adept at boozing and boating simultaneously, so maybe the citizenry would have been safe, maybe even more than we are now.

Of course there were more times that I hung out at the yacht club without female companionship than the opposite, at times almost becoming an involuntary member of the leering bar perchers society, pruriently evaluating other guy’s dates, who sometimes reminded me of antelope on the Serengeti, as they nervously twitched under the gazes of the starving, ravenous lions. Usually, it was three or four of my friends and myself sitting around a table swilling pitcher after pitcher, listening to Sam Cook, Lloyd Price, Ray Charles, The Platters, and so on, laughing at whomever got crocked the quickest.

My most memorable evening at the yacht club was when four of the give guys at the table decided to deal out our beer induced perception of justice to the fifth guy, who we all agreed was a sleaze bag. Over the years this guy had done thing such as steal money from his ailing grandfather, siphon gas out of cars, and most recently, take money out of a girl’s pocketbook at a house party. Even though during his last caper, he had fallen off a porch, caught his foot in the railing, and was left to hang there for hours by sadistic onlookers, including us, we did not feel sufficient punishment had been rendered.

This was not premeditated by any of us as far as I know, but as soon as this guy, who I’ll call Ronnie to avoid legal action, left the table to go to the men’s room, one of us—it may have been me; I’m not sure it was sort of “Lord of the Flies” environment—said, “Let’s whiz in his beer.” That statement was greeted with an instantaneous and resounding, “All right!” No debate. It was like Bush deciding to attack Iraq. And so, we passed the third filled pitcher around beneath the table, pausing briefly when Larry suggested not to get carried away, since we wanted to make sure it still tasted like beer. A couple of us poured in some from our glasses just in case. Since Ronnie would usually try to drink more of his share of a pitcher anyway, there would be no problem of his insisting that everybody have another glass.

Ronnie came back to the table, drank the rest of the pitcher, while we all sat there nonchalantly, trying not to explode or look at each other. He never said a word, never noticed. Actually, Walker joked that we had discovered a way to drink beer perpetually, if anybody ever got that desperate. Before exacting our grisly penalty, we had all vowed not to ever tell Ronnie. Why? Because we all feared his terrible retribution. We laughed about it later that night, and on through the years, though now, I never see those guys anymore. Ronnie died ten or twelve years ago, unrelated to what we did, I feel sure. I hope. I’ve been thinking about calling Larry, Harold, and Walker, and seeing if they’d like to have some sort of special reunion. Or is this something that’s better left within the walls of the now Family Medicine Center. If only it were e Department of Urology, the story would have an almost perfect ending.

Anybody want to go in on a pitcher?

(Originally published June 2004)

Measuring my life in beer sips

I have not committed a lot of poetry to memory, but for some reason, the phrase “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” a line from T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” has always stuck in my mind, which, incidentally, I have begun to envision as a rapidly shrinking object with brain cells flaking off like gray dandruff. However, if I apply Prufrock’s line to my life, I would have to change the line to “I have measured out my life in beer sips,” for it to have any personal significance. In the goal-less, hedonistic days of my late teens to mid-twenties, which I admit is an embarrassing stretch of time to devote purely to pleasure-seeking, especially since I seldom found it. Beer drinking, I guess because it required little effort, became an important goal in itself.

In high school, my weekends were always awash in suds. There was never any social event where beer (occasionally displaced by or enhanced by liquor) was not a powerful catalyst for a more enjoyable experience. And a cheap experience at that, since, in the beginning, I could go to the Seaside (later, called the Old Side), a bar on the Isle of Palms, and get an all night buzz on with three beers for about $3.00. This was back in the late 50s. In a few years, my capacity increased, as did my waistline, but having a beer gut was something to be proud of according to the non-familial values of my social circle, and I developed a reputation of being someone who could really “pack away the Pabst,” “fill it with Falstaff,” or “bloat up with Black Label,” as we used to say.

Then came my father’s most foolhardy financial investment, paying for my college education at The Citadel, a sting which not only stalemated my ever expanding beer-drinking prowess, but my conscientiously acquired beer gut. The endless tour-walking, shortening of my God-given weekend beer-drinking time, and having upper-classmen yell in my ear every Friday and Saturday night as I abortively tried to wend my way inconspicuously back to my room. “You been drinking again, dumbhead?” set me back a whole year (fortunately for my father, I flunked out in that amount of time, ending our collective agony). I like to compare this period in my beer career to Ted Williams having his accomplishment curtailed by spending those years in the Marines.

I recovered almost immediately, however, got my “beerings,” and sallied forth on what was to be a wish—I could say—unconscious non-stop seven year quest for beer-swilling immortality. I got a job in 1959 at a small industrial supply company owned by a friend’s father. I was nineteen years old, and still living at home, which enabled me to devote my entire $37/week salary to preparing myself for the inevitable enshrinement in the Brewski Hall of Fame. This also was the beginning of a life-long relationship with Big John’s Tavern on East Bay Street where, over the next seven years, I probably ate 75% of my meals, consisting entirely of roast beef sandwiches and boiled shrimp, a diest, or rather diet deficiency, that resulted in tan splotches all over my torso and arms and the endearing name among friends of “Pinto Boy.” Happily, I was able to remedy this simply by adding some vegetables to my menu. Had the doctor told me it was an allergic reaction to beer, I would still today be answering to something like “Old Man Pinto.”

The beer, in retrospect, seemed much colder in those days, even the pitchers, which were around $2.00, allowing me to stretch my $37 a long way, even with the sandwiches and shrimp, which were around $1.50, I believe. I really looked forward to the weekends, since I didn’t have enough money to go out on weeknights. I hated Sundays, because the Blue Laws were in effect then and you couldn’t buy beer. Even now, Sundays are kind of dolorous to me, despite the fact that anybody with a retail license sells the stuff now. It’s like I never got over the beerless Sundays and have some sort of vestigial depression, or maybe it’s a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, or more specifically, PTBS (no, I’m not going to say it). There were occasional victories such as when I would win a case of beer at The Seaside or Harry Raben’s for having the week’s highest electronic bowling score. Then suddenly Sunday simply became a glorious extension of Saturday. You young whippersnappers don’t realize how lucky you are that you can march right into any supermarket or pharmacy on Sunday and buy all the beer you want. Try doing that in Teheran on any day. God Bless America!

I only won a case of beer on maybe three occasions but, without a doubt, the most serendipitous experience in my “Days of Beer and Pretzels” was in the late 60s when a sales rep came into bar where my two buddies and I were drinking to introduce a new beer, Old Milwaukee. My God, I’m older than Old Milwaukee. He was giving it away, going from bar to bar, so having no pride in matters of this kind, we just followed him around all night. Even though, by that time, I think I must have been pulling down at least 50 big ones a week, free beer all night was a big deal.

I think the most beer I ever drank was 36 cans, but as with many seemingly impressive records, there sometimes is an asterisk, and in this case, it would be followed by “in a 20 hour period of time.” It occurred when a friend and I went on our yearly camping trip to the Huger campgrounds. We’d take a bunch of sausage, bread, and cheese and a couple of cases of Bud. We’d sit around talking about girls we had known till our horn-o-meter reading reached the danger level, and we’d decide to drive 30 miles to the Sea Side just so we could see a female, then realize it was a half hour after closing time. So, we’d talk ourselves down by discussing asexual subjects such as politics or old school teachers or re-channel our libidos into whittling or carving witty statements such as “B. Coskrey killed a beer—6/12/63” into the log cabin wall. The inscription was still there when we returned a few years ago. It’s to the right of the fireplace at about five feet, if you want to check it out, but I pray that your life is not that empty.

At one point during my peak years, I actually started keeping a log of my beer consumption, and during the 65-66 season, I was averaging a little over 10 beers per day, of course factoring in spillage and the very rare occurrence of barfing in midstream, but continuing to paddle, so to speak.

During a brief but dire economic phase of my life, I experimented with homemade beer, getting the recipe out of the back of some magazine, probably a “Hustler” or a “Gent,” and making the concoction in a huge metal milk can. It was pretty horrible, with a strong metallic taste, a sign, no doubt, that the loathsome liquid was interacting with the can itself, which could, incidentally, explain my occasional blackouts and inability to name all of the starting New York Yankee shortstops from 1927 to the present.

Soon after marrying in 1966, my wife pulled the emergency brake on my runaway freight train to perdition, when she explained that maybe I should consider goals more conducive to the welfare of our relationship, more acceptable ones such as college/loans, a car/payments, a home/mortgages, and a job/responsibilities. This did not mean, certainly, that I gave up drinking beer. I still love it, but I only consume about a six-pack a week, unless there’s a special occasion such as a weekend. Just kidding, but I feel I must always have at least a six-pack in the fridge, you know, in case the terrorists blow up all the breweries. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, my beers per day average is probably down to a pitiful .0027.

Look, even Michael Jordan had to retire—a few times. Hey that’s it, I, Bob Coskrey, the Michael Jordan of beer drinkers, is making a comeback, and you read it here in Charleston’s Free Time. Sip, sip.

(originally published July 2004)

Scream of Consciousness #7

#1 Imminent physician: Dr. Kervorkian
#2 Vanity Fair: Annual Hollywood event with one attraction, the House of Mirrors
#3 Periodic Table: Gynecological Flow Chart
#4 Massah Race: Jefferson Davis’ Dream
#5 A Man’s Man: Sean Connery or Elton John
#6 Conservative Values Stamps: W’s no longer redeemable capital
#7 “One for all and all for one:” Musketeers’ pre-three-way rallying cry
#8 Truss Fund: Mandatory health insurance for weight lifters
#9 Vlad the Inhaler: 14th century Rumanian Count noted for his Cocaine habit
#10“Heels over Head “ in love: Porn version of that emotion
#11 Lap Dance computer: Log on while getting off
#12 Murray, Queen of Skirts: Early Catskills circuit Jewish Trannssexual comic
#13 “Easy Rider:” Professional athletes’ nickname for Madonna
#14 “Erin Go Braless: What Erin do after a few Guinnesses
#15 Non-profit organization. Practically any US bank
#16 Immoral Support: Cheney helping Bush
#17 “Oral Fisher:” Amy’s prison name
#18 Cacaphony: Town in New Jersey noted for its horrendous traffic din
#19 Valley of the Doles: Indiana gated, geriatric community noted for its frighteningly botched facelifts and Viagra-crazed male residents
#20 “You’ve got class:” A possible compliment, depending on the level implied
#21 “I’m working for the American people:” Frequently used politician’s phrase that if given as an answer during a lie detector test always causes the machine to explode
#22 Rhetoricometer: Feared device used to measure the emptiness of political speeches
#23 “Plastered of Paris:” “City of Lights” drinking club
#24 Car pool Tunnel Syndrome: Unhealthy proclivity among some car pool drivers to drive through tunnels unnecessarily
#25 Odd Couple: Ghengis and Madelyn Kahn

Brainstorming with Bob

After reading Charlie Swansea's article on brainstorming in March's OMNIBUS, I was able to come up with give additional things to do with a brick (in a mere one hour and 49 minutes):

1. It can be used to build the substantial out-buildings to which we frequently compare the figures of voluptuous women.
2. It can be used to make denigrating remarks about someone's intelligence, e.g., "Dan Quayle had the IQ of a brick (or if we are to give Gary Trudeau a degree of credence, somewhere between a feather and brick)."
3. It can be a literally useful substitute for denigration for those less skillful in hurtling invectives: e.g., "Frustrated at his inability to verbalize his scorn for the South American ambassador, Mr. Quayle picked up the brick to which his intelligence had been compared and…"
4. It can be used to describe a particularly woeful basketball shot, or what the Big Bad Wolf did after eating through the little pigs' brick home in the new wave version of the fairytale: "He threw up a brick."
5. After a miraculous transmogrification, it becomes black and smaller and an indispensible incendiary ingredient of Americana: The Briquette (not to be confused with a brickette, a member of the sturdily built, yet melodious female singing group from the 50s.)

My mind now continuing to brainstorm unilaterally (I could find no one in my family to engage in this endeavour with me: "How can we brainstorm and watch TV simultaneously?"), and I began to think that this mental exercise might also be helpful in resolving some long term problems of a more practical nature. For instance: How many things can you think of to do with some of those awful 70s artifacts you have in your attic?

Except for the BeeGees disco tapes, which could be sold to the Army to help drive Castro out of hiding, should we ever decide to invade Cuba, most everything else from that decade of tackiness—from double-knit suits, white belts, and polyester shirts to lava lamps and gold chains (I recently had a leisure suit rejected by a lady at the Salvation Army: "Just because they're homeless doesn't mean they have no pride.") is completely useless. Although I will concede that I do occasionally unfurl my Herb Tarlek poster just to remind myself that it could happen again if we do not remain vigilant.

Obviously, then, brainstorming, at least at my level, has its limits and is potentially incapable of creating time warps.

Unbowed, I returned to less demanding but still significant tasks, such as, for instance, how many things can one do with a leaf blower. To begin with, let's acknowledge that the leaf blower is certainly one of the most inane yard tools yet invented. All it does is blow leaves from one part of your yard to the other, or perhaps, if they're not at home, to the neighbor's. Hey, wait a minute, isn't that what the wind does? So let's put this device to some more meaningful uses:

1. A multi-person hair dryer.
2. To help sail a boat during calm.
3. To extinguish the lighters of obnoxious smokers lighting up in restaurants.
4. To blow out the candles on George Burns's next birthday cake.
5. To help speed readers turn pages.
6. For emphasis, when you tell someone to "Blow it out your ear."
7. To create an occasional Marilyn Monroe ambience at sidewalk gratings.

There you have it. Through brainstorming, I was able to turn a formerly borderline
useful item into "The Amazing Blowmaster."

I also discovered, through the brainstorming process, an article whose ostensible use belies its real importance. The cellular telephone, so it seems, is rarely used for communication purposes, but mainly as:

1. A P.P. (Prestige Pumper); it enables the user to feel supremely important and superior to those not having one.
2. A C.I. (Class Inflamer); user is able to arouse feelings of class envy in cellular-less drivers of non-luxury cars.
3. An A.C.S.D. (Auto-Communicating Subterfuge Device); it enables the user to feign discourse and talk to himself without appearing foolish.

Of course, I continued by solo brainstorming until the sudden realization of what I was doing became apparent. I was in effect, asking, "How many things can one do with brainstorming?"

I was out of control. I switched on Mr. Rogers, as I always do when I feel an anxiety attack brewing (I also have a video tape "Fred Rogers at the Apollo, Live"). I find his clam, gentle manner very relaxing. There he was in his cardigan and tennis shoes, with his nerdily beatific grin: "Boys and girls, how many things can we do with a crayon?"