Bob Coskrey's blog

Toiletiquette

2010-08-31T22:35:00.000-04:00

Banks A Helluva Lot

2010-04-03T20:16:00.001-04:00

Banks A Helluva Lot
By Bob Coskrey

Banks, they’re all over the damn place. I counted 30 of them, including savings and loans and credit unions, in the Greater Charleston Area phone book, some of which have as many as 10 branches, and there are new ones springing up on a seemingly daily basis. My God, the competition must be ferocious, assuming they still want to make loans to us high risk, over-mortgaged, Joneses-envying material boys and girls.
I imagine their advertising budgets are quite impressive, though ironically, their efforts are blatantly lacking in creativity. So many of the names sound very much the same, and this is not a recent problem. They will either try to appeal to your city, state, or country loyalty, although state fealty seems to predominate here, with inspiring appellations such as National Bank of S.C., S.C. State credit Union, or Carolina First Bank, but with this state having supplanted Illinois in the area of embarrassing publicity recently, you would think the banks might want to disavow any relationship, or better yet, just incorporate the name of a state whose governor doesn’t require a governor for his “little Governor, whose lieutenant governor doesn’t think giving poor school children free lunches is akin to giving aphrodisiac laced feed to livestock, and where tea parties haven’t become Confederate Flag day celebrations, with middle aged, angry, white guys waxing nostalgic for the “50’s,” the “1850’s,”that is, instead of a social event for little girls.
And why is it that banks all over the country have continued the inane practice of referring to themselves as “first.”: First Citizens, First federal, First national, First Trust, Community First, etc. In the first place ( sorry ), how can all these institutions be first? Well, I guess a bank could possibly claim that it was the first in a specific category, such as the first to offer free candy to customers, the first to install security cameras, or the first to stay open during lunch hours, but this would be hard to confirm, not that anyone would care enough to check them out.
However, banks could take the initiative to establish new and imaginative categories of firsts, such as the first bank to employ a security guard under the age of 75, the first to discontinue the somewhat tedious groundbreaking ribbon-cutting ceremonies for new banks and replace it with an umbilical cord-cutting procedure, medically supervised, of course, for the first proud customer to give birth, or being the first to acknowledge John Dillinger’s birthday by having the tellers wear ski masks ( millinerily incorrect, certainly, but banks are not likely to spring for snap-brim fedoras ) and installing brown paper bag dispensers beneath their windows.
On the other hand, why not take the honesty track and admit your rank by calling yourself 132nd Federal or 27th national, for example, but perhaps, I am asking too much.
Then there are the weird names that make you question the message they are conveying. Such as Wachovia, which sounds like one of those make believe countries in an old Disney film. I’m surprised their security guards are not resplendent in colorful braided uniforms with epaulets, a plumed shako, and packing a sabre.
Then there’s BB&T, a name that might indicate they are in the witness protection program, and who knows whether it could actually stand for Bankruptcy and Breach of Trust.
Then there’s State Farm Bank. Just what does that mean? If I went there to open an account, would there be people dressed in overalls dragging in 300pound pigs for loan payments and tractors lined up at the drive-in windows?
And what’s the story with Carolina Federal Saving?. Are customers there greeted by visored, humorless federal bureaucrats or “Carolina Girl” tellers shagging in a lobby bedecked with sand drifts and swaying palmetto trees?
I guess all I’m really saying is that if you bank people want to stick around, you need to do more than use the stimulus money for your personal aggrandizement or seeing how many banks you can fit into a city block. You also need to put more thought into naming yourselves. Be a little more imaginative, truthful, and less ambivalent. And to show I’m not just here to kick you when your deposits are down, here are a few suggestions to get you started:
Self-deprecating:
Another Damned Bank
The Money Pit
Last National Bank of S.C.
Bank of No Returns
Mountebank
Boastful:
Itz Money In The Bank
Sufficient Funds Are Us
Bucks A Million
Good Credit Union
Big Bucks S&L
Take It To The Bank

TV/Nostalgic:
Bob EuBank
The Loan Ranger
Movies/Nostalgic:
George Bailey S&L
I Vant To Be A Loan Company
Political:
Special Interest Bank
Trust Us
Francophile:
Left Bank
Right Bank
Cubs Friendly:
Ernie Banks And trust
Tar Heel State friendly:
The Outer Banks, Inc.
And I’ll throw in a few slogans to further substantiate my magnanimity:
We turned down the stimulus package. We’re not a sperm bank!
Show us you don’t need a loan and we’ll give you one.
Need a loan? No problem. We’ve got more money than vice presidents.
Goldman Sucks. Invest locally.
Pssst, got a second? Mortgage, that is.
Our talkers can’t stop talking about our excellent interest rates. That’s why we don’t call them tellers any more.
In closing, it seems quite apparent to me that if you are going to be serious about not just renaming, but repackaging yourselves, that I am obviously the one to lead you out of your creative quagmire. So, I invite you to contact me while this offer lasts. However, you should be aware that I only conduct business between the hours of 6:00 and 8:00AM, since I don’t observe bankers’ hours.

Banks A Helluva Lot
By Bob Coskrey

Banks, they’re all over the damn place. I counted 30 of them, including savings and loans and credit unions, in the Greater Charleston Area phone book, some of which have as many as 10 branches, and there are new ones springing up on a seemingly daily basis. My God, the competition must be ferocious, assuming they still want to make loans to us high risk, over-mortgaged, Joneses-envying material boys and girls.
I imagine their advertising budgets are quite impressive, though ironically, their efforts are blatantly lacking in creativity. So many of the names sound very much the same, and this is not a recent problem. They will either try to appeal to your city, state, or country loyalty, although state fealty seems to predominate here, with inspiring appellations such as National Bank of S.C., S.C. State credit Union, or Carolina First Bank, but with this state having supplanted Illinois in the area of embarrassing publicity recently, you would think the banks might want to disavow any relationship, or better yet, just incorporate the name of a state whose governor doesn’t require a governor for his “little Governor, whose lieutenant governor doesn’t think giving poor school children free lunches is akin to giving aphrodisiac laced feed to livestock, and where tea parties haven’t become Confederate Flag day celebrations, with middle aged, angry, white guys waxing nostalgic for the “50’s,” the “1850’s,”that is, instead of a social event for little girls.
And why is it that banks all over the country have continued the inane practice of referring to themselves as “first.”: First Citizens, First federal, First national, First Trust, Community First, etc. In the first place ( sorry ), how can all these institutions be first? Well, I guess a bank could possibly claim that it was the first in a specific category, such as the first to offer free candy to customers, the first to install security cameras, or the first to stay open during lunch hours, but this would be hard to confirm, not that anyone would care enough to check them out.
However, banks could take the initiative to establish new and imaginative categories of firsts, such as the first bank to employ a security guard under the age of 75, the first to discontinue the somewhat tedious groundbreaking ribbon-cutting ceremonies for new banks and replace it with an umbilical cord-cutting procedure, medically supervised, of course, for the first proud customer to give birth, or being the first to acknowledge John Dillinger’s birthday by having the tellers wear ski masks ( millinerily incorrect, certainly, but banks are not likely to spring for snap-brim fedoras ) and installing brown paper bag dispensers beneath their windows.
On the other hand, why not take the honesty track and admit your rank by calling yourself 132nd Federal or 27th national, for example, but perhaps, I am asking too much.
Then there are the weird names that make you question the message they are conveying. Such as Wachovia, which sounds like one of those make believe countries in an old Disney film. I’m surprised their security guards are not resplendent in colorful braided uniforms with epaulets, a plumed shako, and packing a sabre.
Then there’s BB&T, a name that might indicate they are in the witness protection program, and who knows whether it could actually stand for Bankruptcy and Breach of Trust.
Then there’s State Farm Bank. Just what does that mean? If I went there to open an account, would there be people dressed in overalls dragging in 300pound pigs for loan payments and tractors lined up at the drive-in windows?
And what’s the story with Carolina Federal Saving?. Are customers there greeted by visored, humorless federal bureaucrats or “Carolina Girl” tellers shagging in a lobby bedecked with sand drifts and swaying palmetto trees?
I guess all I’m really saying is that if you bank people want to stick around, you need to do more than use the stimulus money for your personal aggrandizement or seeing how many banks you can fit into a city block. You also need to put more thought into naming yourselves. Be a little more imaginative, truthful, and less ambivalent. And to show I’m not just here to kick you when your deposits are down, here are a few suggestions to get you started:
Self-deprecating:
Another Damned Bank
The Money Pit
Last National Bank of S.C.
Bank of No Returns
Mountebank
Boastful:
Itz Money In The Bank
Sufficient Funds Are Us
Bucks A Million
Good Credit Union
Big Bucks S&L
Take It To The Bank

TV/Nostalgic:
Bob EuBank
The Loan Ranger
Movies/Nostalgic:
George Bailey S&L
I Vant To Be A Loan Company
Political:
Special Interest Bank
Trust Us
Francophile:
Left Bank
Right Bank
Cubs Friendly:
Ernie Banks And trust
Tar Heel State friendly:
The Outer Banks, Inc.
And I’ll throw in a few slogans to further substantiate my magnanimity:
We turned down the stimulus package. We’re not a sperm bank!
Show us you don’t need a loan and we’ll give you one.
Need a loan? No problem. We’ve got more money than vice presidents.
Goldman Sucks. Invest locally.
Pssst, got a second? Mortgage, that is.
Our talkers can’t stop talking about our excellent interest rates. That’s why we don’t call them tellers any more.
In closing, it seems quite apparent to me that if you are going to be serious about not just renaming, but repackaging yourselves, that I am obviously the one to lead you out of your creative quagmire. So, I invite you to contact me while this offer lasts. However, you should be aware that I only conduct business between the hours of 6:00 and 8:00AM, since I don’t observe bankers’ hours.

Christmas Memories

2009-12-02T20:41:00.000-05:00

The cinnamon scent of sand-tarts wafted from the kitchen, drifted up the stairs and swirled into my bedroom, rousing my olfactory sensors, and triggering a flashflood of Yuletide adrenalin. Being an 8-year-old trying to get to sleep on Christmas Eve was a difficult enough task in itself without the unprovoked excitation of my sensory and hormonal systems.

Before putting me to bed at 8 pm—with no resistance (I figured the sooner I got to bed the fast I could go to sleep, then wake up on Christmas)—my mother had told me not to get up because Santa Claus might be here at any time, and "he expected all good little boys to be in bed." If I had been more nimble witted, I would have seized this opportunity to retort, "Well, Mama, if it's his policy that only 'good little boys must be in bed,' then obviously that does not apply to someone like myself, whose pyromaniacal feats of the past two years almost resulted in the loss of two homes (ours and a friend's). Therefore, I should be able to stay up." But it's just as well that I hadn't said that, since my older cousin Jimmy certainly would have added, "Sure, Bobby, you can stay up as long as you want. With your record, it's not very likely he'll be paying this house a visit anyway—especially if he doesn't have fire insurance on his sleigh."

But none of that was ever said, and I struggled vainly to try to go to sleep while at the same time, listen for hooves on the roof (reindeers', not Satan's as Jimmy would have wise-cracked), a rustling in the chimney, or any other unusual sound that naturally would be a sign that he was here. I think I finally dozed off around 5 am or so, then awoke around 7 to the sunlight streaming in my window. It was OK to get out of bed at last. It was Christmas!

Of course, I had to wake up my mother and she, in turn, would rouse the other adults (my grandmother and my aunt) and my cousin, Jimmy, who was about 18. This was and is the grown-ups eternal Christmas rule—that no child should even see, much less touch his presents, until all the adults in the house are present. Ostensibly, this restriction was instituted so that the grown-ups could see the expression of joy on our cherubic faces, as we opened the presents. In reality, this restriction is to prevent Christmas Combustion, a seasonal phenomenon in which flames sometimes erupt from wrapping paper, as small fingers rip at it with such speed that friction-generated heat evolves. I once had an entire cardboard fort go up in a flash, and would have lost a Lincoln Log set, had I not received an already filled watergun in my stocking.

I managed to control myself by wolfing down a plate of sandtarts while the disheveled grown-ups snailed their way toward the bountiful living room. Once unleashed into the room, my eyes first lit upon a castle I had written Santa to bring me from the F.A.O. Schwartz catalog. Jimmy had thoughtfully explained to me the impracticality of Santa's elves making toys for all the kids in the world, and that he had worked out some sort of a deal like free advertising endorsements with the department stores. There were also several sets of metal soldiers, British Grenadier Guards, Black Watch, Gordon Highlanders and Greek Evzones. This was mostly what I was interested in in those days, so I was quite happy.

My stocking was, I gradually learned, as much a tribute to family tradition as it was a cornucopia of thoughtful gifts. Many items were the same every year, such as a can of pick-up sticks, jackstones, a bit-bat, a box of Brach's chocolate covered cherries, a top, assorted pieces of fruit (fillers, perhaps?), and always at the toe there were nuts, always the same nuts: a walnut, a pecan, a Brazil nut, an almond and a filbert.

The adults, too, were victims of the annual stocking gifts tradition. Victims, as well as perpetrators. My mother and her sister, for example, filled each other's stocking each year and they both always received, along with the variables, a box of Ex-Lax, a package of emery boards, a box of Dr. Scholl's corn and bunion pads, a bottle of Jergen's lotion and a jar of Pond's skin cream. They, of course, also received chocolate-covered cherries and the fruits and nuts.

From the laughter that always accompanied the revealing of these repetitious stocking stuffers each year, I soon learned that this was an example of family humor. Although every Christmas I grudgingly sniggered at these atypical presents, which I naturally felt were simply occupying valuable sock space, I believe that if the tradition had ever ceased, I would have been seriously concerned.

I had a red stocking and my cousin Jimmy had a green one. My mother's and her sister's were actual long cotton stockings both white with different colored dots. My grandmother, however, had as her stocking a large—probably 20-pound or so capacity—ham bag. Although we all laughed about it, as did my grandmother, it was always a great paradox to me that this sweet, refined and gentle old lady, whom we were all taught to revere, love and treat as a queen, would have as her Christmas stocking, a huge, coarse fabric ham bag from the meat department of the White House Grocery Store on King Street. A brocaded or tapestry patterned one with a ring of ermine around the top would have seemed more fitting. It became, however, less of a paradox four years later when my grandmother further shocked me by becoming an avid fan of TV wrestling. Now she never smashed her knitting bad against the wall and yelled, "Kill the lousy scum!" Her only emotional display was to exclaim, "Oooo, oooo" in a moderate tone whenever her favorite good guy got "hurt." I tried to explain to her that nobody got hurt. It was acting. But she didn't believe me.

Our tree was always bedecked with blue lights and a lot of ornaments that are not made anymore, like small snow-covered houses, manger animals on wheeled stands, delicately-made sheep with cotton that resembled wool, fruit and cornucopias. Some of these items I have managed to save through the years and they reappear on my family's Christmas tree every year. I still have a small wooden puppet from Germany whose limbs flail whenever a sub-torso string is yanked. Nowadays, a similarly-operated Peewee Herman doll might sell in vast quantities.

My favorite ornament, however, is a small, probably 75 to 100 year-old Santa Claus whose upper body appears to be made of some sort of ceramic substance. The end of his nose is nicked off. He has bulbous eyes, and his face is a pinkish red hue, making him look like a heavy drinker. He became sort of a family joke, and every year as he was carefully unwrapped and hung on the tree someone would make the remark that he looked like he had had a stroke. My son never found him, not any of the old worn-out ornaments, amusing. He would always redistribute them to the back of the tree, or sometimes even hide them.

As a child, I was always given the responsibility of putting the tinsel on the tree, and inevitably I was praised—unreservedly, I'm sure—for my contribution. "Ohhh, Bobby, the tree looks so much better now that you have put on the tinsel." I probably did a fair job up to a certain height. After that I had to throw it on, which only created little clumps of silver matter on the upper branches. In fact, I actually continued to think I was doing a great job with the tinsel well into my adult life until my wife finally made me aware of my decorating deficiency:

Barbara: "You're putting the tinsel on in clumps and it's not hanging down, Bob."

Me: "What? This is an outrage. I have been acclaimed as a tinsel artiste by my family since I was 4 years old."

Eventually, after observing some correctly tinseled trees and comparing them with mine, I realized, at age 26, that my credentials were obviously spurious. God only knows what other fake foundations of competence my well-meaning mother and grandmother laid for me.

Me (to Barbara): "What do you mean shoes are supposed to be tied in bows, not knots?"

Anyway, after our first Christmas together, we never used tinsel again.

For Christmas dinner, Uncle Harry, Aunt Lorene and their five children were invited over. We always referred to them as "the thundering herd" because of the noise their 14 feet made on the steps from the street to the porch. There were four boys and a girl. David, the youngest, was my age, then there was Nancy, 9; Frederick, 11; Sandy, 12; and Harry, 14. Of course, Jimmy, my other cousin, was already there. We always had a great time. My grandmother was very diplomatic about giving us presents, meaning sometimes we all got the same things, expect in Nancy's case, of course, or when a large age difference necessitated otherwise.

That year, we (the boys) all got flannel shirts. (Theirs were red, while Jimmy's and mine were Kelly green.) I don't think there was any significance to the assignation of colors, in retrospect. Certainly none of us paid it any attention at the time. In fact, since it was clothing, we gave it little thought at all, preferring to concentrate on the toys. Sandy, Frederick, David and I all received wind-up tanks from our grandmother, the kind with rubber treads and a flint inside the turret cannon that spewed out sparks. We rolled them back and forth all day long, only ceasing when we over-wound the springs.

We had the typical Christmas dinner with turkey, cranberry sauce, etc., expect that the pastries and desserts were always German, since that was my grandmother's heritage. There were strudels, something called Wieckelkucken, and other whose names are no longer retrievable. Of course, there was always the omnipresent fruitcake that some insidious distant relative would make for my grandmother. She was usually the only one who ate it, and perhaps she merely did it out of politeness. In fact, I'm sure that was the case. Its incomprehensible to me that anyone so discriminating in every other quality could enjoy a cake made of mutated fruit and grocery store sweepings.

We also invited a family friend to dinner every year, an elderly lady of French descent, Miss Inez Chapeau. She used to live in the old St. Johns Hotel (now the Mills House). She was a very nice lady, but she had established an apparently well-deserved reputation as a cheapskate, which she, despite having more than adequate funds, glorified by purchasing her wardrobe from a shop called "The Thrifty Lady" or the Salvation Army Store and her Christmas presents from any of the dime stores. I mainly remember her mustachioed, mole-decorated countenance scraping across my cheek or lips after obeying my mother's command, "Give Miss Inez a big kiss, Bobby."

In 1948, it was a special Christmas. We all got to see our "special" aunt, Adele. Aunt Adele was my mother's sister, who was single and lived with her female roommate in Washington, DC. Adele was at the time, in her early 40s. She was about 4'10" and weighed probably under 85 pounds. She had her hair cut very short, wore mannish looking suits and orthopedically-styled low-heeled shoes or blue or white tennis shoes (or easy walkers, as they were called then). She was also—if you have not guessed by now—a lesbian, though none of us kids, nor many of the adults for that matter, knew that term then. We just thought she was a very odd looking and acting person whom we tried to prevent our friends from seeing.

Adele also had a very volatile temper. In fact, all the other grown-ups in the family referred to her as "the Atomic Bomb" because she was always exploding. And she always exploded at a different person each trip home. To make things even more interesting, she also would choose a favorite new nephew or niece (there was only Nancy) every time she came down.

So there was always this almost intangible air of suspense among us with Aunt Adele's arrival. I had once been her favorite when we visited her in Washington one year, but the next two years I had been the victim of her wrath. She always gave us money for a present, I guess because she really didn't have a handle on what kinds of things kids liked.

Actually her explosions were often quite comical, mainly because they were very predictable. As soon as she started drinking—which apparently was while she was on the train—her face gradually grew a deeper crimson and the veins in her forehead got blue. So after she'd been in the kitchen tossing down "shooters" for an hour or so, we knew the blast was imminent. We just didn't know who she'd be aiming at. Even though the other adults would be upset at her tirades, we kids never took them very seriously. She was simply part of our family Christmas pageant, a sort of strident, Grinch-like counterbalance to the occasional Yuletide tendency toward ultra-sentimentality, mawkishness and syrupy over-indulgence.

After dinner, we'd all go over to Uncle Harry's and Aunt Lorene's house. I was always ready for this because I wanted to see what toys they had gotten. And without exception, I would always find at least one thing they got that I didn't and that I—at that moment—wanted really bad. This year, it was a little metal sailor that David had gotten in his stocking. What a covetous little brat I was. It was a fun time at their house, an environment quite different from the more controlled and peaceful ambience of my grandmother's. I was a sort of action-packed Never-Never Land, where I could venture out onto their dock and exercise my childhood right to fall headfirst into the pluff mud (which I did), where I could watch Nancy being pulled up the uncarpeted steps by her ankles, where Uncle Harry's voice occasionally interrupted with a mild complaint, "David, are you and Bobby playing with the ripsaw again?"

Later that night, we'd all pile into the Pontiac and head back across town to my grandmother's. Sometimes Adele would stay at Uncle Harry's, a decision which always pleased me immensely, since I would have friends coming over tomorrow. Aunt Adele always took a lot of explaining.

All the way home and about an hour after I got into bed that night, I thought about that little metal sailor David got. Thank goodness, I had a birthday coming up in two months.

Drive to Work

2009-08-23T22:34:00.002-04:00

I’m backing down the driveway. It’s 7:37AM. I look back, not wanting to run over one of the multitude of dogs in our neighborhood, although that giant lab next door, who scares the crap out of me each day as I walk by the fence, roaring like the “Hound of the Baskervilles,” maybe if I just brushed his tail, he would respect me. My God, I don’t mean that, I love dogs, or maybe I just love dogs who love me, and may be that goes for people too. Shut up! Too much introspection for this time of day.

My breakfast of shredded wheat, walnuts, blueberries, bananas, cinnamon, and honey in skim milk, which I naively hope will add a year or two onto my life, probably spent in some Nurse Ratchet run nursing home, is entering digestion mode, as I perfunctorily wave to a neighbor, with whom we no longer associate due to a string of unpleasant experiences. She drives by in one of a fleet of SUV’s on our cul-de-sac. She waves. At this distance, it could be a single digit. Who cares? It would just be a crude exclamation point at the end of our relationship. I wave back.

Before backing out onto the street, I stop to tune in to the “Bob and Tom Show.” I like humor to pervade my life. It seems to make things flow a lot smoother, and I’m a fervent believer that humor exists in everything. Oh, it may not be appropriate always, but it’s there. They’re on break, so I tune in to ESPN to see if the Yankees won. I’m disappointed about 32% of the time. I doubt if Washington National fans are inclined to do this..

I reach the stop sign at the main street in our subdivision and, of course, stop, unlike the person to my right, who simply rolls through. I have noted over the years that about 90% of people think you only have to stop for a stop sign if there is an officer of the law in sight. I don’t know why I felt I had to specify officer of “the law,” as if someone might think I’m referring to an officer of the 81st Airborne, Salvation Army, or the Loyal Order of the Moose. But, as for stop signs, why even waste money on them. Simply have a small one directing cars at all 4 intersections to stop that would pop up on the roof of the police car whenever it came to an intersection. In the absence of the police car, it would be every man for himself, pretty much like it is now.

I arrive at the entrance to the main business thoroughfare that runs in front of our subdivision, where there is a stop light. I get in the right hand lane, since I am turning right onto the thoroughfare. It’s a turn right on red light, but I can’t see what’s coming from my left because the A-Hole in the lane beside me in the aircraft carrier-sized Humvee has pulled out so far, he’s almost under the light itself. This gives him no advantage, since he can’t go till the light turns green anyway. I try to pull out more, but have to stop or risk getting whacked by the endless river of vehicles. While waiting for the light to change, I dream of having one of those giant Sikorsky transport helicopters so I could swoop down and snatch up one of these inconsiderate bastards and set him down in the middle of a Taliban encampment in Afghanistan with Lee Greenwood’s CD, “I’m Proud to be an American,” blaring at maximum volume so he can play out his fantasy in real time.

My dream fades out, as I am finally able to enter the traffic flow. I merge into the far right lane, so when I get on the bridge, I will be in the lane to I-26 West. Seconds later, a car in front of me makes a sudden right turn while simultaneously engaging his turn signal, causing me to brake suddenly and the moron who was following too closely behind me to come to a screeching halt and glare menacingly at me in the rear view mirror. I have observed that around 75% of drivers make these kinds of turns, if they even use their turn signals at all. I’ve wondered if may be they don’t actually realize it’s a safety function, but instead, believe it’s just a way of showing off to people that you’re making a real fancy turn: “ Hey, everybody! Look at me.Yeehaw!”

Today, I seem to be catching practically every red light, and many are caused by people going ten to twenty miles per hour under the speed limit. I have a theory that most of these road slugs simply don’t want to get to their destinations, whether it’s a horrible job, an angry spouse, a funeral, a baby shower, or a Yanni / John Tesh Duet concert. And although these people can certainly be aggravating, they don’t come close to the most egregious of all these motorized malefactors, the red light runners, those Camaro-driving, spoiler- sporting cylinder-heads who simply refuse to stop for a red light. I have a morbid intuition that one of these Darwinian cast-offs will do me in one day. Why? Because I am one of their unfortunate and ill-fated opposites, that small band of drivers who actually stop when the light turns red. It will be my destiny some day that when I stop, one of these people will be right behind me, expecting that I, of course, will run the light too. That is why I always look into the rear view mirror whenever I stop for a red light, hoping, in vain, I can maneuver out of the way, or at least, watch the driver swallow his dangling fuzzy dice or Play Boy key upon impact.

Having avoided or, perhaps, only postponed Death by Camaro, I finally make it to I-26 West and a few minutes later, the South Cosgrove exit, where I prepare to do battle with a long line of vehicles, who are there to challenge my right to exit the highway. It seems that in their world, a person entering a major highway not only has the right-of-way over those trying to exit the highway, but should initiate a game of Chicken till the lesser man backs down and the other is honored later on in some elaborate ceremony at the Summerville Speedway.

I’m onto South Cosgrove now, and I notice the guy in front of me in the 72 Mercury ( often it’s a pick-up) has his bare arm hanging shoulder-length out of the driver’s side window. Only guys do this, so it probably is some kind of macho showboating demonstration, since only guys with “guns’ do it. I have noticed others who drape their right arms over the passenger seat as they drive. I figure they probably have less presentable guns, which resulted in a lack of confidence with females, and finally the sad manifestation of this stressor, pretending they have a date in the seat next to them. In addition, both of these kinds of drivers share an attribute, a penchant for looking more out of the side windows than they do out of the windshield, but not randomly, these are testosterone fueled observations, since I have discerned that they only focus on things such as various kinds of machinery and equipment, e.g., a construction site, road work, a disabled vehicle, a field being plowed, and possibly even spontaneous gunplay, the latter with more avid interest, should they happen to have a gun rack.

I do not pass these Manly Motorists, since I have have discovered that to do so is to issue a challenge to their STP leaking manhoods, which will only lead to trouble and possibly personal head trauma, vehicular or otherwise..

Alas and at last, I am in the final stretch down Magwood Boulevard, and as I approach the turn-off onto my employer’s street I am aware of a car whose driver, at the last second, decides he wants to cut in front of me. He does not have his turn signal on, so he does not meet one of my criteria for letting someone in. Neither does he not meet the other criterion, which is stopping and politely waiting to be let in. I vindictively speed up just enough to not give this transgressor enough room to cut in, and I never make eye contact, sort of like in some books, when a character who kills someone, he never wants to look him in the eye, but I sadistically watch in my rear view mirror, hoping to see his defeated face, though I can’t, as car after car refuses him a place in line. I arrive at work, feeling triumphant, yet mildly self-conscious of my inordinate level of glee. “Whatever!” I had endured the the daily vicissitudes of another drive to work and had managed to squeeze in a minor victory at the end. That hardly ever happens.

Then I notice the car that had been the well-deserved recipient of my rightful revenge pulling into the employee parking lot. I recognize the driver instantly. My supervisor.

Instantly, I have an idea for my next article: “Drive To The Unemployment Office.”

Fred Sanford and Mark Sanford: Compare/Contrast

2009-07-18T12:54:00.001-04:00

1. Fred Sanford, star of the 70’s sitcom, “Sanford and Son,” was played by the black actor-comedian, Redd Foxx. Mark Sanford’s SLED code name is Phil Anderer.

2. Fred would feign heart attacks, calling out to his deceased wife, “I’m coming to join you, Elizabeth.” Mark actually gave several of his staffers heart attacks, when they discovered an email to his mistress proclaiming, “Fathers’ Day, Schmathers’ day, I’m coming to join you, Maria.”

3. Fred kept his junk in his yard. Mark kept his junk in his pants except during visits to Argentina.

4. Redd Foxx was known for his x-rated joke albums in the 50’s. Mark (“El Grande Marco”) became infamous for airing his ribald e. mails in the 21st century’s first decade.

5. Fred’s nemesis, “the evil and ugly” Aunt Esther, often made his life a living Hell, trying to keep him in line. Mark has Jennie.

6. Fred’s business could have benefitted from a stimulus package. Mark’s obviously overactive package didn’t need stimulating, it was later revealed.

7. Fred stayed at home. Mark discovered a new route from the Appalachian Trail to Argentina.

8. Fred was the show’s biggest alcohol drinker. Mark’s devoted followers were heavy imbibers of his homemade cool-ade.

9. Fred could often be a first class jerk. Mark is a jerk who always goes first class.

10. Fred had “soul,” but no mate. Mark has a soul mate, but no soul.

Heat-Seeking Cabbies: A Walk in New Yawk

2009-07-14T13:54:00.000-04:00

I had seen this backdrop in thousands of movies and TV shows over a lifetime, and here I was right in the middle of it—live! My mild anxiety that I would somehow lose my equilibrium, not to mention significance, from the immensity of this greatest of all the megalopolises was immediately displaced with awe and excitement. My God, here I was at 55th Street and 7th Avenue, or just “55th and 7th” as they say it in the scripts. It sounded good to hear myself say it. I sounded like a New Yorker. Well, except for the accent, maybe.

My wife and I began to walk away from out hotel, The Wellington. It was one of those old ones, built in the ‘20s, with lots of musty charm and ancient radiator pipes that expanded in the cold December nights and made loud clanging sounds like frenzied “steel-drivin’ men” were whacking them with 20-pound sledgehammers.

As we continued our walk, I looked upward toward the enveloping concrete, steel, and glass monoliths occasionally interrupted by “NYPD Blue” sky and adjusted gradually to my agoraphobic ant status.

Panning earthward once more, I saw unrelenting hordes of people marching from one sidewalk to another, melding into one another like out of uniform drill teams. They all seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere, except for the ones, like myself, who gawked at the skyscrapers, and as they passed by, I sometimes detected smatterings of other languages. And although these people were not in uniform, I did slowly begin to realize that most all of them did wear black coats of one sort or another, which my wife finally informed me was the Color de Rigueur for New Yorkers in the winter.

The noise of the crowds is non-stop, but it’s frequently overwhelmed by what you could refer to as the “NY Soundtrack”: car horns, every now and then interrupted by a siren, twenty-four hours a day. And New York traffic is not at all similar to Charleston’s—or anywhere else for that matter—it’s 85% cabs, nearly filling the streets with yellow, with the remaining 15% being made up of white or black, block-long limousines, buses, trucks, emergency vehicles and an occasional regular car.

The horn-blowing goes on and on, and even though some people might be annoyed by it, most New Yorkers seem to just ignore it. But beyond thinking his was all funny as hell, I actually enjoyed being an extra in this stereotypical NYC movie scene.

Everybody’s in a hurry, especially the cabbies, and if one car takes too long, the exasperated one blasts him with his horn. Since there is perpetual traffic, we have, in essence, the horns of infinity.

Which reminds me that if I were a New York cabbie, I would nickname my cab “Captain Hornatio.”

Strangely, however, in my many visits to New York, I have never witnessed an incidence of driver violence. It’s my theory that the New York driver’s violent impulse is channeled into the non-violent outlet of horn-blowing. Therefore, instead of yelling, flipping off, or slinging lead at a person who displays faulty drivership, you just bear down on your horn and pretend it’s a machine gun, or that you’re releasing two jerk-seeking missiles from just under your headlights.

If I may digress briefly, I think an item that would really sell, not just there (though, actually, if you can sell it there, you can sell it anywhere), would be one of those triggered joysticks that you used to see in planes in old war movies, complete with the taped sound effects: “Die you stop-sign running Honda jockey, brat-tat-tat-tat!”

Despite New York’s size and its traffic, its streets are terrific places to walk. Most all of them (in Manhattan) are numbered, so even directionally retarded people, like myself, can’t get lost, and even if I still manage to, there’s always a cab or a bus.

You won’t ever get to know a city unless you walk it, and in the “Big Apple,” walking is an intensely emotional experience—at least for me—for as I walk and observe, my mind is full of images: Tennessee Williams typing away in his Chelsea hotel room, Jack Kerouac stumbling out of Birdland with Charlie Parker’s horn still wailing in his ears, John and Yoko emerging hand-in-hand from The Dakota.

I still have an as-yet-unfulfilled urge to walk through Central Park, carrying my thirty-year-old Scrabble set, meeting up with Tony Randall or Dick Cavett and challenging either to a game, with the loser having to treat the winner to a three-year drinking tour of New York bars (I’ve been practicing for three months—not scrabble, drinking).

I’d also like to bump into Woody Allen, who actually responded by letter to a story I sent him in 1968 (“Your story was very interesting and long”), hard enough to knock him onto the third rail for causing me the anguish of having to decide whether to continue to idolize him as a cinematic and literary genius or condemn him as a moral moron.

Unfortunately, I can only afford this Gotham ambulation about once a year, so in the meanwhile I will have to amuse myself with some downtown Charleston after hours strolling and perhaps, if I should bump into Jeff Schwaner, careening out of the Music Farm, I could challenge him to a game of Trivial Pursuit at Jack the Ripper’s. I understand that as a bona-fide senior citizen, I will be permitted to bring reference books.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

2009-06-09T12:35:00.000-04:00

I have been trying to think of something to write about, but I am afraid I may have run (no pun intended) out of humorous things to say about running. Some of you are probably saying, “He ran out about six articles ago. It’s about time the old fool realized it.”

Perhaps the weather has something to do with it, since as it gets closer to summer, even though I continue to run, I lose my enthusiasm for it. And judging by the temperatures of the last three weeks, summer arrived in mid-May. I sort of feel inclined to write about running in the heat, but I know I did that last summer. On the other hand, no one probably read it anyway, except Cedric, and he has to, so why should I worry?

Therefore, I will start by avowing that while summer is a fun time for most everyone else, for runners it is somewhere between a four-month-long peer-influenced trial of perseverance and sportomasochism.

I even feel self-conscious at times when I run past a normal walking or stationary person. I feel they are thinking, “Look at that crazy jackass running in this heat. Look at him, will you? He’s completely soaked with sweat, his face is a mask of pain, and breathing like William Perry on the first day of training camp. He’s obviously expressing suicidal ideation through exercise.”

Which brings to mind a suggestion for a summer race, “The Death Wish 10k.” It would be held every year in late August at 1pm, at the Northwoods Mall parking lot. The course would circumscribe the mall and would probably necessitate rounding it about a half-dozen times. Participants would have to wear those air-tight, silvery looking sweatsuits you see advertised on TV and black woolen stretch socks. There would be salt water available at one mile splits and hot soup, chili and coffee at the finish. The age group winners would get a two week pass to the Parris Island Marine Boot Camp. The overall winners would receive free tickets to the Ill Will Games to be held in Libya next year.

Perhaps a way to prolong the racing season through the hot months would be to have some night races. We could begin with the “Spirit of Spoleto—Let’s Do Lunch 5k Invitational.” Qualifications: 1) Proff of attendance at the last five Spoleto events (Piccolo, being free, of course does not count); 2) A picture of yourself with a group of people at a Spoleto event, at least two of whom are of indiscernible gender. The race would be at 9pm in the downtown area. The participants will wear what one usually wears for Spoleto evening events—anything that can be defined by a fellow Spoletan as being “divine,” “superb,” or “fun.” Labels will be closely checked. Running shoes are optional.

The overall winners will get to “do lunch” with a major Spoleto artiste. Age group winners will receive Spoleto Patron, Zina (“Zee Nee”) Paolozzi-Rockefeller-Middleton’s tape—“Give me Spoleto or Give me Death.” The tape instructs aspiring Spoletans in such things as: 1) How to wear your glasses on the top of your head; 2) How to know when not to clap at a ballet, and 3) How to meet and appear to converse intelligently with artsy people, despite being artistically illiterate.

An evening race at the opposite end of the social spectrum would be a night version of the Cooper River Bridge Run, with the only other major difference being that the participants must run the race sans shorts, but strategically covered with luminous silver paint. It would be called the Great Moon River Run.

An interesting touch would be that there would be no prizes or trophies awarded. However, the warm-up shorts which would be taken up just prior to the race would only be given back to the overall and age group winners.

Maybe there is hope for hot weather running after all. Probably more than there is for my rapidly dwindling store of humorous ideas for this column. If any LCR readers have subjects or ideas for articles, please let me or Cedric know.

And yes, before I receive hundreds of queries, tail-gaiting at the “Great Moon River Race” will result in immediate disqualification.

(Originally published July 1986)

The Attack of the Free-Foodies

2009-06-01T08:51:00.000-04:00

It always amazes and, at some level, disgusts me, that people become so culinarily orgasmic over free food. I’ve seen it in my workplace whenever a pharmaceutical rep. has a luncheon or just brings in containers of doughnuts, juice, and coffee, where formally, or better, formerly, educated people suddenly act like starving Darfurians. No, I retract that, I’m sure the Darfurians would maintain a semblance of dignity, even with the ubiquitous clouds of flies, whereas these over-stuffed greedy-guts might actually suck down a fly or two in the throes of their food frenzies.

I’m tempted, but always resist screaming at them, as they rip apart the defenseless pastries like lions at a Chihuahua convention: “Have you never seen a doughnut before? They’re quite commonplace, you know, in the worldwide menu of available sustenance. Do the names Krispy Kreme or Duncan make clanging sounds in your vacuous belfries?”

Also, at my workplace, where we are divided into teams housed in separate offices in the same building, a thoughtful person on my team will occasionally bring in some breakfast goodies, such as brownies, cupcakes, or the omnipresent doughnuts, which, if there were a contest to name a national pastry, would win in a sucroseslide. Naturally, whatever the sweet thing—it could be chocolate-covered liverbits—it is scoffed down piranha style in a matter of nanoseconds, but occasionally, when the donor is excessively generous, there are leftovers, and within minutes people from the other offices, who have apparently developed super efficient olfactory sensors, are in our office drooling over the calorie-laden remains. If one of us is in there, they will semi-politely ask, as their hands are three quarters of the way into the bag, “Okay if I have one?” If none of us is there, then they adhere to the pastry purloiner’s motto, “Don’t ask, just take.”

I’ve always wanted to put something like a miniature bear trap or a black mamba in the bag, though they’d probably eat the latter, mongoose-like, without bothering to look.

One day at work, they announced over the P.A. system, just before 12:00, that there would be a drug rep. sponsored luncheon in our break area, , and the noise of the people stampeding toward that destination would have caused someone from an earthquake prone area to have a panic attack.

Another place that seems to attract “Free-Foodies” in never-ending streams is the supermarket, when they are giving out samples of food products. Some of them, instead of taking a morsel and moving on, stake their claims to gormandizing rights there on that spot and only disengage their incisors when the harassed attendant is forced to explain that his job is to allow people to sample and hopefully buy the product, not to satisfy someone’s eternal pangs of hunger.

Lastly, a new venue for the “Free-Foodie” is a popular restaurant that often has a lot of customers waiting to be seated, patiently or otherwise, and this establishment, in a thoughtful marketing gesture, starts its wait staff walking amongst the throngs giving out free samples of their wares.

All of a sudden, it’s feeding time at the monkey exhibit, as ravenous patrons snatch items, such as chicken marsala and calamari and jam them into rapidly masticating mouths, excited further by the overwhelming thought—or, perhaps, it’s a reflex now—that may be they can put away an entire meal this way and it won’t cost a penny. Regarding the simian reference, I have wondered whether these same people in the restaurant’s restroom, could be easily startled into slinging excrement at one another.

Attending a two year old’s birthday recently may have shed some light on the etiology of this behavior, as I observed the birthday boy stuffing a large piece of cake into his already caked with cake mouth, being certain to extend his whole hand into the mini-cavern of his mouth to ensure he didn’t lose any of its delectable 1500 calories. May be some traumatic event fixated him at that moment of his life, such as, just prior to getting his piece of cake “and eating it too,” his father, seizing the opportunity to participate in any kind of “par-tee,” getting crap-faced and passing out, face-first, into the cake, much to the horror of family, friends, and, of course, the birthday boy. Hence, now that little boy, grown to adulthood, eats a piece of birthday cake—anybody’s—brownie, doughnut, luncheon spread, supermarket or restaurant sample as soon and as fast as possible, so he can avoid the recurrence of that long ago trauma or its memory.

I’m afraid I don’t have a psychological theory for the “Free-Foodie’s obsession with any food that is free. I think it may simply be that most people are just “Cheap-Ass Bastards.”

I will end this piece with this plea to the “Free-Foodies:” “Try to remember that unless you are truly starving, that the next time you are confronted with food being doled out gratis, behave yourselves. For God’s sake, sirs/madams, have you no decency. The whole world is watching. Especially the Darfurians.”

Blame It On My Muse

2009-05-30T13:31:00.002-04:00

While being parked outside a hospital, I observed a man entering it with what looked like one of those coolers that they transport organs in. I also noticed that his head had been shaven in a way that looked like he had had intracranial surgery of some kind, and my muse, who leads a rather idle life, offered these thoughts: 1) Times are really tough when someone needing a brain transplant has to bring it to the hospital because his insurance doesn’t cover transportation or 2) This guy had to actually go out and find his own brain, because the donor search program is so inefficient, and 3) if he’s operating solo, where did he get it? Were laws broken? People killed? Has Costco got some shady deals going on and he got a case of them to improve his chances?

One of my favorite pastimes is hurling epithets at the drivers of other cars, for example, animal-human billingsgate such as capybara-face, mandrill-buttocks, and horse gonad-head, with the aid of my muse, of course, but yesterday, she made me aware of my apparently unconscious habit of always adding the prefix, “little,” when I curse out someone in a small car. So it seems I have either deduced that only little people drive little cars or that the cars, themselves are responsible for their reckless actions, which means I am tossing verbal invective upon inanimate objects. I have been doing this for such a long time that I’m not sure I can stop, although my muse, whose name, by the way, is Plaigia Rizem, has suggested that I just continue my harangue against the little cars, but just spice it up a bit by actually getting out of my vehicle and yelling in the driver’s window, and that inevitably, some big guy or woman would emerge, face crimson-faced with rage, and smash me to a brew-spewing pulp ( Do I drink and drive? Certainly not, Plaigia simply wanted me to use “brew-spewing pulp.”). After concluding that my muse may have a chronic and severe mental illness. I came up with a less lethal cure: I downloaded a picture of Andre the Giant driving a Mini-Cooper, which I now have clipped to my sun visor. It works perfectly, and, in fact, I’ve even doubled my curse word per vehicle output, with nary a thought about size.

Today, I was almost sideswiped by a red pick-up truck with a Confederate flag decal, and Plaigia whispered in my ear, “Red truck, red neck, red state, read ( past tense) nothing.”

Lastly, before retiring to her muse mews she inspired me to write a sentence representing the awesomEST state of the English language in America: “The formAlly laXadaisical realAtor showed her mischievIOUS side by giving her clients jewelEry made from nucUlar waste.”

Top 15 Rejected Spoleto Event Ideas

2009-05-29T13:48:00.003-04:00

1. Overeaters Anonymous Ballet Company presents: "Swine Lake"
2. Gentlemen's Club's G-string Quartet
3. John Graham Altman's All WASP adaptation of Gershwin's "Porgy and Bess": "Poopsie and Biff"
4. City of North Charleston presents: A Taste of Spruill Avenue
5. The Howard Stern Topless Lesbian Dance Company presents: The Nutcracker (dedicated to Rush Limbaugh)
6. Jeffrey Dahmer Finger Painting Exhibition (done mostly with other guy's fingers)
7. The original version of the "Irish River Dancers": "The Irish Cirrhotic Liver Dancers"
8. A performance by the Citadel's crack haze team, "The Moultrie Street Maulers" (city firefighters will be on hand)
9. Day of the Night Heron (at Washington Park): Jalapeno bloated avian park residents strafe a 30x30 fast canvas at point-blank range, with artistic results
10. Children's Spoleto Event: the combined horse carriage companies of Charleston present: "Bobbing for Roadapples"
11. College of Charleston fraternities present at the Stern Center: "A Barf College Display"
12. The Meeting Street Knife and Gun Corps: Off-duty muggers entertain with precision marching during daylight hours. No evening performances due to prior commitments.
13. Charleston Bartenders' Association presents: "The Whiz." Each bar sponsors its most prodigious beer guzzler in a urination for distance competition at Johnson Haygood Stadium. Multi-colored food colorings provide special effects.
14. Homophobes International presents: "An evening with Jesse Helms." The NC Senator discusses his cause and effect theory on males with ponytails and homosexuality.
15. The Prostitutes Association of America, under the direction of its President, Tanya Joyce ("T.J.") Hooker, presents: "Hooking is a F***ing Art." Similar in concept to the AIDS quilt, a vast display of mattresses are "laid out" at the North Charleston Coliseum.

Top 15 Most Frequently Overheard Tourist Comments About Charleston

2009-05-29T13:02:00.001-04:00

1. “Unless you’ve got couple of hours to spare, don’t mention ‘Hugo’ to any of these people.”
2. “We want to tour the Citadel campus. Should we arm ourselves?”
3. “The first thing I want to see is that finishing school for Transsexuals, Gordon Langley Hall.”
4. “‘Most Polite City in America,’ my ass! Some 80-year-old Scarlett O’Horror just told me I’d soon be needing some emergency proctological surgery if I took one more picture of her cupola.”
5. “Sure I’ve heard of the Spoleto Festival. When do they start blooming? And how many does it take to make an average float?”
6. “I hear if you give a Charlestonian a word association test, the term ‘booze-hound’ 90% of the time elicits the response, ‘Episcopalian’.”
7. “This is a city completely devoid of rats. I understand the roaches chased them away.”
8. Tourist #1: “Some sections of it remind me of Sweden.”
Tourist #2: “A liberal attitude toward sex?”
9. “I heard that inbreeding was once so bad among some of the old Charleston families that when a kid was teasingly called ‘four-eyes’ by his peers, he may not necessarily have been wearing glasses.”
10. “Did you know that some of these old building are pre-Strom Thurmond?”
11. “I heard they had to postpone the repair work on the old Cooper River Bridge for a week, when a shipment of Crazy Glue was lost.”
12. “A mixed marriage here is when a Charlestonian marries someone from North Charleston.”
13. “We’re just staying one day. My parking meter expense loan was denied.”
14. “I don’t care how great they say it is, I’m not eating any of that she-crab soup.”
15. “I know it sounds crazy, but every once in a while, I get an urge to just sort of wander down the middle of the street like I was in Disney World or something.”

Big Apple Broadway Food Fest

2009-05-18T12:26:00.002-04:00

I’m certainly not a professional food critic, but I can eat and write, sometimes simultaneously; therefore, I am as qualified as the next guy to give a personal assessment of the food and restaurants I have experienced. And nowhere, except maybe Paris, have I dined better than in New York. Like Paris, there are thousands of restaurants, from world famous ones to cozy neighborhood eateries, but up or low scale, most all of them have one common characteristic—terrific food.

I’ve only eaten in a couple of the famous ones in New York and the food was great, but without a doubt, my favorite New York restaurant is Carmine’s, a spacious Italian eating place on 44th Street near 7th Avenue, right in the middle of the theater district. “Phantom” is playing directly across the street and that ancient après theater watering hole, Sardi’s, is a few doors down. We go to Carmine’s every time we go to New York. It’s always something my wife and I look forward to as much as anything else—and there is lots of “anything else’s” in New York. Why do we return to this particular establishment every year like half famished grizzlies to their favorite stream? Why are Carmine memories causing me to keep replacing my saliva spotted writing paper? Baked clams, simply the best thing I have ever tasted. Succulent morsels smothered in olive oil, garlic, Italian seasoning, parmesan cheese, bread crumbs and I don’t know what else—they won’t tell, and why should they? We always get a dozen each for an appetizer. One time, though, I’d like to just eat clams all night, just stuff myself with them ‘til I weighed as much as Chris Farley, but not fat—solid clams, so many that I couldn’t even drink another Peroni (though that’s hard to imagine), so many that like in the cartoons, you could look into my eyes and see the clam level. Well, I don’t think my wife would put up with that, but you get my drift: the clams are fantastic.

And even though the clams are to Carmine’s what “Seinfeld” is to NBC, there are a cast of other “stars” such as the entrees, which are served in “family style” helpings (enough for four people with normal appetites to eat). Everything is good. The last time we had lasagna, the pasta had an almost silk smooth texture that I had never before experienced. You could actually make a meal of the huge Italian bread basket assortment that is never allowed to become empty. Included in the assortment are the most delicious, fresh baked dark and white breads and rolls, pizza bread with Italian sauce and romano cheese, breads with nuts, and my favorite, a short fat sesame seed encrusted breadstick which leaves you with a wonderful toasted sesame aftertaste.

If you’re looking for a quiet and romantic repast with your paramour, go somewhere else. Carmine’s is lusty, bustling, noisy and energetic. People are eating, drinking and enjoying life. There are large families, assorted tourists, business men and theatrical types. The restaurant, in fact, has sort of encapsulated the spirit of Manhattan itself, as if they picked up the shell of the building and lowered it down on 44th Street, ensnaring hundreds of willing victims.

The wooden floors, despite the flinging of marinara and bread crumbs, are spotless and there are white clothed tables stretching from the front windows to the rear. A long bar is on the right and there is another room upstairs. The walls are covered with pictures of earlier generations of New York Italians, some anonymous to me, some more recognizable personages like Fiorello La Guardia, and Mario Lanza. Occasionally behind clinking glasses and silverware, you can detect faint melodies of familiar operas.

We’ve not yet seen any celebrities in Carmine’s, but Madonna frequent it when in New York, and I’ve noticed that David Letterman is awarding free dinners to Carmine’s to audience members who play his goofy games. I’m starting to sound like one of those tabloid writers, specifically Michael Musto of the “Village Voice,” so I’m excusing myself from further show biz chat.

We did, of course, eat at other Italian restaurants in New York and they were all great, but not one of them had clams comparable to Carmine’s. And I haven’t found any Italian food here in Charleston that even comes close. In fact, if by some sort of papal intervention, a Carmine’s would end up here (maybe it could be called “Carmine’s Slightly South of 44th Street”) the locals would be delirious with “clam fever” and I would not only achieve my Chris Farley look-alike goal, but probably end up like the late John Candy as well.

An unlikely scenario, so in the blandly flavored interim, I can only whisper in the ears of the local Italian restaurant community like that self important businessman sharing his sacred mantra with Dustin Hoffman in “The Graduate,” “Baked Clams.”

(Originally published July 1997)

Runner's Revenge

2009-05-06T12:02:00.001-04:00

The most annoying denizens in the runner's world, apart from cretins who yell out "Hot enough for ya?" and think they're being terribly clever, are dogs. Not big dogs, mind you, who either ignore me or lick me, which can actually be quite refreshing on a scorching day, but those nasty little ones—the yapping, nipping curs who look like rats with collars.

I usually handle these encounters by screaming, "Go home, you little son-of-a-b*tch," an insult that I, of course, realize loses its desired effect in the canine world…though unconsciously. I'm sure it's aimed at their masters anyway. However, I've devised a much better strategy for dealing with the Rat Dogs' feral attacks. The next time I go running I plan to take two things with me:

1. A tranquilizer-laced piece of meat, and,
2. A white squirrel skin

As soon as the little Gremlin (that's what they remind me of, those little creatures from that sci-fi movie that were all teeth) approaches, I hand him the Meat-Mickey, which knocks him out immediately. Then I stuff him in the squirrel suit, working as fast as Jim Fowler might with an anesthetized lion, realizing that any second the creature could awaken and wreak bloody havoc. Once the beast comes out of its coma, we now have a non-climbing, barking, squirrel those owners will recognize it as their psychotic FiFi only after the neighborhood cats have had their way with it.

A bit heavy-handed, you say? Obviously, you're not a runner. So let me close by saying this to my running brethren: I pledge to rid us of these yipping, yapping Rat-faced Devil Dogs, street by street, subdivision by subdivision, city by city. By the way, just so you won't think I'm totally demented, I'm not killing the squirrels, I'll be utilizing the omnipresent roadkill. So it's not animal cruelty, it's community service.

(Originally published May 2002)

Scream of Consciousness # 8

2009-05-01T21:58:00.001-04:00

1. Family Outing: A gay time was had by all
2. Joe Cocker Spaniel: Rare breed of dog that has foreleg spasticity and an inability to bark high notes
3. Sand Bag: Especially unattractive harem member usually banished to the desert
4. Artiefacts: Debris associated with Howard Stern’s comedic sidekick, such as empty Jack Daniels bottles, pizza boxes, cup cake wrappers, race cards, etc
5. Lox Populi: New favorite at Katz’ Deli in NYC
6. Oddvark: a weird looking aardvark
7. Pyromania: burning desire
8. “You’ve got class”: A possible compliment, depending on the level implied
9. “High” School: Willie Nelson’s alma mater
10. Total Recall: gas conservation strategy for SUV’s
11. “Citizen Kane Mutiny”: The greatest movie of all time
12. Woodpecker: What got Pinnochio into more trouble than his nose
13. “More bang For Your Buck”: Bunny Ranch slogan
14. Sex Cymbals: potentially dangerous marital aid
15. Auntie Bellum: Auntie Mame’s pugilistic sister
16. Sponge Bob No Pants: A tipsy beloved children’s icon shocks his audience
17. Dinner tube: That roll of waist fat eventually acquired by immoderate eaters
18. Flying Wedgie: Dreaded football offensive formation thought to introduce traumatic hemorrhoids
19. Boulevard of the Concubines: Proposed new name for Remount Road in North Charleston included in the city’s Image Improvement Plan
20. “Members Only”: Name of a Greenwich Village male homosexual club
21. Yellow Stain National Park: Winter nickname for one of America’s natural wonders thought to be a reference to a lack of port-a-lets during the snow season
22. Personal hang time: Increases with age, eventually becomes permanent, cured ironically by rigor mortis
23. Internal Relations: Incest
24. White Trash House: 2012 and a victorious Sarah Palin moves into the presidential mansion
25. Dead Wood: place and reason Miss Kitty dumped Matt Dillon
26. “Blow the man down!”: gay pirate threat
27. Bejeweled: Opposite of castrated
28. Bulgarity” Bulgarian epithet
29. Think Tank Top: What Sarah Palin wore to the Heritage Foundation meeting
30. “Whoriffic”: Most frequently used adjective to describe Pam Anderson

Personally Yours

2009-04-30T12:49:00.000-04:00

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?

2009-04-28T13:44:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-27T14:24:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-20T13:31:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-15T12:37:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-04T22:47:00.000-04:00

#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

2009-04-03T13:54:00.000-04:00

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?"

Scream of Consciousness # 6

2009-03-16T17:53:00.000-04:00

1. Eye ipecac: Opposite of eye candy
2. Womb mates: Twins
3. Mai Tai Chi: Alcohol-aided Eastern exercise
4. The Pursuit of Crappiness: Fox Network buzz phrase for fall 2008
5. Pre-enactors: Participants in a Neocon game who act out battles of planned future wars
6. Cornlessucopia: Food shortage affected Thanksgiving 2008 table decoration
7. “No Holes Barred”: Name of “Bunny Ranch’s newest competitor
8. Zip ah dee doo dah: What can happen to your doo dah, if you don’t watch what you’re doing
9. Same ( old ) sex marriage: What gays in California are about to find out the hard way
10. Rhinestone Cowboys: Retro description of the two main characters in “Broke Back Mountain”
11. Cargo pants: How Tommie Lee boastfully refers to all of his pants
12. Idiot Savant-savant= Bush
13. McAbel: McCain’s brother
14. “Yes, soon, partially”: Jeffrey Dahmer’s enigmatically prophetic reply to a jealous lover’s question, “What am I, chopped liver?”
15. “Out of these cold, dead hands…”: Reference to recently enacted compromise between gun control activists and the former leader of the NRA
16. Condi Rice: The only kind, so far, not affected by inflation
17. American idle: Somewhat homonymic reason for “American Idol”
18. Grilled Possum: West Virginia road kill specialty usually followed by ceremonial car wash.
19. Ben Stiller Hair Gel: Comedic actor’s hair care product not likely to sell to viewers of “Whatever Happened to Mary?”
20. :”As bad as Andrew Zimmern’s breath”: Foodie metaphor for a horrific culinary odor
21. “Fallopian Tube”: All OB-GYN network
22. “He’s a long drink of water”: Old definition: Description of a very tall man. New definition: Description of a man being water boarded ( hopefully, the user of the phrase )
23. Collide-oscope: “Jackass” invention that allows one to see an object a split second before it hits you in the face
24. Camilla Bowls: Queen Elizabeth’s specially designed food vessels used by both her corgis and her oldest daughter-in-law
25. Stud: Latently homoerotic male sports term
26. Vowel movement: Aproximately 25% of Vanna White’s job description
27. Moe-mentum: precipitator of Curly and Larry’s chronic headaches
28. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can really piss me off”: the more realistic version of that aphorism
29. Serendipity doo dah: A 13 year old boy’s euphoric discovery of a secondary use for his doo dah
30. Arlen Spectre: Persistent NFL haunter
31. One of our greatest presidents, pants down!: You know.
32. Jerry Atrick: Secret Service code name for John McCain

Socio-Automotive Retardation – How Long Can We Ignore It?

2009-02-03T13:13:00.001-05:00

All American males have life-long affairs with cars (so-called auto-eroticism), starting usually in their early teens. Many even transcend the foreplay of driving on to the ecstasy of getting under the hood and seeing how a car really works. It seems to be an established ritual of male evolvement, this affair d'auto, and those few who somehow miss out on it often suffer from a most painfully humiliating condition that might best be described as a sort of socio-automotive retardation.

I, having been raised by a mother and grandmother, neither of whom could drive, am a salient example of a socio-automotive retardate. I didn't learn to drive until I was 19 and didn't get a driver's license till I was 26. This condition never affected my overall social development that much, since most all of my friends had cars, but my relationship to one of the American male's most powerful symbols of virility was scarred permanently. Other than realizing the practicality of having one, and aesthetically preferring Jaguars to Hyundais, to this day I have very little interest in cars.

During my days as a double-dating demon, I was frequently forced to feign interest to avoid the geek label by interjecting a timely "really," when a guy told me he had "two four-barrel carburetors" or "four on the floor." And I was no doubt dangerously close to a state hospital scholarship when I pretended to take long studied looks at other cars we drove. I had noticed that "normal guys" would crane their necks to gawk at certain cars as they were driving. I pitifully never knew the criteria for this long distance scrutinizing, so I had to wait for somebody else's move to cue on. In retrospect, I wonder if any or—Oh, God—all of them were on to me: "Hey, I faked that goofball Bob into starting at a Henry J. today." "That's nothing, I told him I had '15 on the floor' and he said you know what." The group, loudly, "Really!" (Singgering and horse-like guffaws.)

I never did learn to relate to other guys on a socio-automotive level, and fortunately, though, while all my friends were more automotively knowledgeable than I, their interests did not extend to the mechanical level. In fact, we used to make fun of those whom we thought possessed a somewhat excessive interest in this aspect of cars, and I reveled in this ridicule, as it tended to rebuild my crumbling self-esteem. Our favorite form of automotive parody was to drive to a local drive-in restaurant, which was frequented by hot rodder types, pull into a parking space while revving the engine, then jump out of the car, sleeves rolled shoulder-high, sometimes covering a pack of Luckies, open the hood, and commence staring and pointing under it, while making loud exclamations such as, "Oh yeah, she'd loaded!", "Man, this baby can really move!" Naturally, the grand finale of this performance would have been a curiosity inspired visit by some of the car freaks, but fortunately for us this never occurred (perhaps, we smugly thought, because they were too dull-witted to recognize a skillfully acted lampoon when they saw one; but, in retrospect, considering our "drag monster" was a Ford Country Squire station wagon, we were probably the unknown object of a reverse snub.)

My most horrendous socio-automotive trauma—possibly a punishment for the above—was a brief summer (briefer than summer) job as a service station attendant when I was about 17 or 18. When I wasn't stumbling through my menial pumping-gas-checking-under-the-hood-windshield-cleaning duties, I was lunching with my automotive superiors—journeymen mechanics, mechanic's helpers, and professional service station attendants. I may as well have been an Albanian immigrant. The only words I occasionally deciphered were prepositions. The only subject they discussed ("disgust" might be better) other than cars was sex, and specifically, boasting about the most intimate details of their relationships with their wives and girlfriends: "Boy, when I get home tonight, I'm gonna crack some ceiling plaster!" These people gave S&M a bad name. Until then, I hadn't realized that I was a bit retarded in this area too, but that's a whole other article, perhaps even a book.

That was a very confusing and unhappy six weeks for me, and, although I did become quite proficient with a dipstick (Hey, maybe that's why the station owner called me that), my more innate ability of unconsciously collecting people's gas caps leg me to my ultimate dismissal. In the clarity of hindsight, I view this moment in my life as a blown opportunity to achieve socio-automotive normalcy, despite the probable side effect of sexual aberrance.

I have paid emotionally (I experience no orgasmic tingling at the thought of a stock car race or even a 1950 Ford with a Confederate Flag decal) and literally (I am personally responsible for the extraordinary financial success of a number of automotive mechanics and the college education of their offspring) for this developmental flaw. I am, in fact, permanently damaged and beyond rehabilitation; however, it is my unselfish hope that this public admission will give others the courage to come out of the closet, when they see that they are not alone.

With my luck, though, I am probably the only male in America with this problem, and the sole response to my confession will be a hate letter from Peewee Herman, calling me an insufferable wimp and a disgrace to all self-respecting real American nerds.

Nevertheless, I will not be stopped. My draconian years of socio-automotive deprivation have only tempered my resolve to see that other males enjoy the inalienable American rites of auto-eroticism and the secondary benefits thereof.

What is needed, I feel, is a leader, a high profile role model. Someone who can do what Robert Redford is doing for the environment, what Cliff Robertson does for AT&T, what Jim Bakker did to confirm the accuracy of P.T. Barnum's most famous adage. We need someone associated with cars, someone who can get the message across to the fathers of young boys all across this great nation that drives more cars and builds more highways than all the rest of the world combined that while a boy who knows women is a lover, a boy who knows cars is a man.

Richard Petty, Cale Yarborough, all you guys from The Dukes of Hazard, there's the gauntlet.

Music is my life

2009-02-02T15:39:00.001-05:00

If a sort of musical "Omnibus" came rolling down King Street one day with quadruple loudspeakers blaring, it would certainly be inappropriate for anyone else other than Worth Waring to be the mobile DJ. However, now that I have paid proper fealty to the expert, perhaps, deference could be made to me on this one occasion, at least on the basis of age. And so it is with this semi-apologetic explanatory prologue that I begin my article on the subject of music from a purely personal and absolutely nonprofessional perspective.

Not unlike most people, I guess, certain songs trigger specific memories for me—most of them good. Whether it emanated from an ancient Victrola, a record player, a jukebox, a radio, a stereo system, a band, a movie, a TV set or a cassette recorder, I seem to have acted out a great portion of my life to the accompaniment of background music.

My earliest memories of it are when I was about 4, and my mother and her sister taught me "Shoo Fly Pie and "I've Got Spurs That Jingle, Jangle, Jingle." They would coax me to recite these tunes in front of their friends, who would feign laughter and remark "how cute," while sneaking me serious money if I promised to pretend I'd forgotten the words. Undaunted, I continued my serenades until a couple of weeks ago when my wife Barbara, noting a direct linkage between these performances and a shrinking circle of friends, asked me to cease.

Obviously, my mother had very devoted and tolerant friends.

During this period, the 40s, there were many grown-up parties where my mother, aunts, uncles and friends sang song such as "Now is the Hour," "What'll I do?" and "You are my Sunshine." Then my mother, one of her sisters and her sister-in-law would attempt to sing Andrews Sisters hits such as "Rum and Coca-Cola" and the "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." My mother also had a large record collection, which would no doubt be valuable now. In addition to the Andrews Sisters, it included other favorites such as Nat King Cole, Vaughn Monroe, Sammy Kaye, The Ink Spots, and her all-time idol, Bing Crosby.

While my mother and her friend sand and danced to the pop tunes of the day, my grandmother, who was of direct German lineage listened to and hummed German classical music—Brahms, Wagner, Beethoven, Bach, etc. She would sit in her rocking chair crocheting miles of bedspreads, tablecloths, and doilies while listening to the Bell Telephone Hour, while I lay on the floor and absorbed the sounds through aural osmosis, as I leafed through piles of comic books. It wasn't long before I started humming and whistling things like "The Blue Danube" and "Lieberstrom," and finally marches such as "The Washington Post March, which fit nicely into my developing interest in toy soldiers.

My mother took me to a movie about the life of Rimsky Korsakov when I was about 8. Because there was a little sword-fighting in the movie and the composer's character had a swashbuckling heroic demeanor, I pretended to be the dashing Russian for a week or so thereafter, which was a little confusing to my friends.

Johnny: "Okay, I'm Blackbeard the Pirate, Marshall is Francis Marion and who in the hell are you again, Bobby? Romanski Carkoff, a Russian composer?"

Looking at Marshall with mock fear in his eyes, Johnny said, "Oooo, we better watch out, he might run us through with his big conductor's stick. Get back, Francis."
With his auspicious beginning, one might have speculated I would become some sort of musical prodigy, presuming that I possessed the necessary talent, of course. But that theory was never tested. Despite persistent offering of music lessons from my grandmother, I opted for the more mundane types of "playing."

My next significant musical moment came in 1952, when I went to West Point to see my cousin graduate. It was a very exciting experience for a 12-year-old boy, as the entire academy corps marched by, and I spotted my cousin's distinctive profile. The band was playing the "Colonel Boogie March," which is the same tune that the British Troops whistled in "Bridge Over the River Kwai." Even now, when I hear that tune I get goose bumps.

As a river of testosterone swept me moaning and screaming into my teens, I advanced from the Africa section of National Geographic to females in songs like Della Reese's "The Big Hurt," Gogie Grant's "A Wayward Wind," and Johnny Ray's "Cry."

Also around that time, in what I call my "Confused European Period," many songs I found catchy all seemed to sound alike: "The Theme from the Moulin Rouge," "The Poor People of Portugal," "April in Paris and "Blue Tango." I fantasized about being Joseph Cotton, but only with the stipulation that I could wear a Cary Grant wig, wince Mr. Cotton's hair always reminded me of sheep's wool.

"Sixty Minute Man" and Chuck Berry's personal rock 'n' roll explosion launched me into beer-aided, initial shag attempts at the St. Philip's Church Activity Center. My shagging improved to barely mediocre along with my increased beer consumption.

By the late 50s, a typical weekend afternoon consisted of hanging out in groups at the home of a couple of girls and playing Johnny Mathis hits such as "Chances Are," "The Twelfth of Never," and "Misty," ad nauseam. Some of the guys were gutsy enough to slow dance or even shag while they were sober. I waited till later that night at The Sands, one of the few local nightclubs in those days, where we sloshed down Viking-sized pitchers of Budweiser and cavorted wildly to bands led by black guys named Calvin and Lance, who blasted out Lloyd Price, "Where Were You on Our Wedding Day?," Jackie Wilson, "Lonely Teardrops" and Richie Valens, "La Bamba."

There were the sock hops where the principal hovered at the entrance to the gym looking for signs of glassy stares and "Bud Breath," where just outside the school building, hordes of teenagers, chewed Wrigley's Spearmint gum and sucked desperately on mint life-savers. Once inside, those fortunate enough to have dates slid around the highly-burnished court to Platters' numbers such as "The Great Pretender" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," until ineluctably, some creep with a ducktail threatened the student DJ into playing some awful Elvis creation like "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog" or "Heartbreak Hotel."

I was seduced by jazz one night at a dark and smoky bar (Where else do they play jazz?) in Savannah, when I heard George Shearing play "Honeysuckle Rose." I won't say that I became an immediate jazz aficionado and went out and bought dozens of Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker, Ella Fitzgerald and Dave Brubeck records. Actually, I never bought any records until after I got married about six years later, but I really did make an instant emotional connection with jazz.

I think I liked jazz so much because it seemed to be more spontaneously creative than other kinds of music. Its artists appeared to live in worlds of their own. I have always appreciated natural nonconformity, and these people with their special variety of soul-conceived music all seemed to almost exist in another dimension, especially Miles Davis, who may have been operating one dimension beyond the others.

In those days, the early 60s, you could sit at The Cove, a nightclub where the East Bay Grandy's is now, and play the jazz-sated jukebox all night, or you could meander over to the Owl Club on Market and listen to Willie Cheek play the piano.

I had a friend, Sam, who played guitar. He could pretty much play anything. He, a couple of other friends and I would buy a few cases of beer and go sit on one of my friend's boats or on the dock, at the old Charleston Yacht Basin, where we would sing songs all night—anything from Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly to the Kingston Trio and Harry Belafonte. Sam would always run out of beer and cigarettes first because he bought less than everyone else, but we all kept him supplied so he would continue playing. The songfest would eventually end in the early hours of the morning with Sam still sitting slumped over his guitar, asleep, his lit Lucky Strike stuck between the strings and the finger board, grunting inaudibly at our abortive attempts to shake him awake for one last rendition of "Scotch and Soda."

This time also marked a somewhat limited interest in folk music, not limited in fervor but in scope, since the only singers I really enjoyed were the Kingston Trio; Peter, Paul and Mary; and Belafonte. I mean, I don't have any Arlo Guthrie or Buffie St. Marie records.

Oh, sometimes on long, solo car trips, I may still occasionally lapse into a spirited "Zombie Jamboree" or yes, even a "Puff the Magic Dragon" in between my renditions of "Johnny Be Good" and "Runaway" but honestly, that's all there is to it.

Any playing of Ray Charles' "Georgia" or Louis Armstrong's "Hello Dolly" redeposits me on a bar stool at Big John's Tavern, where I must have heard those songs a thousand times, while I washed down 2-inch-thick roast beef sandwiches with Pabst on draft.

As for the performances of the late 60s and 70s—Jefferson Airplane, The Doors, The Who, Janice Joplin, Jimi Hendrix—I have no emotional nexus with them, perhaps because my musical umbilical cord was still attached to the previous two decades. I liked the Beatles and, later on, McCartney and Lennon by themselves. I love their music and have a vast volume of it stored within my rapidly diminishing brain cells, but none of it is tied to any particular memorable life experience.

During this time, I developed an interest in Dionne Warwick who sand Burt Bacharach compositions, not to mention Herb Alpert, and Edie Gormet. In fact, they may have been the first records I ever purchased. I also bought a Doc Severinsen album, an act which shocked even my wife. But I am not ashamed. The guy plays a great horn.

Fortunately, I had no emotional linkings to disco and even if I did, I wouldn't admit it, not even at a disco devotee's anonymous meeting. I will say that I thought Donna Sommer had a good voice—just a bad agent.

I have come full-circle in the 80s and 90s. I like the "oldies," and by that I don't mean just the 50s and 60s stuff. I'm referring to the 30s and 40s as well, the same music that my mother and her friends liked. Perhaps this is no more explicitly illustrated than in my choice of Harry Connick, Jr. as my favorite new artist. My grandmother would also be happy to hear that I have started listening to classical music on National Public Radio despite the noisome prating of their self-important narrators.

Maybe I prefer to full my todays with melodies I already have developed poignant associations with, rather than risk the possibility of experiencing a noteworthy life event while listening to Sinead O'Connor. Of course, I'm still vulnerable to a twangy, tacky Tanya Tucker tune and the chance soul-searing event while innocently strolling through K-Mart.

But whenever I can control my musical environment, I will. Since I have become a sort of walking Wurlitzer of musical memories, I want to be sure I have a good selection to choose from before the plug is pulled.

(Originally published Feb. 1992)

Dime Store Blues

2009-01-03T15:17:00.000-05:00

I sometimes wonder when they're going to go—the ten cent stores. There are only two left on King Street now. Sometimes, on riding down King, I almost cringe, anticipating reality's stinging blow: a For Sale sign in one or both of their windows. It has already happened once, as Silvers—my very favorite—was transmogrified into a trendy clothing store, only to close several years later. Let that be a lesson to those who would tamper with the natural order of things. Let the deviant developers and anarchistic architect think twice before they line up Kress or Woolworth between the crosshairs of their sinister sextants.

It was always very clear to me that the Silver's building was a five-and-dime store, and that any attempt to coerce it into being something else was preordained for calamity. I visited the new clothing store a number of times, but never purchased a single item. It was not that their racks and tables were devoid of quality, nor that their prices were exorbitant. Neither were their sales people unprofessional or unfriendly. But it was not their floor. It was still Silver's, a creaky old wooden floor, that was not meant to carry preppy looking store clerks fawning over browsing patricians or cash emburdened tourists, but instead, plainly dressed middle-aged ladies, presiding over endless racks of $5 dresses and $10 suits. And not a highly burnished floor, but a bumpy, dust-imbedded one that sagged under the weight of aquariums filled with goldfish and turtles with names on their shells, canned goods, and magnificently cluttered toy counters. A floor that still preserved between its polyurethaned planks dirt from the soles of black U.S. Ked easywalkers and my mother's brown and white spectator pumps. A walks on this floor jarred out flashbacks of ecstatic moments when I located a toy soldier I didn't have or one of those new celluloid boats to add to my all wooden fleet, or when my mother bought me a bad of cashews, which at that time had a per pound price much less than New York strip.

Being encapsulated in my own personal time warp, it's no wonder I never made a purchase at this clothing establishment. I'm sure I became a topic of conversation/object of derision among the store staff:

Clerk 1: "Yeah, he never buys a damn thing, just walks around like he's in a trance or some kind, occasionally glancing at the floor. I finally stopped offering to help him when he asked me where the wind-up army tanks were, and then he got agitated when I told him we didn't have any."

Clerk 2: "That's nothing. I caught him scraping out dirt from between the floor planks and putting it in a vial. Gives me the creeps. I'm glad we're closing. Maybe he'll spend more time at his halfway house now."

And if there are other middle-aged people out there with the same nostalgia affliction, it's not difficult to understand why the business closed.

I think it is also incumbent upon me to appeal to these same people to unite to conserve our last remaining vestiges of dime store heritage. Therefore, I ask that anyone wishing to join this worthy cause write OMNIBUS in care of the Coalition Resolved to Enshrine the Economic Emporiums of the Past, Soon (CREEPS).

Unless we act soon, it will only be a matter of time before businessman in Atlanta with a first name like Lanier or De Treville has an orgasmic night frenzy about a chic emporium or haute monde restaurant in the place of Kress or Woolworth.

"Oh, Megan, it just came to me. Chaaaaarleston doesn't have a Bulgarian Bistro restaurant or a shop specializing in coats of arms flags for houses and cars. You remember those two tacky looking old ten cent stores on King Street. Power to the people, Megsie! Rich people, that is."

Of course, Kress and Woolworth are a little tacky. They're dime stores, they're supposed to be. But it's a good kind of tackiness. It has character, tradition and originality. And it's disappearing quickly from American culture. Where else can you go see row after row of gaudy lingerie, velvet artwork, oriental rugs made in Spartanburg, aisle after aisle of inexpensive knick-knacks displayed nowhere else, and that big orange-colored peanut shaped candy, that's made out of special marshmallow-styrofoam formula. I think I ate one in 1946 and immediately spit it out. I don't believe any kid in America eats them, much less in Charleston. Children-hating people give them out at Halloween, and I believe it was brought out in the Nuremburg trials that the Nazis force-fed them to GI POWs to make them talk. We should be very grateful to Kress and Woolworth for not selling them to Saddam Hussein. The war may have turned out quite differently. Nevertheless, if for some humanly incomprehensible reason, you should ever need this loathsome candy, you will only find it in a ten cent store.

Oh sure, K-Mart, Wal-Mart and the other marts have some of the same items as Kress and Woolworth, but there's no comparison really. They're too high-tech, too glitzy, too antiseptic, too unoriginal, and they were not the first; too Nouveau tacky! And, most importantly, they don't have display windows. So what, you say, all the shops in King Street have beautifully decorated display windows. You're quite right, certainly, but none of them have display windows like Kress and Woolworth. While the vendors of chicness dole out hundreds or thousands to window artists for lavish displays, the dime stores have a totally different approach:

Intercom: "Hey, Louie, when you finish unloading that truck, how about putting some more stuff in the windows."

The result is primitive, unaffected, yet absolutely effective display art that only Kress and Woolworth can create. Nowhere else will you see boxes of Borax, shoe polish, and mops and brooms commingled with unmanekined dresses and t-shirts, toys, and an unopened case of hairspray or motor oil. These may be stockmen, but they have the soul of Andy Warhol. They have not tried to overpower or beguile the prospective customer, they have simply told us:

"This is Kress (or Woolworth). This is what we have. This is what we are."

They have shown us the essence of the dime store.

We had better pay attention.

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

2008-12-01T13:00:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-27T17:52:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-26T14:45:00.000-04:00

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

2008-10-01T17:54:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-12T12:52:00.000-04:00

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

2008-04-09T12:31:00.000-04:00

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

2008-03-09T12:49:00.000-04:00

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

2008-03-01T15:48:00.000-05:00

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

2008-02-01T15:54:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-04T16:16:00.000-05:00

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

It’s Time to Take Out the Aerotrash, Can First-Class Warfare be Far Behind?

2007-12-19T12:55:00.000-05:00

Living in Paris for three weeks is something that I will never forget. Using an airplane to get there and back is something that will also remain lodged in my memory bank for a long time, although it would be preferable to have it surgically excised.

Except for maybe driving a car, a world war, or the “Jerry Springer Show,” there seems to be nothing that brings out the worst in human behavior more than flying. To begin with, the prime directive of all plane passengers is to be both the first person on and off the plane, a mission that even the formidable captain Kirk would deem unrealistic.

Initially, I was lulled into a sense of well-being and, paradoxically, even a sort of foxhole camaraderie, since, to me, being 25,000 feet up in the air in essentially a giant winged coffin, means that the bloated sales rep obsessed with his Blackberry, the teenager chewing gum with bovine proficiency, and the mother who is obviously force-feeding her one year old something the saw on the “Anthony Bourdain Show” may all be sharing our last moments together. Sitting there at gate four of Dulles International, everything seemed copasetic as Barbara and I struck up a conversation with a seemingly pleasant Australian man headed to Paris to see the World Soccer Cup. But once the announcement that the plane was ready to board first-class passengers was made, it was every man and woman for themselves, and I cursed audibly as this same man transmogrified into some sort of George Romero creation and stomped down on my foot, as he lurched wildly toward the boarding area, even though I learned later that he was in economy class with us. But he was only one of hundreds of fellow concourse zombies who were starting to crowd the boarding area despite the heedless pleas of the public address announcers to go back to their seats.

In my opinion, it’s time for the FAA to get tough with these people: Water hoses, cattle prods, tasers? Not tough enoucn. These people—lets’ call them Aerotrash instead of zombies, since the latter may be dangerous, but not necessarily ill-mannered and obnoxious—are not easily deterred, but I think I’ve got the answer, and a timely one at that.

If these people are pursuing plane-boarding as a major life goal, maybe they’ll be up for a little water-boarding. You simply put up a sign, “Line A, immediate boarding. Guaranteed to get you there first, even ahead of those pushy wheelchair people.” Then, instead of entering the plane, they tumble down a chute at the bottom of which they are greeted by three burly, ‘roid-crazed (that’s “ste-“ not “hemorrh-“ but perhaps both) Blackwater employees standing under a snarling (smiling while snarling) picture of Dick Cheney. “Welcome awater-board,” they chime creepily. These people will be guaranteed to wait their turns in the future.

Of course, the reason for the “board first” mania is not to get the best seat, since they’ve all been pre-assigned, it’s to lay claim to the overhead storage compartment, which usually has a number on it corresponding to the one on your seat, but these yahoos ignore this, so a good deterrent might be tagging the carry-on baggage with number, and if the numbers do not match, the flight attendant would open a compartment outer door and the offending baggage would be flung out onto the tarmac. But not so fast. Just in case that piece of Aerotrash is inclined to try to retrieve it, all tarmac baggage would become the property of the Concourse Gorilla, who, incidentally, would be a very cost-effective TSA employee (no wages, health benefits, or paid holidays, just a hundred or so pounds of bananas a day, and not even a tire, since he’s got the luggage to toss around.) And to avoid the torture overload label—we’ve already got water-boarding—each violator will be given a key to the cage and five minutes to convince the hirsute no-so-civil servant to return it.

To deal with the stampede to get off the plane first (To deplane, as the Aeronerds call it, and quite frankly, a term for which they should be paying royalties to the estate of Herve Villechaize), all passengers should be required to stand and get their luggage out of the overhead compartments in turn, from the front to back. Those not in compliance will have all their luggage, including check-in, sent to Basra, Iraq. And the only way ti can be gotten back is for the owner to join the armed forces and be immediately deployed there—no time for training, of course. This certainly is guaranteed to get the ringing endorsement of our president as a bold new recruiting tool. Incidentally, once the enlistee completes a three-hour IED disarming course and successfully deactivates six of them during combat, he/she will have their luggage returned.

Another manifestation of Aero-trash is the selfish asshole who takes up overhead compartment space with items that could be kept in one’s lap: coats, handbags, scarves, etc. These people will be strapped to their checked luggage and made to ride the baggage carousel for six hours with a sign pinned to them saying, “I was tricked into thinking this was going to be a merry-go-round. I want my money back, or, least my dignity, only if it’s worth more, of course.”

I think that will take care of the Aero-trash but, before I end, a word about those supercilious divas and divos in first class, who lounge like Jabbas the Hut, as we economy-class clods trudge timidly by. I can always feel their disdainful glances as I pass by clutching my pitiful belongings like some airborne hobo. It would not surprise me if the airlines eventually assign an attendant-at-arms to that section, barking orders out to us such as, “Avert your eyes!” or “Touch nothing!” interspersed with the occasional command from the pompous potentates themselves: “Peel me a grape, vassal!” Talk about the gap between the middle and upper classes.

I feel the time is ripe for me to take a Spartacus-like action. On my next flight, instead of passing sheepishly by these obnoxious Queens-and-Kings-for-a-Flight, I will incite an economy-class rebellion as I bravely shout from the back of the plane, “I’m talking over First Class! Are you with me?” Or I might reduce it to the more succinct, but perhaps more powerful, “Freedom!” as I easily win over the already half-crazed Aerotrash to help me defeat these pampered patricians. However, in a tear-evoking display of humanity, I do not remove these people from their cushy thrones but, instead, inflict a more subtle punishment that may even result in rehabilitation, simply by compelling them to identify themselves in the future by wearing a sign around their necks that says: “I’m a First-class asshole.”

So you see, with a few adjustments here and there, maybe all of us will be able to fly the friendly skies once again.

Nerd-Up Time

2007-12-03T14:35:00.001-05:00

I’m a Nerdophile. At least, I’ve said it, announced what I have felt for over 40 years. Yes, I have a profound fondness for Nerds, those people that my dictionary cruelly describes as “unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept persons, especially those slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits.” I did not always feel this way I can remember making fun of the ones in my high school. Yes, I was one of those Troglodytes you saw in that series of Nerd movies, only worse. I did it behind their backs, fearing I’d get a compass jammed in my ear, or a protractor flung at me like one of those throwing stars, if I dared a confrontation.

But a few years after high school, after I had taken my first involuntary respite from college, I was introduced by a non-nerdish friend to a group of people, all of whom had a few, or some cases all, of the above-mentioned nerdish qualities. In fact, for a while, I had two groups of friends, the Ivy League-clad (see early Preppie), beer-swilling, Mash Potato-dancing, live-for-the-day, hedonistic Cool Guys and the fashion conscious—make that comatose—beer/wine-swilling, folk song-singing, life-is-art, intellectuals, a few of whom were of the pseudo variety, a lot like me, in other words.

It was difficult functioning in these two distinct and incompatible worlds and, in retrospect, I wonder if either or both groups ever thought I was working undercover for the other side. I recall one of my Cool Guy friends mocking me about being “In with the out crowd,” in a reference to Ramsey Lewis’s hit, although that same friend had no problem crossing over when it was libidinously expedient, such as the time we had two female Nerds over to my apartment. Nothing happened, as usual, and from this experience I learned that Nerds, for the most part, had moral standards, while the Cool Guys had not yet evolved to that point, and were actually proud of it. (Most of them, as you might expect, grew up to be Republicans.) However, when I experimented with going out drinking with this same friend, whom I shall refer to as “M,” and a male Nerd—let’s call him “H”—an evening of unpleasantness ensued in the form of H’s paranoia regarding M, whom he considered dangerous based on M’s reputation. My earnest explanation that M had been rehabilitated fell on deaf ears and all my efforts at rapprochement were failures. Of course, this was over 40 years ago and I’m sure significant inroads between the groups have been made since that time, though never, unfortunately between H and M.

I think, in those days, I may have had more of an affinity toward the Cool Guys, especially since I always dressed like they did, even in Nerd territory, and it is important to note that the Nerds never made an issue of this, but I feel certain that if I had ever—as a sociological study—affected the dress of the Nerd world within Cool Guy confines, I would have been ridiculed mercilessly, perhaps even exiled. It’s also significant to note that during that period of rampaging hormones, mainstream females, for the most part, were a lot better looking than their Nerdish counterparts. Maybe it was the make-up.

These two groups did, however, have something in common in those days: Big John’s Tavern, where the common denominator of beer enabled the two sides to frequent the premises simultaneously, and even though each group pretty much stayed to itself, there was a definite air of civility, which I’m sure continues till this day unless any in the groups have entered politics.

I continued my double life until I got married, started a real job, and drifted away from Big John’s and the Nerds. All the Cool Guys just became Regular Guys, but the Nerds, they remained Nerds, because that’s who they genuinely were, while Cool Guys, on the other hand, were and still are deeply shallow, with solid commitments only to those things that will enhance their coolness factor. I did maintain a close friendship with H, who incidentally married a Nerd. Nerds, at least the ones I’ve known, are a bit clannish, perhaps based on the safety in numbers theory.

I still continued to encounter and interact with Nerds the rest of my life, but it was only during a recent evening on the computer that I experienced the epiphany that I really liked, admired and, more important, missed my contact with these people. In other words, I found out I’m a Nerd’s Nerd. I, out of curiosity, was doing a search on the comedian Gilbert Gottfried. If his name does not ring a bell with you, he’s the one whose voice you hear as the duck in the Aflac commercials. He’s also on the Jay Leno show frequently and he used to be the host of the USA channel’s “Up All Night” program. When I found his website and began reading his bio and surprisingly long list of credits, I came upon the site for his fan club and immediately joined. The next line should read, “I woke up to my wife dumping a bucket of ice-water on my head, followed by the jamming of Prolixin-filled syringe in my buttocks,” but let’s just say I was stunned by my impulsive behavior, though even more so, I was amazed that I had joined anyone’s fan club, much less Gilbert Gottfried’s. Then, it hit me like a ton of pocket protectors: I was unconsciously showing my love and support for Nerddom by making a virtual connection to their only comedian. (Well, maybe Emo, but he’s not relevant anymore.) If you’ve never seen Gilbert before, he’s socially dysfunctional, despite being an entertainer, is built like a flabby pear, and wears his pants so high, he has zipper scars on his bottom lip.

Then I began to think why would I not like Nerds, I don’t think I’ve ever had a bad experience with one, except for that situation when H got paranoid about M, however, in retrospect, he may have had a point. And I’ve always had a proclivity toward people who not only mock, in a passive, innocuous way, in their case, but are somewhat blissfully oblivious to the self-aggrandizing, back-stabbing society swirling around them.

I offer as an example Radio Shack, one of my absolute favorite places to shop, although, ironically, I don’t go there a whole lot, simply because the world of electronics is one which I flounder about in like a thawed out caveman in Times Square. But if anyone close to a Nerd Central exists, it’s definitely right there. All the employees, even the females, wear short-sleeve dress shirts, even in winter, with clip-on ties, and pants so high they nearly cover their well-stocked pocket protectors, but they are always extremely polite and helpful. They also have a good sense of humor, contrary to popular belief, and, unlike a lot of Regular Guys, these people know and love their jobs. If you’ve got an electronics question, these guys are nearly stroking off (that’s stroking off as in a cardiovascular accident, for any of my prurient-minded readers) to give you the answer, even if you have no comprehension of what they are saying, and you are awed by their infectious enthusiasm, which is undaunted by the continuous stream of absurd queries by dumb-asses like myself.

“Hey, which weights more, an I-pod or a DVD player?”

If it weren’t for our charmingly misfit Nerd brothers, we would be in a worse situation than we are now, if the human imagination can even conjure that up. Where do you think we get all our doctors and scientists? Pick a well-known brilliant person in the scientific field: Albert Einstein, Werner von Braun, Albert Schweitzer, Stephen Hawking, Mr. Wizard, or Louis Pasteur. Nerds all. And by God, let us not forget the incomparable Nerd King, Bill Gates, who’s not only the world’s richest person (depending on whether the Sultan of Brunei’s son makes a weekend trip to Vegas or not), but with his life-saving philanthropy, its secular savior.

Of course, I would be intellectually dishonest if I did not admit to the presence of the Nerd elephant in the room, the smart Nerd’s short-bussed cousin, the Star Trek Nerd, that inferior subculture creature that even James Tiberius Kirk himself repudiated on SNL. Perhaps if they beat their plastic light sabers into slide rules (I may have dated myself there) or learned to speak ancient Sumerian in place of Klingon, they would join Bill and his high achievers. Yet, I like these lesser Nerds, too, along with the Sports Nerds, those sad being masquerading in their heroes’ uniforms, and the 40-year-old Pop Culture Nerds, who dank bathroom walls are dripping—yes, dripping—with autographed glossies of their idols.

Yes, all these Nerds are fine people, a little out of step with the status quo, but in my book, that’s a good thing, and they not only give back to their communities—Typhoid Mary could do that, for God’s sake—but to all of society.

As a somewhat lugubrious post script, I confess that I no longer have a Nerd buddy, my good friend, H, having died 7 years ago, and joining the Gilbert Gottfried fan club is a pathetic substitute, even with the weekly email and photograph. So if you’re unstylish, unattractive, and socially inept, and are slavishly devoted to either or both of my favorite pursuits of comedy-writing or New York City, write me care of Charleston’s Free Time. If you’re a Radio Shack employee, that’s just icing on my cake!

The Dog Days of August: A Conversation With a Collie

2007-11-01T18:42:00.000-04:00

August 1998

The Dog Days of August: A Conversation With a Collie
By Bob Coskrey

The “Dog Days of August”—another of those baffling phrases that can easily be solved by referring to a dictionary or encyclopedia. And so, we discover that, according to Miriam-Webster, the dog days pertain to the days between early July and early September, when the Dog Star, Sirius, in the constellation, Canis Major, rises. The dictionary goes on to mention that these particular days, in the Northern Hemisphere, are usually characterized by hot, sultry weather.

Frankly, before reading this, I had always thought the term described those days in August when it was so hot that even man’s best, most highly spirited and physically active friend, the dog, found it difficult to function. It actually seemed to me that at this time of the year, I saw more and more dogs just lying around in 90 degree plus shaded areas, panting pathetically into pools of saliva.

Actually, I liked my answer better than the more astropolitically correct one, so to settle this weighty conundrum, I decided to do the canine equivalent of “going straight to the horse’s mouth”—(My God, there’s another one to look up): ask a dog what the “Dog Days of August” means? Obviously you must think my typewriter is missing a few keys, but don’t be too quick to judge. I happen to live next door to the worlds’ most intelligent dog, who just happens to talk. The fact that I always seem to have conversations with him on those occasions when I have run out of my medication is nothing more than pure coincidence.

His name is Polo, and he has actually taken the last name of his owners, the Stratus family, for legal purposes, although he is such a neighborhood luminary that he is widely referred to by his first name only, just like Madonna, Ali, or Lassie. He is, incidentally, a collie and was named after the famous explorer, Marco Polo, because of his proclivity for exploring large geographical areas.

I visited Polo one afternoon when his family was out, since he wants to keep his talking ability a secret—even from them. He figures it’s no risk talking to me, since anyone who’s read my articles realized I have a hard time differentiating fantasy from reality anyway.

I rang the bell, and Polo, seeing who it is, opens the door by first placing a piece of rubber matting on the doorknob, then grasping and turning it with his teeth. His clueless family thinks he keeps this thing as a toy.

Me: How’s it going, Polo?

Polo is looking good. His sable and white coat is clean and fluffy. He stays inside in the air conditioning during the hot weather, for the most part.

Polo: Great, Bob, what’s up with you? Your president still giving us dogs a bad name with each revelation on his bimbo list?

Me: Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I got a serious question for you, and I’d like to get it answered before your family gets back, ‘cause I need this information for an article.

With a long, pointed smirk on his face, Polo looks up at me.

Polo: Okay, Bob, anything I can do to jump start your plummeting writing career. Shoot.

Me: “The Dog Days of August,” what does that term mean? I know what the books say, but since it’s the “Dogs’ Days,” I thought it only logical that a dog would have the real answer, and since you’re unquestionably the smartest dog of all time, I’m asking you.

Polo: Thanks for the props, Bob. We dogs have been waiting hundreds of years for one of you to ask that questions. Of course, until I came along, there was no one to give you the answer.

Me: Props? Since when did you start talking hip-hop lingo?

Polo: Bob, my man, I am down with the multi-cultural thing. I listen to WPAL, watch BET, and was diggin’ on my homeboy, Sinbad, before “the Man” flipped him off the network. I even watch the Hispanic channel, muchacho. But, just excuse the slip, I promise to be wild and waspy from now on—pardon the oxy, moron. Just kidding, Bob.

Me: I’m sorry I asked. The answer to the question, please?”

Polo: It’s very simple. The Dog Days of August refers to the period of time in that month when the smart dogs reward themselves for the other eleven months of loyal, unswerving service to our so-called best friend, Man, or as my black brothers would say, the Man, although in our case, The Man is not limited to one race. We reward ourselves by just taking it easy and doing what we want to do, not what you want us to do—for just 31 days. Not all of us observe the custom. There are those whose backbones have been replaced by soupbones, who have completely sold out—Mr. Milkbonetoasts, or Uncle Lassies, we call them. Lassie, as you know, was a male who not only did anything that the creepy little “wuss” Timmy told him, but he did it under the guise of being female. Dogs, especially us Collies, will never live that down. It would be like if the black people found out Step ‘N Fetch It was a female to male transsexual. Excuse my emotions, Bob, but if you learn anything from this conversation, let it be, “don’t discuss Lassie around a Collie.”

Me: It’s a promise, Polo. The story?

Polo: Sorry. Anyway, like I was saying we just sort of take the month off. We lie around and cool it, as much as possible. Lucky ones, like me, get to say in air-conditioned houses, but even though you see many of us outside lying around in the shade or even going on boat rides with the family, you won’t see many of us chasing balls or fetching sticks out of the water.

Me (interrupting): You know, you’re right. Every day when I run, this little dog follows me for a while. I throw a stick, he picks it up and trots along beside me. Yesterday, when it was 95 degrees with equal humidity, I threw the stick, and he just looked at me like, “You must be completely insane. You’re the one surfing the heat wave. You fetch the stick. I’ll wait here.”

Polo: Yeah, that little white dog that lives down by the boat landing. That’s Barney. He’s one of us. You won’t see him doing a damned thing he doesn’t want to ‘til September first.

Me: You’re not concerned that the owners will just replace you with another “Uncle Lassie”?

Polo: Just because we bag it for a month? No way! Just like you people always say when one of us joins the land of the hidden bones, it’s just like losing a member of the family. And believe me, from what I’ve seen, although my family’s pretty cool, generally speaking, a lot of you other homo sapiens could use some fresh replacements.

Me: So you think dogs are an integral part of man’s life, then?

Polo: Sure, it’s the unconditional love then. No matter how crappy you treat us, we’re always there jumping up and down and licking your often less than attractive faces (even by dog standards), when you come home every day, just like you’ve been gone a couple of years. Most of you guys have no capacity for the unconditional love thing. It’s just one long orgy of retribution for rewards. We have a purpose; we have a job to do; we fill a humanistic void in your greedy little lives.

Me: Hey, I don’t need a lecture from a sanctimonious fecal forager, and besides, I don’t even have a dog.

Polo (grinning with the recognition that he’d hit a nerve): Oh, for God’s sake, calm down, Bob. I’m not chastising you personally. But you sure could use a dog, if you get my drift. And you know damn well I don’t practice fecal foraging, although I won’t deny that some of my lower socio-economic class brothers do. But I’ve seen much worse things on “The Jerry Springer Show,” which incidentally, all of us canines love to watch. We call it the “Great Equalizer”—whenever we’ve had a particularly rotten day of being screamed at by our owners.

Me: Okay, I am sorry I lost my temper. Let’s get back to the subject of my article.

Polo: Well, there isn’t a lot more to say about it, really. The Dog Days of August simply give us a hard earned respite from a dog’s life, which the dictionary will tell you is a reference to a miserable, drab existence. And to further accentuate this dreary existence, there’s the phrase “work like a dog.” We dogs have it tough eleven months out of the year performing and fetching, running and siccing, taking orders, non-stop, do-this, do-that, or accusatorially, did you do this or do that, or you’re a bad dog (incidentally, there’s no such thing as a bad dog, there are just bad owners, and dogs don’t kill cats, owners without fences do). So it only seemed appropriate to select August, the time of the hottest, most enervating weather, as our holiday. But, while I’ve got your attention, Bob (wake up, Bob), let me make a few observations that might inject more understanding and harmony in the dog/owner relationship.

1. We hate riding in the backs of pickup trucks. It’s totally unsafe, not to mention low class.
2. Although a dog is man’s best friend (with the TV remote control in second place and closing fast), man is not a dog’s best friend. I mean, you own us. Did slaves consider their masters their best friends? You have completely domesticated us, sometimes to absurd extremes, e.g. the French poodle, so we are now totally dependent on you. Even cats can live on their own. We would starve to death. That’s why we hate them, but that’s another article.
3. We are the ones who named Wednesday “hump day,” and it’s got nothing to do with getting over the hump of the middle of the week. By the way, when we mount your legs, we don’t really enjoy it, it’s just a joke. We know it annoys and embarrasses you guys, so we always plan to do it at the most inappropriate social occasions. Only now we just do it on Wednesdays. It just makes it a bit more special, I guess you could say.
4. We want car or truck seatbelts just like humans. We are family members, so give us some protection. And we don’t like riding in your laps. If you wrekc, and you frequently do, we’ll just be crushed between your obese bodies and the steering wheel, oftentimes having a beer can wedged into our innocent bodies.
5. Yes, we love to stick our heads out of car windows, but not because of the wind blowing in our face exactly. It’s mainly because, as you know, we are blessed, perhaps, cursed, with an extraordinary sense of smell—and frankly, a lot of you people reek like something awful.
6. We’re sick and tired of taking the rap for your flatulence. At the suggestion of some of our pointer brothers, starting very soon, whenever this extremely embarrassing situation occurs, the dog will point to the guilty party.
7. The last: Whenever you see any of us tongue washing our private areas in public, give us a whack with the rolled up newspaper. Those dogs are perverts and exhibitionists of the worst kind, and what they’re doing is not even vaguely connected with self-cleansing, and serves only to give us mainstream canines a bad name, and make Howard Stern envious.

There, Bob, I think I’ve answered your question, plus giving you some information to perk up your article.

Me: Thanks, Polo, I’ve really learned a lot about dogs today, although I have to say, you seem to have a bit of a chip on your shoulder.

Polo (resignedly): Bob, you just don’t get it, do you? But then, after all, you’re only human. Why don’t you just read my new book that’s coming out in the spring, published by Random Doghouse, “Timmy’s in the Well and I Don’t Care, or Lassie’s Revenge.”

I need not add anything else, only that Polo and I, in spite of everything, are good friends.

Scream of Consciousness

2007-10-01T15:47:00.000-04:00

1. Monotgamy: The inevitable side effect of some long term marriages. (I said “some,” Barbara.)
2. Mother Inferior: Britney Spears
3. “Emission Accomplished”: Semi-annual victory cry from Cheney bedroom.
4. Fecked up: Feckless (idiomatic)
5. Carbon dating: Scientific method of tracking Larry King’s social life.
6. Concert penis: Ron Jeremy plays Carnegie Hall with his hands behind his back.
7. Islarmist: Michael Chertoff
8. Amnesty Bill Horror: Republican name for recent immigration legislative attempt.
9. “Straight-haired Ho”: How some local Hawaiian shock jocks used to derogatively refer to the now-deceased singer of “Tiny Bubbles.”
10. Ear apparent: Prince Charles.
11. “It’s been a real roller coaster ride”: Euphemism for “You make me want to throw up.”
12. The “Stuff of Life”: All that useless crap in your attic.
13. “Raising the bar”: Often used equivocal phrase that lacks the important clarification of whether it is referring to the high hump or the limbo.
14. Snoop Dogg Days of August: That part of the summer when it gets so hot that frizizzles have been known to spontaneously combust, sometimes casuing herds of Ho’s and Bitches to stampede.
15. CPDD (Chronic Public Dissembler Disorder): Psychiatric disorder peculiar to politicians.
16. Psychopath: The way leading out of the labyrinth of shrubs in “The Shining.”
17. Subterranean Nuptials: Marrying beneath you.
18. Tiramisohorny: Italian-American dessert with Aphrodisiac properties.
19. “Serve at the pleasure of the President”: Hiring condition of some administration employees famously misinterpreted by Monica Lewinsky.
20. “Blown out of proportion”: Infamous Linda Lovelace film featuring creative uses of an Electrolux.
21. “Cut and run”: What O.J. excelled at.
22. Cardinal Sin: Priestly duties gone awry.
23. Jackson Hole: Mining excavation site in Wyoming named after Michael Jackson’s nose.
24. Myanmar Shave: Formerly Burma Shave.
25. Backseat Driver: Minnie’s high school nickname based on her amorous intravehicular activities.
26. “Drink like a sailor”: Old school for “drink like an astronaut.”
27. Bread Box: Useless kitchen container used only for comparative measuring.
28. Rhode Island: See “bread box.”
29. Tired groin: Roger Clemens’ early season injury, usually occurring only among teen age boys.
30. Bronx Bombers: Whimsical name of NYC local al Qaeda Cell #122.
31. Auto-eroticism: Specialized sexual activities popular during the days of the four-on-the-floor gearshift.
32. Overeasy Rider: Now defunct biker-owned egg delivery service.
33. Norweejuns: New line of Bass combination penny loafer-show shoes made in its Oslo plant.
34. “Putting meat on the table”: Metaphorically, a description of one who supports a family. Literally, a felonious act in all but a few deep-south states.
35. Random House: An impulsively purchased dwelling, often selected only with the use of darts and the classified section of the newspaper.
36. Moe Town: Small town in northern Michigan in which newcomers must undergo an initiation consisting of running a gauntlet where they receive continuous eye-pokes, double-fisted nose bonks, and 2x4 head-whacks delivered by guys with “bowl” haircuts, yelling, “Why you!”

When Halloween Was Just a Doodie Call

2007-09-01T19:04:00.000-04:00

October 1998
When Halloween Was Just a Doodie Call
By Bob Coskrey

Halloween has changed quite a bit over the years. There are a tremendous variety of sophisticated masks and costumes now as compared to when I was growing up in the 40s and 50s. I always wanted to be either a soldier, or cowboy, a pirate, or a policeman, a trend, if it had continued, that would certainly have gotten me an audition with the “Village People” in the 70s.

Some kids used to just wear a black mask covering their eyes, the kind paradoxically enough, only worn these days by male porn actors—I mean performers—who are of course, involved in a more immediately gratifying form of trick or treat. Let me quickly add that I have never actually seen any of these movies, but I once heard Howard Stern describing them. Also let me clarify that I never listen to Howard Stern either; he just happened to be on my friend’s car radio one morning.

But I should be retro—not digressing. In those days of old, you saw a lot of children dressed up in relatively bland costumes like Disney characters, clowns, witches, skeletons, and so on; nothing like today’s elaborate superhero, politician, movie star or monster masks, and these modern-day monster disguises are really myocardially infarctingly terrifying, they’re so true-to-life.

In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t read newspaper accounts of weak-hearted homeowners collapsing, bug-eyes and chalk-faced in their doorways:

The door opens to a grisly group of Hell Raiser, Freddie Kruger, Alien Creature, and other horror movie spawned latex masks, with a Lyle (“only his mother could”) Lovett, perhaps thrown in for good measure.

The smiling, elderly, white-haired matron responds:

“Well, well, whom do we have he---iiieee!”

Clutching her chest, she crumples slowly to the foyer floor, her large basket of candy tumbling onto the porch and spilling out its teeth-corroding bounty (I’ve often wondered if the ADA is a secret supporter of Halloween).

After a five minute slugfest between the diminutive minions of evil all that remains—the spoils of war—are those revolting orange-pink slugs of Candydom, “Circus Peanuts,” which no one but a few gagging ants try to claim.

A candy corn, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, Hershey’s Kiss, Snickers ammed mouth semi-gratefully yells back from behind a quickly departing Michael Myer’s mask:
“Thanks for the treats and the trick, Grandma!”

Speaking of tricks, I don’t think my wife and I have ever had any really malicious ones played on us. I have seen some broken eggshells in our yard, a truncated garden hose once, and the very campy, innocuous, and downright dopey soaped-up windows occasionally. The most horrible effect of this latter, feckless felony was that it compelled the homeowner to wash his or her windows, with the soap being graciously provided.

I guess the most diabolical trick that we played when I was a kid was the Flaming Bag of Feces; which I am sure is still being done today, though fortunately not to us so far, though, by making this assertion, I may as well have placed an enormous neon arrow over my house saying, “On Halloween, be sure to place a Flaming Bag of Feces here.”

For those unenlightened few, this trick involved three very basic ingredients: 1) A paper bag (brown or white); 2) Matches or a cigarette lighter; and 3) Some dog excrement (it could be another animal, but it has always been a universal axiom that dog poop is always available). The concept of the trick was similarly facile: 1) You put the dog poop in the bag; 2) You place the bag in front of the trickee’s door; 3) You set the bag on fire; 4) You rang the bell; 5) You ran like Hell, not just to a secluded spot but one where you could observe the culmination of your devious endeavor, i.e. the trickee stomping wildly on the smoldering poop-filled bag, while cursing an unseen enemy, screaming once he realized the discomforting dilemma, gingerly taking off his shoe, and lastly peering about paranoically before disappearing into the house.

However, the execution of this malevolent maneuver was certainly not a given. To begin with, and I am doing this for purposes of edification only, the dog poop must be of the correct consistency (a sort of prunes and roughage diet consequence) so that when the witless victim stomps on it, you get a maximum distribution: on the pant leg, wall, and door, if possible. This required dedication and teamwork normally beyond an adolescent’s capacity: Each year, in turn, one kid would supply his dog (or any other dog he had access to, if he did not own one) with the proper repast early Halloween morning, then harvest his stinky crop that night, as close to the zero hour as possible. Sometimes, nature didn’t cooperate, but this team member still had to contribute, and every year, with the regularity of a politician’s lies, he came through. And we never asked questions, we simply admired his dedication and creativity. And in retrospect, I’m glad we didn’t. There are, after all, some things that even the best of friends shouldn’t share.
The execution was also of supreme significance. If the bag was lit too early, you risked the fire being out by the time the trickee opened the do, with your only hope then being the very slim one that this person was such a dork that he/she would just step on the “goodie” bag accidentally.

Once again, teamwork was essential. One kid (the ringer), would ring the bell, then if he could not see in a window, he would press his ear against the wall to listen for approaching footsteps. Once this confirmation was made, he whispered or signaled to the lighter to set the bag afire. This procedure pretty much always worked to perfection unless a wily victim was waiting at the door (which is why we never chose the same victim more than once).

Although I risk rupturing the lofty moral tenets of his esteemed magazine, I must admit, if only for selfish cathartic purposes, that there was an even more heinous hybrid of the Flaming Bag of Feces—glorious yet ghastly, humbling yet horrific, The Diabolical Doodie of Doom Device.

With the mere addition of a regular sized firecracker, the FBF’s effect increased twenty-fold. Distribution was pervasive, and equally as important, the trickee no longer even had to step on the bag, since there was no need to set it ablaze. Timing, however, as comedians say, was of the essence, and the execution was more hazardous, since the ringer and lighter would have to wait till the last anxiety saturated second before scampering away to safety—from the estranged victim, as well as the device itself. In fact, the initial deployment of the DDDD proved nearly to be the last, as my friend Johnny (the lighter) was victimized by a fast fuse and even slower feet. Although I was, at least, rewarded with the satisfying sight the trickee reacting violently to the bespeckled porch (“Come back here, you little bastard!”), Johnny, who fortuitously wore his glasses, had to rinse himself off with a hose before going home, figuring his story about falling into Colonial Lake was more credible than the one about standing too close to the diarrhetic bear at the Hampton Park Zoo.

I’d like to clarify, since impressionable adolescents may be reading this, that we only did FBFs and DDDDs to people who blatantly refused to participate in the rites of Halloween, the ones who turned out their lights and waited furtively in the dark for us to leave or who left their lights on but just would not bother to come to the door. We also did it to anyone who gave us those vile circus peanuts two or more years in a row.

If the youth of today no longer employ these “South Parkian” flavored tricks, I’m surely not advocating their return, I’m just spinning a tale from the good old days.

I had actually planned to do some trick-or-treating myself this year and had ordered a special Bill Clinton costume, but now the National Safety Board has recalled all of them, after determining that the pants-around-the-ankles feature results in a lot of falls. Why I oughta mail those guys a DDDD, except that I wouldn’t want to be known as the Doodie Bomber.

Tax, Annoying People and Audio/Video Tapes

2007-08-01T18:38:00.001-04:00

April 1999
Tax, Annoying People and Audio/Video Tapes
By Bob Coskrey

I realize that the taxes we pay are necessary to run the government and provide us spoiled, rotten Americans with the services and amenities we take for granted. That’s not to say, however, that I agree with all the ways this money is spent or the enormous difference in the gross pay versus net pay portion of my pay stub.

Indeed for many Americans, this is a much dreaded and intensely detested time of the year. I don’t know anyone who says with an air of ineffable excitement:

“Omigod! Omigod! It’s almost April 15th again, and I once again have an opportunity to contribute a hefty portion of my yearly income to the government of the world’s greatest country. With my help, we will continue to be able to produce $800 government toilet seats, save the rare hermaphroditic flatulating fruit frog from extinction, and buy hookers and penicillin for horny legislators. Where’s my damn checkbook, I’m not waiting till April 15th, and I’m going to include a tip. God bless America!”

So it occurs to me that maybe instead of punishing us hard-working and expediently law-abiding Americans with what amounts to a yearly fine, why don’t we use the tax system to punish some people who really deserve it, and, at the same time, lessen the onerous burden on us good guys.

Hence, I present the Annoying Persons Tax, whereby millions of other Americans will be taxed, not just on their incomes, but also because they are extremely annoying. This new tax structure will not only abate us relatively unannoying persons’ tax debt, but it may even change the behavior of the irritating group, however, the greatest value of the new tax will be the pure unadulterated pleasure of retribution.

I will now give you my suggested list of annoying people, which I don’t plan to turn over to the IRS yet because I figure I may need to keep adding to it for a while. This is not in any order of ascending or descending annoyability:

1. Lies, instances of hypocrisy, and unkept promises by politicians. This should bring in enough to correct the international trade deficit the first year.
2. Any comedians who insist on continuing to tell Monica Lewinsky jokes (per joke).
3. Anyone who owns a vehicle with anything more than an AAA decal on it (per decal; double rate if you have a personalized license plate).
4. Rush Limbaugh, each time he says the words, “I,” “me,” or “myself.”
5. People who start doing yard work before July (per trash bag).
6. Car accident rubber-neckers (per second; double rate for camera or binocular users).
7. Elvis impersonators. If there are more than 3 in a 20 mile radius, all will be taxed.
8. People who mispronounce the word “nuclear,” yes that includes Tom Brokaw (“nucular”) and President Jimmy Carter (“nu-ke-ar”). President Carter would pay double rate because of his mispronunciation’s sexual connotation.)
9. Golfers, not just because of the inherently goofiness of the game, but for the irreparable damage done to men’s fashion (a lump sum retroactive reparations tax may be needed here).
10. Dennis Rodman, for each hair color and gender identity change.
11. Owners of bad toupees. This will require a test: If a person cannot walk by a pack of hunting dogs without being chased (taxed per toupee).
12. People who talk or eat food loudly in theaters (per word, crunch and/or smack, double rate for belchers).
13. Show business and sports celebrities who chew gum during public appearances (per chew; double rate for open mouth chew; triple for audible smack).
14. People who appear more than once in the “Style” section of the “Post and Courier” (double rate if they have a drunk in their hand, triple for men with bow ties with their glasses pushed up on their heads).

If you’re wondering how we will verify these acts of annoyance, I will recommend that we have people who record them with audio/video equipment (tax bounty hunters of the bothersome). These people can contract with IRS to provide this service, and their salaries will be more than justified by the new source of revenue. And you might get some people to do with work gratis—just for the nearly orgasmic pleasure of it.

I will be going to discuss my proposal with the IRS soon so if you have any more suggestions for the list, let me know. And incidentally, although I will not be selling this idea to the IRS, I will, however, ask that they exempt writers for the “East Cooper Monthly” from this list, so none of your should get any ideas.

I am, nevertheless, concerned about one thing: These IRS types, not being famous for their senses of humor or citizen friendliness, may think I’m totally out of line, and decide to slap an audit on me. Then I’ll be forced to reveal information of the year I was paid under the table when I worked the geriatric male strip club circuit in Florida as the “Amazing Mr. Gherkin,” and gave out tiny magnifying glasses to the audience.

Perhaps it’s appropriate to say now that although I write this article, the entire idea of the annoying person tax was Bill Macchio’s. Way to go, Bill!

Elephants and Pigeons…Oh My

2007-08-01T16:00:00.000-04:00

Oh, my God, I shouted, as my wife, Barbara, and I were watching a taped report of President Bush’s press conference. “Did you see that? A bird just crapped on the president’s shoulder.” A small white glob landed on W’s left shoulder. He seemed to react to it slowly, yet a good bit faster than when he initially informed us about 9/11. He didn’t seem bothered, just glanced at it briefly, then flicked it off with his bare hand as if he were used to it, causing me to imagine a new version of that John Denver oldie, “Bird Dung On My Shoulder Makes Me Happy,” before concluding that maybe he just figured he was so deeply entrenched in it now, why worry about a couple of ounces more? Though certainly, he must have been disappointed that his red alert warning rhetoric to the reporters that their children were in danger from terrorists may have only scared the crap out of a bird. The camera then swing to the somewhat nondescript little pigeon, obviously not only unaware of the significance of his act, but of everything else in his environment, except for spilled French fired, cats, and rampaging raptors. It’s a pigeon for God’s sake, the most commonplace and maligned of all our avian allies, those ravenous eating machines that swarm over people—sometimes with Hitchcockian intensity—in Central Park and the famous squares of Europe.

But perhaps we have grossly misjudged and mistreated this impressive bird (they served as messenger carriers in combat in WW’s I and II, and NYC brought in falcons to rub them out a few years ago). After all, this particular little creature had done something that none of the Democrats could accomplish. Votes schmotes! Vetoes schmetoes! He just took matters into his own wings. Disregarding menacing Secret Service Men and machine gunners on the White House roof, this feathery fighter bomber swooped down and dumped his ebony and ivory load on target, this finally avenging an angry and frustrated world that has been the dumping ground for W’s misguided, mistaken and mispronounced policies for the past 6 ½ years.

So impressive was this act that I feel we should consider making this former war hero the symbol of the Democratic Party. I never have understood the logic of having a donkey occupy this prestigious position in the first place. And what sense does it make for the anti-conservation Republicans to have the majestic, powerful, but disappearing elephant for their symbol. Of course, if we could somehow acquire the elephant for ourselves, that would be even better than the pigeon. And oh, if elephants could only fly. They would still be digging for W. but that’s not going to happen, so let’s return to the pigeon and reality.

First, we’d have to play up the pigeon’s being a veteran of two ears and naturally compare that to the defer-and-run Neocons who started the Iraq War, but who infamously managed to avoid serving in any wars themselves. In fact, we might consider starting a simultaneous campaign to make the chicken the symbol of the Republican Party, except that in respect, a pusillanimous pachyderm is really the more appropriate symbol, because if there is one thing these guys can legitimately lay claim to, it is the elephant-sized balls when it comes to lying, or more specifically, denying a statement, even if you show them a videotape of themselves saying it. In fact, elephantine balls is a bit lacking in descriptive puissance. I’m thinking that the perfect symbol for this group is an elephant with scrotal elephantiasis. While of course, some consideration should naturally be given to the “lyin’” (lion) with Deferment Dick being the Lyin’ King.

But back to the proud pigeon, who, let’s remember, is mainly qualified, not just because of his history of military service to his country, but because he dropped a load on George W. Bush. Whereas most other birds would have taken the easy way out and waited for a statue to be erected, this bird dropped it up close and personal. In fact, I like to imagine him screaming, as he began his dive, banzai-like, while W struggled to complete a two-syllable brain-twister, “For me to poop on!” (Quotation used with permission from Bob Smigel / Triumph the Insult Comic Dog.)

Perhaps, most important of all is the fact that the pigeon can actually be more than s symbol. If these birds can be trained to carry messages, they can certainly be trained to perform an even more significant “doodie,” so to speak: Dropping deuces on Neocon lie-spewers, illustrating that even though both are full of it, at least the pigeon’s serves a noble cause.

Power to the Pigeon!

Resolve Not To Resolve

2007-04-01T18:03:00.000-04:00

January 1999
Resolve not to Resolve
By Bob Coskrey

News Year’s Resolutions. How ridiculous. What a waste of time. They are about as meaningful as election year promises by a politician. Well, maybe not quite that bad, at least, you’re just breaking your word to a few people, or sometimes, just to yourself.

Why are they absurd and time-wasting? Because very few of the resolvers carry them out. Most resolutions, I feel, are not only devised to help the person making them but also to benefit one or more other people who are affected by the resolvers’ appearance, word, or behavior, and those significant others always have input into the choice of the resolution.

It is blatantly obvious to me that hardly anyone fulfils the expectations of these unfortunate people, and perhaps that is why we always find ourselves foiling in an endless sea of dilemmas: The person negatively affected by one person failing to come through on his resolution, does not adhere to his either, thus affecting another person who simultaneously is sleeting down someone else, and on and on, ad infinitum.

I base my gloomy theory on daily observations of other people and it is as follows:

People with conspicuous personality flaws or remediable mental or physical deficiencies, receive input from others at some point in their lives to correct or at least improve in these areas through the formulation of a New Year’s Resolution.

However, since it is clear most people do not change, one can safely infer that they apparently do not adhere to these resolutions.

Do you know any jerks? Of course you do. Don’t you think that at least once in their way over-extended lives, they were pressured by a significant other to resolve to change that jerkish behavior? Are they still jerks? I rest my case.

Walk through a Walmart one day. 80% of the customers have body fat percentages that probably exceed their IQs. Have any of them made an effort to exercise, diet, or read anything more challenging than the National Enquirer or TV Guide? Obviously not.

Take me (please, as my wife would say, doing her best Henny Youngman) for example. I once resolved to read some books on automobile and general home repair to lessen the deleterious effects of my severe mechanical retardation.

Have I done so? Of course not, judging by the huge yachts and impressive winter resorts owned by the auto mechanics and home contractors I have supported over the years. It was only recently that I learned that a hand saw goes back as well as forth.

Everywhere you look, there are examples of repudiated New Year’s Resolutions:

1. Former Governor David Beasley: “To the citizens of the great state of South Carolina, I resolve to try to complete a sentence without using the phrase, “family values.”
2. Bill Clinton: “Hillary, lovebox, I resolve never to look at another woman.” (In Bill-speak, this means he doesn’t have to look at her since she’s often blocked from view by the top of his desk.)
3. Sam Donaldson: “I resolve to get a toupee that doesn’t look like something that escaped from a petting zoo.”
4. Madonna: “I resolve never to change my look.”
5. Howard Stern: “I resolve only to have fully clothed, high class women on my show.
6. Jerry Springer: “I resolve to ban trailer park residents from my show.”
7. Any local talk radio host: “I resolve to take elocution lessons and familiarize myself with a dictionary and a thesaurus.”
8. Any Charleston Country driver: “I resolve to drive according to this motto—“Safety first, courtesy second, and love thy fellow driver.”
9. Super market shoppers: “I resolve that at least for the brief time I’m in the store, I will pretend that others are as important as I am, and will resultantly not do things such as bring 30 items to the 10 Items Or Less cashier, or block an entire aisle while I relate my life story to someone.”
10. Senator Ernest F. Hollings: “I resolve to tone down my language, although it’s not going to be goddamned easy!”

So I’m suggesting that we just all give up on this New Year’s Resolution thing. After all, if you make one of these phony declarations each year of your life, and with the average life span being in the mid-seventies, that’s a lot of lying, and certainly that’s all it is, since most people know even as they’re mouthing it that they have no intention whatsoever of acting up on it. If you have an otherwise ethical life, why muck it up with these inane proclamations?

In fact, the only people who should continue to carry on the tradition are politicians, whose characters are so morally rancid anyway, to ask them to forego making resolutions would be like asking a psycho who has just shot up your family to please close the door on the way out so there won’t be a draft. On the other hand, they already have below zero credibility, so nobody’s even listening to anything they’re saying, much less their New Year’s Resolutions.

In the meantime, I know a couple of honest lawyers (yes, I know an oxymoron when I write one), so I’m going to look into the possibility of having the New Year’s Resolution made into a legally binding document.

Now I figure that may either change the course of the world or nobody will ever make another resolution. We can’t lose.

The Flu – A Runner's Lament

2007-03-20T13:47:00.000-04:00

Until a few weeks ago, I had only missed on running day since I started 7 years ago, and that was when I had a 24 hour intestinal virus in 1984. I've just been very fortunate with illnesses and whenever I've had an injury, it's always been the type that compelled me to moderate my running (shorten the distance or decrease the pace temporarily) rather than terminate it for a period of time.

However, my quest to become the Lou Gehrig of amateur running was cruelly and unceremoniously nullified recently by the flu. For four days I languished around my house, alternating between freezing to death and sweltering. As each day passed I agonized over whether I would set some sort of Guinness Book record for being sick with the flu. I also wondered how long it would take me to get back into form. Since this had never happened to me before, I didn't know what to expect. My doctor had told me it usually lasted 3 to 5 days. His nurse said 7 to 10 days. Of course, I figured she was probably right. Fortunately, he was the more accurate predictor.

During my convalescence, I also worried about gaining weight, since I think my eating habits have probably worsened since I started to run—because I feel "I can always run it off." I figured I'd probably game 15 pounds and my return to running would be like starting all over again; wobbling along at an 8 minute clip. Luckily—and only a neurotic runner would say this—I actually lost my appetite along with about 5 or 6 pounds. In fact, it took me about 2 weeks to regain it.

Psychologically—emotionally, I mean—I had some apprehension about how I would react to not being able to run. I considered two scenarios. Both rather scar, one in which I became a ranting, raving lunatic, screaming at my family and/or beating my dob or perhaps behaving like the guy in the movie "Reefer Madness." The second, and actually more frightening of the two, I would gradually lose interest in running altogether. I would re-adapt to my former slovenly, unhealthy lifestyle. Maybe even take up bowling as a substitute, and laugh it up with the boys at the alley about how I used to spend 4 or 5 hours a week running around Mt. Pleasant dodging cards and avoiding dogs. We'd have contests to see who would be the first to top 50% body fat.

I was enormously relieved to discover that neither of those extreme reactions occurred. I adjusted to my predicament fairly well. I really did enjoy my first day back, though. It was like being reunited with an old friend. I know this sounds sickening and a little mawkish I guess, but I got a real thrill out of putting on my shoes and lacing them up. I can remember having the feeling that this is something I shouldn't take for granted anymore.

I only ran 3 miles that first day, and although it took me a while to develop a rhythm again, it was probably the most enjoyable run I've ever had. In fact, only consideration for my son prevented me from breaking out into a skip several times. ("Dad, it's all around school that you were seen skipping down Cottingham Drive.")

Frankly, I see nothing wrong with a good skip every now and then to sort of relieve tension, though of course, societal codes prohibit this expression among adults, especially males. Perhaps it's up to us runners to eradicate this anachronistic taboo. A good "skip and run" race would be a perfect ice breaker. The skipping rule would sort of be on the same basis as the kicking rule in full contact karate, where the contestant must kick a specified number of times in the bout or be disqualified. Let's say, for instance in a 5k race, a runner would be required to skip 25 times. An average or below average skipper may want to space out his or skips at regular intervals A superior skipper (a skip-master) may be prudent to conserve his till the finish for a skip/sprint to victory.

Isn't it a paradox how something so positive can be spawned from a bottom level downer like the flu. I'm going to suggest to Cedric that the first skip race be dedicated to all those runners who have suffered, are now suffering, or will be suffering from the flu. It will be called "The Skip To My Flue 5k."

Yes, this entire article was created just so I would be able to say that.

(Originally published March 1986)

Socially Promoted Through the School of Life

2007-03-01T18:35:00.000-05:00

Experience, as someone with either sadistic or masochistic inclinations (to have both would certainly guarantee one a very “self-fulfilling,” if short, life) once said, is the best teacher, and certainly, that is how I, on many occasions during my 60-year enrollment as a student of life, have learned things.

My most recent, salient instance of enlightenment came at the beginning of our annual New York City trip last November.

Perhaps some, or possibly most, of your readers already possess the knowledge of what an express flight is, but my wife, Barbara, and I had no knowledge of it, experientially or otherwise. All we know was that we had booked a direct flight from Charleston to “The Big Apple,” and we were euphoric that we would not be changing planes in Charlotte or Atlanta, the latter where I’m convinced the airport employees make wagers on whether the weakest of the passenger herd will be able to make it through their fiendishly conceived obstacle course at all, much less in time to catch their flights.

While checking in at the Charleston Airport, I had asked the airline clerk whether our 4 pieces of luggage were small enough to be carried on, and he had responded affirmatively. This sounded great to us. No hassle with waiting at the baggage claim carousel or worrying about it being lost, as happened a year ago. Everything was working out perfectly so far. And that in itself should have been a tip-off, but maybe, I thought to myself, God is making a deal with me. He’ll oblige me with one brief, shining moment of perfection, if I lighten up on Goose Creek and North Charleston in future articles. The plane would depart at 11 a.m. we’d be at LaGuardia by 1 p.m., at our nephew’s apartment by 1:45 p.m.; and out walking the teeming, colorful streets of the world’s greatest city by 2:15 p.m.

Of course, there is always a downside to these trips for me, anyway, since I don’t like to fly. Mainly, I hate the take-off and landing, and all that occurs in between. But despite these feelings, my spirits were still buoyed by the fact that I would be at our destination in 2 hours. And I concentrated on this goal, as we walked through the accordion-shaped tunnel that connects the terminal to the plane. We walked, as quickly as our luggage would allow, toward the end of the tunnel, and mentally prepared ourselves for the mandated cheeriness of the flight attendant / greeters who had, no doubt, already reached their optimal general public compatibility level several years ago.

But when we reached the other side of the tunnel, we were suddenly rendered speech and almost breakfast-less, at what we saw: There was no plane and there was light at the end of this tunnel, but we didn’t want it. What we did see was a long, steep flight of steps leading down to the tarmac, then about 100 yards away was a plane, and not a very impressive one, I might add. Although, thank God, it didn’t have propellers being wound by someone in World War I garb, it seemed scarily undersized (An analogy of 2 Toyota Camrys and a half a Tercel came to mind). Then, of course, there was the more immediate matter of negotiating the 1 foot wide stairway encumbered by our 300 pounds of luggage. Barbara, in fact, had to leave one of her piece at the top of the steps, while she carried the other down. Fortunately, a kindly male passenger took it for her, seeing that I couldn’t manage it along with the two I already had.

When we finally reached the tarmac, a place where I’ve never set foot before, and where I was all at once overcome with a desire to act out some 1940s war movie scene in which I would courageously but reluctantly leave a tearful Barbara, as I climbed into the cockpit of my Flying Tiger, perhaps never to be heard from again, we were approached by the baggage man, who told us that we would have to check in our luggage right then and there, there being room in the overhead compartment for only things like pocketbooks, or perhaps, I thought, a small plastic bomb or Anthrax vial, with my luck.

After a brief but heated discussion between Barbara and the baggage guy, over the fecklessness of his tagging system, we boarded “The Pride of Lilliputia Airlines” and were once more dumbfounded, this time by the incredibly cramped seating area: 2 seats on one side of the aisle and 1 on the other. I had heard the weather report for the day and there were 20 to 40 mph hour gusts forecasted. With an aircraft this puny, I thought, either we’ll be tossed about like balsa wood in a tornado or if the gusts are all southeasterly, maybe we’ll just get there 30 minutes early.

Once we got settled in and buckled up (God only knows how many thousands of lives have been saved by these miraculous devices when a zillion ton aircraft plunges into the Earth at 500mph), we actually took off without any difficulty, and I also felt more secure after having made my routine visual check of my fellow passengers to ascertain whether we had an overage of gravity-challenging lard-butts and found there were, indeed, none whatsoever.

I’m extremely pleased to announce that the flight was totally uneventful, and, in fact, maybe the gusts were pushing us, because we got to New York in 1 ½ hours.

Of course, when I say “uneventful,” I am not counting the usual petty but still aggravating idiosyncrasies of air travel that one simply takes in stride, the main one being the p.a. system. I can never understand what the captain is saying. It’s amazing that the airlines outfit their high tech, sophisticated flying machines with t same p.a. systems that the fast food restaurants use. Never do I hear what the pilots’ names are, and I usually only hear one or two words out of a sentence. It is out of terror, hoping not to hear broken-up sentences such as: “Land…Iraq…19 hours,” “Lunch box ticking,” “Mr. bin Laden…report…flight attendants’ station, “scared sh- -tless,” “Hands off my leg, you fairy,” “You’re kidding…you left…contact lenses at home too,” “Just exactly what is…death spiral anyway?” And one complete one: “Your celebrity guest pilots for the rest of the flight will be Robin Williams and a somewhat glassy-eyed Robert Downey, Jr.”

But, as I said, we reached NY in record time, plus we had a smooth flight, and both Barbara and I learned what an express flight is. Lastly, I have finally discovered—it took the flight back to accomplish it—that if you wear ear plugs, you will not be annoyed or terrorized by anything the pilot says.

And so I wait, with great alacrity, my next valuable lesson of life, which, for some reason, calls to mind that saying by Friedrich Nietzsche: “I sit at the gateway of fools and ask, ‘Who wisheth to deceive me?’”

Assholes on Asphalt

2007-02-01T16:04:00.000-05:00

“May you flip over 13 times and your genitalia end up displacing the St. Christopher medal on your rear view mirror, you inconsiderate, self-centered son a diseased dugong.” Then the God-mollifying qualifier, “As long as you don’t take anybody with you, of course.” After all, I don’t want the Eternal Extraterrestrial Trooper to think I’m some sort of Mephistophelian maniac, but if one of these menacing morons can be removed from the roadways for a short while or a lot longer, think how much safer we the law-abiding drivers would be.

Such was my reaction to the 2005 Toyota Land Cruiser as it whipped in front of me, coming within one foot of my left, front bumper as it sped off to wreak terror-on-tires upon a helpless public. A somewhat typical day on the road for me, as I let loose my venom of enmity upon another reckless driver. Normally, a very calm and Gandhi-like individual, these outbursts of lethal invective, consisting of scalding curses, hexes, and bilious prayers shock my wife and even me at times.

At least, it’s only been verbal, so far. Thank the gods of Driverdom that I hven’t degenerated into a golf club wielding Jack Nicholson figure. Yet.

As a pre-emptive insurer against this frightening possibility, I have, in desperation, created a safe and subliminal method of releasing my highway hostility: “Asphalt Ad Hominems.” Small, but plainly visible hand-held signs (illuminated for night) with curses and personalized billingsgate, some custom-designed for the opposing driver, guaranteed to let him or her know how you not only feel about their “I’m king/queen of the road, make way for your motor vehicular betters” driving attitude, but even the less noxious ones with the annoying decals, license plates, or even the cars themselves. Allow me to present the following examples for your consideration:

Customized:
1. Guy in a Humvee limousine: “Wouldn’t Viagra have been a lot cheaper?”
2. Guy in an expensive car with dealer plate: “Quit living a lie. Be proud and drive your Gremlin.”
3. Pick-up truck with Confederate flag decals: “Fire if you’re from Ladson. Up in the air, please.”
4. Car with Bush/Cheney decal: “We just saw your IQ test results. You are forgiven.
5. Guy parked illegally in handicapped space: “I see you don’t have a handicapped sign. Would you like some help qualifying?”
6. Senior citizen with turn signal permanently blinking and driving 15mph: “Just wondering, when you take your car to the car wash, do you ask for the ‘old people fragrance’?”
7. “I see your child’s an honor student. Adopted?”
8. Cocky guy in a convertible: “Heyyy, p-ssy wagon. And driven by one.”
9. Woman in convertible: “Thought you might want to know that in SC it’s against—I mean ‘agin’—the law for you to drive with your top down.”
10. Woman with personalized license plate: “I am very happy, Muffie, that the Bmer belongs to you, but I’m saddened that your self-esteem depends on it.”

General:
1. May you find out your 14-year-old daughter purchased a personalized (read “used”) Bill O’Reilly loofah on eBay.
2. May you awake from your colonoscopy to see the O.R. nurse rewinding a ¾” garden hose.
3. May you be disqualified for “American Idol” because you’re only borderline retarded.
4. May your wife find lipstick on your dipstick.
5. May your daughter win first place in a Lyle Lovett look-alike contest.
6. May you be perplexed and perturbed why your (male) doctor paid you for your prostate exam.
7. Hey, I recognize you from that Burt Reynolds movie. Nice banjo playin’.
8. May you get the tragic news that your non-driving girlfriend was rear-ended.
9. I hear your sister works on Remount Road. Whorrendous!
10. That engine’s really blasting. Can I look under the hood? No, not that one, the one you’re wearing.

There you are. Feel free to use any or all of these, or create your own. My only caveat would be to have a very fast car.

Entrepreneurship After Death

2007-01-07T16:28:00.000-05:00

December 1992

Entrepreneurship After Death
By Bob Coskrey

The recession is undoubtedly upon us. I saw a guy driving a BMW today using a rotary dial phone (rim shot). Let’s face it, we’re all going to have to find ways to cut back. In fact, my wife and I have agreed upon some mutually cost-saving, as well as money-producing, measures which you could also practice.

It has always vexed me that people spend so much money on funerals, so Barbara and I have made a pact to spend no more than $500 on each other’s internment. Barbara has not released any details of her cut-rate arrangements, but I am eager to share my ideas with anybody who’s willing to read them. The first step toward funeral frugality is simply not to contact a funeral home. Who needs them? Just buy some large—maybe eight gauge—trash bags and stick me in one. Just drop me in a hole in the backyard next to my two collies. They didn’t have all these elaborate amenities, and they were my best friends—so why should I? As you can see, my burial will not even cost $5.00, much less $500, and maybe not even $4.00 if you buy store brand trash bags.

Also, I don’t want any of my good suits to be wasted by burying me in them; in fact, not even my “yard shorts” should be wasted. Somebody else can use these clothes. Give them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. On the other hand, if Barbara could locate my old leisure suit and my disco boots, she can dress me in them. That will not be a waste; for certainly, even the most desperate of the homeless would not be seen in these fashion horrors. And, since I will request that there be no viewing of the remains, my being eternally out of style will be of no consequence. (Incidentally, I have also requested that the word “remains” not ever be used in reference to my body, since unless I am run over by a riding mower or attend a smokers’ convention at Herbie’s Famous Fireworks, this term seems gruesomely inappropriate.)

On second thought I cannot be buried in my leisure suit, since it’s mostly polyester and I don’t think it’s biodegradable. Therefore, being ecologically conscious to the end, I will be buried in the nude, and once again, it will make no difference at all, since no one is going to be gawking at me and making statements like: “Eaww, disgusting, yet sad—at least they could have laid him on his stomach.”

Of course, is there is some way my wife can turn a profit on my demise, then I would be willing to make an initial posthumous investment. For instance, I could be hollowed out and stuffed with used Odor Eaters and potpourri bags. Barbara could sell me for a piece of New Age sculpture—maybe an atrium centerpiece—or put me in my yard shorts and display me as a sort of “Yard of the Living Dead” lawn ornament. Or better yet, dress me in a little jockey outfit, fun off some plaster copies and market me in the ghetto as “Lil’ Waspie.”

As long as I’m on the “death as a money-making enterprise” bent, let’s dispense with the usual morbid ceremonies and just have a yard sale which includes not only my belongings, but also my taxidermic carcass. List it in the classifieds section of the newspaper, not the obituaries. It should read: “Huge yard sale of belongings of dearly departed extensively unknown writer Bob Coskrey. Clothing, furniture, unpublished and/or rejected manuscripts. Large overstuffed chair with moderately stuffed and environmentally safe cadaver.”

The post-mortem financial opportunities are practically limitless. Barbara could have me disemboweled and “Swansonsized” (deboned), then inflate me with helium and sell me as the “Anatomically Correct (well, pretty damn close to it) Bob-Balloon.” As adults have been slow to discover, kids really enjoy some of the more grisly aspects of life anyway, so you can imagine the joy I would bring to some eight year old, as he trick-or-treats around the neighborhood, pulling my hovering hull on a long string.

She could also stuff me with acorns or soybeans or whatever they use to fill beanbag furniture and sell me as a “Bob-bag chair.” Actually, I think I’d prefer to be filled with cashews, though they’re a bit expensive, since I’ve always had a gustatory fantasy of stuffing myself to larynx level with these delightful kernels. Another fruitful idea would be to preserve me at normal body proportions but give me a slightly maniacal expression, then put me in a standing-up posture on wheels, with an exe in my hands. I could be marketed as a “Scare-Solicitor”—I could be rolled to the door whenever those annoying individuals show up pushing their wares (e.g. encyclopedias, make-up, penetrating anti-mime mace, “The Watch Tower”).

Lastly, I don’t want my friends, relatives or in-laws wasting money on expensive flowers. I would prefer a modest contribution to either of my favorite organizations: SSAP (the Society for the Spaying of All Politicians. Motto: “Don’t Pay ‘em!” Spay ‘em!”); or SCUM (Senders of Continually Unknown Manuscripts. Motto: “Rejection is the mother of frustration, but ineptitude is the mother of editing”).

So, as you can see, the death of a spouse does not have to be equated with completely unnecessary expenses. It costs enough for couples to live. Why should the survivor—a term ripe with multiple meaning—have to shell out vast sums of money just to dispose of the dearly departed non-survivor’s soulless pod, when by following any of the above suggestions he or she can not only avoid the sparse existence of widowerhood or widowhood, but even turn this lugubrious event into an economic bonanza.

Just ask yourself: “Would he/she have wanted it this way?”

Punxatawney Who?

2007-01-01T17:57:00.000-05:00

February 1999
Punxatawney Who?
By Bob Coskrey

Everyone knows about the legend of the groundhog that emerges from is burrow every February. If it’s a sunny day and he’s scared by his shadow, he scampers back into his den and through some zoometeorological phenomenon, we have six more weeks of winter. If it’s a cloudy day and he does not see his shadow, and is not frightened by other unnatural phenomenon, such as cruel natured children carrying a picture of Linda Tripp or the eardrum imploding sounds emanating from a Kathy Lee Gifford Christmas special CD, then he stays outside and we have an early spring.

It is uncommon knowledge that before the people in Punxatawney, Pennsylvania, invented the town groundhog mascot, Punxatawney Phil, hoping to cash in on a major theme park built around the waddling wood chuck (that’s another name for a groundhog), Europeans had similar traditions involving other animals, such as bears, badgers, wolverines, and other furry fauna for hundreds of years. They would plan their seasonal planting based on these animals’ behavior, which probably, if they kept records, would prove to be as accurate as your local TV weatherman.

A prescription for disaster, if you ask me. What would happen should there be no shadow due to an eclipse of the sun or perhaps Janet Reno or Marlon Brando walking by? There would be an incorrect prediction, that’s what, and crops would die, possibly followed by people.

And why did they choose a groundhog, and not a more well known and attractive animal such as a bear, a fox, or a rabbit? Supposedly, we can blame those troublemaking Germans for this too, when they introduced the legend into Pennsylvania. And if we’re stuck with the groundhog, whey not use its cuter name, the wood chuck? At least there’s that little alliterative woodchuck riddle:

“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

Which is superior to:

“How much ground would a groundhog hog, if a groundhog could hog ground?”
Unfortunately, in this part of the country, the woodchuck/groundhog doesn’t even exist, so we, in essence, have no legendary creature to perform a yearly world renowned prognostication event. But that, of course, doesn’t mean we can’t have one.

First, I have a suggestion for us East Cooperites. The legend of the East Cooper Black Labrador Retriever: Each February, we select, at random, a typical East Cooper resident’s home and observe its 2,500 foot dock erection plunged into moistness of the yielding, virgin marsh. If the owners’ black lab bounds onto the dock with a red bandana around its neck, spring will come early, new home building and property values will grow threefold, banks will outnumber trees (since money grows in the former, no on the latter), most 14 year olds will get a Landrover for their birthdays, and a palpable scent of smugness will continue to permeate the salty air.

If the bandana is any other color, spring will be 6 weeks later, new home building and property values wil show a humiliating 50% increase, the bank to resident ratio will remain at a troubling 1 to 5, most 14 year olds will endure the indignity of receiving a Volvo station wagon for their birthdays, and the palpable scent of smugness will only be noticeable during the Boone Hall Oyster Festival.

The city of Charleston could flaunt its Charleston Butterfly (a.k.a. Palmetto Bug or Flying Cockroach). Each February a random Below Broad home is selected. That night, a two pound benne seed cookie is left on the kitchen floor and the light is turned off. Fifteen minutes later, the light is flipped back on. If the cockroach (it is a given that one will be there) is observed dragging the cookie, it is captured, its wings are painted the colors of a butterfly, it is released from St. Michael’s belltower, and there will be 6 more weeks of winter, thus postponing the dreaded annual tourist stampede.

If the roach simply bypasses the cookie and scampers away, it is hunted down and swatted flat, with an old rolled-up Beasley for Governor poster (picture side down), its remains are symbolically donated to the Taste of Goose Creek Festival, and we will have an early spring, initiated by the annual Flip-flop Wearers’ Convention.

Last, but definitely not least, Myrtle Beach would introduce its legend of the Horry County Shag Beetle, a hardy insect that curiously makes its home only in the windmill hole of putt-putt golf courses. If the beetle emerges from his hazardous habitat and does its famous shag dance, there will be an early spring, heralded by a record number of Canadian visitors, Myrtle Beach will be named an honorary province (Sastackiwan), and the city will become the yearly site of the Elvis Impersonator Convention.

If the dithyrambic creature scurries from its at-risk abode and is squashed lifeless by a disoriented duffer’s drive, there will be 6 more weeks of cold weather, vanguarded by the persistent Canadian tourists, all of whom will be named honorary Myrtle Beachers, also qualifying them for permanent Ugly American status abroad, and the city will become the annual site of the Gayest Guy on the Grand Strand competition (also known as the Richard Simmons Look-alike Contest).

So you see, every community, if it is just a little creative and a lot determined, can have its own special annual prognosticator event, insuring it unending publicity and tons of tourist dollars.

If I may ad just one more thought, don’t be timid about self-promotion. Believe me, this self-respect thing is vastly overrated. Just ask a politician.

66 and not counting

2006-09-01T16:07:00.000-04:00

Last weekend we had some friends over for dinner, and they brought us a gift. It was a potted Crepe Myrtle, a very thoughtful expression of friendship, and also a type of tree that both Barbara and I like. But if I plant it in my yard, by the time it becomes a significant addition to my aesthetically deprived front yard, I, myself, will probably have been planted. Such is the plight of anyone well-ensconced in the saggy-bottomed throne of Geezerdom: that many of their formerly routine decisions must be measured against the ever-encroaching, liver-spotted lava mass of time.

In my fifties, I never thought about these things, even when I received my first correspondence from AARP. In fact, I was insulted that they would even try to sweep me up in their wriggling catch of oxygen-gasping 60 and 70 year-olds, but these days, of course, I am a charter member, except for a very brief 60-day suspension in 2002 resulting from my lacing the prune punch with Viagra at a Gray Panthers “Swinging to the 50s” kegger. (Unfortunately, what could have been a riotously romantic evening was somewhat spoiled by the prunes taking effect long before the Viagra.)

Unfortunately now, I find myself doing the same calculations whenever I make a purchase. For instance, we need a new roof. They usually have a twenty-year guarantee. I’m 66, therefore, that would undoubtedly be my last roof. Of course, I do have the very attractive option, however, of becoming a three meals a day McDonald’s customer, making my walk to the mailbox my exercise regimen, smoking two packs a day, and then going for the 5 or 10 year roof. And just how many card do I have left in me? We like Toyota Camrys. We have one that’s 5 years old and one that’s 12 and showing no signs of stopping. Does that mean that I have 2 or maybe just 1 more car left before I enter Satan’s no-exit parking garage? Or do I buy 20 used Pintos over the next 20 years? Maybe the act of making those 20 purchases will make it seem like I’m actually living longer, instead of just sitting back and watching 1 or 2 Camrys and myself in a race to see who will oxidize first.

And what about lifetime guarantees? Big f’ing deal. If I were 20 or 30 or 40, that’s an impressive selling point. Give me the 20 year one at the same price.

And then there are the simple, sometimes everyday purchases, such as toothpaste, food, toilet paper, laundry detergent, etc. Maybe at my age I shouldn’t even stock up beyond two weeks. But how creepy would it be to buy a 20 year supply of beer which, based on my average consumption, would amount to approximately 6,400 cans and start the countdown. Each week I’d look at my enormous supply of suds and say, somewhat melancholy at first, “Well, I’ve got 6,393 beers left” and so on until I reached, say, a case. Then I might be tempted to start having beerless Tuesdays or becoming a temporary Southern Baptist, sort of trying to delay the inevitable, playing with fate, I guess you could say. But what if I exceed the 6,4000, then it becomes a day to day situation and I never know which is going to be my last beer. But that’s the way it is right now, so essentially this dumb article is just taking up space and you, the reader, would, no doubt, like t force-feed me my last beer, can and all.

Never mind. I don’t feel quite as obsessive-compulsively fatalistic about measuring out my life in a big ticket items or small purchases after having taken a “Longevity IQ” test in The AARP Magazine. Since I began this article I have learned that, based on a number of factors such as diet, exercise, stress-coping, overall health, etc., I will live to 96. Irony has a bitter taste, but obviously, I have grossly misjudged AARP, and my only immediate threat is strangulation by pride. So forget all the negative crap I said about getting old, at least til 10 years from now, when I’ll probably resume my lugubrious lament. In the meantime, I’m purchasing a roof with a 30 year guarantee—right after hurricane season ends, which, figuring in the global warming factor, should be around Christmas (2007).

Rush to poor judgment

2006-07-01T15:52:00.000-04:00

If schadenfreude to the point of orgasm were possible, I would certainly have experienced one on Thursday, June 26, 2006. That, of course, was the day I heard on the car radio the words, “Rush Limbaugh detained at Palm Beach Airport.” I considered pulling over to the side of the road, jumping out of the car and dancing around, shouting “Ding dong the Rush is dead,” but settled for a more modest, age-appropriate, and less gay jumping up and down in the seat while singing the first verse only of “Happy Days Are Here Again.” This was too good to be true, I thought. Maybe he had another cargo-load of Oxycontin seized or perhaps something more heavy duty such as cocaine or LSD, and if there is a supreme being, perhaps this time the Bloated Barker of Bellicosity will spend some time in the cooler with some steroid-embellished, psychotic member of the underclass that the Porcine Poobah of Pomposity would like to remain prone and poverty-burdened.

No such luck, but at least this time his predicament was more humiliating, if not incarcerating. Apparently this time, “ladies,” we learned that Rush is, in fact, no “gentleman.” It seems that sometime last month, as “The Great (Big) One” was searching feverishly for salacious satisfaction over the Internet, he stumbled upon an ad from the “hot” little country of The Dominican Republic that promised that no matter how physically grotesque a man was, he could come to this naughty little nation and have all manner of prurient acts performed upon him for a nominal fee. And obviously, Rush was planning to establish himself as a swordsman of renown based on his purchase of two 30-quantity bottles of Viagra, or maybe it’s a matter of being so obsessed with Liberal-bashing, he can only get himself up, so to speak, for his radio show. And so, Rush landed in this unsuspecting banana republic fully cocked and loaded. Here he was, a national celebrity and millionaire ready for action. But somehow, nothing happened, judging from the embarrassing revelation by the authorities that there was only one pill missing from the total 60 pills, so we should conclude from this that his (e)mission failed. Not wanting his dittoing dummkopfs to find out about their manly leader’s worse-than-fatal flaw, Rush had gotten two doctors to list themselves as owners of the prescriptions. Even if this medication is not a controlled drug, it seems a little unethical, at least, for a doctor or patient to do this. If I had played this little game, I’d be writing this on a manual typewriter in a prison library.

Rush has had a series of bad marriages and non-marital relationships. Perhaps this is at the base of it: He can’t include any of his frustrated paramours among his legions of satisfied-but-brain-dead customers. And being an ardent conservative as well as a steadfast heterosexual, it’s of course, totally impossible for him to “stick it to the man.” But unfortunately, it seems he’s unable to “stick it to the woman” either.

Being a typical Liberal do-gooder I will still try to help a person no matter how vile his character and behavior so, Rush, I am offering you this advice, which I know you won’t take because of its source, but it’ll look good on my Hereafter application and resume: Since it seems you may be more turned on by Right-wing politics than female sexiness, I think Ann coulter is your “match made in Heaven.” She appears to get off on blasting away at the Left and she has about as much sexual magnetism as Karl Rove, but with a bit more masculinity (or maybe it’s just the Adam ’s apple). Give her a call. I already have visions of you two married with a son, little Adolph.

Well, good luck, Rush, and, by the way, you may still need the Viagra with Ann. Maybe a half bottle or so. One more suggestion: You might want to consider changing that signature, self-laudatory phrase to “Talent on loan from Pfizer.”

Turtle Shell Game

2006-06-01T19:02:00.000-04:00

Even though I have never met Calhoun, the now deceased turtle of the South Carolina Aquarium, I was quite saddened by his untimely death, and if you will excuse the brief digression, is a time death, whatever that means, something preferable? But, returning to the late Calhoun, it just seems to be me that the aquarium staff should feel at least a little guilty for dragging the poor creature from San Diego, where he had, no doubt, been enjoying a leisurely California lifestyle, to a range new environment here in Charleston, where he could star in the reptilian version of “The Truman Show,” and where he would, for still unknown reasons, meet his demise.

So it was with these swirling feelings of melancholy, guilt-by-association, and burgeoning suspicion that I recently visited the South Carolina Aquarium, having clandestinely obtained an invitation to last month’s gala pre-opening celebration and claiming a fictitious identity, renowned socialite, eleven-time “High Style” honoree, noted tourist-basher, and mover-and-shaker (which, in my age group, means having chronic diarrhea as well as the D.T.s) Ravenel Prioleau Coming Gibbs Huger Rutledge Lucas Ashley-Phosphate Pringle III. After dancing to the Lester Lanin Orchestra with various simultaneously cellulite-challenged and collagen-saturated old bags, I used the diversionary tactic of initiating a roaring argument by starting a rumor that, behind the scenes, Mayor Riley and Senator Arthur Ravenel were campaigning for the names of Puff Daddy and Jubilation T. Corpone, respectively, for the belated Calhoun’s replacement, I snuck off to do some on-site investigating.

And it is with a revulsion that I haven’t experienced since viewing the Janet Reno, Oprah Winfrey, Rosie O’Donnell Thong-a-rama video that I relate to you my grisly and outrageous findings. Having already seen the most accessible parts of the facility, I was looking for that certain closted something that might make Mike Wallace salivate, Tom Green regurgitate, or, perhaps even make Pee Wee Herman….well, never mind.

And just like in the movies, I found what I was looking for behind a door marked: “Danger. Keep Out.” First, the aroma hit me, and then it was like I had accidentally walked into the kitchen of a large hotel. Something smelled really great, but I couldn’t identify it, then my eyes fell on what appeared to be another enormous tank, but the water in it, instead of being clear, was a dark brown, and I also saw long rows of shelving laden with boxes stacked almost to the ceiling. Approaching the shelves, I had mixed feelings of excitement and anxiety, not unlike Geraldo’s, as he sized up Al Capone’s safe, and as I got closer, the writing on the boxes started to become legible. I stopped in horror, as the words suddenly burst into focus:

Charleston Turtle Soup.
Guaranteed to make you come out of your shell.

I reached into one of the boxes, pulled out a can of the soup, and read the label:
Try one of man other Charleston Turtle Soup Co. delicacies:

-Turtle nuggets
-Turtle-on-a-stick
-Flipper Flambe
-Turtle-in-a-basket
-Turtle Tapas
-Turtle Dove Bars
-Turtle Crepes de Highway
-Soft-shell turtle

As well as some of our other fine turtle products:

-Turtle wax
-Original turtle neck sweaters
-They’re simply turtleriffic!
-Made by the Charleston Turtle Soup Co.

My God, I thought to myself, this is much worse thatn I ever could have imagined. Suddenly, I felt ill, clammy (no pun intended), sick to my stomach, sort of like seeing the Kathy Lee/Frank Gifford interview again. I started running back towards the ball room, half staggering, and wild-eyed. Bursting into the room, I skidded, Kramer-like, all the way up to the bandstand, realizing, at once, that the band had suddenly stopped playing and everyone, including the band, was starting at me, in a manner akin to the gathering in “Rosemary’s Baby,” only instead of Satan presiding, there was Mayor Riley sitting—or rather engulfed in—a large throne, wearing a chef’s hat that read, “Grand Soup Master.”

Mayor Riley: “Welcome back, Bob, we’ve been waiting for you. If you’re wondering how I knew who you were, well let’s just say that after all the cute little jokes you’ve written about my somewhat vertically challenged stature over the years in that decadent publication you work for. I’ve made it a point to know a lot about you Bobby old boy.”

Me (mustering up the nerve): “That will be the least of your troubles, my friend, after I divulge your dastardly secret.”

Mayor Riley: “Ooooh, you’re really scaring me, Bob. You go ahead and write whatever you want. Do you really think anybody takes anything you write seriously? In fact, here, I’ll even give you the scoop: I started the Charleston Turtle Soup Company to defray the cost overrun of the aquarium, not to mention coming up with the much needed extra bucks for the new Cooper River Bridge, or perhaps now, the Joseph P. Riley, Jr. Memorial Bridge, a big old bridge named for a tiny little man. Kind of ironic, huh, Bob? Why don’t you write something really amusing about that?

“And as for Calhoun, it was a terrible accident. He just got put in the wrong (“the ingredients”) tank, that’s all. None of us liked it, but we must move on.

“Now, get out of here and go write your goofy little article, you jerk of a joke of a journalist.”

And so, dear readers, that is my story. Whom will you believe? People who would yank a poor, contented old turtle out of his home, stick in an alien (not Elian, though there may be some similarities) environment, and slap a new name on him; and not a name that any rational thinking turtle would even wan, for that matter—Calhoun. Was he named for the street with the chronic drainage problems? John C., the fiery, craggy-faced, deceased native son who became vice president? The deceased native son, C movie actor, Rory? Or Algonquin J., the deceased and now politically incorrect actor on the old “Amos and Andy” TV show?

Or will you believe me, an assiduous scribe of unimpeachable integrity, who would rather chug-a-lug a hemlock boilermaker than stoop to journalistic hyperbole?

The choice is yours.

Scream of Consciousness #3

2006-06-01T15:49:00.000-04:00

1. Al-truism: A particular pithy Sharpton comment.
2. National Pubic Radio: The Howard Stern Show
3. Madison Queer Garden: Sports facility in Chelsea area of Manhattan where the Back-door Olympics are held.
4. The World According to Garth: Everybody gets a little porky and wears a big cowboy hat, 24/7.
5. “God Bless America”: What politicians publicly are always asking the creator to do, not realizing that most of his blessing time is spent on helping athletes achieve victory.
6. Aer Cunni-Lingus: Controversial airline which lets women fly free.
7. Cowasaki: Bovine-shaped motorcycle prototype planned for Asian market, which was inevitably cancelled due to low sales projections in India.
8. The Humpback of Notre Dame: Large whale seen frolicking in the Seine near the famed cathedral in 1987.
9. The “Sex Pistols”: The kind that go “bang!”
10. Baby Boomers: A flatulent population of Americans born shortly after WWII.
11. Breast augmentation: KFC’s new strategy.
12. “Heritage not Hate”: This flag may remind you that you used to be our slaves, but we don’t hate you for it, okay?
13. “Built like a brick sh*thouse”: A somewhat odd compliment thought to be attributed to masonry fetishists.
14. Whore Crossing: Long overdue safety walkway on Remount Road.
15. Barry Bonds: Something Barry does with his trainer at least.
16. Spoiled Brat: German sausage left out too long.
17. Duke Lacrosse team’s real problem: They can only come together as a team on the field.
18. Reason why this occurs: They leave everything on the field.
19. “Hummer”: A copywriter’s astute choice after deciding that “Blowmobile” wouldn’t sell.
20. The Marshall Plan: Anna Nicole Smith’s astoundingly successful strategy.
21. “You still workin’ on that?”: What servers unthinkingly ask customers without realizing they haven’t provided them with pickaxes, machetes or shovels.
22. “Balling the Jack”: Notation in Marilyn Monroe’s personal calendar for “Wednedays.”
23. Oliver Twist: Cubby Checker’s wisely discarded initial choice for a stage name.
24. Organ music: Just another Ron Jeremy false claim.
25. “Go South, young man!”: Frequently bellowed order to Cher’s dates.
26. Ann Drogynous: Michael Jackson’s alter ego.
27. Karlo: Of the Marx brothers, the serious one.
28. Campaign chest: Catherine Harris’ recently acquired asset.
29. “A man among boys”: latent homoerotic sports expression.
30. Tom Cruise: What Tom do when Katie not around.
31. Auto-eroticism: One on the floor.
32. Darth Evader: Dick Cheney.
33. American Lesion: Fox News.
34. Same (Old) Sex Marriage Amendment: Law with overwhelming make, bi-partisan support mandating that after six months of marriage, wives must agree to other forms of sexual union beyond the missionary position.
35. Convenience Stores: They’re all self-serving.

A License To Be Killed

2006-05-01T16:05:00.000-04:00

Our reckless, but so far wreckless, Lt. Governor’s referring to himself as “SC2” so he could avail himself of special treatment got me thinking about all the self-wallowing government employees who identify themselves by their license tags. It’s a practice that I find both puzzling and annoying. I remember when I first encountered one of these vehicles, I thought, “There’s a license with a one on it. It must be somebody important.” So, at the next light I inched closer to see who this VIP was: “State Board of Accountancy” it spelled out in uninteresting black letters. Big deal, I said out loud, embarrassed that I had even taken the time to bother to read it. Then, perhaps devoting too much time on this subject, I began to wonder why these kinds of tags even existed. I mean we expect to see special tags for the president, cabinet members, legislators, Supreme Court members, and individuals of that ilk, but I have to question that, even with public figures at that level; I don’t see a legitimate reason for these pompous plates. In fact, that’s what they should be called, “Pomposity Plates.” If your subterranean ego commands you to get these spurious symbols of superiority, then you’ll have to fill out the DMV form requesting pomposity plates, and specify that you want yours to read “State Board of Promotion of SUVs, cell phones, Golfing, Polo Clubs, and joggling boards,” or something equally ass-chafing, then hope that the 300-pound paranoid schizophrenic inmate who makes the tag and resolves to pull the limbs off the owner one day never catches up with you.

And furthermore, you people should be aware that neither I nor anyone else cares that you’re a member of the Massage and Body Therapy Board or the Office of the Confederate Relic Room and Museum (where you can see Arthur Ravenel on display, incidentally), and if you’re on the Minority Affairs Commission, you should have enough pride to keep that to yourself. Just because James Brown and the Reverend Jesse Jackson may have occasionally snapped the shackles of connubial sanctity, that doesn’t give someone enough ammunition to go after an entire race.

As I mentioned previously, these “Look at me, look at me!” labels serve no public function. Why do we average citizens have to know that the chairperson of the Committee to Select a State Fungus or the County Herpes Survivors Fund Society is driving by? I can actually see a need for us, the anonymously tagged element, to know when the Lt. Governor is approaching: We need time to get the hell out of the way as soon as possible. And out of the ashes of that incendiary remark, springs a real but unintended reason to issue these tags: It can serve as a means for the rest of us to keep track of what these self-aggrandizing dirt-bags are up to. That State Watermelon Seed Spitting Advisory Board Member tag may get you a few worshipful stares in Hampton County at the Hampton County Festival, but if you carom off a lamp post while admiring yourself in a store window, we the great unwashed, yet un-wooed, will know who you are. And if the Boiled Peanut Steering Committee Ranking Member thinks he can park in the fire zone outside Bi-Lo, he’ll have to explain why in a traffic court, because we’ve got his number.

I can say, with some sense of pride, and perhaps a touch of senile dementia, that I cannot even tell you what my license tag is and my anonymity is so profound that I am positive that no one else knows what it is either, including my wife and possibly even the DMV.

And what do these people do once they are forced to scuttle out of their orchidaceous shells of celebrity? How can a creature such as this survive as just another amorphous citizen-slug? Do they wear name tags? Not yet, but perhaps I’ve given them an idea, but that’s okay, because suddenly, I feel sorry for them. It must be a miserable existence to have to encase oneself in a pompously tagged vehicle in order to feel really good about oneself. So, just to show that my heart’s in the right place, I’m going to tell them not only how to exist sans their creepy plates, but actually thrive. Use your cell phone! Yes, that potentially aggravating little emblem of arrogance that has unfortunately been usurped by all those nasty little common people. But you can wrest the purloined symbol out of their grimy little hands and use it as God had intended. All you need to do as you walk through those motley crowds of less fortunates in the grocery store or mall is call one of your similarly tagged brethren (or sistren) on your phone and ask them to call you right back, then you simply answer loud enough for all to hear, “Shelby Archdale, Chairman of the Commission to Study the Aphrodisiacal Effect of She-Crab Soup, speaking.” Bingo! All heads will turn—well, most—and you’re once again on top of the world—or yours as you view it anyway.

I began this article imbued with the rage of an angry Everyman, intent upon laying siege to the supercilious oligarchy of public employees that operates under the delusion that we, not they, are the other’s servants, but once emptied of my latent bile of class envy, my deeply inculcated family values filled the void and enabled me to see that these people, no matter how heinous, were simply lost souls in need of my guidance and forgiveness, not my vilification. Wait a minute; we Liberals don’t have any values, much less the family kind. I think my void may have been filled with the gallons of Corona from our Cinco de Mayo party yesterday. You haughty assholes have been fortunate enough to benefit from the obviously misplaced advice of a Left-wing do-gooder. Go ahead and use my cell phone suggestion if your ego requires it, and don’t you worry about getting brain cancer; I’ve heard that the chances of getting it diminish proportionately with the decreasing size of one’s brain. Power to the Anonymites!

Scream of Consciousness

2006-04-01T15:50:00.000-05:00

1. State of the artless: Arkansas
2. Speed hump: a quickie
3. Old Filthy Bitch: Old Dirty Bastard’s mother
4. Tommy Lee jeans: jeans with oversized crotches for the well-endowed man
5. Donkey Dong: Early Atari adult video game
6. Not very well thought out name for an upscale dog clothing magazine: “Doggie Style”
7. Guys’ fantasy: Playmate All Star Jug Band
8. Linda Tripp Switch: Instead of turning it on, it turns on you.
9. “The Occidental Tourists”: You know, the ones with all the cameras.
10. The “quick and the dead”: the latter only being separated by the former by a relatively slow reaction time
11. Q Klux Klan: Short-lived gay branch of the KKK
12. “Comb Over Miami”: Dade County salon that caters to balding, elderly men
13. “My fair lady”: Euphamism for “My Carnival Woman”
14. “The Mark of Zorro”: Illiterate Mexican swordsman takes out his frustration over not being able to write his own name in a creative, yet violent way
15. Colinectomy: Special procedure for removing the Secretary of State
16. Tom Delay: Male porn star with a notoriously slow release
17. Yeast infection: Painful female inflammation thought to be the result of doing splits on a pastry board
18. “Richard and the Gerbils”: Times Square version of “Alvin and the Chipmunks”
19. Texas Bookstore Suppository: A creative yet virtually impractical aid for constipation
20. “Felix and Oscar de La Hoya”: Totally incompatible roommates end their tumultuous relationship when Oscar answers Felix’s “You clean that mess up now” with an uppercut.
21. Mrs. Paul’s Fish Dicks: An abortive attempt to attract the low end seafood consumers’ market
22. Little Richard Simmons: Infamous Greenwich Village club celebrity who is so gay he had both of his wrists surgically broken to guarantee maximum limpness.
23. Vlad the Impaler: Fabled Romanian adult video performer
24. “Uranus, Up close and Personal”: Spectacular show at the Rose Planetarium in NYC that wowed members of the astronomy community, while disappointing many others
25. “Dan Moon Show”: what Dan do to display contempt for other radio shows
26. “Jeffrey Dahmer and Greg Show”: Wacky couple invites 300 lb. gay bodybuilder to dinner. Later, Dahmer developes a mean case of indigestion
27. “The Mansons”: Marilyn blows drug money on breast implants. An engraged Charles tries to strangle him with an unraveled “Helter Skelter” 8-track tape.
28. “Snoop Dogg Day Afternoon”: Snoop and his bitches carry out a successful bank heist before the cops can figure out whazzuppp. He suffers a minor gunshot wound in his pimp hand.
29. “The Last of the Big Suspenders”: Larry King resigns in indignation when the terms of his new contract require him to read at least one book per year
30. “The Amos and Andy Griffith Show”: Mayberry residents give Andy’s new deputy a big surprise. Opie asks Aunt Bee, “What’s a lynch party?”
31. “Siegfried and Roy Rogers”: A lonely Siggie discovers necrophilic feelings for his deceased boyhood hero while his companion is out of town.
32. “The Count of Montecrisco”: A European nobleman finds stimulating, non-culinary uses for ordinary cooking oil
33. “Eminem Butterfly”: Formerly homophobic rap start is coaxed out of closet by friend and obliged to eat more than his words
34. Hugh Downs Syndrome: A psychological disorder whose main symptom is a gradually growing desire to avoid Barbara Walters
35. Incontinental Airlines: Airline that caters to a geriatric clientele; provides customers with combination lifejackets/Depends
36. Ring-around-the Rosie-O’Donnell: Game show in which children test their endurance by running circles around the portly TV star, one lap being equal to 12.6 yards

Getting Down to the Monkey Business of Choosing a VP Candidate

2006-03-01T17:19:00.000-05:00

With ECM’s bold endorsement of Stephan as the next president of the U.S. and, regardless of his admittedly darkmonkey status, we felt it was very timely to start thinking about a suitable running mate. After multifold man-hours of serious contemplation, we have come up with a list of vice-presidential candidates for your perusal. We would like you to look them over very carefully and give us your opinions. We encourage you to suggest some of your own, if you disagree with ours.

Obviously, we need a high profile individual, even though Stephan’s is, anthropomorphically speaking, somewhat flat, and you will notice that we have even named some of our current presidential hopefuls as prospects.

We would also like to add that you will not be mistaken if you infer from our endorsement of Stephan an unabashed advocacy of multispecies diversity within the workplace.

Our choices:

1. Al Gore. Stephan, as with most members of his species, is subject to sudden fits of unrestrained auto, as well as other-directed, eroticism. Gore worked closely with a man for 8 years who exhibited very similar behavior.
2. John McCain. Both spent time in a cage, although it’s not known whether Stephan was poked with a stick or not.
3. George W. Bush. His father worked closely with a man for over 8 years who starred in a movie with Stephan’s great uncle Bonzo, thus creating a kind of “I’ll be a monkey’s great uncle’s nephew’s co-worker situation.”
4. Bill Bradley. Bill wowed crowds with his ball handling. Stephan grossed out crowds with his.
5. Joe Riley. Both have to be lifted up to drink from a standard water fountain.
6. John Graham Altman. Altman made disparaging remarks about the Reverend Martin Luther King. Stephan has an uncle, Martin Luther King Kong, who is very anxious to meet Mr. Altman.
7. Madonna. Both really enjoy bananas. I mean really enjoy them.
8. Arthur Ravenel. Both thrive on public attention, although the public finds it very difficult to understand anything either one says.
9. Richard Simmons. Both like to watch old Tarzan flicks, one because he is fascinated by Cheetah, Tarzan’s chimp friend. The other is just fascinated by guys in loin cloths.
10. Any Goose Creek citizen. Stephan will feel at home when they lie around and pick fleas off one another.
11. Howard Stern. Both have an affinity for organ grinders.
12. Pee Wee Herman. Both left behind a soiled seat on their last visit to a theater.

Anticipating some complaints about some of our choices, I would like aver that we will accept all constructive and other criticism gracefully, echoing our worth candidate’s slogan, “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.”

The Write Stuff

2006-02-17T18:59:00.000-05:00

March 1999
The Write Stuff
By Bob Coskrey

An event of unparalleled significance occurred here at “East Cooper Monthly” recently. We had a mistake-free edition? No. The staff accepted one of Bill Macchio’s ideas? Hardly. The mayor of Goose Creek called to say he would soon be presenting me with a key to the city? Never. No one called to complain about one of my articles? No, but close.

Someone, not even related to known by me, actually made a positive comment about my writing, and even more important, they had the nerve to put it in writing. Never in my 16 months of churning out miles of borderline scintillating articles for “East Cooper,” have we received a single letter to the editor that could have been interpreted at being complimentary of my occasionally misguided but always diligent efforts.

However, all this changed when Bill excitedly handed me a stack of circus registration forms, which some of our readers had returned in anticipation of winning free tickets. His comment to me was:

“Look through these, you might find them interesting.”

The forms also contained a survey asking the reader to answer questions about our magazine. As I flipped through them, I noticed nothing unusual, just the regular laudatory comments about the calendar, the dining section, and Howard Elgison, until suddenly, there it was, my name, as the answer to a question other than “Which of our contributing writers is most deserving of capital punishment?” On the contrary, the question was, “Which did you like best about ‘East Cooper Monthly’?”

This person had actually stated that he liked my articles better than anything else in the magazine. However, before I had time to spend even one George Hamilton second under the rejuvenating rays of reader adulation, my eyes strayed to two other questions:

1. Have you read East Cooper Monthly before? To which the respondent answered: “No.”
2. If so, how frequently? To which he answered somewhat cryptically: “Frequently.”

So this bona fide, rara avis Bob Coskrey fan has never read our publication before, and what’s more, he never read it frequently, which I guess means that whenever the fickle fate of coincidence placed him within reach of a pile (Maybe stack sounds better; the City Paper comes in piles) of our magazines, he reluctantly picked one up, then holding it at arm’s length, while turning his face in the opposite direction, as if dangling a 3 day old severed head, he would shriek passionately.

“I will never, ever read one of these, do you hear me? Never, by God, no matter what you do to me or my family!”

But obviously, he did finally read one this particular time, during which his eyes, as luck would have it, fell upon one of my articles, and he liked it. He liked it, he really liked it!

But, as with most people who admit to something they feel that the rest of society may not agree with, he was reluctant to share his feelings with anyone else. Writing a letter to the editor praising my work would be like branding his forehead with the “Scarlet Letters,” C.F. (Coskrey Fan), and he would subsequently be subject to the ridicule of more discriminating readers, not to mention being banned from the cities of Goose Creek and North Charleston (which actually is not necessarily a bad thing).

So this brave but tortured man did the next best thing, electing to express his singular opinion somewhat indirectly and anonymously through a survey response. His name would not be emblazoned on our editorial page under the heading, “Courageous but foolhardy reader risks reputation, life, family, and livelihood by admitting admiration for unpopular writer.”

I do, nevertheless, have the man’s name, address, and telephone number, which, of course, gives me tremendous power, but why would I want to divulge my only fan’s identity, knowing the devastating results this would have for him? Well, perhaps, if it were necessary, I could use this information to coerce him into being the president/only member of my fan club, a secret fan club, naturally.

It is my feeling that there must be other readers out there with equally deficient taste and literary judgment, who may be willing o join this club as long as anonymity can be guaranteed.

First, we need a name for this clandestine group, so I am suggesting “Devotees of Likely to be Terminated Scribes” or DOLTS, for short. They will have to meet in secret locations under the sanctuary of darkness. I will make occasional appearances, sans honoraria, and will attempt to have writers of my ilk and destiny appear at time, too, such as Larry Flynt and Salman Rushdie.

So I will be calling my “confessed” admirer soon, with a veiled hint of “outing” to jump start him into setting up the fan club. If my hunch is right, the meeting places will progress rapidly from phone booths to parked cars in no time at all. In the meantime, those interested in joining, just write: DOLTS c/o East Cooper Monthly.

And remember our motto: Many may suspect you’re a DOLT, but only I and your fellow members will know.

Geezers and Wheezers

2006-02-01T15:58:00.000-05:00

As I continue my inexorable advance into the twilight realm of Senior World, I find I am becoming less and less tolerant of my fellow codgers. And it is the male of our musty-smelling species that really seems to get my goat, so to speak. Specifically, some of us seem to make a lot of unnecessary, and frequently disgusting, noises.

For instance, there is a retired journalist, who has about a two minute spot on the local NPR station in the morning, who persistently breathes heavily through his nose when he talks, making an extremely aggravating wheezing sound. I’m not sure if it’s when he’s inhaling or exhaling—though the cessation of either function would be a certain cure—and luckily, it doesn’t sound like a deep-seated respiratory condition, which of course would make my comments seem a little insensitive. Quite frankly, if I were asked to give a sort of Bill Frist-in-absentia-diagnosis, I would say he has a severe case of Nostrilus Hisutus Extremus. And what’s more astounding is what, unless he has a hearing impairment, he must certainly be aware of this problem. I mean, if I can pick it up over my radio, how could he not detect the commotion six inches from his ears? I am left to assume that he either just doesn’t care or he feels this adds a note of distinction to his persona. Regardless of his motive, I have been having some strong feelings about writing him a letter of admonishment and pointing out the need to invest in a pair of nose-hair clippers, or more practically, a Ronco Intra-Nares Weed-Whacker. This individual even has another personal peccadillo, though it’s not necessarily of a geriatric nature, which I also find aggravating to the point of homicidal ideation. Specifically, I am referring to the habit of pronouncing words that end in the “s” sound as if they ended in “sh.” In other words, “dollars” sound like “dollarsh” and “potato chips” and “flowers” sound like “potato chipsh” and “flowersh,” respectively. See Haley Barbour and President George W. Bush for perfect examples of these defects.

I can recall encountering the heavy-breathing affliction at about the age of 6 when I used to visit a male playmate whose grandfather had recently come here from Greece, and who, of course, still had a very thick accent. This elderly man, whom my friend referred to as “Popouli” (which I later learned was a generic Greek sobriquet for grandfather) would always walk into the kitchen where my friend Johnny and I often sat swilling Ouzo by the jelly glassfuls (just kidding; usually we were eating some sort of delicious snack Ya Ya, his grandmother, had prepared for us). Popouli was always wearing a tank-top t-shirt, and reeked of garlic, a smell I would much later learn to love. But what really impressed me was his heave nose-breathing, enhanced even more by a thick moustache. I even complained to my mother some time after that Johnny’s grandfather “was always breathing and couldn’t something be done about it.” Eventually, something was. Natural causes, of course.

My next encounter with old geezers making unwelcome noises occurred recently when my wife Barbara and I were eating in a local restaurant and our meal was interrupted by someone loudly clearing his throat, quickly followed by a glass-l snorting sound of porcine quality. We looked in the clamor’s direction and spotted a few tables away, two men, probably in their seventies, just in time to view the next eruption, as one of them trumpeted another even longer snort, provoking a long death-stare and muffled “will you shut up” from my wife and a silent question from me: “Could they be serving duck phlegm soup tonight? This is a French restaurant and I know how they hate to throw anything away.” These two dueling Mucousoids continued their raucous hacking and snorting, even after their meal when they chose to stick around and expound on local politics, oblivious to Barbara’s “Evil-Eye” which I later noticed had actually burned a small hole in their table cloth. All we could do was focus on our lunch while vainly attempting to dissipate the non-stop, vile noise-induced mental images. Finally, the gruesome twosome departed, and my idea to trip at least one of them up as they shuffled by was foiled by the lurking presence of our server.

I realize that I can simply choose not to listen to wheezing geezers on the radio, but unfortunately I have no control over their awful antics in eating establishments. However, I do have an idea: I plan to attend the next public hearing of DHEC and recommend that they create a special phlegm division to regulate this substance in public places such as restaurants, theaters, stores, sports complexes, etc. It would work like this: A citizen calls the DHEC Phlegm Division when a situation such as Barbara’s and mine occurs. A hazmat-suited, possibly jack-booted Phlegm Patrol officer arrives, attaches the ancient hacker/snorter suspect to phelgmometer and, should the danger level be indicated, tells him, “Sir, I am authorized to inform you that you are in violation of state mucous code #42367. You have two choices: 1) We hook you up to the lung pump and drain you of your phlegm buildup. Incidentally, I must warn you there is a possibility that your head and/or chest may cave in. 2) You vacate the premises immediately. After the word gets around, I think most of the offenders will gladly go for choice #2.

Confessions of a Comic Strip Reader

2006-01-03T16:14:00.000-05:00

March 1992
Confessions of a Comic Strip Reader
By Bob Coskrey

I feel a certain emptiness on days that for some reason I don’t get to read the comics section of the newspaper. This happens very seldom, usually only when I’m out of town and just don’t have an opportunity to pick up a newspaper.

Life is quite serious. And this is exactly why we must be able to laugh at it. I think the psychologists call it a coping mechanism. Sometimes you not only need to laugh, but also to escape, and for me, reading the comics accomplishes both of these things.

When I read the headlines about the economy’s decline, people killing each other over chia pets, and the prediction that by the year 3,000 the earth will be 1/3 Styrofoam, and 1/3 asphalt and 1/3 water (polluted), I immediately search for the comics section where I am able to find a brief solace, fantasizing that there really might be a 6-year-old boy with a stuffed toy tiger that comes to life as a regular-sized one with the assistance of the boy’s imagination.

Yes, “Calvin and Hobbes” is my all-time favorite comic strip. Calvin is no ordinary child or even human being for that matter. He apparently has the intellect of a Mensan, but his cognitive precocity is vitiated by his 6-year-old emotional development. Calvin’s behavior can easily be characterized as fiendish. In 70s argot, he would have been described as “Dennis the Menace on acid,” but his most salient quality is his extraordinary imaginative powers, which frequently lift him beyond the tenets of his reality-grounded adult world into his own fantastic futuristic place, where he may confront teacher/space creatures as the courageous space man, Spif. Or, he may step back in time to the Paleolithic Period, where his mother/tyrannosaurus may challenge him to pick up his clothes. In between time and space travels, he hands out with his stuffed tiger, Hobbes, who fluctuates between helping Calvin perpetrate demonic pranks on a little girl named Susie and serving as his superego, all this, of course, while he’s in his real tiger transmogrification.

My fascination with Calvin may, in fact, have something to do with the fact that he reminds me somewhat of myself at that age: an imaginative only child, who enjoyed playing by himself, maybe a little too much, the only difference being Calvin is a lot smarter and somewhat more felonious than I was. I even had a stuffed toy animal, a white rabbit in a yellow and blue Easter suit named Georgie. In fact, he’s still up in my attic, where he’s been waiting some 46 years for me to resume our parlous partnership. “Bob and Georgie.” I don’t think so. It just doesn’t have good ring to it.

Prior to Calvin and Hobbes’ arrival, I guess my favorite comic strip was “B.C.” with the “Wizard of Id” following closely. I especially like B.C. when it features the ants because it’s sort of fun to imagine insects with names like Claude and Shirley. Not only do I usually like the contents of these two cartoons, along with the likes of “Show,” “Garfield,” “Hagar the Horrible” and “Foxtrot,” but I also think that the deadpan expressions the artists put on their characters augment their punchlines.

Many of them also have their perpetual whipping boy figures such as B.C.’s peg-legged Wiley, Clumsy Carp and the Snake, Shoe’s Professor, The Wizard of Id’s king, Sir Rodney and the Spook, Garfield’s John Arbuckle, and Foxtrot’s feckless father character. It’s mildly uplifting to realize while I’m muzzle-loading my face with Nutri Grain Wheat cereal and bananas every morning that at least today I won’t be pulverized by a fat broad with a stick or eat swill in a cell, and that even if I went to Hell and was sentenced to watch Dick Van Patton commercials for all eternity, I would never experience the infinite boredom of John Arbuckle.

There has never been a more worthless, mean-spirited, philandering little libertine than “Andy Capp.” Yet oddly, I have the urge to have a couple of beers with him—probably at Big John’s. This does not speak favorably for my sensibilities, I’m afraid, but luckily I have been able to blame it on Andy’s composite similarities to some drinking buddies of the past. I am also intrigued, I will confess, by the mystery of his hat hiding his complete identity. Will we never see the rest of his face? Oh, I read some other comics, such as Doonesbury, Mark Trail and Blondie. But Doonesbury is really more of a satirical cartoon on American politics and lifestyle. Mark Trail is actually a nature lesson taught by a blatantly asexual forest ranger, who lives in the forest with his 250-year-old St. Bernard, Andy, and calls on his ironically named girlfriend Cherry, only when he has a hankerin’ for some home-cooked vittles. Blondie, a misnamed strip, whose bungling protagonist is actually Dagwood, Blondie’s husband, has been in the paper ever since I can remember, and I continue to read it, even though most of the time it’s not even funny, for the same reason that I still like to walk through a dimestore. I can remember my mother and other family members laughing at Dagwood’s goofball antics over 40 years ago. With everything else in life changing at a seemingly accelerated rate, as I grow older, Blondie is one of its few constants. The Bumstead family, dogs included, look just like they did in 1948. And even the humor is the same. It was simplistic then and it’s simplistic now. So I will continue to read this strip even if it gets worse. To repudiate it now would b like serving my nostalgic umbilical cord.

Of course, there have been numerous strips, some even worse than Blondie, by today’s more sophisticated standards, that have disappeared over the years: Maggie and Jigs, Terry and the Pirates, Mandrake the Magician, The Phantom, Mutt and Jeff, Dondi, Henry and Nancy. It’s just as well that they have all ceased to exist, since if they were still in print, I would be compelled to read them.

One that I do wish would return is the metaphysically hip and occasional risqué Bloom County, with its strange little neurotic penguin character, Opus, and psychotic Bill the Cat. There were times I didn’t understand it, but it was always interesting.

There are a lot of comics that I don’t read because I have no emotional linking with them, and I doubt I ever will, unless maybe some of them are still here 25 or 30 years from now.

While I’m at this, I may as well tell you that I read Mary Worth, which I think also means that when I retire, I will spend more of my afternoons watching soap operas. I feel a need to explain why I like to read this strip, because I am haunted by the feeling that no male in the Western Hemisphere even glances at it. I could lie and say that Mary reminds me of my late grandmother, but I can’t do that. I can only say that I haphazardly read her once about eight years ago and have kept up with the stories ever since. Maybe I should check my testosterone dipstick more frequently.

I have purposely saved one cartoon for last, The Far Side. And that is because it is so completely different from all the rest. What makes this creation so distinctive, of course, is author Gary Larsen’s nonpareil sense of humor. He’s sort of the Miles Davis of cartoon artists with a comic mind that seems to function in another dimension. Today’s offering is a perfect example: A large python relaxing on a TV-fronted sofa with an even larger pig stuck down his throat. He helplessly mutters, “damn!” to himself, as the telephone rings. Even his characters are extraordinary, with the children all looking like fat, buck-toothed, bespectacled little nerds, the women, cow-sized with beehive hairdos, and tacky 60s-looking eye glasses, and men all resembling Larry “Bud” Melman. I keep looking for information about Larsen, a brief bio in the newspaper, an interview, but I never see anything. I’m very curious about what sort of environment and or chromosomal interplay created this individual. A talk show appearance would be neat, too. What does he look like? Could he possibly be Larry “Bud” Melman?

And so, there you have it—from Calvin and Hobbes to Blondie to the Far Side—I have confessed my pitiable dependency on the comics. I have shown you that without my daily escape into Stripsville, life is just too oppressive, too onerous, too damned serious!

Dwindling readership: Get one, Bob!

Me (pitifully): A paper, you want me to get a paper?

Dwindling readership: No, a life!

Joke Busters

2006-01-01T15:57:00.000-05:00

Recently my wife, Barbara, and I went out to dinner at a local downtown restaurant, where we witnessed something that I have never seen in my 65 years of frequenting restaurants and, unfortunately, it was something extremely annoying. About 20 feet from our table was a long table of 15 or so people, who were merrily celebrating the birthday of an elderly gentleman (Yes, somebody in my demographic group). They were laughing, eating, and drinking, but they were certainly not loud of obtrusive whatsoever. About 20 minute into our meal, I noticed a large man in a coat and tie, who was sitting at a table with a woman about 6 feet from the celebrants, start up a conversation with a couple of these people. Eventually, I made out that the man had established that they had mutual friends and he started talking to the whole table, in general.

Nothing untoward so far, and I guess you’re wondering why I was eavesdropping instead of paying attention to my lovely wife. Well, I can answer that easily: I was paying attention to Barbara, and we both like to eavesdrop. Just kidding about the last part, however, one of the great pleasures of my life is people-watching. That’s one of the reasons I enjoy going to NYC. And from a planning for the future standpoint, it’s a skill that will pay big dividends in my on-rushing nursing home days when that may well be my only pleasure. Two nurses in conversation: “Hey, that old Mr. Coskrey gives me the creeps, always staring at me. God, or rather Satan, knows what he’s thinking.” “Yeah, and they ought to make him keep his hands on top of that blanket in his lap, not to mention when he spills stuff down there so I’ll have to clean him, then whispers in my ear, ‘Who’s your granddaddy?’”

But back to the people in the restaurant, who, incidentally, were so far away, I could only catch pieces of their conversations, and so what if I were trying to listen in, these characters might have been terrorists, and I was just attempting to do my part in protecting the security of the American people. I mean, we are told to be vigilant. What’s the alert code color now anyway? Oh, that’s right, there’s no election till November, so it’s probably something like taupe, mauve or Dick Cheney death-grey.

The annoying part came not from the group at the table, but from the couple, and it unfolded when the man asked the group if they would like to hear a good joke. Fortunately, I could not hear it, but whatever it was, it made the group laugh real hard. Then when he finished, he introduced the woman at his table, who may or may not have been his wife, and she then got up, blurted out her prolonged joke, which also elicited much guffawing. But the coup de God Damned grace was delivered by this man a few minutes later, and this performance was a little more audible, at least to the extent that I could tell that it was a joke about a preacher wish a severe stuttering problem. So this dolt is in the middle of a restaurant filled with people, poking fun at a person with a speech defect, and he’s really selling it a bit too hard, creating a sputtering sound somewhere between Porky Pig and Howard Stern Whackpacker, John the Stutterer. There are several reasons why I found this whole scene patently offensive (Yes, I’m afraid those people may actually have taken out a patent). The first being that there may have been people in the restaurant who had stuttering difficulties themselves. How could a person who just invoked the name of Howard Stern complain about insensitivity? Easy, if Howard Stern offends you, don’t but a Sirius Radio and listen to him, however I did and do, by the way. But if you’re a person with a stuttering condition sitting in a public eating establishment (I must make a note to find out why we have to refer to restaurants as “establishments”), and this idiot begins his tasteless piece of crap joke, you are at his mercy, unless maybe you want to get up and pin his tongue to the table with a steak knife a al Luca Brazzi’s hand being united with the bar in “Godfather II.”

Secondly, what kind of creeps would even want to tell jokes to strangers eating in a restaurant anyway? Are they frustrated grandchildren of vaudeville performers? Is it a neo-improv-cabaret movement? Are they culinary retarded offspring of famous chefs desperately seeking validation from the dining public through other means? Well, whatever the reason, I’m afraid they won’t be able to drink from my desiccated empathy pool.

Lastly, people who want to make their marks in life by being freelance fonts of jokes created by someone else I find excruciatingly tedious, not to mention aggravating. They’re the ones who can’t carry on a conversation or even make an initial greeting without injecting, “Hey, did you hear the one about—?” For God’s sake, you people, if you don’t have enough imagination to come up with one joke on your own, then just shut up or maybe just start telling your pitiful life story. That’s bound to get a few laughs.

I have swon an oath that these restaurant cabaristas must be stopped. So the next time I see one of these perfidious clowns start a performance, I will take the food-cluttered stage myself and exclaim, “Ladies and gents, have you heard the one about the obnoxious, pathetic, 300 lb. jokester who traveled from restaurant to restaurant trying to entertain diners with stolen material so stale it could make pigeons choke? No? Well, here he is.” And before he recovers and begins his routine, I leap forward and make a citizen’s arrest, charging the faux comic with plagiarizing the “Readers’ Digest” joke section: “By the powers bestowed upon me by my English Major diploma, I hereby arrest you,” at the same time, of course, flashing my Literary License. So, readers, if you happen to see one of these jerky jesters the next time you’re dining out, who you gonna call? Joke Busters!

Martha Stewart’s Cross-Dressing Twin Arthur’s Thanksgiving Holiday Hints

2005-12-05T16:25:00.000-05:00

December 1, 1997

Martha Stewart’s Cross-Dressing Twin Arthur’s Thanksgiving Holiday Hints
By Bob Coskrey

1. Turkey Stuffed with Laxatives: eliminates need for Tums or Maalox since you won’t have time to get indigestion. Large families may need to rent a port-o-let.
2. Green and Red Dyed Turkey: white meat/dark meat squabbles are history. Red and green bones and gristle leftovers will make wonderful Christmas tree ornaments.
3. Giblet-filled turkey piñata will add to the festive atmosphere.
4. Country Thanksgiving: Decorative and functional corn cob display in the bathroom.
5. A Frank Gifford Thanksgiving (A “Franksgiving”): An oversized turkey cooked in a special bra-shaped bag, which when opened, reveals two “beautiful breats.”
6. Dysfunctional Family Turkey: Boneless turkey meat molded into the shape of a turkey, can be eaten with hands, eliminating the possibility of family members using utensils or bones against one another at the annual Thanksgiving free-for-all.
7. Politically Correct First Thanksgiving Day Reenactment (“Laughing Last’s Revenge”): Participants dressed as pilgrims display symbolic forks tied to their tongues, while fictional Native Americans, Chief Laughing Last and his hot-headed brother Kicking White butt, sniggeringly sign treaties with disappearing ink, make double-entendre “beaver pelt” jokes, not fathomed by the pilgrims, and accept cheap trinkets from their dinner guests, while muttering eye-rolling “yeah, rights” at each other.
8. Turkey with Cross-Dressing: To discourage the usual male vegetation around the televised football game, guys who choose to watch must wear bras and panties and read scripted game commentary such as: 1) “Oh my, those pants are just too, too tight—yessss!”; 2) “He’s the best wide receiver I’ve ever seen—yessss!”; and 3) “Well, I guess I’m stuck with the locker room interview again—all those big, sweaty men’s bodies—yessss!” These guys will be relegated to eating turkey backs only—yessss!”
9. Thanksgiving Day Floats on Flatulence: Turkey stuffing composed of pinto beans and cabbage produces “gasly” results—enough methane to lift 200 pounds plus humans aloft. The more one eats, the longer one can hover like a miniature Macy’s float above the dinner table. Caution: No Smoking.
10. Thanksgiving Mental Health Day: Family members are sent precautionary invitations, reading “you are hereby invited to attend a socially mandated thrusting together of often very disparate people, many of whom have nothing in common but enmity and DNA, with probably unhealthy or dangerous psychological effects.

I absolve myself from the responsibility for anyone else’s well-being.
Love, Grandma

Senior Citizenship – At What Cost?

2005-11-16T17:26:00.000-05:00

I became 50 years old this year. So what, I retorted defiantly. I've got lots of impressive company: Woody Allen, Jane Fonda, Dustin Hoffman, Jack Nicklaus, Robert Redford, Thomas Wolfe, to mention but a few. I remember when we were all in our 30 and 40s together. We got through those decades without any problems. Big deal. So now we're just going to slip on through this one. Nobody will even notice.

Except the AARP (American Association of Retired Persons). They sent me a letter and a membership application a month before my birthday. My close friends probably don't even know my age. How did this group find out? I guess Woody and Jane and the guys got theirs too. I don't even have to retire—just be 50. Only $5 per year. Great benefits: Senior Citizen discounts on drugs, motels movies and so on. Practically speaking, it makes sense to join.

Never! I don't mind being 50, 60 or even 70, but I'm not going to register myself as a "senior citizen" because some group of quidnuncs arbitrarily selected age 50 as a qualifier for what it perceives to be the primordial populace. What does that ambiguous term mean, anyway? Senior to whom? Even a two-year-old child can be a senior citizen. After all, he's senior to a one-year-old and why must I be a citizen? If I were Charlie Watts (The Rolling Stones) in the US on a temporary work permit would I be ineligible? But, believe me, I know the group the AARP is referring to, and I'm not ready to join them yet, nor are many others over 50.

I'm not ready and neither are Woody and the others. Maybe one day I'll rise that prunce juice fueled tour bus to Miami, but not this year. If the AARP knew anything about me at all except my age, it would not have extended me this lefthanded invitation to antiquity.

Surely, if they were aware that I run 20 miles a week, watch Arsenio Hall, David Letterman, and "In Living Color," eschew "The Tonight Show," read and look at Playboy without experiencing cardiac symptoms, can facilely expound on the significance (or lack thereof) of entities such as David Byrne, Sinead O'Conner (and pronounce her name correctly), White Snake, Ton Loc and Dennis Hopper, and never wear wide striped shirts, checkered pants (simultaneously) at armpit level, and white, crepe-soled shoes, they would immediately retract the offer.

I will admit to being cognizant that, statistically, I may only have about 22 more years and I confess to a new predilection for "relative longevity purchasing": avoid buying items such as cars or major appliances that may last longer than I will, and being sure any trees I procure are very fast growing but, on the other hand, limiting my acquisition of pets to only those who will probably transcend my existence (hence, my new sea tortoise and parrot).

But then, this behavior, I feel, is simply an example of sensibility, and as long as it does not affect my taste in shoes, my immunity to senioritis is still viable.

And quite obviously, the AARP has never seen my wife, who although she is within a couple of years of their magic number, exhibits all the physical and mental attributes of youth—though she did recently frighten the daylights out of me by lingering a bit too long (coincidentally) by the blue-rinse shelf in a cosmetic department. We will never be the Poster Couple for the National Liverspot Society and we'll never have our names on our mailboxes, "The Coskreys, Bob and Barbara," (it doesn't even sound right—it would have to be something like Gus and Myrtle or Ed and Thelma). We also have made a blood pact to never own a dog smaller than a large cat or that in any way at all resembles either a mouse with a thyroid problem or Don Knotts.

I don't think that the AARP would feel comfortable at all with my seasoned, yet decidedly hip, image any more than I would be at east trying to adjust myself to their somewhat sterile one.

In fact, I have a very uneasy sensation that if, through torture, or possibly as a result of brain damage, I did become a member, the AARP would be compelled to use all its powers and fiendish devices to try to revamp me in its own image or risk public mortification.

I would awake one bursitic morning more concerned with the universal blight or irregularity than the recession of my sexual drive, which has become permanently jammed in "sexual park," or even the less terminal, but more implicative, "sexual neutral." After watching the video tape of last night's "Golden Girls" (it comes on too late for me now) I ease into my 1953 Studebaker and immediately realize there is an object blocking my view of the windshield—the steering wheel. Apparently, I have shrunk six or eight inches since yesterday. No problem. To my amazement, I find that simply by slumping down in the seat a little, I can see well enough to drive by looking beneath the steering wheel. I am compelled by an inexorable urge to go to a cafeteria (even though it's only 10:30 a.m.). Realizing that my one-way ticket to fossil city has already been punched, I feel that I must take advantage of any urge, no matter what the consequences, so I'm off. Several hours and 15 miles later, I cautiously approach the mall, with a long line or horn-blowing, screaming young people behind me. What in the Hell are they making that racket for? "Shut up you mindless whippersnappers," I yell out the window, quoting my hero almost verbatim (Gabby Hayes in "Riders of the Purple Sage," 1940).

Being a senior citizen, I am also conscious of my need—more really a responsibility, I guess—to plan ahead (the old whatever-you-call-it…memory…takes a little vacation sometimes), so knowing that I eventually have to take a left to pull into the mall parking lot, I have diligently kept my left turn signal on ever since I left home. God, these young people drive like morons. You ought to see the piles of wrecked cars behind me. After finishing my Senior Citizen's Special of the Day—cream of roughage—I amble on over to one of the mall benches, where I sit a spell, watch the pretty young girls walk by and try to remember why I'm doing it—must be some sort of evolutionary vestigial behavior. Some female friends of my son spot me and come over, one of them making my morning complete with her "You're certainly remarkable for your age" remark. "I'm only 50 years old, you 'Sally Sleep Around'," I think to myself. "Where did I get that 19th century epithet?" As I leave I hear them whispering, "Wow, a senior citizen. Should he be out like this by himself?"

"No, he ought to be in a home strapped to a bed. Did you see how he was looking at us, the dirty old creep?"

Could people actually be saying these things about me? Maybe I misunderstood. I stopped in the mall hearing aid center. My hearing was okay, I just needed my ear hair trimmed.

Remembering might right turn into the driveway, I concentrate on keeping the turn signal blinking appropriately and arrive home just in time to catch the final six holes of a golf tournament. My wife is busy in the kitchen putting up preserves. "It's me, Momma," I rasp in an unintended mimicry of Walter Brennan. "Man, this senior citizenry is serious business," I think.

My wife responds, "Okay, Poppa, (muttering under her breath: So what, you lifeless sack of flatulence)."

"I'll show you, you old bag," I think. "I'll find your senior citizen card and tear it to pieces."

Calming myself, I continue to watch the golf, until two straight birdies by Lee Trevino precipitate rapid heart palpitations and I put in my "Lawrence Welk—Raw" video.

But since I have not joined the AARP, and have no intention of doing so, these things will never befall me, because Woody, Jane, Dustin, Jack, Robert, Tom and I are dealing with the decades on our own terms. Oh sure, we'll grow old, and we'll probably not even do it gracefully—but perhaps now and then, graciously, sometimes gratefully, often gratingly, and more times than not, gratuitously. However, we will not do it burdened with the unjust stigma of "senior citizens," but as free-lance, non-affiliated, time-ripened members of society, and if we're forced by the BHC (Bureau of Human Chronology) to register our names it will be as age-neutralized citizens. To all who qualify, come join us!

My Name is Bob and I’m a Sports Fan

2005-10-01T15:55:00.000-04:00

Being an ardent sports fan is, at best, a mixed blessing. When your team wins, you are adrift on clouds of Euphoria. It’s as if you hit the game-winning homerun or caught the deciding overtime touchdown pass (for you desperate Clemson fans), but when it loses, the dejected seeps into your bones. It’s as if you not only struck out with the bases loaded and lost the game, but your bat slipped out of your hand and hit one of those Make-A-Wish kids, the one whom you told, “I’m going to hit one out for you tonight, Jimmy.” It’s as if you not only couldn’t hold onto the potentially game-winning touchdown pass in the end zone, but that you tumbled wildly out of bounds, crashing into the team’s mentally retarded water boy, who’s also the coach’s son, rendering him temporarily unconscious.

Realizing the vicissitudes of athletic fandom in my mid-teens, I decided to totally eschew any familial or geographic loyalties, and jump on the bandwagon of proven winners, and I conscientiously followed this plan with a few notable exceptions. For an NBA team, I chose the Boston Celtics, who were in the process of establishing their dynasty. For an NFL team, I started off watching the Washington Redskins, not because of their success, since they had none in those days, but because they were the only game in town in Charleston in the mid-50s, but I didn’t make my final selection till Johnny Unitas and the Baltimore Colts exploded onto the gridiron in the late 50s. My MLB team was automatic, the New York Yankees, the most successful sports organization of all time. And once I had made these life-altering decisions, I “stayed the course” and yes, just like W, I did so even when a team continued to have seemingly endless losing seasons, because I had faith that they would one day be winners again. Faith-based team support, I guess you could call it and, in the case of the Colts, they haven’t made a trip to the Super Bowl since 1971. So keep the faith, we’ll be out of Iraq in 34 years at the most.

The few notable exceptions to the above selection plan occurred in college sports. I attended The Citadel as a member of the corps for a fun-filled year, and then returned to get a graduate degree 33 years later, but I have never been a serious fan of either the football or basketball teams for obvious reasons: They are perennial losers. On the other hand, I have been a frequent supporter of their baseball team, for the opposite reason. That is until the College of Charleston, where I got my undergraduate degree, fielded a team, which is now superior to The Citadel’s. And I am also a fan of the College of Charleston basketball team, well, since the John Kresse/Tom Herrion eras, since they are consistent winners. In the 50s and 60s, the Maroons, as they were called then, were not taken very seriously in the collegiate basketball world, for two reasons in particular: 1) Half the team didn’t know how to play basketball. The coach could have grabbed some people randomly out of the stands and gotten better production. 2) Only about half the team, at game-time, was sober, not always including the coach. Although I knew and enjoyed drinking with many of the team’s members, often just prior to the game or at halftime, I could never motivate myself to hitch on to a team’s bandwagon, while half were falling off a wagon of a different kind. The singular example of my becoming a serious supporter of a team for familial reasons was when a cousin was a cadet at West Point in the late 40s and early 50s, and I became a fan of their football team. I’m still a fan today, although I’ve had little to cheer about since the Davis/Blanchard teams following WWII.

But without a doubt, my most egregious transgression of sports fan loyalty occurred in 1985 at a Clemson pre-game rally, during which I transmogrified from a 30-year USC supporter to an orange-inundated, Howard’s Rock-fondling, Gamecock ass-kicking Tiger fan. As anyone who’s lived in this state for a few weeks or more knows, each state resident is mandated to choose by his or her 13th birthday whether he or she will become a Clemson or a USC fan. I had selected, though with minimal enthusiasm, to support the Gamecocks somewhere in the mid-50s. My reasons were somewhat nebulous, though one of them was definitely not recognition of a prolonged record of athletic achievement. My decision was based on factors such as: 1. It’s the eponymously named state university, despite not even knowing the meaning of “eponymously” at the time. 2. Most of my peers were Gamecock fans. 3. All those Clemson people were a bunch of yokels, while the Gamecocks, regardless of pruriently referring to themselves as “Cocks” every now and then, were urbane sophisticates.

The transformation was instantaneous. I remember looking out over a stadium rocking with 40,000 orange-togged Clemsonphiles. There was an orange band blasting “Tiger Rag,” and orange, white, and purple floats, and this was in a small country town, the day before the game. I was very impressed, to say the least. And I began to think about Clemson football history. A long record of athletic achievement with enormous fan support, but most significant of all, a national championship just four years ago. Next I compared this to Carolina, and the contest was over: No national championship, a pathetic record stretching back to the previous century, and faithful but long-suffering fans whose waking and sleeping thoughts are: “Wait till next year!” And finally came the realization that USC did not even meet my own selection criterion: It was not a proven winner. I must also disclose that there were also non-athletic influences for this change in the form of doltish administration personnel in the state agency for whom I worked at the time, who were all whacked-out Gamecock devotees, and I found it increasingly difficult to have anything in common with them beyond sharing the same employer, which was bad enough. Or to put it less politely, it gave me borderline orgasmic spasms to see the Tigers beat the living (or otherwise) crap out of the Cocks practically every year, with the added bonus of imagining these feckless saps taking turns pulling each other away from an open three-story window after each soul-grinding loss. Is there a possibility that if Steve Spurrier turns Carolina into a legitimate winner, I would reverse my decision? No way. In the first place, Spurrier’s very good, but he’s not a miracle worker. And in the second place, which incidentally is probably the best he can hope for, there’s something a little absurd about pulling for a team that has a chicken for a mascot.

As I end this, the Yankees have been knocked out of the playoffs by the Angels, the Colts are 4-0, and the Tigers are 3-3, after 5 very close games, but my disappointment over their unimpressive record so far is mitigated by the Cocks’ abysmal 2-3 performace and a wellspring of schadenfreude.

Such is the life of a sports fan. Thank God I don’t take real life that seriously.

Crawford Cowboy

2005-09-01T14:24:00.000-04:00

As anyone can see, our president has been doing “hard work” for the American people, and sometimes just needs to take a little vacation, oh, about 10 times a year, at least. His favorite place to go, as we all know, is the dusty, sun-baked town of Crawford, Texas, where all he does to relieve the pent-up stress from all the “hard work,” we’re told, is clear brush—for 2 to 5 weeks at a shot—so I figure that by now he must have cleared away an area big enough to build a small strip mall or host the “Crawford Cowboy Games.” The “Crawford Cowboy Games,” as you are probably unaware, are a series of events, mostly competitive, created for the purpose of keeping George W. occupied, so “Uncle Dick” Cheney can concentrate on running the government. The games are held at W’s ranch, the “Lyin’ W,” and they allow the leader of the free world to do much more than simply clear brush.

Some of the games are actually skits, but whether they are dramatic or competitive, they must all have the quality of being able to hold the president’s attention span, which is rumored to be somewhere between a Jack Russell’s and a Border Collie’s. The first event is always humorous and, in fact, is usually the same one each time, except for the interruption of the circus coming through town in 2002, when W pitched a fit till they took him. The skit consists of some of the staff acting out the campfire scene from “Blazing Saddles,” with Lewis “Scooter” Libby having the biggest role. Libby has, to his credit, always taken his part very seriously, assuming the sobriquet, Lewis “Scooter the Poohter Libby’s Pork ‘n Beans” Libby. The president usually then yells out some trenchantly comedic remark, not disappointing this year with his, “Hey, Poohter, you better stay away from that fire. Talk about your WMD!”

The events/scenes always have a western flavor, of course, and another favorite is a shoot-out in which Andrew “Bottom” Card is caught cheating W in a card game and the commander-in-chief gets to challenge the “low down varmint” to a duel, using his prized line, “Bring it on,” which naturally gets him pretty hopped up. But instead of six shooters at 20 paces, it’s a quick-draw bird-flipping contest, with thinner being the one who can not only flip the bird from a hand-at-the-side position, but also the first to retract his middle finger. W always wins this easily, which is no surprise to those of us who say him exercise this skill on reporters on TV, then modestly deny it through Scott McClelland.

Another of W’s favorite scenes is Jack Palance’s Academy Award acceptance for his supporting role in “City Slickers.” Initially, they couldn’t find a staffer who could match Palance’s raw masculinity, but eventually it was Karen Hughes to W’s rescue again, plus she was the only who could do a push-up, much less a one-handed one.

Of course, W is dressed in a cowboy outfit the entire time he’s at the ranch, including an enormous 10 gallon hat that he insists on wearing even when he rides his bike. This has, unfortunately, led to his falling off, even more than usual, and it is the reason that Karl Rove (“Rover the Drover”) must run alongside, yelling, “Get along, little Georgie!” As W likes to quip, “Old Karl sure make for a nice, soft landing.”

Donald “Ropin’ Rummy” Rumsfeld, to W’s delight, always wins the Homespun Epithet contest with his bottomless repertoire of barnyard billingsgate. W has been known to stand up and clap enthusiastically when Rummy unearths such ear-scorchers as “kit and caboodle,” “gall durnit,” “jumpin’ jiminy,” “Jehosaphat,” and Jeff Gannon’s favorite, “by crackie!” The only downside to the game is that every year someone has to explain to W what the word “epithet” means.

A few very special outsiders are invited and, of course, are sworn to secrecy. One of a very small number of regular returnees is “Cowboy” Tom Delay “who can always be counted on to perform his crowd-pleasing ‘Lobbyist-ropin’ act.”

He may have actually been topped by this month’s invitee, Bob “Bullsh*t” Novak, who, along with Karl Rove, appeared as the two-headed “Scourge of the Democrats,” “Ro-vak.”

Scott McClelland’s special guest, Jeff Gannon, wowed the Neocons this year with his “Rough-and-ready Calf-ropin’” contest, which entails Jeff, as a leather-clad cowpoke lassoing scantily-clad buckaroos by their calves, then branding them as his “Bunk House Buddies.” This somewhat risqué spectacle, even by liberal standards, prompted a nonplussed W to ask, “Uncle Dick, suppose the liberal media find out about this?” He was immediate placated by Cheney’s crooked-mouthed reply, “Son, what goes on in Crawford, stays in Crawford.”

Each year, the festivities wind down with an excited but weary W appearing as George “Walker, Texas Ranger Bush,” who proceeds to Karate kick sand-stuffed dummies of enemies list personalities such as Michael Moore and Jon Stewart. Inevitably, he gets a little too rambunctious, and almost always ends up running around frenetically doing air kicks and shouting, “I’m gonna hunt you down, Osama. You wanted dead or alive. Gonna smoke you out!” “Watch out, cowboy boots on the ground.” This year, he boldly added, “Well, I think I’m gonna go home and saddle up Laura, heh, heh, heh.” Which prompted the games abript but typical demise as W was sent screaming into “41’s” comforting lap by the family’s “Boss of all Bosses – Ma Bush” (Also referred to secretly by her grandchildren as W as in Washington, George that is.) as she scolds, “Little George, shut up and drink your sarsaparilla. It’s time to play Commander-in-chief again. Put on your flight suit. Uncle Dick needs a rest.”

W (whiningly): “Aw, gee, Ma, that’s hard work.”

Solving Mount Pleasant’s Traffic Dilemma In a Round-About Way

2005-08-22T18:36:00.000-04:00

September 1998

Solving Mount Pleasant’s Traffic Dilemma In a Round-About Way
By Bob Coskrey

Looking at that intriguing, yet daunting, round-about construction on Mathis Ferry Road, which appears to be, at least, one of the ways Mt. Pleasant plans to sovle its rapidly worsening traffic problems, started me thinking about some solutions of my own, and I think I may have hit upon one: By controlling the quality of the people driving into Mt. Pleasant, we can automatically decrease the quantity.

With a system of directional signs at Mt. Pleasant’s three entrances, the Silas Pearman Bridge, the Mark Clark expressway, and Highway 17 North, followed by a series of the aforementioned round-abouts, we could not only control our driver quality but perhaps even improve it.

First of all, of course, we need to establish some standards for the type of people we want driving through our still-barely-hanging-on-to-the-word-pleasant community. On the other hand, that sounds too authoritarian, and I would end up by excluding myself, besides it’s easier and a lot more fun just to tell you whom we don’t want to be driving on our hallowed highways and roads. It’s also very convenient that I already have a prepared list of drivers identifiable by their behavior or sometimes just their appearance that I have complied over my 40 tortuous years of driving, and it is my contention that these kinds of motoring miscreants are most likely to cause traffic difficulties of one type or another.

The following is a short list of the people I feel we should target:

1. Those with any kind of personalized license plates, including those ego-inflated politicians with their emblazoned “Number Ones,” not to mention the self-important members of such vital entities of the state cosmetology board.
2. Men whose machismos are bolstered by driving around with their left arms hanging out of their windows.
3. Men 50 years of age or older driving convertibles.
4. People with obnoxious, plain stupid, or just way too many damned decals on their vehicles.
5. People with multiple dents in their font bumper, a clear indication of a tailgating personality disorder.
6. People with rear window decorations made from plastic 6-pack bolders or a mass of stuffed animals.
7. Drivers with dogs on their laps.
8. People driving Camaros or Corvettes.
9. People too short to see over their steering wheels and make no attempt to resolve the problem.
10. People who drive around constantly talking on their cell phones.
11. Men who continually observe life’s mundanities out the side window instead of watching where they’re going.
12. Last but not least, the proprietors of fuzzy dice.

How will it work?

When these individuals arrive at our entrances, they will be halted, identified, and directed by qualified police to lanes marked specifically for the above categories of driving deviants, and because we don’t want to have too many lanes, they will be shared by more than one category, naturally being careful not to create mixtures of mutually antagonistic groups, such as Camaro driver and people unable to see over their steering wheels, or the Confederate flag decal displayers and the “Free James Brown” ones.

The lanes will lead to the specially designed round-abouts, which will not only utilize their intrinsic ability to confuse and befuddle, but being augmented with electronically controlled revolving lanes, which will spin vehicles several dizzying times before shunting them off to “Driver Rehabilitation Centers,” where they will be directed into huge lots by female parking attendants wearing orange traffic cone bras over their shirts and male attendants wearing orange traffic cone dunce caps and perhaps one other strategically placed smaller one (an attempt to bring a bit of levity to what could become an abysmally sobering experience).

From that point, they will follow signs to building marked for each category of unqualified driver, where they will receive on-the-lot counseling or some other mode of behavior or appearance rectifying the situation.

For example, those with personalized license plates will receive counseling to raise their limp egos to the point they won’t need to rely on obnoxious pronouncements, such as “Missy’s Miata” just to make it from one day to the next; or they may even be asked to use a transitional tag, which reads, “I am secure in the knowledge that no one cares who I am.”

15 Reasons The Citadel can still be proud

2005-07-21T13:22:00.000-04:00

1. At the school spelling bee, everyone was able to spell misogyny.
2. New “Brown Shirts” look really spiffy.
3. The cadet who threatened to cut out the heart of one of the female cadts recently received a call of encouragement from OJ Simpson.
4. E Company staff showed “90s man sensitivity” by rejecting gasoline as a hazing fuel in favor of more humane fingernail polish remover.
5. It dispelled wimpy Southern Gentleman stereotype by “kickin’ some female butt.”
6. Administration demonstrated extraordinary insight, when in order not to confuse the female cadets, it changed the term “dress” parade to “fancy uniform” parade.
7. Professor Gingrich will be teaching Advanced Hazing 301 again this fall.
8. Once South Carolina has seceded from the Union, Governor Beasley has promised to let the cadets fire on Fort Sumter again—or at least at New York Times reporters.
9. School has single-handedly allowed Charleston to overtake New York in violent crime statistics.
10. Proved emphatically that ectomorphic white guys can “diss” “hos” as well as those gangsta rappers.
11. Self-nominated for Martin Luther King Peace Award for having gone over three years without having a black student shot on campus.
12. Has saved the state a lot of money by instituting controversial “Designated Hazer” rule.
13. Will be the primary film site of Pat Conroy movie sequel “The Louts of Discipline.”
14. Showed spunkiness with adoption of new school slogan “We Bad.”
15. E Company cadets didn’t let pushy females disrupt “Shower Room Disco Night.”

BONUS: Corps claim that “Our coaches can out-drink anybody’s coaches.”

Originally published August 1997

The Answer’s (Not) Leaf Blowin’ in the Wind

2005-07-16T18:39:00.000-04:00

September 1999
The Answer’s (Not) Leaf Blowin’ in the Wind
By Bob Coskrey

If I were to list the 100 most ridiculous invention of the last 25 years—and don’t worry, I’m not going to—but theoretically, if I were, at the very top of the list would be the leaf blower.

Whenever I see someone using one, it never fails to amuse me, very often to point of uncontrolled, sometimes inappropriate laughter.

Why do I feel this way? Because of the machine’s basic, nonsensical function: it moves unwanted material from the user’s property to someone else’s property.

If you cut down a 60-foot oak three and, using a tractor, dragged it from your yard to your neighbor’s, do you think he or she might be at least minimally displeased with your actions?

It’s a rhetorical question, of course, but you would be well-advised to check out whether the neighbor has a gun collection before attempting anything like this.

So then, why do people allow their neighbors to blow all their grass clippings, leaves, and miscellaneous other bits of trash into their yards? Simple. Because all they have to do is blow it into another neighbor’s yard, along with their own unwanted material.

The next logical question wrenched from this totally irrational scenario is, where does all this stuff go? Well, unless a neighbor, without benefit of a leaf blower, breaks the chain, this landlubber’s flotsam and jetsam keeps getting moved about ad infinitum. It could even end up back on the property of origin one day.

A slightly different event happens with commercial property. Dirt, trash, animal droppings, etc., are simply blown into the street, where it is hoped, I guess, to be washed by rainwater into drains, but of course what actually occurs is that most of it gets blown by the wind or passing vehicles onto someone else’s property or, as with the homeowners, back onto the property of origin.

Now, you must admit, this whole thing is quite ludicrous. It’s sort of like “The Emperor’s New Clothes” story. Everyone just pretends that they’re doing a splendid job with their leaf blowers and simply ignores the fact that nothing is actually being cleaned up, it’s merely being redistributed.

And what makes this whole self-sustaining bizarre world even more absurd is that the leaf blower operators themselves carry out their duties with such purposeful solemnity. On the homeowner’s level, these guys stand there blasting everything that’s not fastened down to the earth into the street or the neighbor’s yard, not once looking up from their assignments.

I would expect that if a female walked by and made a laudatory comment, the response would be something similar to “doin’ muh job ma’am,” followed by tipping his cap, if he had one.

The commercial operators are even more ridiculous, since they often wear uniforms and with these menacing machines strapped on their backs like flame-throwers, or sometimes resembling the team from “Ghostbusters,” these armies of the absurd attack parking lots and sidewalks with a futile vengeance.

I know that if these things had been prevalent 25 years ago, Mel Brooks or Monty Python would have made movies around them. In fact, occasionally upon seeing these regiments of ludicrous landscapers, I imagine them as jousting knights or castle storming medieval soldiers wielding their wicked wind machines.

And I haven’t even mentioned another inanity: that these people are actually paid for this, sort of like hiring someone to featherdust the Sphinx.

What do we do about this, my fellow Americans? And I limit my audience to Americans because we seem to be the only ones who purchase these kinds of goof ball items, just as we gobbled up moon rocks, hermit crabs, mood rings, lava lamps, and those grotesque little trolls. And I rank the leaf blower with these other awful artifacts, not just on their mutual goofiness, but because they also share another characteristic: total uselessness.

Do we continue this neurotic charade till one day we discover we have such a leaf, grass, and trash buildup that we can’t go outdoors?

I’m sure you’re growing impatient awaiting my remedy for correcting this situation, so I’ll get right to it.

I have two recommendations. We can all decide on which one might be more effective.

My first one is to make the leaf flower into a leaf vacuum with a large bag attachment, of course.

This way you’re not simply blowing away the same leaves, grass, etc., until they day you pass on, or as we centipede centurions say, become one with the mole crickets. Instead, you can create a mulch pile or put it in lawn bags. Like normal people.

The only possible drawback I see would be if some of these young horny leaf blower—I mean leaf sucker—operators might want to, er, “experiment,” as they say, as young hormonally saturated guys are inclined to do. Then we might have an epidemic of severe “groin pulls” or even worse, although many of the latter could find work in the exciting field of harem guarding.

Of course, we could only pray that our supercharged president might get hold of one, which he more than likely would nickname “the Monica.” From the beneficial perspective, it might just straighten out his Peyronies disease problem and Hillary could concentrate on her Senate race. But I digress.

My second recommendation is that we all keep our leaf blowers just as they are, but that we get seriously organized. Rather than continuing this endless cycle of reblowing your own trash, we make sure that the unwanted material moves towards one egress point out of your subdivision, neighborhood, or business district, then out of your city and county, state, and finally out of the country. You would have winding phalanxes of leaf blower operators stretched out along highways and roads moving everything along in one direction. We would not want to pollute the oceans with it, so we’d have to decide on either Canada or Mexico as its final destination. Frankly, I think Mexico is the more viable option, since we might have a little more leverage, considering the NAFTA agreement. Basically we tell them:

“If you want our factories then you’ve got take our leaves, grass, and assorted trash.” If they refuse, we simply build a huge mulch and trash wall all along the Mexican border to keep out all the illegal aliens.

My God. I’m starting to sound like Pat Buchanan, so let me close with a benign third suggestion for the use of a leaf blower.

The amazing hurricane dissipater. The next time a hurricane is heading for us, everybody heads to the coast packing his leaf blower. When its winds are a few hundred yards away, everyone, on cue, flips on his machine and the storm is blasted back into the sea. In fact, if each state cooperated, we could blow the whole thing up to Canada, just so Mexico wouldn’t think we were singling them out.

Well, I guess it’s true what they say about good old American ingenuity, even if I do say so myself.

Please let me know which remedy you favor. And although I don’t even own a leaf blower, as a concerned citizen I want to do my civic duty.

Unfortunately, I will be unable to get this program cranked up right away. I’ve got urological surgery coming up next month. I had this really freak accident with an Electrolux.

Biblioflatus Antiquus

2005-07-01T16:03:00.000-04:00

Recently, my wife’s nephew, who works in a store that sells used books, told us another interesting story about one of the many characters who frequent his place. Incidentally, the term “used” when paired with “book” doesn’t seem to be a good fit. I mean, if someone lends you a book and you simply read it and treat it with a reasonable amount of care, you don’t really use it as you would a pencil or a lawn mower, and it gets returned in the same condition that it was received. In fact, if someone wants to read a book that belongs to another, they don’t ever say, “May I use your book?” It’s “May I borrow your book?” Although you could make a strong case for a guy, if he’s forthright, asking to “use” another guy’s Playboy or Penthouse. And perhaps, this is the origin of the term, “second-hand.” Being aware of this important nuance, back in my hormones-run-amok days, I never let any of my friends “borrow” from my vast, “first hand” Playboy collection.

But back to my wife’s nephew, Tom’s story: It’s not surprising at all for a used book store to have oddball customers, but the particular behavior, in this case, was, to me, anyway, somewhat astonishing. In brief, he has a problem with the geriatric set using the store as an unofficial flatulence zone. And it’s not just an occasional occurrence. There appears to be a sizable sample of seniors with this condition, which I have labeled “Biblioflatus Antiquus” or BFA, to save space. To dispel any hint of ageism, I asked Tom if this condition had expressed itself in any members of a younger group, and he answered and unswerving, “No, they’re all in your age group or above;” a reply eliciting a reflexive “Well, you can be assured I would never do anything such as that, not even in the magazine section of Kmart.” After allowing me sufficient time to contemplate the guilt-tinged inappropriateness of my outburst, Tom calmly continued with his tale.

Interestingly, he said these people never evince any recognition of their gaseous gaffes, but simply continue to look through the books or even participate in the sales transactions, showing no reaction whatsoever. Of course, my inevitable reaction to this phenomenon was to ask, “Why is this happening.”

Initially I asked Tom was the evidence both olfactory and auditory, thinking that if it were olfactory only that perhaps it may be a combination of old book mustiness and old people mustiness, having experienced both. The former I actually enjoy, since it reminds me of my early youth when I would spend hours in my grandmother’s attic perusing ancient journals so laden with dust that I was occasionally distracted by a coughing silverfish. The old people odor, which happily my grandmother did not emanate due to the strategic use of “Lilly of the Valley” bath powder, is an essence that wafts pungently from many of our senior citizens and always triggers in my mind the funereal phrase, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and, possibly, is the first indication that that process is already beginning. Tom states that most of the time he is fortunate enough to receive an aural warning before the methane miasma pervades his territory, so we know we’re dealing with the real thing here.

Pointing out to Tom that no one should have to endure this vile sort of treatment, I suggested a couple of ways of dealing with it: 1) Just accept it, but also purchase some remedial devices, e.g., a gas mask (just say you’re conducting a terrorist chemical attack drill) or place a large industrial fan behind you; 2) attack the problem head-on/know your enemy. Have some fliers places on the sales counter that read as follows: “Biblioflatus Antiquus, a devastating medical condition that causes involuntary flatulence in used book store environments strikes 3 in 10 senior citizens. Don’t be afraid. You are not alone. The BFA support group meets every Monday at 8:00 in this bookstore. Please not that even though we will meet initially in the store, the meeting itself will be conducted outside for obvious reasons.”

At least, this way you’ll be able to identity all these individuals, I pointed out to Tom, that he, naturally, would be the group leader. He could then begin the group therapy that might eventually uncover the reasons for this devastating affliction. And even if this is not possible, perhaps reasonable modes of control might evolve such as self-administered or group wedgies or the ingesting of perfume-laced flatus-inducing foods such as Mexican cuisine, beans, or cabbage. Last but not least, should all this fail, you’ll now know who these perps are, which will enable you to utilize the Bush town meeting strategy and ban them from the store.

Feeling all my methods could be a bit too draconian, I finally suggested that Tom try to obtain a book I had just recently come across and display it conspicuously. It’s called—and this I’m not making up—“Cutting the Cheese or A Cultural History of Farting.”

Fortunately, Tom never takes anything I say or write seriously—and neither should you.

Scared Witless

2005-06-01T15:51:00.000-04:00

I can remember being scared of the dark when I was a kid, to the point that whenever I would walk into my bedroom, I would always be afraid there was “someone or something,” as they liked to say in those old grade B movies, behind the door. Unfortunately, the light switch was not on the wall near the door, so I had to walk into the “Chamber of Doom” before I was able to flick it on, and I was so certain I would be accosted by some blood-curdling apparition that I would actually see an amorphous white flash (Incidentally, that was my nickname when I played halfback in high school in 1957) shoot out from behind the door every single time I walked by it. Hallucination? Only time would tell.

Of course, after I frantically turned on the light, everything was just fine. Until it wsa time to go to bed, then I felt that “someone or something” was now under my bed, but I could easily fend it off simply by covering myself up completely with my blanket and, at the same time, making sure neither of my hands or legs was hanging over the side of the bed. If nature called during the night, I could protect myself from Satan’s minions by wrapping myself up in the same demon-proof covering, even though I wouldn’t see where I was going.

My feeling that these coverings were impervious to the assaults of Asmodeus and the like led to a game I would play with my cousins on the screened porch or my grandmother’s beach house in which we would take turns covering ourselves with five or six layers of heavy bedclothes and walk about bumping into anything in our way. Inevitably, we would hit walls, trip over our chairs or beds, and topple over onto the floor like one of those people in the giant wiener suits after being whacked on the head by a just-kidding-around baseball player, with the six inches of cloth protecting us from injury. It was amazing, really, for even when we would fall onto the corner of one of the iron-framed cots, there would be no pain or injury.

Incidentally, one ponders, or more accurately, I do, about the term “bedclothes.” Why would a bed have clothes? And if it does, then are table cloths “table clothes,” slipcovers on sofas “sofa clothes,” and doilies (I’m dating myself, a phrase that sounds like a prelude to self-gratification) on any kind of furniture “furniture clothes”? Please forgive the Wal-Mart Seinfeld Stream of Consciousness digression.

In retrospect, I should have gotten this information about the protective qualities of these bedclothes to the DOD so they could have issued them to our troops, at least until they invented Kevlar. And think of the psychological impact of soldiers covered in layers of camouflaged blankets, mini mountainous forms with helmets on top. (They would still need to project a military air), slowly progressing across the battlefield. The enemy would be as confused as Dubya at a spelling bee (fourth grade). We would just have to be sure that we weren’t fighting anyone who had seen those old Flash Gordon serials, since there might be a tendency then to view the Blanket Brigade as a throwback to some of Flash’s goofy looking foils, and the anticipated terror and befuddlement would be displaced by ridicule and certain defeat.

My scariest moment, without a doubt, occurred when I went to see the first version of “The Thing.” It was 1950, I was ten years old, and, for some inexplicable reason, had decided to go by myself, an act oddly similar to the characters in the horror movies in those days who always insisted on venturing out into the dark, howling night to “see what that noise was” or even just taking a look outside because “it’s quiet—too quiet,” and of course, always unarmed—and inevitably dead. It was the dramatic build-up to finding out that this evil plant creature was that primed me for maximum terrification. (I know it’s not a word, but it should be.) I can remember thinking it was the reporter simply because he was the oddest looking member of the cast, and then I finally saw “The Thing” walking down that dark corridor, his features still undecipherable, even before he burst into flame. No matter that this menacing cousin of the Phil O’Dendron family had been defoliated; my five block walk home was a solitary march of misery. The term “scared sh*tless” comes to mind, a description that, of course, demands some serious tangentializing. How this could literally happen to someone, I can’t imagine, but apparently, their gastrointestinal tracts were evacuated before they, themselves, could be. But if this were factual, you would think some enterprising individual would have come up with a non-invasive substitute for laxatives: “Yes, I’ll take a package of ‘Scared Sh*tless’,” which would be an over-the-counter product, consisting of nude pictures of unprepossessing celebrities such as candid shots of Rosie O’Donnell doing honeymoon poses or maybe a limboing, bethonged and well-oiled Abe Vigoda. It would be a money-maker, believe me. Fortunately for me at the time, the term was only metaphorical and my only problem was that I was so scared that I walked the entire five blocks home backwards (not having my trusty blanket), ensuring that if “someone or something” was loping after me, at least, I could see it coming and close my eyes real tight before impact.

Except for a brief setback resulting from “The Exorcist” experience, my fears have fortunately taken more mundane, middle-class manifestations such as road rage (me, not them), spiraling beer prices and the threat of age-related impotence, in reverse order of important, although I have recently been having a terrifying recurring nightmare in which Karl Rove and I are in the finals of “The Apprentice” program, but it suddenly turns into a Pilsbury Doughboy Look-alike Contest, and, of course, I’m trounced, in fact, I come in third after Scott McClellan. Next I’m chased by a nude, knife-wielding Jeff Gannon (see James Guckert), whose Dick Cheney-hockey mask I pull off at the last minute and I awake “scared stiff,” which, of course, is both scary and incriminating due to the Gannon factor. Considering the content of this last paragraph, I’ll end this, based on the shocking discovery that writers can apparently be “scared witless.”