Sherry L. Murphy, a 41-year-old go-go dancer, and alleged crack addict, is being sought by police in connection with what is euphemistically referred to as “child endangerment.” A visitor to Ms. Murphy’s residence in Newark, NJ found a 7-year-old boy and his 4-year-old brother concealed in a filthy basement, hiding under a bed, and “reeking of urine, feces and vomit.” The children were “malnourished and dehydrated, and their hair was covered with lice.” The following day, the 7 year old reported that his twin brother was missing. The police returned to Ms. Murphy’s house and found the missing boy’s body stuffed into a plastic container in a basement closet. An autopsy showed that the boy had died from starvation and blunt force trauma to the stomach.

Ms. Murphy, who was not present during either police search, was supposed to be caring for the three children while their mother (Ms. Murphy’s cousin) was serving time in prison for assault charges.

What makes this horrible story even worse is that the New Jersey Department of Youth and Family Services apparently had received reports of child neglect by the children’s mother, but did not investigate the matter. The Governor promises an “investigation.”

Authorities believe that Ms. Murphy may have fled New Jersey. If you happen to see this mutant, do your best to restrain yourself and just call the police.

 
Army Glasses. Sometime during the second week of Army basic training at Fort Dix in 1968, the First Sergeant directed all the men in the company who wore eyeglasses to march to the place on the base where the Army would see to it that we all received Army eyeglasses. After having already relieved everyone of their civilian hair, and civilian clothing, taking away our civilian eyeglasses would effectively remove the only remaining vestige of our former civilian lives. This de-individualization was critical to the process of turning each of us into a “Gorilla Stompin’ Mean Fightin’ Machine.”

We knew the Army glasses were on their way because a few days earlier, the sixty or so of us who wore glasses were marched to the same location where we were filled out forms and temporarily surrendered our civilian glasses for about an hour so that an optician (probably a former truck driver in civilian life) could put our glasses on that widget that allows matching lenses to be made.

Now the sixty of us were back in the same large room sitting on the floor waiting to be “issued” our Army glasses. (As I noted before, the Army never “gives” you things; it issues you things). A sergeant and two corporals entered the room. It was plain to see that “issuing” the glasses was going to be a three-man operation. Corporal Number One held a stack of eyeglasses. The sergeant had an alphabetical list of names that matched up with each of the pairs of glasses. I wondered what Corporal Number Two’s job was, but I soon found out.

Here’s how it went. The sergeant started at the top of the list, “Aardvark, Anthony A. Front and center! On the double. Remove your civilian glasses and stand at attention.” Pvt. Aardvark would move quickly from the floor to the front of the room, where he would stand at attention. Corporal Two would take a pair of Army glasses from Corporal One, and in one motion quickly push them onto the face of Pvt. Aardvark. (Ah ha! I realized then that Corporal Two was the eyeglasses “putter on’r”) Once that was done, the Sergeant would say, “Move out,” at which time, Pvt. Aardvark would execute an about-face and walk briskly out of the room and back to our regular barracks.

This was proceeding through the alphabet without a hitch. Indeed a certain fluid rhythm began to emerge. Sergeant calls the name, and the guy goes to the front. Glasses are pushed onto his face. He is told to “Move out.” He does and about face and walks out of the room wearing Army glasses. No problems.

Then it was my turn.

The sergeant barked, “[Irish last name], James A. Front and Center!”

I scrambled from the floor to the designated spot and stood at attention. The eyeglass-putter-on’r pushed the glasses on my face. I was stunned for a moment and then blurted out, “I CAN’T SEE!” Keep in mind that, until that time, the sergeant’s voice had been the only one heard in the room.

Sgt.: “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

Me: “I CAN’T SEE!”

Sgt. (looking momentarily puzzled, then looking down at his list and then back up at me) “ARE YOU [Irish last name], James A.?”

Me: Yes, sergeant.”

Sgt.: “You CAN SEE. MOVE OUT!” I swear that is exactly what he said.

I made my way to the door and walked back to the barracks, not without some difficulty and a fulminating headache. I truly could not see worth a damn with the Army glasses. I decided that I would risk the wrath of the Army by continuing to wear my civilian glasses, lest I injure myself or others because I could not see what I was doing while wearing Army glasses. I assumed that I was “issued” someone else’s glasses. Sure, I knew that I was [Irish last name], James A., but I knew equally as well that I could not see with those Army specs.

About a week later, we were scheduled for an inspection, which was no ordinary inspection (not that any Army inspection can reasonably be considered “ordinary”). This particular inspection would be conducted by the Company Commander – an eyeglasses wearing Captain.

During these inspections, one stands at attention at the foot of one’s bunk while the Captain and the Drill Sergeant inspect every inch of the barracks, every locker, and every, single detail of one’s attire. EVERYTHING had to be perfect.

When the Captain and the Drill Sergeant came to me, the Captain looked at my boots (spit shined) my trousers (recently starched, and meticulously bloused at the top of my boots), my belt (perfectly shined and centered), my shirt line (a perfect vertical line from the top of my shirt to the bottom of the fly in my trousers), the lower part of my face (cleanly shaven), and then he came to my eyes.

Captain: “You’re not wearing Army glasses!”

Me: “No sir.” (I had learned that one does not take opportunities like this to open a dialog, rather one just answers the question posed – even though, technically, the Captain had made a statement rather than having asked a question.)

Captain: “Do you HAVE Army glasses?”

Me: “Yes sir.”

Captain: “But you’re not WEARING Army glasses.”

Me: “No sir.”

Captain: “Well, where ARE your Army glasses?”

Me: “They are in my locker, sir.”

Captain: “Well, why aren’t you wearing them?”

Me: “Because I cannot see with them on, sir.”

Captain: “WHAT?”

Me: “”I cannot see with them on, sir.”

Captain: “You cannot see with them on?”

Me: “No sir.”

At that point, the Captain turned to the Drill Sergeant, and said, “Make sure that this man sees a doctor.” The Drill Sergeant said, “Yes sir,” and the two of them moved on to the next guy. Meanwhile I was thinking, You dopey bastard. Don’t you think there just might be something wrong with the f****** glasses and not with my f****** eyes? This is Bizarro Land.

The next day I found myself at the Army Hospital waiting to see an ophthalmologist. An ophthalmologist??? I could not believe that I had been ordered to see an ophthalmologist. These guys treat serious eye conditions and even surgery on eyes.

The doctor entered the room and said, “What seems to be the problem?”

Me: “I cannot see with my Army glasses.”

Doc: “Can you see OK with your regular glasses?” BINGO!! He was the first person who thought to ask me that question!

Me: “I see fine with my regular glasses.”

Doc. “Why did they send you to see me?”

Me: “I have no idea why they did that, sir. I was ordered to come here.”

Doc: “O.K. Well then, let’s take a look at those Army glasses.”

He took a quick look at my prescription and looked at the glasses.

Doc: (chuckling, sighing, shaking his head, and shrugging his shoulders) “I see the problem here. They put the left lens where the right one should be and the right lens where the left one should be. You have a pretty bad left eye. No wonder you couldn’t see. We’ll fix them right now.”

A few minutes later, I walked out of the hospital wearing my gray, translucent-framed Army glasses and wondering how I would survive the next two years in Bizarro Land.

 
Instant Money? On one of the streets where I walk in the mornings, H&R Block turned a vacant storefront into a large tax preparation center in something like three weeks. I walked past the place at about 10:00 a.m. on January 2, and saw that there must have been 25 people already waiting to have their 2002 income tax returns prepared.

I can only assume that they were there to get what H&R Block refers to as “Instant Money.” The advertisement says, in large print, “Walk in with your taxes. Walk out with Instant Money.” In only slightly smaller print, the customer is advised, “Instant Money. Why wait for your refund?” The customer doesn’t even have to worry about paying H&R Block that day for preparing and filing his tax return, because H&R Block will happily deduct it from the customer’s estimated refund.

I wonder how many people showing up for their Instant Money realize that what they are actually getting is a loan against an anticipated tax refund -- a loan that may come with a very hefty interest rate. It turns out that H&R Block does not actually make the loans, but rather it teams up with Imperial Capital Bank, and bank actually makes the loans. The bank is chartered in Delaware, where there apparently is no cap on interest rates.

Last year, Edmund Mierzwinski, consumer-director of the U.S. Public Interest Research Group, stated, “All consumer advocates [e.g. here] consider these refund anticipation loans to be predatory.” The same article reported that H&R Block has gotten into legal soup over the years for failing to fully disclose that the loans may be very expensive. To this, an H&R Block spokesperson responded, “."We think we do a very good job of making clear to our clients that, when they get a refund anticipation loan, it is just that -- a loan."

True, H&R Block’s ad does tell the customer in the “How it Works” Section of the ad, that “while you are there [having your tax return prepared], you can apply for a refund loan of up to $5,000,” and further states, “If you qualify, you’ll get your money on the spot.” However, if the customer wants to know who is making the loan and what the interest on the loan is, he is relegated to the fine print. There, those customers with good eyesight and the skills necessary to understand language carefully crafted by H&R Block’s attorneys are advised that a bank will actually be making the loan, that the bank determines what the interest will be, and that the customer will be advised of the interest rate and other fees either on a separate disclosure statement, or on the loan check stub.

You can bet the ranch that the separate disclosure statement referred to will only be provided in those states that specifically require it, and, even then, it will most certainly be about as clear as mud to the average Instant Money seeker. And, the practice of “disclosing” the terms of a loan on the stub of the check representing the proceeds of the loan is beneath contempt.

What is really sad is that H&R Block is preying on those who are most vulnerable – those who are likely filing low-income returns, who are living from paycheck to paycheck, and who probably need the money right away to make ends meet. I suspect there are even some people who need the money right away in anticipation of receiving credit card bills for holiday purchases, a factor, which doubtless did not escape notice by the H&R Block folks.

Maybe some day -- hopefully soon -- the IRS will figure out a way to handle electronically filed, low income returns rapidly enough to issue same-day refunds to those who truly need Instant Money.

 
Test Day. The Sergeant, and the Wannabe“Remington Raider.” Once I passed my pre-induction physical (See, "Greeting" 12/12/02) and was re-classified from II-S (college student) to I-A (draft-ready), I began thinking (more accurately, worrying) about what job the Army would assign me to do for two years. This ever-present concern escalated dramatically following my induction in December 1968.

In the Army, one doesn’t speak of one’s job. Rather, each person is assigned a “Military Occupation Specialty,” or “MOS.” The Army has hundreds of MOSs, ranging from cooks and clerks and photographers, to infantry men. I spent countless hours wondering how the Army decides which draftee would be assigned which MOS. I knew all too well that, even if the Army had some rational process of making these thousands of individual personnel decisions, the process might well be trumped, or at least tilted, by the Army’s great need at the time for infantrymen (MOS 11B, or, as it is known in Armyspeak, “Eleven Bravo”).

This was so because the Army needed new, fresh infantrymen in large numbers in order to replace those who came home from Southeast Asia after completing their one-year tours, and those who came home in coffins. I also knew all too well that draftees stood an excellent chance of winding up in the infantry, because the technical MOSs (and therefore those less likely to belong to people returning to the U.S. in a box) were often staffed with the guys who enlisted and got to select their MOS, in return for an extra one or two years of service.

I admit it. The prospect of being assigned to the infantry frightened hell out of me. They were the poor guys we all had seen on the 7 o’clock news every night, humping packs and rifles through rice paddies and being killed by the thousands in a war that I never thought was a good idea in the first place. For numerous reasons (which might make the stuff of a future, more serious post), I had concluded that I would serve if called, but I would do whatever I could properly do to maximize the chance of not being shot.

I tried to think of something I had to offer, in addition to a college degree, that might convince the Army that I might be more useful to it by doing something other than toting an M-16. I realized that I had a couple cards to play, one being, in my sixties mind, the biggie. I COULD TYPE! (I also spoke and wrote passable German). I had to figure out how and when I could let the Army know that it had in its possession a guy who really could type – home keys, no looking at the keyboard – the real item. Remember, this was in 1968, back when computers were the size of a basketball court, and generally only women learned how to type. Men who could really type were a rarity.

It was settled. I would do everything I could do to be an Army Clerk Typist, or known somewhat derisively by the Eleven Bravos as a “Remington Raider.”

It looked like everyone’s one big chance to show his stuff was at hand, when one evening, a few days into basic training, the sergeants told us to be on our best game tomorrow because it was “Test Day.” [Not to be confused with the test that was the subject of "You Must have Cheated"] One sergeant explained that “Test Day” is the day that the Army would be giving us draftees about five hours worth of aptitude, achievement, and personality tests. The stated reason for the comprehensive testing was that it provides the Army with the means to capitalize on each draftee’s aptitude, abilities and personality characteristics in making MOS assignments. Eureka! So there was at least some evidence that the Army did not assign MOSs randomly. I asked the sergeant if a typing test was part of the process, and he replied that the typing test is a special test given after all the other testing is done. The same was true, he said, for foreign language tests. Special tests! I have two special skills! Yes!

My momentary (and increasingly rare) feeling of optimism was, however, short lived when the sergeant then said in a rich southern accent, “Hell, the truth is - them tests don’t mean shit. Y’all gonna wind up being grunts [infantrymen] anyway.” I was hoping that it was just a cynical comment designed to scare hell out of me (It did), rather than being a statement of fact or even an informed opinion. Nevertheless, I saw no downside in answering the questions on the tests (as well as demonstrate my flying typing fingers) so as to convince the Army that it could make excellent use of me for two years as a Remington Raider (and one who spoke German at that).

Test day had arrived. There must have been 300 of us in a huge room. The sergeant in charge, a shockingly articulate guy (I figured that he probably had a Masters Degree in English and enlisted to get the Testmeister gig), explained the various tests we would be given, and he confirmed that typing and foreign language tests would be given after the main testing was completed. There would be a lot riding on this – at least I wanted to believe that.

The tests covered everything from reading comprehension, vocabulary, writing skills (punctuation, word choice, etc.), and quantitative skills, ranging literally from simple addition to geometry and even a sprinkling of calculus. There were also tests of mechanical aptitude (gears, pulleys, levers), none of which were the stuff of a Remington Raider, and a test to gauge our aptitude for quickly learning to tell the difference between Morse Code’s dits and dahs coming through a headset first very slowly but ending up blasting through at machine gun speed. Finally, there were a couple personality inventories, presumably calculated to identify those among us who would do particularly well in a firefight or in a minefield.

My plan was to knock hell out of the reading and writing related tests and to try to answer the personality inventories in a manner befitting a Remington Raider. So, for example, one question might look like:

Given a choice, would you prefer to:
(a) go camping
(b) attend a sporting event
(c) participate in sporting event
(d) go hunting
(e) spend time in a library

Hunting? Camping? Sports? No way. Sounds like Eleven Bravo stuff to me. Remington Raiders like the library. Hey, I was desperate.

After hours of exhausting testing, the Testmeister announced, “Any man wishing to take a typing or a foreign language test report to Sgt. Smith [not his real name] in the small room in the rear.”

My time was at hand. I walked back to the room, expecting to be one of a couple dozen guys seeking to take the special tests, particularly since foreign language tests were being given. To my surprise, there was only me, a Hispanic guy named “Angel” and Sergeant Smith.

Sergeant Smith must have thought this to be his lucky day because, at most, he would only have to administer two tests. It would be even better for him if he had to administer NO tests, which, judging by what happened next, is what he had in mind.

He started with Angel. “What’s your name, boy?”

Angel: “Angel [Clearly Hispanic last name]”

Sgt.: “What test you wanna take?”

Angel: “Spanish,” Sergeant.

Sgt.: “You speak and read m***** f****** Spanish?”

Angel: “I always spoke it at home with my parents and grandparents.”

Sgt.: “Sure, you may be able to SPEAK m***** f****** Spanish, but can you READ it?”

Angel: (Now, scared shitless – as was I, listening to this crazy exchange) “Well, I don’t think I read it that well; I can read it, but mainly we spoke it.”

Sgt.: “You best not be wastin’ my m***** f****** time here, boy. Don’t let me see that you can’t read that shit. Now, are you gott-damned sure you want to take this test?”

Angel decided that he really didn’t want to take the test, after all. Some picture -- a sergeant who barely spoke English in more than grunts scared a kid, who had spoken Spanish all his life, out of taking the test because he perhaps felt that he couldn’t read it like a Spanish professor!

Angel left. One down – one to go. Now, it was my turn.

Sgt.: “What’s your name, boy?”

Me: “James [Irish last name]”

Sgt.: “What language test you wanna take?”

Me: “German.”

Sgt.: (Exploding) WHAT?? You wanna take a m***** f***** German test with a last name like [Irish last name]? What’s a guy with a m******* f****** last name like [Irish last name] doing speaking German? Don’t BOOshit me, boy. You can’t really speak that shit.”

Me: “I believe I speak it well enough to take the test.”

Sgt.: (Getting really angry) “Well, can you READ it?” Here he goes again, I thought.

Me: “I can read it well enough.”

Sgt.: “You f****** BOOshitting me. Where you learn to speak that shit?”

Me: “In school.”

The sergeant ranted the same warning that he had given Angel to frighten him out of taking the Spanish test. I didn’t budge. This was my shot, and I’d be damned if I was going to let this lazy jerk scare me away just so he could have the rest of the day off.

Then it got REALLY crazy.

As the seargent was muttering and handing me that material for the German test, we had the following meaningful exchange:

Me: “When I’m through with the German test, I would like to take the typing test.”

Sgt.: “WHAT??? You wanna take TWO m***** f****** tests??? Nobody takes two m***** f****** tests!!!

Me: “No one ever said that one person could not take two tests.”

The Sergeant, apparently realizing that his on-the-spot concocted no-two-test “rule” wasn’t working, did a variation on the language rant.

Sgt.: “So, you must be some kind of m***** f****** smart guy. You can speak German AND you can type?”

Me: “I just want to take the tests, is all.”

Sgt.: “OK, you can take the m***** f****** typing test too, but you gott-damned better be able to type thirty-‘fie’ words a minute! Can you type thirty-‘fie’ m***** f****** words a minute?”

Me: “I think I can.”

Sgt.: (pointing out the window at a freshly snow-covered parking lot) “Listen up, boy. You BETTER type thirty-‘fie’ words a minute, or your wastin’ my m***** f****** time. If you wastin’ my m***** f***** time, you gonna shovel that whole m***** f***** parking lot your m***** f****** self.”

Wow. Talk about taking tests under pressure. And, to my mind, these weren’t tests that would make or break me for the Dean’s List. No, these tests could at least conceivably be a matter of life or death.

So, I took both tests alone, under the watchful and seriously resentful eyes of Sgt. Smith. When it was all over, he said that I had “passed” (whatever that meant) the German test and that I had typed forty-something words a minute.

It looked like I wouldn’t be shoveling the m***** f****** parking lot after all, but I fervently hoped that’s how Sergeant Smith would spend the rest of his m***** f****** day.

I left the room, mentally and emotionally exhausted, but even more hopeful that I still might become a Remington Raider.

Oh yeah. I took the tests wearing my civilian eyeglasses. I’ll tell you about Army glasses, but that's a story for another day.

 


HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! I wish everyone a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year. See you in 2003.

 
Swizzle Sticks. While the origin of the term “swizzle stick” is less than completely clear, they are drink stirrers, usually made of plastic, which used to be available in virtually every bar. They often promoted brands of liquor, but they also bore the logo of the place serving the drinks, be it a hotel, bar, or even an airline. They are more difficult to come by these days now that bars often use those awful little, thin plastic straws as drink stirrers. Some people, obviously not knowing how silly they look, insist on drinking through those teeny straws. Yo! It’s whiskey, not a milkshake! Next time you are served a drink with a teeny straw in it, I suggest you use it to stir your drink, and then remove it. You might consider putting it in your pocket after each drink as a convenient way to remind yourself when you have had enough.

Not surprisingly, people collect swizzle sticks, and I enjoyed looking at the collections here, here, and here.

Here’s to ya!

 


A Hockey Night for a Non-Hockey Fan. Last night I went with a friend to Continental Airlines Arena to watch the New Jersey Devils play the Washington Capitals. The tickets for the event came courtesy of my friend’s employer. No one I know would describe me as a sports fan, much less a hockey fan, but I have been to New Jersey Devils hockey games a couple times over the years (also with corporate tickets), and I attended this time, because it is difficult not to get caught up in the spectacle of it all.

It starts in the parking lot being surrounded by the tailgaters, ranging from folks who bring a sandwich to eat and a beer to drink before the game, to those who set up elaborate cooking areas and bring cases and cases of pre-game suds. Last night, we enjoyed it all vicariously, as it was below freezing and the thought of standing in the wind-whipped Jersey parking lot sipping a cold one didn’t appeal to me very much. So, we left the tailgating to the diehard Devils fans.

Once in the Arena and its large circular hallway, one is treated to another people show, the cast of which hustles in both directions simultaneously. I immediately began to think that I was the only person in the place who was not wearing some sort of Devils regalia. People were wearing Devils hats, Devils jerseys (adorned with their favorite player’s name and number), Devils Jackets (one guy was sporting a leather job that must have cost a small fortune), Devils Sweaters, Devils tee shirts, and a couple guys even wore Devils hardhats. The prize for the goofiest, I think, goes to the people who wear red devil’s horns on their heads that blink on and off. Some people carried homemade “Go Devils” signs, and a few even painted their faces to say, I assume, “Go Devils” (I found it difficult to read the face writing without staring directly into the faces providing the writing surface, something that made me, if not them, uncomfortable).

The circular hallway is also full of places that sell all sorts of food and drinks, including beer and I think even booze. The Devils Fan Club also mans a table, as do program sellers, and people who were taking applications for Devils Visa Cards (all the way up to platinum), which come with a free three-month subscription to Sports Illustrated Magazine. Of course, there were also numerous souvenir stands selling a dazzling array of Devils hat, jerseys, toy hockey sticks, and God knows what else. It was all flying by too fast, as I was working my way through the crowd to find our seats.

Upon exiting the circular hallway, one enters the seating area surrounding the rink. It is a case of an instant and pleasing audio and visual overload. All the arena lights are ablaze clearly showing the advertisements and corporate logos that cover seemingly every inch of the interior. Even the ice itself serves as a billboard displaying the "Bud Light" Logo under the playing surface. There are several huge TV screens on which there is always something (almost always promotional) going on. Both teams were in full force on their respective sides of the ice warming up by skating in all directions and slamming dozens and dozens of pucks to one another and at the team’s goalie. The goalies’ functional, protective outfits are also billboards for the teams’ colors and, with their elaborately painted facemasks, they look downright otherworldly to the uninitiated.

The sound of it all is also quite amazing. As the teams warm up, one can hear the multiple thwacks of the pucks hitting against the sticks as well as the noise of the skate blades cutting through the ice and against it as the players abruptly stop and change direction. Now and then a practice shot smacks into the glass (protecting the audience members from possible decapitation), which creates a sound that leaves little doubt about how fast those things fly through the air. All this is against the background of electronic music that is pumped through a well-equalized sound system that must be worth a gazillion dollars.

During the game’s many breaks in play, the action does not stop. There is a person dressed as a devil who shoots tee shirts from a special gun that can rocket tee shirts from ground level to the highest points in the arena. There is also a “Winning Section” game, which awards a single row of audience members, chosen at random, prizes that are handed out by the tee-shirt shooting Devil guy.

The huge TVs also fill in the play breaks with entertainment. For example, there is the “Kissing Cam” that focuses on two unsuspecting audience members for all in the arena to see. If they kiss, they are rewarded with applause, while refusals to smooch bring hoots and hollers from the audience. . Much like the “Kissing Cam,” there is a also a “Fan Cam,” which focuses on one or more fans who are the most creatively “Deviled Out.” Last night one of the favorites turned out to be an infant decked out in a pint-sized Devils jersey. The TV also entices audience members to visit the souvenir stands in the circular hallway during the intermissions, and informs parents that while out there the kids can have their picture taken with Scooby Doo (who looked to me to be about 6 and a half feet tall).

It was quite an amazing experience, but there is most definitely a rub, and that is, I cannot imagine too many families of four being able to afford to experience the whole show. Here are some numbers.

Tickets. Our tickets carried a price of $90.00 each. We sat in Section 117, which are very good seats, but one could pay more for even better seats. So, for Joe Working Guy, his wife and two kids, the seats alone would cost $360.00.

Parking. Our parking was included with the complimentary tickets, but parking normally costs $10.00.

Drinks and Food. If the parents might like two beers each during the evening, they come at $6.25 each (a can of Coors Light in a plastic cup), and the guy serving the beer has a tip jar. So, figure another $26.00 for beer. For kids, soda or milkshakes run about $4.75 each. If each child wants two, that’s another $19.00. Food is also extremely expensive. I don’t know about the fancier food items, but a couple pedestrian hot dogs can run $10.00. Two for each family ember totals up to something like $40.00. Toss in some fries and popcorn and you’re easily up to $50.00. (I saw dads carrying lots and lots of food and drinks).

Souvenirs. Let’s assume that the adults are not interested in souvenirs (although you could not prove that by watching the action at the counters), and that only one of the children wants a jersey, while the other wants only a hat (anyone with kids knows that this is a pretty gutsy assumption). The jersey will run about $70.00 and the hat about $30.00.

So, conservatively, it would cost a family of four something in the area of $555.00 for a night of Devils Hockey (not including a program, the Devils Year book, or the picture with Scooby Doo). Now, I am sure that it can be done cheaper. Cheaper seats, no food, no beverages, no souvenirs, no this, no that, – an evening of “no’s” to the children. Pretty sad picture, I think, and the people who are making all the money count heavily on that.

I am sure that sports journalists have a good deal to say about why it is that professional athletic events are becoming something that only well-to-do individuals and corporations can afford, so I will leave that to them. For my part, as much as I enjoyed the evening, I think for $555.00, a family could get more bang for the buck elsewhere. However, I am sure that the folks wearing the blinking horns on their heads would not agree.

Oh yeah, the game was very good. The Devils won 2 to 1 in overtime.

 
Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure Christmas. On November 28, 2002 in “More than Just Turkey,” I shared our family’s custom of selecting an annual theme for grab bag gifts at Christmas. As reported then, this year’s theme was “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure Christmas,” inspired by the movie in which two spaced out high school students manage to go back in time and witness historical events. As such, each participant in the grab bag had to purchase gifts that collectively signified an historical event.

It turned out to be more of a challenge than any of us realized at the time. Of course, my putting the grab bag gift out of mind until the last minute did not make things easier.

Here’s a sampling of the gifts that were exchanged:

Gift: A book about Kites, Photocopy of the front side of a $100 bill, and the book “The Perfect Storm.”

Event. Ben Franklin’s experiment proving that lightening was an electrical phenomenon.

Gift: Bottle of Fab Detergent, American Flag Pin, “4” birthday candle, and a can of “Raid”

Event. British/Beatles’ Invasion of America

Gift. Small globe, toy soldiers, “Uno” game.

Event World War One

Gift. Toy Firemen, box of wooden matches, small cow, Video Tape of “Chicago Joe and the Showgirl”

Event. Chicago Fire

Gift. Tea set, tea, Samuel Adams Beer, Tastykake Krimpets

Event. Boston Tea Party

Gift. Can of soup, two apples, loaf of bread

Event. The Great Depression

Gift. Bottle of Crown Royal Whiskey, Bottle of sweet vermouth, check in the amount of $24.00

Event. Dutch purchase of Manhattan Island

As in the past, we had lots of laughs, but we all agreed that, by comparison, the Elvis Christmas was a snap.

 
The Real Fear Factor. Last night I watched the History Channel’s re-broadcast of The World Trade Center Special, which included dramatic photographs and video clips of that horrible day in 2001. The re-broadcast was every bit as unsettling this time as it was the first time I saw it. I think the History Channel should broadcast that program several times per year, and I think we would all do well to watch it each time it airs.

Slightly more than 15 months have passed since September 11, 2001, and, judging by what seems to occupying people’s minds and the collective mind of the press, I wonder if we are letting those horrible pictures slip away from our consciousness. It seems to me that far too many people are far too concerned with who their favorite “Survivor” is or what is the latest disgusting thing people will have to eat on the "Fear Factor" to get their 15 minutes of fame. Those who consider themselves too sophisticated to wonder who will booted off the island or who will actually be able to gobble down all their allotted number of reindeer testicles, spend far too much time worrying about which Senator made what lame-brained remarks in any given week.

I think we should all focus on the Real Fear Factor:

There are people in world, cut from the same cloth as the 9/11 terrorists who, given the chance, would happily kill you and me and our children simply because we are Americans.

Their willingness to kill us knows no political parties. They hate democrats, republicans and independents alike.

Carrying peace signs (as if you have a monopoly on wanting peace) won’t get you a pass from them. They hate you too.

They do not distinguish between military and civilian targets. We are all their enemies.

They don’t mind dying in the process of killing you and me and our children.

They WILL strike again.

This all seemed quite clear on September 12, 2001. I worry that we are forgetting what we must never, ever forget.

And if you are one of the American-brought-this-on-itself crowd, consider this a cyber spit in your eye. I suggest you consider living elsewhere. Try Saudi Arabia on for size.

 

Merry Christmas. I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas. I certainly did. Lots of great, fattening food (guilt free - It's Christmas) and more than a few Christmas libations, which mad shoveling snow today a special treat. I think I'll use the balance of this day to mentally and physically regroup.

 


Christmas/New Year Champagne. This is the time of year when people, like me, who drink champagne once or twice per year find themselves wanting or needing to buy some Champagne for Christmas or New Year’s Eve. Large liquor stores will often have a large and varied selection of the bubbly, which can be terribly confusing, with prices ranging from $4.95 per bottle to twenty times that much.

To further add to the confusion, only some of the bottles are labeled “Champagne.” That’s because to be labeled “Champagne” the bubbly wine must be made from grapes grown in the Champagne region of France. So, the stuff you see on the shelves called “Sekt” is sparkling wine made in Germany. When it is made in the U.S., it is simply called Sparkling Wine. For our purposes and for the sake of simplicity, (the complaints of the wine makers in France notwithstanding), let’s call them all “Champagne.”

If you found “Holiday Spirits, the Drinkable Kind” (December 16, 2002) useful, I thought you might appreciate a Champagne recommendation that will not bust your budget. I recently tried and thoroughly enjoyed Mirabelle Brut (dry) Sparkling Wine from the Shramsberg Winery in California. For about $12.00 - $14.00 per bottle you can serve “Champagne” that should please all but the $100.00 per bottle folks. If, however, you feel that you absolutely must have French Champagne, I recommend Moet & Chandon. It is excellent, but it can set you back $35.00-$40.00 per bottle. For a New Year’s toast, I’d go with the Mirabelle.

A tip on opening Champagne. Champagne should not gush from the bottle upon opening. Gushing Champagne just means that the person opening the bottle did it incorrectly, or he just won the Indy 500 and wants to spray Champagne rather than drink it. When Champagne is opened properly, you should hear a soft “pop” as the cork comes out of the bottle. I prefer setting the bottle on a flat surface, as it allows you to control the cork and bottle better. The key is to firmly grasp the cork with one hand (best to use a towel) and TURN THE BOTTLE, not the cork, with the other hand. You will find that when you do this, you will feel the cork push itself slowly out of the bottle. Here are detailed instructions, with photographs.

Enjoy!!

 
“You must have cheated!” I was in the Army only about a week or so, and there I was being accused by the First Sergeant of cheating on a test. One must understand the terrifying power of a First Sergeant. The First Sergeant is the highest ranking non-commissioned officer in a training company, and most definitely is not a man to be trifled with. First Sergeants usually have twenty years plus in the military, and they have been known to make young officers shake in their boots. Here’s what happened, and I believed then and I believe now that it could only have happened in the Army.

About a week or so into Basic Training, each man in the training company was given a three-hundred multiple choice test to take cold. The test dealt, quite predictably, with Army things (e.g. rank insignia, protocol, drill, communications, weapons, etc.), but it also dealt with the kinds of things that one learns in the Boy Scouts (e.g. camping skills, survival skills, and first aid). So, as a result of having been a Boy Scout and also having done some pre-induction reading about the Army (that too was probably spawned by the Boy Scout Motto “Be Prepared”), I scored something like 200 out of a possible 300 on the test. Other members of the company, presumably not having been Boy Scouts and not having done any pre-induction reading, generally did not do as well.

The First Sergeant did not accuse me of cheating at that time, but he was quite incredulous as to how a “raw recruit” (pronounced something like “rawCROOT") could score so well. He asked me in front of all the men in the company how I managed what to him was an amazing feat. He was not happy when I told him that I had “learned a lot of that stuff in the Boy Scouts.” I suspect that he probably was a supporter of the Boy Scouts, but he did not appreciate the rest of the men laughing at the implication that this rough-tough Army stuff was the stuff of Boy Scouts.

After this less-than-pleasant interlude, other training sergeants spent three plus hours using the test as a teaching tool. They slowly (very, very slowly) read each question and then gave the correct answer from the four choices, along with a brief explanation of the reason for the answer. They did this 300 times. For the 200 questions I had known the answers to, this was frightfully boring, but for the other 100, I paid attention to the answers and the proffered explanations.

Now, I swear that the following is true. Twenty-fours hours later, the sergeants handed us the SAME TEST. I thought, there must be some catch. This cannot be the same test that we went over in excruciating detail yesterday. But, ten or fifteen questions in, I realized that this was, in fact, the same test.

Following completion of the test (actually a re-test), papers were exchanged for grading, and the sergeants again did the same read-the question and then give the answer routine. I could not believe that they were going through this painful exercise a second time. I had assumed that virtually everyone who had heard the answers a mere twenty-four hours earlier would get all 300 correct.

Well, the guy’s test I marked got about 150 of the questions wrong!! Incredulous, I concluded that the guy must have been elsewhere the previous day. Wrong. He was there; he had had taken the test and also sat through the three hour tortured review of each and every question twenty-four hours earlier.

Enter the First Sergeant asking how the marks were. “Any man get more than 200 right?” I assumed my guy was the only one who could have possibly scored fewer than 200 questions right. Amazingly, others also did not raise their hands, indicating that my guy wasn’t the only guy in the room who must have been dropped on his head as an infant. The First Sergeant then worked the numbers: “Any man get more than 250 right?’ “More than 275 right?” Each time fewer hands went up. He got to “more than 285 right?” and no more hands went up. “So, that’s it then,” the sergeant said, until a guy on the other side of the room put his hand up and said, “This man got all 300 right.”

“WHAT??” the First Sergeant yelled. “That can’t be. Are you sure you marked the gott-damned test right?”

The other recruit confirmed that he had carefully marked the test.

“Something’s going on here,” the First Sergeant hollered. “Whose paper is that?” At this point, I was hoping against hope that it was NOT my paper, and that I had had a series of mental lapses during the test, causing me to get 15 wrong. I did not need another exchange with the First Sergeant.

The other recruit answered with my name.

“Who is this man? I want this man to stand up, NOW.” I stood up. The First Sergeant glared at me, and it was at this point that he said (honest), “You must have cheated! No man has EVER gotten all 300 right.”

My heart pounding out of my chest, and my mouth dry as sand, I replied, “I did not cheat.”

The other sergeants, who were present during the test, caucused with the First Sergeant and must have assured him that they had not seen any evidence of cheating. During this time, I was thinking, Cheating? You must be out of your mind. What the Christ am I doing here?

Faced with my answer and the assurances from the other sergeants, the First Sergeant went into a sarcastic mode and said, “You must some kind of college boy. Are you some kind of college boy?”

“Yes,” I replied.

Reminiscent of Rod Steiger’s sheriff role in “In the Heat of the Night,” the First Sergeant said, “OK then Mr. College Boy smart guy. Why don’t you tell us how you managed to max this test?”

It was not the first and surely it would not be the last time that Army reality was more than I could process at the moment. I actually think that I raised my voice, and replied, “Sergeant, I cannot believe that you would even think to ask me that question. How did I max the test? YOU GAVE US ALL THE ANSWERS YESTERDAY!”

Perhaps sensing the loss of some ground in front of the entire company, his mood changed yet again to one of conciliation and even grudging admiration. He told all the other recruits that my “outstanding” (another favorite Army word) performance was something they should seek to emulate.

At the end of it all, the First Sergeant even gave me a tangible reward. He said, “In recognition of this man’s 'outstanding' (there’s the word again) performance, he goes to the head of the chow line for a week.”

By this time, my sense of reality was so out of whack that I actually began to feel as if I had accomplished something “outstanding.” And, I more than appreciated the honor of going to the head of the chow line that week. The other recruits made much of it as well, and happily made a spot for me at the head of the chow line, because I think they viewed my back and forths with the First Sergeant as one small, albeit very small, victory for the “rawCROOTs.”

This was not the only time I bumped heads with the Army over tests. But that’s a story for another day.

 
Army Underwear. It was freezing cold that night in December 1968, when the bus delivered us to the U.S. Army Reception Center in Fort Dix, New Jersey. We were “greeted” by an Army sergeant, who boarded the bus and wasted no time reminding us that we were all “in the Army now,” and that we should all keep quiet and walk single file into a large, sparsely furnished, overheated room for the purpose of filling out stacks of forms.

“Gentlemens, listen up! Last name first, then first name, then middle initial.” So instructed the crew-cutted Army sergeant over and over for the completion of each form. He did so in the loud, Army sergeant monotone I would come to know so well. (I thought, Gentlemens? Might that be some sort of super-plural form of he word gentleman? And, listen up? Why listen up? Can one listen down?) The seemingly endless forms were obviously designed to squeeze from us every single detail of the lives we all had before we became “gentlemens.”

“What if you put your first name first?” asked a voice from somewhere behind me. It was the first time any of us actually spoke to a sergeant. Several other voices hesitatingly revealed that they had made the same mistake. That produced a tirade in a much louder than usual Army sergeant monotone, “Gentlemens, you are no longer on the gott-dammed block, and I ain’t your gott-dammed mama! When I give instructions, you WILL gott-damn pay attention, and you WILL gott-damn follow my instructions.”

No question about it. This guy did not like his job, nor did he much like any of us. Then and there I decided that if in one of the dozen or so forms yet to go I mistakenly put my first name first, I would not fess up. No, I would take the easy way out and jab my gott-damned eyes out with the gott-damned number 2 pencil and hope for a gott-damned looney tunes discharge.

After all the forms were finally completed, we were led to the “mess hell” for some “chow.” (The Army just springs these new words on you.) One thing about the Army -- you WILL get three “squares” per day, hence the 24-hour operation of the mess hall in the Reception Center to accommodate the streams of incoming draftees needed to fuel the war in Southeast Asia. Amazingly, some guys greeted this news warmly. I was much too miserable to be hungry. Good thing too, as we were given about five minutes to eat some really chewy chicken wings and lima beans. “Move it. Move it. Move it, gentlemens. Chew it here, swallow it outside, and digest it later!” Maybe I should just jab the gott-damned fork in my gott-damned eyes.

It was too late in the night for the Army to completely strip us of our civilian identities. However, to start the process we were all “issued” Army underwear. (The Army never “gives” you things; it “issues” them to you.) From there, we were “marched” to a two-story World War II barracks for the night, and we were told that under no circumstances was anyone to leave the “gott-damned” barracks until the following morning. It was frighteningly true. The Army really did “own” our “asses.”

The next morning -- just like in the movies -- the sergeant came roaring like a madman into the barracks at God knows what ungodly hour. “Off your asses on and on your feet! Move it! Move it! Move it! We ain’t got all gott-damned day, gentlemens.”

As ordered, we all put on our newly “issued” Army underwear under our civilian trousers. Army underwear (or skivvies) are funny looking billowy white boxer shorts that almost touch the wearer’s knees. After a quick trip back to the mess hall (remember, three squares) for a warp-speed breakfast, we were “marched” to the barber, where in approximately 20-30 seconds, each of us was relieved of a critical party of our 60’s identity – our hair, just about all of it. The barbers were ankle deep in the stuff – just another surreal picture. Everyone looked perfectly ridiculous, but, more importantly to the Army, everyone looked sort of the same.

The next stop was a long, long building where we would be issued uniforms. The idea here is that you start at one end of the building in your underwear and you exit the other end of the building with a uniform on your back and a duffle bag full of extra clothing. Army efficiency at work. So, when we entered the building, we were told to remove everything except for our newly issued Army shorts (I believe that our civilian clothes were mailed home, but I do not recall). From there, we were led into another large room, with rows and rows of folding chairs arranged in front of a stage.

We sat shivering in our Army shorts while one of two sergeants on the stage began to tell us how the uniform issuing procedure would work. In mid sentence, he was interrupted by the other sergeant, a huge black man, who pointed out into the audience and shouted, “YOU!!” Sweet Jesus, does he mean me? If he means me, I hope I just have a heart attack and die right gott-damned here.

“YOU!! YOU IN THE BACK!!!” the sergeant roared.

“Me?” the guy in the back said.

“Yeah, YOU!!! Get the f*** up here!” Thank God it’s not me.

It did, however, turn out to be a guy I went to high school with – a seriously smart, exceedingly polite and quiet guy who had recently graduated from a prestigious university. I was horrified for him as he walked, like a condemned man, to the stage in his shorts and nothing else, past the 100 or so of us, also in our shorts and nothing else.

He walked onto the stage, and the sergeant bellowed, “What’s your name, boy?”

My former high school classmate, now terrified recruit, said “Carl Thompson.” [not his real name]

The sergeant hollered, “Where’re you from, boy?”

Frightened, and obviously puzzled by the reason for the question, Carl said, “Where am I from?” Oh God, he repeated the sergeant’s question.

“You got shit in your ears, boy? I axed you, where’re you FROM?”

“Kearny, New Jersey, sergeant.”

“Well tell me something boy. Do everybody in Kearny, New Jersey wear his underwear backwards?”

Carl looked down and saw, to his shock and embarrassment,. that he had indeed put his underwear on backwards. He was speechless.

We all stifled our laughter, as we quickly looked down to make sure that we didn’t put our bed sheet sized underwear on backwards.

“Answer me, boy. Do everybody in Kearny, New Jersey wear his underwear backwards?”

Barely audibly, Carl said, “No, sergeant.”

“I can’t hear you, boy. Sound off like you got a pair!” (They really do say that.)

“NO SERGEANT.”

The sergeant stared at him, apparently savoring the moment, and then shouted, “Well, gott-dammit, FIX THEM!!”

No one, but no one, laughed as Carl, right there on the stage, took off his shorts, turned them around, and put them back on.

About an hour later we were all at the other end of the building wearing olive drab everything, very drab indeed. It all served to remind me of just how much my life had changed in not even 24 hours.

It would become even more bizarre, but that’s a story for another day.

 
Musical Altercations, Part Two. My cousin Jack wrote me after having read Musical Altercations (see December 17, 2002), a piece envisioning how the stories told in the lyrics of songs involving fights would look if reported in the press. He remembered a song I had not considered. Even though the song does not actually involve a fight, it does play on the theme of a stranger making a pass at a jealous fellow's wife/girlfriend (e.g. ""Bad Bad LeRoy Brown" and "Copacabana"). Here, however, the protagonist wisely escapes before being stabbed, slashed, shot or beaten..

Jack writes:

TIJUANA, Mexico -- Restaurateur Bad Man Jose reported to local police that a patron of his cafe near the U.S. border ran away through the window today without paying a sizeable food and bar bill. The unidentified patron bolted suddenly following a brief altercation involving Jose's wife, who also works at the establishment.

Mrs. Jose alleged that she was being sexually assaulted by the patron before Jose arrived at the cafe and stopped him. "I'm so glad he got here," she told reporters. "He is so big and so strong. He saved me from that bad man."

"We tell that gringo no mess with her, but he no listen," explained Pedro, a member of the mariachi band at the popular spot. "Finally he vamoose when Jose get here."

Police said that although the mouth-watering food at Jose's is a major tourist attraction, there have been increasing reports of trouble caused by overly aggressive male customers.

The song -- “Come a Little Bit Closer" by Jay and the Americans

Jack regularly writes about music from this era in Yakety Yak. Be sure to check it out.

 
Learn-Something-New-Every-Day Department. If manhole covers didn’t do it for you, how about pencils? Turns out that there is a lot going on in the world of pencils, and this is the place to get up to speed. With a couple clicks, you can learn the history of pencils, how they are manufactured, who manufactures them, and exactly what a ferrule is. The site contains pencil jokes, pencil trivia and even pencil FAQs. There is also a classified section for people seeking to buy or sell particular types of pencils. A pencil as a Christmas gift? Absolutely One fellow is offering to sell “a Faber BLACKWING 602 and will be taking the best offer before Christmas.” (I wouldn’t wait on that one, if I were you.) Don’t miss the photo gallery, with lots of photos of ….. well, pencils, including a picture of the world’s largest pencil. (via The Ultimate Insult)

 
Musical Altercations. The other day, I found myself humming Lloyd Price’s “Stagger Lee,” the song about a gambling dispute in a bar that led to the shooting of “Billy” by “Stagger Lee.” That led me to think of a couple other tunes involving a fight, often involving a weapon and almost always resulting in casualties.

I sat down at the computer to make sure that that I was recalling the lyrics accurately. It was then that I learned that the song “Stagger Lee” is based on an actual event in St. Louis in 1895, when Lee Sheldon (known locally as “Stag Lee”) fatally shot his friend William Lyons (“Billy”) following a political argument. A quoted portion of the text of the original newspaper report is here. I was struck by the contrast between the poetry of the song and the cold, factual reporting in the 1895 St. Louis Globe Democrat.

I wondered how newspaper reports of the other “fight songs” I remembered would look.

Man Slashed in Bar Room Brawl

Details recently emerged about a fight that took place in a bar on Chicago’s South Side resulting in serious injuries. According to eyewitnesses, a well-dressed gambler, named LeRoy Brown was playing craps at a local gaming and drinking establishment when he became involved in an altercation with the jealous husband of another patron named “Doris,” who prior to the fight had been seated at the bar. The jealous husband, who remains unnamed, claimed that he had become enraged when he saw Mr. Brown staring at Doris. A fight broke out almost immediately between the two men.

Mr. Brown suffered multiple slash wounds and some apparent dismemberment. Authorities are not certain that both men were armed, although Mr. Brown is generally known to carry a razor in his shoe. Sources close to the investigation speculate that the unidentified man may have disarmed Mr. Brown during the fight and used the weapon against him.

In the hospital recovering from his wounds, Mr. Brown conceded that the unfortunate event taught him a valuable lesson. He stated, “I ain’t gonna be messin’ with some jealous guy’s wife anymore.” The unidentified husband remains at large.


Former Showgirl Recalls Lost Love

New York. Looking out of place in an old, low cut dress and wearing faded feathers in her hair, Lola, a former showgirl at the Copacabana Night Club, now a disco, recalled the night thirty years ago that changed her life.

“I was a top showgirl in this place once, you know.” As she stared into the swirling disco ball, she remarked, “Oh yeah, they used to have great shows here. You’d never know it by looking at this crowd.” She paused to order another drink, which must have been her fifth or sixth. “It was great, I tell you. I worked six nights a week from 8 till 4. And then there was Tony -- my dearest Tony. He was a bartender here. Right across the floor there. I’d dance and he’d keep the bar popping. We fell in love. Who could ask for more?”

“So, one night this guy Rico walks in the place. He really thought he was something, wearing that big diamond and all. So, the maitre d escorts him to his chair; he sits down and watches me dance. At the end of my act, he calls me over to his table. Well, the guy was not very nice. I’m used to jerks coming on to me, but he just went too far. Next thing I know, I see Tony sailing across the bar at Rico, and the two of them went at each other like wildcats. I saw blood on the floor, and that is when I heard the gunshot. No one could tell who was shot.”

When asked what happened to Tony, Lola simply replied, “I lost him.” She refused to elaborate further, stating simply, “I’m thirty years older now, and I’d rather not discuss it.”


Violent Disturbance at Local Tavern

The usual evening revelry in a local corner tavern on Honky Tonk Street was interrupted when violence broke out between two patrons, both of whom were armed. Police reports indicate that at some point in the evening, a cigar-smoking man wearing a tailor-made suit, a Stetson hat, cowboy boots and several diamond rings, emerged from a Cadillac (presumably a limousine), and boisterously entered the tavern. The man, identified himself as “Big Boy Pete” and warned the customers not to trifle with him, or he would “cut them down.”

With this, the music stopped and the only voice that was heard was that of a Mr. Brown (a/k/a “Bad Man Brown”), another patron. Mr. Brown reportedly smiled and warned Pete that if he were to take three more steps, Mr. Brown would “do him in.” Pete responded with his own warning, which included advising Mr. Brown that he was armed with a loaded 45-caliber pistol.

Undeterred by Pete’s warning, Mr. Brown pulled a knife and attacked Pete. A savage fight ensued, which ended only when Mr. Brown reportedly cut the cigar from Pete’s mouth and knocked him to the ground. Witnesses reported that Pete grabbed his Stetson hat and ran from the tavern. No arrests were made.

Patrons of the tavern often refer to this incident when warning others who come to the tavern not to “mess with” Mr. Brown.


Posse Locates and Kills Murder Suspect

El Paso. An unidentified man, believed to have been a resident of El Paso, was fatally wounded by one or more members of a posse as he returned to El Paso from having previously fled to New Mexico following his involvement in a fatal gun fight with a young Texas cowboy. Witnesses who recognized the dead man reported that he had become infatuated with a young Mexican woman named “Feleena,” and that he spent virtually every evening at a nightspot called “Rosa’s Cantina,” where he would longingly watch Feleena dance. The alleged murder took place when the El Paso resident became angry at seeing the Texas cowboy drinking with Feleena. The El Paso resident challenged the cowboy, who immediately drew his gun, but not before the El Paso resident fired the fatal shot.

Following the incident at Rosa’s, the El Paso resident fled on horseback in the direction of New Mexico. The evidence suggests that his decision to return to El Paso and Rosa’s Cantina was driven by his continuing infatuation with Feleena, who reportedly ran to him as he lay dying from the wounds inflicted by the posse.

The songs and artists are, of course:

“Bad Bad LeRoy Brown” by Jim Croce
“Copacabana” by Barry Manilow
“Big Boy Pete” by the Olympics
“El Paso” by Marty Robbins

 
Roadies. Those of us who countless times have lugged speakers, amps, soundboards, drum sets, wires, microhpones, keyboards and guitars to a gig, set it all up before everyone arrives, played the gig, tore it all down after everyone has gone home, and lugged it all again in the wee hours of the morning can appreciate what these unsung heroes of rock and roll do for a living. (via The Ultimate Insult).

 
Holiday Spirits, the Drinkable Kind. Here’s the situation. You are expecting guests, and you would like to serve cocktails, but you don’t know the first thing about booze. Perhaps you prefer beer or wine, or maybe you drink only non-alcoholic beverages?

Fear not, for I will tell you the absolute essentials you need to set up a basic bar, which will please all but the ultimate liquor snob, the type of person who would complain that the bar in the Plaza Hotel did not serve his or her preferred liquor. I do not hold myself out as an expert, but I have had many, many years of experience doing my favorite things – shopping for, tasting and enjoying various kinds of liquor and serving drinks to friends.

The focus here is liquor and a couple other necessities. This is not intended as a mixing guide, although you’ll be happy to know that most drinks that people will want will require only liquor and one of the mixers mentioned below. Besides, a minute or two on a search engine will produce lots of sites containing instructions for making cocktails. Here is one of many such sites.

Most importantly, you need not spend a lot of money. The following guide provides choices to fit your budget.


Liquor.

You will need one bottle each of the SIX BASICS: Vodka, Gin, Bourbon, Scotch, Rum and Rye.

Vodka: My first choices would be Ketel One "or Finlandia. Both are widely available and either will keep even a vodka martini drinker happy. If either of those costs a few dollars more than you wish to spend, I recommend Smirnoff. Grey Goose and the other boutique vodkas are generally overpriced and are not necessary.

Gin: My favorites are Bombay Blue Sapphire (the gin is clear; the bottle is tinted blue) and Tanqueray. Either makes an excellent martini, which for me is the true test of gin. However, if you wish to save a few dollars, or if you know your guests are gin and tonic drinkers, there is absolutely nothing wrong with Gordon’s Gin, even for martinis. In fact, a friend of mine, who makes wonderful martinis uses only Gordon’s gin.

Bourbon: The first choices are Maker’s Mark and Wild Turkey. Either will please even those who drink bourbon neat (straight). The money saver here is Jim Beam, which is a great bourbon and a staple in my home.

Scotch: It is difficult to imagine a scotch whiskey drinker who would not be delighted to be offered Johnny Walker Black Label scotch. However, if you are seeking to keep costs down, you cannot go wrong with Dewar’s White Label scotch. Avoid the very pricey single malts, unless you wish to buy a scotch drinker a nice present.

Rum: You may not get much call for this, other than from those who drink rum and coke. The sellers of rum tout it for use in martinis and other drinks, but other than its use in tropical drinks (which are summery and are not the stuff of a basic bar), you will likely need it only for rum and cokes. For that, Bacardi rum is really the way to go. It is not expensive. The only time I tried a cheaper brand I did not like it. The dark rums are excellent, but they are not necessary for a basic bar.

Rye: When I was a boy, this was THE drink of choice: rye and ginger ale, rye and club, rye with ginger ale and club mixed, and rye and Seven Up (“7 & &”). Some folks still like it; it is not expensive, and it still qualifies as one of the six basics. I recommend either Seagram’s 7 or Canadian Club. If you wish to spend a couple extra bucks, try Seagram’s VO. Seagram’s also makes Crown Royal, which is excellent, but not necessary for a basic bar.

Miscellaneous.

I suggest one SMALL bottle each of white and red vermouth. There are a couple brands widely available and both are inexpensive. The white is for martinis and the red is for Manhattans and Rob Roys (Manhattans, only made with scotch instead of rye).

Mixers/Fruit.

You will need ginger ale, club soda, seven up, and tonic water. Any brand will do. I prefer cans or small bottles, as it is easier to have cold mixers available and you avoid losing the fizz from open bottles. In addition, you should have on hand orange juice, grapefruit juice, cranberry juice, and perphaps a bottle of pre-mixed Bloody Mary mix (e.g. Mrs. T’s). Finally, I suggest buying a couple bottles of nice bottled water (e.g. Poland Spring) for those who like liquor and water drinks. It just makes a nicer drink than does tap water, which around here is full of minerals.

Buy a couple lemons and limes and slice them into small wedges in advance. You should also pick up a SMALL jar of maraschino cherries (for Manhattans and for non-alcoholic “Shirley Temples” for the kids) and a jar of olives.

Ice.

By all means, buy a couple bags of clear ice. It makes the drinks look better than they do when made with the milky-white cubes that most home freezers make.

Glasses: You will need some 12 oz plain glasses for most drinks and a few 6-8 oz glasses for those who prefer drinks on the rocks. If there are martini drinkers who prefer martinis straight up, you will need a couple martini glasses. You can spend a fortune on glassware, but glassware from stores like K-Mart will do the trick. As for things like martini shakers, they are nice, but not essential. My friend who makes the best martinis (the Gordon’s gin guy mentioned above) used to make them in a clean mayonnaise jar!

You should be good to go. Here’s to you!!!

 
The Great One. My dad was never really big on comedians. It wasn’t that he lacked a sense of humor – he loved to laugh at funny stories and real life situations, but comedians, especially television comedians and comedy programs, generally left him cold. There was, however, one gargantuan exception, and that was Jackie Gleason.

I can recall being a boy and watching the Jackie Gleason variety show on Saturday nights with my dad – he with a beer and I with a Dad’s Root Beer. As much as I would enjoy watching Jackie portray the “Poor Soul”, “Reginald Van Gleason III” “Joe the Bartender” and “Charlie Bratton, the Loudmouth,” I got the most pleasure out of watching my dad howl with laughter. All these characters, in one way or another, spoke to him.

The variety show began doing a regular sketch about a working-class bus driver who lived in a cold-water flat in Brooklyn with this wife and their goofy upstairs neighbor. Of course, this was the Honeymooners, which ultimately became a regular network program and ultimately a syndicated series that still airs today. If standing the test of time is a critical ingredient to greatness, the Honeymooners more than qualifies.

I don’t think that there ever has been a time when the Honeymooners has not been on TV somewhere. In the New York metropolitan area, local stations run Marathon Honeymooners Weekends, which repeat, back to back, episodes that we all have seen so often that we know the classic scenes and lines by heart.It doesn’t seem to matter, though, for they are still just plain funny. One needs only sit in a tavern and strike up a Honeymooners discussion, and in no time people will quote their favorite lines or describe their favorite scenes. Here’s one of my favorites:

In a train on their way to a convention of the Loyal Order of Raccoons, in full Raccoon Lodge Regalia, Ralph and Ed Norton find themselves handcuffed together in their sleeper car because Norton was unable to open the trick handcuffs he demonstrated for Ralph. Ralph decides that they should try to get some sleep, even though they remain joined at the wrists. They spend the next few hilarious minutes each trying to climb into his berth. Once they finally managed to get into their berths, there is a moment of silence when Norton breaks the silence:

Norton (from the top berth) “Ralph?”
Ralph: (from the lower birth) “WHAT?”
Norton: “Mind if I smoke?”
Ralph: “I don’t care if you BURN.”

Gleason and TV, with its close ups, were perfect together because, among his other comedic talents, Gleason could convey a wide variety of emotions with his facial expressions alone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone do it better. A raised eyebrow as he was approaching critical mass at Norton’s antics would start the laughter that would crescendo and ultimately erupt when Ralph finally would explode at the hapless Norton. By contrast, we would watch his pained face and false starts at an explanation as he stood behind Alice after pulling a stunt that angered her, but more importantly, disappointed her. His expressions were funny, but at the same time we felt sorry for Alice and even more sorry for Ralph, who let her down, yet again. However, we always knew that everything would turn out OK in the end, and Ralph would tell Alice that she was “the greatest.”

Jackie Gleason is gone now and so is my dad. I wonder if Jackie would be happy knowing that a few years ago, during the final days of my dad’s terminal illness, we would sit together and watch the same Honeymooners re-runs that we had watched together more than thirty-five years earlier, and as sick as he was, my dad still howled with laughter, and I howled right along with him. For those 22 minutes, The Great One took us both back to a better time.

Jackie Gleason was a big man who lived large. Somehow I was not surprised to learn that his epitaph reads, “And Away We Go.”

 
“Greeting” That’s what it said - not “Greetings,” but “Greeting.” To this day, I wonder if it had been a typo. We had always been told that draft notices opened their chilling message with the cheery salutation “Greetings.” It was one of many things we were told that turned out to be wrong. December 12th marks the 35th anniversary of my induction into the U.S. Army. It was 1968, and all hell was breaking loose at home and war casualties were peaking.

Being drafted did not come as a surprise. Several months earlier, during our senior year in college, I, along with several guys I grew up with, had been ordered to report to the Induction Center in Newark for our pre-induction physicals. Our first taste of the military was being barked at by an immense sergeant who seemed to be all stripes from his shoulder to his elbow. He hollered, “Take off everything except your undershorts, socks and shoes.” Barely five minutes in and already it was surreal. A hundred or so men looked like actors in a black and white, 35 millimeter stag film.

Back then, most college seniors were not terribly keen on the idea of being killed or maimed in Southeast Asia, so stories circulated about ways to avoid being drafted without having to flee to Canada or serve out your time in a federal prison, where we were told that the inmates just LOVED “college puke draft dodgers.”

According to some of these stories, you could avoid being drafted by showing up for the pre-induction physical in a dress. However, given the choice between being drafted and possibly being shot or blown to bits in some godforsaken place like the Mekong Delta and showing up at the Induction Center in drag, most men, myself included, took the easy way out and opted for possible death or dismemberment There was, however, that ONE GUY who wore a dress.

I hadn’t noticed the guy in the dress, and I suspect that not many others did either. After all, he was not wearing sequins and a boa, but rather he sported a tasteful, rather understated cotton shirtwaist number. But once we all got down to shorts, socks and shoes, as ordered, we couldn’t help but notice the Dress Guy, because despite the unmistakable order to “take off everything but shorts, socks and shoes,” the Dress Guy remained dressed.

We all buzzed, “Holy shit. Check it out. There’s a guy over there in a DRESS!!” Virtually every eye in the room was fixed on the Dress Guy – that is, until Sergeant Bulldog re-entered the room. We looked back and forth between the Sergeant and the Dress Guy as if we were watching two gunfighters squaring off on Main Street in Dodge City.

The crusty lifer scanned the ridiculous looking, scared shitless array, until he spotted the Dress Guy and placed him in the crosshairs. We all held our breath, for this promised to be a moment of high drama and the confirmation or refutation of all the “beat it by wearing a dress” stories we had so often heard. Would Sergeant Bulldog ridicule the Dress Guy? Would he smack hell out of him? Maybe he would drag the Dress Guy off to a special room reserved for dealing with guys who show up in dresses?

None of the above happened. Sergeant Bulldog looked directly at the Dress Guy and said, “ Hey you!”

The Dress Guy pointed at himself and said, “Me?”

Sergeant Bulldog matter-of-factly replied, “Yeah you. Take off the dress. Shorts, socks and shoes.” The Dress Guy, who probably had mentally rehearsed his lines for months in anticipation of a major confrontation, was so caught off guard that he sheepishly removed the shirtwaist and instantly became just another guy in the shorts, socks and shoes crowd. And, just as instantly his plans to beat the draft evaporated.

For my part, I held tightly to the note from my podiatrist certifying that I had “second degree pes planus that sometimes became symptomatic.” In other words, I had (and still have) flat feet that sometimes hurt. I was hoping that the Army would have no need for a guy with second-degree pes planus, for Heaven’s sake.

My chance would come at the final step in the physical when each man was to get a one on one with a doctor, at which time we would be able to explain all the reasons why the Army might not want us. This is the time, so the stories went, that you could beat the draft by telling the doctor that you are gay, schizophrenic, depressed, or who knows what. None of that for me. I was going with pes planus, second degree.

So, I endured the “bend over and spread ‘em” indignity, I dutifully peed in the bottle, I turned my head and coughed (twice, as some of you know), and cooperated with the Army guys who herded us around like cattle, but cattle wearing shorts, socks and shoes.

When I finally got to the doc, I proudly presented my flat feet note. He read it and, showing off either his knowledge of medicine or Latin, said, “Flat feet, huh?” I nodded in the affirmative. He told me to take my socks off. Great sign, I thought. Here is a guy who appreciates how serious pes planus, second degree is. He said, “Stand on your toes,” which I did. He muttered, “Uh-huh,” stamped something on my note, kept it, and said, “Put your socks back on and move on. Next man.” So much for pes planus, second degree.

I found myself in a large room with all the other guys who were found to be healthy enough to be shot or blown to bits in the Mekong Delta. I couldn’t believe it was all happening to me. Oh yeah, the Dress Guy was there too.

A few weeks later, we got our “Greeting” letter, and a month or so after that, on December 12, 1968, we reported again to the Induction Center, this time to be formally inducted and transported to Fort Dix, for basic training, which made the pre-induction physical seem like a day at the beach.

But that’s a story for another day.

 
Hungry? How about ordering up some Christmas Fries? Ding, they're done!

 
Step Lively. Although a walk through this is probably a valuable learning experience, do you think some people may come out feeling like a piece of shit?

 
Harmony! There aren’t many things about music that captivate me more than close harmony, sung with letter perfect phrasing, and without any gimmicks. There aren’t many people who can do that better than the Dixie Chicks. I just watched their special on TV, and I was, quite simply, knocked out by their depth of talent. Not only are their vocals extraordinary, but they also happen to be ass-kicking musicians. I have been a fan for quite some time, having all their CDs, but tonight was the first time I really had the chance to watch them perform. What strikes me about the Dixie Chicks, and other great harmony groups such as the Everly Brothers and the Mills Brothers (more about them another time), is that they are the music. They could perform in a living room with a couple instruments and sound just as they do on their records.

One has to wonder about the odds against three such extremely talented people whose voices perfectly melt into a chord coming together. I hope they stay together and continue to make music that gives me goose bumps.

 
What Exit? This question has become quite popular with comedians. You know who I mean. The guy who bounds onto the stage, picks up the microphone stand and swings it back and forth like one of those metal detectors, while he asks the audience, "Hey, are you guys having a good time? Great. I'm happy to be here tonight. Where are you guys from?" He hopes that some glutton for punishment in the audience will say, "New Jersey," so he can say, "New Jersey? What exit?" Of course, what “Shecky” is referring to are exit numbers on the Garden State Parkway (here, it's just "the Parkway") or the New Jersey Turnpike (here, "the Turnpike"). On one level, we realize that we’ve just heard a joke because some folks are laughing. However, we're not laughing because our first instinct is to answer what we understand to be a legitimate question.. So, amidst the laughter of those not from here, one hears numbers being shouted by audience members, “145! 151! 82! 15W!”

These numbers tell us a wealth of information. “145” means Newark/East Orange. “151” means Nutley/Bloomfield. “82” means Toms River/Seaside Heights, and “15W” (the “W” gives us a clue that this is a Turnpike Exit) means Kearny/Harrison. In addition, because the exit numbers are keyed to mile markers, we know approximately where in the state a particular location is. So, if you live off Exit 145 and you are headed for Exit 100, you know you will have to drive south for approximately 45 miles. It’s simple. No baloney. We like it.

Join me in a virtual road trip on the Parkway and other New Jersey roads. Unlike most trips in Jersey, this one is toll free. Oh yeah. One other thing. Here, if someone passes you on the right, it means that you are going too friggin’ slow for the lane you are in. MOVE TO THE RIGHT. They just don’t seem to get this in New York or Pennsylvania.