Bullies and Tyrants and Bush, Oh My!

Bullies and Tyrants and Bush, Oh, My!

(Some actual names have been changed to protect the elderly. These pseudonyms appear in bold.-- Larry)

When I was in high school there was the Feeney Gang, five guys led by Freddie Feeney. These were the real Fonzies of our world, not the gold-hearted thug of Happy Days. They always wore motorcycle boots and black leather jackets over white T-shirts. A pack of camels rolled in the sleeve of the Tee. They carved their girlfriend’s name in the their forearm with a penknife. I guess Freddie was leader by the virtue of this act and the endurance of pain it required. The other guys had girls with name like Pat, Sue, Jan, but his girl was Veronica.

I knew other kids in school who drank, kids who smoked, kids who had sex with skanks, kids who were cheats and bullies, and kids who stole, but the Feeney gang did it all and then some. Feeney members were the only kids I ever had knowledge of doing drugs, some having been busted in the parking lot of the Sunnybrook Ballroom during a Dick Clark Sock Hop. Apparently they were let off with a warning. Drugs were not yet considered a reality in suburbia.

These guys terrorized the rest of us. They were always threatening, always stealing, always ready to “get” you. We knew they carried weapons, knew they would use those weapons, too, although they kept these hidden on their bodies. No guns, that wasn’t the thing back in the day, although they may have had a “rod” sequestered in their hot rods. One did bring a rifle into school once.  I believe he got (oh it must have been so horrid for him) a three-day suspension. They did carry knives. Penknives in their pockets, still most of we boys had penknives, but they had bigger and meaner knives down their boot or strapped inside their clothes.

Although this gang chose General as their course of study (which was in reality the choice of all those who did not want to study), the school administration, in their great wisdom, though the way to contain such lads was to disperse them (as a group no less) through classes attended by the rest of us.  Thus one might walk into a math class or an English class and find the Feeney Boys, usually with their girl on their lap and their hand’s up her blouse, just laughing and having a good ol’ time.

One couldn’t learn in any Feeney infested classroom.  They would be snickering, glaring, cracking-wise, pushing books off desks, goosing people unfortunate enough to be seated before them and otherwise totally disrupting order. Very few teachers ever had the guts to stop them, but what difference did it make when one did? They would be sent to the Principal, perhaps given detention, perhaps even suspended, but soon they would be back in class trusted to reform because they had promised to do so.

Most of these guys dropped out by twelfth grade, which was the only thing that relieved us of them; however, you still didn’t want to run into them in the parking lot after a dance or on an empty street somewhere. I believe one finally went to jail for stabbing some kid after some function.  A bit too late for the kid stabbed. These guys were allowed to torture and terrorize their fellow students because those in authority refused to crack down on them, constantly allowing them to continue as they were in the hope these guys would reform and on the basis of their promise they would. These guys laughed at authority and thought the administration was a joke.

There were three ways for a student to survive with the Feeney Gang. One was to completely avoid them. Since in a school our size that was virtually impossible, there were in actuality only two ways to survive. One was the Neville Chamberlain approach – appeasement. This generally meant if you met a Feeney you handed over your lunch money or whatever else they might ask for and you took their punches, shoves and verbal abuse with a smile.
The other way was to beat the tar out of them. There were a few guys in school tough enough and brave enough to do just that and these guys the Feeneys generally left alone.  I was fortunate enough to be a close friend of one of those guys, so the Feeneys basically left me alone too.  But woe to the weakest students.

This is exactly how I view people like Saddam Hussein.

A couple of months ago I though a war might not be necessary, that Saddam could be contained by diligence and the threat of attack.  Now I think a war is necessary because of those countries that have decided to ignore Hussein’s defiance in favor of their own pride or monetary deals with Iraq. If the world had stood side-to-side against him, clicked their heels together so to speak, Saddam may have cracked and brought out the weapons his continued defiance so clearly indicates he has.  However, even then I doubt he would completely empty his footlocker; although, he may have made a show of destroying enough to set him back a few more years, and then perhaps before he could restock he would die.

Saddam may feel time is on his side and with a few more empty gestures and meaningless promises he can escape this mess unscathed. I believe his foolish posturing guarantee a war and soon.  We’re at a point I don’t think Saddam leaves us much choice.

Of course this all has caused a vocal split and we are treated to highly televised peace marches by the usual suspects (John Lennon’s song groupies singing “Give Peace a Chance” or “Imagine” and the opportunistic Reverend Jesse Jackson jumping into the fray to try to regain some public presence again).
We also hear this mantra that we are going in alone.  This is not really true, but who wants to hear that we have far more of Europe aligned with us than against us. Not that this matters anymore. We are at a juncture in history where we must move forward with this come what may or perhaps face grave consequences for our delay. Then again, perhaps we will face grave consequences as a result of going to war, but at this point I think the choice has been made to charge ahead. Who knows where either decision will lead.

Our politicians always end their speeches anymore with the phrase, “God bless America.”

I think it is time to end these things with the phrase, “God help us all.”

Some Eatery Tales

In the movies you are always seeing somebody slipping the Host a twenty-dollar bill to get a good seat.  In my entire life I have never bribed a host or hostess for preference.

As many time as The Better Half and I (or I alone on business trips for that matter ) have eaten out we have rarely gotten a really bad table.  On most occasions when we have the restaurant wasn't filled and there was nowhere else to put us.

I have occasionally been to restaurants that weren't full and been seated at bad tables, but this has usually been at high volume chains such as Bennigans.  The impression I have is these places have a rotation scheme to assure the wait people receive some quota of serving and so if it means a bad seat so a wait person gets their quota the host will seat you there even if other areas have good seats.  I might be wrong about this, but it is just an observation.

John Harvard's would probably fall into this category.  We like the place before the state banned smoking in all restaurants.  It doesn't have high prices and the food is to our taste with big portions. In the pass we always asked for smoking (though we don't smoke) because you were less likely to have families with babies or small children who would disrupt a quiet meal. The smoking section was in the bar area, where the bar tender also served double duty as a waiter at those lunchtime forays and he was a very friendly fellow and after our first visit he always recognized us and greeted us when we came. Seating in the bar was never a problem until Governor Minnor signed the anti-smoking law.  The last two times we went to John Harvard’s we had a seating hassle, so they may be on the verge of losing a regular customer. (They have since closed. -- Larry)

The firsts was when I was on vacation at the end of December.  The Better Half had to work and on those days I took her to work and picked her up.  Since she got off at 1:00, I suggested lunch at John Harvard’s.  Since lunches there had always been enjoyable, we went.

We entered and the Hostess asked how many.  With no further question she quickly led us off into the dining room.  Although this time we had a decent table, that room is still a brightly lit sea of tables and had a number of other customers, including some babies that you know are just going to yowl before leaving.

When the waiter came I asked about the bar.  Since it had appeared pretty much empty, I thought it was closed.  He said, no it was open.  I asked if we could go there and he said sure.  Then he said, "The bartender's name is Eric.  He’s a great guy.  Tell him I sent you."

As we headed there the hostess came by and asked where we were going.  I told her to the bar.  She didn't try to stop us, but gave me a dirty look.  Went anyway not realizing this was portents of the future.

Eric the Bartender turned out to be the usual one and he greeted us warmly as soon as we entered and gave us a nice quiet booth.

We chalked this seating mishap up to an aberration, but after last night I don't.  Last night we specifically requested the bar and since there was obviously empty seating in the bar saw no reason why that request was unreasonable, especially since the dining room was fairly crowded. However, the hostess insisted we could not sit in the bar and took us to a table near the back of the dining room. We were next to the kitchen door, so had that swinging back and forth constantly, and the room was full of both squally babies and parents who let their children roam freely.

We have no desire to go back there.

Now on the opposite end side of the John Harvard's are those other places where we have become recognizable.  It is very nice to be known in a restaurant, makes one feel like a celebrity.  The last time we went to Hugo's, I commended to the Better Half, after we were seated at our favorite front corner table, that I felt like Cheers where everyone went "Norm" whenever George Wendt made his entrance.

One Saturday we went to Hugo's without a reservation and they were really busy.  The only table in the bar area was far in the back just before the entrance to the Men's Room.  This is probably the least desirable table in the bar, but was the only one open so we took it.  We ordered our drinks, but when the waitress brought them she said follow me.  A much better table had just opened and she took us to it.

I guess some real snooty in-places would demand a bribe to even seat you, let alone move you to a better table, but I have usually found even the upscale restaurants in this area have more class than crass.
Two instances of true class come to mind many years apart.

One was about a year ago. We had not made a reservation anywhere and just set out.  We decided to go to Hugo's. When we got there the parking lots were very full.  We walked in and the place was unusually busy.  The Hostess told us it would be an hour wait.  We decided not to stay, especially since there were an extraordinary number of kids there that evening.

I had overlooked the fact it was Mother’s’ Day weekend and I guess a lot of people were taking mom out a day early.
We weren't certain what to do, but as we drove back up Route 1 (Baltimore Pike) we passed The Gables at Chadds Ford.  This was a fairly new restaurant that had gained popularity.  It was much more pricey than Hugo's and we figured it would probably be full too, but I said what the heck, let's give it a try.

We went in and were confronted by a formally dressed host.  I told him we had no reservations.  Did he turn us away?  No.  He said he could seat us in the bar area, but he would need the table at eight o'clock.  It was about quarter of seven so I figured we could eat in an hour and quarter.

The waitress was very friendly and the food was excellent.  Though we were a bit more rushed then usual, it was still an enjoyable experience.  There was a live jazz combo playing and the staff couldn’t have been nicer.  We became a regular thereafter when we could afford the tab.

Another instance of a place showing class, or perhaps plain pity, was over twenty years ago before our kids were born when we lived in New Jersey. One day we decided to try the Silver Lake Inn for lunch having never been there. We arrived right at opening time and as we walked in found the dining room was empty of customers, but there were an army of black bow-tie-bedecked waiters poised like soldiers at various stations in the room.  We were given a table with a view out the window of the lake and our drink orders taken.  I opened the menu and lost my appetite.  Every choice was a complete luncheon and the prices were so high I knew I didn't have enough money on me to pay for lunch for two.  I didn't carry credit cards in those days.

First I panicked, then I swallowed my pride and waved back the waiter telling him to cancel the drinks and we got up.  I kind of mumbled an explanation.  The waiter looked stricken.
The Host came over and he and the waiter followed us as we retreated, pleading we stay, saying, "Don't go.  You’re hungry.  We'll make you a sandwich."  But I was too embarrassed to except and we just kept going and we never ever went back there.  Of course they probably forgot us an hour later.

My pants were never being pulled down at these restaurants either.

The closest that came to happening was at the Longwood Inn on Valentine's Day a decade ago.  That was the first and only time in my life I fainted.  It was during my thyroid problems and I was just on new medication and I guess this affected me.  The Better Half and I had just ordered and had one drink on the table.  I hadn't even started to drink that, because I felt a bit odd.  I told the Better Half I was going to the men's room to sit in there to see if I would begin to feel better.  Going through the next dining room over things turned black.  Next thing I know the host and two waiters or busboys are carrying me to the lobby.

They sat me on a chair.  I remember people waiting to be seated looking over.  Next one of these guys is undoing my belt and the button on my pants.  I thought he was going to unzip them and pull them down.  Since I was only wearing a very brief male g-string underneath, (it was Valentine's day, see) I didn't want that to happen.  I quickly said I was okay.  I got up, buckled up and had our dinners boxed and we got out of there, never to return.
Another culinary bridge burned.

(Note: since this was written these restaurants went out of business. Bennigans, John Harvard's, Hugo's and the Silver Lake Inn. -- LEM 2009)  

Remember the Adage

Remember the adage: Those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it.  You would think in a world of over-information everyone would know history, but given that one could take much of the news of the day from seemingly any period of history, change the names and places, and it would read like today's front page, obviously history has been lost in the sands of time and the winds of ignorance.

Both justifications and objections given to the current conflicts are not unique to the current situation or are they new.  About the only difference seems to be the changing of the sides; that is, in one period it is the Democrats defending and the Republicans denying and in another just vice-versa.

You and I were raised and trained (it is my opinion that the schools do not teach; they train) the lessons were all about the glories and righteousness of America. In every matter, our heroes were not only heroic, but also wise and never wrong.  We were taught that George Washington chopped down that cherry tree and never lied, and that he tossed a silver dollar across the Potomac as if it were documented fact.  In fact, we speak of the Colonists who led and those who supported and fought the "War of Independence" as Patriots, just as we speak of the Confederacy as rebels during the "War between the States."

But the truth is that the colonists were the rebels, isn't it?  The Colonists were British subjects who declared a civil war against their government.  The Revolutionary War was fought over economics.  If King George III had ceded to the demands of the colonial merchants and rescinded a number of tariffs and taxes perhaps we would be putting Queen Elizabeth II on our stamps today.

Our leaders then were not spotless saints.  Washington had a large ego and was a snob.  Franklin was such a reprobate as a young man he admitted he was fortunate he never caught a venereal disease, and John Hancock, famous for his large signature on the declaration of Independence was a smuggler and privateer (a kind of government licensed pirate).

Now to move a century, do you "Remember the Maine".  The Maine was the justification to have the Spanish-American War, or at least the justification to get the American public behind the idea.  The Maine was a "goodwill ship" sent to Havana during the Cuban revolution against Spanish rule. It was sunk in the harbor there in February 1898 with a loss of 260 men. The charge was made that the Spaniards had sunk it and the rallying cry of "Remember the Maine" was sounded across our nation. In reality the Maine was sunk when it struck a submarine mine there to protect against the Spanish.

Why was the Maine so important?  Because there was pressure for the United States to protect its corporate interests in Cuba, where we were heavily invested in $50 million of Cuban property engaged in the tobacco, sugar and iron industries.

The major newspapers of the day, those of the two giant publishers, Hurst and Pulitzer (yes, that Pulitzer, for which one of the great prizes of Journalism is named) bombarded their pages with overblown accounts and outright fabrications about Spanish atrocities trying to push the US to war.  There was just one catch. What justification did the U.S. have for intervening in the affairs between Spain and it's colony of Cuba?  The Maine gave us the excuse.  One of our vessels was attacked and our citizens killed.  So we entered the war.

Be Fair to the Fair (Labor Day Weekend 2003)

Labor Day weekend, time to clog Grubb Road from above I-95 to the pizza place on Marsh Road. 'Tis the weekend of the Arden Fair.

Arden is a strange village, a wooded compilation of shack and mansion, of dark and twisted roads and hand carved street signs where one expects to find Trolls lurking beneath it's bridges and leprechaun's about the woods.

It's not I never venture into the confines of its haunted acres, The Arden Dinner Theatre has been surrounded by this venue for thirty-odd years and over at the Gild Hall (I believe they spell it this way rather than Guild) they hold concerts, story readings and poetry nights, not unexpectedly, for this is their history and their heritage.

Founded in 1900 during part of the Utopia Movement, the Villages of Arden and Ardencroft have their own unique government and somehow both escapes the normal rules of our county and state, yet wields more than their share of influence. Fortunately they don't always win, for they attempted to prevent the building of the aforementioned Papa John's a few years back.  It is not that I buy papa John's Pizza, but that the area upon which the place was built is not in Arden, but sets across the road from their edge in a commercial zoned splotch of stores.  It is across the street from the Arden Steak Shop, which has sat on Arden's corner longer than I have lived on the other boundary. 

They also attempted to have Grubb Road closed to traffic since it runs through the center of Arden. This would have been a major inconvenience to everyone living in the communities surrounding Arden, but they think they are better than us all.

It is an indication of their influence that a decade ago they got a traffic light on the corner of their central cross street.  There is little in the way of traffic that comes out or goes in this street. Just to my side of their line is Veale Road, another major connecting route.  This dead ends into Grubb just where it becomes Harvey and so is a heavy intersection where a stoplight would be very justifiable, but no such light has yet appeared. Why does this show the influence of Arden?  Because in the 1980s I was on the Civic Association Board here in our development and we petitioned for a traffic light at the intersection of our main thoroughfare and the county road. We had to prove the volume out of our development was high enough before the state would approve the light.  This took a couple months of having a counter across the road and of talking back and forth.  We did show we exceeded the threshold and got our light, but that street in Arden seldom has any traffic and would not come near the required floor for a light.

A couple years back, Arden got the state to make Grubb Road at Veale more decorative. At their request and urging, brick pedestrian paths were laid across the two roads where they joined, not that pedestrian traffic is much in evidence at this spot. This closed both roads to traffic for a couple months time and what a nuisance that was since there is no other quick outlet north and west from this area.  The bricks were in place at last and traffic flowed again for about a month and then the road was closed and the bricks removed and some red-colored macadam surface replaced it in these foot lanes. Why?  Because Arden complained that cars traversing the brick made a clicking sound they found annoying.  I forget how many hundred thousand dollars the state spent on these paths, but since they were totally unnecessary to begin with, I would call it a total waste of money.

This is even more frustrating, because under the rules of its charter as a village, Arden is excused from paying any country or state property or school taxes. Obviously, from my last anecdote, they aren't excused from spending the state and counties money. They are also preserved from obeying certain rules of code the rest of us must endure.  For instance, they are allowed to burn their leaves in the fall.  Driving through Arden in late autumn is like driving through the clouds atop a high mountain, except it doesn't smell like high mountain air. We can't smoke a cigarette in a bar, but Arden can smoke up the whole community at will.

To some extent I applaud their freedom, if they would only remember to feel grateful among themselves and not try to impose less freedom on their neighbors.

But never mind, this year, now having some excess of time, I decided to go to the Arden Fair. The Better Half and I walked to it. It would be, I estimate, two miles from our house. It is a risky business to do so.  Arden is apparently also excused from the concept of sidewalks. One must walk, once at their borders, up or down the narrows of Grubb Road, where there is no margin for error between the shoulder space and passing traffic. It is a ledge one walks, varying to no greater width than perhaps two feet along crumbling macadam or gully pocked dirt.

The fair is crowded. It is for some inexplicable reason very popular. But it is not anything of great diversion. It holds none of the entertainment of the Rockford ice Cream Festival, no free live music in scattered venues, no wandering minstrels, no displays of antique and classic cars to see and touch. It offers no expanse of space in which a crowd can fan out and not press upon each individual in clogs and clumps. It is a canyon of streets between the trees cluttered with makeshift clapboard booths. One amazing phenomena being, that for a lane surrounded by woods, it has no shade from the sun. It was a Saturday of high heat and humidity and our faces were red as if we had been to the children's face painting booth and requested to look like boiled lobsters. Sweat gave us a glowing sheen, but glued our clothing to our skin.

And what was there to see. If a child, there were some games or a pony ride. But for adults there was mostly overpriced merchandise to buy.  Arden was founded as a utopia and then evolved into an Artist Colony (Burl Ives, the folksinger once resided here) and today it still is home to such. Each month one passes through to see a newly created sculpture of old junk along the edge of one artist's yard.  This time it was a giant bird whose body was an old acetylene torch tube and it's neck the hose and nozzle. So the booths sold crafts, twisted stick wreaths, candle creations, twisted metal, original paintings, wooden knickknacks and other related doodads.  There was a stand selling weaponry, swords and knives and probably old nazi helmets. They were also selling chances on a SUV.  These latter two named activities seemingly out of place in such a liberal community.

And all these objects up for sale far out of the pocketbook of your loyal narrator and his lady. Ah, yes, nothing like a country fair to jack the prices on useless junk.

Ah, I don't knock their enterprise.  After all, Rockford and the Renaissance Faire sell much the same, but those places give one some diversion and entertainment as well, whereas all Arden seemed to provide to take one's mind off the expensive wampum were booth's selling overpriced food.

But it made a nice walk, a bit of exercise, although the walk to and from, the wandering about while there and the heat as excessive as the fair's fare wore us both out by the time we left.

Our sun-basted bodies did demand a bath, however. The Better Half showered and lay down for a nap.  I took a bath, then because the car was low on gas, decided to fill the tank during the dog's afternoon ride.  My timing could not have been worst. I stepped out at the pump in a torrential downpour, the lightening flashing about me and the thunder rumbling to my feet.  Come on, pump, pump, pump, I don't want to be out here.  Is lightening attracted to gas pumps? (And as at the fare, the price of gas was also juiced up. It is the blackout, the oil companies cry, which force upon us no choice but to gouge you motorists.  How oddly convenient, since they jump up the price every Labor Day weekend.  This year they can blame it on something else other than greed and poor planning.)

I had my second bath. Soaked thoroughly, I plooshed back into the car. Gad, the air conditioning hitting those damped clothes; those just fresh clothes I had put on. I drove home and slogged in to the house on squeaking sneakers, stripped to the skin and toweled off, my clothes falling on the bathroom floor in a sodden heap.

We finished off the day by driving to Drexel Hill and having dinner at Casey's. A cozy booth, good food, dry and comfy and relaxed and with a bill of reasonable low cost. Now that is what I call fair.

A Flare for the Faire (Labor Day Weekend 2003)

The boy and I headed up the Pennsylvania Turnpike one Sunday morning to the shire. Two lone knights on our separate quest, my wife and daughter choosing not to go this time. We had all been to the faire the prior week.

We arrived a bit early, but things begin before the gates are opened.  The villagers and travelers were milling about, knights hovering near upon their horses and all manner of folk awaiting the arrival of the queen.

William Shakespeare was standing upon the village wall above my head, next to two of the local rabble.  He was fretting because he had not finished the play he had written for the Queen and she was soon to arrive. One of the rabble told him not to worry if he was unable to finish, they would just blame it on ME! Already in trouble and the queen's trumpeters had just sounded her arrival.

Since the boy didn't desire to wander about with his dad, I ambled down into the village proper upon entry through the gates.  Most must have awaited the royal formation to form, for I found myself the only 'civilian' so to speak among the shops and stages.  It was like stepping into the game of Zelda.

I walked up the hill to the Endgame Stage, where the Queen will eventually come to declare the day begun and found a few visitors had come this way after all.  William Shakespeare was now at this site and a person upon the stage was praising his latest work, something called "Hamlet", which he then explained in Cliff Notes fashion to us eavesdroppers.  Lacking his full cast, he grabbed a volunteer (right!) from the audience and put on a two-person version. His fellow cast members did arrive, but that led to three dead Gertrude's.  You really had to be there.

Anyway, the Queen came and after those opening ceremonies, I sauntered down the hill again. I noticed to my left a character skulking along the side, running to hide behind different objects along the path.  My guess was he was following a noble Lady who was strolling about ten paces ahead of me. I glanced her way momentarily and next I hear the skulkers voice in my ear.

"Sir, I pray ye help me catch yon Noble."

He had scooted behind my back and was using me as a moving shield.

"Do you mean that Lady?” I asked.

Ah, he was aghast. "Why no sire, I wouldst never rob a lady."

"Rob?  Then how do I know I can trust you back there?" I asked.

He ignored the question. "No, I am after that Nobleman there."

I looked and it was a fancy Nobleman who had been in the queen’s court.  He was gay and had been most interested in the visiting swordsmen from Italy.

"Sir," I told him, "I would prefer the lady."

The last I saw of this scalawag he was creeping behind the noble and reaching for his purse.

It was a lovely day at the faire.  I really think Labor Day weekend is the best time to go. No rain came on Sunday and the day was sunny, but never got more than comfortable in temperature and the crowd was less than usual.  We had gone on Labor Day the other year because it was the only day everyone was home at once.  It has been difficult with all the varied schedules in recent years.  That Labor Day the crowd was less as well. I also found this Sunday that I was more involved in participating in the make-believe of the place than on other visits.  Whether this was a result of the lighter crowd or because I was traveling about alone I don't know, but it certainly added to my fun.

I went from here to the Globe Theater to see the show of Foolhardy.  This man and woman due was new, a first time act. Dressed in fools’ costumes strewn with bells they proved very enjoyable.  Of course, like most acts, they took a "volunteer" from the audience. Volunteers are often those who protest the most.  Being alone I took a seat on the second row of benches on the center isle.  I like to be near the front to see and hear better. As Foolhardy drummed up attention to the show a man entered and mentioned to a family across the aisle seated in the front row that volunteers were usually grabbed from there, especially if one was seated on the aisle.  The man seated there immediately got up and moved down to the center of his family, which could be certain doom, for immediately Ima Nutt, the female fool chortled "I have my volunteer".

Ah, but surprises lay ahead.  The show began and she came forth into the audience and whom does she head right for but yours truly.  Oh my God, I'm doomed. She snatched off my cap and began rubbing my head with her hand and said, "I have my volunteer...and it's you" at which time she pointed to a man seated in front of me.  Both I and the man across the aisle sighed in relief.  Rick, the chosen one, was pulled on stage (it never pays to resist) and by the end he had a fool's cap, a bulbous red nose, a pink ballerina's skirt and a name tag reading Dimwit, his new name as he was trained to be a fool.  The guy was a great sport and it was a funny show.

After FoolHardy, I watch street performers before the Globe perform sword dances, juggle and walk on glass, caught part of the Empty Hats and then the Royal Hypnotist.  I went to this show twice last week and again this time because it is fascinating to watch the subjects.  The show is the same in material, but since it is new people each time it is also different each time.  This time I even tried the exercise to find subjects.  I have a feeling I don't really want to be hypnotized.  The man explained in the beginning that one could only be hypnotized if they want to be.  He then asks the audience to go through some things that allow him to find willing subjects.  One is to hold out your arms and imagine a weight tied to one hand pulling it down and then a balloon on the other floating up.  He asks you to open your eyes and see if your arms are still parallel.  Mine weren't, my right was down some, my left was up some.  This is similar to techniques I learned in Aikido Training, where you used a form of self-hypnosis to overcome opponents.  For instance, you get a larger opponent down and you are pinning them.  You then picture yourself caught in sucking mud, pulling you deeper and deeper and you will find your opponent can't push you off because you have willed the force of sucking mud against him.  It does actually work.  I have ever since applied the technique to open stubborn pickle jars.

The next exercise was to grasp your hands together and imagine there is a capsule between them that bursts as you squeeze.  It is filled with glue and it glues your hands together and when you open your eyes you won't be able to pull your hands apart.  I opened my eyes rather skeptically and pulled and my hands would not part.  This kind of shocked me and I made a great effort and they finally popped apart.  Those in the audience who did not manage this were asked to the stage,  the victims.  If you ever get a chance to see a hypnotist's show do so.  It is very interesting.

This show and the Looney Lucy and Ploppy X-rated Smut Show (as they call it) were the only shows I repeated from the week before. I went to Menagerie, Renaissance Vaudeville, Trial & Dunke, The Pirate Auction, Cast in Bronze and Don Juan & Miguel.  I enjoyed them all, but especially a moment at Menagerie.

Now this was not a bunch of animals.  Only a female singer accompanied by a male guitarist.  But they did wicked limericks and sang bawdy songs along with some patter.  Very funny.  Then she sang a song called "Why Young Girls' shouldn't Marry Old Men."  The reason of course was old men couldn’t get their foller-lolly-le up.  And in the final verse she left the stage in my direction, straddled my leg, removed my hat and like before I had my head rubbed, but this time not with her hand, but with her breasts.

Her partner said, "Sorry about that, sir," but I told him the pleasure had been all mine.

In between the shows I had paused at one point to consult my schedule of events and was approached by a villager offering assistance. He was the Royal rat-catcher and we had a nice long discussion about his trade and the problems of his life (he hadn't laughed in 30 years).  I think I surprised him somewhat because I carried on a conversation of trading quips and lines.  Most people kind of smile when approached and engaged while the actor does all the talking.

This is the realistic aspect of the place.  Characters populate the village and all day long you see little conversations, disagreements and other interesting events occurring along your way just as if you were in a real place.

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed my day in the 16th Century.  The boy bought a sword (a real one) and he found his flower girl again. He is going back next Saturday with some of his friends.
I am going back to the future myself.

L-O-V-E Spells DVD!

February is the month for lovers.  Perhaps you plan to snuggle up on Valentine’s Day and enjoy a movie in the comfort and privacy of your den. (No, not that kind of movie. Shame on you for even thinking that way!) We are talking of movies of romance and true love; perhaps something with Tom Hanks such as Sleepless in Seattle or You’ve Got Mail.  Any actor who can build a relationship with a volleyball that tugs at your heartstrings when they must part should bring even more when an actual woman is involved. Unfortunately I have seen neither of those films.

If it is out and out romance you seek, then Sabrina comes to mind. I saw the original  (1954) when it came to the big screen. It is about a poor Chauffeur’s daughter who goes to Paris and comes home a sophisticated beauty who attracts the eyes of two rich brothers.  Considering I was only 13 at the time and still liked this romantic triangle says something for its power or perhaps I was just swept away in my adolescence by Audrey Hepburn.  This film was remade in the 1990s with Harrison Ford in the Humphrey Bogart part and reviews say it was true to the first film, but brought it up to date.  Both can be found on DVD.

Speaking of love and Bogart, The African Queen, with Katherine Hepburn this time, shows the blooming of love between two unlikely mates.  Bogart is the grimy river boat captain rescuing Hepburn, the ultra-clean missionary from the Nazis   This is a rousing good movie and the DVD comes with extras, including commentary by the cinematographer of the film, Jack Cardiff.

Actually, considering Bogart film image as the hard as nails tough guy, he seems to pop up in a lot of romantic parts, probably none more romantic than Rick in Casablanca.  You must remember this one makes everyone’s list of all time great films and it sizzles with the doomed love smoldering between Bogart and Ingrid Bergman (who could blame him), proving that a kiss isn’t just a kiss after all. The DVD comes with a documentary by Lauren Bacall and outtakes.  This is a movie that can have the men cheering and the women weeping and everyone feeling patriotic.

Another flick that is surprisingly warm and romantic, as well as hilarious, with well drawn characters if you get my drift, is Shrek The DVD comes in a two disc set with a lot of bonus material, so if the humor overwhelms the romance you have plenty of material to fill up your evening.

Although the season is over and the movie is done to death every December, It’s a Wonderful Life is also a wonderful love story. Despite critics who find it sentimental, it does a pretty good job at capturing the essence of once-upon-a-time small town America.  It contains many human foibles and emotions, from the lust expressed by George, Bert and Ernie (not the Sesame Street Bert & Ernie) over Vi’s “This old thing” dress and hair flip to the heavy-breathing rant of George to Mary that ends with teeth-loosing kisses. A nice documentary on the DVD explains that three pages of dialogue were skipped by the actors in the heat of doing this scene.

Let me reveal my secret love of DVDs – the bonus features, especially commentaries by the director.  These last three DVDs contain some of the best commentaries and that is why they are showing up on a Valentine Day list.  Still, they do contain their own scenes of passion, romance and love.

Fight Club contains some very steamy scenes of passion in its schizophrenic world.  Helena Bonham Carter is exotically sensual in this film.  I realize nut cases beating each other up and making soap from human fat stolen from the trash bins of a Liposuction clinic may not be everyone’s definition of romance, but I will tell you this DVD is full of great commentaries, by the director, writer and actors.  

Perhaps there is a touch of schizophrenics in all these three.  Pollack is certainly a man split between great talent and inner demons. He tried to heighten the first and lost the second through alcohol consumption.  This is a movie of a woman’s true love as well as the self-destructive path of an artist.  Pollack’s paramour and wife defend him, suppress her own brilliant career to boost his and only leaves him with deep regret.  The movie does a great job of showing a love in which the lover recognizes the tragedy it encompasses, as well as the finest portrayal of the creative processes of the mind I’ve seen on film.  Ed Harris’s commentary is of great interest to anyone interested in how scenes are build and actor’s inner feelings can be presented visually. (Harris was both Director and Star.) 

A Beautiful Mind contains one beautifully romantic scene.  This is when John Nash demonstrates to Alicia how easily he sees patterns.  How more romantic can we get than him holding her close to direct her hand to see the images he sees in the star filled sky?  This film deals directly with schizophrenia, but throughout it presents a love of a strong woman for a very troubled man.  There are several fine bonus features on this DVD, but the true treasure is Ron Howard’s commentary.  Here is true insight in what kind of decisions a director has to make to keep the flow of a movie consistent and convincing.  It also answers why certain events have to be overlooked, such as the separation between the real Nash and Alicia and his child by another woman. 

So if Valentine Day doesn’t work out romantically for you, at least with these DVDs you can enrich your mind and fill your time. 

Straight to the Heart of the Matter

Store aisles once garnished by Rudolph’s red nose and Jolly Old Santa Claus are now festooned with giant red hearts and naked Cupids. Gone are the boxes of tree balls, garlands and inflatable snowmen, replaced by candy from satin and lace boxes of chocolates to tiny multi-colored hard hearts embossed with sayings such as “I Love You” and “Wow”. Love is in the air and lovers are in the card shop seeking the perfect expression of it. Saint Nicholas has returned to his hearth in the North Pole and Saint Valentine’s Day is upon us.

What has this saint to do with love?  Perhaps little or perhaps much depending upon which stories you wish to believe.  In the Lives of the Saints (Rev. Hugo Hoever 1961), an official church publication under the imprimatur of the late Francis Cardinal Spellman, the Day and the Saint were only a coincidence of the date February 14. Hoever tells us little more than Saint Valentine and Saint Marius assisted 3^rd Century Christians being persecuted by Claudius II; that Valentine was taken to Rome in 270 AD and then beaten unmercifully with clubs until he was beheaded. Not much love shown there.

However, he does note that February 15 was the Feast of Februata Juno, a Pagan goddess.  It was a custom on the day before this feast for the boys of Rome to hold a lottery in which they pulled from a box the names of the girls of Rome in tribute to Februata.  There is a bit more to this story and custom than the Rev Hoever reveals, however.

Saint Valentine may be an appropriate symbol for true love once one considers what got him into so much trouble with Claudius II.  The Emperor didn’t have much time for Romance.  He was too busy conducting nasty, unpopular wars and having difficultly recruiting men into the army to fight them.  Since he believed the problem wasn’t the terror of battle, but the love of the men for their wives and children, he outlawed all engagements and marriages in Rome. According to legend, Valentine and Marius went to the aid of the young lovers of the city and secretly married them defying the Emperor’s ban; this led to the arrest and death of St. Valentine.

Interestingly, Valentine is not the Patron Saint of Lovers, but the Patron of Greetings.  This seems appropriate considering the great exchange of cards on his day. Many cynics probably attribute this custom to the marketing departments of the card sellers, but it too has its origin with the Feast of Februata Juno.

Remember those boys drawing names on the eve of the feast.  Each girl drawn would become the partner of the drawer for the feast, although often this partnership lasted the full year and many of these couples ended up married.  The early church fathers took a dim view of this Pagan practice and they tweaked the custom slightly substituting girls’ names in the box with those of saints.  Now the boys pulled a name and that became their special saint for the rest of the year. Hopefully this kept their minds on purer pursuits. Your probably thinking the young men were thrilled with this modification.

If you believe that, you would be wrong.  The young men weren’t happy with this turn of event at all and eventually substituted sending an expression of love to the young women in hope that would bring them the ladies’ affections.  They began to evoke Valentine’s name in their plea. Thus evolved the Valentine Day card that we continue to send, although many of our modern sentiments are comic if not downright insulting rather than romantic.

There does exist a legend that while in prison Saint Valentine fell in love with his jailer’s daughter.  Prior to his death, he supposedly sent her a letter, which he signed “From your Valentine”.  Take it with a grain of salt if you must, but it makes a nice closing to my story.

Illustration: painting of St. Valentine, artist unknown.

Leaping Leprechauns, Lies & Legends

Ah, the Emerald Isle with its magical tales of Faeries and glorious images of St. Patrick chasing the snakes into the sea. Just be careful for what you take as reality may be myth and mist.

Take St. Patrick for instance. One is hard put to pin down just where he was born, let alone establish the facts of his life. Although forever associated with the Irish, the Catholic Encyclopedia says he was Scottish. However, there seems to be credible evidence that he was actually born in Wales. (There are also those who put in a claim that he was Italian based on his name having been recorded as Patricius.) If his origins are up for question, one thing is certain, his most famous claim to fame never happened. There were no snakes in Ireland for him to chase.

Which brings us to faeries. Don’t ask me how we made this transition of subject, for that is just the nature of magic. Things just happen out of nowhere. The best-known Irish faeries are Leprechauns. Technically, they fall into the category of Sprites or Goblins.

Apparently Leprechauns must be born old, for you never see an illustration of a young one. They are always shown as old men of short stature, generally pegged at a height of two feet, although sometimes they have been presented from a range of a foot or a height approaching five feet. Nonetheless, they tend to garb their tiny bodies in an exotic green outfit, which includes knee breeches, swallow-tailed waistcoats, pointing toed buckled shoes and squat hats holding a shamrock. They almost always carry a twisted walking stick or shillelagh and a leather purse of gold coin tethered to their belt. They top it all off with a long clay pipe and perpetual mischievous twinkle in their eyes.

There is quite a dispute over the very name Leprechaun. Some say it derives from the old Irish word for “little body”, which is luchorpan.  Others hold to the idea that Leprechauns are offspring of an ancient Euro-Celtic sun god named Lugh (pronounced Luck). A third claim is the name is a corruption of “leath bhrogan”, which translates to shoemaker. This last seems credible enough, since Leprechauns are always depicted as shoemakers, and very good ones, at that, capable of working their lathe drunk or sober, and since they have more than a bit of weakness for a nip or two this is probably a good skill to possess.

Now Leprechauns are shy little folk and well should be since people seek them out for their riches. All Leprechauns possess some great cache of gold that they are bound to lead a human to if caught. The problem is, that even if a human manages to snare one of these chaps and find the gold, it is quite another feat to get it home.

One tale of how tricky the Leprechauns can be tells of a lucky chap who grabbed a little folk and was led to the treasure buried in a field. In need of a shovel, the Irishman tied his red handkerchief to a bush to mark the spot and dashed home to get a digging tool. The two minutes it took him to get home and back was enough for the Leprechaun to fasten a red handkerchief to every bush in the field.

Now most take this to show the magical and devious side of the wee folk. I take it to display the Leprechauns enormous sense of humor. Certainly it would have been much easier to untie the one handkerchief in those two minutes than to fasten hundreds to every bush in sight, but certainly wouldn’t have given the Leprechaun the great joy of seeing the stunned and amazed face of the Irishman leaning in frustration on his now useless shovel.

Mother Natures March Madnesses

They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. If only the month would be that predictable. As much as one may look toward the month with expectations of gusty winds sweeping in a new and welcome spring, Mother Nature has a habit of throwing harsher surprises our way. The mating of madness with March happened before it became a mantra for a basketball tourney. These moments included the legendary Blizzard of 1888 and the 1983 Storm of the Century. Yes, despite the tons of snow we have seen this winter, one can’t put the shovel and salt in the shed until the mad month of March has passed.

My most memorable winter storm was in March of 1958. That was a long time ago, but it sticks in my mind with incredible clarity. Being a boy at the time, I accepted the hardship as a great adventure, but it was a serious storm that could have had dire consequences, and indeed, did have for many. This was the storm that led to Elizabeth Taylor’s then husband, Mike Todd’s death.

The storm hit accompanied with harsh March winds. I lived along a major highway just outside of Pottstown, Pennsylvania at the time, an area use to snow and always well prepared. The nearby quarry trucks were equipped with plows and were out in force early, but even they couldn’t keep ahead of the snow and winds. Such drifts piled up across the Pottstown Pike it defeated their efforts and they had to give up even trying to keep that thoroughfare clear. There was no hope at all for the back roads. Then the weight and wind began taking down trees and wires.

We were thrown back to the last century. We lost our phone and electricity during the storm. Being in the country, this meant we lost all our modern conveniences. The electric appliances were useless and you can’t cook on an electric stove without a current. We had no heat because the oil furnace starter worked off electricity and we had no water because the well pump worked off electricity. You couldn’t even flush the toilet.

Fortunately for us, the farmer across the road had a springhouse and allowed us to use it to get drinking water and that family gave us kerosene stove to huddle about for heat. We survived through the kindness of neighbors, for there was no escape. The roads were impassable, even emergency vehicles were unable to reach much of the countryside. We had no phone to call for help anyway; those lines were down as well.

Our outages lasted three days and it was a week before I was back to school. Since my school drew from the rural area of farms, there were a number of kids who didn’t return to school for another two weeks, until Mother Nature gave her permission for spring to work its thawing magic and clear all those country roads.

So all the people I have heard in recent times complain we don’t get winters like we use to, I hope they were satisfied by February’s storms and for all of us I would say don’t turn your back on March and keep those goulashes handy.