Buzz Paths

We now re-join Sir Bobalot, the Knight in Rusty Armour,as he approaches the Great Swamp of Memories along the winding road of his life. He stops at the edge,removes his helmet and then ponders whether to proceed straight through and possibly sinking into his past or travel around towards the unknown. Unlike a fire breathing dragon,this challenge he can only see in his mind and has the same level of skill and cunning. The invisible foe that lies before him is……HIMSELF. Let’s watch the Rusty Knight from the cover of trees and thickets and let today’s birthday story unfold…

Since Feb.3 fell on a workday this year and the Superbowl is tomorrow,any birthday dinner or shopping for myself will be scheduled for today. I have been up since 6:30am because all 3 cats were pawing my face and whomping the stuffing out of me for their breakfast. There was no sense in going back to sleep, so as the coffee was brewing I stood in front of the fireplace mantle where all the recent birthday cards are displayed. They are the usual mix of silly jokes and reminders not to worry about getting older. As I looked them over I began to recall exactly 12 months ago how I was told that life begins at 50. This wisdom of course came from people older than myself. These are the people that got married in the 50,s and early 60′s, were employed by large companies with benefits for many years,bought houses in the suburbs with 30yr mortgage,had children early,no long term depressions and could save for retirement along with pensions,social security etc,etc. They got a mortgage and had kids in their 20′s and in their 50′s the kids are gone and the mortgage is paid. I then turned toward my Armour that I have forged during my life so far and noticed a little more rust on the tops of the metal boots. I realized how it got there and in a low voice said to myself…”don’t piss on my shoes and then tell me it’s raining”.

( We may recall that when our Rusty Knight turned half-century and was up to his iron waist in offers from AARP, it was also Sir Bobalot’s darkest hour. Unemployed for a long time with little hope, savings completely wiped out,economy destroyed..all was lost. Then,months later the call came for him to once again saddle-up and ride. With high hopes and very low wages our oxidized hero is now charging and slashing his way forward in a desperate attempt to start his life over from scratch. This is what brings him to the edge of the Great Swamp of Memories.)

As I look out over the swamp and watch many of my fondest memories of my past bubble up and mix with some of the dark ones. I must decide whether or not to forget the past and leave it far behind or hold on to it and and run the risk of dragging it like a heavy chain into the unknown,hindering any progress. This problem hit me like a lance at full gallop a while back in the Rite-Aid drugstore. I entered the store as a favor for a coworker and as if lured by a temptress I stopped dead in my tracks at a display of toy cars and trucks. There before me was an exact model of my first car. The moment I saw it the memories engulfed me like a prairie fire. I purchased the little toy car hoping to pay homage to the original for giving me such happiness while I had it and lightly wishing to be reunited so the thrill could be relived. Be careful what you wish for…..

Now that I have been working steadily since mid-May is not really necessary to don my rusty action wear every hour for helping others and day- to- day- daring-do…until a few days ago while driving a heavy company truck north on hwy36 past Keansberg/Union Beach. As I was slowing down for a red signal ahead a familiar shape caught my eye on the side of the road. A moment later it came into full view and suddenly a shocking chill flashed up my spine. Like a man possessed I swerved over to the shoulder and brought twelve and a half tons of steel pipe,fire hydrants and valves to a screeching,bone crushing halt. My eyes were like burning red coals staring down at what stood before me and my diesel burning steed….

Only the most powerful sorcery could have conjured up such an object to test me! The little toy car I brought home was now full size and standing only a few feet away! As I looked over her hood to the windshield another chill ran through me like a knife…

It has been said that the pen is mightier than the sword and in this case it is true. Even if I would have been wearing my rusty tux that day I would have sheathed my Excalibur and chose not to fight and to wait until the odds were tilted in my favor. The reason is because the pen wrote..FOR SALE. Until we meet again temptress,I have your number.

Looking over the swamp with my helmet in one hand and sword in the other,I have decided to use my old school construction skills to solve the dilemma.(the Rusty Knight’s secret identity is a carpenter). I do not wish to avoid my past by going around it and taking the long way,nor do I want to be lost or sinking in it. After all, my past is what made me what I am today. We have been told to either” think inside or outside the box”. Being of limited means and starting over, I think maybe it’s time to use the box itself…to carry my tools through whatever lies ahead. As I look around the Great Swamp of Memories I see everything I may need…trees for lumber and raft,long vines for lashing. I would much rather build a bridge out of logs and vines so that I can often travel back and forth whenever I want. I would also make it strong enough for cars to cross like green Maverick’s,yellow Novas and orange Pontiac’s from the past.

Now that our slightly corroded crusader is another year older, he realizes that a certain age or finding employment does not determine when your life begins. I does however, begin when you start living each day to the fullest and working with what you have at hand. You can first build a raft and then use it to build a bridge. We(Rusty’s friends) have all had more hysterical,fall down,piss yourself laughing good times making and flying paper hot air balloons than anybody will ever have playing electronic games..ever.

I’m sure we will look in on the Rusty Knight from time to time and to follow his adventures. Fair maidens, dragons,swamps,cars…nothing is off limits to this squeaking,clanking cowboy!

Well, it’s time for a coffee refill and later on Sir Bobalot will be off to supper with his Hooters Gift Card! A lot of the waitresses know that the Rusty Knight helps animal rescue with medical supplies and pet food. He drops off cat and dog food donations to a few of the girls at Hooters that have rescues also. Hot babes love a hero,even if he’s a year older.

Orlando Sentinel columnist George Diaz in a January 26 commentary “Well, hail to the chief malcontent in Boston,” attacks Boston Bruins goaltender Tim Thomas as a petulant child for declining an invitation to the White House, and now Massachusetts Gov. Deval Patrick has shamelessly climbed on board the bash-Thomas Express, using his gubernatorial platform to launch a similar attack on Thomas.  They and the rest of the critics of their ilk are out of line.  These critics used their platform to trash Thomas for his personal political feelings which are none of their damn business.

Thomas didn’t make a grand spectacle of his decision to decline the White House invitation.  He didn’t call some big press conference or go on talk shows to discuss his decision and parade his political beliefs like Hollywood’s pompous self-proclaimed political rocket scientists like Janeane Garafoolo and Rosie O’Dumbasss are so fond of doing.  He simply declined the invitation.  But when pressed for a reason by folks like Diaz and Gov. Patrick who demand, and are convinced they have a right to, and are entitled to an explanation for his personal decision, Thomas obliged with his answer expressing his personal disfavor with how the government – BOTH parties – have been running America lately.  If Thomas doesn’t want to lend his celebrity status as a professional sports athlete to an event held in a political arena, that’s his business and no one else has a right to demand that he does.

Yes, it may be a tradition for athletes to go to White House gatherings, and yes maybe one day Thomas will feel differently and regret that his face is missing from a photo.  But it is his decision to make.  There are surely many folks who would value a White House invitation.  Tim Thomas and surely others, do not.  For writers like Diaz and politicians like Gov. Patrick to use their platform to impose their own value of a White House invitation upon Thomas or anyone else, and then stomp their feet and rant against them for not valuing it as they do makes them the petulant children.      

George Diaz

COMMENTARY

January 25 2012, 9:00 PM EST

Tim Thomas doesn't know my buddy Ruben Perez, but he should. 

The complete article can be viewed at:

http://www.orlandosentinel.com/sports/os-diaz-white-house-tim-thomas-0126-20120125,0,7489424.column 

Gov. Deval Patrick on Bruins goalie Tim Thomas: It seems like we’re losing ‘basic courtesy and grace’ 
Source: boston.com

An interesting comparison of the two groups. The Tea Party has been portrayed in the media as a bunch of crazy right wing zelots. The Occupy Movement has been hailed as a shining example by the media and Barry and da Boyz. Let take a closer look at the two groups and see how they compare:

The Teabaggers vs. the Fleabaggers

1) Bank of America and Netflix

After weeks of uproar Bank of America has scrapped its plans to implement the $5 per month debit card fee. First, with all the outrageous drunken sailor spending by Barak Hussein Obama’s Administration that is truly torturing Americans, it’s just plain goofy that of all things it is this silly little $5 fee that drove so many American’s insane – really? Anyway having said that, what is significant and good to see, is that alas, it was not the government intervention clamored for mostly by the liberal Occupy types that caused Bank of America to change its mind. No, as much as he would have loved to, Obama’s government never got the chance, so he can’t claim credit for this rescue. No, the free market acted too fast and solved its own problem before Obama could get his hands on it, and thus robbed him of his victory. It was good old fashion customers putting out the clear message saying “Listen up Bank of America, you ain’t the only game in town, we have options, and if you do this, we’ll just take our money and our banking business elsewhere.” Walla – fee is history! And that my friends, is how it is supposed to work, a business exercising its freedom to respond or not, to he voice of buyers in a free market who made it clear they would exercise their own freedom to take their business to where they can get a better deal.

Very much the same reaction that American’s gave Netflix over the past few months in which Netflix lost over 800,000 customers virtually overnight by doubling the price of their service. Netflix was a victim of being taken in by their own press, believing that they were the only game in town and they got cocky. But the collective voice of the customers in a free market spoke up and told Netflix the same thing they told Bank of America, “Newsflash Netflix, you ain’t the only game in town, we have a shit pile of other movie viewing options” and customers left in droves exercising their freedom of the free market to avail themselves of those other options. Just like with Bank of America, no government intervention, no government needed to take care of the people and solve their problem, just the free market taking care of itself, and that’s how it’s done in a real America. The operative word – Freedom!

2) Herman Cain

Yes Herman Cain has run into a buzz saw, and anyone who didn’t think that the ghouls would look for anything to burst his campaign bubble was kidding themselves. Having said that, it’s becoming clearer with each passing hour, that the allegations against Cain are based on innuendo, and involve nothing more than gestures that were said to have made some women “angry – again, really?

Those of us who are cops know that we and our agencies have been subjected to lawsuits as a result of a call for service we were involved in, calls in which we did nothing wrong. Even though our agency acknowledged that we did nothing wrong, our City or County without blinking an eye still dumped the lawsuit off to its insurance company to settle it and make it go away with a quick payment because it’s cheaper than fighting it. It’s a simple business decision that is made every day in the lucrative depraved world of lawyers and litigation and everyone knows it. But that’s not even the point.

Again none of the allegations against Cain at least so far (knock on wood) allege anything physical, but the attacks on Cain by liberals are merciless, while the same liberals gave Bill Clinton a free pass for receiving the The First Blow Job in the Oval, or should we say Oral Office. Even uber liberal feminist Gloria Steinem was charitable concerning Wild Bill saying “he was entitled to one free grope.” A Blewinski under the desk in the Oral Office was a grope-and-a half wouldn’t you say? Then there was former liberal rising star and Democrat presidential hopeful John Edwards impregnating his mistress while his wife was dying of cancer. Pillars of virtue both, but when it comes to moral outrage for liberals, Wild Bill scoring his Oral Office Blewinski, and Edwards spreading his seed don’t even come close to the horror of Herman Cain’s “gestures” which made a couple of women angry? But again, that’s not even the point either.

My real point here is that in the face of all this, we still must maintain our good humor, and to that end, I said all of the above just to set up the following comical beauty by Conan O’Brien: ‘Herman Cain is having to respond to claims that he once sexually harassed women. Apparently a German woman kept telling him, ‘Nein, nein, nein’ ” Hey, I don’t care how conservative I am or how much I may support Herman Cain, dog gone it, that’s pretty funny.

Lying Casey

By Ted Silberstein
(With apologies to ‘Casey at the Bat’ by Ernest Lawrence Thayer)

It was no slam dunk for the State’s prosecution team when it started back in ‘08
Casey had a bigger lie to tell with each new passing day.
When precious Caylee was lost, and the way she would heartbreakingly be found,
A sickly silence fell on O-Town, then the outrage would abound.

Searchers many filled the woods, psychics, bounty hunters were there,
They searched for precious Caylee through their deepening despair.
While Casey laughed and joked, and partied without a care,
This Hollywood whodunit was building, pathos filled the air.

Then Caylee’s tiny body was found and the game began to change,
Casey got cuffed and stuffed and thrown into her county cage.
But Casey scoffed, flipped us off, and turned up her snotty nose,
She stuck to her many stories, as the peoples’ anger rose.

Jose Baez and Cheney Mason rushed to Casey’s side,
There was also that freaky lady lawyer who marries cons sentenced to die.
Casey selected her Bad News Bears team to try to save her life,
No character assassination was out of bounds for them, not George or Cindy his wife.
For Young Jose and Old Cheney, anything was of use,
Even dragging Casey’s dad’s name through Mudville,
accusing him of sexual abuse.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as she strode into the court,
She looked at the judge, the jury, and cops et al, to whom Caylee’s disappearance she didn’t report.
Like an insolent cocky batter, Casey stepped up to the plate,
But unlike the five thousand throats in Thayer’s tale, this crowd was full of hate.
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip,
But Jose put her hair in a schoolmarm bun, and wouldn’t let her wiggle her hips.

Prosecutors Ashton, Drane Burdick and George, stood tall for Caylee and the State,
The biggest court room battle since OJ, to settle Casey’s fate.
A battle royal from arrest to trial, bitter and stormy and fierce,
Hard to believe the entire saga would go on for over three years.

The players were many, Zanny the Nanny, George and Cindy and Lee,
From Kronk to River, and Melich to Belich, and don’t forget Dr. G.
They sparred about duck tape, some experts were real flakes,
And talk of colonizing flies,
There was junk in the trunk, silver cans filled with funk,
And Contempt of Court for a punk.

Ashton was sharp, smacking sizzling line drives of clear logic all over the field,
Jose would object but Judge Perry was ready, with “Overruled” at Jose’s every squeal.
Drane took aim, and brought Jose nothing but pain,
But when Casey’s team looked like they might buckle,
The game took a turn when Ashton got burned, and got caught in the midst of a chuckle.

But our Prosecutors were so strong it seemed that nothing could go wrong,
We were sure Caylee Marie would have her day.
She would be able to rest, the State did its best and Casey finally would pay.

But the sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, her cocky swagger’s back,
As she counts the coming fortune soon to be rolling down her track.

None of us could believe our ears, we all were seeing red,
Ashton and Drane Burdick, our jaws dropped at the verdict
“NOT GUILTY” is what they had said.
Ashton and Drane Burdick bar none are THE BEST, and fought the bravest of fights,
But the jury had left the dugout feeling the case just wasn’t air tight.

Oh, somewhere in this Disney land, justice may shine bright,
But Casey’s going clubbing soon, something isn’t right.
Somewhere Caylee’s crying, lying Casey gives a wink and a shout,
But there is no joy in O-Town –
Lady Justice has struck out.

So now that Bin Laden has been dispatched to his celestial aqua-nap and sleeps with his 72 sturgeons, perhaps it is time to follow the example of Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf who in a gesture of unification to build bridges between the Muslim and non-Muslim worlds will build his mosque at Ground Zero. 

Let us join Imam Rauf, and in kind seek to build a church and synagogue center next to the remains of the Bin Laden compound in Abbottabad, which will soon become radical extremist Islam’s own sacred ground zero.  Do you think Pakistan would respond in kind by following the lead of New York’s politicians and allow it to be built?

Trying to deflect Donald Trump’s Sheen-esque “violent torpedoes of truth” regarding his birth certificate, Barack Obama told ABC News that Republicans will only be hurting themselves by continuing to raise the question of whether he was born in the United States.  While I’m not sure how much the Republicans would be hurting themselves, it is certainly is a colossal waste of time.

The question is not whether Barack Obama was born in the United States but rather what do all those who invest so much time, energy and emotion in the issue, believe would be accomplished by proving he wasn’t.  If conclusive evidence along with the smoking gun is found proving that Obama was not born in the United States, do these folks believe that Obama would be removed from office?  I have said all along that even if it was proved that Obama was not born in the United States, there is no mechanism in place, nor would any agency such as the FBI, CIA, the military, et al, forcibly remove him from office.  

No, all this would do is to provide La-Liberal-Cosa Nostra with yet another opportunity to attack the Constitution.  You can already hear the liberal drum beat and war chant about how the Constitution is an antiquated worn out relic written over 200 years ago by its framers who in their day could not have envisioned the melting pot that America would one day become, and that the Constitution long ago ceased being representative of the population of today’s America, and it should be balled up and dropped in the nearest confetti shredder, blah blah, so on and so on, ad nauseum.  Accordingly, in order to save Obama, the first item that would have to go in this latest liberal salvo would be that pesky little eligibility requirement that a presidential candidate must be born in the United States.  In the minds of liberals, the fact that something is written in the Constitution does not make it Constitutional.  Say what? [Insert eye roll and head shake here].  But I digress.

So what then is the most that could be expected by proving Obama was not born in the United States?  Drum roll please… a big fat court case.  Does it get any more boring and anticlimactic than that?  Yes a court case, that would drag on and on, and maybe sometime by the year, oh say 2525 when your arms are hangin’ limp at your side, it might, that is might just get to some trial docket somewhere.  Even on the outside chance that Obama is re-elected, he would be long gone from office before any action could come to bear.  Therefore the entire issue is moot.  Yes there is the possibility that this episode might result in more thorough vetting of future presidential candidates to make them prove their eligibility before an election.  In the trail blazing State of Arizona, a bill that would make Arizona the first state to require presidential candidates to prove they were born in the U.S. in order to get on the state ballot has cleared the Legislature, and is waiting for Gov. Jan Brewer to sign.      

Personally, I believe that Obama was not born in the United States if only because if he was, he could easily put the entire matter to rest by providing a birth certificate, not just the certificate of live birth which is not the same thing.  But he has not.  Is it because he won’t, or even more disconcerting – because he can’t?  Regardless, I am simply not able to invest the same emotion as others in this issue because I say again, even if it were proved that Obama was not born in the United States, he would never be removed from office because of it.  He would simply go down in history as little more than a trivia factoid, a mere final Jeopardy question in the category, “Famous Magicians,” the final Jeopardy question:  He was the only President in history to fool enough Americans into electing him despite the fact that he was Constitutionally ineligible:  Who was Barack Obama!  Mahalo and Aloha Alex! 

It is Saturday morning and my responses to our E-Diner yarns were delayed due to the fact that it’s busier than a Kansas City stockyard next door. We have been assisting any way we can the last few days to make the blushing bride’s (“Dana”) big day go as smooth as a peeled egg. The wedding starts in a few hours and will be filled with twenty-somethings probably texting each other inside the church. I can smell the aroma of my Cauldron of Comments that is already starting to boil and bubble. I will call “em as I see ‘em. I got myself caught up in an interesting situation on Thursday evening and along with your misc. comments about young people versus adults, I will unleash a story that has all the elements of a classic fable that I will call “A Knight in Rusty Armour”. It will be descriptive, heartwarming, very wordy and contain dragons and an unlikely hero. The preparation of this wedding also helps to heat the cauldron. A woman would consider the fable more seriously. Chivalry is not dead and I can prove it. By the way, the cat’s stool sample was negative. Here comes the bride so I must get dressed, in Killer Threads…

I’m back from the wedding, it’s late and all is quiet. I’m pondering the idea of starting the Knight story for you guys. I think I’ll make a pot of coffee first. I’ll be right back….OK I’m back. If you guys have to go to the bathroom, now is the time. You know how wordy I can get. Here we go…”Once upon a time…..”

It was late Thursday afternoon while driving home from filling out yet another job application, my cell phone rang and was told to report to the large dress shop that “D” uses for formal frocks. The store was open until 8:30pm and it was already 5pm. This was a final attempt to find a “better outfit” to wear to (today’s) wedding. With all the action of a red Torino in a Starsky & Hutch car chase, It was balls-out to the frock shop. Why my opinion matters now is beyond me, since I’m told I’m never right and have been in this scenario and store many times. Nevertheless I arrive in true Adam-12 style.

The store is fairly large and is chock-full of formal, party, wedding and prom dresses and gowns. The sizes range from zero to 28 so you must be prepared for sudden shocks as females go in and out of the row of dressing booths to get opinions from relatives, spouses and friends. There are also multiple full-length mirrors in this area and it tends to look like a carnival fun house. Some people don’t understand why you should not try on a mermaid style gown if you are pushing over 200 pounds.

While my better half was busy in her quest, I took a seat at ground zero by the dressing rooms since this is were the decision making process takes place. By this time the only other customer in this area was a senior woman and a young girl in a sweat suit getting ready to try on a few garments she was carrying. I didn’t pay much attention and sat across from her after she politely said hello. She looked dismal so I started a little small talk and was informed that she was the girls grandmother and was “stuck with the job” of escorting her because her mother was too busy and would not make the time to shop for the THREE proms she was invited to. Wow…that was harder than I would slam a door. I was still uncomfortable as I pondered why ma and g-ma would not be proud that others thought enough of the girl to invite her to three expensive formals. What makes this young lady different? I was about to find out….

What emerged from the dressing area left me breathless. She was a beautiful girl-next-door classic with long thick wavy hair that was a mix of honey and the color of old copper pipe. Her velvety skin had a warm tone. The gown she had on was a floor length number that was the color of hot molten flowing lava. It was a very sleek, fitted rig. Like most females she started to do the little war dance in front of the mirror that consists of twisting her head and turning to check the look of every angle along with creating invisible high heels by standing on their toes. This ritual and the wet hair towel wrap-and-flip are developed moments after birth. The front of the dress came up to a halter style top that was sporting enough cleavage to keep you constantly daydreaming. When she turned around and pulled her hair forward I saw that the dress was completely backless. The back was cut so low that when your eyes run down her spine it feels like a fast ride on an elevator the way your stomach jumps when you stop at the ground floor. The fabric made her ass look like a perfect mouth-watering peach. She was built for speed and if the person that will be escorting her wants to put their arm around her they will have to shift down into 2nd to handle those curves.

You could tell by the look on her face and the tone of her voice that this was a “must have” and she also tried on two others that were “keepers” and would bring these deadly weapons to bear at the other functions. One was a green rig similar to the lava dress and the other was a short dark purple atomic reactor that left little to the imagination and will leave a path of destruction and broken hearts like the Martians did in War of the Worlds.

What she did not realize is that this was about to happen to her…

All the while the young lady was trying the garments, she would ask g-ma for constructive advice and opinions.

Deep in the Forrest of Taffeta the young lady was trying on the garments, she would as g-ma for constructive advice and opinions. All she received was snide comments and dull remarks about style, price and colors. This gathered my full attention and I caught g-mas game early on. This girl was sweet and not a spoiled bee-otch and did not deserve this badgering.

No matter what this girl would wear to a formal, rest assured the front of her would capture every ones imagination upon entering and the back of her would hold their attention until long after she walked out of sight.

The negative comments continued with each garment and I could see what it was doing to the girl. I could not stand by and do nothing so after every comment I would throw a few complements and opinions as heavy as blacksmith anvils, frustrating g-ma. She knew in her heart that her three selections were perfect and asked g-ma if she could purchase them this evening. G-ma fired back with “that’s your mothers decision-it’s her problem.” I was still stunned as the girl opened up her cell phone to call her mother for permission to buy the garments. She closed her phone after a brief conversation and I could see the anticipation drain from her face. She told g-ma that her mother had not time for this right now and that the best she could hope for is for (mom) to bring her back tomorrow and “we’ll see”. THAT DID IT…

G-ma responded with a smug look and told her hang up the dresses and get ready to leave. I could feel the anger welling up inside me and the feeling of my clothes turning to metal. The heavy sensation of the Excalibur was in my right hand. The area around my glasses became dark as if looking through the openings of a bucket shaped helmet. The girl was crushed. The heavy stench of brimstone surrounded the g-dragon and her large bat-like wings engulfed the maiden in a sinister shadow.

With heavy heart the maiden handed back the dresses to the sales lady and asked if the could be held until she could return with her mom the next day. The lady said she would hold them only until late afternoon because it will then be Friday (busy) and it is the height of prom shopping season.

I could feel the sting of the g-dragon’s tail as she clutched the maiden in her talons and flew out of the shop, positive that she would report her version of what transpired to her offspring (mom) upon arriving at her lair.

The gouges, rust and scrapes in the Armour that I have forged over my lifetime so far, reflected back from the mirrors and reminded me that I have slain far more tenacious foes than what I have just encountered. Cutting the head off the g-dragon was no longer an option. What was needed was a device of lethal cunning, with the ability to slay not only the g-dragon but also her no-time-for-this offspring, from a far distance.

I explained what happened to the sales lady and asked to see the prices of the 3 frocks. The green number and the purple killer were.. NOT CHEAP and if combined would amount to half the price of my first used car. The Lava dress however, had an additional tag along with two other stickers. I asked the sales lady to help decipher the price and she said that the tag was a price reduction due to the fact that it was the last one left and will not be reordered or it has been discontinued. The stickers allowed an additional 50% reduction. My iron attire squeaked as I pointed my heavy sword directing her attention to the very tall rack near the dressing booths. “That ‘s the rack (truthfully) that the girl picked the gown from..” “and there is a little sign on the top that says additional 50% off” She looked up and said “what sharp eyes you have!” and then said yes, there would be another reduction of the marked item. (reduced price minus 50% minus 50%) “SOLD!!” I said to her and she was taken by surprise. I instructed her to ring up the dress and hold it for the girl and give it to her as a gift with my complements should she return with her mother, and also tell her that I want to make sure that at least one of her three wishes comes true. The sales lady as deeply touched and asked what to do if she did not return. I instructed her to credit my account if she did not return, changed her mind or was not comfortable with a stranger’s gift or just put the funds toward the other items. She took my number a promised to call with the outcome no matter what. Gallantry is way cool. As I left the frock shop my Armour felt lighter and more comfortable as I squeaked, rattled and clanked towards the car. It’s been a long time since I donned these devastating duds.

Friday had my mind on various distractions and while cleaning the litter box around 4pm, my cell phone rang. I answered and a woman’s voice said “is this Bob?” (yes) “this is the sales lady from the dress store” ” the young lady and her mother came back today and I told them the whole story and the young lady is with me and would like to talk to you-please hold.” A moment later a sweet voice said hello an started gushing with gratitude and thanked me repeatedly along with a quiver in her voice that also had undertones of disbelief. I told her that she was more than welcome and to have fun at whichever function she decides to wear it. I also told her that it is common to alter the gown by cutting it above the knees for use as a party or cocktail dress after the formal is over. I asked if her mother will let her get the other two dresses and she paused and quietly said maybe not. I instructed her to keep up the pressure and tell mom the money she didn’t spend on the gown she now has can be put toward the other two. I wished her all the best and said good-by to the fair maiden.

As I closed up the cell phone I said to myself in a low voice: “Fair Maiden…I kneel before you and offer you my compassion and to prove my devotion, I offer you this gift…it is the head of the Dragon.” THE END

I know you are all wondering the same things and you will haunt me until I tell you. The young ladies name is EDITH (e-dee) and the final cost of the Lava Gown was $49 bucks. Bob G.

A Continuation of “Killer Threads”…

Was the little dump truck that our tire exploding hero drove the same vehicle that was carrying the piano in the dump bed while the janitor from the elementary school played songs on it all the way across town at about 35-40 mph? I recall a discussion about this years ago and it must have lingered in the dusty hallways of my mind.

Your time line is correct with regard to me working at Lavalle’s Amoco during your grandmas bout with Exxon’s red carb, high cholesterol gas dye. That reminds me…I have to get a good specimen from my cat’s litter box to bring to the vet for testing tomorrow. My cat and your grandmas car have similar symptoms. Exxon no longer uses the catch phrase “Put a tiger in you tank” and that is probably the reason why.( I have a hep-cat!)

That bout was also shortly before you and I transported Jack back from college laying on an army stretcher piled on his belongings in the back of my truck. Everything was piled high in my Suburban and he only had a few inches of space and would smash into the roof on the bigger road bumps. Dropping most of his stuff out a multi-story window was a real time saver,regardless of the fact that you “cracked one off” in the elevator and nobody wanted to use it until it aired out. Otis Elevators can really take a punch!

I cannot give anyone results of today’s interview because the employers had a shindig going on in the “big room” and had no time for me, so I filled out forms and was told I would be contacted tomorrow. I saw what was going on and understood. Over the last few seasons I have trained myself to not get my hopes up when job hunting no matter what anyone says. As I drove the 24 miles (one way) to the interview on a road that shook me loose from anything I ever held sacred….I reminded myself of all the people that took my applications and then blew smoke up my ass, wasting my time the past few seasons. I can now fart hourly smoke signal messages,weather reports and union soldier locations to all the Indian tribes as far as the great plains. I knew I had to look the part since this was an upscale joint along with catering hall for blushing brides, restaurant with bar and downstairs lounge for divorcees, cougars, big liars, giggles and grab-ass. My standard bartender outfit was the uniform of the day,consisting of black pants, bleach white oxford shirt,name tag engraved with “Bartender Bob” and black waffle stomper laced boots. It was windy and 40 degrees today so a short length black leather pilots jacket and smooth black lambskin gloves gave a mission-critical look. I will have to repeat this process when I am (hopefully) called back. When I was young I never thought I would see a great depression, abandon my true profession and beg for a job mixing flammable liquids with fruit juice.

Wow, I don’t recall the piano playing dump truck at all. I do remember the trip home in the cargo hold – grateful for the ride and the bruises were just a part of deal. To this day, I get a laugh telling about the time I sat in the Great Hall at Penn Station waiting on my chariot. I was just about nodding off when a commotion went through the room “look at THAT!” as Santa and Rudolph twinkled along the outer windows. “What on earth IS that?” ‘Scuse me! That’s my ride! We may have been broke, but you can’t buy style and class.

I’ve been meaning to respond more on what we have lost in the economy and culture. Part of it, on the Dean Martin, scotch and bombshell side, is that now we glorify youth and pretend we never have to grow up. A 45 year old man in a Party Dude t-shirt and Ed Hardy jeans is not rockin’. He’s creepy, he’s pathetic, and probably not allowed within 1500 feet of an elementary school. Adults drink cocktails, appreciate a good Cuban cigar and want music played by someone not overdosing on mescaline. Every generation rebels against their elders, it’s a part of growing up. Our problem is that in the ’70s the punks won, and we’re still paying the price.The world is much better with adults in charge.

The dump truck was the very same vehicle, but the driver at the time of the mobile honky-tonk recital was none other than Charles Gutknecht — yup, my stepfather. He actually did have a sense of humor, just not with me or my sister. The playing of the “Maple Leaf Rag” and other ragtime classics on that gigantic old upright was performed by Harry Hoeke. And the witness to this spectacle was my mother, who happened to be bicycling along Hillside Avenue when this sideshow went sailing past her.

Wow, I give Charlie credit, never knew he had that kind of humor. Pity he hid it so well.

Reminds me of that group about ten years back that mounted a grand piano on skis and ran it down the slopes at a resort in the Alps, with a pianist in black tails playing. The spokesman said “He played (whatever piece) by Rachmaninoff, which we think is appropriately tragic, and quite competently played under the circumstances.” You hope they had plenty of people waiting at the bottom to stop the damn thing before it went through the town.

Your grandmother’s problems with Exxon regular also reminded me of many Saturdays when we planned to do something. We both cut the grass at home first thing in the morning, then met at your grandmother’s and knocked out her yardwork so we could do our own thing. Amazingly enough, we didn’t think we were abused or exploited, it was what everybody did. I see plenty of kids around here, but rarely do you see one cutting the grass. Why is that? Are chores toxic now?

To be continued…

This is an on going email thread between myself and three very good friends. I asked permission to post this and all agreed. I think you will find it amusing:

While sorting my laundry I did ponder the differences and mentally reviewed the clothing in my favorite WWII movies. The Axis attire was far more stylish than our own doughboy duds. Nothing puts a high gloss on a staff meeting better than the German long leather coats, gloves and boots. Great collar insignia, iron crosses and peaked caps put the “can do” in the “who’s who”. One of my personal favorites is the panzer commander’s black outfit. I’m sure the ladies could not resist those killer threads along with headphones and binoculars for that “man of action” look. Whether cruising with your turret hatch open or relaxing and eating lunch on your track skirts, it’s always a crowd pleaser. I always looked for the good in the Africa corps uniforms but never really liked them (especially the hats). I did however like the little palm trees painted on the equipment. The British always looked too dated and the embellishments were not practical. The only thing that the US really idolized was the bomber/pilot jacket. It is obvious that our uniforms were form-follows-function. My feelings toward camo colors and patterns (of which there are many) are mixed. It’s hard to be stealthy when you let loose on a 50cal. machine gun. If you are raising dust in a convoy or smashing through the woods in a tank or advancing across the desert with attack copters overhead you might as well wear a clown costume for all the good it will do. I often look at things a little differently.

The Axis looked much more stylish than the Allies. There’s a reason that even today the Fashion Leaders (Hollywood and bondage dungeons) (I repeat myself) go for that black leather and stainless steel SS look. Even the Darth himself took his style cue from the Germans. The Italians could cut a sharp figure, no surprise considering that Milan still teaches the rest of us how to look good. Very underrated, in my opinion. The Japanese weren’t too overly good or bad on uniforms, but for an interesting contrast look at the photos of the surrender ceremony on the deck of the Missouri. The Japanese were starving, bombed back into the Stone Age and literally glowing in the dark, yet they show up in full-dress morning coat outfits. Classy, even in abject defeat. MacArthur standing in his baggy khakis looked like he took a break from cleaning the basement to sign the damn document. I still feel a twinge of embarrassment when I see the photos. Gee Dougie, could you stop flogging the Filipino butt-boy long enough for him to iron your Class A’s?

As for the Allies, the Russians never stood out much with their uniforms. Not terrible but nothing you’d want to copy. To my knowledge, no one ever actually witnessed a Frenchman in uniform long enough to form a judgement one way or the other. More likely, you see them in a ratty shirt, sucking on a Gauloise with a bottle of cheap vin rouge and a collaborating tart on the other arm, cheering on whoever seems to be winning at the moment. The Brits were a little odd, as they tend to be. That whole idea of wearing shorts as a battle uniform just looks bizarre, like a troop of Boy Scouts playing army. On the other hand, for sheer dignity it’s hard to match a couple RN senior officers in full overcoats, standing on an open bridge in a North Atlantic gale debating the finer points of grouse hunting while German 14 inch shells splash all around. I think the attitude is just as critical as the outfit, but God knows they have the attitude in spades.
The best take I’ve seen on US uniforms mentioned something about how you don’t need to know how they’re dressed, when all you can see is a flash of polished aluminum five miles overhead. Not exactly on point, but it makes me laugh.

Glad to see we Concur on Couture with regard to military garb past and present. I would like to add another salvo to your observations about MacArthur’s constant fashion faux pas. The pictures and newsreels also make my skin crawl because I have also remarked about the sloppy fit and wrinkles. Here we have the final surrender of the enemy in the largest conflict in human history dressed to stunning perfection complete with top hat, and who do we send to represent our country? Emmet Kelly, from Ringling Brothers. Let’s face it, he looked like he was on an all night bender, pissed himself and passed out and slept in his uniform. I’m sure the reason he said “I shall return” is because he got thrown out for looking like that. Any bouncer at any hot spot will back me up on this.

Let’s move on to Darth……yes, the German SS did influence many things like his helmet. We older gummers new this from the first episode. You will notice that our troops use a copy of the Jerry helmet today only it has a cloth cover. You will also be pleased to know that kinky Nazi bondage outfits are now available in washable leather (what? cum again?) . Latex outfits will always be available for the thrifty budget. As for the Brits fighting in the desert with shorts and knee socks…..don’t get me started. These are the same people that came up with the pith helmet and also wore berets. Who the Hell wants to wear a three pound hard hat and shorts in blistering conditions?

Watch the movies “Hatari” with John Wayne or “Magambo” with Clark Gable and you will see the proper attire for tropic/desert adventure. I have a closet full of hot weather threads just like in the movies and they serve me well along with looking spectacular and could give John or Clark a real run for the money. Understand of course that I would spend less time hunting animals and more time banging the brains out of Eva Gardner. As for our Dudes in Drab…I think our “green army men” uniforms have served us well over the long haul and I would be proud to wear them as surplus.

The very thought of guys like Vic Marrow in tv’s “Combat” standing there wearing a steel pot, battle jacket, grenades, tommygun and a few days stubble complete with an unfiltered cigarette is enough to make the enemy wish they died at birth. Priceless.

One of my all time favorites is of course…Rat Patrol! Nothing says “action packed” like the outfit worn by Christopher George! That is the ultimate outfit for a day of 50cal. Gun play and then take the jeep for a cruise to the oasis for cool drinks and hot babes with big boobs. The lap dances would be non- stop since they can’t resist the cool khaki cotton, Aussie hat and brown jackboots. To complete this thrill package requires two packs of Lucky Strikes, the trusty Zippo lighter, a roll of US greenbacks and a well worn .45 for dishing out lead poisoning. Combine this with a buxom babe with high heels and low morals and it’s V for Victory!

The website where I bought my pith helmet explains the difference pretty well – villagehatshop.com. The Gunga Din hat is the Brit military version, never did see the point in them as it has no brim at all. Unless you’re a re-enactor doing the Boer War for some reason, there’s no purpose in wearing one of those that I can tell. The classic police “bobby” helmet is actually a version of that style of pith helmet.

Mine is the safari style, canvas covered but with a wide brim. I believe they call it the Indian helmet, but I might have gotten the French helmet. Pretty much identical, anyway. The internal band makes it “float” over your head so there’s plenty of air to cool you down, and if you dunk it in water the evaporation will provide air conditioning. It’s really just ingenious.

I used to have a campaign hat (bought it at Sam’s) but don’t recall whatever happened to it. That’s another great style, it’s obvious that they get used because they work so well.

I will tell you what just struck a nerve. I was just getting some clothes out of my closet for an interview tomorrow and came across my vintage blue ESSO service station Ike style jacket. (pre-1972,Exxon was ’73 on). I stared at it and memories came back like a firestorm. My parents would enter Bernie’s Esso Station at Northfield and Hillside(Bernies has been boarded-up for a long while now) and a moment after you heard the DING-DING, Bernie or a mechanic would appear wearing their Esso uniform and say hello,what fuel and how much you would like. After you heard the slap of the spring loaded license plate hit the nozzle and the pump dials start to spin….the man would pull one or two blue paper towels from the dispenser that also held the flat squirt bottle and then cleaned the windscreen, lifted the wipers and ran the towel on the rubber edge for a final touch.

Part of our growing up was walking a bike across the station (past the promotional Esso Tiger sitting on the pumps) over to the Enco TY-R-FLATOR air pump for that heartwarming GA-DING-ssss, GA-DING-ssss sound. If that didn’t work you just went inside and the man would sell you a quality ATLAS patch kit. My question to you guys is this….have we (society) lost all style and respect for common and mundane services? Is it to much to ask for a little style and polish and respect so people know that they are honestly welcome and their patronage is appreciated? Years ago every skill and service had a distinct look (barber,bartender,driver etc.). What happened? I think in these hard times we should take a hard look and maybe reconsider what is really important. To continue on the subject of uniforms… I would love to see the reaction of people pulling into a little filling station and being attended to by a man in a classic outfit complete with 5 point cap,bow tie,crisp Ike jacket with pressure gauge in the pocket and chunky black oxfords. A white shirt and wiping rag in the rear pocket says “Fill’er Up!” to any sporty blonde or rubber-burnin’ brunette. Many of the things that made this country great have withered on the vine. Please tell me I’m wrong. Are we the last guys on earth to understand what is really important? People often laugh at my Dean Martin-scotch & soda-stacked bombshell way of thinking. I don’t know about anyone else, but I would like to fill up at that station with the vintage attendant in a monster tail-finned convertible while wearing a full tux and a girl that’s built like a brick shit-house by my side. The world doesn’t know what it’s missing…… Sighhhh.
Anyway, thank you-drive safely-here are your S&H green stamps and “Please come again”.

Fossils — yup, by the standards of today, I’m afraid we’d all fall into that category! Just thinking about Bernie’s Esso takes me way back. I can still hear the DING-DING of the service island bell coming through the open windows of our house in warmer weather. Considering how clearly we could hear that bell from about 100 yards away, I’m sure that by now OSHA has probably declared such bells an “occupational safety hazard” that require either removal or handing out OSHA-approved hearing protection to the employees.

On the opposite hand, I also remember good ol’ Esso/Exxon leaded regular; the gasoline in and of itself was probably okay, but that goddamn red dye they put in the fuel for visual identification — I swear that it could pug up the Holland Tunnel, never mind the tiny passages in the idle circuit of a carburetor. Damn, I hated that sh!t. After the third carb rebuild — or was it the fourth? — in less than two years, I told Grandma, who you KNOW that I would literally do ANYTHING for, if she didn’t stop putting that crap in her tank, she could start paying a mechanic to de-gunk that carb. I made her switch to Amoco, and after that she never had another fuel problem.
The comment about the TY-ER-FLATOR immediately dug out the memory bank an incident I hadn’t thought of for decades. My Mother, who never drove a car, used to ride all over town on a bicycle. In the summer, the three of us — Mom, my sister and me — would cycle over to the town pool at Memorial Park. One day, as we reached the end of the street, I noticed that the front tire on Mom’s bike was a bit low so, naturally, we made a quick stop at Bernie’s to use the air hose. Just as we pulled up to the old Enco, one of my stepfather’s Board of Ed co-workers, Ray Ambio, who was filling up the BoE’s green mason dump, saw us by the air pump and gallantly walked over to “assist.” He had no air gauge, and he didn’t reset the automatic pressure cut-off — he claimed both were unnecessary, since he could “feel” when the pressure was right while filling the tire. Well, he was “feeling” the tire when the damned thing exploded like a blockbuster right beneath his hand. I think my ears rang for an hour after that, as I’m sure his did, too. I’m equally certain that fire engine red welt that covered most of Mr. Ambio’s palm continued to sting for days after the ear-ringing subsided!