LAKEWOOD, New York - I'm reading a book by Thomas Friedman called The World is Flat, a look at how much the world has changed in the last 15 years - let alone in the nearly 40 years since we graduated from SWCS.
And as I was looking around today - trying to find a nice exterior shot of the Jamestown Post-Journal so I could rail more about their circulation policies - I stumbled across the satellite photos on Google that people have been telling me about, which are as astounding as I have been told.
I've played with the images a little in the past, but today when I zoomed in on Jamestown and then moved the cursor around a little, it was great fun to see Lakewood, Chautaqua Gorge, Mayville - even Frewsburg.
When the first U.S. spacecraft first landed on the moon, I was sitting watching TV with my grandmother (she was in her late 70s or early 80s at the time) who was stunned at what she saw. I was awed, too, but being a science fiction buff even then, it seemed, well, so natural for a spaceship to land and people to go stomping around.
After watching that first step out of the spacecraft, my grandmother - nicknamed Shotgun by my friends - got up and left the room, muttering to herself.
I later asked her what was going on and she just said, "NO..."
No?
"I don't believe it," she said. "I just don't believe it."
My grandmother had been born in the 1880s, seen electricity come to her part of New York City, was the first woman in her social set ride in an automobile, lived through the inventions of the phonograph, radio, television - and God-knows-what-all - and she had simply reached her capacity for swallowing change. I believe when she died some years later, she still refused to believe that someone had walked on the moon.
We've had a few changes ourselves since the Class of '66 went careening out into the night: incredible medical advances, computers, digital photography, the Internet and on and on...
Kee-rist, I had my eyes operated on eight years ago and after a life of myopia, now have 20-20 vision. (That would have helped a lot in sports in 1966...)
Friedman's book is going to help me explain to my granddaughter about what's going on in the world today, though one of the main tenets is that things are changing so rapidly, it's hard to predict what's next.
But in the meantime, I think I'll check the Google satellite shots of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico to see if the surf is up.
Friday, August 12, 2005
The Post Journal story about Cummins
LAKEWOOD, New York - Thanks to Sue Siecker - who has a subscription to the online edition of the P-J, here's the story I was trying to access the other day when I ran that photo of Hillary Clinton with a diatribe about the newspaper.
More on that exchange with the publisher, in another posting.
In the meantime, here's what went on for all you Cummins fans.
=================
More on that exchange with the publisher, in another posting.
In the meantime, here's what went on for all you Cummins fans.
=================
Senator Visits Cummins Plant
To Mark 750,000th Engine
By NATE DOUGHERTY
LAKEWOOD — Sen. Hillary
Clinton leaned over a massive
engine in the middle of a stuffy
Cummins Inc. plant, signing her
name next to nearly 1,000 others
sprawled across the glossy red metal.
The U.S. Senator and former first
lady visited the plant to celebrate a
Cummins milestone — the
750,000th engine produced — and
tout the passage of three bills to
improve diesel emissions.
She also praised the competitiveness
of Cummins Inc. and the importance
of the manufacturing industry
to the American economy.
‘‘What you’re doing in this plant,
building these engines, is maintaining
American competitiveness and
American jobs,’’ Mrs. Clinton told a
crowd of about 400 gathered at the
plant. ‘‘If we don’t continue to compete,
and out-compete other countries,
we’re not going to have the
quality of living we have here in
Chautauqua County and in America.’’
Before her speech, Mrs. Clinton
took a tour of the plant along with
Cummins Inc. corporate officials.
As her entourage passed different
areas, workers in t-shirts and shorts
stopped to watch for a few seconds
before filtering back to their stations.
Near the end of her tour, she
stopped at a world map poster with
push-pins to show Cummins
employees and family members stationed
overseas in the military. Later
in her speech, she spoke of a conversation
with an employee who recently
returned from serving in Iraq.
County Executive Mark Thomas,
who accompanied Mrs. Clinton during
the tour, praised the plant’s
diversity and employees’ strong
work ethic, which has allowed it to
make significant growth in the last
To Mark 750,000th Engine
By NATE DOUGHERTY
LAKEWOOD — Sen. Hillary
Clinton leaned over a massive
engine in the middle of a stuffy
Cummins Inc. plant, signing her
name next to nearly 1,000 others
sprawled across the glossy red metal.
The U.S. Senator and former first
lady visited the plant to celebrate a
Cummins milestone — the
750,000th engine produced — and
tout the passage of three bills to
improve diesel emissions.
She also praised the competitiveness
of Cummins Inc. and the importance
of the manufacturing industry
to the American economy.
‘‘What you’re doing in this plant,
building these engines, is maintaining
American competitiveness and
American jobs,’’ Mrs. Clinton told a
crowd of about 400 gathered at the
plant. ‘‘If we don’t continue to compete,
and out-compete other countries,
we’re not going to have the
quality of living we have here in
Chautauqua County and in America.’’
Before her speech, Mrs. Clinton
took a tour of the plant along with
Cummins Inc. corporate officials.
As her entourage passed different
areas, workers in t-shirts and shorts
stopped to watch for a few seconds
before filtering back to their stations.
Near the end of her tour, she
stopped at a world map poster with
push-pins to show Cummins
employees and family members stationed
overseas in the military. Later
in her speech, she spoke of a conversation
with an employee who recently
returned from serving in Iraq.
County Executive Mark Thomas,
who accompanied Mrs. Clinton during
the tour, praised the plant’s
diversity and employees’ strong
work ethic, which has allowed it to
make significant growth in the last
few years.
‘‘It takes all of us to make this
work, make this plant work, make this
county work,’’ Thomas said.
During her speech, Mrs. Clinton
told the crowd how important Cummins
has been in building engines to
help reduce diesel emissions and gave
details of her own efforts to reduce
emissions.
The first, an amendment to a federal
highway transportation bill, allows
state and local governments to tap
into an $8.6 billion clean air program
to reduce pollution from construction
equipment used in federal highway
projects in areas with poor air quality.
Another amendment authorizes
$100 million to retrofit old school
buses or buy new ones to reduce emissions.
The third measure, the Diesel
Emissions Reduction Act of 2005,
establishes a five-year, $1 billion program
to fund technology to reduce
diesel pollution.
‘‘Clean diesel to me is one of the
best investments we could make, and
we couldn’t do it if Cummins wasn’t
ready to produce,’’ Mrs. Clinton said.
She also spoke about the launch of
the Senate Manufacturing Caucus,
which is intended to address the root
problems facing American manufacturers.
One of the main goals of the
Caucus is to find out how to prevent
manufacturing jobs from going overseas.
One of the main issues will be
removing roadblocks, Mrs. Clinton
said.
‘‘You’ve got to have a level playing
field,’’ Mrs. Clinton said. ‘‘If you
want to be competitive, you’ve got to
make sure no one throws road blocks
in your way.’’
Send comments to
ndougherty@post-journal.com
‘‘It takes all of us to make this
work, make this plant work, make this
county work,’’ Thomas said.
During her speech, Mrs. Clinton
told the crowd how important Cummins
has been in building engines to
help reduce diesel emissions and gave
details of her own efforts to reduce
emissions.
The first, an amendment to a federal
highway transportation bill, allows
state and local governments to tap
into an $8.6 billion clean air program
to reduce pollution from construction
equipment used in federal highway
projects in areas with poor air quality.
Another amendment authorizes
$100 million to retrofit old school
buses or buy new ones to reduce emissions.
The third measure, the Diesel
Emissions Reduction Act of 2005,
establishes a five-year, $1 billion program
to fund technology to reduce
diesel pollution.
‘‘Clean diesel to me is one of the
best investments we could make, and
we couldn’t do it if Cummins wasn’t
ready to produce,’’ Mrs. Clinton said.
She also spoke about the launch of
the Senate Manufacturing Caucus,
which is intended to address the root
problems facing American manufacturers.
One of the main goals of the
Caucus is to find out how to prevent
manufacturing jobs from going overseas.
One of the main issues will be
removing roadblocks, Mrs. Clinton
said.
‘‘You’ve got to have a level playing
field,’’ Mrs. Clinton said. ‘‘If you
want to be competitive, you’ve got to
make sure no one throws road blocks
in your way.’’
Send comments to
ndougherty@post-journal.com
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
My gripe with the Jamestown Post-Journal
JAMESTOWN, New York - While ruminating about this website (and thinking about what my next posting might be) I went to the Jamestown Post-Journal website and ran across the following teaser:
LAKEWOOD - Sen. Hillary Clinton leaned over a massive engine in the middle of a stuffy Cummins Inc. plant, signing her name next to nearly 1,000 others sprawled across the glossy red metal.
=====================
Now I know that some of the members of the Class of '66, their spouses, maybe even their children, work at Cummins, so I clicked for details and got the obnoxious "You Must Subscribe" window that so infuriates me when I see it on any newspaper website that I usually write a detailed letter (on real paper even) to the newspaper in question to explain some facts of life about the Internet and why charging for these kinds of stories is, well, nothing short of bullshit.
Yes, I know. The Wall Street Journal does it. But the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times don't.
Neither should the P-J. It's Bush-league bull... (and that's not a reference to the President, unless you want to take it that way).
Then I went in search of a photo of Sen. Clinton to run with this entry and found her official photo, along with tons of others. (When you are thinking about a presidential bid, you better have a hot web site. She does.)
This picture (the one in which her facial expression makes it look like its really a picture of her wax likeness at Madame Tussaud's Museum) is her official Senatorial photo. As in, this is the best she is ever going to look.
I've fired photographers for better shots than the one I have posted here. Her official photo. Kee-rist!
But I digress.
I reluctantly realize that the Jamestown Post-Journal is probably the only source of certain kinds of information about members of the Class of '66. So, for those of you who do have online subscriptions, if you run across any news of our classmates - and think it should be posted - email them in my direction.
In the meantime, I'm going to draft a letter to the publisher of the P-J (James Austin, - jcaustin@post-journal.com) to offer some advice about the economics of web publishing and suggest that he give the Class of '66 a free subscription.
Maybe a lot of free subscriptions.
Senator Visits Cummins Plant
To Mark 750,000th Engine
To Mark 750,000th Engine
LAKEWOOD - Sen. Hillary Clinton leaned over a massive engine in the middle of a stuffy Cummins Inc. plant, signing her name next to nearly 1,000 others sprawled across the glossy red metal.
=====================
Now I know that some of the members of the Class of '66, their spouses, maybe even their children, work at Cummins, so I clicked for details and got the obnoxious "You Must Subscribe" window that so infuriates me when I see it on any newspaper website that I usually write a detailed letter (on real paper even) to the newspaper in question to explain some facts of life about the Internet and why charging for these kinds of stories is, well, nothing short of bullshit.
Yes, I know. The Wall Street Journal does it. But the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times don't.
Neither should the P-J. It's Bush-league bull... (and that's not a reference to the President, unless you want to take it that way).
Then I went in search of a photo of Sen. Clinton to run with this entry and found her official photo, along with tons of others. (When you are thinking about a presidential bid, you better have a hot web site. She does.)
This picture (the one in which her facial expression makes it look like its really a picture of her wax likeness at Madame Tussaud's Museum) is her official Senatorial photo. As in, this is the best she is ever going to look.
I've fired photographers for better shots than the one I have posted here. Her official photo. Kee-rist!
But I digress.
I reluctantly realize that the Jamestown Post-Journal is probably the only source of certain kinds of information about members of the Class of '66. So, for those of you who do have online subscriptions, if you run across any news of our classmates - and think it should be posted - email them in my direction.
In the meantime, I'm going to draft a letter to the publisher of the P-J (James Austin, - jcaustin@post-journal.com) to offer some advice about the economics of web publishing and suggest that he give the Class of '66 a free subscription.
Maybe a lot of free subscriptions.
Friday, August 05, 2005
August - time to think about back to school
SACRAMENTO, Calif. - Although the first day of school for me is August 29, already the days seem to be getting shorter (ok, they are shorter, I guess...) and the fall semester at the university looms like a thundercloud.
I remember getting out of school in June (hot-as-hell, usually) and running for the buses in front of SWCS, riding home practically singing.
Summer! An endless vista of boating, sleeping out at night (actually roaming around all night getting into trouble), and best of all NO SCHOOL. No having to roll out to catch a bus, no homework (not that I did any) and no confinement for six or so hours per day.
Those couple of months seemed endless in June, nearly endless in July and a couple of Augusts during high school, I remember being surprised when we suddenly had to find the long pants again and trudge to the bus stop for another go around.
The weather helped though. Labor Day marked the end of summer as the lake temperature usually plummeted right about then. I don't remember ever water skiing in the fall, although I kept boating until early October. But because the summer weather disappeared, sitting in class listening to Pauline Cook, or Byron Windoft or Herr Pfaff seemed less of a shock.
In Sacramento, when I return to school, the weather will be still full-on summer. In fact, it will arguably be much better weather than what the city has had this July (over 100 degrees every day with little relief at night).
The first few days of school also used to mean Coach Flash Olsen catching me in a hallway and asking why I wasn't going out for cross-country to get in shape for wrestling. And when I said I was too busy - or whatever other lame excuse I could find - he would give me that Flash stare and a little shake of his head as he walked away, usually muttering under his breath.
I realize now that besides my general sloth and indolence, I didn't go out for cross-country because I was trying to preserve a little bit of summer during after-school hours. In September and early October it was possible to pretend that summer was still there.
In Sacramento, when I get done teaching, I'll be heading out in my kayak on the American River, trying to hang on to the endless vista the same way.
Today's song? What else would it be?
I remember getting out of school in June (hot-as-hell, usually) and running for the buses in front of SWCS, riding home practically singing.
Summer! An endless vista of boating, sleeping out at night (actually roaming around all night getting into trouble), and best of all NO SCHOOL. No having to roll out to catch a bus, no homework (not that I did any) and no confinement for six or so hours per day.
Those couple of months seemed endless in June, nearly endless in July and a couple of Augusts during high school, I remember being surprised when we suddenly had to find the long pants again and trudge to the bus stop for another go around.
The weather helped though. Labor Day marked the end of summer as the lake temperature usually plummeted right about then. I don't remember ever water skiing in the fall, although I kept boating until early October. But because the summer weather disappeared, sitting in class listening to Pauline Cook, or Byron Windoft or Herr Pfaff seemed less of a shock.
In Sacramento, when I return to school, the weather will be still full-on summer. In fact, it will arguably be much better weather than what the city has had this July (over 100 degrees every day with little relief at night).
The first few days of school also used to mean Coach Flash Olsen catching me in a hallway and asking why I wasn't going out for cross-country to get in shape for wrestling. And when I said I was too busy - or whatever other lame excuse I could find - he would give me that Flash stare and a little shake of his head as he walked away, usually muttering under his breath.
I realize now that besides my general sloth and indolence, I didn't go out for cross-country because I was trying to preserve a little bit of summer during after-school hours. In September and early October it was possible to pretend that summer was still there.
In Sacramento, when I get done teaching, I'll be heading out in my kayak on the American River, trying to hang on to the endless vista the same way.
Today's song? What else would it be?
See You In September
by The Happenings
________
I'll be alone each and every night
While you're away, don't forget to write
Bye-bye, so long, farewell
Bye-bye, so long
See you in September
See you when the summer's through
Here we are (bye, baby, goodbye)
Saying goodbye at the station (bye, baby, goodbye)
Summer vacation (bye, baby bye, baby)
Is taking you away (bye, baby, goodbye)
Have a good time but remember
There is danger in the summer moon above
Will I see you in September
Or lose you to a summer love
(counting the days 'til I'll be with you)
(counting the hours and the minutes, too)
Bye, baby, goodbye
Bye, baby, goodbye
Bye, baby, goodbye (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
Bye, baby, goodbye (bye-bye, so long)
Have a good time but remember
There is danger in the summer moon above
Will I see you in September
Or lose you to a summer love
(I'll be alone each and every night)
(While you're away, don't forget to write)
See you (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
In September (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
I'm hopin' I'll
See you (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
In September (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
Well, maybe I'll
See you (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
In September (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
by The Happenings
________
I'll be alone each and every night
While you're away, don't forget to write
Bye-bye, so long, farewell
Bye-bye, so long
See you in September
See you when the summer's through
Here we are (bye, baby, goodbye)
Saying goodbye at the station (bye, baby, goodbye)
Summer vacation (bye, baby bye, baby)
Is taking you away (bye, baby, goodbye)
Have a good time but remember
There is danger in the summer moon above
Will I see you in September
Or lose you to a summer love
(counting the days 'til I'll be with you)
(counting the hours and the minutes, too)
Bye, baby, goodbye
Bye, baby, goodbye
Bye, baby, goodbye (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
Bye, baby, goodbye (bye-bye, so long)
Have a good time but remember
There is danger in the summer moon above
Will I see you in September
Or lose you to a summer love
(I'll be alone each and every night)
(While you're away, don't forget to write)
See you (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
In September (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
I'm hopin' I'll
See you (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
In September (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
Well, maybe I'll
See you (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
In September (bye-bye, so long, farewell)
Monday, August 01, 2005
When Chautauqua Lake was our playground
LAKEWOOD, New York - The summer here in upstate New York is just like the summers I remember (or think I remember) from high school.
Every day is relatively hot. The water on the lake is calm for water skiing. The nights stay warm enough to go swimming sans bathing attire. And I have a boat to zoom all over the place in.
The only thing missing is my friends on their boats and the rendezvous in front of Maple Bay Marina, or Lakewood Beach, or the point where Mark Swanson lived. Sometimes we went to Bemus Point, especially in the evenings when we had hopes that some teenage girls would be sitting on docks there, vacationing with their parents and bored out of their skulls.
In those years we met some of those young ladies, who unfortunately tended to be even more bored out of their skulls after talking with us for 15 minutes. (Think about the guys from the Anthony Michael Hall movie, Weird Science.)
But our days were devoted to waterskiing, and some of things we did make my knee hurt just thinking about them. For one, we would start sitting on the edge of the dock, sliding off at the last instant as the rope on the boat became taut.
But the best was when you came back in and zipped over to the dock, sliding your skinny butt right back where you started. I used to be able to do it quite well. But last summer my wife nixed the idea when I wanted to try it for old times sake. Considering how racked up I was after skiing for maybe a half-hour, a dock landing might not have been in my best interest.
The other fun thing was to put the rope between your knees if you were on two skis - or to try to get so low on one ski that you were literally running on the edge, not the bottom, of the ski.
That seems to be what the fellow in the photo is doing, seconds before he learns what it feels like to hit the water at 60 mph.
OW!
I hope some boat/boating is part of reunion next summer. It wouldn't seem the same without it.
And (provided I can get someone to distract the Admiral) I want to start - and end up - on a nice dry dock, just one more time.
===================
Today's song was an easy one to pick out:
She sits on the dock
A fishin' in the water uh, huh
I don't know her name
She's the fisherman's daughter uh, huh
Every day is relatively hot. The water on the lake is calm for water skiing. The nights stay warm enough to go swimming sans bathing attire. And I have a boat to zoom all over the place in.
The only thing missing is my friends on their boats and the rendezvous in front of Maple Bay Marina, or Lakewood Beach, or the point where Mark Swanson lived. Sometimes we went to Bemus Point, especially in the evenings when we had hopes that some teenage girls would be sitting on docks there, vacationing with their parents and bored out of their skulls.
In those years we met some of those young ladies, who unfortunately tended to be even more bored out of their skulls after talking with us for 15 minutes. (Think about the guys from the Anthony Michael Hall movie, Weird Science.)
But our days were devoted to waterskiing, and some of things we did make my knee hurt just thinking about them. For one, we would start sitting on the edge of the dock, sliding off at the last instant as the rope on the boat became taut.
But the best was when you came back in and zipped over to the dock, sliding your skinny butt right back where you started. I used to be able to do it quite well. But last summer my wife nixed the idea when I wanted to try it for old times sake. Considering how racked up I was after skiing for maybe a half-hour, a dock landing might not have been in my best interest.
The other fun thing was to put the rope between your knees if you were on two skis - or to try to get so low on one ski that you were literally running on the edge, not the bottom, of the ski.
That seems to be what the fellow in the photo is doing, seconds before he learns what it feels like to hit the water at 60 mph.
OW!
I hope some boat/boating is part of reunion next summer. It wouldn't seem the same without it.
And (provided I can get someone to distract the Admiral) I want to start - and end up - on a nice dry dock, just one more time.
===================
Today's song was an easy one to pick out:
Come On Down To My Boat
(Every Mothers' Son lyrics)
She sits on the dock
A fishin' in the water uh, huh
I don't know her name
She's the fisherman's daughter uh, huh
Come on down to my boat baby
Come on down where we can play
Come on down to my boat baby
Come on down we'll sail away
She smiled so nice
Like she wants to come with me uh, huh
But she's tied to the dock and she can't get free
Come on down to my boat baby
Fish all day sleep all night
Father never lets her out of his sight
Soon I'm gonna have to get my knife
And cut that rope, cut that rope
Then we can go fishin' in my little red boat
Make you happy in my little red boat
So come on down to my boat baby
Soon I'm gonna have to get my knife
And cut that rope, cut that rope
Then we can go fishin' in my little red boat
Make you happy in my little red boat
So come on down to my boat baby
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Those 1965 Mustangs and the Class of '66
STOW, New York - It was somewhere between Stow and a joint called Snug Harbor that John Rupp's red '65 Mustang went off the road and into the ditch, flipping upside down in the process, which then involved state troopers, insurance companies and all kinds of raining hell from parents.
That car could fly and in that memorable incident, apparently did, even if briefly.
It turns out that the Class of '66 had at least three Mustangs to its credit: John's which ended its useful days after hitting that ditch; a 65 maroon Mustang I owned for about year before I traded it in for a blue Volkswagen bus formerly owned by the Arrison family of Lakewood; and a third, a blue '65 owned by Cheryl Towers. Both Cheryl's and mine were owned post-graduation, but still, they were 1965 Mustangs. And Cheryl has a great story about her car which I will let her tell you herself at the reunion next year. (It did involve an Englishman, an airport and an art gallery, but that's I can say.)
Cheryl, you are going, right? July 15? Mayville?
My Mustang was picked out by my girlfriend at the time (later the first Mrs. Fitz) who hated my Triumph Spitfire with an intensity that was scary. Perhaps it was because it only ran about half the time and when it rained, there wasn't much reason to put the top up, it leaked so badly. But the Mustang had one incredible fault that I didn't understand fully at first - white upholstery. Bright white. White as in 'I dare you to keep me clean, bubba.'
And so in the first test of our relationship, I said "No Way!" But, of course, I did buy the car, after a promise, a solemn promise, practically a blood vow taken at midnight under a full moon that my girlfriend would keep that upholstery shiny as long as we had that car.
The day I sold the Mustang, I reeked of vinyl cleaner and made my own promise.
The Mustang was a great car, however, so simple that even I could work on it.
And now, every once in awhile in California, I'll see some 16-year-old sweetheart driving down the road in a beautiful, restored '65 Mustang (usually a convertible) that her dad no doubt spends weekends polishing and worry about almost as much as how fast his daughter is tooling around in the machine.
When my daughter turned 16, I bought her an old practically bulletproof Chevy Nova that she drove for years. (Being bulletproof in parts of California is very important.) That Nova was the envy of some of her friends whose dads wouldn't let them take their cars on certain types of high school expeditions - such as fording local streams or using them to go off-road.
I figured, 'Why not?' We did it all the time.
Now, here in Valois, New York, this summer I'm bombing around in my late mother-in-law's wheels, a 1992 Buick Century, which, of course is a four-door sedan and white, literally owned formerly by a little old lady schoolteacher.
Where is that Mustang when I need it?
That car could fly and in that memorable incident, apparently did, even if briefly.
It turns out that the Class of '66 had at least three Mustangs to its credit: John's which ended its useful days after hitting that ditch; a 65 maroon Mustang I owned for about year before I traded it in for a blue Volkswagen bus formerly owned by the Arrison family of Lakewood; and a third, a blue '65 owned by Cheryl Towers. Both Cheryl's and mine were owned post-graduation, but still, they were 1965 Mustangs. And Cheryl has a great story about her car which I will let her tell you herself at the reunion next year. (It did involve an Englishman, an airport and an art gallery, but that's I can say.)
Cheryl, you are going, right? July 15? Mayville?
My Mustang was picked out by my girlfriend at the time (later the first Mrs. Fitz) who hated my Triumph Spitfire with an intensity that was scary. Perhaps it was because it only ran about half the time and when it rained, there wasn't much reason to put the top up, it leaked so badly. But the Mustang had one incredible fault that I didn't understand fully at first - white upholstery. Bright white. White as in 'I dare you to keep me clean, bubba.'
And so in the first test of our relationship, I said "No Way!" But, of course, I did buy the car, after a promise, a solemn promise, practically a blood vow taken at midnight under a full moon that my girlfriend would keep that upholstery shiny as long as we had that car.
The day I sold the Mustang, I reeked of vinyl cleaner and made my own promise.
The Mustang was a great car, however, so simple that even I could work on it.
And now, every once in awhile in California, I'll see some 16-year-old sweetheart driving down the road in a beautiful, restored '65 Mustang (usually a convertible) that her dad no doubt spends weekends polishing and worry about almost as much as how fast his daughter is tooling around in the machine.
When my daughter turned 16, I bought her an old practically bulletproof Chevy Nova that she drove for years. (Being bulletproof in parts of California is very important.) That Nova was the envy of some of her friends whose dads wouldn't let them take their cars on certain types of high school expeditions - such as fording local streams or using them to go off-road.
I figured, 'Why not?' We did it all the time.
Now, here in Valois, New York, this summer I'm bombing around in my late mother-in-law's wheels, a 1992 Buick Century, which, of course is a four-door sedan and white, literally owned formerly by a little old lady schoolteacher.
Where is that Mustang when I need it?
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Some money going to a good cause - SWCS
JAMESTOWN, New York - If the guys in this photo look familar, well, they should, just add a few years.
On the left is Tom Priester and the right Whitey Lindquist (SWCS Class of '60).
Tom we all remember from his days of being a P.E. teacher and coach at SWCS (the butt of many jokes, as he taught girls P.E. in a time when women taught women and men taught men).
Whitey, I believe, ran a Mobil station at the four corners in Lakewood, getting a good share of the money I earned when I was about 18-20 because my cars (first a Triumph Spitfire, then a Ford Mustang) were perpetually in need of repair.
And Whitey had the best - nearly only - place to go. At least it was a place close enough to push my car(s) when they wouldn't run.
The check being passed from Whitey to Tom is not hush money or a payoff from some bet they had on the 1966 World Series. It's from an alumni golf tournament. Tom says the money is slated to go for a wireless computer lab for the middle school, with the funds routed through the Southwestern School Education Foundation project.
Tom is very involved - in fact maybe he's the Big Kahuna - with the foundation and will likely be at our reunion next year, in part to let us have more fun at his expense (remember the shower scene in the Senior Days skit with Chris Henderson playing Tom, with a blindfold on ONE eye). But he will also be there to put the arm on us for the SWCS Foundation which is just getting underway and needs support.
In case you can't wait to make a donation, you can email Tom now at:
tpriester@stny.rr.com.
I've already agreed to buy one of the bricks saved from demolition of Lakewood Elementary School, bricks Tom mentioned in an earlier email that the foundation is somehow going to use to raise money.
Now I'll have two bricks, thanks to Bud Hooper going by and bagging me one, too, when the school was tumbling. I am now officially relieved of the label my mother frequently attached to me when I did something particularly stupid or dangerous. (How often was that, well...?)
Can you see the joke I'm setting up here? Maybe the expression grew out of her Brooklyn years? She had so many.
OK. If my mom were still alive, I would tell, her, "See, 'I'm no longer two bricks short of full load...'"
She would laugh - she loved a good pun - then probably tell me I needed a lot more than two bricks to get even with the kind of crap I pulled. She would love that I am still limping around on a injured knee - hurt while doing the Twist.
Damned knee brace worked for two days, then it hurt more. Enough about ailments.
Steve Sewell sends along the following special request as our song of the day for the Class of '66.
Sounds like a slow dance to me:
On the left is Tom Priester and the right Whitey Lindquist (SWCS Class of '60).
Tom we all remember from his days of being a P.E. teacher and coach at SWCS (the butt of many jokes, as he taught girls P.E. in a time when women taught women and men taught men).
Whitey, I believe, ran a Mobil station at the four corners in Lakewood, getting a good share of the money I earned when I was about 18-20 because my cars (first a Triumph Spitfire, then a Ford Mustang) were perpetually in need of repair.
And Whitey had the best - nearly only - place to go. At least it was a place close enough to push my car(s) when they wouldn't run.
The check being passed from Whitey to Tom is not hush money or a payoff from some bet they had on the 1966 World Series. It's from an alumni golf tournament. Tom says the money is slated to go for a wireless computer lab for the middle school, with the funds routed through the Southwestern School Education Foundation project.
Tom is very involved - in fact maybe he's the Big Kahuna - with the foundation and will likely be at our reunion next year, in part to let us have more fun at his expense (remember the shower scene in the Senior Days skit with Chris Henderson playing Tom, with a blindfold on ONE eye). But he will also be there to put the arm on us for the SWCS Foundation which is just getting underway and needs support.
In case you can't wait to make a donation, you can email Tom now at:
tpriester@stny.rr.com.
I've already agreed to buy one of the bricks saved from demolition of Lakewood Elementary School, bricks Tom mentioned in an earlier email that the foundation is somehow going to use to raise money.
Now I'll have two bricks, thanks to Bud Hooper going by and bagging me one, too, when the school was tumbling. I am now officially relieved of the label my mother frequently attached to me when I did something particularly stupid or dangerous. (How often was that, well...?)
Can you see the joke I'm setting up here? Maybe the expression grew out of her Brooklyn years? She had so many.
OK. If my mom were still alive, I would tell, her, "See, 'I'm no longer two bricks short of full load...'"
She would laugh - she loved a good pun - then probably tell me I needed a lot more than two bricks to get even with the kind of crap I pulled. She would love that I am still limping around on a injured knee - hurt while doing the Twist.
Damned knee brace worked for two days, then it hurt more. Enough about ailments.
Steve Sewell sends along the following special request as our song of the day for the Class of '66.
Sounds like a slow dance to me:
What's Your Name
Don & Juan
What's your name
I have seen you before
What's your name
May I walk you to your door
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ee
What's your name
Is it Mary or Sue
What's your name
Do I stand a chance with you
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ee, ooh-ee, ooh-ee
I stood on this corner
Waiting for you to come along
So my heart could feel satisf-i-ied
So please let me be your Number One
Under the moon, under the stars
And under the sun
Oh-oh, what's your name
(What's your name)
Is it Mary or Sue
What's your name
Do I stand a chance with you
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ee, ooh-ee, ooh-ee
What's your name
What's your name
Shooby-doo-bop-bah-dah
Don & Juan
What's your name
I have seen you before
What's your name
May I walk you to your door
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ee
What's your name
Is it Mary or Sue
What's your name
Do I stand a chance with you
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ee, ooh-ee, ooh-ee
I stood on this corner
Waiting for you to come along
So my heart could feel satisf-i-ied
So please let me be your Number One
Under the moon, under the stars
And under the sun
Oh-oh, what's your name
(What's your name)
Is it Mary or Sue
What's your name
Do I stand a chance with you
It's so hard to find a personality
With charms like yours for me
Ooh-ee, ooh-ee, ooh-ee
What's your name
What's your name
Shooby-doo-bop-bah-dah
Monday, July 25, 2005
Mark your calendars - reunion July 15, 2006
MAYVILLE, New York - In the news business, we call it a 'bulletin' or sometimes borrow the military term: 'flash traffic.'
Today's Class of '66 bulletin/flash traffic comes from Big R - Randy Carlson - who says that the reunion date has been set for Saturday, July 15, 2006 at Webb's Resort in Mayville.
Cocktails at 6 p.m. dinner at 7, dancing until we drop. (I am resisting all kinds of smart ass comments here... Let's see if I can get all the way through this without making references to the movie Cocoon.)
You can check Webb's out at:
Webb's Resort
Jim Lindell has rented a pavillon at Midway Park for Sunday (July 16) for a family picnic and there are also some ongoing discussions about maybe meeting in Bemus Point Friday night (July 14, Bastille Day).
Here are some other links to activities the group putting the reunion together is thinking about:
Summer Wind
Bemus Bay Pops
So a couple of months after Cathy Lindstrom Prince starts this madness, there's a date, a time and a place for the 40th reunion of the SWCS Class of '66. Nice going Cathy. Nice going Randy, Jim, Lee Johnson and whoever else has already put so much time into this.
See you next July - if not before.
Cocoon - the movie
Sorry. I couldn't resist...
Today's Class of '66 bulletin/flash traffic comes from Big R - Randy Carlson - who says that the reunion date has been set for Saturday, July 15, 2006 at Webb's Resort in Mayville.
Cocktails at 6 p.m. dinner at 7, dancing until we drop. (I am resisting all kinds of smart ass comments here... Let's see if I can get all the way through this without making references to the movie Cocoon.)
You can check Webb's out at:
Jim Lindell has rented a pavillon at Midway Park for Sunday (July 16) for a family picnic and there are also some ongoing discussions about maybe meeting in Bemus Point Friday night (July 14, Bastille Day).
Here are some other links to activities the group putting the reunion together is thinking about:
So a couple of months after Cathy Lindstrom Prince starts this madness, there's a date, a time and a place for the 40th reunion of the SWCS Class of '66. Nice going Cathy. Nice going Randy, Jim, Lee Johnson and whoever else has already put so much time into this.
See you next July - if not before.
Sorry. I couldn't resist...
Saturday, July 23, 2005
How many of the Class of '66 went to JCC?
FALCONER, N.Y. - When my mother encouraged me (as did my draft status) to continue my studies, the only real option in the winter of 1968 was Jamestown Community College, a bit of culture shock after Villanova.
But I managed to screw up fairly well there, too.
Many years later, at an admissions hearing to get into graduate school, the committee remarked on my early, disastrous academic career, but noted that by the time I obtained my B.A. in English in 1973 in California (after attending a total of four colleges) I was a 4.0 student.
"But Mr. Fitzgerald, we do have one question," asked a fellow who would later become my graduate adviser and who is still a good friend.
"How exactly did you fail a 1-unit class in fencing?"
A good question.
JCC could offer some serious academic speed bumps, despite all the jokes made about it because it wasn't a state school or a four-year program and because everyone pretty much lived at home and mooched off mom and dad while going there. My mother let me mooch, because she was sooooo happy I was going to college again and she was scared witless I would be drafted and sent to Vietnam.
JCC professors - especially the ones that found out I was a dropout from Villanova - put the coals to me big time, especially one philosophy professor (he was Norweigan, I think) and a biology prof whose first name was Ted and who was an ardent environmentalist long before it was fashionable.
It was at JCC that for the first time I ran across people routinely using marijuana. (At the dorms at Villanova, there was no drug use, too dangerous. Hell, we couldn't even sneak in a beer.) And it was at JCC that I discovered it was infinitely more fun to go to college in a coed setting than a school with classes of only 18-20 year old men.
It seemed that everyone I met, everywhere, had some JCC connection, even if I was in the Triangle restaurant swilling a fishbowl on a Sunday afternoon. Say "JCC" and someone's head would snap up.
And there were quite a few Class of '66 people moving in and out of enrollment there, too, though I confess I only remember Dave Carlson and Bud Hooper for sure. Art Johnson's girlfriend went there - the statuesque Ann Irvine from Jamestown High School.
I haven't looked at my transcript from JCC since those days 25 years ago when I was at California State University, Chico, applying for the master's degree program.
But I will never forget that F in fencing.
So how exactly did I fail a 1-unit class in fencing?
The class started at 7 a.m., in the gym on campus, three days a week. And you had to suit up in these ridiculous padded outfits before you even went out for roll call.
Need I explain further? Didn't think so.
En garde!
--------------------
Instead of a song today, I'm posting a link to a company that distributes all kinds of gag gifts, many of which were popular in 1966, like the dribbling glass, the whoopee cushion and a fake gun that puts out a flag that says 'bang,' when you fire it.
I used the site to find something called a 'clapper board,' used in making films. It's the thing they stick in front of the camera right before filming with the scene and take on it and then yell action.
Here's the link. (And hang onto your credit cards tight, some of this stuff is too funny.)
Need a Rubber Chicken?
But I managed to screw up fairly well there, too.
Many years later, at an admissions hearing to get into graduate school, the committee remarked on my early, disastrous academic career, but noted that by the time I obtained my B.A. in English in 1973 in California (after attending a total of four colleges) I was a 4.0 student.
"But Mr. Fitzgerald, we do have one question," asked a fellow who would later become my graduate adviser and who is still a good friend.
"How exactly did you fail a 1-unit class in fencing?"
A good question.
JCC could offer some serious academic speed bumps, despite all the jokes made about it because it wasn't a state school or a four-year program and because everyone pretty much lived at home and mooched off mom and dad while going there. My mother let me mooch, because she was sooooo happy I was going to college again and she was scared witless I would be drafted and sent to Vietnam.
JCC professors - especially the ones that found out I was a dropout from Villanova - put the coals to me big time, especially one philosophy professor (he was Norweigan, I think) and a biology prof whose first name was Ted and who was an ardent environmentalist long before it was fashionable.
It was at JCC that for the first time I ran across people routinely using marijuana. (At the dorms at Villanova, there was no drug use, too dangerous. Hell, we couldn't even sneak in a beer.) And it was at JCC that I discovered it was infinitely more fun to go to college in a coed setting than a school with classes of only 18-20 year old men.
It seemed that everyone I met, everywhere, had some JCC connection, even if I was in the Triangle restaurant swilling a fishbowl on a Sunday afternoon. Say "JCC" and someone's head would snap up.
And there were quite a few Class of '66 people moving in and out of enrollment there, too, though I confess I only remember Dave Carlson and Bud Hooper for sure. Art Johnson's girlfriend went there - the statuesque Ann Irvine from Jamestown High School.
I haven't looked at my transcript from JCC since those days 25 years ago when I was at California State University, Chico, applying for the master's degree program.
But I will never forget that F in fencing.
So how exactly did I fail a 1-unit class in fencing?
The class started at 7 a.m., in the gym on campus, three days a week. And you had to suit up in these ridiculous padded outfits before you even went out for roll call.
Need I explain further? Didn't think so.
En garde!
--------------------
Instead of a song today, I'm posting a link to a company that distributes all kinds of gag gifts, many of which were popular in 1966, like the dribbling glass, the whoopee cushion and a fake gun that puts out a flag that says 'bang,' when you fire it.
I used the site to find something called a 'clapper board,' used in making films. It's the thing they stick in front of the camera right before filming with the scene and take on it and then yell action.
Here's the link. (And hang onto your credit cards tight, some of this stuff is too funny.)
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Grab your Kleenex and watch 'Garden State'
SOMEWHERE IN NEW JERSEY - Our classmate Gary Shenkle told me about this movie months ago. And though I shy away from 'coming of age' films, I relented tonight.
Gary, you are correct. It's a great film.
Although the parallels and sort of 'going home again' aspects might have been more on target for the Class of '66 when we were about 30, this movie still has lots of twists about trying to return to where you grew up.
The actors portray their characters in very understated ways that moves the film along very nicely. (Oh God, I'm slipping into that Movie Reviewer Voice. Forget what I just wrote.)
There all the elements: the friends who are still living at home, moms smoking cigarettes, the weird kid who did drugs and became a cop, the mysterious girl, the father-son divide.
But in the end, I came away very glad I watched the film and not only recommend it for our class, I have a couple of students - who fit the age group of the people in the movie - who may not like it exactly, but I think they will certainly understand it.
I won't give away anymore of the plot, but as the movie was ending I was reminded of something a friend of mine told me about five years ago, which I have taken to heart:
Life is not a dress rehearsal.
I doubt he thought that up, but it's true.
So, in honor of the movie Garden State, here's today's song:
Gary, you are correct. It's a great film.
Although the parallels and sort of 'going home again' aspects might have been more on target for the Class of '66 when we were about 30, this movie still has lots of twists about trying to return to where you grew up.
The actors portray their characters in very understated ways that moves the film along very nicely. (Oh God, I'm slipping into that Movie Reviewer Voice. Forget what I just wrote.)
There all the elements: the friends who are still living at home, moms smoking cigarettes, the weird kid who did drugs and became a cop, the mysterious girl, the father-son divide.
But in the end, I came away very glad I watched the film and not only recommend it for our class, I have a couple of students - who fit the age group of the people in the movie - who may not like it exactly, but I think they will certainly understand it.
I won't give away anymore of the plot, but as the movie was ending I was reminded of something a friend of mine told me about five years ago, which I have taken to heart:
Life is not a dress rehearsal.
I doubt he thought that up, but it's true.
So, in honor of the movie Garden State, here's today's song:
Poor Side Of Town
Johnny Rivers
How can you tell me how much you miss me
When the last time I saw you, you wouldn't even kiss me
That rich guy you've been seein'
Must have put you down
So welcome back baby
To the poor side of town
To him you were nothin' but a little plaything
Not much more than an overnight fling
To me you were the greatest thing this boy had ever found
And girl it's hard to find nice things
On the poor side of town
I can't blame you for tryin'
I'm tryin' to make it too
I've got one little hang up baby
I just can't make it without you
So tell me, are you gonna stay now
Will you stand by me girl all the way now
With you by my side
They can't keep us down
Together we can make it baby
From the poor side of town
(So tell me how much you love me)
(Come be near to me and say you need me now)
Oh, with you by my side
This world can't keep us down
Together we can make it baby
From the poor side of town
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Johnny Rivers
How can you tell me how much you miss me
When the last time I saw you, you wouldn't even kiss me
That rich guy you've been seein'
Must have put you down
So welcome back baby
To the poor side of town
To him you were nothin' but a little plaything
Not much more than an overnight fling
To me you were the greatest thing this boy had ever found
And girl it's hard to find nice things
On the poor side of town
I can't blame you for tryin'
I'm tryin' to make it too
I've got one little hang up baby
I just can't make it without you
So tell me, are you gonna stay now
Will you stand by me girl all the way now
With you by my side
They can't keep us down
Together we can make it baby
From the poor side of town
(So tell me how much you love me)
(Come be near to me and say you need me now)
Oh, with you by my side
This world can't keep us down
Together we can make it baby
From the poor side of town
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Do-doo-doo-wah shoo-be-doo-be
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Another Californian from Jamestown, NY
IONE, Calif. - Marianne Jim lives a scant 50 miles or so from me here in California, up in the foothills in a town called Ione, which I have never visited, though I have threatened to head up the mountain a lot in recent months.
It's just far enough away that I'm afraid my little Miata (ailing with a leaking rear oil seal) might give it up. And I'm not sure how many good mechanics reside in Ione who can work on Miatas.
And I don't want to find out.
But Marianne has been emailing me, commenting most recently on the Robin Hood run and sent me this joke:
--------
Jamestown Girls:
Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties.
The first man had married a woman from Texas and bragged that he had told his wife she was going to do all the dishes and house cleaning. He said it took a couple days but on the third day he came home to a clean house and the dishes were done.
The second man had married a woman from Florida. He bragged that he had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes and the cooking. On that the first day he didn't see any results, but the next day it was better. By the third day, his house was clean, the dishes were done and he had a huge dinner on the table.
The third man married a girl from Jamestown, NY. He boasted that he told her that her duties were to keep the house clean, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything but by the third day most of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye; enough to fix himself a bite to eat, load the dishwasher and telephone a landscaper.
Gotta love those New York girls.
=====================
Nicely said Marianne.
We have two more soon-to-be Californians: Mick Olson and Linda Hansen-Olson who either have purchased - or are purchasing - a home in Santa Rosa, Calif., about 90 miles from Sacramento. Eventually, I supposed we will have to have some mini-reunions here at my casa, to which all of you, of course, will be invited. Jim and Pam Carr live in Phoenix, only a short Harley trip away.
Here's a song for today that's been ringing in my ears since hearing it on an oldies station:
It's just far enough away that I'm afraid my little Miata (ailing with a leaking rear oil seal) might give it up. And I'm not sure how many good mechanics reside in Ione who can work on Miatas.
And I don't want to find out.
But Marianne has been emailing me, commenting most recently on the Robin Hood run and sent me this joke:
--------
Jamestown Girls:
Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties.
The first man had married a woman from Texas and bragged that he had told his wife she was going to do all the dishes and house cleaning. He said it took a couple days but on the third day he came home to a clean house and the dishes were done.
The second man had married a woman from Florida. He bragged that he had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes and the cooking. On that the first day he didn't see any results, but the next day it was better. By the third day, his house was clean, the dishes were done and he had a huge dinner on the table.
The third man married a girl from Jamestown, NY. He boasted that he told her that her duties were to keep the house clean, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything but by the third day most of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye; enough to fix himself a bite to eat, load the dishwasher and telephone a landscaper.
Gotta love those New York girls.
=====================
Nicely said Marianne.
We have two more soon-to-be Californians: Mick Olson and Linda Hansen-Olson who either have purchased - or are purchasing - a home in Santa Rosa, Calif., about 90 miles from Sacramento. Eventually, I supposed we will have to have some mini-reunions here at my casa, to which all of you, of course, will be invited. Jim and Pam Carr live in Phoenix, only a short Harley trip away.
Here's a song for today that's been ringing in my ears since hearing it on an oldies station:
A Hundred Pounds of Clay
performed by Gene McDaniels
(Written by Bob Elgin, Luther Dixon, and Kay Roger)
He took a hundred pounds of clay
And they He said "Hey, listen"
"I'm gonna fix this-a world today"
"Because I know what's missin' "
Then He rolled his big sleeves up
And a brand-new world began
He created a woman and-a lots of lovin' for a man
Whoa-oh-oh, yes he did
With just a hundred pounds of clay
He made my life worth livin'
And I will thank Him every day
For every kiss you're givin'
And I'll thank Him every night
For the arms that are holdin' me tight
And He did it all with just a hundred pounds of clay
Yes he did, whoa-oh, yes He did
Now can'tcha just see Him a-walkin' 'round and 'round
Pickin' the clay uppa off the ground?
Doin' just what He should do
To make a livin' dream like you
He rolled His big sleeves up
And a brand-new world began
He created a woman and-a lots of lovin' for a man
Whoa-oh-oh, yes he did
With just a hundred pounds of clay
performed by Gene McDaniels
(Written by Bob Elgin, Luther Dixon, and Kay Roger)
He took a hundred pounds of clay
And they He said "Hey, listen"
"I'm gonna fix this-a world today"
"Because I know what's missin' "
Then He rolled his big sleeves up
And a brand-new world began
He created a woman and-a lots of lovin' for a man
Whoa-oh-oh, yes he did
With just a hundred pounds of clay
He made my life worth livin'
And I will thank Him every day
For every kiss you're givin'
And I'll thank Him every night
For the arms that are holdin' me tight
And He did it all with just a hundred pounds of clay
Yes he did, whoa-oh, yes He did
Now can'tcha just see Him a-walkin' 'round and 'round
Pickin' the clay uppa off the ground?
Doin' just what He should do
To make a livin' dream like you
He rolled His big sleeves up
And a brand-new world began
He created a woman and-a lots of lovin' for a man
Whoa-oh-oh, yes he did
With just a hundred pounds of clay
Monday, July 18, 2005
The course was called 'The Robin Hood'
JAMESTOWN, New York - Several times each spring and fall, the SWCS gym classes (boys anyway) of the Class of '66 poured out the doors of the school and ran a cross-country track down around behind the bleachers and through some brush called The Robin Hood.
Why it was called The Robin Hood, I don't know. (Perhaps Tom Priester knows its origin.) I only remember that there was some broken field running involved and sometimes some serious mud in spots, depending on rainfall. And the humidity coming through the thicket! Kee-rist!
But what really sticks in my mind is how different that course was compared to bombing around the nice flat oval track. I ran short races, 100 and 220-yard dashes on the track team, but the 7/10 of a mile Robin Hood, which included some uphill work, just wore me out every time I ran it.
And, of course, Coach Flash Olsen would 'urge' me to move faster on the last half when I was gasping for air, pointing out that I should be in good condition, given my track team work, etc. Coach could be quite sarcastic when he wanted.
I learned on the Robin Hood that native ability and strength can overcome a lot, too. Bob Fulcher, who smoked about a half a pack of cigarettes a day, passed me on the Robin Hood one blustery spring day - running backwards. Yup, backwards, all the while taunting me to pass him.
I couldn't get by him and it damned near killed me trying.
Bob didn't compete much athletically, except in gymnastics, where his incredible balance gave him a great edge. When we would water ski in the summer, he fell all the time because he was always seeing how high he could jump or pulling some weird trick like putting the ski rope between his knees.
When I pointed out to him that I never fell, he told me something that has stuck with me my whole life.
"You don't ever fall because you don't take any chances, asshole."
I've told that anecdote many times to my family, friends and generations of university students, minus the asshole comment, of course.
I haven't seen Bob in 20 years, though I occasionally received some emails from his sister Terrie until a year or so ago.
He'd be happy to know that I took his advice and I have fallen a lot in my life, but generally been a better - and happier - man for it.
Today's song is one of my favorites from the Beatles, though what it's connection is to The Robin Hood, water skiing, or taking chances, I 'm not sure. But here you go anyway.
Why it was called The Robin Hood, I don't know. (Perhaps Tom Priester knows its origin.) I only remember that there was some broken field running involved and sometimes some serious mud in spots, depending on rainfall. And the humidity coming through the thicket! Kee-rist!
But what really sticks in my mind is how different that course was compared to bombing around the nice flat oval track. I ran short races, 100 and 220-yard dashes on the track team, but the 7/10 of a mile Robin Hood, which included some uphill work, just wore me out every time I ran it.
And, of course, Coach Flash Olsen would 'urge' me to move faster on the last half when I was gasping for air, pointing out that I should be in good condition, given my track team work, etc. Coach could be quite sarcastic when he wanted.
I learned on the Robin Hood that native ability and strength can overcome a lot, too. Bob Fulcher, who smoked about a half a pack of cigarettes a day, passed me on the Robin Hood one blustery spring day - running backwards. Yup, backwards, all the while taunting me to pass him.
I couldn't get by him and it damned near killed me trying.
Bob didn't compete much athletically, except in gymnastics, where his incredible balance gave him a great edge. When we would water ski in the summer, he fell all the time because he was always seeing how high he could jump or pulling some weird trick like putting the ski rope between his knees.
When I pointed out to him that I never fell, he told me something that has stuck with me my whole life.
"You don't ever fall because you don't take any chances, asshole."
I've told that anecdote many times to my family, friends and generations of university students, minus the asshole comment, of course.
I haven't seen Bob in 20 years, though I occasionally received some emails from his sister Terrie until a year or so ago.
He'd be happy to know that I took his advice and I have fallen a lot in my life, but generally been a better - and happier - man for it.
Today's song is one of my favorites from the Beatles, though what it's connection is to The Robin Hood, water skiing, or taking chances, I 'm not sure. But here you go anyway.
Help
The Beatles
Help! I need somebody.
Help! Not just anybody.
Help! You know I need someone.
Help!
When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone I'm not so self assured,
Now I find
I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?
And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
my independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?
When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone I'm not so self assured,
Now I find
I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?
Help me. Help me, oooh.
The Beatles
Help! I need somebody.
Help! Not just anybody.
Help! You know I need someone.
Help!
When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone I'm not so self assured,
Now I find
I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?
And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
my independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?
When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone I'm not so self assured,
Now I find
I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?
Help me. Help me, oooh.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Crossing the religious divide - in Jamestown
JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - On the Yahoo! discussion group, there has been some chatter about race and ethnicity, which living in California has special meaning.
Class of '66 Yahoo discussion
When I walk across my university campus - or even just look out at my students in class - it looks like a meeting of the United Nations.
I have about 50 percent students who are arguably Caucasian, but the rest are a mix of Latino, Asian, African-American and every subgroup imaginable.
Lately, I have had several Irish students in each class - Irish as in from Ireland, studying in the U.S. because it's actually cheap, given the state of the U.S. dollar versus the Euro.
Isn't that something.
But I posted a brief entry on the Yahoo site because I was part of the Catholic minority at SWCS, a small enough group, though I hardly felt any kind of discrimination. As a group, the Class of '66 was a pretty secular outfit when it came to our school and comings and goings.
I only remember getting extremely pissed off during the summer when my mother would drag me to church every Sunday about 10 a.m. while my Protestant buddies would be out waterskiing and getting all the flat water before the wind came up.
I learned about religious intolerance when I was dating my first wife, who was from Titusville, Penn. whose family had a strong dislike - no, make that hatred - of anyone of the Catholic faith.
To their credit, most of that family was up front about it, my now ex-father-in-law telling me early in that relationship that no Catholic would marry his daughter and if she were foolish enough to marry a Papist (Isn't that a term!), well, he would never walk her down the aisle.
He didn't have too, as I wasn't much of Papist and got married by a Justice of the Peace. Could his name have been Willard Ayres in Busti? Whoever he was, I had stood before him on other occasions for speeding tickets. Then the night I was married, I had three double Manhattans at The Pub which somehow convinced me he was the right guy to perform the ceremony that snowy December night in 1969. There was a blizzard but somehow my '65 Mustang made it there and back.
The one thing I do remember about the difference between being Catholic vs. Protestant in elementary school was Friday lunches.
Catholics, at the time, were forbidden to eat meat, so we had such sumptious choices as fish sticks or tuna noodle casserole.
To this day, the smell of a tuna noodle casserole makes me almost as ill as a whiff of Scotch whiskey.
This all reminds me that I haven't actually attended a Mass in at least, well, I can't even remember. In Mexico, though, I stop in at every church I visit, usually lighting a candle for my late mother who was very devoute.
Missing Mass means I've also missed out on the one part of being Catholic that I thought had a leg up on most other religions: going to confession.
If I understand my Catholic dogma correctly, you can go out all week, sin like crazy, go to confession and be absolved. Voila - goodbye sins!
A pretty good deal I suppose, even if you do miss the flat water early in the morning.
When I walk across my university campus - or even just look out at my students in class - it looks like a meeting of the United Nations.
I have about 50 percent students who are arguably Caucasian, but the rest are a mix of Latino, Asian, African-American and every subgroup imaginable.
Lately, I have had several Irish students in each class - Irish as in from Ireland, studying in the U.S. because it's actually cheap, given the state of the U.S. dollar versus the Euro.
Isn't that something.
But I posted a brief entry on the Yahoo site because I was part of the Catholic minority at SWCS, a small enough group, though I hardly felt any kind of discrimination. As a group, the Class of '66 was a pretty secular outfit when it came to our school and comings and goings.
I only remember getting extremely pissed off during the summer when my mother would drag me to church every Sunday about 10 a.m. while my Protestant buddies would be out waterskiing and getting all the flat water before the wind came up.
I learned about religious intolerance when I was dating my first wife, who was from Titusville, Penn. whose family had a strong dislike - no, make that hatred - of anyone of the Catholic faith.
To their credit, most of that family was up front about it, my now ex-father-in-law telling me early in that relationship that no Catholic would marry his daughter and if she were foolish enough to marry a Papist (Isn't that a term!), well, he would never walk her down the aisle.
He didn't have too, as I wasn't much of Papist and got married by a Justice of the Peace. Could his name have been Willard Ayres in Busti? Whoever he was, I had stood before him on other occasions for speeding tickets. Then the night I was married, I had three double Manhattans at The Pub which somehow convinced me he was the right guy to perform the ceremony that snowy December night in 1969. There was a blizzard but somehow my '65 Mustang made it there and back.
The one thing I do remember about the difference between being Catholic vs. Protestant in elementary school was Friday lunches.
Catholics, at the time, were forbidden to eat meat, so we had such sumptious choices as fish sticks or tuna noodle casserole.
To this day, the smell of a tuna noodle casserole makes me almost as ill as a whiff of Scotch whiskey.
This all reminds me that I haven't actually attended a Mass in at least, well, I can't even remember. In Mexico, though, I stop in at every church I visit, usually lighting a candle for my late mother who was very devoute.
Missing Mass means I've also missed out on the one part of being Catholic that I thought had a leg up on most other religions: going to confession.
If I understand my Catholic dogma correctly, you can go out all week, sin like crazy, go to confession and be absolved. Voila - goodbye sins!
A pretty good deal I suppose, even if you do miss the flat water early in the morning.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
A question of hair and why I have so much...
LA MANZANILLA, Jalisco, Mexico - One of my favorite places on earth is the little pueblo of La Manzanilla, two hours (by car) south of Puerto Vallarta. By sailboat, it's about 24 hours if everything goes perfectly.
I never made it in 24 hours in four trips there.
But the photo with today's blog, taken two years ago on the porch outside my room at the Hotel Tonala, shows the ponytail pretty clearly that has become, apparently, my signature.
When I went to a meeting in San Francisco a month ago - a conference of CPAs, IRS staff members, and various other business types - I was the only dude sporting a ponytail.
Of course, when people found out I was a journalist, there to write stories, they all said Aha!, as if that explained why my decidedly gray locks were long enough to be tied in a band at the back of my head.
Long hair was controversial right after we got out of high school. I don't remember there being any arguments about it at SWCS. But by the time I left Jamestown and the Rust Belt behind me in 1970 to move west, I had been fired from one job for having hair that was too long and twice ended up in serious barroom shoving matches because I was a 'hippie.'
For the record, my hair in 1968-70 barely went over my ears and I don't think I even knew what a hippie really was.
I grew it much longer in 1970-72 while I was going to college, but when I was getting ready to start at my first newspaper job, I went straight to the barbershop and got a very traditional haircut - the kind you got at the Lakewood Barbershop in the 60s, where Louie Acquisto's dad was king, a guy named Frank chopped away at men's hair and there always seemed to be a third barber who spoke broken English.
That barbershop was not a place to ever tell a secret. Junior year, Greg Taft and I skipped one of those 'half-days' of school and decided to wander into the barbershop just as SWCS would have been letting out at noon. What devil possessed us to be so bold I have never figured out.
One of the barbers used the phone in the back room and called SWCS, which called my mother and Jaysus did we catch hell. Luckily, school was out in about a week and there wasn't enough time for us to be sentenced to very many late-afternoon detentions.
God! Detention. I'm not going there with this entry.
But about the hair.
In 1993, I took a summer-long cruise with my wife and two boys on our sailboat, barely touching land, mostly anchoring all around San Francisco Bay and the Sacramento River Delta. My hair grew out to a length that would have gotten me fired a second time from the Van Stee corporation and my kids - as a joke - pulled it back in a ponytail, even though it was a pretty pathetic 'tail.'
Two weeks later, still sans haircut, I sat in the front row of a speech given by the president of my university. When he saw my ponytail, he lost his place in his prepared talk and fumbled like a freshman taking Speech 101. I decided that if my having a ponytail could do that much to that old fart, well, I'd keep it for awhile and see what else happened.
A lot did, including being followed home by a Sacramento County sheriff's special unit car one night after dining at a local restaurant. I had on a white linen suit that apparently screams drug dealer, if you happen to have a ponytail, too.
I noticed that stop lights, big ugly guys with tattoos riding Harleys would give me the thumbs up and call out 'Hey man, how's it goin?'
And I discovered that my conservative students decided to judge me quite stereotypically - any professor with long hair is obviously a tree-hugging socialist, who reeks of patchouli oil, and has posters of Lenin in his office.
Their quite erroneous judgments have been far outweighed by the coeds in my classes who, in the annual vote I take each fall semester, vote overwhelmingly that I should keep my hair long.
Who can argue with the will of the people?
I never made it in 24 hours in four trips there.
But the photo with today's blog, taken two years ago on the porch outside my room at the Hotel Tonala, shows the ponytail pretty clearly that has become, apparently, my signature.
When I went to a meeting in San Francisco a month ago - a conference of CPAs, IRS staff members, and various other business types - I was the only dude sporting a ponytail.
Of course, when people found out I was a journalist, there to write stories, they all said Aha!, as if that explained why my decidedly gray locks were long enough to be tied in a band at the back of my head.
Long hair was controversial right after we got out of high school. I don't remember there being any arguments about it at SWCS. But by the time I left Jamestown and the Rust Belt behind me in 1970 to move west, I had been fired from one job for having hair that was too long and twice ended up in serious barroom shoving matches because I was a 'hippie.'
For the record, my hair in 1968-70 barely went over my ears and I don't think I even knew what a hippie really was.
I grew it much longer in 1970-72 while I was going to college, but when I was getting ready to start at my first newspaper job, I went straight to the barbershop and got a very traditional haircut - the kind you got at the Lakewood Barbershop in the 60s, where Louie Acquisto's dad was king, a guy named Frank chopped away at men's hair and there always seemed to be a third barber who spoke broken English.
That barbershop was not a place to ever tell a secret. Junior year, Greg Taft and I skipped one of those 'half-days' of school and decided to wander into the barbershop just as SWCS would have been letting out at noon. What devil possessed us to be so bold I have never figured out.
One of the barbers used the phone in the back room and called SWCS, which called my mother and Jaysus did we catch hell. Luckily, school was out in about a week and there wasn't enough time for us to be sentenced to very many late-afternoon detentions.
God! Detention. I'm not going there with this entry.
But about the hair.
In 1993, I took a summer-long cruise with my wife and two boys on our sailboat, barely touching land, mostly anchoring all around San Francisco Bay and the Sacramento River Delta. My hair grew out to a length that would have gotten me fired a second time from the Van Stee corporation and my kids - as a joke - pulled it back in a ponytail, even though it was a pretty pathetic 'tail.'
Two weeks later, still sans haircut, I sat in the front row of a speech given by the president of my university. When he saw my ponytail, he lost his place in his prepared talk and fumbled like a freshman taking Speech 101. I decided that if my having a ponytail could do that much to that old fart, well, I'd keep it for awhile and see what else happened.
A lot did, including being followed home by a Sacramento County sheriff's special unit car one night after dining at a local restaurant. I had on a white linen suit that apparently screams drug dealer, if you happen to have a ponytail, too.
I noticed that stop lights, big ugly guys with tattoos riding Harleys would give me the thumbs up and call out 'Hey man, how's it goin?'
And I discovered that my conservative students decided to judge me quite stereotypically - any professor with long hair is obviously a tree-hugging socialist, who reeks of patchouli oil, and has posters of Lenin in his office.
Their quite erroneous judgments have been far outweighed by the coeds in my classes who, in the annual vote I take each fall semester, vote overwhelmingly that I should keep my hair long.
Who can argue with the will of the people?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
The Rod Serling, Class of '66 connection(s)
CAYUGA LAKE, New York - Not to dwell too long on Rod Serling, but...
After posting yesterday about Rod, I received two very interesting emails, one from Ward Romer, the other from Shelley Kales, both about Rod Serling.
Here's Ward's:
Your piece on Rod Serling was timely - the local Ithaca
Journal (aka Ithaca Urinal) recently printed an article about him as a 'regular Ithacan' (June 28 - you can buy it for $3 from their website -
right). Serling was born in Syracuse, grew up in Binghamton, and after
celebrity life in NYC and LA settled in Interlaken, just north and
between lakes Cayuga and Seneca. He taught communications courses and
gave lectures at Ithaca College from 1967 to 1975, and the school
maintains a Rod Serling archive including scripts and films of the
Twilight Zone episodes. His cabin cruiser (as the popular story went)
was berthed across the inlet from the Ithaca College Boathouse, named
'GHOTI'. I saw it every day when working with the crews, but never saw
Serling take it out. The name of the boat was pronounced 'fish' - the gh
as in enough, the o as in women, and the ti as in nation. Not bad for us
anglophiles, who can pronounce something like Featheringstonhaugh
'fanshaw'..... - Ward
================
When I return to New York in about a week, I'm going to head over the check out the Serling archives. The guy was a genius.
The second email, from Shelley Kales, is here:
================
This is so wild. I was born in Binghamton, and my grandfather owned a diner
there. Rod Serling would come into the diner and eat, and my mother knew
him well. If I remember correctly, Mom dated him while in high school as he
was only 4 years older. - Shelley
=============
What was that movie some years ago? Six Degrees of Separation? Whenever I travel it's rare that I don't bump into someone in the airport - or on the plane - who I know either from some journalism connection or through the university. And, of course, if I start talking to almost any person sitting next to me on the plane, after a few minutes, we usually have a person in common.
So weird, so Twilight Zone. I can hear the theme from the show playing in my head already.
But to get rid of it, here's a song from 1963 that you have been trying to forget ever since it was popular. And yes, it was a big hit. I'm not kidding.
----------------
After posting yesterday about Rod, I received two very interesting emails, one from Ward Romer, the other from Shelley Kales, both about Rod Serling.
Here's Ward's:
Your piece on Rod Serling was timely - the local Ithaca
Journal (aka Ithaca Urinal) recently printed an article about him as a 'regular Ithacan' (June 28 - you can buy it for $3 from their website -
right). Serling was born in Syracuse, grew up in Binghamton, and after
celebrity life in NYC and LA settled in Interlaken, just north and
between lakes Cayuga and Seneca. He taught communications courses and
gave lectures at Ithaca College from 1967 to 1975, and the school
maintains a Rod Serling archive including scripts and films of the
Twilight Zone episodes. His cabin cruiser (as the popular story went)
was berthed across the inlet from the Ithaca College Boathouse, named
'GHOTI'. I saw it every day when working with the crews, but never saw
Serling take it out. The name of the boat was pronounced 'fish' - the gh
as in enough, the o as in women, and the ti as in nation. Not bad for us
anglophiles, who can pronounce something like Featheringstonhaugh
'fanshaw'..... - Ward
================
When I return to New York in about a week, I'm going to head over the check out the Serling archives. The guy was a genius.
The second email, from Shelley Kales, is here:
================
This is so wild. I was born in Binghamton, and my grandfather owned a diner
there. Rod Serling would come into the diner and eat, and my mother knew
him well. If I remember correctly, Mom dated him while in high school as he
was only 4 years older. - Shelley
=============
What was that movie some years ago? Six Degrees of Separation? Whenever I travel it's rare that I don't bump into someone in the airport - or on the plane - who I know either from some journalism connection or through the university. And, of course, if I start talking to almost any person sitting next to me on the plane, after a few minutes, we usually have a person in common.
So weird, so Twilight Zone. I can hear the theme from the show playing in my head already.
But to get rid of it, here's a song from 1963 that you have been trying to forget ever since it was popular. And yes, it was a big hit. I'm not kidding.
----------------
On Top Of Spaghetti
Tom Glazer & The Childrens Chorus
Hi kids
(Hi Tom)
Let's sing a little bit
On top of spagetti (on top of spagetti)
All covered with cheese (all covered with cheese)
I lost my poor meatball (I lost my poor meatball)
When somebody sneezed (when somebody sneezed)
It rolled off the table (it rolled off the table)
And onto the floor (and onto the floor)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Rolled out of the door (rolled out of the door)
It rolled in the garden (it rolled in the garden)
And under a bush (and under a bush)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Was nothing but mush (was nothing but mush)
Alright now
I'll tell you the words
And you sing it back to me
On top of spagetti (on top of spagetti)
All covered with cheese (all covered with cheese)
I lost my poor meatball (I lost my poor meatball)
When somebody sneezed (when somebody sneezed)
It rolled off the table (it rolled off the table)
And onto the floor (and onto the floor)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Rolled out of the door (rolled out of the door)
It rolled in the garden (it rolled in the garden)
And under a bush (and under a bush)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Was nothing but mush (was nothing but mush)
Tom Glazer & The Childrens Chorus
Hi kids
(Hi Tom)
Let's sing a little bit
On top of spagetti (on top of spagetti)
All covered with cheese (all covered with cheese)
I lost my poor meatball (I lost my poor meatball)
When somebody sneezed (when somebody sneezed)
It rolled off the table (it rolled off the table)
And onto the floor (and onto the floor)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Rolled out of the door (rolled out of the door)
It rolled in the garden (it rolled in the garden)
And under a bush (and under a bush)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Was nothing but mush (was nothing but mush)
Alright now
I'll tell you the words
And you sing it back to me
On top of spagetti (on top of spagetti)
All covered with cheese (all covered with cheese)
I lost my poor meatball (I lost my poor meatball)
When somebody sneezed (when somebody sneezed)
It rolled off the table (it rolled off the table)
And onto the floor (and onto the floor)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Rolled out of the door (rolled out of the door)
It rolled in the garden (it rolled in the garden)
And under a bush (and under a bush)
And then my poor meatball (and then my poor meatball)
Was nothing but mush (was nothing but mush)
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
From the Class of '66 to The Twilight Zone
SACRAMENTO, Calif. - Rod Serling, creator of The Twilight Zone, called Binghamton, New York his home town and legend has it drank in the bars not far from where I've been spending my summers.
He was quite short, but drank like a longshoreman and some people still remember him around the saloons bordering Cayuga Lake - or at least claim they do. Perhaps Ward Romer can do some research for me, he lives in the area.
So what twisted path led me to Rod Serling for this page?
Well, Pam Carr sent me one of those nostalgia links that is just fabulous. It's similar to some of the email lists/jokes that make their way around from time to time, but this has music, photos and lots of funny stuff to read. The music alone is worth logging on for.
And one of the photos flashing on a TV screen is the late Rod Serling himself.
Check out the link here:
Blast from the past
The Twilight Zone was one of my must-see TV shows in the 60s, right there with Star Trek and I Spy. In fact, that might encompass everything I watched. I think we only got three TV channels at my house, depending on how bad it was snowing. And is snowed a lot, I remember.
And on Saturday nights my grandmother (known to my friends as Shotgun, but that's a longer story) would insist on watching The Lawrence Welk Show, a sure way to drive all the teenagers out of the house, their hands covering their ears.
Today's song isn't exactly a Twilight Zone tune, but it's plenty weird. Rod would approve.
He was quite short, but drank like a longshoreman and some people still remember him around the saloons bordering Cayuga Lake - or at least claim they do. Perhaps Ward Romer can do some research for me, he lives in the area.
So what twisted path led me to Rod Serling for this page?
Well, Pam Carr sent me one of those nostalgia links that is just fabulous. It's similar to some of the email lists/jokes that make their way around from time to time, but this has music, photos and lots of funny stuff to read. The music alone is worth logging on for.
And one of the photos flashing on a TV screen is the late Rod Serling himself.
Check out the link here:
The Twilight Zone was one of my must-see TV shows in the 60s, right there with Star Trek and I Spy. In fact, that might encompass everything I watched. I think we only got three TV channels at my house, depending on how bad it was snowing. And is snowed a lot, I remember.
And on Saturday nights my grandmother (known to my friends as Shotgun, but that's a longer story) would insist on watching The Lawrence Welk Show, a sure way to drive all the teenagers out of the house, their hands covering their ears.
Today's song isn't exactly a Twilight Zone tune, but it's plenty weird. Rod would approve.
Love Potion Number Nine
The Searchers
(Written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller)
I took my troubles down to Madame Ruth
You know that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth
She's got a pad down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
Sellin' little bottles of Love Potion Number Nine
I told her that I was a flop with chicks
I'd been this way since 1956
She looked at my palm and she made a magic sign
She said "What you need is Love Potion Number Nine"
She bent down and turned around and gave me a wink
She said "I'm gonna make it up right here in the sink"
It smelled like turpentine, it looked like India Ink*
I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink
I didn't know if it was day or night
I started kissin' everything in sight
But when I kissed a cop down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
He broke my little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine
------ guitar solo ------
I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink
I didn't know if it was day or night
I started kissin' everything in sight
But when I kissed a cop down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
He broke my little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
The Searchers
(Written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller)
I took my troubles down to Madame Ruth
You know that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth
She's got a pad down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
Sellin' little bottles of Love Potion Number Nine
I told her that I was a flop with chicks
I'd been this way since 1956
She looked at my palm and she made a magic sign
She said "What you need is Love Potion Number Nine"
She bent down and turned around and gave me a wink
She said "I'm gonna make it up right here in the sink"
It smelled like turpentine, it looked like India Ink*
I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink
I didn't know if it was day or night
I started kissin' everything in sight
But when I kissed a cop down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
He broke my little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine
------ guitar solo ------
I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink
I didn't know if it was day or night
I started kissin' everything in sight
But when I kissed a cop down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine
He broke my little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
Love Potion Number Nine
Monday, July 11, 2005
When Regents exams ruled the world and ...
JAMESTOWN, New York - Surfing past the SWCS page I saw the schedule that was posted back nearly a month ago, with the dreaded Regents exams prominently posted.
I remember feeling the same sense of dread when one of those exams was near that I get now when I find an envelope in the mail that says IRS.
Some of those tests, I did well on: history, English. Math & science, well, not so hot, though I remember slamming the physics Regents test. (If there wasn't a Regents exam in physics, please don't tell me. It's such a nice memory...)
In California, we have a big debate going about the high school exit exam which basically tests students at about an 8th grade level (that's 8th grade today, which believe me is not the 8th grade we went through with Mrs. Dennison for math).
The public, well, ok, a segment of the public, says if these kids don't pass the test - and get a diploma - they won't get a job in our booming California service economy. I mean, who the hell is going to wait on people at Starbuck's? You certainly need a high school certification for that.
I do remember that we had a two-tiered system: a Regents diploma and another diploma that didn't requiring passing all those damned exams. I was led to believe that without a Regent's diploma, that getting into college wasn't a possibility. (Ooooh! They lied!) Had I been even half alert, I would've realized that junior colleges and out-of-state universities didn't care as much as NY State schools about these all-important Regents.
I've supported the high school exit exam here in California, even written a few opinion pieces about it for newspapers (Opinions, moi?) but the kicker I always put in - that tends to really tick people off - is that I believe the students should be allowed to take the test in Spanish or English.
Hell, they can take it in both if think they can pass it.
I get quite a bit of hate mail when I bring it up.
Were there Regents exams in our foreign language classes?
If there were, add French to my short list of Regent's exam disasters. But mercifully enough, I just can't remember at all.
Mon dieu!
I remember feeling the same sense of dread when one of those exams was near that I get now when I find an envelope in the mail that says IRS.
Some of those tests, I did well on: history, English. Math & science, well, not so hot, though I remember slamming the physics Regents test. (If there wasn't a Regents exam in physics, please don't tell me. It's such a nice memory...)
In California, we have a big debate going about the high school exit exam which basically tests students at about an 8th grade level (that's 8th grade today, which believe me is not the 8th grade we went through with Mrs. Dennison for math).
The public, well, ok, a segment of the public, says if these kids don't pass the test - and get a diploma - they won't get a job in our booming California service economy. I mean, who the hell is going to wait on people at Starbuck's? You certainly need a high school certification for that.
I do remember that we had a two-tiered system: a Regents diploma and another diploma that didn't requiring passing all those damned exams. I was led to believe that without a Regent's diploma, that getting into college wasn't a possibility. (Ooooh! They lied!) Had I been even half alert, I would've realized that junior colleges and out-of-state universities didn't care as much as NY State schools about these all-important Regents.
I've supported the high school exit exam here in California, even written a few opinion pieces about it for newspapers (Opinions, moi?) but the kicker I always put in - that tends to really tick people off - is that I believe the students should be allowed to take the test in Spanish or English.
Hell, they can take it in both if think they can pass it.
I get quite a bit of hate mail when I bring it up.
Were there Regents exams in our foreign language classes?
If there were, add French to my short list of Regent's exam disasters. But mercifully enough, I just can't remember at all.
Mon dieu!
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Those injuries we faced - and face again
SACRAMENTO, Calif. - My knees have never been quite the same since Track Coach Joe Rushin made us run around every spring on those hard concrete floors at SWCS while we waited for the snow to melt off the track.
Added to that annual knee trauma was two years of football hits and four years of twisting on the wrestling mats.
Still, I was in my 30s before I started having trouble and learned from my various docs that running on concrete, getting mashed in football game pileups and having someone twist your leg like a pretzel can have longterm ramifications.
No duh, right?
So since then, I've pretty much ignored the kind of aches and pains that come from my knees, adjusting to the fact that I can't move to my left when I play tennis and running on hard surfaces is out completely.
But these old injuries crop up at weird times, which is why I'm shopping online for a hi-tech knee brace. The one with today's blog looks pretty cool. It might even work.
Dancing at a party last week, doing the Twist and God-knows-what-other dances, I was inspired to twist all the way down to the floor, and, perhaps because of the copious volume of Merlot consumed, to stand back up - repeatedly. If my knees hurt at the time, I don't really know. But in the days after, I doubt I could have beaten Chester from Gunsmoke in a footrace and this morning, after being cramped on three planes in a cross-country journey, I'm stalking around the condo like Ahab looking for the white whale.
But I'm already planning my rehab so I can reinjure myself, er, I mean be safe, next year at the reunion, when we can all dance like crazy and then compare what's left of our knees, elbows and shins.
Today's song is not from the 1960s. But I think is sums up how I feel today anyway.
==============
Added to that annual knee trauma was two years of football hits and four years of twisting on the wrestling mats.
Still, I was in my 30s before I started having trouble and learned from my various docs that running on concrete, getting mashed in football game pileups and having someone twist your leg like a pretzel can have longterm ramifications.
No duh, right?
So since then, I've pretty much ignored the kind of aches and pains that come from my knees, adjusting to the fact that I can't move to my left when I play tennis and running on hard surfaces is out completely.
But these old injuries crop up at weird times, which is why I'm shopping online for a hi-tech knee brace. The one with today's blog looks pretty cool. It might even work.
Dancing at a party last week, doing the Twist and God-knows-what-other dances, I was inspired to twist all the way down to the floor, and, perhaps because of the copious volume of Merlot consumed, to stand back up - repeatedly. If my knees hurt at the time, I don't really know. But in the days after, I doubt I could have beaten Chester from Gunsmoke in a footrace and this morning, after being cramped on three planes in a cross-country journey, I'm stalking around the condo like Ahab looking for the white whale.
But I'm already planning my rehab so I can reinjure myself, er, I mean be safe, next year at the reunion, when we can all dance like crazy and then compare what's left of our knees, elbows and shins.
Today's song is not from the 1960s. But I think is sums up how I feel today anyway.
==============
"As Good As I Once Was"
By Toby Keith
She said, "I'e seen you in here before."
I said, "I've been here a time or two."
She said, "Hello, my
Name is Bobby Jo
Meet my twin sister Betty Lou
And we're both feeling kinda wild tonight
And you're the only cowboy in this place
And if you're up for a rodeo
We'll put a big Texas smile on
Your face"
I said, "Girls,"
[Chorus]
I ain't as good as I once was
I got a few years on me now
But there was a time back in my prime
When I could really lay it down
And if you need some love tonight
Then I might have just enough
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
I still hang out with my best friend dave
Ive known him since we were kids at school
Last night he
Had a few shots
Got in a tight spot hustlin' a game of pool
With a couple of readneck boys
One great
Big bad biker man
I heard David yell across the room
"Hey buddy, how 'bout a helping hand."
I said, "Dave,"
[Chorus]
I ain't as good as I once was
My how the years have flown
But there was a time back in my prime
When I could really hold my own
But if you wanna fight tonight
Guess thouse boys dont look all that
Tough
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
I used to be hell on wheels
Back when I was younger man
Now my body says, "You can't do this boy"
But my pride says, "Oh, yes you can
I ain't as good as I once was
Thats just the cold hard truth
I still throw a few back, talk a little smack
When I'm feelin bullet proof
So don't double dog dare me now
'Cause I'd have to call your bluff
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
Maybe not be good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
By Toby Keith
She said, "I'e seen you in here before."
I said, "I've been here a time or two."
She said, "Hello, my
Name is Bobby Jo
Meet my twin sister Betty Lou
And we're both feeling kinda wild tonight
And you're the only cowboy in this place
And if you're up for a rodeo
We'll put a big Texas smile on
Your face"
I said, "Girls,"
[Chorus]
I ain't as good as I once was
I got a few years on me now
But there was a time back in my prime
When I could really lay it down
And if you need some love tonight
Then I might have just enough
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
I still hang out with my best friend dave
Ive known him since we were kids at school
Last night he
Had a few shots
Got in a tight spot hustlin' a game of pool
With a couple of readneck boys
One great
Big bad biker man
I heard David yell across the room
"Hey buddy, how 'bout a helping hand."
I said, "Dave,"
[Chorus]
I ain't as good as I once was
My how the years have flown
But there was a time back in my prime
When I could really hold my own
But if you wanna fight tonight
Guess thouse boys dont look all that
Tough
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
I used to be hell on wheels
Back when I was younger man
Now my body says, "You can't do this boy"
But my pride says, "Oh, yes you can
I ain't as good as I once was
Thats just the cold hard truth
I still throw a few back, talk a little smack
When I'm feelin bullet proof
So don't double dog dare me now
'Cause I'd have to call your bluff
I ain't as good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
Maybe not be good as I once was
But I'm as good once as I ever was
Friday, July 08, 2005
Another vintage shot, Mrs. Tarbrake's class
JAMESTOWN, NY - I missed the Tarbrake experience in 9th grade. I had Mrs. Pascuillo (sp?) who was quite pleasant, though not nearly as supportive as a Mr. Coleman from 8th grade.
Mr. Coleman was really into fiction and whatever I wrote, he praised highly and made me read for the entire class. He only lasted a year or two, I believe. Although not a very large fellow, he had a grip like a vise and more than one male in the class felt Mr. Coleman's hand on the back of their neck if they were not paying attention. One fellow - I can only remember that his first name was Ralph - got his face smashed down on the surface of the desk when he muttered 'asshole' in reference to Mr. Coleman, not knowing Coleman was standing right behind him.
Ralph left class with a bloody nose and I'm not sure Mr. Coleman was there the next fall.
But neither was Ralph.
I don't remember what we read in 9th grade, certainly no Shakespeare. In fact, I'm not sure I remember reading any Shakespeare in high school. Villanova required reading most of Shakespeare's plays, four or five per semester. No wonder I wanted to drop out and go to Mexico.
And writing essays that year with a ball point pen! I hated (and hate) writing anything with a pen, other than taking notes. When I was a junior in high school, after completing Mrs. King's typing class, my mother bought me a typewriter and the rest is history. Gawd that typing class was awful, too, but to this day I can type like a demon if I need to. I remember taking a speed reading class, too. That class was useful in the long run. Just yesterday I had to write a 500-word story about a 40-page report on student enrollments at California colleges. I scanned the report and did my 500 words in under an hour. Later this morning I'll read it to see if it makes any sense.
Today's song is one of the sillier ones we heard in 1963. But damn, I actually remember most of the lyrics.
Mr. Coleman was really into fiction and whatever I wrote, he praised highly and made me read for the entire class. He only lasted a year or two, I believe. Although not a very large fellow, he had a grip like a vise and more than one male in the class felt Mr. Coleman's hand on the back of their neck if they were not paying attention. One fellow - I can only remember that his first name was Ralph - got his face smashed down on the surface of the desk when he muttered 'asshole' in reference to Mr. Coleman, not knowing Coleman was standing right behind him.
Ralph left class with a bloody nose and I'm not sure Mr. Coleman was there the next fall.
But neither was Ralph.
I don't remember what we read in 9th grade, certainly no Shakespeare. In fact, I'm not sure I remember reading any Shakespeare in high school. Villanova required reading most of Shakespeare's plays, four or five per semester. No wonder I wanted to drop out and go to Mexico.
And writing essays that year with a ball point pen! I hated (and hate) writing anything with a pen, other than taking notes. When I was a junior in high school, after completing Mrs. King's typing class, my mother bought me a typewriter and the rest is history. Gawd that typing class was awful, too, but to this day I can type like a demon if I need to. I remember taking a speed reading class, too. That class was useful in the long run. Just yesterday I had to write a 500-word story about a 40-page report on student enrollments at California colleges. I scanned the report and did my 500 words in under an hour. Later this morning I'll read it to see if it makes any sense.
Today's song is one of the sillier ones we heard in 1963. But damn, I actually remember most of the lyrics.
Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport
by Rolf Harris
SPOKEN:
There's an old Australian stockman lying, dying. He gets himself up
onto one elbow and 'e turns to his mates, who are all gathered around and 'e says:
Watch me wallabies feed, mate
Watch me wallabies feed,
They're a dangerous breed, mate
So watch me wallabies feed
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Keep me cockatoo cool, Curl,
Keep me cockatoo cool
Ah, don't go acting the fool, Curl
Just keep me cockatoo cool
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
'n' take me koala back, Jack
Take me koala back
He lives somewhere out on the track, Mac
So take me koala back
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Let me abos go loose, Lew
Let me abos go loose
They're of no further use, Lew
So let me abos go loose
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
And mind me platypus duck, Bill
Mind me platypus duck
Ah, don't let 'im go running amok, Bill
Just mind me platypus duck
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Play your didgeridoo, Blue
Play your didgeridoo
Ah, like, keep playin' 'til I shoot thru, Blue
Play your didgeridoo
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tan me hide when I'm dead, Fred
Tan me hide when I'm dead
So we tanned his hide when he died, Clyde
And that's it hangin' on the shed!!
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
by Rolf Harris
SPOKEN:
There's an old Australian stockman lying, dying. He gets himself up
onto one elbow and 'e turns to his mates, who are all gathered around and 'e says:
Watch me wallabies feed, mate
Watch me wallabies feed,
They're a dangerous breed, mate
So watch me wallabies feed
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Keep me cockatoo cool, Curl,
Keep me cockatoo cool
Ah, don't go acting the fool, Curl
Just keep me cockatoo cool
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
'n' take me koala back, Jack
Take me koala back
He lives somewhere out on the track, Mac
So take me koala back
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Let me abos go loose, Lew
Let me abos go loose
They're of no further use, Lew
So let me abos go loose
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
And mind me platypus duck, Bill
Mind me platypus duck
Ah, don't let 'im go running amok, Bill
Just mind me platypus duck
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Play your didgeridoo, Blue
Play your didgeridoo
Ah, like, keep playin' 'til I shoot thru, Blue
Play your didgeridoo
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tan me hide when I'm dead, Fred
Tan me hide when I'm dead
So we tanned his hide when he died, Clyde
And that's it hangin' on the shed!!
Altogether now!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Tie me kangaroo down, sport
Tie me kangaroo down
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Does anyone remember Jack Rose?
JAMESTOWN, NY - In 7th or 8th grade, many of us had a mechanical drawing teacher named Jack Rose who wore glasses that were so thick, they gave new meaning to the expression Coke-bottle lenses.
But I remember a little refrain we used to chant, quietly, about him:
I'm sorry Jack, but it still makes me laugh.
Shop classes in general weren't much fun for me, though when Douglas Brandow dropped an entire drawer of type and spent the rest of the semester sorting it, well, that was kind of amusing in a sad way.
But mechanical drawing was different, and when I have to build something I tend to sketch things out - just like Jack Rose taught me.
In one of my newspaper postings, I had to design pages, placing photos and stories and other elements and I quickly learned that the precision mechanical drawing required was needed in newspaper and print production, too.
Jack Rose had kind of a good sense of humor, and named his daughter Seena.
Seena Rose?
Oh boy...
Here's today's song, which has nothing to do with shop class or the photo that Steve Sewell sent around that is posted here. But it's one that should bring back a few stray memories.
But I remember a little refrain we used to chant, quietly, about him:
Jack Rose sat on a tack,
Jack Rose
Jack Rose
I'm sorry Jack, but it still makes me laugh.
Shop classes in general weren't much fun for me, though when Douglas Brandow dropped an entire drawer of type and spent the rest of the semester sorting it, well, that was kind of amusing in a sad way.
But mechanical drawing was different, and when I have to build something I tend to sketch things out - just like Jack Rose taught me.
In one of my newspaper postings, I had to design pages, placing photos and stories and other elements and I quickly learned that the precision mechanical drawing required was needed in newspaper and print production, too.
Jack Rose had kind of a good sense of humor, and named his daughter Seena.
Seena Rose?
Oh boy...
Here's today's song, which has nothing to do with shop class or the photo that Steve Sewell sent around that is posted here. But it's one that should bring back a few stray memories.
Those Oldies But Goodies
by Nino & The Ebb Tides
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
I always remember the first night we met
The songs they were playing
I never will forget
I always will treasure them so close to my heart
They always will haunt me although we're apart
Each time that I hear them a tear's bound to fall
Oh, I love those memories that I, I recall
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
Forever they will haunt me but what can I do
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
SPOKEN:
"Yes, dear, they are playin' our songs
And they will always remain our songs
And each time that you hear them
I hope that you, too,
Will cherish the wonderful memories that our love once knew
For these songs are but a symbol of the love that I have for you"
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
(Oldies but goodies remind me of you)
by Nino & The Ebb Tides
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
I always remember the first night we met
The songs they were playing
I never will forget
I always will treasure them so close to my heart
They always will haunt me although we're apart
Each time that I hear them a tear's bound to fall
Oh, I love those memories that I, I recall
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
The songs of the past bring back memories of you
Forever they will haunt me but what can I do
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
SPOKEN:
"Yes, dear, they are playin' our songs
And they will always remain our songs
And each time that you hear them
I hope that you, too,
Will cherish the wonderful memories that our love once knew
For these songs are but a symbol of the love that I have for you"
Those oldies but goodies remind me of you
(Oldies but goodies remind me of you)
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