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It’s Still A Game

Tell me you don’t think about it
And I’ll tell you that you’re wrong
Because it’s our life. It’s about life.

Snow is on the ground. Yet we talk about it
We watch football, and basketball, and hockey
But still we think about it.

Tell me you don’t think about it
Tell me you don’t have the day circled on your calendar
“Pitchers and catchers report.”

Tell me you don’t wish you were in Florida
When Spring training rolls around
We are sitting in Winter and dreaming of Summer.

It all starts in Winter
When the snow is on the ground
And the lakes and rivers are frozen.

Tell me you don’t think about it
The crack of the bat or the ball hitting the glove
And the warm sun and the green grass.

Tell me you don’t think of the smells
Of leather and dirt and grass
And working up a sweat under the sun.

Recalling the days in the bleachers
Watching our childhood heroes giving their all
And we cheer and boo and yell and sing.

Tell me you don’t think about it
Sitting with your father, and your sons
And remembering when it was a game.

The game we played all summer
Gloves and bats and balls
And dirt and grass and sweat.

Tell me you don’t think about it
The days when we were eternally young
And I’ll call you a liar.

Did They Really Throw Snowballs At Santa Claus?

jerrytanker's Blog

I was born and raised in Philadelphia, and despite three attempts to live elsewhere, I still call The City of Brotherly Love home.  Yo, yas gotta problem wit’ dat?

So it’s no wonder that I live and die (mostly die) with the local sports teams.  I’m a “homer” and for that I make no apology.

We Philadelphia sports fans have a reputation of being, well, let’s say somewhat unruly.  We are passionate about our teams, and have no problem expressing that passion.  We can bad-mouth our teams, but if you’re not a local, you had better not even think about it.

But while the reputation of being hard-nosed is justified, there is one thing that really eats me.  Probably the most over-blown story is about the famous “throwing snowballs at Santa Claus” deal.  It did happen, but was not nearly as severe as legend has it.

The situation was this: …

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I’ve Been Thinkin’…

The suicide of Robin Williams has got me to thinking.

I’ve been thinking of a movie called Reuben, Reuben.

The movie starred Tom Conti, a Scots actor, and Kelly McGillis, in her first film. It also starred Roberts Blossom as a crumudgeonly but kindly old man, who played McGillis’ grandfather. It also featured a Shetland Sheepdog named “Reuben.”

Conti plays Gowand McGland, who is a Scottish writer in the vein of Dylan Thomas. McGland is an alcoholic who suffers from depression, which is causing a massive case of writer’s block. McGland blames his writer’s block on his depression and alcoholism, but it is the other way around.

He makes his living lecturing to middle-aged women in New England, and squires more than a few to his bed. Their husbands find out about his dalliances, and often respond in kind. One is a dentist, who pulls most of Gowand’s teeth; Gowand equates toothlessness with death.

He encounters Blossom, who laments that people meet ” at sort of ninish” instead of nine o’clock, and that they live in housing developments named for the trees which were cut down to build the development.

He also meets and falls in love with McGillis. He does so after her dog, an English Sheepdog named “Reuben” befreinds McGland.

Gowand also suffers from arthritis, and his doctor has prescribed a traction device. McGland notes that this device would be very handy if he wanted to commit suicide.

To make a long story short, Gowand desides to hang himself. However, and at the terminal moment, he has an epiphany, and decides to live. However, Reuben bounds into the room as he stands in his makeshift gallows, knocks him down, and Gowand dies.

So. At the end, Gowand didn’t want to die after all, but maybe he did?

I think that suicide victims have epiphanies right before they kill themselves. I heard a piece on NPR where some guy jumped off of the Golden Gate Bridge, knowing clearly what he was doing. Until he jumped, and thought, “What the fuck am I doing?” Fortunately, this person survived.

Robin Williams did not.

Phil Ochs did not. Ernest Hemingway did not. My dear friend, Mike Keiser, did not.

There is no such thing as a permanent solution to a temporary problem. If you know a friend who is in crisis, please get them help!

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

I guess it’s no big secret that my favorite author is the late Kurt Vonnegut.  I discovered his work when I was a Sophomore in High School, when Slaughterhouse-Five was required reading.  I devoured that book.  I read it over and over again.

Then I discovered that my brother had several of Vonnegut’s novels in his collection.  I was not permitted to read his books without permission; this did not dissuade me.  I “swiped” Player Piano and Mother Night and read them with the same joy I had experienced reading Slaughterhouse.  I did not get caught, because my brother was in the Air Force at the time.

Probably an epiphany for me came in my only year at college, when I purchased a copy of Breakfast Of Champions at the campus book store.  It took me the better part of a day to read it.  Breakfast developed one of Vonnegut’s more endearing characters, Kilgore Trout, in it’s plot.  Trout was a hack science fiction writer and recluse who lived in the upstate New York town of Cohoes.  He made his living publishing filler for pornographic books.  Trout had only one fan:  Elliot Rosewater, a mentally ill millionaire.  Rosewater had an extensive collection of art, and another Vonnegut character named Fred Barry wanted to borrow one particular piece to display at an Arts Festival in Midland City, OH.  Rosewater had only one condition for the loan:  that Barry invite “the greatest American author,” Kilgore Trout.

Trout was based on a real-life science fiction writer named Theodore Sturgeon.  Sturgeon was a friend of Vonnegut’s, the two having met at a Saab dealship where Vonnegut worked as a salesman.  Sturgeon’s work included an episode of Star Trek.

Vonnegut was born in Indianapolis in 1922, to Kurt Sr. and Edith (Lieber) Vonnegut.  The elder Vonnegut was an architect in the firm of Vonnegut and Bohn, founded by Kurt Sr.’s father, Bernard Vonnegut.

Vonnegut was studying chemestry at Cornell University when he joined the Army at the start of WWII.  Vonnegut was the assistant managing editor and associate editor of the Cornell Daily Sun.   The Army sent  Vonnegut to the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh, and later The University of Tennessee in Knoxville to study mechanical engerineering.  When manpower ran short, he was transferred to active duty in the infantry.

He was captured at The Battle of The Bulge, and taken to Dresden to work as a prison laborer.  While in Dresden, Vonnegut and his fellow prisoners lived in the underground storage area of a slaughterhouse.  Since Vonnegut spoke some German, he was chosen to be a leader of the prisoners, but this honor was taken from him when he told a German guard what he was going to do to him “when the Russians get here.”  The Germans instructed the prisoners to say the following if they got lost: Ichh bin American prisoner.  Schlacthof-funf.  Translated, “I am an American prisoner.  Slaughterhouse-five.”  From this, Vonnegut got the name for his greatest work, and one of the greatest American novels of the 20th Century.

During his inprisonment in Dresden, the city was firebombed by the Allies.  This experience was without a doubt the seminal moment in his life.

After the war, Vonnegut went to Chicago, where he attended Chicago University, studying anthropology.  He worked at the Chicago City News Bureau, where he covered the police beat for five major Chicago newspapers.  In his spare time, he wrote short stories, many of them science fiction.

Vonnegut later moved to Schenectady, where he got a job in Public Relations at General Electric, a job he got through his brother Bernard. Dr. Bernard Vonnegut was a respected atmospheric scientist working in GE’s Research Department, and it was he who discovered that introducing silver iodide to clouds could create rain, a process known as “cloud seeding.” The job offered him not only a better living, it gave him time to work on his writing.  It was in Schenectady where Vonnegut wrote his first novel, Player Piano. It told the tale of a dystopian America where machines did all the work. Often compared to Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, Piano is today considered exactly the opposite of Shrugged.  While Rand wrote about unmotivated workers on the Government dole and portrayed business owners as victims, Vonnegut told of a world where people wanted to work, and eventually revolted in order to re-acquire their work and dignity.  Vonnegut set the story in Ilium, NY, the first time he used this fictional version of Schenectady.

He published his work under the name “Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.”  He dropped the “Jr.” in 1976 with the publication of Slapstick.

Vonnegut’s next novel, The Sirens Of Titan, was pure science fiction.  The Hero, a rich idler named Malachi Constant, is invited to visit Winston Niles Rumford, who had somehow become extant in a phenomenon called a Chrono-synclastic Infandibulum.  It was in this book that Vonnegut introduced the planet Tralfamadore, which would also play a significant role in Slaughterhouse-Five.  Rumford also appeared in a Vonnegut short story.

God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater introduced Kilgore Trout.  Trout was a reclusive writer of filler for pornographic books, and he wrote science fiction.  Elliot Rosewater was Trout’s only fan, who read the pornographic books for their science-fiction content.  Rosewater wrote Trout his only fan letter, which read “you ought to be president of the world.”

His next novel, Mother Night, introduced Howard Campbell, Jr., an American expatriate who while seeming to be a propagandist for the Nazis was actually aiding the Allies during WWII.  Campbell was also a character in Slaughterhouse-Five.

His next work, Cat’s Cradle, told of an atomic scientist who invented a substance called “Ice Nine” which eventually froze all the water in the world.

Growing weary of science fiction, Vonnegut decided to write a novel based on his experiences in Dresden.  He got a Guggenheim grant to return to Dresden to do research on his book, but soon found out that he didn’t have enough for a decent story.  So, turning to his science-fiction roots, Vonnegut made the hero a shy WWII veteran named Billy Pilgrim, who had come unstuck in time.  Pilgrim lived in the fictional town of Ilium, NY, which Vonnegut had used for the location  of the story in Piano.  The book covered Pilgrim’s life, through his time-travel.  Pilgrim was captured at The Battle of The Bulge and taken to Dresden, and was quartered in “Slaughterhouse-five.  He lived through the firebombing.  Vonnegut took this story from his own experiences, and based many of the characters on people he had known.

Pilgrim had no control over where he went, he simply moved about from event to event in his life.  Slaughterhouse-Five became probably Vonnegut’s best-known work.  Rosewater, Trout, and Campbell were all characters in the novel, and the planet Tralfamadore was where Billy was taken when he was kidnapped by the Tralfamadorians, along with soft-core porn actress Montana Wildhack.

Vonnegut had other jobs in writing.  He got a job at Sports Illustrated, where his first assignment was to write a piece about a racehorse which had jumped the fence of his enclosure and ran away.  Vonnegut was stricken with a severe case of writer’s block, and spent hours staring a blank piece of paper in his typewriter. Vonnegut finally wrote, “The horse jumped over the fucking fence.”  Thus ended his sportswriting career.

Vonnegut finally settled in Barnstable, MA.  He was hardly the recluse that Kilgore Trout was.  Vonnegut served as a volunteer fire fighter, and was active in community events.

Barnstable seemed to be a source of creativity for Vonnegut, and he began to write novels that were largely traditional prose rather than science fiction.  These works included Slapstick and Jailbird, which was losely based on Alger Hiss and Whittaker Chambers.

Another character from Breakfast appeared as the protagonist of a later novel, Bluebeard.  Rabo Karabekian was an Abstract Expressionist artist who had studied art under the greatest illustrator ever, Dan Gregory.  Karabekian could paint a picture indistinguishable from a photograph, but found that his paintings had no soul.  So, he decided to paint only souls, which he did by painting an entire canvas one color, and applying vertical strips of tape to show the soul of the subject.  Karabekian used a house paint called Sateen Dura-Luxe which was advertisied as having the quality to “outlive the smile on the Mona Lisa.”  But the paint would flake off, and all of Karabekian’s works self-destructed.  This was not just Vonnegut’s black humor at work; he detested Modern Art.  His father and grandfather were architechts in Indianapolis, and excellent artists.  He considered Abstract Expressionists to be frauds.  The character of Karabekian had many friends in the Modern Art community, and he also had a real job, so he was often loaning money to the likes of Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko and William deKooning, and was repaid with paintings, in the process acquiring one of the largest private collections of Modern Art.

Breakfast also spawned another novel, Deadeye Dick.  It took place in Midland City, but no mention of the events of Breakfast were included save for the Mildred Barry Arts Center and the character of Fred Barry, and Celia Hoover, wife of Dwayne.  Celia’s suicide, a sidebar event in Breakfast, is mentioned in more detail.  The population of Midland City had been wiped out due to the “accidental” detonation of a neutron bomb.  The hero, a pharmacist named Rudy Wertz, was in Haiti at the time, and was allowed to return to Midland City to recover any personal items he could find.  Wertz was called “Deadeye Dick” because he had accidently shot and killed a pregnant woman on Mother’s Day.  Wertz’s father was disliked.  He was a rich idler who as a young man went to Austria to hang out with artists.  It was in Austria where the elder Wertz befriended a starving Adolf Hitler.  Upon returning to America, Wertz was not shy about his admiration of Hitler.  After the shooting, the Wertz family lost all of their fortune.

The ghost of Trout’s son, Leon, was the narrator of one of Vonnegut’s later novels, Galapagos.

His penultimate novel was Hocus Pocus, which told of a Vietnam Veteran named Eugene Debs Hartke, a college professor who was fired from his post because he taught his students that a new Ice Age was coming.  The wealthy and very conservative father of one of his sutdents was not amused.  His final novel, Timequake, was a semi-autobiography.  After this book, Vonnegut announced his retirement from writing.

In addition to his novels, Vonnegut published many collections of his short stories.

Vonnegut considered Mark Twain to be an American Saint, and named his son after Twain.  He had a love-hate relationship with Ernest Hemingway, loving his prose but despising the man who, as Vonnegut put it, “…murdered animals in the guise of sport.”  He wrote one play, Happy Birthday Wanda June, basing the protagonist, Harold Ryan, on the part of Hemingway he disliked.

Vonnegut also had a career as an actor.  He appeared in two movies made from his novels, Breakfast Of Champions starring Albert Finney as Trout and Bruce Willis as Dwayne Hoover, the other hero of the story.  Hoover was the owner of a Pontiac dealership, who went insane at the Midland City Arts Festival.  Vonnegut played the director of a television commercial being made for Hoover’s dealership.  Vonnegut also had a non-speaking role in Mother Night, Which starred Nick Nolte as Howard W. Campbell, Jr, an American expatriate living in Nazi Germany, who actually was aiding the Allies by making seemingly pro-German radio propaganda broadcasts.  The film also starred John Goodman as the American agent who was Campbell’s contact.  Nolte, incidently, played a transvestite auto salesman in Breakfast.   But Vonnegut’s best-known film appearance was when he played himself in Back To School, starring Rodney Dangerfield, who was a personal friend.  In addition, Vonnegut provided his voice to Ken Burns’ The Civil War, reciting lines from soldiers of that conflict.

Slaughterhouse-Five and Happy Birthday Wanda June were also made into movies.  Several of Vonnegut’s short stories were produced as made-for-television programs in a series called Kurt Vonnegut’s Monkey House.  Vonnegut served as host.

Vonnegut often wrote about his uncle Alex Vonnegut, who was a recovered alcoholic.  Vonnegut, who was never a heavy drinker, admired his uncle’s triumph over alcohol.  The prelude of Slapstick told of he and his brother Bernard flying to Indianapolis for his uncle’s funeral.

Vonnegut was a chain-smoker, for which he never apologized.  He often quipped that he was “committing suicide by cigarette.”  He also never apologized for his Atheism.  He came from a long line of German free-thinkers who “did not fear God.”  He had been a member of the Unitarian Church, but later embraced Secular Humanism.  He suffered from bouts of depression, and attempted suicide once by taking sleeping pills and washing them down with vodka.  It was not successful.

Vonnegut was not shy with his opinions. He once referred to his former son-in-law Geraldo Rivera as a “scumbag” in an interview on the news program Nightline. Rivera repeatedly abused Vonnegut’s daughter Edith until she divorced him.  Likewase, a science-fiction tome called Venus On The Half-Shell was written by Philip Jose Farmer under the pen-name of Kilgore Trout.  The hero was named “Simon Wagstaff” who was called “Space Wanderer,” a psuedonym Vonnegut used for Malachi Constant in Sirens Of Titan.  It was intended to be an homage to Vonnegut, but he was not amused.  Farmer claims to have received an obscenity-laden late-night phone call from Vonnegut.

Vonnegut lived a life beset with tragedy.  His mother committed suicide while he was in the Army.  His beloved only sister Alice died of cancer   In a twist of fate that would seem like one of Vonnegut’s novels, her husband was killed only days before her death when the train he was riding on hurled itself off of an open drawbridge.  Vonnegut adopted his sister’s three children, and raised them along with his own three.  He divorced his wife in 1971, and married photographer Jill Krementz later that year.  He and Krementz remained together until his death in 2007.  Vonnegut died as a result of severe head trauma after he fell down a flight of stairs.

So it goes.

Another Lap Around The Sun

I will be celebrating my birthday in a few days as I write this.  My birthday is September, 25th.  Why should you care?   You shouldn’t, unless it’s your birthday also.

I share my birthday with my friend Tony.  Okay, I’m older, but we still share the day.  He, like me, drives a truck for a living.  So, whenever we meet, we greet each other with “happy birthday!”  This elicits the expected response: “What, is today your birthday?”

Once a year, it is.

Now, this piqued my curiosity.  Who else was born on that day?

Well, for starters, actor Will Smith.  News reporter Barbara Walters.  Actors Mark Hamill and Christopher Reeve were born that day.  Hey, Luke Skywalker and Superman?  Who knew?

American author William Faulkner shares a birthday with me.  So does artist Mark Rothko.  Baseball Hall Of Famer Phil Rizzuto was born on the same day as me.  Holy Cow!

Actor Michael Douglas and his wife Catherine Zeta Jones were born on the same day.  As me.

Russian composer Dimitri Shostokovich was born on this day.

So was Shel Silverstein.

If you look up “Renaissance Man” in the dictionary, you may just find a picture of Shel Silverstein.  He was a poet and writer, who’s work often appeared in Playboy, Esquire, and The New Yorker.  Silverstein was a cartoonist.  One of my favorites shows two emaciated prisoners shackled in an 8×10 cell, 40′ tall with a slit of a window at the top.  One prisoner, looking at the window, leans over to the other and says, “Now, here’s my plan…”

Silverstein was no stranger to New York’s Bohemian community.  He hung out with folksingers and Beatnicks in Greenwich Village, and made many friends.  As such, he was also a songwriter.  His songs were recorded by many famous people.  Dave van Ronk recorded Welcome To Our House.  Johnny Cash recorded A Boy Named Sue and 25 Minutes To Go.  Silverstein wrote a ditty called Cover Of The Rolling Stone which became a hit for Dr. Hook And The Medicine Show.  But Silverstein’s best-known song is probably The Unicorn, which was a hit for The Irish Rovers.  So, next St. Patrick’s day, when someone sings The Unicorn, and tries to tell you that it’s an old Irish Folk Song, please set them straight.  It was written in the ’60s by a Jewish guy from New York City.

Happy birthday!  Representin’ 9-2-5.  HARD!

An Unfinished Conversation

 

Stan Rogers is probably the best singer/songwriter that you have never heard of.

 

Rogers is probably the finest musical talent that Canada has ever produced.  No, not “probably.”  He is the finest musical talent that Canada has produced.

Stanley Alison Rogers was born in Hamilton, Ontario in 1949.  His parents were rooted in Nova Scotia, near the town of Canso.  They came to Ontario to take part in the job boom that took place in WWII.  Rogers’ grandfather, a merchant seaman, served in both WWI and WWII.  Stan was named for his grandfather.

Stan’s family was quite musical.  When Stan was 7, his uncle made a guitar for him, from spruce plywood and welding rod.  Stan learned to play on this instrument.

As a High School student, he was a track athlete.  Sport, however, was not as important as music.

As a teenager, Stan played bass in a rock band.  However, he longed to play the folk music which he heard in his kitchen, played by his uncles.

Stan lit out on his own.  He lived at a YMCA in Toronto, and made a living playing in bands on Yonge St.  Then, he met an executive from Columbia Records, who wanted Stan to come to New York and make a record.  This was around 1972.

The record company was working hard to develop an image for Stan.  His desire, however, was to tell the story of the fishermen of the Maritimes.  He went out to take a walk through Manhattan to clear his head.  He walked by the East River, got a smell of the clam flats of his home, and decided to go home.

Stan continued to play for his family and friends.  He got a few gigs working locally.  It was at this time that he met Paul Mills, who would become his producer and best friend.  Along with Mills and his brother Garnet, Stan began playing around folk clubs in Toronto.

In the mid ‘70s, Stan was starting to gain a following.  He decided to make an album.  It would be an independent undertaking.  Mitch Podoluk, producer of the Winnipeg Folk Festival, agreed to bankroll and produce the album.

His first album, Fogarty’s Cove, wasn’t a big seller, but was gaining airplay on Canadian radio stations.  Folk shows in America were paying attention.

Requests came in for Stan to play in The States.  Stan, however, was an ardent Canadian nationalist, and insisted on having a visa issued before he came to America.  This seemed rather unnecessary in pre-9/11 days, since travel between the US and Canada was mostly free.  Stan remained resolute, and received his visa in 1978.  He played his first show at The Philadelphia Folk Festival.

Rogers was working on material, and was ready to make a second record.  Podoluk, however, couldn’t find the backers for a second album.  Rogers counted on his family to do the second album, Turnaround.  In 1976, Rogers was one of many Canadian artists who contributed to a Folk Opera to commemorate the 1976 Summer Olympic Games.  Stan wrote several songs for this undertaking, called Hard To Be So Strong.  Three of the songs he wrote for this folk opera were included on Turnaround. 

Living in relative poverty, Rogers married his girlfriend Ariel.  His Mother, Valerie, became his producer, and he began touring and playing with his brother Garnet.  In 1979, he decided to make a live album.  The show was recorded at The Groaning Board in Toronto, and the result was Between The Breaks…Live!  This album included a rendition of what is arguably Rogers’ best song, The Mary Ellen Carter.

Around this time, Rogers met his hero, Gordon Lightfoot.  Lightfoot knew of Rogers and admired his work.

The future was bright for Stan.

He began to play shows throughout North America, and was gaining a following in The United States.  He concentrated on music from and about the Maritimes, which was his heritage.  But he loved his Homeland, and wrote songs about Canada, based on his travels throughout the Provinces.

His maritime songs followed him.  In September of 1982, he did a concert at Penn’s Landing in Philadelphia, with tall ships sailing behind the stage on the Delaware River.  One of the ships was The Bluenose, which was the most famous of Canadian Tall Ships.

Rogers had written a song about The Bluenose, and had actually steered this ship.

Rogers was a fixture at an annual festival in Kerrville, TX.  In 1983, Stan, his brother Garnet, and his friend and bassist Jim Morison, did a show there for what was known as “Canada Day.”  Stan stayed on after his set, sending Jim and Garnet on home.  He sang around the various bonfires, singing with and for his friends.  At sunrise, he set out for the Houston airport to board his flight for home.

During the flight, a fire broke out on the aircraft.  The plane made an emergency landing in Florence, KY, at the Cincinnati International Airport.  By the time it had landed, the plane filled with smoke.  Rogers was among 23 persons who perished on the flight.

Stan died just as his star was beginning to rise.  He was only 33 years old.

Sometimes, I wonder just what songs he would have written.

Coffee

If there is one thing about trucking that is true, it is the fact that our industry runs on diesel fuel and coffee. More than a few drivers are wired on joe while going down the road. A stop for fuel usually always includes a stop at the coffee bar for a cup of that wonderful hot brown liquid.

Once, I was driving on the New York Thruway, and stopped at a service plaza to grab a cup. I went into the Starbuck’s there, a place which I was not in the habit of patronizing. But I had a coffee jones. The young girl who waited on me appeared to be about 16 years old, and it looked like perhaps her second day on her first Summer job. I ordered a large black coffee. She looked at me kind of funny, and went to get the manager. The manager poured my coffee. The young girl made a brave confession to me, saying “I don’t know how to make that.”

You can’t make this stuff up. Okay, here’s the recipe: Take the pot in your right hand, the cup in your left, and pour the coffee into the cup. That’s it. Black coffee.

Then it occurred to me. This lass grew up in the culture where coffee is more of a cocktail than a beverage. You have lattes, café au lait, espresso, Cappuccino, Sumatran blend, Kona, hyper-bean, breakfast blend, bold, and a whole variety of others, not to mention decaf. When I was 16, you just had coffee. Your choices were limited to black, regular, with sugar, or with cream. Period.

Coffee is perhaps the most widely consumed beverage on the planet. I personally have a cup just about every day. Sometimes I have tea in the evening, but always coffee in the morning. I have been an imbiber of the juice of the bean since I was in the eighth grade. I often think about how much I have drank in all that time. Probably enough to fill a swimming pool, anyway.

Nor is coffee limited to the trucking industry. Just about every business runs on coffee. Office supply stores sell coffee. No meeting is complete without it. Workers in factories and plants have mandatory coffee breaks twice a day. Truck stops brag about having the best coffee. One chain of truck stops even advertises their coffee on their fuel tankers.

When I was still working in the lawn care industry, I recall a very cold and rainy day when I was aerating a customer’s lawn. She brought me out a steaming mug of coffee, for which I was quite grateful.

My Mother was a practitioner of the kitchen arts, and she firmly believed that the only way to make coffee was with a percolator. This is probably the worst method of making coffee, but back in the day it was the preferred method.

Morning. It has to be about 6:30. Dad comes in to our rooms to wake us up.

Dad is taking a shower. I can hear him in the bathroom. My bedroom is cold. My brother is still asleep, but I am up and listening to the radio.

Mom has been up for some time. She is making our lunches. She has also put the percolator on, and is brewing fresh, hot coffee. I can smell it wafting upstairs.

Dad finishes his routine. He makes one more check to see that we are awake. I can smell his after-shave as he walks through the hall. He goes downstairs, has his coffee and a slice of toast. As he leaves for work, he calls upstairs: “So long, kids!” If he doesn’t hear three responses of “Bye, Dad,” he is quickly upstairs to see why. This doesn’t happen very often.

I take my shower and get ready for school. I put on my blue pants, white shirt, and knot my blue tie. Standard Catholic School uniform. I brush my hair, and go downstairs.

It is a cold December morning. Mom‘s percolated coffee is there for us all.. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup. I make myself a bowl of cereal. This is the best time of the day!

Now, it is 7:20. I finish my coffee, and get ready to leave for school. I am a “safety’ and have to be at my post by 7:45. I put my jacket, cap, and gloves on, and get on my way. It’s going to be a great day!

These days, I have one of those fancy single-cup brewers. You know, the kind where you put a plastic pod of grinds in a holder, close the lid, press a button, and presto! Coffee. I live by myself, and when leaving for work I usually have time for only one cup before I go, so it works out well. On the weekends when I’m home, I have at least four cups a day.

I truly enjoy coffee. I am not a snob about it either. I’m more comfortable grabbing that cup at the coffee bar in the truck stop or service plaza, and usually bypass the fancy franchise joints. I heard that a guy bought a cup of coffee at a Starbuck’s which cost him $47! Well, I’m not quite that obsessive, but if it makes you happy, do it!

Did They Really Throw Snowballs At Santa Claus?

I was born and raised in Philadelphia, and despite three attempts to live elsewhere, I still call The City of Brotherly Love home.  Yo, yas gotta problem wit’ dat?

So it’s no wonder that I live and die (mostly die) with the local sports teams.  I’m a “homer” and for that I make no apology.

We Philadelphia sports fans have a reputation of being, well, let’s say somewhat unruly.  We are passionate about our teams, and have no problem expressing that passion.  We can bad-mouth our teams, but if you’re not a local, you had better not even think about it.

But while the reputation of being hard-nosed is justified, there is one thing that really eats me.  Probably the most over-blown story is about the famous “throwing snowballs at Santa Claus” deal.  It did happen, but was not nearly as severe as legend has it.

The situation was this:  It was the last home game of the 1968 season, and up to that point, the Eagles had only two wins.  They were playing the Vikings.  It was also the first year that the NFL and the AFL would hold a coordinated draft, with all teams drafting in order of their record.  It was the first step in the eventual combination of the two leagues, and the hottest prospect was O. J. Simpson.  The Eagles and the Bills were neck-and-neck for the dubious honor of the worst overall record.

Nature intervened.  A heavy snowstorm dumped 8 inches on Philadelphia, and the stadium had to be cleaned.  The Eagles played in Franklin Field, which was (and still is) owned by The University Of Pennsylvania.  The Eagles were tenants, and as such were responsible for snow removal.  So they put out the word.  Volunteers were needed to clear out the stands, and payment would be a free ticket to the game.  About 200 souls answered the call.  One of them was a skinny 18-year old fellow.  Some of the volunteers brought booze with them, and this lad had had his share of liquid warmth.

Now, a special “Christmas Pageant” was scheduled for halftime.  However, the gentleman who was to portray Father Christmas was stranded in his driveway, and unable to attend the game.  What to do?  Someone went out to find a store which was open (not an easy task on a Sunday in those days) and purchase a Santa Claus costume.  Well, they managed to find one, but it was quite cheesy.  Now, to find someone to wear it.  Again, a call was put out for volunteers, and the somewhat inebriated 18-year old agreed to wear the costume.

Now, don’t try to insult the intelligence of a Philly fan.  A skinny, drunken Santa?  Come on, gimme a break here, okay?  The Eagles were losing the game.  They had two wins  all season, one being  a rain-soaked Thanksgiving Day game in Detroit, and the other to the expansion New Orleans Saints.  So, the fans reacted with the usual response given by Philly fans when they don’t like what they see.  They booed.  “Santa” returned the boos with what is sometimes called “the South Philly salute.”  More to the point, he gave them “the elbow.”  Some fans, also quite intoxicated, started to throw snowballs.  Not a lot, nor did it last long, but everyone just laughed and got on with it.  Even “Santa” got into the spirit of the thing.  He caught a few of the snowballs and returned fire.  No big deal, right?  Everyone involved thought it was pretty funny, and it was over practically before it had begun.

So, how did it get so overblown?  Two words:  Howard Cosell.  In his radio program that evening, Cosell derided the Philly fans for pelting St. Nick with snowballs.  The story grew legs.  By the time Cosell was finished excoriating the Philly fans, you would think that 72,000 drunken rabble pelted Jolly Ol’ St. Nick incessantly with snowballs.

The truth is, only a few people threw snowballs.  At a skinny drunk kid in a cheap Santa suit.

What goes around, comes around, and nature abhors a vacuum.  Two years later, Cosell was in the broadcast booth at Franklin Filed for a Monday Night Football contest between the Eagles and Giants.  It was a bitterly cold night, and Cosell had been battling a rather nasty virus all day.  By the middle of the second quarter, it was obvious that he could not continue.  The only way out of the broadcast booth at Franklin Field is through the seating area, and several thousand fans saw the seriously ill Cosell being helped down the stairs by Roone Arledge and two Philadelphia firefighters.  This writer was at that game, and although I didn’t actually see Cosell leaving the stadium, I did hear the rumors which began to circulate.  Cosell, so the rumor had it, had gotten drunk and puked all over Don Meredith.  Arledge paid a cab driver $200 to take Cosell home. This story made the papers and the electronic media.  Arledge strongly denied these reports, and stated that Cosell had become ill due to the virus he was suffering.  Both he and Cosell stood by this story each until their dying days.

Now, as for the snowballs.  45 years later, the story will not die.  The New York Times especially loves to recall the incident, and has repeatedly referred to Philly fans as “booing Santa.”  The bigger the lie, the more people will believe it, I guess.  When Michael Irvin was laying seriously injured on the Vet Stadium turf, fans booed.  Not Irvin, but Deion Sanders, who was dancing around the field like a dervish in some kind of shamanistic healing ritual.  Irvin had actually received a rather heartfelt round of applause as he was taken off the field.  This thing never, ever happens to a Cowboy in Philly.  But the media insists that the Eagles fans were booing Irvin and cheered what turned into a career-ending injury.  The stuff of legends is often not very accurate.

Actually, Philly fans often show their class.  Mario Lemieux played his last game in Philly, a playoff loss.  Philly fans gave Super Mario a standing ovation.  When Pat Burrell returned in 2009 to receive his World Series Ring (He was a free agent after the season and the Phillies opted not to offer him a contract. He signed, ironically, with the Tampa Bay Rays, the very team the Fightins beat in the ’08 Series.) he got probably the biggest round of applause.  When the NHL’s Winter Classic was played at Citizens Bank Park in 2012, Eric Lindros participated in the Alumni Game, and also got a very warm reception, which considering the circumstances of his departure from Philly was nothing short of remarkable.  Despite ending their careers elsewhere, Randall Cunningham, Brian Westbrook, and Brian Dawkins all returned to retire as Eagles, to the delight of fans.  A similar honor also has most recently been bestowed upon  Donovan McNabb. McNabb assured the fans of Philly, “Number 5 will always love you.”

Much has been made of the booing incident when McNabb was drafted.  A group of Eagles’ fans known as “The Dirty Thirty,” lead by radio “personality” Angelo Cataldi booed when the Eagles picked McNabb in 1999.  Actually, they booed the fact that the Eagles did not pick Heismann Trophy winner Ricky Williams with the second overall pick.  In retrospect, it was the right pick.  But how is it remembered?  “Eagles fans booed Donovan McNabb when he was drafted.”  It gets old.

When McNabb’s nephew, Darnell Nurse, was picked sixth overall by the Edmonton Oilers in the 2013 NHL draft, McNabb was present to give him a huge bear hug as he went up to the podium to don an Oilers’ sweater.  Afterwards, Nurse had a comment about the reception he received as compared to his uncle’s.   “We’re even,” he quipped.  “He went higher, but I wasn’t booed.”  Of course, that draft was held in Newark, NJ.  The Flyers contingent was soundly booed by the Devils’ faithful that filled “The Rock” when they went up to make their selection.

But getting back to the snowball game.  Of course, the Eagles lost. But their two wins cost them the first pick.  Simpson went to the Bills.  The Eagles drafted Leroy Keyes, a running back out of Purdue.  He has potential, but never turned out to be a real threat.

Boooooooooooooooo!

Do I Really Look That Much Like Bill Gates?

I must.

People come up to me, people I do not know, and ask me for money.

I know that scam artists come up to you with sob stories, and they are good at seeming sincere. But really, now, do you really think that truck drivers are all millionaires?

Two weeks ago, I laid over at a rest area on I95 near Fairfield, CT. I wasn’t parked two minutes, when some guy in a Jeep pulls up next to me, and knocks on my door. “Could you help me? I need gas to get home.” I was in no position to help him, and told him so. Ten hours later, after finishing my mandatory rest break, I got up to get ready to hit the road. Again, someone was there, knocking on my door. “Excuse me, sir, good morning. I’m a Marine Corps veteran. I need gas to get home. Could you help me?” Almost the same line!

Again, I told the individual that I was not in a position to help.

Then it hit me. I95 in Connecticut. Southbound. Either these two were scammers who weren’t very original, or they were sincerely in need of money to get gas to get home, because they lost it all at the casino.

I’m really not an authority on managing money, but really now, not having enough to get home. I know that a lot of truckers are poor money managers, and after they’ve been cut off of cash advances by their respective companies, they resort to selling what they have.

One guy wanted to sell me load bars. “I drive a tanker” I told him. He said, “C’mon, man, I need money, and you can use load bars, can’t you?” Load bars are routinely provided by companies, and drivers don’t have to buy them. Finally, I said, “Show me how to put them on, and how they work for what I haul, and I’ll buy them.” I took him to my truck. I showed him my trailer. I said, “There you are. Think you can put them on?” He said, “That’s a tanker.” I said, “Yeah. did’ja think I was lying to you?”

Once, I was walking into a truck stop to use the rest room. Some guy was sitting outside, and holding a power drill. He operated it. “Is that because you’re glad to see me?” I asked. “Make you a good deal on it,” he said. I told him that I had no use for it. “But I’ll make you a good deal on it.” I said, “Look, I already have a power drill that I don’t use. Why should I buy another? “Because I’ll make you a good deal on it.”

Trying to sell something to somebody who doesn’t need it. No wonder the guy didn’t have any money.

 

Mark Twain, Jane Austen, and The Three Stooges 

 

By Jerry Sullivan

 

I wish I had more time to read.  Since I started my current job hauling liquid bulk in tankers, I really don’t get long layovers.  My previous job had me spending more time on the road, and I always had a book with me.

 

The first book I ever read was Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.  I was in the second grade.  This book is considered the first Great American Novel.  When I was 7, I didn’t understand this.  I just enjoyed it as a pretty good read for someone who was 7 years old.

 

I never did read anything by Jane Austen until I was maybe in my 30s.  Girly stories, you know.  Or so I thought.  I find both Twain and Austen to be pleasant reads. 

 

On the other hand, I have seen just about every short made by The Three Stooges.

 

Now, Mark Twain never had much use for Jane Austen.  Once, he was sailing on a trip to Europe,  and he bemoaned in a letter to a friend the dearth of volumes in the ship’s library.

 

“The library contains none of the works of Jane Austen,” Twain wrote.  “This alone would suggest it as a good library, but then again the same could be said about a library which contained no books.”

 

My guess is that Twain didn’t get the jokes.  He once said that he would exhume Austen’s remains and beat her with her own shinbone.

 

But you don’t know Jane Austen without you read The Jane Austen Handbook: A Simple Yet Elegant Guide To Her World. That book was got down on paper by Ms. Margaret C. Sullivan.  (In the interest of full disclosure, Margaret C. Sullivan is my kid sister.  She is also the edtitrix of Austenblog.com )  She pretty much got it right.

 

Austen wrote mostly, but not exclusively, about poor girls who aspired to rise above their station by marrying rich guys.  Sullivan explains this so that 21st Century readers might understand the life such girls lived, and how their suitors might have called on them.

 

In Sense and Sensibility, a girl who was been rendered destitute and dowerless by the death of her father had two suitors–one a dashing, honorable military man, and the other a rake.  Her Half-brother and his wife rationalized as to how she and her sisters and mother were to be treated.  Their father, on his deathbed, commanded that they should be provided for.  Although she fell in love with the cad, in the end, she married the “right” guy.

 

Of my sister’s fanfic works, my favorite piece is There Must Be Murder, which is a novella she wrote as a fanfic sequel to Northanger Abbey.  It took me all of an afternoon to finish it.  The hero is a rather large Newfoundland named “MacGuffin.”

 

It always seemed to me that Jane Austen was making fun or rich twits.  So, why should this appeal to me?  Easy.  As a young lad, I couldn’t get enough of The Three Stooges.  Actually, as a middle-aged man these days, I still can’t get enough of The Three Stooges.

 

Moses Horowitz, aka “Moe Howard” was smart enough to realize that there was a depression going on.  He, along with his brothers Samuel (Shemp) and Jerome (Curly) came from a family that prospered in the real estate business.  Along with partner and best friend Louis “Larry Fine” Fineberg, Moe and his brothers made show business history.  Howard’s parents never discouraged the boys from going into show business; indeed, their father appeared as an extra in one of their shorts.  Moe understood that the way to get poor folks to like you was to make fun of rich folks.  The Stooges did this to a “T.’

 

So, I put the question to my sister:  Had Jane Austen live in the first half of the 20th Century, and came to Hollywood, how do you think she would have fared as a screenwriter?  I mean, I think she would have been killer writing for The Three Stooges, right?

 

Her reply was that Austen would have been right at home writing for movies.  Austen was also a fan of slapstick, as is evidenced in her “juvenilia” works.

 

This got me thinking:

 

The boys arrive on the job, and  Moe sizes up the situation.  He decides to dispatch Ciurly to shut off the water.  “Okay, knucklehead, off you go.  Run upstairs and shut off the water.  I have to do everything myself.”

 

As Curly departs to shut off the water, Moe addresses Larry.  “Porcupine, be a good chap.  Run out to the truck and fetch the tools.”

 

“The tools?” asks Larry.  “My dear Moe, to which tools are you referring?”

 

“Which tools?”  says Moe.  “Why, my dear chap, the very tools we have used these past 20 years!”

 

“Ah,” says Larry.. “THOSE tools!”

           Then again, I suppose Mark Twain could have written the same thing.

Or, maybe not.  Twain was no fan of slapstick.

Reading Twain’s short stories shows humor in unusual situations, such as “The Million Pound Banknote” which tells of an American who while sailing in San Francisco Bay is swept out to sea, and is rescued and put to work on a British ship.  He finds himself deposited in London with only a dollar in his pocket.  He is ragged and raggedy, when he is spotted by two rich gentlemen who have wagered whether a beggar on the streets of London, who is given temporary possession of a banknote in the amount of one million pounds could survive or not.

 

Rich gentlemen.  A million pounds.  A beggar.  Hmm.  This sounds vaguely familiar.

 

“Young man, If I gave you a dollar, and your father gave you a dollar, how much money would you have ?”

 

“One dollar.”

 

“Young man, you don’t know your arithmetic.”

 

“You don’t know my father.”

 

I think Jane would have gotten this one.