Marxism

"I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception."

 

"If you continue to publish slanderous pieces about me, I shall feel compelled to cancel my subscription."

"One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know."

"Those are my principles, and if you don't like them... well, I have others."

"Getting older is no problem. You just have to live long enough."

Julius Henry "Groucho" Marx 

(October 2, 1890 – August 19, 1977)

A Few Polite Suggestions

My good friend and I went back and forth via email with laws and codes that pertain to life.  Here are the results.

To refer to these items as "Rules" would be just a wee bit on the side of presumptuous. Neverthless...


1.  The bark of a Man's dog should not be higher in pitch than the Man's own speaking voice.

2.  Martinis are like eyebrows.  Two are infinitely better than one.  However, if you think you should perhaps have a third... you are urged to reconsider.

3.  Women who trust their fathers are far more playful companions when the lights are down.
                              

4.  The quality of a barbershop can be gauged by the amount of deer heads mounted on its walls.

5.  Once you graduate from college, graduate from consuming mass amounts of alcohol.

6.  Carry a pocketknife.  You never know.

7.  When first meeting a woman, do not measure her by her looks.  Take notice of her walk and amount of confidence she carries.

8.  ...Then take a peek.

9.  Look a person in the eye when speaking with them.

10.  Front sight ....... squeeze.

11.  You are bound to make a few divots in life.  Do your best to repair them.

           

The Gulf Stream

The only way for society to rationalize the junior high experience is that it was designed to test the amount of cruelty adolescents can handle in a two-year time span.
Someone must have deemed that puberty on its own was not tough enough, and so it was teamed with daily doses of ridicule, embarrassment, and physical torture to give it that ironic bite that we all got to know and love.

The junior high where I was schooled would fall somewhere between the sixth and seventh levels of Dante's Inferno.  It was three floors of dark hallways that sucked the joy out of all who entered.  The average student age was between 12 and 14 years old, but I can recall at least three classmates who drove to school.

I was supposed to learn reading, writing and arithmetic, but my true lessons were in extortion, victimization, and pain tolerance.  I was taught that life could be cruel.  Do not fear the reaper, but fear the boy's restroom between fourth and fifth periods on the second floor.  Scan.  Look around.  Danger lurks around every corner.  Cigarettes.  Drugs.  Indian rug burns.

The above painting is entitled The Gulf Stream by Winslow Homer.  A copy of this work hung in the main lobby of my junior high school.  Every morning when my father dropped me off at school for another round of angst, I walked in the front doors and made it a point to stare at it.  It portrays a young man adrift at sea on the remnants of a battered boat.  He is surrounded by killer sharks.  On his right, a tornado looms.  On his left, barely visible on the horizon, is a ship and possible salvation.

If a visitor to the school happened to notice this picture they probably would have wondered why such a painting was on display.  I, however, knew full well why it was there.  Mr. Homer may have titled his work "The Gulf Stream," but I am quite certain that he almost called it "Junior High."

Injury Revisited

When I first started this blog, I wrote a post entitled "Injury" which was a list of damage I did to my body over the years.  My good friend sent back a list of his physical tragedies.  Enjoy.

Stitches - Golf club to head.

Dislocated thumb - Basketball, Junior High: "Thumbs don't bend that way" Fish hook to face - "Fly Fishing" accident at Goggin's Pond.

Baseball to testicles - 1 hopper to the mound - ugh, it still hurts.


Stitches - Floor hockey - collision with brick wall

Severely sprained ankle - Sophomore year UD basketball - Leg was black from toe to mid-calf

Likely broken kneecap - Martinis and medications don't mix at the marble threshold of a bathroom at the top of a flight of stairs.

Bruised Tailbone:
Ten Speed + Downhill = 30mph.
30mph + sharp turn into Moore's Lake = Physics Lesson (Lesson: Introduction to Gravity and Inertia.... and mangled ten speed)

Sunday Evening Post

Here they are.  Some selected photos taken on my iphone during the week.

My son was going through his coin collection when he discovered a five dollar gold piece.  He and his mother cashed it in for $115.  He bought Legos.  Ka-ching!

Our friend Lily turned five this week, the girl with the most moxy in the tri-state area.  She is very into Michael Jackson these days.  Here she is eating pre-birthday cake  pie.  A kid after my own heart.

I happened upon this old cemetery on a country road.

These footprints did indeed lead to stogies, and I needed one after the Pirates lost to the Brewers twenty to nothing.  You read that right.  That is not a typo.  20 to 0.

New grill.  Right size for us.

Jill picked up a nice pair of spectators.  Very Gatsby.

Sunday was rainy, but Alexa's 9th Birthday Shindig saved the day.  It was held at the local bowling alley.  Happy B-day, Alexa.

Do you think a little troll lives down there?

I do.

Strawberries are in.  When I was a kid, on hot summer days my mom would make strawberry shortcake and that was all we ate for dinner.   How cool was that?  

She puts up with me.  I dig her to the utmost.

Until next week...

Undercover Amish

I was west of Dover enjoying a drive through the country on a beautiful spring day when I came upon a car accident at an intersection.  One vehicle was on its side in a soybean field and the other was a crumpled mass in a ditch.  A small group of people had formed near the road to assist in any way they could.  Fortunately, no one was hurt.
I parked my car off to the side and walked up to see if I could help.  I was immediately approached by an Amish gentleman who was standing there looking over the aftermath.  He was a tall guy.  He towered over me.  He had a long beard and wore a denim jacket and dungarees with a straw hat.
He told me that he had watched the incident occur and proceeded to point out which car was where and who was at fault.  I was not certain how to take this, so I politely listened and nodded.  He was really selling the story to me so I did not want to cut him short.  When he finished, I thanked him and turned back to my car.  Everything seemed under control.  I was about to leave when the man said something that stopped me in my tracks.
"I am an FBI Agent."
I live close to a large Amish community so it is not uncommon to interact with one of its members.  It is a rarity, however, when one claims to be a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  This was new, undiscovered territory.
When I turned back to the man to see where this was going, he dug deep into his jean's pocket and pulled out something hidden in his clenched fist.  He looked both left and right and then stepped uncomfortably close to me.  He opened his hand to show me a rusty old badge that was shaped like a star.
He whispered, "I am with the FBI.  I received my training up north at the state hospital".
With that statement, he shoved the item back in his pants, tipped his hat, and walked off down the road.  I just stood there watching him.  He had thrown me into a weird moment and I wanted to relish it as long as possible.
An older Amish man who was standing nearby had been closely watching his younger counterpart during our conversation.  Once the FBI Amish Agent walked away from me the old man came over and said, "Don't listen to him.  He is not right in the head".
I had figured that much on my own but wished the disclaimer had not been offered.  I would have preferred to have left the accident scene that day hoping that there was a chance (however remote) that I had just met one of the most dedicated undercover FBI agents that ever lived.

The Bee Wars

When I was about nine years old, my brother and I were collecting a bucket of chestnuts from a tree that stood between our house and my Grandmom Martha's.  He and I would gather them and toss them up in the air to be hit with sticks.  It was early evening and it was summer, so we still had plenty of day left.  We were squatting down trying to retrieve the prickly things without getting hurt when we heard Martha call for us.  She was standing behind her dog kennel with a Winston dangling from her mouth and her eyes were following something hovering in the air.  She held an aerosol can tightly in her hand.  A bee began to hover near my head.  It seemed somewhat agitated, and I realized it was the focus of Grandmom's attention.
"You boys want to make some money?"
The lit cigarette bounced up and down as she spoke.  She was in a sleeveless blouse covered in spots of paints from the ceramics she painted and a pair of khaki shorts.  Sopping wet, Martha might have weighed 85 pounds.
Chester and I had fallen for this money trick in the past only to find that we would spend the rest of the day shoveling horse manure or stacking hay bales, so we were a little wary when Martha promised cash for work.
As we mulled the offer over, she suddenly raised the can of hairspray she had and began to furiously spray it at the bee.  The insect dropped to the ground and Martha stamped on it, twisting her ankle back and forth until the bee was nothing more than a stain on the concrete pad.
After she eyed her work for a moment, she took the cigarette out of her mouth and said, "I found a damn bee's nest next to the barn.  A couple of 'em stung Goldie (a horse).  Put her all in a fit.  I got the nest down, but now a mess of them are coming back.  And they are mad.  I plan to kill them all.  I'll give you boys five dollars a piece to help".
As far as job offers go, Chet and I figured that killing bees was a pretty good one.  After we agreed to her terms, Martha retrieved two more aerosol cans for us to use.  If memory serves me right, one was a deodorant spray and the other was Lysol.  We armed ourselves with the household products and began our mission to wipe out the bees.
The rest of the day was the three of us with our backs to the wall, fighting off the insect horde that was hell-bent to seek vengeance on the destruction of their hive.
My brother and I were both stung at least five times and Martha received seven.  She would yell out, "you little bugger!' and then laugh as if it was the funniest thing she had ever been privy to.  
I remember at one point my father drove up after his work shift and ambled over to see what was going on.  After Martha explained the situation to him, he just shook his head and walked into the house.  He had learned long ago that there was no point in talking sense to Martha.
When one of our cans ran out of ammo she would shuffle off to find another.  The heat of battle kept us focused and soon daylight grew so thin that the only thing you could see was the cherry glow of Martha's Winston, jostling to and fro in the darkness.
Our mother called us in for the night and Grandmom told us that we did well and to go on home.  My brother and I raced to the front door through the summer night with its sounds of frogs and crickets.
Martha was not the usual kind of grandmother.  She did not sing songs or sew or bake pies.  She did, however, fill me with a great deal of fond childhood memories like the time we killed bees together with cans of hairspray and rust-oleum.

Shades

This started as an essay on sunglasses and how I never leave home without them.  I then came across a superb photo of Lee Marvin donning a boss pair of shades.  Before I knew it, I had spent way too long compiling pictures of people in sunglasses.  I coupled them with an Iggy Pop cover by a group called the Miserable Rich.  This is the end result.

Ali Bean Pie

A bean pie is a sweet custard pie whose filling consists of mashed beans—usually navy beans—sugar, butter, milk, and spices. Bean pies are commonly associated with soul food cuisine.  - Wikipedia.

I had no idea that such a thing as a bean pie even existed until about a month ago.  A friend used to work in the city of Wilmington and he raved about them.  He explained to me that they were sold on select corners by members of the Nation of Islam. 

I scratched it up to a bunch of hokey until yesterday when he produced two "Ali Bean Pies" for my tasting.  I was game and ate a slice for lunch (with coffee, of course).

Delicious.  Very delicious.

Bean pie tastes much like sweet potato, but with more of a nutmeg and spice kick.

I do not have the most discerning taste buds, so I brought some home for my wife and she too found it to be the bomb (which is saying something because she is not much of a pie eater - no innuendo should be read into that).

Turns out the Ali Bean Pie is made right in Wilmington, Delaware by the Universal Baking Company.  Here is the website.

One of the testimonials on their site declares , "It tastes so good it makes you want to slap your mama!  This is the best pie out there!"

I will again confirm it was indeed good pie, but at no time eating it did I wish to inflict any harm on my mother.

The Sunday Evening Post

It is the end of the week and I must admit that I was looking  forward to this post.

Once again, I downloaded the pictures taken on my phone over the last seven days and picked a few of my favorites to share.

Beautiful weather brought us out the house and into the light.  Here is Jill test driving the front porch.

She found this sign in her New Jersey apartment fifteen years ago.  Its message never seems to fade.

Technically not taken last week but still in my phone.  Whenever I am down in the dumps I try to remember that somewhere kids are playing with a box.  It cheers me up.

Spring-a-ling-a-ding-ding.

Boo Radley.

Free Starbucks coffee on tax day does not seem very exciting, but what about free Starbucks coffee on tax day in a reusable cup at 65 miles per hour?

My son made a Tzedakah box in Sunday School.  He explained to me that you put money in it and give the contents to charity.  I was hoping Tzedakah meant "Money for Dad" in Hebrew, but it turns out it doesn't.

Attached to this foot is a wonderful lady.  She makes me smile.

Bike rides with my son are what I look forward to after the workday is over.

My boy took a couple of pics of his parents and a good friend dining at Rice in Dover.  This was the setting for "Deuce", a tragic tale I posted.

The Sunday money shot.

Not too shabby for a landfill.

See you next week.

21

"He gave the term 'complete' a new meaning. He made the word 'superstar' seem inadequate. He had about him the touch of royalty." - Baseball Commissioner Bowie Kuhn (1973 eulogy)

"Clemente could field the ball in New York and throw out a guy in Pennsylvania." - Broadcaster Vin Scully

"He was the one player that players on other teams didn't want to miss. They'd run out of the clubhouse to watch him take batting practice. He could make a 10-year veteran act like a 10-year-old kid." - Pitcher Steve Blass

"I still see him sometimes when I am alone. People remember him as a ballplayer, but he was so much more. He was a father, a husband, a wonderful man." - Vera Clemente (wife)

''Any time you have an opportunity to make a difference in this world and you don't, then you are wasting your time on Earth.'' - Roberto Clemente

Nerd

I'm a nerd, no question about it.  Of course, nowadays its hip to be nerdy.  "Geek Chic."  Well, I was a nerd before it was cool.  So there.
I remember when I was 16 and got busted by Mr. Popular Senior of my high school in the local comic book shop.  He looked at me, smirked, and asked "What are you doing here?"  I was embarrassed.  I felt like I got caught perched on Santa Claus's lap at the mall or something.  My shame was so intense that the obvious question to ask him did not even hit me.  "What are you doing here?"  Twenty years later and I finally realized that he was a closet nerd, too.
How much of nerd am I?  I call my wife Wonder Woman all the time.  Yesterday she said, "And you're my Superman."
Instead of being pleased, this ticked me off.
"Hey, Babe" I said, "I am more like Batman.  Wonder Woman and Batman kind of have this unspoken romance going on and Batman is a brooding kind of guy like me and he doesn't talk much like me.  So I am more of a Batman."
"Can't I just call you Spider-Man?"
My Nerd senses were tingling something fierce.  I gritted my teeth and said, "Wonder Woman is a DC Universe character whereas Spider-Man is from Marvel Comics.  So that would never happen.  Just stick with Batman."
She agreed.  All was well again in Metropolis  Gotham City.

Tonto

I am Tonto.

My brother was first-born and named after my grandfather.  I was the second and final boy, two years behind him, so I was relegated to sidekick status.

When my brother got Steve Rogers, the Bionic Man for his birthday, I got Bionic Bigfoot for mine.

He got Stretch Armstrong.  I got Stretch Monster.

He got Batman.  I got Robin.

And of course, one glorious Christmas morning, he received the Lone Ranger perched upon Silver.

I opened a box containing Tonto in full suede ensemble, sitting proudly on Scout.

I loved it.

I loved the characters that I became and the fact that their purpose was to make the main hero look good.  Being second fiddle appealed to something within me.  I relished being the man in the shadows while someone else basked in the spotlight.  I related best with the goon, the hired help, the anti-hero.  I did my part to save the day even if it meant I was the one to take the bullet or get tied in a knot or have his bionics removed from his chest.  It was all performed for the greater good.  It was my duty.

I am Tonto.

Sunday Evening

I like to snap pictures with my phone all of the time, but then I end up erasing them at the end of the week.  I thought it might be a good idea to throw them together on Sunday evenings and present them as a summary of my seven day adventure before the grind begins Monday morning.

 My wife, son, and I ventured to Rehoboth Beach this week.  It was his spring break.  This was a picture in a shop window.  I am not certain why a spaceman and a school girl would team up to defeat a squid with ray-guns, but I see a real problem here with a cross-fire situation.  Safety should always be first.

My son reading while his mother looks for a dress.  This is the official start of wedding season.

Is it wrong to want to eat the little chocolate chip waffle girl?  This is one of those tough questions in life that may not have a correct answer.

This is the label of the shirt I bought at a thrift store in Milford.  I paid $1.75.  Turns out it retails for $195.00.  Nice shirt.  Who knew?  My wife did.  She ordered me to go back in and buy it.

Pirates won their first two, but lost their third.  I take the blame because I forgot to wear my baseball cap after their second win.  That is the life of  a fan.  It is filled with superstitions like that.

Why would I take a photo of doughnuts?  Perhaps wishful thinking.

I took these while my son and I were waiting for my wife in the fitting room of  Anthropologie.

Here is the dress she ended up with.  She makes it look very beautiful.  Stock photo.

She and I hanging at Rehoboth Beach.


















Final shot of the week as the sunset closes down Sunday.