Excelsior

Safe Haven

2012-02-10T13:32:00.001-06:00

Dear Readers:
Sorry about lack of posts recently. I've been spending most of my "quality time" furiously working at an exciting web building project. Hope to be back to normal writing, soon, but I'd like to help publicize this worthy event coming up Friday Feb 17, 2012. And you gotta admire their taste in piano players! (me)

My critters and I have always had a good life for ourselves. Some, however are not so lucky. Picture a household where domestic abuse is the order of the day. Imagine being afraid to step away even for a moment from a life of domestic abuse because you're worried about what might happen to your cat or dog. There are situations where the prospect of neglect, abuse or worse can be the deciding factor in the life of a woman trying to do something about her own domestic abuse issues.

Come if you can - talk it up among your friends if you can't.

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official press release info
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Fundraising Event for Safe Haven Program

Friday Feb 17: 6:30-9:00 pm

Companion Art Gallery
In the Joyce Skylight Court
2680 South Kinnickinnic Avenue
Milwaukee, WI

www.companionartgallery.com

The Wisconsin Humane Society and Sojourner Family Peace Center have partnered to provide the Safe Haven Program, which offers up to 60 days of shelter for animals of domestic violence victims. Many victims are hesitant to leave a dangerous situation because they fear for their animal’s safety. This program makes it possible for victims to leave a dangerous situation without losing their companion animal. Animals provide companionship, comfort, and unconditional love to families affected by domestic violence, and preserving the bond between families and their animals is vitally important.

Companion Art Gallery will donate 20% of sales during the event, and will sponsor a Silent Auction and Raffle on behalf of the Safe Haven Program.

Bay View Bean Company, Le Botique So Chic, and Oscillations Art and Music Eclectic will also offer art and gift items for sale and will donate a portion of proceeds to the Safe Haven Program.

Light hors d’oeuvres and beverages provided

Friday Feb 17: 6:30-9:00 pm

Music by Gary Alan

Remarks by Jill Cline of Wisconsin Humane Society Education and Advocacy Manager, 7:00 p.m.

Admission is free

Donations to the Safe Haven Program appreciated!

For more information or to RSVP

Contact Sandy Sykora at 414-486-1891

Sandy@companionartgallery.com
Or visit Companion Art Gallery on Facebook, and click on “event” to RSVP

I Saw Her

2012-02-03T14:53:00.000-06:00

I saw her last week. A lady customer over at the retail parts counter of the place where I work in Milwaukee, getting a cartridge for her home humidifier. She looked somehow familiar. A rather large woman, but not embarrassingly obese. Comfortable and confident, she had a strong clear voice and a melodic laugh I could hear back in my office. Exchanging humorous comments with the counter clerk, talking about her cats while her order was filled and rung up. She was laughing. I couldn't place her - but the face looked familiar.

She left. (I do not walk up to parts customers and harass them with 'Hey, sweetie, haven't I seen you somewhere before?') Later, when I processed the sales slip and payment, I saw that had been Lena White! (not her name - if classmates are reading this, please do not mention Lena's real name in comments). And I realized why it was that I hadn't recognized her. It was because it was the first time I had seen Lena happy.

Lena was in my Watertown WI grade-school class from the second grade through the end of high school. And she lived right down the street from my house. But I'm sure she wouldn't want to see me now, because I was part of another life she had transcended, gotten over, and left behind.

Lena was the one who was at the bottom of the pecking order in grade school. She was very nervous and self-conscious, partly because her parents kept her so insulated from social contact. She had no close friends, and if invited to participate in playground games, would usually turn down the offer. Lena was a bit clumsy from lack of practice, and would usually invite ridicule in playground sports. Lena's style of dress was of another era - possibly hand-me-downs from her mother. Her mother was very domineering and sheltered Lena from everything. When she wasn't at school, her mother never allowed Lena to leave her yard, and the house always had all the drape drawn and windows closed, even in summer. Her father was a high-profile eccentric, and once ran for mayor of Watertown, getting six votes. Lena had reason to be embarrassed about her parents, but never spoke against them. Because she hardly spoke to any of us.

And we were mean to Lena. Grade-school kids are the cruelest of them all. Nobody, I include myself, stuck up for Lena when the students would pass her "germs" around. No physical abuse, Lena was simply ignored and excluded most of the time. Personally I don't remember going out of my way to be mean to her, but neither did I defend her, and that's just as bad.

In high school, thankfully, things didn't get worse for Lena. High school was a much larger social community, because all the various parochial and public grade schools consolidated into one high school class. And, all the Lena Whites from Watertown's other schools all found one another. And they had a little group from which they drew strength - safety in numbers.

In the ensuing years, Lena's parents died, her house in Watertown was settled and sold. Free of the no doubt detrimental parental influence, Lena made another beginning. And now she owns a home in West Allis, a blue-collar Milwaukee suburb. She has a job, she has cats, and she was laughing. God Bless you, Lena White!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

At-LAWN-tis

2012-01-29T22:30:00.000-06:00

PIG TALES - True stories and thoughts inspired in the Milwaukee Piggly Wiggly.

This sparkling Saturday morning - the air in the 20s, the sun is out, what little show fell is melting from the brightness of the sun, nothing can really go wrong. I'm going to the Piggly Wiggly for my weekly inspiration. So glad to have the CD player in my mini-van (why are people always hating on my mini-van?) Prince is singing to me from the 1980s - a time when drum-machines were a new thing, and these cool Roland Juno synthesizers in the recordings. "Oo wee sha sha koo koo yeah! All the hippies sing together!" Sing it with me! Music was a lot more fun before - and you could still understand the words of those new "rap" songs. Lately it seems that the stardom comes before the creative output, and it has created a generation of self-absorbed divas who know what superstardom looks like, but have no idea how it sounds. Music has deteriorated to a standardized synthetic pitch-corrected oatmeal.

I arrived at the Piggly Wiggly, and began to paw through the bargains. Always on the lookout for those green and white flags, and the Pig Point bonuses. It's always good news if I don't see my face on one of the votive candles. Just Jesus, John-Paul and Mary, so I must still be top-side. I noticed that they had a new radio station on the overhead. Selections limited to the years 1960-1968. Pre-psychedelic pop. Sam the Sham was singing "Wooly Bully" - "won two three quaaaatro!" And lesser-known works by the Beach Boys, the Beatles, and Peter and Gordon - the years fall away as Mama Cass muses "It seems so strange to be so friendly - to say 'Good Morning' and really mean it'.

And then, one I'd forgotten about. The coolest Hippie-crit of them all- Donovan Leitch. In hushed, awed tones he expounds on the days of the lost kawntinent of At-lawn-tis - an imaginary place which achieved a level of imaginary peace and magnanimity that we modern materialistic mortals can never ever ever approach. Shed a tear, Donovan - "...as the Elders of Our Time Choose to Remain Blind..." Oh, Jesus wept! Ah yes, the hippie dilemma: as the love for Mankind increases, the hatred for individual people also increases proportionally. When will they ever learn? "HAIL, At-LAWN-tis!", Donovan bleats. Well, all I got to say about that is "BWA-HA-HA-HAAAA! Now get a job, hippie!!" Fellow Piggly Wiggly shoppers are wondering what I find so funny on Saturday morning. When you're between the Wilderness Apple Sauce and the Post Grape-Nuts, nothing is really that funny of itself. Well, here's what it is - it's Hypothermia! My brain has frozen! Deal with it! Now enjoy your Piggly Wiggly shopping experience! Hail, At-Lawn-tis!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Safety Symbiosis

2012-01-06T14:17:00.001-06:00

When driving the streets of Milwaukee, the motorist will frequently encounter perplexing signs. Since the signposts are placed within the traffic lanes, the motorist must be careful not to hit them.

Arrow meets boat. What does it mean? Through universally understood symbols, which could even be interpreted by a visiting space alien, the motorist is warned to drive on the right side of the road.

How strong must be the drive of the Inner European in some of us, that we constantly fight the urge not to drive on the left side of the road! How did this come about?

Many years ago, the city bought these signs from the Acme Keep Right Sign Company at great expense to the taxpayers. Although they cost three times the normal rate for traffic signs, obtained on a no-bid contract, the president of Acme Keep Right just happened to be an old school chum of the traffic commissioner. Isn't it remarkable how such unlikely circumstances bring old friends back together? And, although it was none of their business, taxpayers kept pestering the city with questions such as "Why the hell did you stick a sign right in the middle of the road where people are trying to drive?" "What is the meaning of these signs?" "If I'm not within sight of one of these signs, does that mean I'm supposed to drive on the left?"

So, to find a legal way to stop all the citizen complaints, the city decided to call a secret meeting between the mayor and the Traffic Commissioner.

"People are constantly complaining about the signs! They say that the signs serve no purpose, the signs impede traffic in the public roadways, and are very costly to replace. What can we do?" the Mayor paced around, furiously puffing his cigar. (This was long, long ago).

"Well, sir, we both know that the signs are really unnecessary. Perhaps we could move them..."

"NO, YOU IDIOT - " The mayor interrupted. (The mayor was in the same graduating class, and appreciated the unmarked bills slipped under his door now and then). "I don't want to eliminate the signs - I want to eliminate the complaints! It's clear what we have to do - the signs must be protected!"

And so the oily wheels of city politics continued to turn, and soon there emerged a plan. To protect the signs from being damaged, the city built a concrete barrier completely surrounding each sign. These protuberances are anywhere from 6 inches to a foot high, and project into the roadway. Anyone foolish enough to drive near one of these protuberances at normal traffic speeds can severely damage his vehicle. Tires can be flattened, wheel rims bent, suspension destroyed, and, in some cases, total destruction of the vehicle can result.

And, so, to this day, in the streets without pity, the concrete barriers protect the signs. And the signs serve as a warning to avoid the concrete barriers, which protect the signs, which warn of the concrete barriers, which protect the signs. . . And All is Right on the streets.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Cantique de Noel

2011-12-23T13:03:00.000-06:00

Cantique de Noel - O Holy Night. Every year but one, since I can remember I have performed this song, in some form or another. Without this song Christmas is incomplete. I've played it in all sorts of settings, solo piano, solo accordion, on church organs, with tenors, with choirs, and back in grade school Christmas programs as a part of the Heavenly Host. It's a resonant infusion of peace and exuberant joy that can barely be contained in the human spirit - "a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices".

But, last year, Christmas came and went without Cantique de Noel. This one sad year, we had toiled away the entire week before Christmas, and only stopped working because other businesses had gone home for the holiday. We were setting up a new business, and there were not enough hours in the day. In the evening, my wife was making us some tuna casserole, (a Polish Christmas tradition) and she sent me out to read the marquee in front of the church, because they wouldn't answer their phone, so we'd know when their Christmas morning service started.

On the way, I turned off the music in my mini-van, unusual for me. Big flakes of snow were falling, making Milwaukee's south side look like a Christmas card. The various Christmas decorations lit the silent night, and the warm light coming from the house windows brought back memories of all the Christmases passed. I felt an overpowering longing for the notes of Cantique de Noel. I realized, at that moment that Christmas pass you entirely by. At Christmas the slightest bit of giving, sharing, joy, can be returned to you a thousandfold. But only if you give a little, else there will be nothing in it or you. It's up to you. You have to put the tiniest light in your window, so the Christ Child can enter in.

This year, Cantique de Noel is back in my life. Bette hurt herself in a fall, and I was substituted for her piano accompaniment in Julie's show while Bette is recovering. And, Julie and I "did it up proper"! Julie sang it in Db - perfectly suited to her vocal range, and, in my opinion, perfectly suited to the soul of a piano. I even remembered the extra chords that Mr. Richter always threw in on the organ pedals back in the grade school days, a strange augmentation having something to do with fifths that propels the melody to the heavens. Did I mention that I love this song?

So, here's my favorite rendition of Cantique de Noel - captured on December 17, 2011 by Julie's husband Bill on video:

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

A Simulated Alligator Wallet.....

2011-12-22T15:51:00.000-06:00

The night before the show, Julie called me to ask if I could substitute for an injured piano player - Bette had fallen and could not perform. A Christmas show - no prob. I had "done my time" in the Great American Christmas Songbook - if you ever need a piano player or accordioniste for a Christmas show, give me a call - Salvation Army tested and ready to go. And Bette was not seriously hurt in her fall, she's on the mend, and I hope to see her at our New Year's Day gathering.

It was my privilege to work with Julie Alonzo-Calteaux, one of my favorite Milwaukee singers. With a hurried Saturday morning rehearsal, we made a few adjustments (She didn't think it was appropriate that I sing "Sisters" with her - what a relief!) and by noon we had the show ready to go.

Here's one of the songs from the Saturday show - Thanks to Julie's husband Bill for the excellent camera work. That's me on piano. A hilarious rendition of an Alan Sherman parody on the standard "The Twelve Days of Christmas".

Merry Christmas to you all!. I'd love to hear from you.

Winston's Christmas - A Christmas Story - Part Two of Two Parts

2011-12-20T12:48:00.003-06:00

Follow this link to Part One, if you're tuning in late.

Back to The Plan
As he watched the truck recede into the distance, with his Christmas list on the old leather front seat, Winston stood stunned for a moment. "Maybe I don't have the list, but I've got most of it memorized!” There was no time to waste, now. Winston ran back up the hill to his bike. His feet mercilessly pounded the pedals of his trail bike slamming it into Turbo Warp Velocity. His head was swirling with the items of his list, trying to remember all of them, letting none slip away. As he reached the Brookridge Mall, Winston hit the ground running, leaving his bicycle on its side right next to the main entrance. He ran to the center court of the mall.

But, something was wrong. It was too quiet in there, hardly any people. Santa was not in his customary place. “Maybe he's on his break” Winston hoped frantically to himself. 'Here Comes Santa Claus’ was blaring frantically from the ceiling, a jabbering chorus of of annoying adults trying to sound like annoying children.

A voice interrupted the music. “It is now 3:55 p.m. The Brookridge Mall will be closing in five minutes. Happy Holidays” The music cut back in, a frantic cacophany of Deck the Halls with blaring guitars and artificial snare drums.

Eyes wide with panic, Winston cut through Santa's village over to the registration desk. A teenager in an elf costume was talking on her cell phone. He tugged at her sleeve, to get her attention. She snapped her head around and glowered at Winston.

“Where's Santa?” Winston nearly shouted.

The elf-girl, annoyed, said “I'm sorry, we're closed.”

“I’ve got to see Santa!” Winston tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

“I SAID, I’m sorry, we’re closed. I need you to leave, now. Have a nice day.”

As he left, Winston said under his breath, “I need you to fall off a cliff”

Over
And the cold, gray reality came rushing around him like an icy fog. Winston was too late. Jagged fragments of his utterly failed plan fell about him as he slouched out of the mall, and back into the cold late-afternoon sunlight. Santa would never know, now, what he wanted for Christmas. Even the reconstructed list (which could possibly be missing a few items) was worthless now. Just as his brother had been telling him -- Santa would make the assumption, since he hadn’t heard from Winston, that Winston didn't want anything at all this year for Christmas. Or, worse yet, Santa would think that Winston didn't believe in him.

As he headed back up the hill, he came to the spot where he had met the truck. He could see the skid marks his bicycle had made earlier, back in a happier time when he had been a Robot Ranger traveling full of hope at Turbo Warp Velocity. He had been on a mission - a Robot Rangers Expedition. Winston stopped his bicycle, no need to hurry now, and looked back down the hill. Under the last reddish glow of sunset, the lights of the town below were coming on. In the wind-less, chill silence, Winston realized how seriously his mission had failed. “Operation Giftwrap”— indeed. His words came back to mock him.

“Well, at least I got that old man’s damn truck started!” he said to himself, fighting back the tears. “I hope that old fool has a nice Christmas, in his stupid old truck!” In the early evening sky, a falling star winked brightly and briefly, or maybe it was just one of the town lights distorted in a tear.

Back home, Winston passed unnoticed through the front hallway, where his sister was on the phone with one of her girlfriends. “Yes, a pen and pencil set. A Stupid Pen and a Stupid Pencil in a little velvet box. Yes, I showed him the necklace in the catalog. But my father said 'it wouldn't be appropriate'. Too young, my eye! I'm 16.

A Valuable Lesson
In the living room, his older brother Joshua had already opened his present from Mom and Dad — a Remington manual typewriter. "Back to basics" his father had reasoned. “Computers make things too easy, and the Internet takes all the challenge out of doing research.” Joshua poked listlessly at the keys, pressing them randomly, just for the old-time sound they made as they hit the paper.

Winston, sat down, talking to nobody. From the kitchen, he could hear his father's voice talking to his mother “This should teach him a valuable lesson in cooperation”. Great. His own parents turned against him, too! A valuable lesson! That’s what he’d be getting for Christmas. A valuable, bleak, hopeless and empty lesson. He pretended not to hear, just staring straight ahead without seeing. .

A sound penetrated Winston’s thoughtful wall of despair. A regular thumping noise seemed to come from inside the wall of the living room next to the front door, repeating at one-second intervals. From the kitchen, Winston's mother said, “Winston, what's that noise? What's going on out there? ”

Joshua could see that Winston was just sitting limply in his chair. He taunted — “Maybe it's Santa's reindeer on the roof with your stuff. Maybe we should all go out and help you bring in the big haul! HAHAHAH!” Winston jumped up, ready to punch his brother, but paused when the thumping noise stopped.

The sound of a truck door slamming. Winston froze as, one second later, an explosive POW! was followed by a deep roaring engine-sound that resonated with something recent in his memory. Winston bounded for the front door, and ran out onto the lawn looking down the road. But all he could see was a cloud of dense dark-gray smoke covering the road, tinged blue in the cold Christmas Eve moonlight. The engine sound was fading, and Winston thought he heard someone shouting “Merry Christmas” over the engine's roar.

Winston turned back to the house. It was unbelievable. The thumping sound they had all heard was explained. Packages were stacked on the front porch, on both sides of the front door. The veranda was FULL of gift-wrapped presents, and all of them had Winston's name on them!

epilogue
Joshua put the typewriter in the attic, only to discover it a few years later. The attic became his “garret” from which he still writes all of his best-selling novels.

Megan began doodling with her pen and pencil set, and, as anyone who frequents art galleries will tell you, the rest is history.

And Winston? — Well, let's just say, he's in the Package Delivery business. And, yes, he works on holidays...

Merry Christmas! "God Bless Us, Every One!"

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The preceding is a work of fiction. If you notice any resemblance to real persons living or dead, then I did it right. It was originally written for a Christmas variety show about 10 years ago, and has been re-written many times since. Maybe this is it.

Winston's Christmas - a Christmas Story - Part One of Two

2011-12-19T12:30:00.002-06:00

One week before Christmas .
“Hey, kid, I don't care if you don't get any presents or not, but no matter what you say to Santa Claus, if Mom and Dad don't find out what you want for Christmas, you won't get anything!” With Christmas less than two days away, Joshua was trying to reason with Winston, his younger brother.

But Winston held his hands up, covering his ears. “Nope. Santa Claus is the only one who can handle a list this big. ”

“Hey, Nitwit! . Do you really think you're going to get everything on that list anyway? It must be eight pages long”

“Nine,” Winston snapped.

"What Ever!” Joshua shouted, pulling out his I-phone. After a few flicks and clicks he quoted stridently: “Do you realize that if each child in the world gets nothing more than a medium-sized Lego set at 2 pounds net weight, Santa’s sleigh would be carrying 321,300 tons, and that’s not counting Santa himself. Conventional reindeer in the Ukraine can pull no more than 300 pounds. So we'd need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the payload - not even counting the weight of the sleigh - to 353,430 tons. Just for comparison, this is four times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth.”

“Oh why don't you just take your facts and go text them to somebody!” Winston snarled.

“.... Just sayin’ “ Joshua taunted back.

Christmas Eve
It was THE DAY OF. . . Winston had eluded his family's repeated entreaties to please let them know what was on his Christmas list. These now-wrinkled pages were Winston’s most carefully guarded possession. “For Santa's Eyes Only”.

His parents were frustrated to the point of anger. “It would probably teach them all a good lesson if nobody got anything this Christmas.” Winston's father said loudly his mother, in hopes of being overheard by the children.

The Plan
But now, it was three o'clock, and deployment of The Plan commenced right on schedule. In scripted moves that he had been rehearsing for weeks, Winston jumped into his parka, grabbed the neatly-folded list, threw on his gloves, jammed on his helmet, and stormed out through the kitchen into the garage. Through his head was racing the theme song from “Robot Rangers”, his favorite Saturday morning show. Winston was a card-carrying Robot Ranger. He was well-versed in the techniques and strict training the Rangers used to "Keep the World Rolling by being Ready".

He punched the garage door opener button - he adjusted his helmet as the door rumbled up. Then he pushed the “down” button, meanwhile jumping on his all-terrain bicycle and streaking out of the garage before the door closed, missing his rear fender by fractions of an inch.. His bicycle was a specially modified Robot Rangers Turbo Cycle. It gave him a feeling of independence to be able to ride the half-mile down to the mall whenever he wanted to, without asking his parents or his brother or sister for a ride.

Winston spoke through his imaginary helmet microphone to an imaginary control tower as he shot out the driveway. “Robot Ranger Winston leaving exit hatch for completion of Operation ‘Giftwrap’ Fifteen Hundred Hours - over!”. His first burst of energy propelled him to the top of the hill. Once he had crested the hill, it was time to deploy “Turbo Warp Velocity”. Head down, Winston pedaled as hard as he could downhill to achieve as much speed as his trail bike could safely handle, the bike frame nearly disintegrating from the demands of Turbo-Warp Velocity.

Winston glanced up - INFORMATION OVERLOAD! The first thing he saw was that he was fast approaching a completely blocked road. A stopped truck entirely blocked Winston's downhill lane. A car approaching uphill completely cut off hope to escape to the left. At his present “Turbo-Warp Velocity”, the brakes on his Robot Rangers Trail Bike were incapable of stopping him before he either hit the stalled truck or put himself head-on with the oncoming car.

Snap decision - his adrenaline-pumped system gave him a lucid picture of what must be done. Winston jumped the bike over the shoulder and up the curb - a Robot Ranger was capable of making lightning-fast life-and-death decisions! As Winston began to congratulate himself on his quick thinking, he tried to bring the two-wheeler to a halt. Although the bicycle had hit the ground on both wheels, still Winston lost his balance. Bike and rider slid on their sides to a skidding halt in the muddy brown grass, stopping halfway past the truck’s right side, muddy but intact.

"You OK?"

From the uphill vehicle, Winston heard the voice of his next-door neighbor shouting at the truck’s driver “Get that heap off of the road if it doesn't run!” and tromped the accelerator to drive away tires squealing and engine revving. He lay for an instant in the grass. Winston’s jangled eyes focused on the “heap” At first he saw it sideways, then upright, but some of the details were hard to comprehend at first. Winston rose to his feet. The truck was black, and old, very old -- an antiquity. Although it resembled a pickup truck it was like no pickup Winston had ever seen. The headlights stood up on mounts by the front fenders, like an old Model T, and the wheels had spokes. There were running boards under the doors, and the cargo box was made of wood. And the truck was undeniably very heavily loaded; it sat very low on the chassis springs. An old yellowish-brown canvas tarp was carefully tied over the entire load, so Winston could not see what the truck was carrying. As he watched, from the front of the truck, the engine groaned like a tired, very old horse, and then was silent. Under the truck, Winston could see the driver's feet as he got out of the truck.

As the driver walked around the truck, Winston got up, and began brushing himself off. The truck's driver was a large, old man with long, curly, gray, almost white hair. He looked at Winston with eyes almost as gray as his hair. “You OK, kiddo?” the driver asked.

“I’m OK, I didn't hit anything. But, Mister - why did you stop right in the middle of the hill? Nobody ever parks there.” Winston said indignantly.

"So Far to Go...."
“She just quit, and now it sounds like the battery's dead, too.” the old man said. There was a weariness in his voice as he said, almost to himself. “And I've got so far to go...”

Winston knew he had to help this man, however he could. You don’t sit through all those Saturday morning shows without learning the Code of the Robot Rangers. It’s one of the precepts by which a Robot Ranger lives: A man's ride is more important than anything else.

“That makes two of us, Old Timer”, said Winston in his best Robot Ranger's no-nonsense voice. “Let's see if we can get this thing started... Allow me.” Winston swaggered over to the driver's door, and, although he was not old enough to drive, opened the door and climbed up to sit behind the wheel. Each episode of Robot Rangers contained a semi-educational theme, and Winston always used this as a justification for the vast amounts of time he spent watching the show. Each week, Ranger Bob would explain some scientific principles that made things work, usually transportation-related. “Don't smell gas, so she ain't flooded” Winston said, sniffing the air. He turned the ignition key. The engine gave a single shudder. WUH -- and nothing more.

Winston paused, as he remembered Ranger Bob’s imperturbable, calm "airline-pilot voice". Panic is your worst enemy in an emergency. Winston thought back to a segment he had seen about Ranger Bob starting an old farm tractor, trying to remember the steps.

Winston said to the old man. “Maybe we can pop the clutch. It's a perfect setup, an old-timer truck, pointed downhill, and all.” Not certain the plan would work, but with nothing really to lose by trying, Winston clicked the ignition key to the right, then got out of the truck. “Now, hold down the clutch” he told the old man, “and I’ll push from behind. When I say NOW!, you let the clutch go. We’re only going to get one chance at this, so everything’s got to go perfect the first time”

The old man nodded, and his sad gray eyes looked trustingly at Winston. The plan was to force the engine to turn, using the truck’s forward momentum to turn the engine, perhaps to start it running. It had worked on that old tractor for Ranger Bob.

The old man climbed into the truck and pushed the clutch pedal down. Winston got behind the truck, and pushed. Nothing happened. Even pointed downhill, he had to rock the heavily loaded truck back and forth a few times until it finally started to roll forward. The truck gradually picked up speed. Soon, the truck reached a speed faster than Winston could run. That’s when Winston yelled “NOW!”

The truck lurched, a low groan of overworked metal, and an explosive backfire. With a low throaty rumble, the engine roared to life. A cloud of blue smoke formed behind the truck, as it roared down the hill. “WOO HOO!” Winston danced a little high-five dance in the road, then suddenly, his face turning to panic, he slapped the pocket of his jacket, and then began running after the truck, shouting, arms waving. “Hey, wait! My list! It’s on your front seat! Stop!” The truck was already at the bottom of the hill. Winston just stood in the middle of the road. His shoulders sagged as he realized that the black truck was not going to stop. The dull red tail lights receded in the light of the fading Christmas Eve afternoon.

Continued Tomorrow!

background ========================

I wrote this story about 10 years ago for a Christmas variety show. I've been re-writing it ever since. Hope you can tune in tomorrow for the second part.

Sparkle

2011-12-08T15:14:00.000-06:00

It occurred to me as I started writing this, that, at the time this takes place, 1959, my grandfather was the same age that I am now. He always seemed so old, even then...When he was at home, my grandfather, Lionel Kuhn, would wear a white t-shirt and blue-and-white pinstripe bib overalls. He'd be constantly puffing on a cheap cigar - White Owls were his favorite.

Grandpa worked for a commercial painting contractor. When he was not on an out-of-town contract, Grandpa's world was a finished basement in the house he had built himself on Center Street in Watertown in the 1930s. Every corner of the basement was finished - ceilings tiled, walls papered, and floors painted, kitchen, refrigerator stocked with frosty bottles of Hamm's beer.

One of Grandpa's favorite pastimes on weekends was cleaning paint brushes. Raue and Sons would supply their workers with the finest paintbrushes available, but at the end of the week, the brushes would be tossed away, for a new start the following week. Properly cleaning a brush is a time-consuming process, and the contractor found it more cost-effective to discard the brushes. Grandpa would save the old brushes in sealed paint cans, and would take them home and clean them. Sometimes there would even be remnants of paint, which Grandpa would meticulously strain, and bring to proper consistency. Grandpa knew and loved paint. From his arsenal of thinners, linseed oil, turpentine and white lead, he could practically build his own paint.

We'd use wire brushes, and a crank-operated brush spinner, and plenty of hard work to get the brushes back to like-new cleanliness. Grandpa had hundreds of paintbrushes that he had rescued, and kept them in a metal steamer trunk. While we worked, there was plenty of entertainment. An old phonograph worked away at a stack of 78s. The Missouri Waltz, polkas and waltzes by Bernie Roberts, Lawrence Duchow, and Frankie Yankovic, Oh Them Golden Slippers, organ music by Ken Griffin, and tunes by the Andrews Sisters. We'd sing along, beat on the table with paint sticks

And ... we'd cuss. Why, where the hell else is a kid going to learn to say "Goddammit!" when he hits his thumb with a hammer? Hey, what happens in Grandpa's goddam basement stays in Grandpa's basement!

Grandma seldom came down into the basement - only to do the washing. But she had Grandpa trained to come whenever he was called. So, no matter how inconvenient, when the call came floating down the stairs, he was there for her ....

"Lionel, I can't find the Windex! Were you using it to wash the car?"

under his breath, "Goddammit!", then, yelling back up the stairs

"WHAAT?"

Even though he heard her the first time, he'd make her repeat the question a few times just to be cantankerous. Grandpa looked quickly through the shelves of the paint room, and found a bottle of Sparkle Window Cleaner, but no Windex. He went to the bottom of the step:

"I've got Sparkle!"

Grandma's smoldering reply to this helpful hint came booming back down the steps:

"I'LL SPARKLE YOUR ASS! Go downtown and get me some Windex!"

We were stunned, at first. She was really in a mood, today. Then Grandpa, aside to me mimicked softly "I'll Sparkle your ass!"
Have you ever been laughing so hard that you couldn't even breathe? Neither of us could speak for about 10 minutes, we were laughing so hard, and then, Grandpa would gasp out in a whisper "I'll Sparkle your ass!" and we'd start laughing all over again.

We resigned ourselves to having to go downtown. But, it wasn't all that inconvenient - there were plenty of other necessary side-trips on the way to National Tea - Albrecht's Badger Paint, Kusel's Hardware, coffee and donuts at Zweig's Grill, Charlie Howard's Tavern if Ed Raue's truck was there, Drost's Smoke Shop for some more cigars -- another story another time. But, we almost drove Grandpa's '39 Chevy into a light post when Grandpa once again whispered "I'll Sparkle your ass!"

To this day, with a little turpentine and a cigar, I can travel in time back to my Grandpa's basement.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Thanks

2011-11-25T13:58:00.001-06:00

After more than 50 times around the old Carousel of Time, it's just one of those days where, as Paul Simon says, I "hung one more year on the line". Got the paper in while the computer was warming up. Syd the cat was checking in a new consignment of dried leaves that blew in the door. And then, I went to my desk, and my computer was full to overflowing, a cornucopia of birthday greetings!.

From all over the world, and I mean - all. over. the. world., my gang of friends - those crazy people that I quack together with every day in Facebook, Twitter, and emails. We share thoughts, greetings, events, we help one another find the humor in our common experiences. Social media friends are different than other people you run into. They are there only because they want to be there.

From Germany (GMT+1) came the first one, arrived when it was still yesterday here (GMT-6). And they just kept coming - Texas, Birmingham, DC, Kansas, Washington, Minnesota, Massachusetts, Watertown, Muskego, even some from right down the street in Milwaukee. Overwhelming!

Thank you all, my friends - Love You All!

Thanksgiving - Grinding Guts for Grandma

2011-11-18T11:06:00.014-06:00

Ah, the Norman Rockwell feast, "Over the River and Through the Woods to Grandmother's House!". Only, during Thanksgiving week, we kids would try to sneak over the river on the 4th Street bridge, and try to get past Grandma's house without detection. But, it was no use, Grandma knew when we got off of school, and would be waiting there to holler out the screen door as we snuck by, for us to come and "visit" her.

Oh, yeah, Grandma, like we don't know what you're up to. Having time off of school around Thanksgiving meant only one thing: Free slave labor for Grandma. The Holiday Season brought all kinds of new, wonderful "little jobs" Grandma would have lined up for us kids:

Bringing up the turkey from the "cold room". There was not much refrigeration at Grandma's. The refrigerator upstairs was always full, so that was no help. The refrigerator in the basement had Grandpa's beer in it, and he'd have to take that out so we could crowd things in there, things like the ring molds. There was always some Jello mixed with cabbage, lots of cabbage. But then once the basement refrigerator was full, there was only the "cold room" - a basement room built under the garage, and it was somewhat cold in there, but surely would not meet modern standards of food hygiene. And yet none of us got sick, accidentally, that is. The "cold room" was where refrigerator surplus and leftovers were stored, including things we didn't want to ask about, such as a pig head peeking out from a towel in a roasting pan.

The turkey would start thawing on Monday, so by Tuesday night Grandma could make the dressing, with our help. The inside of the turkey had to be picked clean of the greasy little boogery things that clung in there. From the inside of the turkey we'd extract the giblets - neck, gizzard, heart, and liver, a slimy wax paper packet that had to be run through a cast-iron grinder, for the dressing, as they called the turkey stuffing. It made a ripping noise as it passed through the grinder, a sound that a foley artist would welcome into his library for his next horror film. The same sound your finger would make if you cranked it through the grinder. The smell was overpowering, and the ground-up guts formed a quivering pile of . . . well. ... guts - a stinking miasma that had to be scraped up and plopped into the mixing bowl. Then the onions and celery. Nothing like having the greasy guts slime on your hands, and then peeling onions and grinding them. So, your eyes were watering but you sure didn't want to touch them, not until a few weeks from now. And then some dried bread crumbs, and don't get them all over! I broke off the moldy parts before putting them in the grinder. Finally, "the dressing" was done. The whole slimy mess mixed in a huge crock mixing bowl. Whew! We're done! Guess again!

Now the iron grinder has to be taken apart and washed. The grinding process stuffs all the guts and onions into the remotest corners of each and every cast-iron part. So, scraping off what I could, I'd put the rest in the sink. Greasy pans and utensils stacked high on both sides of the sink. The water was cold, and there was stuff floating on top of it in a cold greasy slick. And, I dassn't change the water for some nice hot soapy water - Grandma was watching, and you know how kids like to waste water!. The dishrag and scouring pad were both encrusted with the same slime that covered the grinder. How was I to get this clean? More soap!

By "soap", Grandma meant a bar of homemade lye soap that Aunt Meta had made. The whole extended family saved all their cooking grease in coffee cans for Aunt Meta. Meta would render the grease into soap, and sell it back to the family members. Well, hooray for the planet, for recycling, for a sense of family community, for homemade knowhow passed on from generation to generation. But there is one truth that must be faced: The lye soap didn't work that well, and only made the cold greasy mess more sliimy -- if that were possible.

And finally, St. Beverly the Liberator arrived! The front doorbell rang, and in breezed Aunt Bev, or Aunt Bumpie as she was called back in the days when she married her sailor. She had been married a few years now, and the two of them had a kid, a mere toddler who, fortunately for him, couldn't reach the sink. Your day is coming, Bobby Boy!

Well, Aunt Bumpy walked over to the sink, and said. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" "He just started," Grandma snapped. "BUT THAT WATER IS SO DIRTY, AND I BET IT ISN'T EVEN HOT ANYMORE!"

Aunt Bumpy could do anything she wanted to do in her mother's house. She was Grandpa's little girl, and she always got her way. Aunt Bumpy made me drain the sink and start over with hot, soapy water! Real soap! Thrill Dish Liquid! And the hot water was so -- pure and cleansing. Bless you, Aunt Bumpy, wherever you are! Thanks for the Thrill!

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Gathering the Nuts for Winter

2011-11-17T11:29:00.000-06:00

I hesitate to say this, because I know what happens when I brag about it. I've got most of the winter stuff done. Like a squirrel gathering his nuts, I've got all the summer things ready for winter. Patio decorations on the deck we never had time to use this year, all put away.

Planters stripped and put away, except for a set of die-hard marigold pots that just won't quit. I don't want to spoil the party, so I left them alone - Bloom away, little Orange Dudes.. Nobody told the marigolds that it was almost winter. Also, I've gathered enough marigold seeds to foliate the entire neighborhood next spring.

The leaves are all swept up, and I shake my tiny fist at the heavens at the injustice of this. In our entire empire, we do not have a lawn, much less a tree. It's all concrete and blacktop, and we like it that way! And yet, last night I swooped up four cubic yards of the neighbors' leaves from our grounds. The neighbors didn't want the leaves back, but the leaves have to be removed, because otherwise they turn my snow blower into a high-velocity compost shredder spreader.

Down in "the pit", there's a valve i have to deploy that drains the external water pipes, so the pipes won't break when it freezes. I take a ladder over the wall, then lower the ladder into the pit, until i'm 2-1/2 stories below the wall. Turn the valve, reverse, repeat. Over the wall!

Boilers all tested, expansion tanks drained. New filters in the forced-air furnaces, new batteries in all the thermostats.

The gooey sump pump project is done at last. I never wanted to take a camera down there, so trust me on this. Suffice it to say that whenever I was working in this area, my wife wouldn't let me in the house without immediately changing clothes. I thought I had if fixed once, but the new pump was of such a light construction that the weight of the water column caused it to tip over, and then it would sit on its floaty thing so it wouldn't shut off and it would go BWAAAAAAAA! in the middle of the night. I restrained it with rigid PVC connections, and finally got all the fittings adapted to the various diameters to connect it with the sewer. Stinky Tinker Toys..

And so, Happy Fall! Keep warm!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

1997-2011

2011-11-16T17:01:00.001-06:00

He's Gone

Ghandi left us, today.

After an extended illness, Ghandi had deteriorated from 16 lbs to a mere 5 pounds, and was having great difficulty with all his basic activities, walking, eating, drinking, everything.

We are grateful, each of us in our own way for the time Ghandi spent with us.

Joyce will miss her constant companion who followed her around and watched her every move.

I will miss him for his disgraceful un-catlike degree of affection. And I'll miss the intelligent way he always looked down on me.

You miss someone the most when you remember happy moments that you experienced with them, or because of them. Here are some links from the Life of Ghandi, aka Gondi, aka The Boy, aka The Puss, aka Mama's Liddle Snookums, etc. etc.
The Declining Years
Award-Winning Cat
The Truth Comes Out

How the Pilgrims Almost Killed Thanksgiving

2011-11-10T10:01:00.001-06:00

Why is so much left out of the traditional account of the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving? A different story altogether would be discovered if we go right to the journal of Governor Bradford, written as events happened. Things which somehow have been forgotten in the school textbooks and re-enactments we see on TV.

Before it achieved a prosperity worthy of a Thanksgiving celebration, the Plymouth colony almost collapsed and died due to -- a failed experiment in Socialism. Anything in quotes in the following account comes directly from Governor Bradford's journal, Of Plymouth Plantation 1620 - 1647.

Winter of 1620-21. Agricultural plans for the 1621 growing season were underway for the sustainability of the Plymouth colony. It was a meticulously planned new communal social order. Here, there will be NO private property and NO division of labor. All will share equally in the duties of the fields of the Plymouth Plantation. And the resulting harvest will be shared by all. Fairly and equally.

Bradford writes, "all profits and benefits that are got by trade, working, fishing, or any other means" were given to the common stock of the colony. And, now for the sharing! "All such persons as are of this colony are to have their meat, drink, apparel and all provisions out of the common stock."

In other words, we all put in all that we are able to, and we take only what we need. But, how the grand plan worked out in practice is told by Governor Bradford, in his own words:

"Young men that are most able and fit for labor and service" complained about being forced to "spend their time and strength to work for other men's wives and children."

"And for mens wives to be commanded to doe servise for other men, as dresing their meate, washing their cloaths, etc., they deemd it a kind of slaverie, neither could many husbands well brooke it." The young ones, the strong ones, the ones doing most of the work, "had no more in division of victuals and clothes, than he that was weak." (this paragraph in Bradford's original spelling)

And so, as it has always been, the slothful and the schemers gave greatly unto themselves. And the able workers, to their credit, got tired of the giving of themselves unto others without a just return on their labors. They would outright refuse to work any more than was minimally required.

And food was stolen. Bradford: "The crops were small because much was stolen both by night and day, before it became scarce eatable". To each according to his needs? Or every man for himself? Father, Son, Holy Ghost - He that grabs the fastest gets the most!

The harvest of 1621 was minimal. Although the Pilgrims held a harvest feast with the Indians, it was not associated with an official declaration of thanksgiving. The harvest of 1622 was meager. The pilgrims survived the winter by doing chores for the Indians in exchange for food.

The colony was in the final phases of starving into oblivion. And in 1623, Bradford established a new order of things, and that new order was -- private property. The colony was divided up into individual private plots. The common storehouse idea was abolished. Each family would now be on their own land, producing their own food. Whatever they produced on their land, they were allowed to keep for their own use. Note in the following quotes how this changed things:

Bradford writes: "They began to think how they might raise as much corn as they could, and obtain a better crop, that they might not still thus languish in misery...And so assigned to every family a parcel of land, according to the proportion of the number, for that end, only for present use . . . and ranged all boys and youth under some family. This had very good success, for it made all hands industrious, so as much more corn was planted than otherwise would have been by any means the Governor or any other could use"

Resentment was replaced by contentment.

And - behold, a miracle! - Those who had formerly been too weak - those who proclaimed themselves "disabled" - rose from their rest and worked.

Bradford says: "The women now went willingly into the field, and took their little ones with them to set corn; "

And so, Plymouth Colony prospered. In 1623 the colony declared a Feast of Thanksgiving. Under the new private land-use system, and in spite of the drought that had plagued the summer, the pilgrims held a feast of thanksgiving.

Within a few years, the colony would have so much surplus corn that it became an export item. Prosperity is the reward of personal labor.

Bradford sums up the failure of the socialist experiment: "The experience that was had in this common course and condition, tried sundry years and that amongst godly and sober men, may well evince the vanity of that conceit of Plato's and other ancients applauded by some of later times; that the taking away of property and bringing in community into a commonwealth would make them happy and flourishing; as if they were wiser than God. For this community it was found to breed much confusion and discontent and retard much employment that would have been to their benefit and comfort."

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. And thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Vignettes, 20th Century

2011-11-09T09:24:00.001-06:00

Going through some old boxes in the basement tonight, I came across some first drafts of letters I wrote to people around 1990, back in the 20th Century. I used to draft letters on whatever small scraps of paper I could find, and then copy the finished letter onto a readable sheet of stationery. Back then, when you sent out a letter, you didn't have a floppy disk, or an extra file copy on your printer, because you were the printer. You printed it on paper, with a Bic 19 cent stick pen. So, I'm glad I saved some of these notes from the past, but I can't imagine where I got so much energy 20 years ago. (sigh!) Life in Milwaukee.

Carl's South Shore Fruit
... slow, it must be something they put in the water, here in Bedford Falls, I mean Milwaukee's South Side. It's a bit strange over here; they've got McDonald's but the hamburgers are still 39 cents. At Carl's South Shore Fruit, they don't sell fruit any more Carl says "... these people come in and shop all morning for one banana. And, sure enough, he had a box of bananas, but they were all pulled apart, that is, no two bananas were attached to one another. And, the bananas looked somehow, tired, and, shop-worn.

Carl sells sweatshirts now that say "Hug Me, I'm Polish". and other authentic "Polish Imports", and he does quite a business renting U-Hauls. Lots of folks moving (in? out?).

The South Shore Water Frolics
A few hours at the South Shore Water Frolics, and you're never quite the same. "A Rock and Roll Extravaganza" played by the Milwaukee Police Band. 1989 was the year they electrified the accordions, and they had to unplug the air pump on the 30-foot tall Spuds MacKenzie balloon, so there'd be enough power to polka. Without power, Spuds kind of leaned over toward the stage, limply bowing to the musicians.

And Miss South Shore Auto Body did her Hawaiian Dance number, as part of the Water Frolics Beauty Contest. But the stage was so hot from the sun, they had to start the dance over. She did the whole thing on a throw rug because that was more authentic than doing it with her shoes on.

3285 - Happy Food
I've still got my cat, 3285 Unwanted (that was her name on the Humane Society cage, and we kind of stuck with it - friends call her '32 for short.) She's still as stupid as ever, only now she's more blind, which doesn't bother her much unless I rearrange the furniture. And as little as I run the TV, she heard that ad for Happy Food, you know that plastic jar with the snap top lid, and that's the only food there is now, because it keeps fresh in there, as she explains to me.

Single Unrequited Love Bird
This bird one day decides to fly down to the floor and manage the house. He's been strutting around ever since. He follows 3285 around, and he likes Happy Food now, too. Sometimes he lets the cat have some, but not the catnip mouse - that's his love. He bit off the bell, and pulled her eyes out (the catnip mouse, not 3285), and Miss Mousie is his main squeeze now. 3285 doesn't mind letting him have her catnip mouse, because when The Bird is spending quality time with Miss Mousie, he's not eating her food, and biting her ears. He's learning how to use 3285 for transportation by standing on her back, but he's having a little trouble steering her, because she's blind.

Playing Accordion for The Salvation Army
The "Home for the Holidays Tour" at the Grand Avenue was only in its third day of fund-raising when I booked a job with the manager of Boston Store, chasing old ladies up and down the escalators with Santa Claus and my accordion at the Senior Citizen sales event. Who could refuse a job like that? And Norman came in from Madison to do some jobs with me on Friday or Saturday. We've always talked about doing something like this, and it's at the Grand Avenue -- where Christmas originates!.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

2011-11-05T11:59:00.000-05:00

My mom died ten days after her 47th birthday, in 1974. After devoting her entire life to raising my brothers and sisters, and me, she never got to see how well her efforts have paid off. Five, normal, healthy, unusually happy lives. She instilled in each of us a strong work ethic, a love of music, a wry sense of humor, and so much more.

Please take the time to thank those who have devoted large portions of their lives to your well-being.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

When a Bachelor Bird Gets Lonely

2011-11-01T10:55:00.002-05:00

A bird lives under the canopy in front of our studio. He stays year-round inside an aluminum support, a spacious ultra-modern birdie-condo. But sometimes, he gets lonely. So, whenever a car is parked in front of his canopy, he comes down and gets real sociable with the passenger's side-view mirror. Sometimes, he gets carried away, so, it's not a good idea to park cars in that spot if they're a dark color.... This was filmed on Oct 22, 2011.

The musical background is a composition of mine, entitled Lydia.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

John Tetzel - A Lutheran Nightmare

2011-10-31T11:42:00.003-05:00

Wenn das Gelt in Kasten Klingt

Dann zu Himmel die Seele springt!

That's Johann Tetzel. He's the one. From second grade on, we learned about John Tetzel. Second only to Satan in evil, Tetzel was the poster-boy for Lutheran grade-school students' hatred of Catholics. Just two blocks away from the safety of our classroom (relative safety, if you counted Miss Taras's classroom), children were being marched straight through the Box Office to the Gates of Hell. Yes, Catholicism! Satan would see a Catholic coming, and say "Ah, a Catholic - come right in, we left the light on!".

Just two blocks away was St. Henry's - the church with the idol on the outside of the building. And an entire school devoted to the destruction of children's faith, the stealing of their souls. At St. Henry's, we were told in school, they worshiped idols, they prayed to dead people, they kept people in Purgatory and wouldn't let them go to heaven. The Rosary - an obvious cultic scheme to earn one's salvation by meaningless repetition. And those nuns, sneaking around in their penguin suits - what were they up to? And then there was Johann Tetzel.

October 31, 1517. Martin Luther's 95 Theses were nailed to the door of the Castle Church of Wittenberg. The 95 Theses formed a concise declaration of Luther's argument with the established Catholic Church at the time. Most of Luther's objections to the teachings of the day were embodied in the ministry of Johann Tetzel. Johann Tetzel sold indulgences If you bought an indulgence, your sins were forgiven. So, if you were a sinner, and for some reason wanted to go to heaven when you die, you had options. You could make nice with God, or you could buy indulgences. This was very popular among the organized crime bosses of the time, because they had their sins all arranged on the calendar at the beginning of each week, and it was a good way to streamline their operations. A translation of the caption verse above:

"When the Gold in Coffers Rings

Then the soul to Heaven springs"

Luther declared, in his Theses, that you couldn't buy the stairway to heaven, and, since nobody had ever heard of Jimmy Page and Robert Plant at the time, Luther was correct. Coincidentally, the construction of St. Peter's Basilica was being financed by the sale of indulgences - so, when Luther was preaching against the sale of indulgences, he was rocking a very big-ga boat indeed.

In later years, we found out that many of the claims put forth by our grade-school teachers regarding Catholics were exaggerations and fabrications. We had more than enough in common with our Catholic peers to overcome some of our differences. But the doctrine of indulgences exists to this day. Here's a link to the Catholic Encyclopedia doctrine of indulgences, for further reading: http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/09438b.htm

Thanks for listening and commenting. I'd love to hear from you.

Livin La Vida del Cerdo

2011-10-28T22:15:00.000-05:00

One picture could have replaced this post. As we all know, nothing says "Best Wishes to the New Piggly Wiggly on the south side of Milwaukee" like a 35-foot high pig. But, I went to photograph the 8th wonder of the civilized world, and, you can see for yourself, nothing was there. Yes, I saw a 35-foot pig in front of the store a few days before when I didn't have the camera along - he was taller than the building - really, I saw this with my own eyes! So, without the 35-foot porcine edifice, I'll attempt to recount how the Pig has changed my life for the better.

My journey to La Vie de porc began when I was just a child. Kroger's was Watertown's favorite grocery store, and schoolmate Karen's father was the manager. But, in those turbulent '60s, Kroger, Inc. announced that it was pulling out of Wisconsin. What were we going to do, now? That would leave only A&P and National Tea and countless corner groceries. Well, Karen's dad wasn't about to let us down, and soon there was a new Pig in town in the old Kroger's building.

Свинья Жизни - what more can I say?

Piggly Wiggly continues to serve the Watertown area, in a newer more corporate-friendly location on the edge of town. Their prices were fair, their produce and meat were the finest, and once I even won $100 worth of groceries playing Pig Bingo. That was long ago, in the early 1980s.

So, it was with great delight that I learned that die Schweineleben was coming to Milwaukee. At last we would have a friendly low-priced alternative to Pick n Shove. Ever since that Monopoly incident, where Chairman Bob got ahold of my grocery list, and specially marked up everything I used, so I could get extra Monopoly tokens and win $10 at the end after losing hundreds in markups. And that $4.70 quart of Miracle Whip still bothers me every time I go to the refrigerator. It's $3.50, Bobbo, at the most - $2.50 on sale! $4.70 I had to pay - and it didn't even come down when the Monopoly game was over!

The Pig brought to town his own affordable brand of food, as well as Food Club and Valu Time brand. There are Pig chips, Pig butter, Pig Peanut Butter, Pig Cheese, Frozen Pig Peas, Pig Yogurt - virtually everything a person could possibly eat is available in the Pig brand - you'll have to sort out the high-fructose for yourself - it's not for everybody.

As if that weren't enough - thanks to the innovations of technology, vita porcus brings you:

Each week at checkout time, you present your Pig Card, and receive a detailed statement of your Pig Point Account - Talk about a sense of wealth!

Well, as the nozzle in the picture would indicate, these Pig Points will buy you gallons and gallons of gasoline, no doubt superior to the gasoline others motorvate with. So, now the Pig is even driving us to the grocery store. Truly, readers, it doesn't get any better than this.

Heigh Ho - The Pig Life!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Don't Give a Hell

2011-10-26T09:33:00.001-05:00

Saturday mornings when you're eleven and it's fall! You get up early, and it's still dark out. Inside the house, the oil furnace kicks in with a hot smell that's still new for the season. Outside everything is full of frost, and the grass is slippery when you run on it. There's a smell of burning leaves always in the air. And the freedom of two whole days away from school stretches out endlessly before you full of uncharted opportunity. There were chores to do around the house, but since we put the wooden storm windows on the house the week before, (a mandatory full-family project.) the parents were kind of easy-going about anything that really has to be done today. Early Saturday morning!

I was rolling an inner tube around in the back yard. It left a track in the white frost that had formed on the grass. "Hey, what ya doin?" My friend Max was here - somebody else liked getting out of the house early in the morning! We took turns at the inner tube, and there were some other small baby buggy wheels below the garage. Rolling the wheels around, devising different trajectories to run the wheels into one another. There was a certain backspin you could put on the inner tube, and roll it up the slide on the neighbor's gym set. It came hurtling down the slide with twice the normal velocity. So one of us would roll the smaller wheels cross-wise, and the other would try to time the inner tube so that it could take out the smaller wheels as they rolled by. Demolition!

Max wondered out loud if it was cold enough to freeze over the creek that ran in back of his house. We decided that this had to be investigated first-hand. So, we put away the wheels and headed for Max's house. My mother suggested we be back for lunch. Max was delighted for the invite, and looked forward to it. We walked. Max didn't have a bicycle at the time. And we'd have to stop at Max's house and ask permission in order for us to go to the creek. This made the trip all the more adventurous - I'd never seen the creek. His dad might not be home, yet, He could ask Lil, though.

Lil? I told Max: "My mother doesn't want us to call her by her first name"

"Oh, no, Lil's not my mother. Lil is our 'housekeeper'"

Max's mother, it turns out had "gone away". She wasn't dead, but he never saw her. "Housekeeper" it turned out, was his father's euphemism for a live-in girlfriend. In those days, especially among Lutherans, "living in sin" was something whispered behind someone's back. And I could give you a list of Lutherans who never ran out of things to whisper behind people's backs! Had my mother been as strict a Lutheran as some of my classmates' parents, I wouldn't have been allowed to play with Max. They would have considered him "wild", and a bad influence, visiting upon the children the sins of the parents, Thus Saith the Lord. I didn't take any chances, and only filled in as much information as my mother asked me about. Being with Max was being on the cutting edge of adventure!

We got to Max's house. He told me to wait outside. "I'll be back in no time".

Max had learned survival techniques for living in a broken home. He knew that Lil would probably still be sleeping, if his father wasn't home, because she had no doubt stayed out late the night before. Lil would be missing out on the freedom and frosty wonder of this glorious Saturday morning. Waking her up too suddenly would be a very bad idea, when there were favors to be asked... I went around to the back of the house to wait, a dark olive wooden pre-fab with no basement. The walls were very thin, and from the back yard I could hear Max walking around inside. Something spoken softly, then, a loud cigarette-low bellow thick with sleep voice: "You're not supposed to go there." More soft spoken pleading, and then again, the Voice of Lil: "Go ahead, then, and I don't give a Hell if you fall in." Something all too sincere in that tone of voice. I pictured the rest of the day wilting away into gray ordinariness, under the shadow of this moment. To me, it sounded like a "no". And it sounded like she really, truly did not give a Hell.

Max came back out. I expected him to say that maybe we shouldn't go to the creek today. But he was wearing a slightly contrived grin. "She said it was okay." He didn't know that I had overheard practically the entire exchange.

"You sure?" I asked.

In a Curly-Joe Three Stooges voice "Wy, Soitenly!" and socked me in the shoulder.

The adventure continued - we went to the creek, which was unaffected as yet by the cold temperatures, and actually not enough action for us. You seen one creek, you've seen 'em all! So, we continued cross-country to Spaulding Street. Some low spots had water in them, which had frozen, some so thick we couldn't smash them with our shoes. We hiked up the hill and across the railroad tracks to the Rock River Farm Co-op. We got hold of some ears of dry corn that had missed the corncrib by the railroad tracks. And shelled the corn off the cobs as we walked, stuffing the kernels into our jacket pockets, for what? for ammo? for duck food? for exchange value? I don't remember why we did it - we just did it because this was our glorious day of liberty, so we didn't give a Hell. We headed to my house for lunch.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Onions in a Box

2011-10-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

Pig Tales - Adventures in the Piggly Wiggly

As I came out of the canned vegetable aisle, a lady was saying to two kids in clerks uniforms:
"No, it's called French Onions"
Dum: "We have french fries in the frozen food section"
She: "No, it's not frozen, it's kind of dried And it comes in a box, kind of a round box that looks like a can. It's called French Fried Onions"
Dummer "A baawx?"
She: "Not exactly, it's more like a cardboard can. It's round."
Two simultaneous stupid looks. One of the kids was concentrating so hard, he started drooling.
At that point, I reached into my cart, and held up my own can of French's Onions high in the air, so the lady could see them. Give me your tired, your poor, the wretched refuse...
"THAT's THE ONES! WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE!!!!" the lady pointed to me.
The two clerks gaped stupidly. You begin to ask yourself, why are all these vegetables standing around in the meat section?
"They're over there by the canned corn, on the top shelf" I pointed.
Six eyes followed the finger..... voila!
I disappeared down the Coffee aisle.

Well, I know what that old lady was up to. It's the Green Bean Casserole. And I'm about to divulge her most treasured secret recipe:

Green Bean Casserole

Drain a can of green beans, throw in casserole dish,
Add a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup,
Add a can of sliced mushrooms.
Stir it up.
Dump the can of Durkee's French Fried Onions on top.
Bake.until warm and congealed.
Instant Dish to Pass.
And here's Esther's secret: Sprinkle a little Lawry's Seasoned Salt on top for that extra savor.

"Now, FRESS!"* as my Grandpa used to say.

* german: "Feed"

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

A Tale of Darkness, Bikers, and African Violets

2011-10-18T14:45:00.000-05:00

I'm living happily ever after, now. Still - whenever I see an African violet (Saintpaulia) blooming, it takes me back...

It was 1984, and I was in the process of making a huge relationship mistake, and couldn't see the way out, not immediately at least.

Working in Milwaukee! I got a job as an office manager for a heating contractor. It didn't pay much, so, in addition to my office job, I took on a job as manager of an old apartment complex on Burnham Street, an industrial neighborhood on the south side of Milwaukee. The maintenance duties helped pay the bills by giving me a rent break. Having spent the first 32 years of my life in peaceful 14000-population Watertown, the unending vastness of Milwaukee was in some ways overwhelming. But it was an exciting new life I was building for myself in the big city. That's when I met D.

I had recently escaped from the a smothering engagement before it ended in a stifling marriage. A life dominated by in-laws can only end badly - you have to live your own life - another story, another time. D was there to listen to my tales of disaster, and to share her own disastrous life. Disaster was what we had in common. There are some who try to put disaster behind them, and then, on the other hand, there are people who embrace disaster, and weave it purposely into the fabric of their lives.

There were dark times of trying to keep up with D's bar-time lifestyle, trying to be someone I could never be. Many sad stories to tell there. Soon I was spending lots of evenings home alone while she caroused the neighborhood bars with her "real" friends, as she called them when she was drunk, which was four nights out of five. Kenny Rogers kept singing over and over on the jukebox: "♪ Know when to fold 'em. ♫". . . Why didn't I listen to him?

Within a year D had talked me into quitting the band I performed with on weekends for years. Next to go, was the Burnham Street apartment management job, and soon we were renting the upper half of an old wooden duplex on Milwaukee's South Side.

In the new apartment, although we had a spare bedroom, somehow there wasn't room up there for my extensive collection of old books and phonograph records, thousands of LPs, 78s, 45s, and old literary classics. There was a small room down in the basement empty but for the washers and dryers - why not keep those old records and books down there?

As soon as we were solidly and irrevocably moved into the duplex, the trap sprang shut. I was financially paralyzed by the new lease just signed, no longer having the supplemental income from the music jobs and no more apartment management position to offset the rent, The day job didn't pay enough to give me any margin of comfort. In other words, a perfect time for D to unveil the "master plan". D had a teenage juvenile delinquent son Jay. He had become more of a problem than his father (one of the many ex-boyfriends), could handle. We had a spare bedroom, and, conspiring without my knowledge, she invited Jay to move in with us. What a coincidence, indeed.

There was no way out. I didn't get along with Jay -- he ignored us both anyway, spending most of his home time tying up our telephone line. Any complaints about Jay's behavior was considered an attack on D. So there was my option -- I had the right to remain silent.

I spent lots of time working with my plants - at least the plants show some appreciation when you're good to them. I grew some African violets and brought them to work for the window sill in my office. My boss was very interested - he had once raised African violets himself, and had some old grow light racks in his basement which he was no longer using, and these he gave me. Bar none - it was the nicest thing that happened to me that entire year. I found out later that he was in the early stages of leukemia, and clearing out his basement was a part of his long-term plan of "putting his life in order" for his wife.

I brought the racks home - they were the de Luxe racks made of sturdy tubular steel, with gravel beds for drainage and humidity control, and hi-UV fluorescent lamps which plants just loved. I set the racks up in the basement room with the washing machines. From then on, I practically lived in that basement room. Within months I had propagated and collected more violets than the racks could handle. And I had one shelf on which aloe vera plants thrived like weeds, their fat leaves full of green healing. I even had an old toaster oven, in which I'd sterilize batches of home-mixed potting soil.

And, when the planting was done for the day, I worked at cataloging the music collection in the storage room. I wired some old stereo components together, so I had a place to "preview" my treasured 78s. Paul Whiteman, John MacCormack, Leo Reisman, Hank Thompson and so many others soon filled my life with music, and the violets filled the room with bright purples, whites and all that lush fuzzy green foliage. The music and colors seemed all the more vivid against the dark backdrop of the rest of my home life.

The other tenant of the duplex, Pat, came through the basement occasionally. Bachelor, thirties, party hardy boisterous life. He had a small workshop in the other part of the basement, where he'd occasionally work on his Harley. We never spoke much, but we got along -- perhaps he thought I was a little crazy, and perhaps at that point, I was. Some things make you act strange. Was I running away from my problems? To me my life felt right.

It continued that way for more than a year. An uneasy truce settled over the domestic routines. I was a stranger in my own home. The kid bought and sold used cars, even though he wasn't yet 18, came and went as he pleased. D continued her bar life, her jobs came and went. She'd sometimes disappear for an entire weekend. I believed all her stories about crashing on sofas. After all, they were her real friends.

And the violets - more beautiful and exotic than ever. I had connected with a local violet collectors club, and brought more and more exotic varieties of bloom and foliage into my bright warm corner of the world. Old planters found at the Salvation Army store became planted with exotic gifts for people I knew.

All too soon, came the day in January. I got home from work - great to be inside from the breezy below-zero winter day. Down the stairs to the basement. Today it was extremely cold and drafty in the basement as well - and strangely quiet. Then I saw what was different - the outside door was open! The night before, Pat explained later, he had agreed to work on someone's motorcycle. When the bars closed, they brought the bike over to the house, and loaded it into Pat's basement workshop via the door through the laundry room. Pat apologized when he realized what had happened. "We were both kind of drunk, and we forgot to shut the door."

I closed and fastened the outside door. In the dazed stillness, feeling overwhelmingly weary, I went to the phonograph. Starting the turntable, a 78 rpm version of "Love's Old Sweet Song". Slowly, I turned around and surveyed the damage. The leaves of all the violets were black and transparent and limp, frozen. The aloe veras were all darkened, and drooping sadly over the sides of the pots. All dead.

"Once in the dear dead days beyond recall, when on the world the mists began to fall.. .

Though your heart be weary, sad the days and long, still to us at twilight comes loves old sweet song.."

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

New Home for Fernanda

2011-10-14T14:58:00.000-05:00

When Amy (not her name) moved out of our rental property recently, she left hardly a trace of her habitation behind. Oven, floors, closets, refrigerator - all spotless! Full refund of security deposit was sent promptly! But, on the deck, Amy left two bushels of dirt. And this is a good thing! Because that dirt happened to be Stern's Miracle Gro Potting Mix. The bags were broken, but I salvaged the potting mix in buckets.

Here's Syd helping to check in the consignment - only one tongue and so much to do!

I assembled my entire "family" of plants and planters, and re-potted the whole works. It was such a sunny and pleasant day, and the moist fragrant potting soil and the verdant smell of plant roots took me back to a simpler more carefree time in my life, when I raised African Violets in the basement (an adventure that came to a tragic end, involving neighbors, bikers, drunkenness and doors left open at 3am on a winter morning... - I will explain in more detail some other time.)

I arranged the suspects smallest to largest, based on space requirements. And I transplanted each into its proper-sized container, ever larger pots. The Spathes were so abundant that I divided them into three separate groups. Fernanda, my favorite fern (second from the right ) has grown to twice the size she was after she recovered from an over-zealous pruning job by Syd. He couldn't remember where the plant started and the salad stopped.

There was some leftover potting mix, so I yielded to temptation and got some additional fern varieties at the garden center the other day...

Back to the Garden! It's going to be a long cold winter.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

you always remember the first time

2011-10-06T12:46:00.000-05:00

When I first moved to Milwaukee, in the mid-1980s, I usually had more bills than paycheck, so the Public Library system was a good fit for my life. Along about 1990 or so, the libraries installed public computers in most of the neighborhood branches and the Main library downtown. If you had a library card, you could sign up to use a computer for one hour at a time. Phone reservations were accepted.

My computer skills at that time involved an IBM-card driven Univac. But this was a Personal Computer. Yes, it was called a PC even though it was an Apple IIe, and compared to the basic FORTRAN instructions I was accustomed to, it was quite sophisticated.

It was an amazing time on this Earth - For 52 cents, I could purchase a five-inch floppy disk at GK Enterprises, which was in the back room of a laundromat in West Allis, and with that disk I could carry my work with me wherever I went. Imagine 56,000 bytes of my own thoughts and creations all on one disk! So, I could book multiple times at multiple libraries, and continue uninterrupted through all my free time. Some evenings I would even book two or three libraries one after the other and "make the rounds".

My biggest project, after learning general PC principles, was to convert the index of my music collection into a massive database, a database which I use to this day. 78s, 45s, LPs, cassettes, all indexed so I could find them instantly, 30,000 titles presently. And soon the database took up multiple floppy disks, and the Apple software would accommodate this. Assisted by supplementary reading, and a subscription to PC magazine, I gained a self-taught working knowledge of computers, Enough so, that when my company finally put in a computer, I was able to automate most of my office functions immediately.

And it started on a Steve Jobs Machine - an Apple IIe in the Milwaukee Public Library. I'm a P.C. and Steve touched my life, too!

Just ♫ PIcture a Penthouse ♪ 'Way Up in the Sky ♫

2011-10-04T10:26:00.000-05:00

Hello, I'm back. Here are a few photos from my "vacation". After many many years, our favorite tenant bought a house, and vacated the Atrium apartment. The Atrium is a cozy yet large apartment nestled between two other sections of our bank building. It's very private, and very beautiful, and was very much in need of painting. Of all the apartment rehabs my wife and I have done, this is, in my opinion, our finest. A wood-beam cathedral ceiling peaking at about 20 feet, a stairway leading to a rooftop deck, has lots of closet space, etc.

But this time around, we have a monumental paint job, it's September 28th and the new tenant is moving in on October 1st. And after having to lift the ladders up the outside of the building and drop them to the floor from above, I still knew that my tallest stepladder was not tall enough to reach the highest walls. So, that's why rollers have poles on them.

I only work with Sherwin Williams Pro Mar 200 Semi-Gloss in our apartments, because it covers in one coat, and is very durable and washable. And a Purdy three-inch brush. Advice to the novice: Don't skimp on cheap paint and cheap brushes. When Home Depot says "More Doing..." they are referring to your having to do it again in a few years because the cheap paint has faded or deteriorated.

Well, around my house, rollers aren't the only things that have poles. I happen to have married one. And my Pole, in admiring my paint job happened to mention, "As long as you're all set up, wouldn't it look nice if we rubbed some stain on the ceiling? Just 'pschhtt pschhtt' with a rag. It would look so much nicer"

So, "pschhtt pschhtt" it would be - those damn Poles and their consonents! Did I mention, the ceiling is pretty high up there? Much higher than the ladders I had. 'Way up there de the middle of de air', as Harry Belafonte used to sing.

So, very carefully, I found a way to caress each beam with stain. A few could be reached by ladder, For one I had to stand on top of the bathroom shower. And some I could reach from the walkway by reaching out, and letting my center of gravity go over the edge, catching myself with one hand on the beam, applying stain with the other hand. That's fine until you look down, and then you wonder "What if I can't bounce myself back to the walkway? Maybe I could fly! Wheeeee! I'm the Stain Fairy! 'pschhtt pschhtt' "

And, of course I finished on time. The new tenant loved it, but she wants to bring in her own stove and refrigerator - more Adventures in Moving & Storage for me!

Finished the job with two gallons of paint less than I'd planned - another advantage of Pro-Mar 200. I should charge Sherwin Williams for the free advertising ka-ching! And the smell of a newly-stained ceiling - heavenly!

So, as the new tenant settles in to the new apartment, I settle into a 2-day coma. Good night.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Marsha - Keepin' 'Em Terrified

2011-09-27T15:43:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers - I'm working on an impossibly large paint job at one of our rental units that has to be finished in time for Saturday occupancy. Got some new ideas but no time to write them down. So, for all of you at Excelsior today, and you three know who you are - here's another 2009 rerun - it's one of my most vivid childhood memories.

originally posted 7/9/9

I want this to be a matter of public record, in case Marsha ever comes to finish me off after all these years... Just kidding, Marsha. Marsha, the girl next door, is responsible for some of my most vivid early childhood memories - and some of my direst childhood nightmares. Just how can I remember so vividly things that happened to me when I was merely 4 years old? When you are in a state of panic where your metabolism threatens to pop your eyes right out of your skull, the senses become heightened. The minutest details are recalled with crystal clarity. That was life with Marsha. She lived next door. Marsha was two years older than me, and never let me forget it. She ruled me by absolute holding-your-breath terror. She would never tattle every little thing to her mother, or worse, to my mother. Nawww... that's for sissies. If we lost the hammer, we knew that her father would find me directly, and cut off my ears.

"He cut one of my ears off once, you know. Look, you can see where it grew back..." Wide-eyed, heart in throat, I looked, and, sure enough, her ear was all grown back, just like she said. So, I didn't know if mine would grow back as well as Marsha's had -- I would take no chances. And, as if I needed further convincing, we went and asked her father about it. "Well, if you use a sharp enough knife, so it cuts real clean, then it would grow back" he stated matter-of-factly. He picked up a knife from his work bench and looked at it absently. They must have had a secret signal - he'd collaborate anything she was trying to pull off. Later on, a person could observe that a wry sense of humor is inherited, but, at the time, I knew one thing: I never wanted to cross any of Marsha's rules, and i *never* wanted to meet her father in a closed room without a ready escape route.

We lived in a new neighborhood on the edge of town. Marsha's house had been there before mine was built, and she'd reminisce about when it used to be a farm, and they had horses, cows and a lion. We could venture out of town just by going beyond the end of the back yard. It was a wild and wonderful wild place, singing with frogs, birds and fireflies, and fragrant with milkweeds, grass, and wildflowers. I remember when Marsha took me on a botanical tour of the untamed wilderness. She showed me how to open a milkweed pod, but you had to be careful, because they could slam back shut and take off your fingertip. We walked through some golden-rod "And these are the Ickle Ockle bushes - they move around when you're not watching - LOOK" And I looked behind me, and, sure enough one had already moved behind me, about to close in, and do - what? Close call. I was amazed that she knew the names of all the wild plants. Pointing to the rag-weed - These are so poisonous, if you just touch them, you'll get lockjaw, and you won't be able to talk, to tell anybody what's wrong with you, so they'll just take you to the hospital and give you shots, and maybe you'll die"

And we came upon some beautiful orange tiger-lilies. I thought we should pick some and take them back to our parents. "I tried that once", she said casually, "...but a whole swarm of bees started following me, and I had to drop the flowers so i could run faster." I was so grateful that she had saved me from being stung to death.

So many other dangers lurked in our dangerous neighborhood on the edge of Watertown. I would not have survived without Marsha there to warn me of seemingly innocent things that were truly deadly. "Gypsies - " she whispered - "they *STEAL* people". They drove around in those black pickup trucks with the wicker furniture in back that turned back to snakes if it got wet. And, overhead, flying so high you could hardly see them, but they were there - eagles. Eagles could swoop down silently, grab you by the shoulders and carry you away. By that time, I had seen the Wizard of Oz, and I knew for a fact that fear of being carried away was a legitimate concern.

Then, one day, Marsha outgrew me. She was busy with Nancy Sanquist from across the street, because now, at the age of 11, they were grownups, doing girl stuff, and I was still a kid, and a boy to boot. So, I started hanging around with Tommy Rutlin, and Lee Schumacher. We built tree houses, and paved endless secret paths through the tall grass.

But, after a few years, when we were both teenagers, Marsha and I would still visit, but by then we were at the age where we tried to act older than we really were. Marcia's piano playing inspired me to take up music. She introduced me to the Beatles - I first heard "Hey, Jude" on her radio.

We grew up. We moved away. She's a social worker in Madison, now, and I'm an office manager and church organist in Milwaukee. We run into one another once in awhile at funerals. We both made it to adulthood, safe now from eagles, gypsies, and the threat of the Ickle Ockle bushes. I think of that on warm summer nights when the fireflies are out.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Five Foot Dalmations and Other Signs of Fall

2011-09-21T17:02:00.000-05:00

OK, I didn't know how to tie all these little stories together, But I knew they were somehow related. This morning it occurred to me what the common thread was: It's the coming Equinox. Yes, Autumn is upon us. Those green leaves trying to sneak inside everytime you open your door. Not the colored leaves that are the dead giveaway that Fall is upon us, but just green normal-looking leaves that don't want to be on the tree any more. Kind of like insider trading. They know what's coming up, and they got out while they still had the green.

The five-foot Dalmations are out leafletting - a sure sign of fall!

The street festival locks down the block every year about this time, and doesn't leave until there is a mountain of rubbish everywhere. Of course, a little rain shower afterwards stuck everything down good so that the street sweeper couldn't suck the trash up.

All through with your snacks and beverages, monsieurs?

Syd and Gondi arranged for a re-enactment of "Get Your Picture Taken with the Cool Cat" Syd didn't really have time for this -- Gondi is getting a bit over-bearing since he won the contest.

And those marigolds that I planted from seed last March are just starting to get beautiful, just in time for the first frost.

Lola has a new dress. She was in a rather taciturn mood at press time - but I guess it speaks for itself.

Our Theatre is turned into a rummage sale, trying to raise money for the upcoming heating bills.

And to get you looking your Fall Best, visit King Tut's Wall of Bling:

Coming soon will be my favorite part of Fall - getting my hour back from those thieves at Daylight Savings Time. I'm going to use my extra hour to take a nap!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Corn... So Majestically Waving

2011-09-19T11:31:00.000-05:00

This commercial from the 1960s completely ruined my life. When I first saw it I could not stop talking about it and laughing for weeks. Noting other people's reactions to my reaction, I realized that maybe I saw things a little differently than the prescribed way of looking at things. And that has made all the difference.

"Made from corn - so majestically waving". "SO MAJESTICALLY WAVING!" That is literary advertising genius! In an era defined by the stuffy smirking hip-ness of the Smothers Brothers, and the dark politic-laden trendy humor of Laugh-in, this commercial message was a blast of the light of reality - nothing less than the essence of humor, to laugh at one's self. Who better to sell corn flakes than a farm lady standing on her farm, looking straight at you, pleading "Please Buy Our Corn Flakes!"

And so, as life went on, I ended up watching "Hee Haw" when everybody else was watching "Laugh In". I took up playing the accordion when all the hipsters were all taking up the guitar. I listened to a different Muse. And I stayed true to myself. And so many times over the years, I've had the satisfaction of seeing people discover something that I've known about all along.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

cool cat indeed

2011-09-11T13:00:00.000-05:00

So, there it is. The coolest cat in milwaukee. Gondi the Cat. The People came in droves to the Grand Opening of Companion Art Gallery, and in droves, they cast their votes. Companion Art Gallery is a place where the dog and cat lovers of this world can find objects of art to enhance their lifestyle. Local artists disiplay their creations, and can even create a unique item based on your own beloved pet.

So, after spending most of the day in a 5-foot Dalmation suit, Sandy, the founder of the gallery tallied up the audience votes. The Coolest Cat, chosen by the attendees, based on the photos submitted, was Gondi. So, Gondi it is that will be the official Cool Cat mascot at the upcoming Bay View Bash street festival.

However, as Syd reminded me, Gondi's is not a history of a "rise to coolness", but rather, a betrayal of the Feline Mystique. Gondi, as Syd reminded me, was a total sell-out. And this latest publicity stunt is the culmination. I turn the remainder of this narrative over to Syd, who demanded equal time, that the true story might be told.

That's me, there in Gondi's shadow. And let me tell you, the wind wasn't beneath his wings..... I put up with a lot, having to do all the work, while he frittered his life away in betrayal to felines everywhere. When there was a box to be licked or a squirrel to be hated, I was right on the job. And, where was Gondi? The photos tell the whole sad and ugly story.

the cross-species dressing

traditional holiday values would give us a glimpse of the REAL Gondi. Not so cool, now, eh?

And completely shameless. Look - he's actually enjoying this humiliation. To what depths?

And this! what depraved role-playing is this? "'allo, I am Inspector Gondolino, may I inspect your Tuna Treats?"

Oh, now THAT's real manly - i am shocked, simply shocked.

And I've got the goods on this till-now unsolved crime. Never know when I'm gonna take a stroll down Memory Lane and show everybody MY photo album!

Oh, look! I'm a cool cat, too. Jealous? me? nawww

Just watch yer back, Gondi, Boy. Watch yer back...

I'm Syd, your future ruler.

morning paper

2011-09-05T19:43:00.000-05:00

AH, Labor day!

But, this morning as I sat back with a cup of instant coffee (two packets for the comatose), my wife turned on the TV. The relentless rotation of Daytime TV greeted us. I'm usually at my day job at this time on a Monday morning, so, it's always a revelation - so much different from night time programming. And, rather than run downstairs, I was lured by promises of a performance by Lady Gaga. She was on the morning show called The View. Barbara Walters, Whoopi Goldberg, and some other ladies all sit on one side of a table (something like the Last Supper) except they all talk at once. Lady Gaga even joined them for the cackling part, with promises of a performance later in the show. You can't really make out what they're talking about, because everybody's talking at once.

At the end of the show, the promised performance by Lady Gaga was spectacular. She is a devoted hard-working performer, and doesn't try to conform to the norm of affectation one sees from other performers on her level of "diva-tude". Without any theatrics or outlandish costuming, Lady Gaga is still an ultra-talented performer.

In the mean-time, I sat through a disturbing commercial reenactment of a domestic crisis. A man emerges from a room, presumably the loo. He hollers "Honey, we're out of paper, could you toss me a roll?" A roll of paper clips him in the side of the head, and scrapes off most of his hair. Presumably, the paper was not soft enough for his tender nethers. So, he hollers down the hall again, half his hair missing "Honey, we're out of paper, could you toss me a roll?" And, another roll nails him, the roll hits him in the chest, and explodes into a fuzzy explosion of lint, all over his clothes. Too soft. Then, of course, he goes through it all again, still no business taken care of. And, of course, now we're all ready for Brand X. This time, Honey comes to her senses, and hollers back at him - "GET YOUR OWN DAMN PAPER, AND CLEAN UP THAT MESS!" Just kidding. What woman would put up with that?

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Miss Taras - Part Two - The Rest of the Story

2011-08-27T10:29:00.001-05:00

part two of two parts. Link for part one.

Miss Taras, the second grade teacher of St. John's was a ruthless disciplinarian. Enduring a year in her class was to have looked terror directly in the face, and survived. It made one stronger, and gave us something to talk about later in life.

Over the course of the year, she told us stories of her childhood, and the more I think about these, the more different it was than the childhood of her typical student. (with some exceptions). She had two sisters, and grew up in a very strict household, in the Great Depression (the one in the twentieth century, not the Obamanation) in a very poor section of town. (which town? possibly Watertown, WI? we never found out) Her stories of her childhood were populated by dangerous late-night walks home, "tramps", "darkies", and various unsavory characters that God and the Angels protected her from.

All her life, Miss Taras lived with her two sisters, until they died. She never married - teaching, the church, and her sisters were her entire life.

I remember one night when we were in high school (our grade school class stayed together and played together through the Lutheran Youth Group). I noticed that the light was still on in the 2nd grade class room. I ventured up there, to see what was going on. Miss Taras was in there, working away at re-organizing a cabinet in the back of the classroom. After I accounted for myself, very respectable after all those years, I noticed that she was crying. I asked if there was anything I could help her with, noticing boxes on the top shelf of the cabinet. She said that she was trying to get a box down, but the chair kept sliding. I told her to hold on, I was the right man for the job! Got the box down, and we talked; she asked me if I might be interested in working for the church library, which she oversaw. I loved the church library, with all those old concordances, Horatio Alger stories, and German books. And, so I became an assistant church librarian, one or two nights a week.

As the years went by, I went off to college, Miss Taras got closer to retirement age. There were factional disputes about a Synod reorganization at the time, and the church was never quite the same - a faction detached itself and started a new congregation. Many of the people I knew went to the new church, and, in the whole mess, it came time for Miss Taras to retire.

I remember the "retirement party" Pastor Kay had for her. After a Sunday morning service, as some of the congregation was already leaving, he announced that Miss Taras was retiring, blah blah blah, and would she please come forward at this time to receive a token of our appreciation. She walked up, slowly. Years of working on her feet had made it difficult for her to get around. She received her PLAQUE, and turned to the congregation, and stood in the aisle. Pastor Kay didn't even offer her a damn microphone. Her closing remarks I could barely hear, delivered in the soft low voice that I remembered from the classroom, but people jostling out the door made it inaudible. Not even a sheet cake in the school basement. Good bye, Miss Taras. Thanks for all your faithful service.

More years passed. I came home for a weekend from college. My mother told me that Miss Taras was in Beverly Terrace, a skilled-care center, recovering from a broken bone. I talked my friend Norman, who was also in her second-grade class, into going with me. Miss Taras was delighted to have two visitors from the past who thought of her. We stayed for hours. Here is part of Norm's account of the visit:

"She told us a bit about growing up in a strict home, her dad, explaining WHY she'd been so strict. It's all so Twilight Zone. But I remember losing all my resentment that day, and feeling sorry for a woman who had lived her whole life in service to the church....and children most of all. The day was a gift. There was more to the woman than a seemingly bitter child hater. And who also knew that we had been wrong about her. But as 7 year olds we never got the facts."

One thing Miss Taras said, as best as Norman and I can construct the exact wording:

"...looking back, I've only got one regret that,

I think I could have been a little less strict with my students"

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Miss Taras Part One - The Brown Uncle

2011-08-26T13:34:00.000-05:00

part one of two parts

Jesus Savior wash away

All that has been wrong today

Help me every day to be

Good and gentle, more like Thee

At the end of each day of Miss Schoenicke's first grade, we would "put the day to bed" with a song and a prayer. It would give me a peaceful feeling, in the cool green tree-filtered afternoon classroom sunlight, imagining that we could start over tomorrow, with a clean slate. And that glorious first year at grade school came to a close with a play we wrote and staged, presented to the entire student body, in which we all let our talents and imaginations soar. So, the following September, we all returned to school full of renewed anticipation for the joyful work of education to continue.

Within minutes of our arrival at the second-grade room, we each realized that things were going to be drastically different from now on. The harsh eastern sunlight blazed through the glass block and the whole room was dazzlingly brilliant with the new reality. And there were now many more of us. Our A through M first-grade class had been merged with Mrs. Otto's N through Z first grade class - there was only one way through second grade, and there were now thirty-six of us in the merged class. Before long, we got acquainted with those in the last half of the alphabet, because there is security in numbers. And we needed lots of security, for we were in the second-grade class of the legendary Miss Taras.

Miss Taras was slight and tall, fast, and strong. Miss Taras had an unusually low speaking voice, about the same pitch and timbre as a large dog's low bark, And an amazing range of volume - you didn't want to hear that voice yelling at you. When she explained something, she'd sometimes end a sentence with a drawn-out "Yes?" accompanied by a mirthless grin that was terrifying. Sometimes when excited, she would speak so fast, that you didn't wholly understand what it was that she had said, but you just knew that you'd better be nodding when she said "Yes?" with that grin ...

The chalkboard on the side of the classroom was reserved for the names. In chalk squares would be various headings, and under the headings were the penances. It was never good to have your name on that board. If you didn't complete an assignment on time, your name went up there, and then there were the various punishment writing assignments.. "I should obey." - 100 times was the most common. Other writing requirements for other circumstances, all with that persistent mind-numbing repetition, If your name was on the board, the work had to be done, or you had to stay after school to finish it. Only when your name was erased from the board could we "wash away all that has been wrong today".

Turns out, however, there was more to obedience than writing "I should obey" 100 times on sheet after sheet of blue-lined yellow newsprint.

As we descended into the routine of the new regime, we discovered that relentless discipline was now the new norm. Miss Taras had no favorites, and the offenses she singled out followed no discernible pattern - best just to tow the line, look straight ahead, and keep a low profile. There was no telling what would set her off. Inattention, whispering in class, gum, distractions - it didn't take much for that low growl to become a thundering bark. You never knew who would get scolded next. Once, she mentioned casually that if someone was really disobedient,.the "Brown Uncle would come out, and we wouldn't want that - Yes?" (again the heart-stopping ice-in-your veins bleak grin). Thoughts were racing. Who was the Brown Uncle? How did he know when to come out?

You always remember the first time. One brilliant morning, Miss Taras was demonstrating an arithmetic problem on the blackboard. It had been a relatively un-turbulent morning, only a few new names on the board. Suddenly, she stopped in mid-sentence. Without another word, she walked very fast over to her desk, and opened the lower drawer. A cellophane crackle from things in the drawer, and then - a thin brown leather belt. Holding it doubled over above her shoulder, she moved very quickly to the first row of desks. The room sat in stunned silence - 36 of us, and not a sound. Unable to move, our hearts stopped in the moment, we watched. She grabbed Ron Kopp (not his name) by the arm, and pulled him to his feet. Punctuating - each - word with a blow to his backside, she said, in words I'll remember forever "Ron - Don't - Do - Silly - Things!" Those five, and Ron was slammed back down into his seat. In the ensuing silence, the Brown Uncle was returned to the drawer. What went on for the rest of the morning, or for the entire day, for that matter, I do not and can not remember. (My hands are trembling as I write this - didn't realize how potent a memory can be.)

We were clenched in a state of outright terror for the rest of the school year. But she had hit us with her best shot, and we weren't beaten down, not altogether. Our main objective, as a class, was to keep from setting her off. As the year wore on, though, hardly any of us eluded her deadly and unpredictable aim. There was no schadenfreude, no gleeful delight at the discipline of another student. None of that. We were all together in this, and when the Brown Uncle came down on one of us, we all felt it. There were various escapes, contrived illnesses, and some real ones attributable to the tension of the rigid discipline, reticence at home, but, for the most part, the ordeal made us stronger, brought us closer to one another, and made us more appreciative of subsequent teachers. One of our cosmic rewards was the sixth grade, a particularly harmonious year, all of us with Mr. Gottschalk (another story another time), that showed us how close we really were to one another, sharing joy and growing up together.

I don't recall us ever speaking to one another about discipline outside of the classroom, or at home. Perhaps it was different for other students, but for me, what happened in the classroom stayed in the classroom. Mainly, because repercussions from parents would have only made it worse. Things were different in those days.

But, lately, through the miracle of social networking, some of us have been getting together and sharing our experiences, those vivid memories of St. John's Grade School. A hug for all my old friends. Love You all.

part one of two parts - part 2 scheduled for tomorrow

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Cabinets Without Words

2011-08-24T09:21:00.001-05:00

A week and a day ago, my wife and I went to Schaumburg, Illinois, although the thrill of traveling has by now somewhat subsided. The toll roads took their toll, and we saw more traffic barrels than we could ever have imagined. We came back with an entire mini-van full of cabinet kits, which, we hoped would be assembled into a cash-wrap counter for Joyce's store.

As I unpacked the 64 packages of materials, (yes i counted), I noticed that, although I had hundreds of pages of instructions, among the hundreds of pages there were only about eight words. The rest was all pictures - complex pictures that required long periods of contemplation and meditation before understanding would dawn.

Here to help me was my little Scandinavian assistant - a little white Ikea guy with lots of willingness, but, sadly, no hands. First he regaled us with "If I Had a Hammer" and the second verse was "If I had Two Screwdrivers", but, while he was cheerful, he was unable to lend a hand, because he had none. He was not that much help at figuring out what was going on with the assembly..

When he started pitching in, that's when things started to go wrong. He broke the corner of the box, and he felt bad about that, but poor fellow had only those flippers, and couldn't get much of a grip. I told him not to worry about it, but, on the other hand, not to touch another goddam thing.

He was sad to have disappointed me, and picked up his accordion to play a sad little song from the old country about the enigmatic injustices and inequities between willingness and abilities. Of course this left me a mournful feeling for having been so hard on the little fellow. And I had all the assembly to do myself.

He encouraged me wherever he could, and admired it whenever I got two or three pieces to fit together. That sort of cheered him up.-

But then he got on the phone, and well, that's kind of the last I saw of him. He must have been recalled by the factory.

Well, the next thing you know, the zombies came, either out of the boxes, or little Flipper left the door open and they walked in. One of them had only one leg

They seemed to want to work, and they were very strong. However, I don't think their vision was that great - well, what do you expect of zombies, anyway? It was like watching an Air Screwdriver competition, turning fasteners that only they could see. Aren't zombies really dead or something awful like that? I left the windows open.

I found that if I led them to the work, they would keep at it until the job was done. Required a lot of supervision, but I managed to harness most of the Zombie Power available to me.

But, they were kind of clumsy on their own, and lots of things got broken. One of them broke off a cabinet leg, and almost dropped the cabinet on someone's finger.

As the job was almost done, some of the zombies got into the refrigerator, and drank all my beer. That's when they started grunting around, ape-like, lurching into things. They picked up the cabinets and started spinning them around in the air... Drunken zombies can be very strong, and utmost caution must be employed around them.

Finally, I put my foot down. I got out a can of Zombie-B-Gon, and brandishing a menacing white spritz, I chased them all out, so I could finish the job myself.

So, now we have a huge faux wood homemade complex of cabinetry with drawers, doors, shelves, and countertops. This is a deluxe setup, with door dampers, drawer dampers, and a kick-board around the base. A black onyx top and some beautiful brushed aluminum handles finish it off.

The Missus approves, and that's all that matters to me. That's me in the red shirt.

Yup, I love her.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Stop the Vacation - I Need Some Rest!

2011-08-20T00:04:00.001-05:00

We had been looking for a Cash Wrap for Joyce's store. A year ago I didn't even know what a Cash Wrap was, but in the world of store fixtures, it's a simple two-level checkout counter, with a little work table on the clerk's side, and a higher level on the customer side. The Cash Wrap is very hard to come by as a used fixture - the ones available are very beat-up or very expensive.

So, we decided - how hard could it be? Joyce got a few estimates from contractors, who wanted thousands of dollars, many of these dollars in advance to build us one. Well, how hard it could be?

This week I've been off of work all week from the day job, just a relaxing vacation in Milwaukee, weekend was kinda busy with a simultaneous musical engagement and class reunion, but the rest of the week was gloriously free!. But, within hours of my arrival on Friday night, Joyce had a brilliant idea - "Let's get some components from Ikea, and make our own Cash Wrap". So, first thing Monday morning the three of us headed off to Schaumburg, Illinois. The three of us - me, Joyce, and the GPS. Joyce and the GPS lady argued most of the way there, and I was ready to turn around and come back home, but by then I'd already paid my first tollbooth, so I decided to stick it out. Recalculating...

The short version - we found the components and returned after dark with sore feet, and exactly 63 packages of parts. Count 'em!

I spent every day on the floor assembling, and trying to decipher the various manuals, which are written in a remote dialect of Idiot. There are hardly any words in the manuals, only pictures. In our home-made assembly are two base cabinets, two wall cabinets modified into base cabinets, leg assemblies, drawer assemblies, door and hinge assemblies, and two counter-top slabs.

Our grand project has over 40 hours in it already, not counting the night I spent helping the Chinese move their freezer, but the materials cost us less than a third of our lowest contractor estimate.

So, now it's late Friday night, my fingers are full of tiny infected micro-slivers from forming and drilling 3rd-world particle board, my vacation is gone, and I'm exhausted. But almost done. I think it will look grand..

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Woolworth's

2011-08-18T22:15:00.001-05:00

Another Summer Rerun
Originally posted January, 2010
under the title "5 & Dime Beginnings"

One of my first jobs in high school was as a stock-boy in Woolworths. At $1.40 per hour, I knew that I had made the right choice quitting the $1.10/hour hamburger place. I'm still haunted by this delightful nostalgic dream-world - i can still hear the creaky floors, and smell the intoxicating combination of lunch counter, candy counter, and pet department.

4th and Main, Five and Dime in Watertown, Wisconsin, Fronted by the canonical curved red corner background with gold letters and diamonds. The front of the store had a red and white striped canvas awning, The manager cranked it down in the morning, and I cranked it back up in the evening. But that was just one of my duties....

The F.W. Woolworth 5 and 10 cent store had departments competing with every other store on Main Street. We had hardware, housewares, men's and women's clothing, fabrics, paint, pets, candy, and toys. The Woolworth's Experience while Evie was cutting your window shades to custom lengths, Esther could tint you a gallon of paint to just the right shade, and Betty could notarize your documents, while you relax at Merla's lunch counter for an incomparable home-cooked meal. Then wander over to Angie's candy counter for a handful of those Brach's maple nut goodies that look like mushroom caps. Get the latest Simplicity patterns in Lorraine's department up in front, and then go to Gertie's department to get the fabric to implement the pattern. There were greeting cards, phonograph records, books, parakeets, cacti - simply everything you'll ever need was right there.

But I was a dweller in Woolworth's underside. The entire basement was a dark maze of rough wood shelving, arranged in the same layout as the upstairs, with many mysterious side passages. Items entered the Woolworths System through a door which opened up in the sidewalk. Cartons slid down a metal chute into the basement. If the cartons jammed up on the way down, Roger the Baptist was sure to mention it to me as soon as I arrived. Roger never wanted to get dirty. He would check the merchandise in, and stock it on the shelves in the basement. The ladies picked their restock orders off of these shelves, and laid them in the aisle in cardboard trays called "X-90 boxes" (i hope i don't get in trouble for revealing these infrastructure secrets). I brought the X-90 boxes up the creaky wooden stairs, each to its proper department, and the ladies would price and restock the items. Nearly everything upstairs had its counterpart downstairs in backup stock. One thing you never heard at Woolworth's : "If you don't see any there, we don't have any."

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Chinese Night Watch

2011-08-17T11:52:00.000-05:00

Last night about 11 pm I was making the final rounds, all the locks, security cams, etc,, It had been a busy day, even though I was on vacation from the day job. We got a cash register counter for Joyce's store, ,and some assembly was required. There were 59 packages of parts. So after a day of assembly, one hopes that I could get to bed on time. But, of course, something was definitely going on, just when ya need it. A moving van was parked in the street, and the sidewalk was full of . . . .full of . . . But before I could comprehend the entire picture, I heard Katie's voice "Gary come help with the freezer!"

Oh, no. The entire sidewalk was full of restaurant booths, cushions, chairs, cardboard packing material, and for some reason, a new mattress set. And, on the back of the truck was a huge, white commercial freezer. There were about 8 people milling around measuring doorways and yelling to each other in Chinese. The van driver was waiting impatiently with his clip board, for someone to sign for the delivery.

Katie is the boss of the Chinese restaurant in our shopping center, and one of the few people there who knows English. But she has a certain authority in the way she uses English. When she tells me to do something, I tend to do it without question.

The freezer on the end of the truck is 8 feet long, 39 inches deep, and 6 feet high. It weighs about 400 lbs. So, I pitched in, since the people inside the truck were already pushing it off the edge. It was frightening, to be supporting so much weight, and not knowing whether the Chinese guy was saying "put 'er down" or "she's gonna explode, everybody run!" . Well, we got it down on the sidewalk, and started walking in the door with it. We put it down, because it wouldn't make the bend between the inner and outer door. Although the freezer was inside the building at this point, it completely blocked the entrance, and Katie's husband was trapped behind the freezer in the foyer. We decided to move it again, because Katie loves her husband, and didn't want to leave him there. Besides, how would the customers get in?

A contrivance made of plywood, wet towels, and a small-wheeled food cart appeared. We balanced the freezer atop the improvised moving cart, and wheeled it around to the back of the building. Luckily, the neighbors were still up, and I could speak English, so we took it up their stairs, through their garden gate, and up to the back entrance to the kitchen. In the kitchen, the entourage was met by an elderly Chinese gentlemen - a very territorial cook, who started screaming orders to rearrange his kitchen so that the parade could be accommodated.

We brought the freezer into the preparation room, and got it finally up against its wall. The new booths would not fit through the front door, and would probably need to be disassembled.

By morning, all the booths, cardboard, and those mysterious mattresses had all disappeared.

Since Jacky didn't want me to take her picture unless I paid her, I told her there was no film in the camera anyway... Well, true enough....it's digital.

One O'Clock and All is Well!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Year Book

2011-08-12T10:42:00.002-05:00

Through an outrageous schedule conflict, I'm scheduled for a music performance engagement that begins at the exact same time that my 40-year high school class reunion starts. The reunion is being held at the old Riverside Park within an annual River Festival from 5-11 pm. I'm going to the festival in the afternoon, in hopes of maybe running into some old classmates, but unfortunately, I have to leave before the announced time of the reunion. I'm sorry.

I haven't been to a high school class reunion since Year Five, so missing the high school reunion is not unusual for me. But lately, I've been thinking a lot about the ones I went to grade school with, so long ago. It was a parochial Lutheran grade school in Watertown, Wisconsin and there were 35 or so of us who were together for 8 years before high school. We were always a sort of separate "secret society" contained within the high school class, and I believe it kept us true to ourselves. Lately, the miracle of social networking has brought many of us back into contact with one another.

Our grade school year books were usually issued after the school year ended, so we never got a chance to write in each other's books.

Year Book - 1966
so many more, apologies for all the omissions

When I play back those grade school days in my head, the sounds I hear are those of the playground - all those rhythmic chants - jump rope verses, singing on the bus for class trips, to cheerleader cheers. And yours is the voice I hear, leading them.

Our class Socrates. You had a way of phrasing the most profound questions in the simplest of words which baffled all the teachers

When I think of you, I remember that soft-spoken unconditional kindness that you had for everyone.

You kept us laughing all the time. An irrepressible sense of humor that no cheerless teacher could contain.

The master of schoolyard trades. The first to own a BIC 19 cent pen. I heard that you had become a successful Madison businessman. Who deserves it more?

Always cheerful, an unsinkable personality. Thanks for the times you cheered me up without even realizing it

Our mothers were old classmates, so we were friends even before there was grade school. You came to our family funerals, and it meant a lot to me.

And you! Ach du lieber! Soul-mates to this day!

Sincerely,

Max

2011-08-10T11:30:00.001-05:00

summer rerun - originally posted in 2010
The Man in the Moon as He Sails the Sky

Max Wincell was kind of scary. I was in 3rd grade, and Max was now in his second year of 3rd grade. Previous encounters with Max had involved Max hitting me. Once we had met him in a park downtown, my sister and I, and he had hit us both. But now, I was almost home, safe on my block, when Max called me by name. How had he remembered?? I was paralyzed by fright when Max ran up to me.

"Hey, I just moved in over on Davis Street" (2 blocks away) "Aren't you that kid who plays piano?"

-- gulp --- Oh, no! my short life flashed in front of me, in a nightmare vision of a future filled with daily poundings. But this was different. He was new to the neighborhood, and now, things had changed. Now, I was now one of "his people". The incidents of the past had been forgotten, as if they had never happened. I certainly wasn't going to remind Max of those.

We played together, hung around together, and then he did a shocking thing. He politely introduced himself to my mother. Max wasn't the sort of person you mentioned to your parents. He was more of the sort you snuck out to hang around with when you were being rebellious. My mother was bowled over by the hospitality, and if Max were around on Saturday, she'd invite him to stay for lunch. He certainly knew how to play the "nice boy" when necessary.

Max, it turned out, didn't have much of a home life. He'd always had to seek his friends one by one, which was hard when his father kept moving from place to place. Max had no mother that he spoke of, and his father was not home much. His house was a cheap wooden pre-fab, and his father's current live-in girlfriend (Max called her "the housekeeper") didn't want us hanging around the house.

Max was smart, although he didn't have very good grades. He never did homework, because he wasn't welcome at home, but he remembered everything we learned in class. He was especially fond of a song Miss Schlueter had taught us in music class. We'd sing it as we roamed the streets after dark, looking for trouble.

"Oh the Man in the MoonAs he sails the sky
is a very remarkable skip-per

But he made a mistake
by attempting to take
a drink of milk from the Dip-per!
a drink of milk from the Dipper.

He dipped it into the Milky Way
and slowly and carefully filled it
but the Big Bear growled
and the Little Bear howled
and frightened him so that he spilled it
and frightened him so that he spilled it.

I think of these nights when summer's gone, and the air is crisp with fall, and a faint smell of leaves burning somewhere. I think of when Max showed me how to howl at the moon.

Thanks for listening and contributing. On Twitter, they call me @dimbulb52.

09-06-01

2011-08-09T11:06:00.000-05:00

It was almost time to leave and catch the plane. Joyce's brother was coming to drop us off at the airport. After I had gotten dressed, I went back down to the theater to work for a few more minutes while I waited. The stage set was built from painted hollow-core doors, styro blocks, and whatever our "acquisition manager" Bob Kohl found "curbside". The Renaissance Faire production had just ended, and from the ruins of the Renaissance would rise the Haunted House set. As soon as we returned from this trip, we'd be holding auditions, and rehearsals would follow shortly thereafter, for opening in mid-October.
In our haunted house, the audience sat in the center of the room, and all around them, aside, behind, and in their face - our cast of 15 highly-trained professionals launched an intense 45-minute barrage of twenty to twenty-five tightly produced multi-media vignettes guaranteed to shock and horrify. This format was so different from other "haunted house" exhibitions in the area, that it was successful for many years. The spectacles had sleazy names such as "Fortress of Fear" and "Temple of Terror" and we scared the bejeepers out of the audience. There were vampire stories, burials gone awry, witch-burning, psychics, the undead, terrible accidents, psychotic evangels, each vision lasting less than a minute, followed by a nightmare even more horrible than the last.

Oh, and did I mention, the Haunted House script had not yet been written? We were about to embark on the annual Voyage of Creation. This formula had actually worked for us three years running. A flight to Las Vegas could be purchased for nearly nothing in those days, on Midwest Express, and a five-night hotel stay would bring our total bill to almost five hundred dollars for the two of us. And, we would usually win that amount back in the casinos, because we know when to fold 'em. . . .
Las Vegas is where we wrote. With just a slight twist, the excesses and sins of Vegas furnish a virtual dungeon full of glittery nightmares and desperate nightmare people who practically jumped onto our pages. For example, there's that guy standing in front of the Four Queens Casino trying to lure you in with a free spin on his glittering overly-large video poker machine. Cast him as a carnival barker presiding over an unspeakable sideshow of horribly deformed freaks! We'd study him, his sleazy mannerisms, his way of speaking, and - - viola! One down and twenty-some vignettes to go...

Every morning we'd sleep as long as we wanted, and then starting over coffee in the room, we'd write in our notebooks until about 4 in the afternoon, have a luscious buffet meal, and then go out to play, and gather material for the next day's writing. We'd always return to Milwaukee with a show all ready to type up on the old 486 (no laptop in those old days), and sometimes, we'd even have some cash to spare. Sometimes, we'd even have a few leftover vignettes for the following year!

So - time to go! I climbed down my ladder, and we loaded the suitcases into the car, and got on the plane, a late-afternoon flight. After we'd been aloft for awhile, I noticed something jabbing at me from my pocket. Horrified at what I found there, I whispered to Joyce my predicament. Should I be up-front and tell them? I'd already gotten through security with it, and would probably not be checked again. We decided to say nothing. In my front suitcoat pocket was one of my foremost stagecraft tools - one of those plastic disposable utility knives. We returned to Milwaukee on September 6, 2001. Five days later, this tool would be referred to forevermore as a box cutter. And the following year, we had a box-cutter vignette in Merciless Mansion.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Angel of Death

2011-08-04T13:37:00.000-05:00

I went to a funeral this morning. It was a joyous occasion.

I worked at Holy Name as an organist for over 10 years, in the 1990s. At that time, the services were conducted in Polish and English, with traditional early-20th century Polish hymns and liturgy. The Polish music is different from the traditional American church fare - a collection of music from the heart of the land that gave us Chopin. But, when the Polish heritage of the neighborhood gave way to the Hispanic tradition, the church lost most of its membership, gained a new membership, and the music changed. The regular services are now conducted in Spanish, with music provided by electric guitars, rhythm boxes, a keyboard, and such, and an organist is no longer required. That was three years ago.

Celeste (not her name) had been one of the old members, and the old liturgy and traditional Polish instrumentation was needed. So, the family called me (I took a morning off from the day-job) and they called Angelo, the tenor (he's between gigs this week). I picked up Angelo on the way so he wouldn't have to stand waiting for the bus. He'd just injured his leg in a shopping accident, and we wanted to sound our best.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a five-foot Christmas wreath hanging from the organ pipes in the loft, an eerie touch for the stifling 90-degree summer temperature up there. My old church organ was buried under an army blanket amid the rock-band-like setup. I rolled up the cover, and sat down and fired it up. The tones sounded a little weak and squeaky at first, but by the second hymn, my faithful old instrument had found its old sweet sounds again. The preset switches were just as I had left them four years ago. The organ seemed happy to have me back again.

There is always some joy in music, even for a sad occasion such as a funeral. The element of joy lends poignancy to the sorrow, and offers comfort. It was so good to be working with Angelo again, and Father was just as unpredictable as ever in following the script of the liturgy. So we had fun, Angelo and I trying to find out where our cues were. The congregation sang some Polish standards - Serdecna Matko, and In Thy Protection; Angelo sang The Holy City - a beautiful and uplifting piece from about 1900, and we did Schubert's Ave Maria, the Lord's Prayer and at the last minute, during the confession, we finally located the score for How Great Thou Art one of Father's on-the-fly requests from the altar. And a beautifully comforting cradle song - Guardian Angels, written in the 1920s by Harpo Marx, of all people.

The family thanked us afterwards - the music had done its healing work. So we all shook hands and went our ways, until the next time the Old Angel of Death flaps his wings over Milwaukee. . .

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

God's Wild Youth - Shoot the Piano Player!

2011-08-02T09:57:00.000-05:00

more summer re-runs!

originally posted in November 2009 under the title:

Bach No More - God's I-Pod Part 2

St. John's Evangelical Lutheran Grade School - I was the little fat kid who played the hymn accompaniments on the piano for the class to sing. Most of the elementary teachers couldn't play piano worth a dam, one finger with lots of mistakes was typical - they were all too glad to have me in their class. I could sight-read those suckers. For morning devotions, and right after lunch, I'd have to pick out a hymn - there were 660 of them in the Lutheran Hymnal to choose from. I'd write it on the chalk board, and walk over to the piano to lead the hymn.

In a past post, I've told you about the "Bringing In the Sheaves" incident - how Pastor Kay took me in his office and told me that God didn't like that sort of thing - He preferred the hymns in the Lutheran book, and things written by Bach and Buxtehude. I kind of liked the strong march tempo for a recessional - getting everyone out of the church as fast and efficiently as possible. But Pastor Kay assured me that any organist who liked his position would play something that God liked.

But then as we got into High School in those '60s, God had a change of heart. For awhile, I continued to lead the hymns for the teenage Youth League gatherings, until one fateful day. Somehow, in a way I to this day do not understand, God descends to the level of a stoned hippie. The Synod required the pastors to attend retreats focusing on How To Reach Our Youth - as if The Youth were some foreign species. Prayers have to be crude, halting, self-indulgent. The Service, re-done for Youth, is stripped of all elements of tradition, the chants, responses, hymns -- all scrapped. Rows of chairs? Too straight for God. Let's arrange them in a circle - now we've got God surrounded! Or, let's just dispense with chairs altogether- what the hell, let's sit on the floor. And of course, of the 660 hymns we had all practiced all our lives - none of them is appropriate for Youth Worship.

And, the music! Oy, how God has changed his mind about His musical tastes. Now music must only have two chords, and one of them has to be E minor. Acceptable instrumentation is a badly-played guitar -- that open-string E minor is still whanging in the back of my head whenever I think of Youth Music. No more joy. No more praising God in a major key with an ever-changing palette of chords and intricate harmonies. It's all Kum Ba Ya from here on out. Now we're singing Negro Spirituals, calling on the Lord as we did back in the days when we worked in the cotton fields. (ironically, at the same time, blacks had moved on to Gospel music based on the more traditional hymn forms.)

Well, in the end, I was Kum Ba Ya'd out of a piano playing job. After many discussions with the minister, and failed attempts to indoctrinate me, I was left as an incurable curmudgeon at the age of 17, and I remain one to this day.

Everybody's Whining About the Weather - I'm DOING Something About It!

2011-07-20T17:52:00.000-05:00

Summer Rerun - Excelsior's Greatest Hits

Soon I'll put up a list of what I've been doing, lately - enough to start my own Home Improvement Channel. But for now . . . a video of one of my favorite things of 2011, filmed on and behind our block.

Here's the coolest video you'll see all day. Two Minutes - and Kate Smith, too!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

South Shore Frolics - a Vicious Tradition

2011-07-15T13:37:00.002-05:00

The Bay View South Shore Frolics is a traditional celebration dating back to the smoky, smelly cave people who used to dwell among the cliffs of the South Shore of Lake Michigan. Nowadays the Frolickers, when not frolicking lakeside, can be spotted on the freeway in their over-sized pickup trucks, and SUVs without turn signals, elbowing smaller vehicles around, and listening exclusively and loudly to Hate-and-Run AM Radio. They are proud of what they are not, for that's really all they are, to paraphrase Don McLean. Think of the word "Frolic" and then consider the appellation as applied to South Shore "frolickers". It is a frightening juxtaposition of opposites. The ox-y meets the moron.

The three-day Frolic festival is free, that is, you don't have to pay to get in, but not "free" in the same sense as "land of the free". One Frolic evening, when I was still new to the area, I went down to the lakeside, and was about to sit down to enjoy a concert by the Milwaukee Policemans' Band, taking a seat in the back row, on one of the backless wooden benches set up in front of the stage. A fat, slobbering sow-like woman, with the down-turned mouth of a shark, approached me, and barked "you can't sit here". Noting that there were no signs or barricades, I asked, "Are the seats reserved?". "NOT FOR YOU!" she practically screamed, wiping the drool from the corners of her shark mouth with the back of her fat, red hand. Out of courtesy, I got up, and out of beligerence, I remained standing directly behind the seat, which remained empty, for about 20 minutes, while she glared at me with her angry red sow-eyes. When the band took a break, I wandered elsewhere, to see what else the Frolic Experience had to offer for free. Rally 'round the flag, boys!

They have a parade. It's not like a 4th of July parade. The 4th of July Parade is full of joy and community organizations, local bands, and patriotic sentiment. The Frolics Parade is run by the Bay View Lions, a closely guarded clique of, well -- Lions. Community organizations who want to be in the parade must pay an entry fee to the Lions. And yet, some of those in the parade are on the payroll. Where is the fine line drawn between entertainment and community service? Only the Lions know. The Frolics parade leaves the street of the parade route littered with wrappers, bottles, fliers, melted Popsicle, and baby diapers. The people living on the parade route are free to enjoy the parade for days afterwards.

There is a hillside overlooking the South Shore Beach. It is on this incline that the Frolickers set up their bed-blankets, stake out their own little domains of public turf, and experience on Saturday -- and again on Sunday, the Atomic Fireworks. It's a traditional fireworks display, only deployed much lower than usual from the beach. The explosions seem closer, blindingly and deafeningly closer than a traditional fireworks display, the closeness emphasized by the audience's elevation on the slope of the hill. From the stage, a master of ceremonies "narrates" the Atomic Fireworks, commenting on each rocket's red glare, and encouraging the audience to "Put Your Hands Together" for the benefit of the show's sponsors.

After three days of beer, a parade, and two sessions of Atomic Fire Works, it's not as surprising that some South Sider, eyes bleary with frolic, would commit this vicious attack on his cassette collection. Purging it of the music Unfit to Frolic By. What were his criteria? Seen in the holy light of the Frolic Fires, some things must be sacrificed, left shattered in the street for the early light of dawn to discover.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

The Bars of Bay View

2011-07-14T10:39:00.000-05:00

I know how these things work. Just check the Greek Mythology, under "Hydra". As soon as you chop off one head, two grow up in its place. So, I say it rather softly: "The ironwork has been painted".

The silken and polyester breath of summer has returned to the iron planters.

No accidental sidewalk painting. No falling off the ladder. Perfect weather.

And it's done!

Just as gangs of reckless youthful bikers come roaring into the neighborhood for the Frolics. Ready to rumble.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Vacation Bible School

2011-07-13T11:09:00.000-05:00

Summer Rerun Special - Originally posted on July 18, 2009 under the title "God's I-Pod"

Long ago, the week after I graduated from 8th grade, I got a call from Mr. Richter. the principal of the grade school. Would I like to serve as accompanist for opening services at Vacation Bible School? Up until then, I had always, since 4th grade, been the official class accompanist. St. John's was a parochial school - they were forever having little devotions and prayer intervals at various times of the day - that's why St. John's students were somewhat behind in science and math by the time we got to high school. Each classroom had a piano, and I worked for free, so it was a pretty handy deal for them, since most of the teachers didn't have much musical background.

I never turned down a job, and this two-week session would accommodate my lawn-mowing hours. So, I met with Mr. Richter to learn the details. He was leaving on vacation the same week that Vacation Bible School opened, so I'd be on my own, answering directly to Pastor Kay. And the other thing, he mentioned in passing - since the church didn't have a piano, I'd have to learn to play the church organ. I was momentarily paralyzed. The church organ! A huge pipe organ, about six times as big as a piano, with two huge banks of brass pipes, and an air pump in the basement about the size of a garbage truck. Mr. Richter told me the organ was an awful lot -- an awful lot like a piano. Just like a piano! Sure it was. How could it be like a piano -- cripes you even needed a key to start it! I wouldn't even have to learn the pedals at first, there were octave couplers to "fake it" from the keyboards. I had always admired Mr. Richter's organ playing -- he always got more out of the church organ than anyone else, so I trusted his word that I could learn to play the organ within the remaining week. Every day that week, I went over to the church and practiced, using the pointers Mr. Richter had given me. Overwhelming at first, but the organ had "preset" combinations, so very soon I was able to "dial up" the same sound combinations the congregation was used to.

The service selections were already pre-determined, but the prelude and recessional music selection was up to me. I came up with a whole list of favorites from Mr. Richter's books. There were some very old, leather-bound yellowing books of songs in German. And, my favorite, there was a book Mr. Richter used on occasion called "Great Hymns of the Faith" - hundreds of familiar hymns, and these were hymns that, although familiar to everyone, were not in the Lutheran Hymnal. I thought it would be good for variety if I used a lot of these. Emotional favorites, such as "The Old Rugged Cross", and "Ivory Palaces". And charismatic, peppy hymns for recessionals, which were sure to send the students marching out joyously and vigorously, such as "Shall We Gather at the River", and "Bringing in the Sheaves". So, when the time came, I was ready.

A little hesitancy at first, but by the end of my first service, I was feeling confident. It was the largest group I had ever led in hymns, so the phrase timing was a little different than in a classroom. And the recessionals filled the church with joy, and sent the students marching off to the classrooms, just as planned. After the second day's service, Pastor Kay called up to the organ loft that I should meet with him in his office after the service. Of course, since I was doing so well, he wanted to congratulate me.

On arrival in his office, Pastor Kay launched into a lecture about the Rich Musical Heritage of the Lutheran Church. He asked who had chosen the selections for my incidental music. Not wanting Mr. Richter to steal the credit when he got back from vacation, I proudly told Pastor Kay the truth - that I had chosen the numbers myself. He asked to see my itinerary -- I handed him my notebook. He read over the Coming Attractions, with an amused look. "Bringing in the Sheaves???" he hooted. "BRINGING IN THE SHEAVES!!!" Admiring my own genius, I explained how I saved the peppy ones for the recessionals, the better to march the students out quickly.

Back to the Rich Musical Heritage lecture, this time, though, his tone was darker, and laden with messages between the lines. I might want to consider -- in fact that anybody who wanted to keep working in this man's church would consider -- using selections taken from the Rich Musical Heritage of the Lutheran Church. How much it would please the Lord if we were to present the works of Bach, for instance, rather than some of the more "modern" selections which appealed shallowly to the emotions, and not to the true workings of the soul. What a shame if an organist at St. John's would disregard the Rich Musical Heritage of the Lutheran Church in favor of 'pop' music.

So, that was it. God didn't like, "Bringing in the Sheaves". And even if he did, he liked Bach better. I was somewhat surprised that God would not be tapping his almighty toes to "All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name", given the chance. After all, Bach was already dead, and God could have him play something for Him anytime He wanted.

The rest of the two-week session, though, I reached for the old leather-bound books on top of the organ. Although I couldn't read German at the time, I could tell by familiarity that some of the pieces were by Bach. And there were no further summonses to Pastor Kay's office, so I assumed that these dirges were what he and God wanted to hear. I'm sure if I could go back and find that old book again, the title on the leather-bound volume would translate to "God's Greatest Hits."

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

A Gloriously Gloomy Summer Day

2011-07-11T20:00:00.003-05:00

It was a gloriously gloomy summer day in 1967. Good news for me. Since it had rained that morning, that meant only one thing: no lawns to mow! I was willing, but nobody wanted their lawn mowed when it was wet. I had quite a few regular lawn jobs by then, and at two bucks a pop I was rolling in the dough.

The weather was stifling hot, and even though it was a cloudy day, you could break into a sweat just being outside. What to do? There was a whole range of choices. Too early to go to the public library to enjoy their polar water-cooled air conditioner unit. There was the cool inviting green-walled basement, but then I'd have my little brother hanging around, and Mom might think up a household chore that needed doing. Same with Grandma's basement - except at Grandma's chores were a certainty. And she'd invite me for lunch, which would involve a trip to the store, and doing dishes afterwards. She would have prospered in the age of slavery.

So I made the logical choice. I got on my 26" Sears two-wheeler, with the metal saddle baskets in the back, and headed for 2nd Street, to the A&P supermarket. I could walk around for hours in the A&P, enjoying air conditioning that was cold enough to keep produce fresh without refrigeration. Your whole body just exhaled when you walked in there. It felt especially good to walk in there sweat-soaked, more for your money, as it were.

But that day I was finally going to take the plunge and make a life-changing purchase. Enough of looking and window shopping. This time I was going to buy it. And A&P' had the best price. I had shopped this purchase around for weeks, and finally I was going to take the plunge. It had been on the shelf for over a month, and today was the day.

I picked it off the shelf, took one last thorough look at it, and decided, yes, it was worth the four-dollar price. I took it to the checkout, hoping the lady wouldn't question me about it. They can sometimes ask kids the most embarrassing questions. Especially in a small town where everybody knew my parents. Imagine the mortification: "Does your mother know you're buying this?" But the questions never came, this time. She just bagged it up, in a plain brown bag, and took my four sweaty dollars.

And it was mine. I pedaled home, and snuck it into my bedroom, and peeled off the cellophane. I took it to the corner table, and put it on. My monophonic copy of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, by the Beatles. I have that phonograph record to this day.

Thanks to Jude Kinnear for the inspiring first line:

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Ironwork

2011-07-09T14:27:00.000-05:00

What a horrendous week. It was the week that it rained inside the Chinese restaurant on the 4th of July. An air conditioner malfunction in which the rooftop unit bit off and swallowed about 4 ft of its own air return caused the flooding. Very hot week, so crawling up and down the ladder to get at the rooftop unit was rather hypnotic. Did I mention that it was hot?

During these stupefying times, I began to notice internet traffic, publicity about an upcoming Class Reunion. Although I've been re-union-able for 40 years, now, I have attended only one reunion, and decided not to go to another. I dunno. High school I believe is something better left behind. And once I make up my mind, that's it, stubborn old curmudgeon that I am. But then I heard from another and then another one of those left behind. I guess I liked everybody as individuals but hated a lot of the whole high-school experience as a whole.

This morning when I woke up, I had the idea in my head that it would be a perfect Saturday to tackle the rusting ironwork in front of the old Bank. The Bank houses our theater, our own apartment, and two other rental apartments. This little finger-ripping project has been on my list for over a year, now. There are fences and wrought iron window-grates over the entire front of the building, and it's been about 8 years since last I sanded and re-enameled them, so they're getting rusty, which discolors the concrete, and then you have another project on your hands, don't you?

But, why did I feel like I had to start this today? There are plenty of other, cleaner, easier projects on the old job list. And I have to go to a stupid wedding later this afternoon - mmm peas'n'carrots! . As I got about halfway through with sanding the rust off of the bars, it occurred to me - why this job, why now? It has to do with the class reunion. My brain is always doing devious things like this to me. Swedenborg Doctrine of Uses or some such process...

By re-finishing the bars of my cage, I am defining and clarifying my borders - the line that separates me and mine from everything else. As long as I have my own borders, achievements, and accomplishments clearly in mind, nothing bad or damaging can occur. Some of the friends I love and trust, mostly from my old parochial grade school class, will be there; some are traveling great distances to be there. I am looking forward to meeting in person people with whom I have recently become re-acquainted via social media. Our grade school class was always a supportive safety net through all the newness and uncertainty of high school.

And the poseurs, the elite clique who imagined that they rule and define and speak for the rest of us, showing us the proper way to think about things, perhaps they will attend as well -- who knows? And who cares?

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Remember Remembering?

2011-07-08T13:45:00.001-05:00

In the 1960s there was a strange trend. Artificial Good Old Days. There was a vaguely defined era of nostalgia created in the 1960s - a longing for a day that never existed. The time and place resembled Mayberry, USA approximately 1910 or so. People in this world did not work, and went strolling through the park, and had concerts in the gazebo, and everything was peaceful and good.

The start of it was the Beatles' creation Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band With all their military regalia (peace-time military, of course!) and their martial tempos, they asked such musical questions as "Will you still feed me when I'm Sixty-Four? " Well, Sir Paul at 64 looks pretty well-fed, so I guess that all worked out for him...

At the time (1968-or so) other bands jumped on the Band Wagon, and many became popular for the nostalgic tinge they added to their music (Mama Cass comes to mind.) And more "New Old-Fashioned" songs were created. Winchester Cathedral was one of those songs which enjoyed #1 on the charts. Trivia question: What was The New Vaudeville Band's second hit?

Every year at the end of our concert season, we have a show of summer-related songs. Sometimes I have to go it alone, but this year, I was lucky enough to have five people in the show. Here's a fun moment from that show, featuring Frederic Stein on the vocals. Vo Do De Yo Doh!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Imagination - Stephanie Kasper

2011-07-07T13:32:00.001-05:00

It's a rare pleasure to be with a song t the moment it's born. And Stephanie Kasper is one such prolific and talented Milwaukee songwriter. I've been privileged to be able to work with her on numerous occasions. Two of her compositions were featured this year on a new compilation. One is the title track -- Trying Very Hard Not to Hate You.

Here is one about the creative process itself - Imagination. Enjoy!

Every year at the end of our concert season, we have a show of summer-related songs. Sometimes I have to go it alone, but this year, I was lucky enough to have five people in the show. This week I will be featuring five short clips from this show.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

They're Still At It!

2011-07-06T13:22:00.001-05:00

I've known Norm since First Grade, and we've been enjoying music together almost that long. A week after this performance, Norm staged the Return of Elvis at a fund-raiser event in Madison.

Here, we're doing a Top 40 song from the 1890s - In the Evening By the Moonlight. Feel free to sing along!

Every year at the end of our concert season, we have a show of summer-related songs. Sometimes I have to go it alone, but this year, I was lucky enough to have five people in the show. Over the last few posts, I've been featuring some short clips from this show.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Those Beatles

2011-07-05T12:47:00.001-05:00

Part Two

Every year at the end of our concert season, we have a show of summer-related songs. Sometimes I have to go it alone, but this year, I was lucky enough to have five people in the show. Over the next few posts, I will be featuring five short clips from this show.

"That's nothing but a bunch of guys with long hair screaming 'yeah yeah yeah' - you call that music???" It was this sort of thing that I grew up with, and still to this day encounter.

The Beatles, as songwriters were lyrical, harmonious, and melodiously complex. As musicians, they were an innovative force - each new album they released defined a whole new musical trend, which was promptly adopted and imitated by other musicians.

And, here's what I hope is an insightful interpretation of the most ubiquitous of the "cacophonious noise" that we love so. Let me hear ya say "Yeah!"

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

From the Age of Bossa Nova

2011-07-04T12:46:00.000-05:00

Every year at the end of our concert season, we have a show of summer-related songs. Sometimes I have to go it alone, but this year, I was lucky enough to have five people in the show. Over the next few posts, I will be featuring five short clips from this show.

My wife, Joyce performed a bossa nova number from the 1950s by Luis Bonfa. "A Day in the Life of a Fool" which was one of the recurring themes in the movie "Black Orpheus" (1959). There was a Latin-American music fad in the late 50s, fueled by bongo groups, Harry Belafonte, and - often omitted from the historical accounts, my hero - Steve Allen.

Enjoy!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Fern

2011-06-29T20:00:00.000-05:00

I was kinda late this year in setting up the planters - well, with Global Warming and all, this is really the first week this year that the temperatures have stayed above the 40s for more than 24 hours in Wisconsin. So, I went to Stein's Garden Center and took advantage of the closeouts on bedding plants - got lots of petunias, marigolds, impatiens, dianthus, and snapdragons.

On my way to the checkout, I was caught off-guard. A rack of tiny Boston Ferns caught my attention with their beautiful green fronds. I had forgotten how affectionate the little critters could be. One of them practically begged me to take him home. I usually don't do impulse buying, so I was a little sheepish when I got it home, in its little plastic pot with fronds protruding from its protective sleeve. But my wife said "What a cute little t'ing!" So I knew I was on the right track. I could put him up in a planter over in the shopping court, where he'd get lots of light and fresh air. I put him at the top of the steps, to re-plant the following day.

Next morning, however, there were NO fronds protruding from the plastic sleeve - my little fern had been mowed down even with the pot. I asked Syd if he had seen anybody enjoying the fresh green salad-y flavor of my new fern. But Syd was busy inspecting the summer quilt-storage arrangements, and couldn't answer any security-related questions at that time.

But ferns are fast to heal, and very understanding about the "pruning". Mine was no exception. Within a week, all the missing fronds had filled in, and Fern is living happily ever after!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Sock it To Me

2011-06-27T10:45:00.002-05:00

Today's lesson is about thrift. Now we all know that the government lets us keep part of the money we earn, because we work so hard. But, that money can just slip away from us if we don't take care of it. Pictured below is a handy savings aid. It's a cute little folder you can get for free from your nearby bank. Supplies are limited, so be sure to get there before 1972. If you fill up this little cardboard folder (there are tiny half-moon slots inside, just the right size for a dime) you will have "squirreled away", in no time at all, Three Entire Dollars.

Just take this, along with your pass-book, down to your corner bank, and the teller will put this into your savings account for you. Just watch it grow! In no time at all, you will have fifty dollars, a hundred dollars, or more! The magic of compound interest will increase your money as you save, building a secure nest-egg for your future.

And that brings us to today's project. Now that we have more money than we ever dreamed of, keeping that money safe is of paramount importance. Let's compare different investment options.

Let's take $490.00 in cash, and deposit in our M&I Bank savings account.
For comparison, let's put the same amount in a sock, and toss it under the bed.

A year later, we pull out the sock, which has accumulated an unbelievable amount of dust - where does all that fur come from? Reach in, and pull out the money, what have we got? $490.00 - the money was not in the bank, and so it did not grow.

Now, let's go to M&I and empty out the savings account. Arrange it on the table, and count it. Isn't it amazing? After a year in an M&I Savings account, you now have --- $454.00. There is less money than there was a year ago because M&I has charged four times a $9.00 per quarter maintenance fee.

So, when it comes to saving your money, the clear choice is: The Sock!.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Bye Bye Blackbirds

2011-06-03T15:38:00.000-05:00

I always wondered why I heard the birds so clearly from the vacant unit in the back of our shopping court. Well, I kind of suspected why, but I just didn't have the time to take on another project. But yesterday, I was forced to face the problem. How could a bird be living above the ceiling and, apparently, thriving? They need food, water, and I suppose they'd like a little fresh air and sunshine once in awhile. (i get that way once or twice a year.) So, when they started pooping through the cold-air returns, that was above the radar, the Mrs. mentioned that the bird poop might have something to do with the cheeping. Next thing you know they would be hacking into the WiFi and texting Al Quaida birds living in the Axis of Evil countries.

So, I got the ladder and popped the ceiling tile. At the time, there was a Cheep-Fest going on up there. These were not very advanced birds up there. A bird on one end of the room would say "Cheep" and the bird on the other end would answer "Cheep" and the birds outside would chime in - you guessed it - "Cheep" again. That was the whole show -- "Cheep". I think I'd rather wait until it comes out on CD.

When I poked my head in above the ceiling, I found myself looking directly into the beady little eyes of a black bird with a yellow beak. She just stared at me, from not more than two feet away - no cheeping, just staring, as if she could put a stink-eye on whatever I had in mind. From the other end, a bird who hadn't gotten the word, said "Cheep", but this mama was busy, and didn't answer. Over on the other end, there was a wad of grass and sticks, and this was where the other "Cheep" came from. I left her tile open, in case old Yellow Beak decided to come out on her own.

At the other end, I saw that the grass and sticks had been tightly wedged between two iron beams. I got a waste-basket and began to haul down the collection. After about half a bushel of crap, a little brown bird came flapping and plopping down into the wastebasket. He was now very quiet too. Sooo,, Smart Guy, who you callin "Cheep" now? I took the wastebasket outside, and dumped it on the ground. The brown guy flew away. Seemed pretty mature to be living in a nest, but, I guess there are people too who still live in their mother's basement just because they can. All the while, the first bird was watching quietly from the other end. She would be a hard one to get out of there.

There were at least two bushels of material between those beams - sticks, grass, debris. One thing puzzled me - how could they get a two-foot twig in through such a little hole? The entryway - a gap between the masonry and the roof flashing, only about 2 inches diameter. I wasn't going to plug the opening before I knew that there were NO birds up there. As I cleaned up all the debris, swept up above the tiles, and the floor. I wondered how I would know for sure that they were all out. The next time I went up into the ceiling, I couldn't see the mama. I could feel her sharp little black eyes looking at me, but from where? I replaced all the tiles.

There are certain "cheeping times" in the morning when every bird seems to be out and about, and that's when I'm going to seal up the hole. Mama was NO help. She'll have to keep an eye on the "Rafters Wanted" section of Craig's List.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Goodbye, Old Girl

2011-05-30T10:57:00.003-05:00

Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend I was making space in the basement. An old rust-petrified Rollfast Bicycle - time to admit to yourself that Someday would never come.

I'd never suddenly become a walking Swiss-army knife of mechanical acuity, completely re-build the lowly machine into a restored American classic, and pedal my way to Adonis-hood, with women swarming all over my awesome body every time i stopped at an intersection. Maybe it won't happen. I put the pathetic bicycle out in the back alley, in two trips, and within 1/2 hour, the scrappers had snapped it up.

Then I faced a question that I'm sure every homeowner I'm sure has asked himself: What do I do with 75 hula hoops? Well, see above, it wasn't likely that I'd be doing the hula. So, noticing that Randy was open next door, I went over to Heavenly Kidzz, his emporium of children's resale. I made a win-win offer, and there was another precious cubic yard of space.

Sadly, back in the corner, crouching down hoping I wouldn't see her, but I did... You're next, Old Girl. A wringer washer from the 1940s. When I lived in a 10-room apartment ($110.00/mo) in Watertown, I had wheeled her up to the sink every week to do my wash. Fill with a hose, and wring and drain into the kitchen sink. It did the job, and it went well with the 1920s decor of the apartment.

Then, I moved to Milwaukee. She came with me, although my new place had a new-fangled automatic washer, with a dryer above. So, she went into the basement. But her moment of Glory was still to come. I began to write and produce plays.

My old Kenmore had a starring role in one of my favorite creations - "Lyle and Shirley at the Foot Farm".
Equipped with Christmas lights and a smoke generator, my Kenmore sharing the stage with Marian Ziemienski, one of the most talented Milwaukee actresses. Marian played a wise old women from the hills, and used the wringer washer to process her cherished recipes for elixer. Here, she demonstrates her craft to her granddaughter, played by Joyce Radtke. This was the Kenmore's finest hour.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you

Alana's Poster-Child

2011-05-06T15:41:00.000-05:00

This picture hangs on the wall of the studio where we hold our concerts. It is a blown-up newspaper clipping of a modeling series my wife Joyce was doing a few years back at Villa Terrace, a local millionaire-mansion turned museum/concert hall. At the time, she was working as a photo model for Boston Store and Marshall Fields, but I believe this particular photo was done by a reporter, as a story on Joyce rather than the clothes she was selling for her employers.

This year, she started her own clothing store, Alana Women's Apparel, in part of a shopping center that we have been creating in a rehab space. She was wondering if the photo, one of her career favorites, could be incorporated in abstract terms into her store logo.

She posed the question to Tom Hoffmann, a Bay View artist acquaintance from her fitness gym, and Tom came up with the following rendition, based on the photograph.

Also a sleek black-and-white version:

And so, another legend is born. I love you, Joyce.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Arithmetic

2011-04-28T09:21:00.002-05:00

Sometimes someone does something courageous and good for you and you don't realize what it is they've done until much later. And sometimes you don't even get the chance to thank them; sometimes it's too late. Sometimes it's over 40 years before you realize it at all....

Herbert Richter was one of my favorite grade-school teachers. He taught 8th grade at St. John's Elementary School, and he was the principal. After grade school, he initiated me into the mysteries of the St. John's Church Organ. And in 1966, he was our math teacher. The New Math had been taught us since the 6th grade. We all knew what subsets were, how to describe a Venn diagram, and other pre-high-school algebra skills, variables, and the like. Statistical skills and talents were developed that made us feel very smart and superior to our parents, because the ostentatious terminology sounded very learned. The parents were just adders and memorizers, not real mathemetical geniuses like ourselves.

But one day, Mr. Richter passed out what he called "the Webster". It was an old blue "retired" arithmetic text, either authored by someone named Webster, or published by Merriam-Webster; I've forgotten which. The Websters could not be taken out of the classroom - they were never to be taken home. Thinking back now, I believe that Mr. Richter went out on a limb to teach us arithmetic from the old books, and he was counting on us to "keep a low profile" about what we were studying. In all probability, he was going counter to the school board and the "progressive" things the faculty learned at teachers' conventions. Mr. Richter was taking a career risk to teach us from these books. .

And what were the arcane teachings contained in the Webster, that three years of New Math did not teach us? Mysteries, witchcraft and voodoo in the numbers! Converting fractions to percentages using long division. Compound interest. Rates and ratios, weight and measurement conversions and tolerances. Discounts, accounting, multiplication by tables. And by learning these applied concepts, reviewing by relentless application of the basic add/subtract/multiply/divide skills that we had learned in the first five grades.

When we got to high school, the educators said about us that we were behind in basic algebraic skills. Still, we caught up, and when the final grades were added up, many of us from St. John's were close to the top of the class. And, we possessed some skills that could only have been obtained by having been in Mr. Richter's class.

Thanks for taking the chance on us, Mr. Richter!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

April in Wisconsin

2011-04-18T08:40:00.000-05:00

OK, then. There are some of our readers who are displaying photos of their flowerbeds. Beautiful Clymenestra, Amarylis, and Roses. To these readers I warn that the following photos may be shocking, so grab a Mint Julep (or a Lone Star) before looking any further.

I was so inspired to hear from my friends that the earth was once again in bloom. I couldn't wait to get up this morning, and fill my lungs with the fresh dew-moistened blossom-scented air of Spring At Last! I threw open the front door this morning to get the paper, stepped out into the silvery dawn, and saw:

♫♪♪♫
I’m as restless as a willow in a windstorm
I’m as jumpy as puppet on a string
I’d say that I had spring fever
But I know it isn’t spring
--- Rodgers and Hammerstein

♫♪
Little Darlin - It's Been a Long Cold Lonely Winter -- the Beatles

it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee: e.e. cummings

April 18, 2011

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

A Thousand @$%$ Points of Light

2011-04-17T20:09:00.001-05:00

In the last two weeks before the opening of Joyce's store, I received a new work order. The Lady of the House declared that it would be Just Beautiful if we could have her mother's chandelier in the new store. And, before you can say "Yes, Dear!" I was heading down into the basement vault, to retrieve it. Although it had been 12 years, my remarkable archiving system was able to turn up the box within 30 seconds.

That was the easy part. The next step was to clean it. It was brass with little chains of crystally marble sparkly things. Hundreds of the little buggers, and all with a coating of dust. This was not going to be a problem solved with a spritz of Windex, oh, no.

So, I suspended it from one of the garment racks, and began to dismantle it. A flood of jarring memories of the Night of the Lucite Lamp haunted my every destructive move. The angels shouted "No! You'll never get that back together again" But, doggedly, I persevered, and eventually achieved total disassembly. There are so many little pieces... so many....

The "bones" looked like brass tarantulas crawling up the chains. The brass parts cleaned up fairly easily with lots of Windex, and a few paper towels.

But, then there were those "Thousand Points of Light". All off those little hangy thingies were very delicate, and couldn't just be wiped off. I soaked them in a very strong hand-destroying solution of distilled vinegar and ammonia with warm water, and let the little things dry on a fluffy pink terry towel.

Once the little glass buggers were dry, I had to re-hook each one individually back on to the tarantula family. I was a bit late for supper, but.......

Voila!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Just Because They're Your Friends

2011-04-15T14:12:00.000-05:00

It was the grand opening of ALANA my wife's women's apparel shop. Besides validating her confidence in the clothing items she had chosen, the Grand Opening also showed us how important good friends are. Many people came to the celebration not for the clothing, but as a gesture of friendship.

Here's Hendy (coming in with Bette) just to say "hi". Bette donated a one-hour performance of old favorite songs, and Hendy sang a few numbers of his own

and Karl, a retired engineer from, guess where . . . He enjoyed the music and a hot juicy cup of coffee. Karl presided over our concert series, a few weeks back, while we attended the wholesale market in Chicago. And, he fed the cats! He's got Syd's vote...

A L is a musician with multiple bands in the Milwaukee area. He and Kathy dropped in to see how things were going. Kathy had a look around the store, but A L went out front, where Winston was waiting.

Winston wanted to come over and wish Joyce a good start with her business. He barked in the door but didn't want to come in.

Good friends make good things possible.

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Bay View Graffiti April 12, 2011

2011-04-14T13:51:00.000-05:00

Today's post is a message from all the Bay View businesses who were visited by the pathetic gang-banger wannabe, the sad little hip-hopper wannabe, and the third little mouth-breathing loser who went cruising through Kinnickinnic Ave neighborhoods at 1:45 a.m. on Tuesday morning April 12 with their little paint cans defiling business property as they sauntered along the avenue.

We saw the movie from the security cameras, and we're not frightened, we're just annoyed. Hope they catch your sorry asses. Here are some photos that may help:

C'mon, Bay View, let's turn these hood shots into mug-shots!

Alana - The Grandest of Openings

2011-04-13T10:59:00.000-05:00

It's all kinda a blur - it went so smoothly, the time just evaporated before our eyes. We planned our Grand Opening celebration for Joyce's new store in grandest style, and the attendance and positive support were phenomenal. Models and music and food and fun. More on the clothes at Joyce's department - Alanatude.blogspot.com. We're going to try to feature something every day, so keep checking it. If you subscribe to Joyce's posts on Facebook, the daily entries are echoed there as well. There are still some technical issues with duplicate posts. Patience please.

There were a few things that didn't get done - we had no phone line for credit card processing or talking to the outside world. And a certain Demon Valve was not working - parts did not arrive in time ....

Joyce's friend Greg from Wild Flour Bakery gave us a wonderful assortment of cookies, muffins, and Danish rolls. And at two o'clock on Sunday, April 10, 2011, two days before Joyce's birthday, it began with music:

Bette Larson started off the entertainment in the common atrium with her sophisticated piano and vocal sparkle. That's her friend Jim Henderson in the safari helmet. He did a few vaudeville numbers with Bette, to the delight of the ever-growing audience.

Nathan Qi, who has been doing recitals at our studio at the age of 8, performed selections by Chopin, Bach, and Beethoven. It is amazing - this was his first concert on an electronic keyboard, and he was superb.

And our dear friend Jude Kinnear serenaded us for an hour. Cutting-edge original pieces delivered with an intimacy that sounds like it's coming from inside your own head. And she re-discovers classics - from the Monkees to the Moody Blues, she brings new aspects to familiar old pieces. And my favorite - her heart-rending version of Baby It's You!

Then, of course, there were the in-store activities, which only Joyce could preside over. Men kind of avoided that part of the Skylight Court. "You just go look, Honey - I'll stay out here and listen to the music and have a cookie." Yes, it was a veritable feeding frenzy in there - not for the timid.

And the models had fun with Joyce's fashion discoveries:

Winston the Dog barked in the front door, but he didn't come inside. Thanks for coming, Winston. He went for a walk with A.L., his Dad, while Momma shopped.

More reports on the Grand Opening in weeks to come - we've got so many fond memories, photos, and videos to share. I know Alana will be a big success. Thank you, Joyce, for bringing all the good times to life

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Chicago -- Our Way

2011-04-06T21:32:00.002-05:00

Ah,--April! A week before our Grand Opening. So, since we have no idea what we're going to sell this spring, because we're barely open, what else to do, but go to Wholesale Market, and pick out the Fall Fashions. That's how far ahead we have to plan, because that's when the orders must be placed.

But, wait! This is one of our weekends. What better way to prepare for a frantic weekend of choosing from among the 4000 vendors, making crucial decisions, only a week before the store opens. After a week of waxing floors, installing fixtures, and a certain Demon Valve, it's time to switch gears.

One must be prepared. So, I headed for --- ta DAAA! My workshop -- of course to round up my plumbing tools, because one of the !!#$@ toilets started leaking all over the place and had to be taken apart. So instead of getting all the notes and contacts and computers in order, I was up to my elbows in Home Improvement. I suppose I should be happy it didn't happen in the morning...

But at last, we fell over from exhaustion, and woke up the next morning for our transport to the train station in Chicago - Union Station.

And then, two frantic days of talking to old vendors, meeting new ones, looking at what is new for Fall, as opposed to something the vendor was just trying to pawn off on us. It looks a lot like shopping, but everything has part numbers, delivery terms, and order constraints..

He looks a little dazed by the second morning.

As opposed to being energized by the whole thing

A very well-done fashion show after breakfast.

And finally, home. Fall over, Rinse, Repeat.....

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Alana - One Week Away!

2011-04-01T22:31:00.000-05:00

In just a week, we'll be opening Joyce's new store. They applied the sign to the windows this week:

Joyce is busy at arranging, pricing, unpacking shipments, and planning the Grand Opening reception.

Here's Dave the Sign Guy. He's always got the state-of-the art technology at his fingertips. Even when on vacation, he's checking up on the hi-tech advertising display systems in places like Vegas. He does all our signs. We have an electronic marquee, many metal litho-like signs, and the main facade of the Joyce Skylight Court -- All by Dave at Signarama.

And me, I've got half the parts for replacing the Demon Valve - still waiting for the circuit board, and hope it comes in time. And cleaning, waxing floors, moving furniture, assembling, window washing, installing phone jacks, and trying to set up the computer stuff, credit card processing - keeping out of trouble.

I've started a page on Facebook for "Alana Women's Apparel". I'm new to Facebook, and, apparently, in order for the page to achieve super-powers, it must have at least 25 "Like" votes. Nothing personal, but if anybody who reads this has a Facebook account, could you please click over to the Alana Women's Apparel page and "Like" it?

Also, check out the new blog - Alanatude.blogspot.com. Joyce hopes to post new arrivals, fashion coordination tips, and reminiscences of the modeling industry.

The New Face on KK - It's a whole new adventure!

Demon Valve - Part Two of Three

2011-03-26T09:52:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, I talked to Moen Company's Help Line about a problem with an automatic flush valve. The help line took me through some diagnostic procedures that left an inch of water on our commercial bathroom floor. Thursday night, I tried it again. I called the help line again.

Since I still didn't know the model number, I told them, "I don't have the model number, but I have a picture of the valve on my web site." The rep was interested, so I directed him to excelsior.blogspot.com. http://xlsior.blogspot.com/2011/03/demon-valve.html to be exact

"There's a picture of some ladies clothing."

"That's it!"

"Demon Valve?"

"Yes, just page down."

He recognized the valve, and I think he took time to read the post, and decided that he could provide better service than his co-worker had, the other night, especially if it was going to be so, er, out in the open...

Moen will be sending me a replacement circuit board and solenoid to replace the defective one.

Part Three: Installing a new circuit board... Next week, we hope.

Also, a P.S. on the missing roofer. Although the insulation is still dripping from the soaking it got, the roofer came and did some repair work, inside and up on the roof. One can only hope.

Hope (noun) "Here, Charlie Brown, I'll hold the football, and you can run up and give it a good kick!"

V - The Love Story

2011-03-25T10:17:00.008-05:00

Five Years Ago. Seems like we've lived entire lifetimes since 2006. And yet, it seems to have passed in an instant.

Five years ago today, March 25, 2006, Joyce and I got married. Of course, with the wedding, as with all the other things in our lives, things had to proceed in their accustomed manner:

Ten minutes before the time of service, my mini-van was stolen from in front of the church, carrying with it all my keys, the rings, and a pan of Vegetarian Lasagna.
The following day, we were bumped from our flight to the Caribbean Cruise Honeymoon Vacation. Since it was Spring Break everywhere, we couldn't connect the departure, and returned home, the cruise ship sailed without us.
By mid-week, Joyce had to be taken to the Trinity Hospital emergency room with an abcess in her throat.
So our backup honeymoon plan of a long weekend in Vegas had to be cancelled as well.
The following week, I was scheduled for jury duty, and so we had no choice but to say "enough" and get on with our lives, that's me at the Bus Stop.

And, five years later, the question is: Knowing what we now know, and after all we've been through in the last five years, would we do it again?

I know I would. Thanks, Joyce for the happiest five years of my life. Would you do it again, Luv?

Demon Valve

2011-03-22T07:29:00.002-05:00

In the final weeks before the opening of Joyce's new store, we're making all the final preparations, stock, mirrors, fixtures, shelving, phone lines, etc.

But, no matter how much time, enthusiasm, and life-blood we put into our project, there is always something we can count on: Despair
Pictured above is a ceiling that I've completed six times, now. Always with the assurance of the roofer that the problem is fixed. But the problem isn't fixed. Count on it. And don't put anything under those ceiling tiles, because it will be ruined. I hope he can fix it before the laminate floor is ruined. Most of the time this so-called roofer doesn't even answer the phone. Hooray for Caller I.D. - as if people needed help to be weenies! And changing Nitwits doesn't help, we've already tried that - all roofers are the same.

Another adventure - There's a water valve up until now manually operated. Never mind what the valve is for, it's a man thing. A man doesn't always have time to push a button, we've got a lot of things on our mind. So a valve was invented that turns on for awhile when the man walks away. It's battery operated with a watchful electric eye. But, last night, when I put in the batteries, and re-booted the circuit board, this valve didn't do that. It just gave a little spritz when the reset button was pushed, and the electric eye had a faraway look in it.
So, I called the Moen Commercial Fixture help line. Since there are very few adjustments on the board, the problem should be relatively easy to diagnose. I called directly from the job site using my wife's cell phone. Brandon was puzzled, and asked me to try a number of things. All to no avail. Either the operation was the same Reset/Spritz sequence I'd seen so many times before, or all the indicator lights went out entirely, with no response whatsoever.

Then Brandon suspected that the black switch was in the wrong position. I flipped the black switch from the red to the black position. The valve came to life! Copious amounts of water came cascading down! The joy was, however short-lived. The cascading continued unabated, long after the metered one-gallon dispensation. Something had gone wrong. System was verging on overflow, because the drain couldn't handle the cascade that minutes before had brought us so much joy.

Still on the phone with Brandon, I mentioned to him that his suggestion didn't have the intended results - I don't remember my exact words, something on the order of "Holy Shit! There's water all over!" I ran for the main valve of the building to shut off the water. By the time I had gotten the water shut off, there was an inch of water on the floor of the bathroom. I asked Brandon what to try next, now that I was standing in an inch of water. His response was a series of beeps, and the Brandon was lost. When I dialed the number back, I got an automated message, saying that Moen was now closed, and that I should please try back tomorrow. Brandon didn't care if his product had just flooded his customer's place of business. That's the kind of help that a help line delivers?

So, I quietly got the bucket, and the mop, and cleaned up the mess, and went home. Count on despair. It will never let you down.

Remembering Marian

2011-03-13T11:53:00.001-05:00

Marian left us this Winter. For so many years, she was the one who always made you laugh in our Theatre on KK presentations. For those who never met her, her stage presence can only be compared to Lucille Ball. As soon as Marian took the stage, you laughed with her, you knew her, and you related to her.

Last Sunday we hosted a gathering here at the studio. Many who had worked with Marian on stage, and many who had just enjoyed her performances were there, with some of Marian's family members, and it was an afternoon of remembrance and celebration of a life that had brought so much joy into our own lives. We watched a half-hour of video clips from some of her best productions. Below is a link to a 9-minute condensation of this show. If a video doesn't enable below, use this link:

Snow Sculpture

2011-03-10T22:47:00.002-06:00

LINK

Fashion Planet

2011-03-09T13:30:00.001-06:00

Sorry for being so late to report this - this took place in January, but the February Project was taking up all my creative time. More on that next week.

Today - Enter the Exciting Pulse-Pounding World of Fashion. Now, I know that all of you come here to Excelsior for the latest in janitorial and home-improvement advice, and for updates on Syd the cat, and the Evil Gondi, but today, we travel to the world of Fashion - the exciting Style Max Exposition in Chicago, Illinois.

Fashion designers and clothing wholesalers from all over the world come together to show their latest discoveries and creations to retailers. My wife and I are opening Alana - a women's apparel shop (shoppe?) next month in one of our commercial spaces in Milwaukee's Joyce Skylight Court.

Joyce has been a fashion model, modeling instructor, and clothing consultant for all of her life. I'll admit that my tastes in clothing run all the way from JC Penney's to Farm and Fleet. I know that flannel is for around the house, and when you go out, you wear that other, you know the white shirt and suit coat stuff. My job in this whole scheme of the fashion world is to do all the infrastructure stuff, like finding racks, assembling cabinetry, computer and phone network, janitorial, etc. And the world of fashion is an alien planet unto me.

My job for this phase of the project was mainly logistical: Get Joyce There. Protect the Queen.
Phase One: The best and cheapest way to get to Chicago from Milwaukee is the Amtrak train. It's $22.00 each, which is about 1/2 what it would cost you to park in Chicago. Our friend Stephy, who was answering to our cats for the weekend, (she is also the President of the Gondi Fan Club) took us to the train station. On the other end, it was a little more complicated - from Union Station to the Merchandise Mart. Did you know that Google Maps connects with the transit routes? I went into the unknown equipped with bus numbers, stop schedules, etc to get us right to the hotel. (CAUTION: bus schedules for weekends are different from weekday schedules, so be sure you ask Google for the correct data). And since the Holiday Inn is connected by skywalk to the Merchandise Mart, we can safely say: Mission accomplished! Only one panhandler at the bus stop.
From a man's perspective, the next phase is not a pretty sight, and at first glance may induce seizure in some men - aaaaaaargggh!!! endless shopping. . . Truly we are standing at the Gates of Hell!
But this was different from our local mall, because in this place we were shop owners, and the many vendors are eager to set up orders with us. Most of the vendors and at least half of the buyers (store owners) are men. Surprisingly, they could easily speak in terms of part numbers, order requirements, and shipping terms. But with Joyce in high gear on the creative aspect of the mission, my memory of it is a blur of booth numbers, product codes, business cards, contact info, order delivery and billing, etc. In other words, I was too busy to be tired.
At the end of the day, there was a reception and fashion show, to give us ideas of what to look at tomorrow. With over 4000 vendors represented, there is no way to see the whole exhibition in the three days alotted.
When the exposition closed for the day, we went over the skywalk, and up to the Holiday Inn. A futuristic looking hotel - the main lobby starts on the 15th floor of its building, and all the hallways are exposed in a central cavernous courtyard.
Chicago wasn't as scary as it at first seemed, and someday perhaps we could visit it as tourists. Two more panhandlers on the way to the train depot. The queen was safely delivered back to the royal palace. Now for the onslaught of UPS drivers....

You Say "Poonschka" and I say "Paczki"

2011-03-08T10:32:00.003-06:00

So, I was just minding my own business, enjoying a day off of work. My wife went to the fitness center, and I headed for the sofa. Such a perfect day, I was even listening to Lou Reed, and later we were going to go to the Mardi Gras celebration at the local Indian Casino. (I love taking their money).

Well, she came home from the gym, my little Polish Princess she did, and said "We should have some Poonshkies." I usually have the Poonschki Day poonschkies on hand. I get up at 5 am on the day that the rest of the world calls "Fat Tuesday" or "Mardi Gras" (which means "Fat Tuesday"). But this year, I had a day off of work, and, I "forgot". . .

So, I put on my coat, and headed out to the National Bakery. It's right across the street from the St. Francis Hospital Emergency Room, on 16th and Euclid. (yup, it's named after the Geometry guy). There was no parking for a two-block radius. I already knew that. From a distance I could see the upraised antennas of the mobile media trucks. Today, National Bakery is the eye of the storm. We can go back to the bucket-beaters at the State Capitol tomorrow. The line was a half-block long. People took it in stride. They had, after all, not phoned in their orders in advance, so they could not proceed to the express line.

After a half hour in line, I reached the door, and was allowed inside. The entire customer area was chained off into waiting lines, one for the pre-orders, one for the walk-ins, and one for the checkout. An overwhelming "international" aroma overwhelms one. There are multiple holidays going on here. There are King Cakes for Mardi Gras, Frosted horse-shaped cookies (for the Kentucky Derby?), An overpowering aroma of cooking Corned Beef (for St. Pat's Day), and in a glass case, there were squares of brown cake with white frosting and shamrocks on top, with a sign that said "French Pastry". Perched on a bar-stool was a man playing German songs on his accordion. The media was doing their "live from National Bakery" spots, and there was merriment in the air.

And down at the end, at the altar, was the Paczki section. Paczki is pronounced "poonschka" (because it's Polish, and they love to correct your pronunciation of Their words.) It's a filled donut, you have a choice of two different doughs, regular or Butter. Once you've chosen your dough, there's the filling: raspberry, raisin, or the REAL punshka filling - Prune. And once you've chosen the filling, what do you want the outside to look like? There's frosted, powder sugar, or the REAL punshka lamination - Glazed.

Poonshkas look like glazed potatoes, and the taste is indescribably delicious. Although each one weighs about three pounds, and provides the body with a brazillion calories of usable food energy, you'd better take two right away, because you KNOW you'll be back for more!

This year, the National Bakery offered Paczki T-shirts. They all come in Extra Large.

Let the good times roll!

Excelsior

Safe Haven

I Saw Her

At-LAWN-tis

Safety Symbiosis

Cantique de Noel

A Simulated Alligator Wallet.....

Winston's Christmas - A Christmas Story - Part Two of Two Parts

Winston's Christmas - a Christmas Story - Part One of Two

Sparkle

Thanks

Thanksgiving - Grinding Guts for Grandma

Gathering the Nuts for Winter

1997-2011

How the Pilgrims Almost Killed Thanksgiving

Vignettes, 20th Century

Happy Birthday, Mom!

When a Bachelor Bird Gets Lonely

John Tetzel - A Lutheran Nightmare

Livin La Vida del Cerdo

Don't Give a Hell

Onions in a Box

A Tale of Darkness, Bikers, and African Violets

New Home for Fernanda

you always remember the first time

Just ♫ PIcture a Penthouse ♪ 'Way Up in the Sky ♫

Marsha - Keepin' 'Em Terrified

Five Foot Dalmations and Other Signs of Fall

Corn... So Majestically Waving

cool cat indeed

morning paper

Miss Taras - Part Two - The Rest of the Story

Miss Taras Part One - The Brown Uncle

Cabinets Without Words

Stop the Vacation - I Need Some Rest!

Woolworth's

Chinese Night Watch

Year Book

Max

summer rerun - originally posted in 2010The Man in the Moon as He Sails the Sky

09-06-01

Angel of Death

God's Wild Youth - Shoot the Piano Player!

more summer re-runs!

originally posted in November 2009 under the title:

Bach No More - God's I-Pod Part 2

Everybody's Whining About the Weather - I'm DOING Something About It!

South Shore Frolics - a Vicious Tradition

The Bars of Bay View

Vacation Bible School

A Gloriously Gloomy Summer Day

Ironwork

Remember Remembering?

Imagination - Stephanie Kasper

They're Still At It!

Those Beatles

From the Age of Bossa Nova

Fern

Sock it To Me

Bye Bye Blackbirds

Goodbye, Old Girl

Alana's Poster-Child

Arithmetic

April in Wisconsin

A Thousand @$%$ Points of Light

Just Because They're Your Friends

Bay View Graffiti April 12, 2011

Alana - The Grandest of Openings

Chicago -- Our Way

Alana - One Week Away!

Demon Valve - Part Two of Three

V - The Love Story

Demon Valve

Remembering Marian

Snow Sculpture

Fashion Planet

You Say "Poonschka" and I say "Paczki"

summer rerun - originally posted in 2010
The Man in the Moon as He Sails the Sky