PISSING-OFF ST. SLICK, THE PATRON SAINT OF FREEBIES

IN THE SPIRIT OF HALLOWEEN..."THEY" SAY, YOU CAN'T REMEMBER (BAD) OLD SMELLS...IT SOUNDS SPOOKY, BUT I CAN!


My wife Sue and I were shopping at BJ’s Wholesale Club last week. We typically split-up with me heading for the deli counter, in case there’s a long line. En route, I inspect the bevy of free samples being offered. On this occasion, between the banana pudding cookies and the Greek yogurt, the pickings were slim.

Luckily I was not shut-out. While waiting to be served, a meat department employee came out of the back room with a tray of fresh cold cuts samples, (ham, roast beef and turkey).

I helped myself to one of the yellow, frilly-handled toothpicks that skewered a healthy-sized sliver of roast beef. Well…actually…to be totally honest, it was expensive and very, very, very delicious roast beef. I craved more. So I entered into the realm of bad karma every time the butcher looked away...and snuck another slice.

Hey!  Don't give me that condescending attitude.  It's NOT like I ignored a gigantic, "ONE PER CUSTOMER," sign!  Because there wasn't one. Anyway...within three minutes, I had made a meal out of all six king-sized slices that were now prominently missing from the center of the display platter. To save face and protect my humble image (of myself) and prove to the counterman that I wasn’t a slob, I turned down his sample of my cheese.

I gathered up my lunch meat packets and set out to find Sue. I’m guessing even without one-to-a-customer signage that my sinful roast beef over-indulgence offended St. Slick, the Patron Saint of Freebies.

To pay for my gluttonous transgression, I believe old St. Slick made a sampling booth magically appear at the head of the coffee aisle, ala, "THE TWILIGHT ZONE." I'm positive, it WASN’T there five minutes earlier.

The sign read: JIMMY DEAN SAUSAGE, EGG AND CHEESE ON A BISCUIT. The suspicious look of the smiling representative reminded me of the demonic nanny (Mrs. Baylock), from the 1976 horror and suspence movie, "THE OMEN."

IN THE ORIGINAL, "OMEN," ACTRESS BILLIE WHITELAW NAILED HER EERIE PERFORMANCE AS THE DEVIL'S GOVERNESS...AND NOW I WAS ABOUT TO ACCEPT FOOD FROM SOMEONE WHO, COMPLETE WITH A HOLY-MOLEY-SIZED MOLE ON HER CHEEK, REALLY RESEMBLED HER.

The Mrs. Baylock look alike adjusted her paper hat and bobbed her head like a sinister jack-in-the-box clown. My brain knew I wasn't hungry.  Yet against my better judgment, I felt compelled...even with a belly full of  mondo-boffo roast beef...to be lured to siren's tantalizing bait.

In a fraction of a second, the lingering, marvelous memory of the expensive roast beef was ousted from my mouth. The scant, new taste of inferior sausage, egg and cheese was overwhelmed by the abundance of tasteless dough. I should have spit it out but I forcibly swallowed the pasty, spackle-like sludge down through my gullet. Far worse, I had an incredibly bad taste in my mouth…that would last the next thirty minutes until we got home.

During the homeward drive, I rationalized that a bad taste in my mouth was better than getting my kishkiz burnt-out by unexpectedly hot food. I flashed back to January 1979.  That's when I had my moving to Las Vegas, good-bye party, at McSorley’s Old Ale House in Manhattan.

McSORLEY'S SINCE 1854, IS THE OLDEST BAR IN NEW YORK CITY, (15 EAST 7th STREET BETWEEN 3rd AND 4th AVENUE).  I HAVEN'T BENT AN ELBOW THERE IN CLOSE TO THIRTY YEARS BUT IT WAS SPECIAL ENOUGH TO ONCE TAKE MY MOTHER THERE, (SEE MY SEPTEMBER 22, 2008 BLOG CALLED, "McSORLEY'S OLD ALE HOUSE)."

In my hey-day, McSorley’s offered a limited menu. If my memory serves, all they had was; light and dark (colored) beer, Pepsi and Diet Pepsi, turkey, ham and roast beef sandwiches and a cheese platter. For the sandwiches, each table had a vat of English unbleached mustard, (I have NEVER seen or heard of English unbleached mustard before or since).  Hopefully, down through the years, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), has banned that inedible, toxic sludge.

I sniffed the open vat and felt heat painfully resonate through my nostrils. Yes, I enjoy spicy foods but my instinct was to avoid this one. When the waiter placed my, “bird” (turkey sandwich), in front of me, a friend suggested that I try the mustard. I said, “No.” My moronic buddy escalated his encouragement to a dare. I had enough of a buzz on to innocently accept. But I wasn’t so naive to dive in and commit a smear to my dinner. I dabbed the slightest bit of that shit on my pinkie. OUCH!  It was like my taste buds were nuked and my tongue burned all night.

The near-death experience of English unbleached mustard led me to recall my cross-country trip in 1976. That’s when I got “burned” twice by southwestern cuisine. First in Houston Texas, at a James Coney Island and Chili Parlor. I brought my chili con carne bowl to a table and realized there wasn’t any Tabasco Sauce in the condiment rack. I was too tired and lazy to get up. I took a huge spoonful of their specialty. It was a friggin' napalm explosion in my mouth! It was bad enough that the intensity almost killed me, but the witnesses’ reaction to my misfortune nearly made me die of embarrassment.

I WANTED TO GIVE SOME BACKGROUND ON THE JAMES *CONEY ISLAND AND CHILI PARLOR FRANCHISE BUT THE FIRST TWO REVIEWS I READ WERE SO BAD THAT I INCLUDED THIS PHOTO FROM ONE OF THEIR RIVALS INSTEAD. (*FYI - IN MANY PLACES DOWN SOUTH AND OUT WEST, A "CONEY ISLAND" IS A HOT DOG).

A week after my gasteric tumult in Houston, I was in Raton, New Mexico. In the perceived safety of a Pizza Hut, I learned the hard way that not ALL chain restaurants take pride in standard recipes. As if poisoned with cyanide, my Italian sub was laced with a lethal dose of jalapeño peppers. My scorched mouth made he gag as I trashed the whole fiery mess. When I composed myself well enough to speak, I complained to the manager. The prick shrugged, “Dude, you’re in New Mexico…”

We were halfway home from BJ’s when my memory took me back to the first stop on my sixty-eight day cross-country odyssey, a KOA outside Nashville Tennessee, (Kampgrounds of America). Except that experience didn’t involve five-alarm hot foods, it involved another bad taste in my mouth...courtesy of Jimmy Dean.  This event resulted in me starting a thirty-eight year vow, to boycott his products, (which temporarily ended with scary Mrs. Baylock coaxing me into violating my digestive system).

JIMMY DEAN (1928-2010) IS A MEMBER OF THE COUNTRY MUSIC HALL OF FAME.  IN ADDITION TO SINGING, HE ALSO HOSTED A VARIETY TV PROGRAM (1963-1966).  IN THAT SHOW, PUPPETEER JIM HENSON RECEIVED HIS FIRST NATIONAL MEDIA EXPOSURE. TODAY, THE NAME JIMMY DEAN HAS MORE UNIVERSAL RECOGNITION FOR HIS BRAND OF PORK PRODUCTS.

I have no memory of Jimmy Dean's TV show. The only song I remember him doing was 1961's, “BIG BAD JOHN.” And I never saw the 1982 movie that bears his name, “COME BACK TO THE FIVE AND DIME, JIMMY DEAN, JIMMY DEAN.”

THIS THREE-STAR CHICK-FLICK CONCERNS FIVE WOMEN MEETING AT A RUN-DOWN TEXAS DRUGSTORE, FOR A TWENTY-YEAR REUNION OF THE JIMMY DEAN FAN CLUB.

The 1976 bad taste Jimmy Dean left in my mouth dealt more with issues of the heart...that were thwarted by a nauseating stink directly associated with him.

That KOA campground was conveniently located between the Orpyland Amusement Park and a Jimmy Dean sausage slaughterhouse, (I hope you see where this is going). I got myself situated and went about the rigors of pitching my tent for the first time and getting all my creature comforts ready at bedtime.

In the glorious morning, I discovered the side benefits of staying there included a great opportunity for socializing. I occupied the whole day meeting people, swimming in the lake, playing softball and hanging out.

A couple of girls that I met earlier in the general store were getting a volleyball game together. These two blond, Northern Virginians, Lu-Ann and Lynette were friendly and pretty with intoxicating southern accents.

Lynette was the actual organizer. She was taller, athletic and more serious than her friend. Lu-Ann was cuter, more feminine and silly. Which meant there was no way, I'd turn down a chance to be around them.

During the game, despite the constant roar of the screaming roller-coaster riders at the amusement park, I communicated well with both of them. Lynette looked sharp in emerald green gym shorts and a Richmond Spiders tee-shirt. But I couldn’t take my eyes off Lu-Ann, in her dungarees and bikini top. I put it in my head that I couldn’t go wrong with either one of them. But when the game broke up, they vanished.

Hours later, the campground manager made an announcement that after dark, they were having a bonfire. He invited everyone to bring weenies and marshmallows. A man around my age brought a guitar and we had a sing-along. The girls didn’t show-up so I gravitated to two Connecticut guys from softball. I kept my eye on the trail and hoped Lynette and Lu-Ann would show up. It was 10:00PM when the screams of the amusement park stopped.  A quieter mood came over everyone and my prayers were answered.

I saw Lynette and Lu-Ann, excused myself from the Connecticut boys and met the girls as they came out of the woods. Lynette said, “Where are you sitting?” I smiled, pointed at a nearby log that could accommodate exactly three butts and said, “We have immediate seating right here.”

For the next hour, I was hoping one of them would leave so I could hit on the other. Lynette was sitting in the middle. She consistently gave me a polite smile in response to my humor but Lu-Ann laughed at everything I said. I took that as a powerful vibe that I was getting somewhere with her. But my plan didn’t work because they both stayed. I was losing hope when the Connecticut boys came by and directly hit on them. In a pleasant way, the girls turned them down...yay me!

We were alone again as a rumble of thunder could be heard. Later, the distant sky lit up from approaching lightning. My bubble was then burst by another announcement that due to inclement weather, the fire had to be put out. And for safety reasons, everyone should go back to their campers.

Most everyone, (including the three of us) lingered. We got on the topic of the Grand Ole Opry. I used some of my superficial knowledge that I gained from years of watching “HEE HAW” on TV. They were impressed that a Brooklyn boy appreciated southern culture as I rattled off the big names in country music and quoted some “home spun” comedy lines. All the while, I was hoping they would invite me to their campsite.

I was running out of material when I suggested that the three of us tour Nashville together. Lynette was apologetic, “One of the windows fell out of our VW Microbus and our air conditioner is on the blink.” Lu-Ann sighed, “It’ll probably be an all day affair getting them both fixed.” I could tell she was disappointed and said, “Maybe I can tag along.” Lynette stated, “We're meeting people and will be with them while our VW is getting worked on.” Lu-Ann didn't like her tone and neither did I.

Suddenly, the wind picked up and changed direction. There was a sense of finality in Lynette’s voice but I plowed on, “How about we go to the amusement park the day after?” The wind change brought a disgusting stench. Lu-Ann said, “What is that God awful odor?” Lynette said, “It’s coming from the abattoir.” Lu-Ann and I said at the same time, “What’s an abattoir?” Lynette said, “It’s a slaughterhouse and that putrid fragrance is from down yonder.” She grabbed Lu-Ann’s upper arm and led her away. I called out to them, “What about the amusement park?” Lu-Ann looked back and squeaked, “Maybe…”

No spoiler alert here! To find out what happened with me and Lu-Ann you need to go into my blog archives and read the story from October, 25, 2010 called, “TRIANGULATION OF THE HEART.”


I take my romantic opportunities to heart. So when that one was disrupted by Jimmy Dean’s *pig slaughtering, I decided on a lifetime ban on his product(s).

I KNOW EATING PORK ISN'T HEALTHY.  BUT I'M NOT A HYPOCRITE.  I ALSO EAT OTHER FATTY FOODS, SUGAR, SALT AND BUCKETS OF CHEMICAL PRESERVATIVES.  HELL, IF YOU DON'T WANT YOUR GLUTEN, I'LL TAKE THEM...AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY ARE.  ALL THAT MATTERS HERE IS, THAT DAMNED SLAUGHTERHOUSE ODOR IS INDELIBLY INGRAINED INTO MY MEMORY BANK.  SO UNLESS I'M HYPNOTIZED BY WITCHY WOMEN GIVING OUT FREE SAMPLES, I WON'T EAT JIMMY DEAN PRODUCTS. 

*Please note, in 1997, I had the misfortune of having to smell the stink of the Perdue chicken slaughterhouse while driving through Virginia’s eastern shore. But because there was no disturbance or obstruction in my love life that disgusting experience didn’t sway me away from eating Frank Perdue’s products.

In the perfect storm collision of Halloween and offending the Patron Saint of Freebies, St. Slick displayed the potential of his wrath by distracting me away from my long-standing boycott of everything Jimmy Dean.  In addition to being induced into eating that spackle-like crap, I also paid the price of being dragged back to the horror story of missing out on being with Lu-Ann.  At least I'll always hold that close-call near to my heart and the sweet way she said, “What is that God awful smell.”

ONE FLEW OVER CUCKOO WRIGLEY FIELD

1976 was a kinder, gentler time.  Fourteen years before that, everyday life was even more blissful...to the point of innocence.

The novel, "ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST," was published in 1962.  At its root, the story is about subtle and coercive methods of oppression, censorship and forced conformity.  To support  his point, the bulk of author Ken Kesey's action takes place within the walls of a hospital's mentally unstable ward.  His insights suggest that this is modern society's toxic path...unless a catalyst can trigger our instinctual need, for a free human spirit.

Kesey's title came from a nursery rhyme. 

Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn,
Wire, briar, limber lock
Three geese in a flock
One flew East
One flew West
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest

The book's narrator was one of the patients, (Chief Bromden).  He mentioned that as a child, his grandmother sang that nursery rhyme to him.  On a broader scale, a cuckoo's nest is a playful name for a mental institution.  And one interpretation of "flying over," is a patient going too far, (getting in trouble).

IN THE 1975 FILM VERSION, JACK NICHOLSON PORTRAYS R. P. McMURPHY. HE REPRESENTS INDEPENDENCE AND THE HUMAN  INSTINCT FOR FREEDOM.  HE FAKED MENTAL PROBLEMS TO AVOID PRISON AND IS INSTITUTIONALIZED WITH UNSTABLE MEN, (ACUTES).  McMURPHY IDENTIFIES THE SUPPRESSION CAUSED BY THE MAIN ANTAGONIST, (NURSE RATCHED), AND RALLIES THE MEN'S DEADENED INDIVIDUALITY. UNTIL, HE FINDS OUT THE HARD WAY THAT THE ACUTES HAVE VOLUNTARILY COMMITTED THEM SELVES AND CAN LEAVE ANY TIME THEY WISH...BUT HE CAN'T.

In 1976, the movie's message was fresh in my mind when I had my solo, cross-country trip. During those sixty-eight days on the road, I fully exercised my independence.  On a deeper and more interesting level, I also had the freedom to temporarily become dependent and/or conform.

My modes of transportation were Greyhounds and hitchhiking.  In bus depots, the open road, youth hostels, seedy motels, camp grounds, colleges and tourist destinations, I was thrown together with a wide range of derelicts, knuckleheads, freaks, eccentrics, good people and the elite.  While some of the extreme cases might've needed psychological help, at no point was I ever in real danger or "acutely" uncomfortable.  Instead, many of these folks took me into their hearts, cars, homes and confidence...while sharing travel information, food and our most private thoughts.

ONE OF THE FEW TIMES THAT I FELT UNHAPPY OR LONELY WAS THE NIGHT MY GREYHOUND PULLED INTO SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.  I WAS UNDER THE WEATHER.  AND EVEN THOUGH THE ALAMO WAS ONLY TWO BLOCKS AWAY, I CHOSE TO GUT IT OUT AND SLEEP ON THE BUS ALL THE WAY TO EL PASO.

A month later, towards the end of my journey, (Monday, August 23rd), I reached Chicago.  It was in the "Windy City" when I felt loneliness again. 

THE WILLIS TOWER...WHATCHU TALKIN' ABOUT?  THE SEARS TOWER, WILL ALWAYS BE THE SEARS TOWER. LOCATED AT 233 SOUTH WACKER DRIVE, IT IS THE FOCAL POINT OF THE CHICAGO SKYLINE.  ITS 108 STORIES MAKE IT THE TALLEST BUILDING IN THE USA...AND THE SEVENTH HIGHEST FREE-STANDING STRUCTURE IN THE WORLD.

Unlike most places I visited, I had no pre-planned Chi-Town itinerary.  I had no direction, no "must-see" points of interest and I even had trouble finding a cheap place to stay.  Luckily, the terminal's gift shop lady suggested the Ohio East Hotel, (walking distance, on the other side of the Chicago River).

STOCK PHOTO OF THE CORRECT STREET.  BUT THIS HOTEL LOOKS LIKE THE RITZ COMPARED TO MY $4.50/NIGHT RAT TRAP.

Her directions led me to the section of East Ohio Avenue located on their Skid Row. Weeks earlier, I had slept at a similar, "retired gentleman's" hotel in San Francisco's Mission District, (for half the price...and by comparison, it felt fit for royalty). The Ohio East was more like a welfare, flop-house. 

In an empty space where a tiny lobby should've been, my real-time nightmare at a funhouse continued as avoided eye-contact with a seedy man drinking booze out of a paperbag. 

I was too tired to leave and took the only option, an interior, unlit wooden staircase. At the rickety landing, I pushed through a heavy metal door and was greeted by a, "front desk." It looked unnatural, like it was built in an hour and jammed into the second floor hall. A disinterested clerk stood behind it, and in front of a dusty makeshift fixture that housed room key slots.  My eye fixed on oddball items stored there; a Bayer aspirin bottle, a bent crowbar, silverware and a Donald Duck comic book. 

The impatient, sixty-ish deskman spoke in a sporadic cadence.  Maybe he was hungover because the only thing he made clear was; "NO loud noise after ten, NO cooking in the room and NO female company".  He was gaping at my wallet as he unsteadily dangled  a key labeled 429, until I paid. 

The hotel had no elevator, so with my backpack, travel bag and the one towel provided, I trudged up two more flights, to the "penthouse." I went by an old-timer (guest), singing "scat," annoyingly loud.  Then two residents passed in zombie-like silence.  Their facial emptiness made me think that they had already had lobotomies.  Who knows, maybe they were real-life, "chronics" from, "Cuckoo's Nest."

My closet-sized room had a moldy, ammonia stench.  Three zoftig waterbugs startled me as they scurried under the dresser.  I vowed to stay only one night.when I realized that were girthy enough to carry off the bed...with me in it. 

A little later, I ventured out and headed to the "Loop."  It was surreal, while wandering around downtown, I didn't see any of my fellow cross-country comrades.  I even went back to the bus station in search of companionship but found none. 

At rush hour, amid the bustle of commuters pouring out of the modern office buildings, I saw a sign, "EARLY BIRD SPECIAL, ALL THE SMELTS YOU CAN EAT, 99c."  I didn't even know what a smelt was...but for that kind of money, I was willing to gamble, especially because it would be "luxurious" to sit in a real restaurant.

This hash house looked better from the outside.  I stood alone, inside the doorway and looked across the dark dining room's sea of empty tables.  I had just noticed a strip of fully occupied flypaper above the cash register when a man poked his head out from the kitchen and said in an Eastern European accent, "Sit anywhere."

A minute later, he came to my table, set down a glass of water and tried handing me a menu.  I waved it off and said, "I'll have, the smelt special."  His neutral expression sagged to a frown as he checked his watch, (it was 5:20 so there was still forty minutes left on their dining opportunity of a lifetime).  He snarled, "And to drink?"  I held up the water, "I'm good for now."

SMELTS AVERAGE ABOUT SIX INCHES IN LENGTH AND LOOK LIKE SMALL SALMON.  THEY ARE USUALLY EATEN WHOLE.

My big basket of smelts were deep fried.  The crispy breading was all I could taste, so they weren't too bad.  My second order was much smaller and the third only had about ten.  When I signaled the waiter again, four other tables had customers.  Before I could ask for more, he slapped down the check and said, "You've had enough."

I could've made a statement over the, "all you can eat," clause and caused a ruckus, but I didn't.  I rationalized that I was full, that smelts weren't that good and if I pushed too hard, my protest victory may have included some retaliative spit in the next batch.  Outside, there was still three hours of daylight. I wandered around the business district but on a limited budget, it got old fast.

I resisted going back to my dungeon as long as I could.  I found a copy of that day's Chicago Tribune, and headed "home."  It was twilight when I returned.  At the desk, a different clerk was on the phone.  He was jealous that the person on the other end was going to the Cubs baseball game, the next afternoon.  I thought that was a great idea since I was striking out with everything else.  I lingered to ask him directions to Wrigley Field but his intimidating indifference and harsh glare, sent me on my way.

Upstairs, I laid on the wafer-thin mattress, read the paper and did the crossword.  Before retiring, I walked the length of the corridor to the rest room.  On the way back, I crossed paths with a sober-looking kid about my age.  My opinion of his normalcy changed when his eyes bugged out as he told me that he had a bullet in his room.  I was polite in turning down the lunatic's invitation to see it.  He followed me back towards my room. I was fumbling with the key when he said, "I'm in 411, if you change your mind...I'll be awake all night."

I pondered what "a bullet" might 've been a euphemism for, as I decided to barricade the door with the chest of drawers.  But it was bolted to the floor.

In the morning, I grabbed my towel and headed back to the toilet.  At the pay phone outside 411, an elderly wino in a tattered, silk smoking jacket and presumably nothing else, was ranting about his missed court appearance. I was dreading bullet-boy being disturbed and coming out. I scurried along. 

In the bathroom, I double-tested the door's lock.  I hesitated for a while until I decided to go through with my shower.  Before undressing, I waited outside the shower stall long enough for the racing water bugs to scatter.  After I stripped down, to be certain that the first gush of water wasn't rusty, I waited again. Considering that the water pressure and temperature were decent, that was the shortest shower of my life.

A third different clerk was on duty when I checked out.  He barely looked past his Popular Science Magazine as he chomped on a nauseating cigar. 

In the clean morning air, I headed towards the Greyhound station.  I wanted to stow my belongings and find out that night's schedule, going east to Windsor Ontario.  Just before the small bridge over the river, I spotted a letter carrier.  I appreciated his smile as he recommended a city bus route to Lincoln Park and then to Wrigley Field.  I came away from our meeting thinking that not everyone in Chicago was crazy.

"THE FRIENDLY CONFINES," LOCATED AT 1060 WEST ADDISON STREET, IS BETTER KNOWN AS WRIGLEY FIELD.  IT HAS BEEN THE CHICAGO CUBS HOME SINCE 1916.  ODDLY, THEY HAVE NEVER WON THE WORLD SERIES THERE, (1908 WAS THEIR LAST CHAMPIONSHIP WHILE PLAYING AT A DIFFERENT STADIUM).

I got to the game early and bought a general admission ticket. During batting practice, to get more in the mood, I bought a Cubs tee-shirt.  I toured the iconic ballpark and appreciated the old-school charm of the hand turned scoreboard, the ivy-covered outfield walls and the fact that they didn't have lights, (it wouldn't be until twelve years later that night games were played in Wrigley).

The Cubs were a crappy team that year.  So with the dog-days of August almost coming to an end, less than 11,000 people showed up for the festivities. The lack of fans coupled with usher complacency and my savvy for creative self-seating resulted in a primo spot, twenty rows back, on field level, between home and first base but closer to home.

When the National Anthem was over, my entire row, ten seats to my right and left remained empty.  In the second inning, a regular guy, (dressed neater than me...and I was wearing a brand new Cubs shirt), sat several seats to my right.  I still had bullet-boy from the night before on my mind, so when I figured that this man could have sat anywhere, even the four-seat buffer between us, didn't seem like enough.

The Cubs opponent was the Houston Astros.  It marked the first time I was at a game that didn't involve my adored Mets or against the hated Junkees. So in addition to having no rooting interest, both teams being bad and neither squad having a big star to marvel at, I was sitting alone at the predictably dull, non-event.

In the middle innings, the man to my right and I shared short comments about the game.  He was a knowledgeable fan and a pleasant person.  I said, "I'm Steve."  He got up without speaking and switched to the seat next to me...it was neither weird nor a threat to my personal space.

While the game dragged on, he said it was still great to get out on such a beautiful day.  Our conversation strayed from baseball as I shared anecdotes from my trip. When I told him that I was experiencing homesickness (I thought it prudent to avoid the word lonely), and that I was leaving town in a few hours he said, "To get a feel for the true Chicagoan, you need to be around people."  He pointed towards the left field wall and said, "McCluskey's is a great bar on Waveland Avenue.  Its a tradition to go there after the game. They serve free hot dogs with chopped-up tomatoes, the 'THREE STOOGES,' are on the TV till seven and they have Heileman's Old Style on tap."

BACK IN CANARSIE, MY FRIEND SLW WAS A FAN OF OLD STYLE BEER.  HE HAD IT ON A TRIP TO THE MIDWEST AND USED TO LOVE MAKING FUN OF ITS BREWING PROCESS CALLED, "KRAEUSENING."

The hot-dogs didn't sell me and overwhelmingly, beer whether it's kraeusened or not, is just beer.  What truly gravitated me to McCluskey's was the Stooges because the show, due to its violence, had been banned in New York.  So watching those long lost knuckleheads on TV would be a treat especially while partying with my new friend.

The Cubs rallied for two runs in the ninth, but lost 4-3.  On our way out I said, "I can't wait to buy the first round of Old Style."  He said, "I can't go."  I said, "Why?"  He said, "They know exactly when the games end. I have to get back to the institute."  Our chat had concentrated on baseball and my travels so I felt bad when I realized that he didn't get much of a chance to speak about himself.

We were leaving the darkness of the grandstand and back into the warm sunlight as I said, "Are you a doctor?"  He advanced to an old, adult tricycle that was chained to a lamppost and smiled, "Doctor?  I'm a patient.  They let me out a couple afternoons a month."  I was stunned as he dropped the rusty chain and corroded padlock into the over-sized basket of his ride.  He boarded that contraption, honked its bulbous purple horn and scattered a couple of dejected fans with a wildly wide one-handed u-turn.  We caught eye-contact one last time as he cried with a devish grin, "I've never been to McCluskey's.  I only heard about it from the orderlies."  

My only friend in Chicago never seemed goofy until then. While clearing a path with an obnoxious flurry horn honks, he wove through a sea of startled and ticked off pedestrians before vanishing. That's when I thought to myself, "This, is what I attract..."

The crowd around us flew east,
I flew west 
and he pedaled back to the cuckoo's nest.

THE "CUCKOO'S NEST" BOATING SCENE, DEMONSTRATED THE POWER OF PERCEPTION, WHEN THE PATIENTS, OUTSIDE THE WARD, ARE PASSED-OFF AS DOCTORS.

I ventured over to McCluskey's and it was everything he said it was.  Still, I was alone in a crowd.  At least it gave me the chance to assess the world around me.  While scarfing-down free hot-dogs, I realized that chopped tomatoes sucked as a topping, the old memory of the Stooges was better than the real thing and even though I was twenty-one years old, that I was still quite naive.

TRIANGULATION OF THE HEART

Lynette and Lu-Ann were nice looking blonds from Northern Virginia. Lynette was serious and easy to talk to but Lu-Ann was cute and laughed at everything I said.

I met them on July 2, 1976 at a KOA outside Nashville Tennessee. This campground was nestled between The Opryland Amusement Park and a Jimmy Dean Sausage slaughtering house. This bucolic spot was my first stop on my sixty-eight day, "Celebrate America, On Its Bicentennial Road Trip."
KAMPGROUNDS OF AMERICA (KOA) WAS FOUNDED IN 1962 BY BILLINGS MONTANA BUSINESSMAN, DAVE DRUM. TODAY THE CHAIN BOASTS 470 FRANCHISES THROUGHOUT NORTH AMERICA.

While playing volleyball next to the lake, I leered at Lu-Ann in her dungarees and yellow bikini top every chance I got. And I melted every time Lynette smiled and addressed me in her intoxicating Southern drawl. This was a great time...even with the constant screams of the amusement park's roller coaster riders and the incredible stink of the Jimmy Dean abattoir.AT LEAST THE AMUSEMENT PARK CLOSED AT NIGHT. HOWEVER, THE 24/7 SLAUGHTERHOUSE STENCH WAS AT THE WHIMSY OF A CONSISTENT WIND, IN OUR DIRECTION.

During a break in the volleyball action, the girls mentioned that they were on their way to Arkansas, (to a hippie commune). But they went out of their way to see the Grand Ole Opry. I injected my superficial knowledge of the old TV show, "HEE HAW." They were impressed when I rattled off the names of performers and quoted from comedy segments.  I guess it was a surprise that a foreigner (from Brooklyn) appreciated Southern culture.
IN 1976, THE ORIGINAL OPRY HOUSE WAS A MUSEUM. IT HAD ALREADY BEEN REPLACED BY A LARGER, CONTEMPORARY THEATER.


When volleyball broke-up, I tried splitting the girls up so I could make my move on the one who stayed but nothing was working. Two guys came by and hit on them.  The girls warded them off. I knew I was still in the running. I suggested that we make a barbecue together for dinner.  Lynette said, "That's such a good idea but we arranged to meet people in town." I said, "Oh. How about the three of us going to the amusement park tomorrow?" Lu-Ann pointed to their badly dented and rusted VW Microbus and said, "Can you see it? One of the back windows fell out yesterday." Lynette said, " And there's something wrong with the air-conditioning. We need to replace the glass and bring it to a mechanic. Hopefully it only needs freon but between the two problems, it could be an all day affair."

Later, at the community campfire, I had gravitated to the two guys who unsuccessfully tried to pick-up the girls. They were from Connecticut. One of them said, he was sure that the girls liked me. I told him I wasn't so sure because they refused my offer to go the amusement park. He said, "You should still try."

An old-timer who was an employee of the campground extinguished the bonfire early and said that there was lightning in the near distance. The wind picked up and changed direction. I gave a sniff and for the first time all day, I couldn't smell the odor of dead pigs.

I said good-night and took the long way back, to see if the girls had returned. They hadn't so I went back to my tent. By flashlight, I scribbled some entries into my journal. Seconds after closing my eyes for the first time away from home, the calm pitter-patter of rain hitting my plastic shelter eased me to sleep.

I woke up from a nightmare that involved falling into a deep, black abyss. I was startled and sprang up in my sleeping bag. I didn't realize that the cold, damp object rubbing the side of my head was the roof of my sagging tent. Plus, I had the eerie sensation that the earth below me had slightly moved. Any notion that I might still be dreaming ended when a blend of thunder cracks, sheets of pelting rain and far off distressed voices got my attention. I blindly groped for my flashlight but all I found in the darkness was soggy earth. Suddenly the whole kit and kaboodle beneath me moved again...causing the tent to collapse on me.

I re-united myself with my flashlight only to see some of my stuff floating around in a quarter-inch of water. I crawled out into the storm and found my tent in a rivulet. I had to grab it or the current would have taken my belongings downstream towards the lake. I put everything onto higher ground and headed to the administration office. Forty-plus soaked and freezing campers had beaten to that tiny slice of heaven. The toothless old man who put out the campfire made a reference to Nashville's great flood of 1927 and handed me a dry blanket. Soon he returned with coffee and a doughnut. Moments later, Lynette and Lu-Ann came running in. They said rain water was flooding into their microbus.

My doughnut was already gone but I gave Lynette my coffee and Lu-Ann my blanket. I liked the way Lu-Ann was looking at me. At the precise moment that I advanced on her for a hug of mutual warmth someone said, "It's letting up." Lynette snarled, "We have to go Steve. C'mon Lu we got to get back and clean up the van."

I trudged through the mud and dragged my things to the office's porch. I draped my tent and sleeping bag over the wooden railing. Inside, I found a partitioned alcove that housed an arcade. I curled up on the floor, used my backpack as a pillow and closed my eyes. Through chattering teeth, I got two hours of semi-private, bad sleep.

The morning was bright and warm.  After tending to my wet stuff, I waited in line at the laundromat. While my clothes were in the washer, I ventured out to find Lu-Ann. It was 8:30 but she and Lynette were already gone.

At the office I bumped into the Connecticut boys. Their trailer was unaffected by the storm. They invited me to join them for breakfast and Opryland. At the same time, the owners of the campground came in. The man who gave me the blanket whispered to them. The taller owner handed me a $4.50 refund, told me the next night was free and asked me if there was anything else they could do for me. When the shock of his hospitality wore off, I explained my situation. He offered to have an attendant watch my things while I was out for the day and have my tent and sleeping bag re-packed when they dried.

Everything was going my way. I had a blast with these guys and the day got better when we bumped into Lynette and Lu-Ann at the Log Flume ride. Lynette didn't look too thrilled but Lu-Ann took my arm and said, "You boys won't mind if I steal Steve away." The Connecticut boys smiled and left me in good hands. Lynette seemed jealous and didn't take well to the "third-wheel" concept. She never left us and even sat between us on some rides. A couple of times, Lu-Ann and I locked pinkies for a second or two behind Lynette's back but that was as amorous as we got.

It was twilight time when I said to Lu-Ann, "How about me and you going on the Ferris Wheel?" It was obvious that Lynette would never make it as a wing-man when she blurted, "We have to leave!" Lu-Ann looked at her watch and said, "We can't leave him here." Lynette said, "The back seat is musty from all the rain...and besides if we take him back, we'll miss the beginning of the show." Lu-Ann said, "We're going to see Roy Clark at the Grand Ole Opry..." I said, "I love when he sings, 'Ghost Riders in the Sky.' Can I tag along?" Lynette snapped, "No, we got two tickets and its sold out!" She grabbed Lu-Ann and led her away. But Lu-Ann twisted out of her girlfriend's grasp and came back to kiss me and say, "We're leaving for Arkansas in the morning. I'll never see you again." I said, "I'm heading west too. Can I get a ride with you to Memphis?"

It was the 4th of July, the exact 200th birthday of our country. I climbed into the back of the girl's van and began a three and a half hour period of nearly dead silence. I was still hoping to get a bang out of the holiday but Lynette assigned all the driving to Lu-Ann. Lu-Ann seemed to be an inexperienced driver and Lynette made certain all her concentration was in the interstate.

The back of their bus had no seats. So I positioned myself behind the passenger seat. That way, I had a constant diagonal view of Lu-Ann's profile. But she wasn't talking much. I tried to tolerate the situation but between the quiet and the stale, moldiness, I was both physically and emotionally uncomfortable.

At a pit-stop, my eyes locked onto the chest of Lu-Ann's tight, white tee-shirt. She was unencumbered by a brassiere so I fixed on her perky chili bean-like indentations as I told them of Memphis' huge bicentennial party. Lu-Ann seemed resigned to not getting further involved with me. I added. "There's gonna be fireworks over the Mississippi River. Its a once in a lifetime..." Lynette cut me off, "We're not stopping." I continued, "Even if you didn't want to see that...Beale Street is the 'Blues Capital' of the world. It'll be so cool. We can get some drinks and listen..." Lynette blared, "Stop it! We were supposed to be at the commune yesterday."THE THREE-SPAN SYSTEM THAT CROSSES THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER INTO ARKANSAS ARE, THE HARAHAN, FRISCO AND MEMPHIS-ARKANSAS MEMORIAL BRIDGES.

We got to Memphis and soon, the bridge to Arkansas was in sight. Lu-Ann pulled off onto the shoulder before the Front Street exit. Lynette said, "Get out!" I could see Lu-Ann was purposely avoiding eye-contact. I said,"Maybe I can come to the commune with you." Lynette leaned across the gap between the bucket seats and lifted Lu-Ann's shirt. Lu-Ann did not protest as Lynette suckled her boobs. Lynette stopped and began passionately kissing Lu-Ann. When Lynette stopped she said, "Where we are going, men are not welcome." She waited for my response but none came. She said, "What are you dense? We're lesbians you idiot. Haven't you figured that out yet?" I fought off the urge to say, "I don't care if she's a lesbian, she can go to her church and I'll go to mine." But I didn't. I just grabbed my things and slithered out of the van. Then dumbfounded, I stood and watched them vanish over the Harahan Bridge's crest.

# # #

A scant 100 editions of, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," ago, I celebrated my 100th blog. That can only mean one thing, that with the bit of hilarity above, I have reached the rarefied air of my 200th column. Yay me, and of course, yay you.

A special thanks to RBOY who kept a journal during our 1974 working vacation in Disney World. That idea spurred me to chronicle the events of my bicentennial road trip. Then twenty years later, my itch to write was permanently ignited by my friend, crime novelist Charlie Stella, (a.k.a. CHARLIEOPERA). He heard some of my life experiences and told me that I was a natural story teller. From that compliment, I began to write. Along the way, in 2006, RFOURACRE encouraged me to start this blog.

The result is, I have parlayed all three of those influences into 200, "MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," blogs, 20 short stories set in Las Vegas, two horror screenplays, a novel and an incalculable amount of personal satisfaction.

MORE IMPORTANTLY, THANK YOU MY READERS, FOR YOUR CONTINUOUS SUPPORT!

MY HOLLYWOOD DEBUT

Frank Sinatra's mother, Natalie "Dolly" Sinatra died in a January 1977 plane crash on San Gorgonio Mountain, near Desert Hot Springs California. Six months earlier, during my cross-country escapade the previous year, I was in this tiny suburb of Palm Springs.  More specifically, I didn't set out to go to this insignificant dot in the Mohave Desert, I wound up there.  

SNOWY SAN GORGONIO IS SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA'S HIGHEST PEAK.

This road trip celebrated my last summer of childhood together with our country's bicentennial. The majority of my travel was by bus. At the time, Greyhound offered its Ameri-Pass. This great deal provided sixty days of unlimited travel for $250.00. Even better, Greyhound had a reciprocal agreement with Trailways and other smaller lines, so theses passes were honored by the other companies. The catch was, in 1976, there were tons of places that were still inaccessible by public bus. Therefore, my trip included a lot of hitchhiking.

SALTER BUS LINES (NEW ORLEANS TO RUSTON LOUISIANA),  STOOD OUT AS THE WORST OF THE SMALLER BUS COMPANIES.  COMPARED TO THE COMPETITION, THAT DILAPIDATED RATTLETRAP LOOKED LIKE IT WAS FROM A 1940's, THIRD WORLD COUNTRY.  MY BUS WAS FILLED WITH LITTER, THERE WAS NO AIR-CONDITIONING AND NOXIOUS ENGINE FUMES WERE CONTINUOUSLY BOMBARDING THE RIDERS.  IN RETROSPECT, AN EXTRA FEE, TO TAKE YOUR CHANCES SITTING ON THE ROOF WOULD HAVE BEEN WORTH THE RISK.

I only had one problem with Greyhound. Somewhere in the 285 miles between Las Vegas and Los Angeles, they lost my luggage (backpack).

YOU MIGHT NOTICE THAT I'M ON CANADIAN SOIL, (BANFF ALBERTA).  FORGET THAT!  THE SIGNIFICANCE HERE IS, I'M CARRYING ALL MY CROSS-COUNTRY POSSESSIONS...A BACKPACK AND A SHOULDER BAG.

In Los Angeles, a Greyhound public relations representative named Norman Gildersleeve (his real name), told me they "tracked" down my bag in Idaho. He told me that I'd be paged on the PA system when my back pack came in the next day.  Unfortunately, it took a week, (maybe there's a town on Guam called Idaho).

I spent nearly all my time, for the next three days, at or near the bus station.  On a limited budget, this inconvenience forced to wear the same clothes. I felt like a vagrant. At night, I even rode the bus back and forth from San Diego, so I could sleep.

THANK GOODNESS THE WAITING ROOM HAD PINBALL MACHINES AND COIN-OP TV's, (20 MINUTES FOR A QUARTER) CONNECTED TO THE HARD PLASTIC CHAIRS.

I was playing pinball just after dark when I struck up a conversation with a guy my age named Bryan Friend, (his real name). He suggested eating at a taqueria around the corner from L.A.'s enormous bus depot.  Bryan led me past a wall of a twenty opaque exit doors until we got to the rear entrance. This taco stand was in the heart of Skid Row. A who's who of annoying undesirables lined the streets as well as the inside of this greasy spoon. Bryan told me he was going back home to Desert Hot Springs. At that point, as I dreaded the walk past the unsafe dregs of society, I asked him if I could hang-out with him for a couple of days until my stuff was returned to me.

AT THE CORNER OF SKIDMARK AND SYRINGE, THE BACK ENTRANCE OF THE LOS ANGELES GREYHOUND STATION.

Bryan lived up to his last name by making me feel like a good friend. On the midnight bus to his town, I found out that even your best buddy can leave-out vital details. Early in our ride, he mentioned that his "baby" was a brown, 1969 Pontiac Le Mans. Later, he said that he lived nine miles from the Palm Springs bus depot. When we arrived, after 2:AM, that was when he found it fitting to share, "Oh yeah, my car's parked at my house."

Palm Springs is not only a ghost town in the wee hours but the open road on the outskirts of this desert oasis (even in summer) left us exposed to a stinging breeze. I was shivering my ass off as we combined walking and hitchhiking. In thirty minutes, five hundred tumble-weeds bounced past us but only three cars. Luckily the third, a 1960 Ford Meteor, stopped for us.

PICTURE THIS CAR AS A CONVERTIBLE...EXCEPT IT'S A RUSTED-OUT HEAP WITH NO ROOF, WINDOWS OR WINDSHIELD...BECAUSE THEY WERE ALL SAWED-OFF.

The fifty-ish, pot-bellied driver was wearing checkered black and white pants, a white tee-shirt and a bloody chef's apron.  His ensemble was accessorized with a tattered gray scarf around his neck and a pair of funky World War I aviator goggles. We told him where we were going and he slurred in a heavy German accent, "Get in, schnell." It was desperation time, I would have taken a ride from Charles Manson...and perhaps I did.

Bryan sat up front. I discovered, (the hard way), that the back seat had no upholstery, so I sat on exposed, rusty springs. Within a half-mile of swerving, we knew our savior was a sloppy drunk as he accelerated out of town.

At 75MPH without a windshield, this would be the last time I remember my hair getting in my eyes. But far worse, the tiny, omnipresent, airborne, desert dust particles continuously stung my face. Between this sot speeding, me freezing, getting sand blasted and having a raw spring up my butt...the situation couldn't get worse...WRONGO!

Our driver said he was a cook at one of the hotels in Palm Springs. He starting complaining about Ed Goldfarb, his manager. Between hiccups, he turned his eyes off the road and asked me, "Neither of you boys are Jews...are you?" I found lying to be prudent. Seconds after he turned back around, he slammed on the brakes, skidded to a stop and said, "Let's get something to eat." He was making a derogatory comment about his Asian ex as we bounced over the curb and into a SAMBO'S restaurant parking lot.

SAMBO'S WAS FOUNDED IN 1957.  BY 1979, THEY HAD 1,200 OUTLETS IN 47 STATES.  AROUND THAT TIME, CIVIL RIGHTS GROUPS PROTESTED THAT THE NAME AND INTERIOR DECORATIONS WERE OFFENSIVE TO BLACK PEOPLE. LAWSUITS WERE FILED.  DESPITE CHANGING THE NAME AND OTHER CONCESSIONS, THE COMPANY CRUMBLED.  TODAY, ONLY THE ORIGINAL RESTAURANT IN SANTA BARBARA CALIFORNIA REMAINS.

In the nearly empty restaurant, Baron von Richtofen told us to get anything we wanted.  A chubby waitress took our order. Bryan and I just got coffee. Our host pinched the girl's derriere as she turned away. She responded with a harsh glare.

During our awkward wait, a Latino motorcycle cop came in and sat at the counter. The waitress hustled over, whispered to him and pointed in our direction. The officer approached, "Werner, you okay to get home?" I was shocked that the policeman knew this nimrod's name. Rather than nod our chauffeur blasted, "Ya, ya leave me and mein friends alone." The cop asked Bryan and I to identify ourselves. When he was satisfied that we weren't run-aways, he gestured towards the waitress, "Werner, be a nice fella and keep your mitts to your self."

Werner MF'ed the police, Hispanics, blacks, Jews and Asians as we sped away. To avoid being bludgeoned to death in his sleep by this potential psychotic, Bryan had us dropped off three blocks from his place.

On the frosty walk home, we passed dozens of identical, tiny, shack-like houses. In the distance, I sighed in relief when I spotted a brown Le Mans. Up close, beyond the weed-infested, white pebble garden, Bryan's flimsy house looked like four pieces of galvanized sheet metal stapled together.

Inside, up against the bare cinder block wall, Bryan pointed to a beat up sofa and said, "I'll get you a pillow and blanket." I emptied my pockets onto a coffee table that was a sliver of wall paneling set atop three stacks of, "POPULAR MECHANICS," magazines. I asked, "Where's the bathroom?" Bryan pointed to a finger-shaped sign above the kitchenette's door that read: REST ROOMS OUT BACK. To this day, other than port-a-potties that would be my only exposure to a genuine outhouse, (yes it did have a crescent moon cut out of its ramshackle wooden door). In the morning, I found out that the shower was also out back.

Bryan lent me some clothes and took me to a laundromat. He was out of work so we spent most of the next two days watching TV, (yawn), seeing both local points of interest (YAWN!) or visiting with his CB friends, (DOUBLE YAWN !!). We ate all our meals in burger joints but on the last day to show my appreciation, after he turned down my offer of gas money, I treated him to a regular restaurant. He chose Sambo's.

BRYAN DROVE AN HOUR IN EACH DIRECTION TO THESE SAHARA-LIKE SAND DUNES.  ALL FIFTEEN MINUTES THERE WERE MEMORABLE.

After two days, Bryan dropped me off in the Palm Springs bus station. I slept the whole ride into LA. I hoped that my odyssey would end when I retrieved my back pack. Instead I wound up arguing with Norman Gildersleeve until he gave me a small stipend for my four nights in motels, (I did good considering I didn't have receipts). I also got him to extend my bus pass, eight days.

I decided to get away from Southern California and chose San Francisco. I had two hours to kill before departure. I wanted to go to the taqueria again. I was passing bus the station's long wall of doors when I realized that it would be a shortcut to leave through the side rather than the back. But all the exit doors had yellow, emergency tape on them. I didn't care, I ducked underneath the tape and pushed through an opaque door. Simultaneously, someone outside yelled, "CUT !" Then another voice profaned me. I had walked into the middle of the set during a filming of TV's, "BARETTA." I wasn't embarrassed that I ruined the scene.  I even thought it was cool until some assistant to the assistant director gave me the bum's rush past Robert Blake and Antonio Vargas. He escorted me beyond the rope that cordoned off the public...and was told to stay there.

I watched the actors complete their scene and went for more tacos.

IRONICALLY, I'VE BEEN TO LOS ANGELES SIX TIMES AND I'VE NEVER LAID EYES ON THE ICONIC HOLLYWOOD SIGN.

At Christmastime, I sent Bryan a holiday card and thanked him again for his hospitality. In my note, I included my Baretta experience in LA-LA-Land. Jokingly, I finished with, "I wonder if my debut in Hollywood was lost on the cutting room floor. " My "friend" never responded.



                                                                            #



EDITOR'S NOTE - A FRIEND OF MGTP, RGERM7, WAS LIVING IN LAS VEGAS IN JANUARY 1977 WHEN FRANK SINATRA'S MOM WAS KILLED IN THE PLANE CRASH MENTIONED ABOVE.  RGERM7 WAS, (STILL IS), SUCH A SINATRA FAN THAT HE AND HIS PARENTS RENTED A LIMO TO PALM SPRINGS AND SUCCESSFULLY CRASHED MRS. SINATRA'S FUNERAL.

33-YEAR BOYCOTT: THE GREAT ROCKY MOUNTAIN BUZZ-KILLER !

In 1976, I toured the country in a combination of hitch-hiking and riding Greyhounds. My 68 days on the road was both filling and fulfilling as I witnessed the best of our country...its people and natural resources.

In the heart of the Rocky Mountains (Georgetown Colorado), I met two Jersey guys...both named Jack. It was fun hanging out with them and our two days together were packed with wild adventures. The second night, while Jack-A shacked-up with a girl from town, Jack-B and I decided to forgo the local youth hostel and sleep in a cave that we had seen during the day.

ANYTHING GOES WITH A CASE OF STROH'S

Jack-B and I found the unpaved access road off Interstate-70 but got lost in the dark. Heading back on the highway's shoulder, he plunged into a huge puddle and the car got stuck in mud. After a while, we flagged down someone to help but he was drunk. Even when he put his can of Olympia beer down, he was useless...but he agreed to drive us back to where Jack-A was.

Beyond the outskirts of Georgetown, our unnecessarily high-speed drive through the darkened rural woods was scary enough but Jack-B was lost...he had only been to this log cabin once...in daylight. We crisscrossed the forest and drove in circles for ninety minutes. We finally found this girl's home. It was in such a remote place that an adjacent stream powered the generator that ran her electricity...hard to believe...she intentionally had no phone either.

The girl opened the door wearing only a smile and a short, dress-like Dos Equis tee-shirt. Jack-A on the other hand was seething at the prospect of his romantic evening being interrupted. When Jack-B explained the pitiful circumstances, Jack-A's exasperated angst skyrocketed. I thought he was going to have a brain aneurysm as he fought the urge to strangle his pal.

EVEN NOW, EVERY TV COMMERCIAL FOR DOS EQUIS MAKES ME THINK OF THAT GIRL.

We drove back into town. If you recall from an earlier blog, I was chased out of the Red Ram Saloon...fate and this idiocy brought me back to that same bar. I thought it was prudent to hide from my tormentors in the shadows as the girl enlisted the help of a tow-truck operator. Like a scolded puppy, Jack-B avoided confrontation with his pissed-off buddy. So while Jack-A and the girl negotiated with the tow truck owner, Jack-B bought two icy-cold bottles of Anchor Steam Beer and smuggled them out for me and him.

ANCHOR BEER MIGHT BE THE PRIDE OF SAN FRANCISCO BUT IT WASN'T A GOOD IDEA FOR US.

The tow truck had a winch and pulled the car out in seconds. The drive back to town was filled with tense silence. Jack-A then dropped me and Jack-B at the youth hostel. When the horny couple drove-off to resume to their tryst, we celebrated our survival by drinking our hidden beer. Unfortunately, the hostel was full and we were only permitted in to retrieve our sleeping bags . In the tiny town, we had nowhere to go. Jack-B and I found a desolate road along side a mountain and camped-out. Even though it was late July, because of the altitude, we froze. Our shivering wasn't helped by the beer or the not-so-distant howl of wolves.

Somehow we weren't eaten during the night. The next morning, we re-united with Jack-A and the three of us drove to Golden Colorado. Along the way we passed a huge, privately owned, open range. On this land, someone was breeding buffaloes...as in real buffaloes. In addition to selling them for their meat, they are also "leased-out" for western movies, TV shows etc. The image of the thundering herd, surrounded by the mountainous vista, running parallel to the interstate remains, (right along with the girl in the Dos Equis shirt), as one of the highlights of my life.

There's only one thing that I can think of that is famous in Golden Colorado. It is the corporate headquarters and home of the Coors Brewing company's main plant.

IN THE MID-70's, COORS WAS NOT AVAILABLE IN THE EASTERN U.S.. THIS CAUSED A "FROST-BREWED" MYSTIQUE THAT MADE GUYS LIKE ME AND THE TWO JACKS SALIVATE AT THE IDEA OF FREE BEER AFTER THEIR FACTORY TOUR.

Our tour started before noon. Our 30-person group was dominated by old-timers...I was two months older than 21 back then...so by old-timers...I'm guessing these folks were mainly 45+. During the tour there were several stupid questions and statements made by our group like; Why do they call them hops? And, "You guys will never get me to switch from Piels."

I REMEMBER PIELS AS BEING SO BAD THAT WE NICKNAMED IT, ALONG WITH UTICA CLUB (a.k.a. dog water) AND BALLANTINE (like drinking wet sand) AS, "THE LAST OF THE 99-CENT SIX PACKS." TO PIELS CREDIT, THEIR CUTE TV COMMERCIALS FEATURED THE COMEDY TEAM OF "BOB AND RAY" AS THE CARTOON VOICES OF THE OWNER BROTHERS (HARRY AND BURT PIELS).

The other people on our tour got used to our childish outbursts. Inwardly, I'll bet they were being too polite and wanted to join us.

After the factory tour, our guide disappeared. Male hospitality employees in lederhosen and females dressed like St. Pauli girls, welcomed us to the tasting room. In this enormous beer hall, we were oriented to the rules and were told we can "sample" as much beer as we could suck down...we were also told that the beer was "3.2 beer," (lower than normal alcohol content). We were settling in to our first beer when a knucklehead from our tour group asked, "Do you also serve free cheese, salami and crackers like they do in the Foster's brewery in Australia?" We screamed with laughter and loudly rehashed earlier dumb remarks.
COINCIDENTALLY, BOTH JACKS WERE IRISH! JACK-A SAID, "GET COMFORTABLE, WE'RE GOING TO BE HERE A WHILE." AND JACK-B SAID, "WHEN WE DRINK FREE BEER, WE MAKE A PROFIT."

I was taking my second sip when *Gestapo-like plain-clothes security guards asked us to, "Come with us." (*editor's note, I said Gestapo because the Coors primary owner's name back then was ADOLPH Coors). On our way out, I heard a woman from another group said, "Damn hippies, they must be drunk!"

Outside the room, we were led down a short, bleak hallway. They opened an emergency door and we were kicked out. In the snap of a finger, our Rocky Mountain high vanished.

I wasn't embarrassed by this incident...instead it made me angry. About a week later I eased up and saw the humor in it. Still, I felt profiled and robbed of a good time. To satisfy my troubled feeling and to forever make the event noteworthy, I decided to crush Coors financially. I am proud to say that I have boycotted all their products while sending out the message of their dastardly deed. I'm guessing that if it wasn't for me, they'd be at the top of the Fortune-500 list. Therefore, I am happy to announce that the 33rd anniversary of my one-man Coors abstinence program is coming-up in a couple of months.

In case you're curious...my beer of choice down through the decades has been Heineken but Grolsch (also from Holland) is a highly honored second choice.

THE STOCKHOLM EFFECT, ON INTERSTATE 70 !

During a History Channel episode of "MODERN MARVELS;" great engineering roadway feats were discussed. The show jarred my memory and I recalled appreciating the beauty of Interstate 70 along the section that cuts through Utah and Colorado.                       I-70 GOING WEST, CUTS THROUGH THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

In 1976, I combined hitchhiking and Greyhound buses to do a 68-day solo trip across the country. I kept a daily log and mailed it home to my parents...in lieu of letters. This journal is still in my mother's house. I always meant to type it out but in all these years, I still haven't re-read a single word. Today's highlighted excerpt will give you a flavor of my experiences as well as a taste of I-70's beauty.

During my trip, at a fast-food restaurant in Phoenix, a fellow backpacker approached me.  What a coincidence, she had been in my Kiddie-Lit (Children's Literature), at Brooklyn College. We re-hashed old memories and shared our adventures since leaving New York. Later. she invited me to stay with her and her boyfriend on their camp-site at the Grand Canyon.

When I got to the Grand Canyon, they had befriended a bunch of people and it wound up being a huge hippie hang-out, (you may recall from a previous blog, in which...I thought...that gang had awakened me at 6AM, by gobbling like turkeys. Through my tent, I yelled for them to stop. I got so angry that I unzipped my tent to give them a piece of my mind. I was shocked to see twenty or so actual wild turkeys serenading me).

From that group, a couple from Slidell Louisiana stood out in my mind. Mostly because I obsessed over the girl. She was so friendly, funny and beautiful but completely unattainable for me. In addition to her boyfriend having that Charles Manson look, he was into hatchet throwing. If that wasn't intimidating enough, he also carried a bull-whip and would crack it inches from this girl's face whenever she hesitated in carrying-out his bidding. It was a horror to watch her unconditional obedience to him. What was far worse was her defense of his actions and putting herself down to rationalize his behavior.

I gravitated to a guy in the crowd with a fresh scar from stitches next to his left eye named Will Raymond. This rural Coloradoan would let me vent to him about this girl. I even used my B- knowledge of Psych-101 to explain the concept of the Stockholm Effect...a phenomena where a victim, over time, identifies and sides with their captor. Will's response was, "Cut the shit!  Be a hero and save her from the abuse... or shut-up." Regretfully, I shut-up.  Thus starting our friendship.

Will encouraged me to visit him in his hometown, tiny Georgetown Colorado. He told great stories about his friends and the laid-back attitude in this former silver mining boon-town. He gave me his address and phone number, and invited me stay over if I ever made it there. We got along so well, that I decided to hitchhike back with him.

Our first stop was Flagstaff Arizona. We soon learned that the town was known for its racial tensions. Surprisingly, these problems were Native Americans versus...everyone else, (of course we never heard the Indians side of the story).

To avoid broiling in the 115 degree sun, Will and I had our thumbs out in the shade of an overpass. We were stuck there over an hour when state troopers stopped to interrogate us. They wanted to see ID and money, to make sure we weren't runaways and/or vagrants. When we checked-out, the trooper's parting words were, "Don't take a ride from an Indian. They'll drive you to a secluded spot in the desert, cut your hands off and while you're running in agony, use you for target practice!"

Another hour had gone by and the trooper's words were still fresh when a pick-up truck stopped. Naturally there were two Indians inside. Without speaking, the passenger motioned us to sit in the bed. We got in. I later found out that Will was as scared as I was. To pass the time, Will told me about all the girls he knew back home. His chat made the risk seem worthwhile. A couple of hours later, the Indians safely dropped us off at a cut-off for Tuba City.

TUBA CITY, IS AN UNINCORPORATED TOWN IN COCONINO COUNTY.  ITS POPULATION (8500) MAKES IT THE WORLD'S LARGEST NAVAJO COMMUNITY.

They drove away on the dusty road to Tuba City and left us in the middle of nowhere.

Other than the blacktop highway and the unpaved crossroad,  Will and I were the only dots in the lonely, stifling hot landscape. Like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie only four cars whizzed by during our first thirty minutes out there.

The only relief we got  from the elements came from fluffy, harmless looking clouds temporarily blocking the sun. That's why it was so shocking that one gigantic gray cloud appeared in the distance.
In no time, the cloud darkened and zoomed on a collision course straight at us. It was overhead when the hailstorm started. At first it was funny but soon the little frozen pellets increased to penny-size. The sky was almost black and with no place to run, the heavens opened as a torrent of golf ball-like hailstones painfully pinged and pelted us for ten minutes.  It sounds crazy but seconds after the last hail stone bounced off my head, it was 115 degrees again.
                 (STOCK PHOTO) HAILSTORM IN ARIZONA'S SONORA DESERT.

Our next ride dropped us at Lake Powell. Lake Powell is a man-made recreational center that straddles the Arizona-Utah border. That night, it was so hot along the shore (around 95 degrees) that we tried to sleep on top of our sleeping bags. In the dark, Will was telling me that the Red Ram Saloon. was the coolest place in Georgetown. I became distracted by low flying birds and moaned, "Geez these swooping birds are annoying." He laughed, "Birds? Those aren't birds, they're bats!" I think I lost twenty pounds from sweat that night because, I got into my sleeping bag and zipped it right up to my chin.

In the morning, the Lake Powell visitor center was a modern, air-conditioned building with restrooms, a gift shop and restaurant. We spend a lot of time inside because it was so damned hot outside. In speaking to other travelers, we found out, if we thought it was hard to get a ride in Arizona...its almost impossible in Mormon Country (Utah).

For four hours, we still hadn't connected with a ride. At noon, Will was telling me his best friend Frank was the bartender at the Red Ram. He was dabbing at the tender scar on his face as he continued, "Frank'll let us drink free all night.  He's the kind of guy who'll give you the shirt off his back." Will stopped bragging when a trucker picked us up.

This malicious bastard took us less than twenty miles and said, "This is where I turn off." We were stranded and left in Utah's version of the middle of nowhere. Except we had no visitor center, no shade and couldn't fill our canteens.

It seemed like we were out there forever. I was considering walking back to Lake Powell when an RV picked us up. Inside were four generations of non-English speaking, German tourists. It was uncomfortable but they might have saved our lives. They dropped us off in the town of Kanab.

Oasis-like Kanab was a small green patch in the brown desert wilderness. At first it was refreshing how many townspeople took the time to stop their car and sincerely wish us luck.  But since none of them picked us up...the novelty wore thin, quick!.

At dusk, a guy driving a Sanford and Son-like dry-ice truck, offered us a ride...with the stipulation that in exchange for the lift, we were to unload all his deliveries.

"SANFORD AND SON," STARRING REDD FOXX AND DEMOND WILSON WAS A HIT SIT-COM FOR SIX SEASONS AND 135 EPISODES, (1972-1977). THE SHOW CENTERED ON A FATHER AND SON JUNK BUSINESS.  (above) IS A REPLICA OF THE 1951 FORD F1 TRUCK USED IN THE SHOW.  THE DRY ICE TRUCK THAT PICKED US UP WAS SIMILAR, EXCEPT  FOR A MAKESHIFT, WALK-IN, WOODEN, FREEZER BOX BUILT INTO THE BACK OF THE TRUCK. 

His delivery route was gas stations along that dark, two-lane highway. I had no idea that in 1976, there were still so many soda machines that were refrigerated by dry-ice. We soon learned that our savior's plan to use us as laborers had nothing to do with laziness. While we schlepped giant frigid blocks for him, he drank whisky with the proprietors/managers/attendants.

After many stops over the next few hours, he was ripped. Then he got a CB message that a girl with a low-cut top and a large chest was driving ahead of us in a white, late-model Chrysler Imperial convertible. He got that old truck up to 90MPH and wove dangerously around the occasional car in our path. My mind also raced...to the tragic death of Jayne Mansfield.

THE "BLOND BOMBSHELL, "JAYNE MANSFIELD (1933-1967) WAS AN EARLY PLAYBOY BUNNY AND MAJOR SEX SYMBOL OF HER GENERATION.

While we flew through the night, my thoughts fixated not so much on what might happen to the girl we were chasing but what might happen to us.

ON JUNE 29, 1967, NEAR NEW ORLEANS (above)  THERE'S NOT MUCH LEFT OF THE 1966 BUICK ELECTRA CONVERTIBLE THAT RESULTED IN THE DECAPITATION DEATH OF MANSFIELD.

In mid-burp our driver gleefully announced, "There she is," when he spotted her car in the distance. Seconds later, (thank God), we heard the siren of a motorcycle policeman behind us.

When the dry-ice dude spoke to the cop, he was so wasted that he couldn't put together two sentences. So when you consider how conservative Utah is, it was crazy that he talked (slurred), his way out of a drunk driving summons...and his speeding ticket ($30.00) was determined as a dollar for every mile per hour over the limit he was driving.

Will and I were dropped us off at 1:AM, at a city park in Richfield Utah.  Before leaving, our intoxicated benefactor was conscientious enough to point out that the on-ramp for I-70 (our link to Georgetown Colorado), was a few blocks away.

We hid ourselves in a grove of trees behind the playground and slept. In the morning, Will mentioned that Frank the bartender might be able to get me some day-work at the bar. He added, "It's a good idea to not piss Frank off because as 'together' as he is..." Will paused, dabbed at his facial stitches and groaned, "He also has a bad temper."

Will went into the public restroom to clean-up. When he came out, I went in. When I came out, Will had vanished. I checked my belongings and everything was intact. I was more intrigued than angry and I decided to go continue on to his slice of Eden, (I still had his phone number and address). There was a Greyhound station in Richfield and Georgetown Colorado which also abutted the interstate was a straight-shot, 500 miles away.

I-70 was the first US interstate to be started.  It was under construction from 1956 till 1992 . It begins a little farther west in Utah and goes east 2153 miles into Baltimore. The section I was riding along is considered one of the most picturesque highways in the world as well the most challenging to build.

      ALONG I-70, NO PICTURE OF GLENWOOD CANYON COULD DO IT JUSTICE

This part of the country was inaccessible prior to the roadway coming in. Running through the heart of the Rocky Mountains, I-70 runs parallel to the Colorado River and cuts sharply around mountain walls and gorges. Sewn into the fabric of the hostile terrain, I-70's engineering marvels allow it to pass over the San Rafael Swell in Eastern Utah, go through the Glenwood Canyon and blast through a mountain for the Eisenhower Tunnel.

                              SPOTTED WOLF CANYON IN THE SAN RAFAEL SWELL

On the ride to Georgetown, all of my attention was focused on the scenery. Every twist in the highway brought greater beauty. I also thought it odd to see bicyclists on the shoulder but I found out that because of the sparsity of traffic, I-70 is the only Interstate that permits non-motorized vehicles.

THIS COULD NEVER HAPPEN OUT-WEST. THE DRIVERS THERE ARE KINDER AND GENTLER.

At the Georgetown exit, my bus went down the off-ramp. On the outskirts of the tiny town, I got off at the gas station/post office/Greyhound depot. It was getting dark as I read the address that Will gave me back at the Grand Canyon.

The little town was sandwiched west and south by mountains and cut off by I-70 to the north. My search for 37 First Street began. The first cross street was 11th. I looked to the left and the width of the town was four streets and one more to the right. It was amazing that I went ten minutes without seeing anyone...it felt like I was on, "CANDID CAMERA"   Soon, the weirdness intensified and I was convinced that I was in the "TWILIGHT ZONE" when a pack of mangy, stray dogs came out of an alley at 8th Street. They were growling and nipping at my heels...I thought I was going to soil myself until a jeep drove by and scared them off.

Normalcy set-in on Sixth Street, the big commerce center. The Red Ram Saloon was on that corner and there were active stores, homes and people. I continued until I saw that there was one street beyond Third and it was Second...then a mountain!

I saw a man checking his mail and asked, "Where's First Street?"

He said, "We don't have a First Street."

"Well, I'm looking for 37 First Street."

The man looked at my paper and said, "We don't have a First Street.  And...there's no two-digits addresses in the whole town."  He pointed at that phone number and added, "See that exchange...669?"

I said, "Yeah."

"Well...there isn't a 669 exchange anywhere around here."

I made a U-Turn and headed for the Red Ram Saloon.

(CURRENT STOCK PHOTO)  35 YEARS LATER, THE RED RAM IS NOT ONLY STILL THERE BUT IT ALSO BOASTS ABOUT BEING GEORGETOWN'S NUMBER ONE EATERY...OF COURSE IT MIGHT BE THE TOWN'S ONLY RESTAURANT ?

I entered the Red Ram Saloon with a lot of questions. Despite the dimness, I found the inside to be brand new. It was decorated with plastic, Western memorabilia and looked like a cowboy-themed attraction in Disneyland. The long bar went the length of the right hand wall and ended with swinging doors that led to the bright florescent bulb lit kitchen. On the left hand wall, a one-flight, split staircase led to a square-shaped over-hanging walkway that was dotted with fake hotel-type numbered doors.

A TV was set high above the unattended bar.  Five people were watching the 1976 Olympics. In the large barroom there were three other couples at different tables. When I walked in, it was like I had spurs attached to my sneakers...everyone stopped what they were doing...and in a hostile way, stared me down.

I went to the TV watchers smiled, "Is Frank the bartender around?"

A skinny redneck in a sweat-stained yellow bandanna on his head said, "Who the hell are you?"

I said, "I'm a friend of Will Raymond...and Will said, when I got to town..."

A drunken girl in a Grateful Dead tee-shirt put two fingers in her mouth and interrupted me with an ear-piercing whistle. A huge (fat and tall) bearded man burst through the kitchen door carrying a meat cleaver. When he stopped, this behemoth who resembled Bluto from the Popeye cartoons, eclipsed the brightness coming from behind.

BLUTO (aka BRUTUS) WAS FEATURED AS POPEYE'S BULLYING NEMESIS IN COMIC STRIPS AND CARTOONS SINCE 1932.

The redneck called out, "Frankie, this boy tells us that he's a friend of Will Raymond..."

I was already back-pedaling when the giant boomed, "Well, I almost killed Will Raymond with my bare hands!"

The skinny redneck cut-in, "And no jury would have convicted you."

Frank gave him a dirty look and pointed the cleaver at me, "Will Raymond ain't welcome here and neither are you."

When he started towards me, I turned and walked out to a chorus of laughter. I was crossing Sixth Street when I recalled Will's high regard for Frank but that he frequently touched his stitched face when the other side of Frank's personality came to mind.  That's when it dawned on me that Will experienced the Stockholm Effect, first hand.

Suddenly, Frank barged-out into the street, waved the cleaver and yelled, "Raymond owes me six hundred bucks! Unless you're gonna do something about it, get your sorry ass out of town before I take it out of your hide!"