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SNOW
For the past few days, I have spoken to people in the Northeast and they told me
how they were bracing for the forecast blizzard. Today, I read the results.
The Fall River (MA) Herald News reported that schools were closed as well
as most businesses. More than 100 of the city’s fleet of 135 snow plows were in use. Some had broken down. The city
had to borrow anything that looked like a plow from businesses or individuals to assist in clearing the white stuff.
Here, in San Diego, we received a rain storm a couple of weeks ago that broke a
182-consecutive day streak of no precipitation. We get about three inches of rain a year. Virtually all San Diegans brag about
our weather and call it the finest in the world. However, they are using only the gauge of precipitation as a guide. Frankly,
after 22 years here, I am sick and tired of looking to the sky each day and seeing only blue and suffering temperatures of
70-90 degrees Fahrenheit daily. It is boring.
The last time I saw snow was in 1982 in The Netherlands. I miss it.
While growing up in Tiverton, Rhode Island, a town bordering Fall River, Massachusetts,
the winters always included snow. Not as much as say, Minnesota, but enough to make it interesting.
Snow was magic. It was enlightening. It was fun. I never could understand why adults
cursed the white flakes.
The main asset of snow was the closing of schools. I always received good marks,
but I hated school … always. It was boring and restrictive. School showed me nothing other than it was an unquestioned
obligation. Even today, I find no joy in my school experience. Education is paramount, but schooling, many times, ran counter
to learning. That was not education.
My house was located on a hill that overlooked a bay. Once the snow began, I began
a vigil that transformed into a drama with many acts.
First, the ground began to turn white. Then, all appeared to be clean and perfect.
No blemishes at all.
Once the snow began to accumulate, say to three or four inches, the old black iron
railroad bridge that spanned the bay began to turn white, making for a surreal view.
Then, a silence crept in. A positive and beautiful silence. There were no cars
on the road. There were no activities from the day-to-day occurrences in the neighborhood.
The next few hours were spent just looking out the second-story windows of my house.
No words were necessary. The opposite side of the bay became a contoured white silhouette against the gray skies. Once the
snowflakes hit the water, they immediately disappeared in an endless flow of futility. The water remained calm and dark.
When nighttime came, another act began. The images of millions of snowflakes falling
under the a street light was mesmerizing. It was a continuous, seemingly never-ending flow.
About 500 yards or so from my house was a small wooded area with a stream. When
I went there during a snowstorm, the entire area was different from its normal guise. It was almost like an actor taking on
a new role. A role that was only temporary. The stream had the same effect on the snowflakes as the salt water bay —
it melted the white particles on contact. But, the trees took on new personalities. They were aligned at different angles
and were thicker. If I shook one, an instant barrage of snow came falling down. The ground was so different from its snow-less
state, that one would not be remiss in thinking he/she was in an unknown area.
The day after a snowstorm was just as enjoyable. Out came the sled. My small white
dog, Daisy (appropriately-named) would be camouflaged while playing with me in the yard. There was no brown or green vegetation:
it was all white.
At a young age, I learned that fairy tales are for kids and that the tremendous
enjoyment I had experienced would end — but gradually. First came the snow plows clearing the roads and piling huge
stacks of snow beside the thoroughfares. That broke up the consistent pattern of white.
Next, came the cars. A few at time at first, then back to a more normal pace: old
mufflers roaring and horns blaring.
Despite the gradual reverting to normalcy, the worst of the storm’s aftermath
was soon to come and it would abruptly state to me that my fun was over: school would reopen.
After a couple of days, the only evidence of the snowstorm was the piles of snow
on the roadsides that the plows created. Now, we saw the negative aspects of snow. Mud everywhere. On our first day back at
school, the entire building would be laden with muddy footprints. When they dried, it looked like a mudslide had occurred
inside the building. Outside was no better. The playground was unusable for nothing more than kids to stand and talk. That’s
not what playgrounds are meant for.
But, in a couple of days, the temperature usually dropped and the mud turned into
frozen dirt. Shortly after that, things were again normal. Until the next snowstorm.
Despite the gloomy aftermath of snowstorms, the experience of the storm itself
was priceless. When April came, there was some sadness. Unless a fluke of weather happened, the snow was done for the year.
But, those of us who were forward thinkers, knew it would return in about seven or eight months. That never changed. In August,
I would think, "Only three or four months to go."
To this day, I still wonder why the adults cursed snow. Then, I put it down to
them being a bunch of grumpy old-timers. It never occurred to me that I did not have to drive or go to work in the snow, or
worse, shovel it. That’s the luxury of being a kid.
AMERICA’S LOSS — THE DEMISE OF THE DRIVE-IN
THEATER
Kids growing up today in our country possess the technology and the
tools to perform tasks, both educational and recreational, that previous generations could not envisage even in their wildest
moments of imagination. There is one aspect of yesteryear, however, that most young people of today will never experience
— an evening at the drive in movies.
Since the French first showed a one-minute moving picture presentation
of a train in motion in 1895, movies have captivated every society on the Earth. Despite the intrusion of VCRs and DVDs, movie
attendance is staggering and movie industries worldwide are flourishing. Most Americans think of Hollywood as the film capital
of the world, but India has a movie industry that eclipses that of the United States. Mexico, per capita, has a larger film
output than the United States. In other words, the attraction of the movie is universal.
Despite the overwhelming affinity to the screen, only the United States
experienced the magic of an unusual (by international standards) method of showing movies — the drive-in theater. For
a few wonderful decades, the drive-in was king of the hill for movie presentation. Adults brought their families and adolescents
used the drive-in for social progression. Today, the drive-in theater is on its last legs. Even those that still are in operation
risk going out of business soon. American demographics have altered the face of movie attendance and there is little economic
value in keeping a drive-in theater afloat.
Let’s go back to the heyday of American drive-in theaters. I
was fortunate enough to have grown up in an era when the drive-in was popular and widespread. The area of Rhode Island and
southeastern Massachusetts was ripe with the outdoor magic carpets made of concrete — Ponta Delgada Drive-In(Tiverton,
RI), Somerset Drive-In (Somerset, MA), Westport Drive-In (Westport, MA), Bay State Drive-In (Seekonk, MA), Seekonk Drive-In
(Seekonk, MA), Newport Drive-In (Newport, RI), and many others from "foreign" areas of the outskirts of Rhode Island, such
as the Quonset (North Kingstown, RI) and the Rustic (Woonsocket, RI).
For about five years, the drive-in theater was the focal point of
my social life. I began attending them on a regular basis when I was about 16 years old. Initially, I would go to watch the
movies with various friends. At this age, one rarely had a steady girlfriend, so the drive-in experience represented camaraderie.
You always tried to arrive early so you could see other friends in
other cars going through the same motions of trying to act cool — the bravado of hollering, "Hey, Souza (or Medeiros,
or Robinson, or Walsh, etc.), what are you doing here?" A common response would be, "Just checking things out." Both the question
and answer were attempts to show your dismay at not having a date that evening.
Certain social patterns began emerging. You took for granted that
the drive-in was your recreation and you went to watch the movies, despite your attempts at acting cool. After attending several
performances, the experience became habitual. The only time you were thrown out of the routine came when you saw a friend
with a girl — "Holy shit! Souza’s got a girl with him!" Then, you went to his car and began a mundane conversation,
all the time acting cool and not making it obvious that you were checking out the girl. When you and your comrades went back
to your vehicle, there would be only two exclamations — "What a fucking dog!" or, "How the hell did he get such a good
looking girl to go out with him?"
I went to several drive-ins during my formative adult years, but the
Ponta Delgada in Tiverton was my "home" drive-in. When I was about 10 years old, I read where the Ponta Delgada soccer team
won the U.S. amateur title in 1953. Being a sports nut, this impressed me immensely, even though I knew absolutely nothing
about soccer. To me, any Tiverton team that won a national championship was worthy of praise. I asked my older brother about
the feats of the soccer champs and he told me they used to play in a stadium that was now the Ponta DelGada Drive-In. Every
time I entered the Tiverton drive-in, I imagined the warriors pounding their way down the soccer field that was once under
the curved concrete of the drive-in.
In 1965, The Ponta Delgada had the distinction of showing the premier
of a movie filmed in Fall River (MA) called "Below the Hill." The anticipation of the release was staggering. For weeks, I
and a couple of friends were waiting for the announcement of the movie presentation. Word had spread that a teacher at Henry
Lord Junior High School in Fall River was the star. His name was Mr. Bernier and no one knew he was an actor.
The magical night finally came. When we arrived at the drive-in, there
was a line about half a mile long waiting to get in. A thick fog contributed to the line’s length. As we inched closer
to the ticket booth, the fog became more dense. It was evident that we might not be watching a movie that evening. Just as
we were about to buy the tickets, the word came down that the movie was cancelled because of the thick fog. The drive-in management
decided to give those who had already paid a pass to see the movie the next night.
In the ensuing chaos, a fellow of about 17 years took offense at the
offer made by the theater bigwigs. He wanted his money back. A manager came out and attempted to tell him that this would
not be possible and he would have to take the free ticket. The teenager began to fume and he responded, "Crabs on ice water!
If you don’t give me my money back, I’ll kick you right in the twanger." To this day, I have never forgotten that
statement where he put pubic lice in the same category as an elementary necessity of life. The beauty of his statement was
that he had never suffered from that genetic deficiency of aging and had not yet achieved the ugly disease of adulthood. In
the same circumstance, an adult probably would have said, "Excuse me sir, I would like a refund." The anonymous stranger’s
remark was much more imaginative.
The following night, we saw the movie. I was quite surprised to discover
that it was professionally done and was entertaining. Mr. Bernier played in a steamy scene (for those days) and from word
of mouth, we found out that his students and fellow teachers never let him hear the end his R-rated performance.
Drive-ins had the worst food imaginable, yet we always saved a little
money for a snack. Every time we bought something from the snack bar, the same statement was made — "This stuff tastes
like shit, and it’s too expensive." We always went back.
The clam cakes at the drive-ins were about the size of marbles and
they had the consistency of a rock. I am sure that more than one patron over the years broke a tooth on these culinary disasters.
The pizza was cold and soggy and the burgers made those of McDonald’s appear to be haute cuisine. However, like everything
else, when you don’t have it, you miss it.
I moved to Europe in 1975 and soon discovered that, along with having
no drive-in theaters, no one knew what a clam cake was. When I returned to the U.S. in 1983 and landed on the west coast,
I finally realized that clam cakes were a regional dish that no one outside of southern New England has ever tasted or heard
of. I longed for the days of the pebble-sized clam cakes of the Ponta Delgada.
Winter was problematical for drive-in attendees. If the temperature
was about 20 degrees, you had to keep your engine running to create heat in the car. All the pollution emitted would make
an environmentalist cringe today. In addition, in those days, the engines of the cars were not built as well as those of today,
so keeping an engine running meant that you ran the risk of having your engine die. Plus, the amount of gasoline used took
a large chunk out of your gas tank. At the age of 17, most of us did not have an unlimited budget for gas.
Throughout the drive-in experience, certain experiences stick out
above the rest. In those days, nudity was not available in movies presented to the general public. In 1965, I and a friend
went to the Bay State Drive-In to see a feature movie. I don’t recall which one it was. Usually, there were two movies
and the first one was a z-grade production that stunk. On this particular evening, the opening movie was called "The Bellboy
and the Playgirls."
About 10 minutes into the film, a bunch of girls surrounded the bellboy
in a hotel. Then, a miracle occurred. They took off their shirts and had no bras on. I and my colleague choked on our food
and simultaneously hollered, "Holy shit! Bare tit!" We could hear the same statement from other cars. This was a first. The
world had changed and there would be no turning back.
For the next year or so, I and my friends couldn’t wait for
the Friday version of the Fall River Herald News to appear. On Fridays, the newspaper had a page dedicated to the new
movies showing at the drive-ins. Rarely did a drive-in show the same movie on consecutive weeks. There, on the drive-in page
would be all the graphics of the current movies. Despite our looking at the page every week for years, we were still conned
into believing the messages put in the advertisement. The graphics always made the movies appear to be more exciting than
they were.
After seeing The Bellboy and the Playgirls, we always attempted to
discover which movies would show some "bare tit." Most didn’t, however, during the next year, a few movies took the
leap into topless female nudity. Ironically, those movies that stated they were racy, rarely showed nudity. Those that did
show some skin, in most cases, did not advertise the fact. In other words, we tried to scientifically assess whether there
would be nudity, but our methods of investigation failed. One could see as much nudity through random attendance as through
scientific investigation.
At about age 18, those who attended drive-in movies changed their
reasons. Most males had now developed the skills necessary to have a girlfriend, either casual or steady, and the drive-in
became a venue for sex education. For a couple of years, attempts at almost every kind of petting and sexual arousal were
employed at the drive-in. Some girls were prudes, others not. How far you went depended on your partner’s attitude and
your skills. One thing was consistent, however. If a guy was involved with heavy petting and nothing else, he would usually
brag that he "got in." On the other hand, once this elusive act became fact, the male usually kept quiet. Yes meant no and
no meant yes.
When I met my current wife in 1969, the drive-in was a regular venue.
Rarely did we see an entire movie. That was not why drive-ins were invented.
Four years later, we were married. We still went to the drive-in,
but for different reasons. "Let’s look at the movie," either I or she would say. "We spent good money on this." Four
years earlier, it was immaterial what movie we saw. After marriage, we scrutinized the newspaper and only went to watch movies
we wanted to see. Despite the change in attitudes about movie-viewing habits, one thing remained constant — the terrible
food. We always would say that we would not buy any, but we always succumbed to the crappy ad on the screen between movies
that heralded the quality of the delicious food inside the snack bar.
We used to bring our dogs to the drive-in. Most dogs get a little
dysfunctional when in a car for over three hours, but that didn’t stop us. Almost every time the dogs accompanied us,
there were problems — "Oh, oh, Tippy just took a piss," or "Shannon’s throwing up." The next day was usually spent
on de-fuming the back seat of the car.
We spent eight years in drive-inless Europe. When we returned to the
USA, we re-located to the San Diego area. At the time, there were about eight drive-in movies within a half hour of our house.
We again began to go to the drive-ins. Little-by-little, they closed. Within a couple of years, there was only one drive-in
left in San Diego County. It still stands today, but the magic is gone. The movies they play are mundane and the spectators
are comprised mostly of redneck pickup truck drivers. It doesn’t feel the same. Rarely do we go to the drive-in any
more.
Times change and our culture changes. The youth of today have no clue
about the former allure of drive-in theaters. To them, it is ancient history that has been orally passed down from generation-to-generation.
I feel sorry for them because of their inability to participate in what was one of the positive aspects of Americana.
STREET CORNER SOCIOLOGY
Rites of passage have become a part of the human experience. There
is a broad spectrum of subjects that are included in such rituals — geography, age, religion, sports, education, clubs,
and many others. Some rites are violent and mindless, such as hazing to the point of causing severe injury, while others are
benign and meaningful, as in the case of a Little League baseball participant playing in his or her last game and then, because
of age, attaining membership at the next level of the sport of baseball in a local Pony or Babe Ruth League.
In my area of southern New England, the practice of hanging out on
a street corner (or on a stone wall in smaller towns) was instrumental in one’s journey to adulthood. The social nuances
and implications were staggering.
I grew up in Tiverton, Rhode Island, a town of about 5,000 people.
The town was quite large geographically and it represented three distinct regions. The northern section was the most populous
because it bordered a city of about 100,000 people in Massachusetts and accommodated the spillage of the "foreign" population
migrating from the adjoining state. Toward the middle of town, the people were of old Yankee heritage and this was considered
the "real" Tiverton. The Tivertonians from this area considered the people of the northern part of town to be carpetbaggers.
There was cultural friction. However, both these segments of the Tiverton population would knock those of the southern part
of town, most of whom were farmers. This area was considered to be Hicksville, USA.
Until I was about eight years old, my view of my town consisted mostly
of school and home life. Then, I was old enough to participate in a ritual with my father — accompanying him on a daily
one-mile journey in his 1949 Chrysler to the center of town to purchase the newspaper. I sat in the back seat, my head barely
reaching over the front seat to talk to my father. My legs did not reach the floor. This journey became the highlight of my
day.
After a few trips, I noticed a person sitting on the stone wall outside
the general store (the only one for miles around). This barrier extended for a couple of miles and it acted as a breakwater
to separate a beach and the Sakonnet River from the main road of the town. Every day, the same person would be there. He was
about 20 years old, although to me, he was an adult. I had no concept of one being 20 or 40 years old. They were all adults.
Eventually, I learned that his name was Billy Padilla. It was odd because he never did anything but sit on the wall and occasionally
wave to a selected few passersby.
About a year later, my feet reached the floor of the car and I could
see over the front seat without having to stand up. It amazed me how one’s perspective could be altered so drastically
by the growth of a couple of inches. By now, our daily trip was expanded by about one more mile to a gas station that carried
a brand of ice cream that my father enjoyed. On a stone wall near the gas station sat another mysterious figure. Always there
and always doing nothing. I asked my father about this person and he told me that his name was Jim Scorak.
For the next few years, I noticed others in various areas performing
the same duties of sitting on stone or concrete walls. I did not question why they did this. I only observed and saw that
is was occurring.
Seventh grade was the next step in my sociological journey of wall-sitting.
My new school was farther from my house and was situated in the northern part of Tiverton. A new world opened before me as
I saw different people sitting on different walls. I now realized that this practice was universal.
Two years at Pocasset Junior High School made me acutely aware of
wall-sitting. The only problem with me trying to find out more about this mysterious hobby was my age — I was too young
to participate. You never saw anyone younger than 15 or 16 years old sitting on a wall. Unwritten rules were in play —
participants in wall-sitting ranged in age from about 15 to well into adulthood.
When I graduated from eighth grade, I had a summer to prepare myself
for the most courageous experience of my life. In the fall, I would be attending a school in the "big city" of Fall River,
Massachusetts. My town only offered education up to the eighth grade. From then on, one had to attend public school in Fall
River.
On the first day of school, I saw more students than I ever knew existed.
My home room had more people than the whole of the eighth grade of my previous school. The new school was dilapidated and
old compared to the educational institutions I had attended. For the first time in my life, I encountered people of many cultures
and social backgrounds. Some Tivertonians were thrown into culture shock and had a hard time adjusting, but I quickly embraced
the new surroundings. I made new friends, while most of my home town comrades fraternized only with each other. Little did
I know at the time that I was destined to want to explore new avenues, while others were much more comfortable being around
more homogenous environs.
After the initial newness wore off, I noticed a new phenomenon —
in Fall River, people would hang around street corners in the same manner in which people sat on walls in Tiverton. Every
day, I would see the same people on the same street corners as I took the school bus home. I quickly assessed that these were
the same occurrences only with different venues.
For the next two years, I became more aware of hanging out on street
corners. As I expanded my areas of engagement in Fall River through sports or social activities, I noticed that geography
played a major role. Various areas of the city sported different looking street corners (location of lights, width of roads,
width of sidewalks, etc.) but they all sported an assemblage that did not vary — the same people were there every day.
Another common denominator in hanging out was the weather. When it snowed or rained heavily, the street corners were barren
of a human presence.
Magic occurred when I turned 16. I earned my driver’s license
and bought a beat-up 1955 Plymouth for $30. The car had no reverse gear, so I always had to park facing uphill. This way,
I could roll the car if I had to back out of a parking spot. If I was facing downhill and was wedged in, I had no way of putting
the car in reverse. After a few times, one becomes adjusted to this deficiency and it becomes habit to always park facing
uphill.
With the car, came the freedom to travel where I wanted. In addition,
at 16 years old, I became old enough to venture into meaningful hanging out on street corners. This was no easy task, however,
because there are myriad social mores involved that one has to learn. You just don’t park your car and stand on the
corner. You must be introduced.
Within about a year, I had earned the respect of enough people to
hang out. I was a freelance participant and had no home corner. I began in Fall River when I saw a friend from high school
standing on a corner. He waved to me and pointed to an area to park my car. This was an invitation. At first, I was nervous,
but you quickly acclimate yourself.
After a few months, I had a few corners where I hung out. I was a
casual participant, while others stood on the corner every night of the week. I relished my independence. After a while, I
would beckon drivers of cars whom I knew to park and hang out. I was now an accomplished participant, although not a full
time one. Because I played a lot of sports, many of my evenings were taken up with athletic endeavors.
At the age of about 17, the social implications become immense. Some
people who hang out on street corners are revered by the general teenage populace. For instance, in the area of Fall River
known as "The Globe," six different streets converge. Here, a high school football and baseball star, Jim Klunka, could be
seen nightly. You could go by his corner many times and he would not wave to you. One day, you would receive a wave and from
then on he would always wave. After a few weeks, you were allowed to initiate the wave.
If, for some odd reason, you chose to wave to him before he acknowledged
you, he would become unhappy and you would have forever lost your chance at ever receiving a wave. Waving at someone before
he acknowledges you is bad form in the worst scenario.
Accomplished street corner participants would elevate their careers
by adding head nods to their presence. Each individual had his own style. Some would nod in a quick, jerky motion, while others
would be slow and deliberate in their styles. For the uninitiated, the head nods may have seemed similar, but for those in
the know, each one was as distinct as a person’s height or weight.
Some who hung out on street corners gained legendary status. People
would copy their head nods (not in front of them, of course), while not making it obvious, much in the same manner as copying
a baseball player’s stance or a basketball player’s shooting style. In the early ‘60s, a basketball player
at Providence College, Jimmy Stone, had a unique style in which he would bend his elbows and put the ball halfway down his
back and then take his jump shot. On all the playgrounds of the area, kids would shout, "Jimmy Stone," as they copied his
style. In the same vein, one would drive by a street corner and give a nod, while telling his comrade in the car, "Jim Klunka."
Being copied was the ultimate form of flattery. Once you developed
your own head nod and became comfortable in introducing it, eventually word would come back that there were others copying
your gesture. You would take pride and realize that all the hard work that went into establishing a street corner presence
now seemed worthwhile.
Most freelance participants in hanging out on street corners are in
their prime at about the age of 17. A year earlier, many would still be considered rookies. A year later, and most would be
looking at retirement. Only the hardcore people last beyond the age of 20. There are various sociological reasons behind their
extending their careers that I will explain later.
While in mid-career, one must add other social experiences to hanging
out on street corners. In my case, after a couple of hours of waving and looking cool, it was time to get something to eat.
I would turn to a comrade and say, "Let’s go to Dirty Nick’s and get a hot dog."
Dirty Nick’s was the street name affixed to the small eatery
officially called Nick’s Hot Dogs. There was one item on the menu — hot dogs. The patrons sat in chairs with an
extended and wide right side on which to put their wieners. These chairs were identical to those used in high school back
then where the kids could write. I was always puzzled, however, about the exclusive right-hand area. Left-handers had to go
through hell to write or eat their hot dogs.
Dirty Nick’s earned the moniker because of rumors. Nick, the
owner, was always dressed in a spaghetti-style T-shirt. In a flash, he could place half a dozen hot dog rolls on his left
forearm, insert the dogs and slap mustard on them. The establishment did not earn the name of "Dirty" Nick’s because
of Nick’s skill of serving hot dogs, however. Many people told of him lining them up on his forearm and then putting
a couple under his armpit at the same time. When he finished garnishing those on his forearm, he would pull those out from
under his armpit, put mustard on them, and then serve them to the customers.
I must have eaten at Dirty Nick’s hundreds of times during my
street corner days. Every time I ate there, I would observe him in action, waiting for the time when I would see him put hot
dogs under his armpits. I never saw him do it. The dozens of colleagues I knew who ate there all told the same rumor, yet
not one had ever seen Nick perform the duty. Rumors abounded, yet not one eye witness could come forward to testify that Nick
inserted hot dogs in buns under his armpits. Probably the rumors contributed to much of Nick’s business — many
people went there to see him put on a legendary performance, yet it never occurred. His name of "Dirty" Nick actually was
an asset, when a name such as that would have halted most eating establishments.
By the age of 19, I was ready for retirement. When it happens, there
is no ceremony. You just never again go and hang out. Usually, your evenings are taken up by other social activities such
as dating girls and playing sports. There is no time for hanging out on street corners. You never miss it or think about it
again.
I said "usually" when discussing street corner retirement. Let’s
go back to some of the legendary people I mentioned at the beginning of this article. Jim Scorak sat on the same wall for
decades until he was well into his 60s. When I was nine years old, he was an icon. However, in my 20s, I learned the truth.
He never worked a day in his life. Ditto for Padilla. Klunka, although a sports hero in high school, fizzled out quickly after.
He hung out on the same corner for decades after.
I have not been back to Fall River since I left the area in
1975. Recently, I was talking to another transplanted Fall Riverite who brought up the subject of hanging out. He occasionally
returns to Massachusetts to visit his family. He told me that some of the people we saw in the 1960s who hung out on street
corners are still active participants. He went down a list of names and venues (The Globe, Maplewood Park, Columbus Park,
etc.) and it seemed like I was living in the past. My colleague told me that they were in the same places at the same times
every night, weather permitting. They are in their 40s, 50s, and even 60s. These were the hardcore legends who will eventually
make the Street Corner Hall of Fame. They were also people with few skills in the experience of life.
LET'S KICK THE MERDE OUT OF SADDAM
(While reading this article, remember that it was written
in 1999. Although it was meant as satire and it is four years old, the article, in places, is eerily accurate when one looks
at current Iraq and the invasion of the U.S. and its aftermath.)
For the past nine+ years, I have been a strong opponent
of the United State's aggression against Iraq. Since August 2, 1990, I have written many articles and given numerous speeches
condemning, among other things, the embargo that has been placed on Iraq, the disproportionate violence used against Iraq
by the United States, and the deceit used by both George Bush and Bill Clinton to maintain the embargo. Now, however, I have
changed my attitude about Iraq and its plight.
I am calling for the immediate invasion of Iraq by the
United States for the purpose of toppling the Saddam Hussein regime. America should spare no weapon in ridding the world of
Iraqi Ba'ath Socialism and its leader.
Defections over the years by members of Saddam Hussein's
inner circle have prompted my change of mind. I am not talking about his sons-in-law who fled to Jordan a few years ago. They
stated that Saddam was ready to invade Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Israel (either singularly or all at once). To me,
this was merely an intramural squabble which the United States should have ignored, with
the exception of the possibility of harm coming to Israel. After all, poor beleaguered Israel is almost our 51st state, in
essence making that country family. Currently, the State Department is attempting to use creative geography and officially
include Israel in the Monroe Doctrine (the 19th century document that protects the Western Hemisphere from foreign invasion).
That one is a tossup.
No, I am talking about the defection to Liechtenstein of
Saddam Hussein's grocer's second-cousin's nephew's next-door neighbor's uncle's barber's best friend — Issam Ibrahim
Sabah al-Sabah Fahd Ali al-Hussein Naji Ibrahim Imaschmuck.
Imaschmuck made the perilous trip to Liechtenstein under
complete anonymity. It took him two weeks to reach his destination, riding camels and hitch-hiking through the Middle East
and Europe. Once in Liechtenstein, he demanded asylum and said he would only speak to CIA operatives. Because there is no
shortage of CIA officials anywhere in the world, he had an audience within 10 minutes of his request. He then exposed Saddam's
evil plan to take over the Western Hemisphere.
According to Imaschmuck, Saddam Hussein was planning to
invade Bermuda. He stated, "It took Saddam a long time to decide on Bermuda. He wanted to invade somewhere that had never
been invaded. Since most countries of the world had already been ravished by the United States, either militarily or economically,
it took months of research for Saddam to choose Bermuda."
Enough is enough! Bermuda is in our backyard and Saddam's
plans were diabolical. He did not plan to invade Bermuda for the sake of spreading Ba'ath Socialism. The Soviets tried to
use the Caribbean military powerhouse of Grenada as a vehicle for spreading the evils of communism to our hemisphere, but
a brave President Reagan stopped the Reds (Moscow, not Cincinnati) in their tracks by destroying that island bastion of sedition.
Saddam Hussein was about to implement a malevolent plan
that transcended political ideology. He was planning to invade Bermuda for the sake of gradually changing the food offered
to its American tourists. Slowly, Americans would have been weaned off their healthy diets of hot dogs, burgers, fries, milkshakes
and fried chicken, and they would have had to eat (and become addicted to) the smelly and unhealthy foods of the Middle East.
Just think, a decade from now, staples in the American diet would have included such junk food as rice, lamb, humous, tabouli,
curry and pita bread.
Imaschmuck is scheduled to address the United Nations.
He is in line to receive a prestigious award. During a session of the General Assembly, he will be awarded a golden bagel
by the United Nations ambassador from Israel.
Just because Saddam was caught before his plan came to
fruition, don't think he is out of the woods. The United States Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, has plans for Iraq.
In keeping with her tradition of blaming Iraq for something it has not done, she has stated that the United States will retaliate
for Saddam's thoughts. Despite her warning, she was not specific about U.S. plans. The administration does not want the public
to learn of the cruel punishment it has in store for Iraq and its leadership.
After calling many of my contacts, I have finally discovered
the United States' plan of retribution. If you think Desert Storm was violent, it was kid's play compared to what Iraq is
about to receive.
First, there will be a massive bombing campaign. Once the
Iraqi air defense system is incapacitated, the U.S. intends on dropping every out-of-date bomb in its arsenal on Iraq. This
makes lots of sense because the defense contractors will have many new orders in hand. They will be able to replace their
Vietnam-era bombs with much more expensive models, insuring many new jobs. Why should they have to convert their plants to
making peacetime goods?
After the bombing campaign, the ground offensive will start.
This time, however, the United States will march to Baghdad. There is no way the Iraqis will be let off the hook.
As in any worthwhile event, the best will be saved
for last. After Baghdad is secured, the United States will, under the cover of darkness, drop 200 airborne troops (dressed
in clown uniforms) into Baghdad. Within 24 hours, there will be a half dozen MacDonalds hamburger stands in operation. The
Iraqis will beg for an unconditional surrender.
CRAZED NEGROES & MARIJUANA ARE JUST UN-AMERICAN
I have smoked my last joint. Last night, I threw away my roaches,
my rolling papers and roach clip. Despite my occasional use of the herb, I did not realize that I was putting my health in
danger as well as contributing to the decline of American civilization and culture.
The determining factor in my choice has been the frequent editorials
in the San Diego Union-Tribune which have enlightened me to the perils of marijuana. For instance, in criticizing Judge
Richard Posner for advocating the legalization of marijuana, the daily paper stated, "If Posner’s will were to prevail,
and marijuana were legalized, America would move a step closer to becoming a nation of junkies."
As scary as it may seem that we could turn into a nation of junkies,
that was not reason enough for my rejecting the weed. After all, according to the Union-Tribune, I already qualified
as a junkie, so, at least the number of social deviants would not increase by my still smoking marijuana.
No, it was the health warning that scared me. The Union-Tribune has
stated, " ... while most tobacco and alcohol users don’t graduate to illegal narcotics, many (if not most) marijuana
users move on to even harder drugs ... it not only is a dangerous drug in its own right, but also a ‘gateway’
drug to harder narcotics like cocaine, heroin, and LSD."
At first, I thought these messages were merely replays of the 1939
anti-marijuana propaganda film "Reefer Madness," but I began to ask myself, "Why are they saying these things?" My conclusion
was that the newspaper must have current information of which I was unaware. I have never used cocaine, heroin or LSD despite
my decade-and-a-half-long use of marijuana. Many of my friends like to light up occasionally as well, yet none has used the
"harder" drugs, so I deduced that the impending addiction to hard drugs must be a delayed reaction and that if I stopped using
marijuana now, it would decrease my chances of becoming a derelict addicted to heroin.
After my choice, I conducted further research and found a quote from
1937 which is attributed to H. Randolph Hearst, the publishing tycoon. His newspapers editorially stated, " ... after they
smoke their marijuana, the crazed Negroes then play their barbaric music."
What a powerful message! The music of the "crazed Negroes" of the
time was jazz and blues. By the early 1950s, some of these "crazed Negroes" had combined their music forms to introduce a
new kind of music to the world — rock n’ roll. This depraved music has led to the downfall of our society and
it all came about because of marijuana. If the "crazed Negroes" had not smoked the deadly herb, they would have had to have
been content with playing their banjoes and fiddles just like their white brethren.
Now I was beginning to see the overall picture — marijuana not
only is a dangerous drug that leads to hard drug addiction, it also is a catalyst in the destruction of our society. In addition,
I do not want to be considered "un-American." The events of September 11, 2001, have led our government to state "either you
are with us or against us," therefore, every American citizen should unquestionably do what our government says.
To be frank, I had never put the pieces of the puzzle together, despite
my background as an investigative journalist. Now that I have been enlightened, I must mention a positive step in our society
that may eliminate marijuana use and, at the same time, deprive our country of the music of the "crazed Negroes" — the
emergence of Country and Western music as America’s favorite lyrical and melodic choice.
Let’s face it. What other music portrays the greatness of America
better than C&W? All the artistic and cultural majesties of our country are heard on the airwaves that highlight country
music — pickup trucks with gun-racks, alcoholism, incest and violence.
We must stop listening to namby-pamby music that glorifies love, beauty
and justice. These concepts are just not American. As a matter of fact, they are just as un-American as marijuana. The "crazed
Negroes" and their white trash allies who play rock n’ roll must not be allowed to further erode our values and standards.
After all, many clergymen have told us of the evils of rock n’ roll. Who better can we trust than our religious leaders?
Another positive conclusion came from ensuing articles in the San
Diego Union-Tribune. The editorials assured me that alcohol users rarely graduate to illegal drugs. This is comforting
if I try to substitute a new item to help me get by withdrawal symptoms and cure me of my past marijuana addiction. Evidently,
the use of alcohol does not harm one’s health and it must not be addictive. I have not touched a drop of alcohol in
over 30 years — I am not a drinker. However, I may start now, but I will not begin until I experience severe withdrawal
symptoms. Surprisingly, I have not had any heebie-jeebies yet from the cold-turkey elimination of marijuana from my system.
For the first time, my head is clear. My only problem is that I still
have no taste for Country and Western music and I still enjoy rock n’ roll. I am sure that my quandary will clear up
in time. If the addiction to C&W music is a delayed reaction, similar to my impending addiction to hard drugs, then I
must wait for my musical tastes to change. Possibly, the adjustment will be curbed for a long, long time.
THE 1955 RAMBLER
"Oh, shit!" I said when I heard the loud noise coming from my 1955
Plymouth — clank, clank, clank — as I pulled into my driveway. The engine just died, but at least I had made it
back home. I tried to start the engine and the ignition just kept making a whirring noise.
The next day, I called my brother Ronnie and mentioned it to him.
He came by and quickly assessed the situation. "You threw a rod." I knew nothing about automobile mechanics and I asked him,
"What do I have to do to have it fixed?" He answered, "It can’t be fixed. It’s shot."
A junkyard employee came to pick the car up and when I asked him how
much he would give me for it, he laughed and said, "I should charge you for towing it away." So much for my first automobile.
I had just started my senior year in high school and now had to look
at the possibility that I would have to hitch-hike to school and to my sporting events. Because I could not afford to buy
another car, the outlook appeared dismal.
The next day, however, I received a phone call from my oldest brother,
Bobbie. Word spread quickly and he knew that my 1955 Plymouth had died. Bobbie, in those days, to put it mildly, was a bit
of a con man, so I was dubious when he quickly offered, "I’ll sell you my car, the Rambler." I knew he had a 1955 Rambler,
but I had never seen it. Cautiously, I asked, "Does it work?" "Sure," he replied, "It runs great." The conversation was progressing
nicely, but I still was financially disabled. I queried, "How much?" Without hesitation, he said, "Ten bucks."
Despite my lack of meaningful currency, I could muster up $10, so
I told him, "Yeah. You drive it here and I will bring you back to your place. If it makes it that far, we’ve got a deal."
Later in the day, my brother pulled into the driveway. I was dubious
as I started the Rambler and began to drive him home. Within a few minutes, I was less apprehensive. The car ran great. In
fact, it was a better runner than my old Plymouth and it got great gas mileage. I was happy for two reasons: I had bought
a functional car for next to nothing and my brother did not screw me on the deal.
Let me describe the Rambler. It was small and could seat four people
adequately, although the two in the back seat would be squished up next to each other. The engine was sound and all the accessories
worked. The shift lever was located almost in the dashboard, making it a conversation piece for all who rode in the car —
"Wow! I’ve never seen a shift lever there before." The only apparent liability was that the body had some cancer, but
in those days most older cars in southern New England’s moist climate showed signs of body rot. This was only a cosmetic
fault and in no way would hamper the car’s performance.
For about a couple of weeks, everything went smoothly. I had an excellent
running car that got over 35 miles to the gallon. That all changed on a Friday in November, 1964, however.
While standing on the corner smoking our last cigarette before the
warning bell sounded to enter our high school, one of my comrades stated, "Let’s skip school today." I was all for taking
the day off and making it part of a three-day weekend. I agreed and four others entered the foray. One said, "Let’s
go to Providence. Lagauche, you’ve got a car. How about it?" I quickly nodded my approval, so six of us jammed ourselves
into the small Rambler.
Soon after, we were on the newly opened Interstate 195 on our way
to the premier record shop in the area, Beacon Records, a store that offered the best record collection anywhere.
I then decided to play race car driver and put my newly acquired car
to a speed test. "Seventy," stated one of the back seat occupants as he read the speedometer over my shoulder. A couple of
a minutes later, he shouted, "Eighty." Shortly after, "Holy shit! Ninety." When he heralded, "Ninety Five," the engine made
a funny noise. I slowed down to about 50 miles per hour, but the noise was still present. It was not as serious as a thrown
rod, but I knew something dastardly was taking place under the hood. We completed our day out and I returned home, all the
time listening to a coughing engine.
My brother Ronnie made another trip to my house. The good news was
that the car was still alive. The bad news was that I had burned out a valve. From then on, the car always ran with a skip.
In addition, my gas mileage descended to about 15 miles a gallon. I did not realize that driving the car at 95 miles per hour
against the wind with six people in it would tax the engine in a negative manner. We must all learn about these matters sometime.
Even though I had a car that ran at about 50% efficiency, I was happy.
Basketball season was about to come into full swing and the car would be used to transport numerous individuals to venues
in which to play roundball. At the time, I played or coached in four different leagues. In addition, I entered teams in virtually
any local invitational tournament that became available. We played in full-size gyms with fiberglass backboards; half-size
gyms with wooden backboards; and even gyms the size of a matchbox with warped plywood backboards supporting rims that were
bent at about a 30% angle. The latter types of gym were a challenge to the visiting coach. You had to take your players and
get used to shooting in a different manner, taking the bent rim into consideration. You tried to run your offensive plays
so the player would shoot on the side of the court on which the rim was bent downwards. It was disconcerting trying to shoot
over the edge of the upward leaning rim.
My Rambler was not ready for the continuous influx of bodies that
was about to employ the car for transportation. The first thing that went was the driver’s seat. One day, while driving,
it just collapsed and laid straight down, actually spreading itself out on the back seat. This was not a big problem, however.
I put a basketball behind the seat and it was propped up at a reasonable angle to allow me to drive. When I had players in
the car, the basketball got in the way of the legs of the rider behind me, so he had to keep the seat propped up using his
hands. Piece of cake.
Next, the windshield wipers went. When I looked under the dashboard,
I found a rod that was attached to the wipers had broken. I used a little ingenuity in discovering a method for bringing them
back to use. I could steer with my left hand and bend down and grab the broken rod and manually manipulate the windshield
wipers. I became so used to this action that I was confused one day when I drove a friend’s car and did not have to
stoop down to drive. Also, it felt different using two hands to drive.
By January of 1965, the basketball season was in full swing. Day after
day, I used my Rambler to go to games, all the time with anywhere from four to seven people inside. By now, the participants
and I were used to the quirks of the car. Some players occasionally complained about having to be the seat propperupper on
consecutive trips, but that was the only grievance. Everybody was happy that they were playing basketball and had some form
of transportation.
Before I go any further discussing the Rambler, let me introduce you
to some of the characters who were involved in my basketball playing/coaching days. First of all, they were not the typical
suburban upper middle class kids who inhabited my town of about 5,000 people. These kids were mostly of working class stock
and were much more boisterous and imaginative than the mainstream kids of the town. The division was evident and we knew we
were almost pariahs in the methods we used playing sports. We just wanted to play ball — anytime and anywhere. We never
complained about playing conditions or venues like some of the other "spoiled" kids did. Every once in a while, one of the
middle class kids would approach me and ask if he could hang out and play with us. Even though I was only 17 years old, I
could already feel the social differences at play and commended the newcomer on his wanting to break out of the drab existence
that society had thrust upon him.
Depending on which league I was involved with and the age limit for
players, there were various groups of kids who played basketball. It was not always the same kids every day.
One player who always was involved was Mike Hiller. By the time he
was 15 years old, he was 6'6" tall and weighed about 150 pounds. He never put any more weight on, so he resembled a scarecrow.
Hiller was eccentric, to say the least. He liked to practice his dribbling skills in an unorthodox manner — he would
dribble a basketball on the street behind my car while I was driving. He had an uncanny skill at slowing down or speeding
up as the car changed speeds, all the time throwing head fakes at cars coming in the opposite direction. Hiller always wanted
to do this in an inhabited area and catch the glances of those who saw him. If someone gave him a nasty look, Hiller would
flip him or her off. One day, he was dribbling backwards and I was approaching a stop sign. Because his back was to my car
and the sign, he did not see either. I hollered to him that I was about to stop, but he didn’t hear. While he was dribbling
and giving a smart-ass look to the assemblage on the street who were now watching him, he piled into my car. I pulled over
and helped him up. There were about two dozen people laughing wildly. Hiller got the ball, got in the car, and let it be known
that his street-dribbling career was done.
Another regular was Dave Silver. He was about 5'8" tall and of medium
build. On his best day, Silver was mediocre at basketball and baseball. However, his knowledge of the sports, combined with
his cockiness, made him a formidable opponent. He would orally harass the opposition to the point that he would alter their
concentration and amplify his own meager talents.
I coached Silver in baseball as well as basketball. My team had two
excellent pitchers and Silver rounded out the staff as number three. One year, while my team was tied for first place, Silver
approached me and asked why he did not pitch against the top teams. Until then, I used him against the weaker teams and his
record was three wins and no losses. He told me, "I haven’t lost a game yet. Why not give me a shot against the other
teams?" I approached his request diplomatically by telling him that I did not want to wear his arm out. That didn’t
work. Finally, I had to tell him that he would get hammered against the top teams.
Silver went into a long tirade about his pitching talents. He told
me that he had 28 different pitches (a major league pitcher has three or four at the most). Then, he told me the virtues of
his prime pitch — the Egyptian forkball. I asked him the difference between an Egyptian forkball and an Ethiopian forkball,
but he could not come up with an answer.
I then challenged him to pitch to a catcher while I was behind the
receiver and I would assess all of his pitches. He threw all 28 (each named with a unique moniker — nothing as mundane
as a fastball or slider) and I watched each. When he asked me what I thought, I said, "They all do the same thing. They go
slow and straight. There is not a wrinkle on any pitch." He still did not think I was giving him a fair shake.
I made him an offer. I told him to warm up and I would take batting
practice against him. If he could adequately get me to hit routine ground balls or fly balls, or fool me with his pitches,
I would let him start the next game against our top contender. On the other hand, if I hit shots all over the place, he would
never again ask to pitch against the top teams.
In about 10 minutes, I hit quite a few shots over the fence, some
at least 100 or 150 feet behind the barrier. In addition, I hit line drives that almost knocked him off the mound as well
as shots in the gaps in the outfield. I may have hit one or two popups. Other than those couple of mediocre offerings from
my bat, I knocked the hell out of everything he threw. When we were done, I did not have to say a word. Silver approached
me and asked, "Will this affect my playing second base?" He got the message.
On the basketball court, Silver was a magician at creating havoc with
the opposition. He may have played for about half the game and scored only four or five points, but his presence was worth
that of any player who could put up stats much more impressive than his.
Hiller and Silver shared the same desire to play without pretense.
They only wanted to play as much as they could.
There were other regulars and many sometime regulars. For instance,
if I needed a player to round out the roster for the day, I could drive to a part of town, park my car, and holler, "Hey,
Hessler?" Within about 30 seconds, four or five individuals would pop their heads out of their houses and return my query
with, "Yeah. What?" For about a mile stretch in that area of town, most of the houses were inhabited by members of the extended
Hessler clan. I would say, "Who wants to play basketball today?" Within a minute, at least one would come forward and say,
"I will."
Another factor in those days was the age limit of the different leagues
or tournaments. Nobody took precision of age too seriously. If the age limit of an invitational tournament was 14, I would
ask a prospective Hessler, "How old are you?" He would respond, "Fifteen." That was too old, so I would ask, "How old were
you last year?" "Fourteen," was the answer. "Great. Get in the car. You’re the right age."
Today, I realize that altering one’s age is not an astute method
of gaining wins on a basketball court, but in those days, it was commonplace. All the adults did it when coaching, so I was
following their lead. It was also routine to see 14-year-old players from opposing teams drive off after the games in their
cars. The minimum driving age was 16.
The winter of 1964-65 was extremely cold and snowy. About a third
of the way through the basketball season, the window on the driver’s side of my Rambler fell down into the door, leaving
a large gap where a window should have been. I cut a piece of cardboard and used it to fill up the hole while I wasn’t
driving. However, when I drove I had to leave the space open. There were difficulties when it was about 25 degrees and snow
was blowing though the window.
During the months of January and February, 1965, it was common to
be going to games with half a dozen players who emerged from the car and had to brush inches snow off their bodies.
In the latter part of February, I entered a team in the Portsmouth
Invitational Tournament, held in an adjoining town. Every year, I entered a team but we never won. I would bring in two or
three "ringers," only to be outdone by the competition who would have five or six not-so-legal players.
The 1965 tournament was held during the worst blizzard to hit the
area in decades. We made three round trips to the Portsmouth gym in the blizzard, each time with eight people in the car.
The kids were stretched out on top of each other and covered with snow. Even though I kept the windshield wipers going by
hand, it was difficult to see because all the steam being emitted by the occupants clouded up the inside of the windshield.
However, we overcame this by having a front seat occupant constantly wiping the inside of the windshield while I perpetually
drove the windshield wiper rod. Ingenuity won out over inconvenience.
We lost the tournament in the final game. Ironically, the team that
beat us was mostly legitimate. On the way home, we all gave excuses why we lost — the referees were bad; the opposition
cheated; the opposing coach cheated. Not one of us could utter the words, "They were better than us."
The basketball season ended and for a few weeks, my Rambler would
not have to carry a multitude of players. It deserved a rest. By now, the only thing working properly on the car was the radio.
The signal lights and headlights were shot; the heater died months ago; the back seat had been dislocated and the springs
began to appear over the seat itself; the tires were so bald that you could see the air inside them. It was becoming difficult
to drive on a rainy day because I had to work the wipers with my right hand and give signals with my left, temporarily leaving
the steering wheel to manipulate itself.
Despite all the inequities, it never occurred to me that I should
be thinking about getting another car. That is until one night in late March. After attending a basketball tournament as a
spectator, I began to return home. For some reason, the engine was more sluggish than ever and it was making increasingly
louder noises. When I approached my driveway, the noises turned to a loud "clank, clank, clank." "Oh shit!" I exclaimed. As
Yogi Berra would say, "Deja-vu all over again." I knew a rod had been thrown and that the Rambler was now going to the same
graveyard as my Plymouth had seven months earlier.
When the car stopped at the head of my driveway, it was not running.
When I tried to start it, the same ominous whirring noise could be heard that I encountered with my Plymouth. The Rambler
had died.
Despite the similarities of the death knells of my Plymouth and Rambler,
the Rambler had to play oneupsmanship. After about two minutes of trying to re-start the Rambler, I pronounced it dead. I
had not yet emerged from the car because I was still in a state of shock. All of a sudden, I heard a loud sound — pow!
Then another. I quickly got out of the car and saw that two tires went flat. In another minute, the other two deflated as
well, this time silently without fanfare. Within a couple of minutes, all four tires went flat, leaving the Rambler with no
working parts except the radio. And, I could not even salvage the radio for future use because its shape was so odd that it
would not fit into any other brand of automobile.
The same junkyard that had picked up my Plymouth months earlier came
and took away my Rambler. This time, I did not have the cojones to ask how much they would give me for it.
In 1965, a 1955 Rambler was about the most uncool automobile that
a teenager could own. It was okay for sports, but one could forget having a social life with a Rambler. Girls laughed when
they were offered a ride. Non-athletic friends shunned rides in it. Even dogs refused to piss on the wheels.
Before I wrote this article, I searched the Internet for a information
about the 1955 Rambler. Today, the 1955 Rambler is considered a rare collector’s item that sells for about $8,000.
A GENETIC DEFICIENCY
Last year, I read an article in the Fall River Herald News that told of a harrowing occurrence
in my hometown of Tiverton, Rhode Island, just across the border from Fall River. The Tiverton Town Council voted to disallow
a band concert at the town beach because the groups played rock n’ roll music. A councilwoman stated, "We don’t
want that kind of stuff in Tiverton." She then alleged that one of the groups had used an obscenity in a concert the year
before in Fall River.
First, she was wrong about the obscenity. A person brought the case to court in an attempt to
shut down the group. The judge listened to a taped recording of the group and then lambasted the plaintiff for brining such
a fraudulent case into the court system. There was no obscenity.
The oddest part of the case in Tiverton, however, was not about obscenities. The person who stated
that rock n’ roll music was unwelcome in my home town was a generation younger than I. I thought all the horse merde
about rock n’ roll being a degenerate art form was a dead issue years ago. I was wrong.
A few days ago, Oceanside, a city in San Diego County, California, pulled a similar stunt. The
Oceanside school board has banned all contemporary music that may have unsuitable lyrics at school functions. There were no
specifics. It is up to the committee to decide.
Oceanside is the same city that is attempting to purchase a $6,500 plaque (with taxpayer money)
that states "In God We Trust," and place it outside the City Council chambers. First God, then censorship in the public arena
in Oceanside.
One of the reasons given in banning contemporary music is that it portrays violence. If they
are consistent in their messages, the city officials should ban the song "Onward Christian Soldiers" because of its violent
and bigoted messages.
With the advent of rock n’ roll in the 1950s came an outcry stating the music was immoral.
One of the innovators of the time was Little Richard, an outrageous performer who dressed flamboyantly and hinted that he
was homosexual. This was too much for the people of his hometown, Macon, Georgia. He was escorted to the city line by police
and told never to return to Macon. Ironically, when he returns to Macon today, he is considered a hero. There is even a street
named after him.
By the early 1960s, the edge had been worn off the anti-rock n’ roll movement. With time,
even original naysayers began to begrudgingly like the art form. Then came the Beatles and the British invasion. Music groups
were again chastised by the elders of American society. In addition to playing the devil’s music, they were scruffy
and the smoked dope. A standard question in 1964 in Britain was, "Would you let your daughter go out with a Rolling Stone?"
in reference to the group the Rolling Stones. The Stones’ lead singer, Mick Jagger, was the epitome of non-cool. He
was shabbily dressed and gyrated his hips so much that he made Elvis Presley look sedate. How times have changed. Last year,
Mick Jagger was knighted by the Queen of England.
In the early 1970s, the smoke had cleared and all types of music were being accepted and false
dress codes had gone by the wayside. Rock n’ roll music started and finished a revolution as big as the world had ever
seen.
However, things have gradually reverted to the 1950s attitude. In 1972, the popular group The
Who produced an anthem for the counterculture. It was called "Don’t Get Fooled Again." The title was a warning not to
become complacent after changes in society were made. They also could be reversed. In a prophetic manner, the song ended with
the line, "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."
We are now experiencing the time of "the old boss" in the United States. TV presentations, whether
drama, comedy or documentaries are coming under fire for using "improper" language. Rock n’ roll songs are being banned.
Even sports events are being scrutinized. And the perpetrators are the same people who, one or two generations ago, were the
warriors in America’s culture war. Only today, they have changed sides. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.
Let’s take a look at some famous and not-so-famous milestones in rock n’ roll music
that concern perceived and real use of obscenities.
The most-recorded rock n’ roll song of all time is Louie, Louie. It has been recorded by
thousands of groups and singers and has been used as the theme song for movies and events. The truth is that had it not been
for some faulty recording equipment and the hoarse voice of the lead singer of an obscure group called The Kingsmen, the song
would still be considered a little-known West Indian folk offering.
In 1956, Richard Berry wrote and recorded the song Louie, Louie. It was a mild hit on the Pacific
Cost in 1957. The three-verse sailor’s lament was sung in the style of a laid-back ballad. The lyrics were patterned
after West Indian English. Soon after, it faded away into obscurity.
The song never totally lost popularity in the Northwest, despite its demise elsewhere. In the
early 1960s, the song became popular in the region and various groups recorded it using different styles. However, it still
failed to catch on outside the area.
In 1963, two Portland-area bands recorded Louie, Louie: The Kingsmen and Paul Revere and the
Raiders. By the end of 1963, both versions were fighting for national dominance. Eventually, The Kingsmen version was the
winner and the definitive version of Louie, Louie was established.
In 1964, the song sold millions and millions of copies. Overnight, The Kingsmen were famous and
rich. However, the song was popular neither because of its musical adroitness, nor its world class lyrics. It was a smash
hit because the kids who bought it thought the words were somewhat different from those of the song. Once a few copies were
sold, the word spread like wildfire and nothing could stop the record from taking its place in the history of rock n’
roll.
Here are the lyrics:
Louie, Louie, me gotta go. Louie, Louie, me gotta go.
A fine little girl, she wait for me; me catch a ship across the sea. I sailed the ship all alone;
I never think I’ll make it home.
Three nights and days we sailed the sea; me think of girl constantly. On the ship, I dream she
there; I smell the rose in her hair.
Me see Jamaica moon above; it won’t be long me see me love. Me take her in my arms and
then I tell her I never leave again.
The words as sung by The Kingsmen sounded anything like the real words. The listeners began to
affix their own words to the song. Despite the differences in interpretation, some areas of the song gained universal translation.
Suddenly, "Louie, Louie, me gotta go," became "Louie, Louie, grab her way down low." "Three nights and days we sailed the
sea; me think of girl constantly," was transformed into, "Each night at ten, I lay her again; I fuck my girl all kinds of
ways." The ending of the song changed from "Me take her in my arms and then I tell her I never leave again," to "I’ll
take her in my arms again and tell her I’ll lay her again."
When Louie, Louie came on the AM radio of a car, every teenager ceased talking about the subject
matter at hand and reverently began to sing the adapted lyrics. No other song of its time had such an impact. Every few years,
the song re-emerged and went to the top of the charts.
How did The Kingsmen create such an aberration of a ballad that turned into a rock n’ roll
anthem? First of all, they changed the tempo of the song to one of a hard-rocking, drum and organ-driven song. Before it was
recorded, their version of Louie, Louie sounded much different from the slower-paced Richard Berry offering, but the words
sounded the same. On the day The Kingsmen recorded Louie, Louie, several factors emerged that made the classic come out the
way it did. The lead singer has strained his voice the night before while singing in a 90-minute Louie, Louie marathon. He
also was wearing braces on his teeth on the day of the recording. The microphone in the studio was set way too high for the
lead singer and he had to stand on his tiptoes to get near the mike. To make matters worse, the group thought the recording
was a rehearsal for their real offering, but it turned out to be the only take of the song. In other words, The Kingsmen thought
they had blown their chance of recording Louie, Louie because the result was a song that was totally different from the version
they played to live audiences. Were they wrong.
The F.B.I spent more than two years attempting to decipher the lyrics of the song and determine
if they were obscene. They called in every so-called expert, except the group itself, to gain opinions. After spending more
than a quarter of a million dollars on the project, the sleuths’ verdict was that it was inconclusive whether the song
stepped outside the boundaries of decency.
From 1963 to 1972, many rock n’ roll songs upped the ante for openness. Some openly extolled
the virtues of marijuana use, while others spoke openly of sex. However, not one used the "f" word. When that barrier was
broken, nobody seemed to notice.
In 1972, the Kinks released a song called Ape Man. It was about a person who decided to live
in the jungle away from society. In it, the line "and the air pollution was a fuckin’ up my eyes" came forward. Because
the song was sung in a reggae style before reggae became in vogue, censors thought the singer said "foggin’ up my eyes."
Unlike Louie, Louie, this was real, yet nobody thought the "f" word had been uttered. This was just the opposite effect from
the experience of The Kingsmen. One fact that could explain why there was no furor over the word was that Ape Man was not
a big hit in the U.S. In Britain, it sold many records and the British are less uptight about what are called obscenities.
Then came Frank Zappa, a musical genius who went well below gutter level in his lyrics. There
is not an obscenity, or a variant of, in the English language that Zappa did not use in his prolific songwriting and singing
career. He sang of every sexual divergence and perverse action that a human being could encounter; and some that no human
being probably has. He gave advice such as "don’t eat yellow snow," all the time speaking of Nanuk the Eskimo and his
"teeny weenie." No body part, either on a male or female, or bodily function of, was left out of Zappa’s repertoire.
Zappa knew he was pushing the boundaries in his recordings. He also had a great sense of humor.
One time, he came out with a song called "I Promise Not To Come in Your Mouth." Many fans bought this offering, eager to see
what kind of bizarre lyrics Zappa would affix to the subject. It was an instrumental.
Despite all his unconventional songs, Zappa was a musical genius. He once conducted the London
Symphony Orchestra. In France, he was invited by Rene Goulet to collaborate on an album of songs. Goulet is considered by
many to be the top musical genius in the world. He is so good that the French government created a cabinet post for music
and named Goulet its minister.
Zappa can be perceived as genius or jester, depending on one’s views of popular or classical
music. However, his brightest moment came in Washington D.C., in the 1980s when he appeared before the U.S. Congress and saved
the American public from a diabolical scheme that would have censored music and been the beginning of a witch hunt in the
country for anyone who did not adhere to the cultural mainstream.
Tipper Gore, wife of the former vice-president and 2000 presidential candidate, Al Gore, took
to the floor and presented a plan where record albums would be rated and, ultimately, censored. Her version of culture made
Disney look x-rated. There was little opposition.
Zappa, by then a recluse who worked 20 hours a day at his home/studio in Los Angeles, went to
Washington. He wore a stringlike necktie that was about 30 years old and then he presented the case for freedom. He made Gore
and company look like the jerks they were. He was so eloquent that his opposition was hard-pressed to even attempt to rebut
his statements. When the smoke cleared, Gore and comrades quietly left the city, never to bring up the subject again. Then,
Zappa went back home to his work.
Soon after his Washington appearance, Zappa was misdiagnosed during a medical checkup. He was
given a clean bill of health, yet he was experiencing the beginning of prostate cancer. When he finally was diagnosed correctly,
it was too late. Medical experts stated that if he was diagnosed at his earlier checkups, he would have easily conquered the
disease. Zappa died at age 52. Way too young.
The human race suffers from a genetic deficiency called the ugly disease of adulthood. This disease
takes hold on people who were once open and their minds were clear. They could spot deceit and hypocrisy in humans, yet they
were too young to be heard by their elders. They were told to be seen and not heard.
With such ostracizing, the once-honest people begin to gather symptoms of the full-blown disease.
Finally, they succumb and become similar to those adults who are hypocritical, deceitful and egotistical. As the disease progresses,
it becomes uglier and uglier. In its full-blown state, right and wrong, lying and telling the truth, creativity and copying,
greed and altruism, hypocrisy and integrity all become interchangeable. And few question the results.
Zappa was rare in that he never contracted this ugly disease. His work, whether at a crass rock
n’ roll level, or on a world-class classical level represented his criticism of the insincerity one acquires as he/she
ages.
There is one irony present in this discussion that Zappa would have easily seen and pointed out.
Many of those people in Tiverton, Rhode Island and Oceanside, California who denigrate rock n’ roll music and are attempting
to censor it, a few decades ago were the same people who, while cruising in their automobiles, enthusiastically joined in
the chorus "Each night at ten, I lay her again; I fuck my girl all kinds of ways." They had not yet contracted the ugly disease
of adulthood.
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