My High School Classmates

It has been three months since I UNSUBSCRIBED from Classmates' newsletters. But they keep coming to me on a regular basis, albeit I delete them under SPAM. But wait. Not so fast. The latest news says my mates from the class of 1942 at Coshocton, OH High school (GO REDSKINS!) No, I'm not a racist. They want to greet me again! How tender and compassionate.

The last time I saw Class President Ronald McCormick, he was sitting in McCluggage's Malt Shop at a table seating eight, all upper class rich kids. There was one empty chair. When I approached it to sit down, McCormick said, "No, Abel, we're saving this chair for one of our friends." So I sat at the counter and ordered my usual vanilla milk shake with taffy ice cream and a grilled cheese sandwich, pouting of course.

After graduation, McCormick was honored in the CHS Year Book that predicted he would be President of the USA someday. Forty years  later, having retired from selling aluminum siding, he was living in a Florida trailer and unable to afford attending the class reunion. But not Stanley Cox, who always sat directly behind me in classes and was called on to recite after me. Stan was quiet, an introvert, predicted in the year book to own his own gas station. Instead, he became Senior Vice-President of the enormous Sheraton Hotel chain.

Classmates newsletter offered me a new low price for three months, six months and two months, with unlimited access to their archives, for only $1.98, $2.98 and $24.50 respectively. Otherwise I would have to look at blurred photos of my classmates from 1942. I just don't go for this kind of "legal extortion."

When I recently asked Buck Henry how his friends were doing, he said, "I visit them every week in the cemetery, and they are doing just fine."  Hmmmmmm. That's what I get for asking a personal question.

As an act of kindness, class reunions ended about fourteen years ago. I can remember the last one, peering at name tags to see whom I was talking to. Very embarrassing. I still call Norm Beatty in Jackson Heights, NY and Howard Shaw in San Rafael, CA. Also, Frank Grandle in Hillsborough, CA who has Parkinson's Disease. I urged Frank to seek help from the Ohio State University Medical Research School; they have found a possible cure for his affliction.

Another classmate, Dick Hook, remains in Coshocton. He's still alive and kicks ass! So, Norm, Howard, Frank, and Stan, we ain't dead yet!!! And Classmates News Letter, you can take your blurred photos and sucker trap offers and shove them you know where!!!

Don't ya'll love that song, "I Will Survive?"

Tennis Anyone?

     Here's why I gave up tennis several decades ago, after spending many hours on the court throughout high school, college and thereafter. But one day, early 80's, I was on a court in Santa Monica, California, waiting for my partner to join me in a game. He was stuck in traffic downtown Los Angeles and I would just have to wait.
     The tennis court was right near my hotel and had a beautiful green clay surface. Nobody else was around. Then, suddenly, this elderly lady appeared with a 1920 style racquet. You know, wooden frame and gut strings. I suspect she was in her 70's. She was dressed in an outfit that suggested the MGM Chorus in 1934.
     The woman kind of mumbled her introduction to me and asked if we could hit a few balls. I explained that I was waiting for my partner to arrive. Actually, I was worried she might have a heart attack and I would end up giving her CPR until the ambulance arrived. Nevertheless, I said we could volley until my friend, Roger, arrived and she agreed.
     Back and forth we hit the ball. I was careful to return only soft lobs close to her. She did the same to me. Then this feisty lady said we should play one set of tennis because it was getting close to her nap time. Secretly, I was wondering when in the world Roger would show up. No sign at all of his car arriving in the nearby parking lot.
     I served first. Again, a soft lob across the net into her square. She deftly sent it back with a lot of spin out of my reach. Wow. Nice shot, I yelled to her. She smiled and crouched for my next serve with the score Love 15. I lost the first game at Love 45.
     The lady served the second game and had a side spin on the ball that landed in my square and then ran away from my racquet before I could hit it. Hmmmmmm. This woman has tricks. I better rise up to her level and present some competition to her style, whatever it was. So I tried to play my best.
     Back and forth we went. I was now down by four games. I hadn't won a single point! I couldn't beat her! She was twice my age and I began to feel rotten, beaten by a grandmother who had a tennis racquet probably used by Bill Tilden in the 30's.
     Finally, I was exhausted, losing 6 Love, and Roger had arrived, quietly watching my last game of the set as I was being run ragged back and forth from one side of the court to the other. My opponent had turned into a killer player who beat the crap out of me.
     Roger came over, introduced himself to her, Helen Wills Moody, who was Wimbolden champion nine times way back when. I was humbled, full of apologies and sweating profusely. Roger agreed to forget our tennis game and he offered to pay for lunch.
     We said goodbye to Helen and walked to a nearby restaurant. By the way, the tennis court was hers, not the hotel. I had both feet in my mouth. That's why I quit tennis.

The Cadillac Ranch

In the summer of 1974 I was invited to visit my pen pal, Stanley Marsh III, in Amarillo,TX. He would pay all my expenses and I could stay in the motel on his farm. Yes, Stanley was an original. He earned millions at 36 by leasing 10,000 acres of his land, containing natural gas, to the State of Texas. That money allowed him to buy radio and TV stations, erect a 12 story building downtown Amarillo, the tallest in the city, purchase a 16 room motel and transport it to his lavish farm and, finally, bury eight Cadillacs, circa Elvis Presley era, with the fins up in his back yard.

When I flew from Connecticut to Texas and we were preparing to land in Amarillo, the pilot cheerfully announced, "if you look down you can see the famous Cadillac Ranch owned by Stanley Marsh III. It's available to be viewed by tourists if you make a reservation ahead of time."

I landed around 11 am,  collected by suitcase and found a note at the airline desk with two keys in an envelope. The message from Stanley directed me to find the blue Plymouth outside and drive to his ranch three miles away; the second key was for my room number seven in his motel. After resting up I was invited to drive back to Amarillo, locate his building and we would have lunch at l:30 in his restaurant.

Stanley's building was a very visible landmark. His office was on the 11th floor. When the elevator opened I walked underneath a larger-than-life model of Jacqueline Kennedy with legs spread, facing a secretary at her desk. She was expecting me and I was pointed to Stanley's office door, painted in Zebra stripes. I knocked and a voice said to come in. When I entered I realized the entire office and furniture were all painted in Zebra stripes. As was Stanley's suit he was wearing.

The smirk on his face told me I was at last face to face with my friend who was nuttier than I. The only real difference: he was very, very rich. And he had a deep sense of humor besides. That's why we were friends and corresponded for several years prior to this meeting.

I sat in a Zebra chair and we chatted for a few minutes. Stanley was hungry, as was I, and we took the elevator one floor up to his private restaurant. Only he and his staff of twelve could eat there, along with any guests. No others were allowed. The menu was simple and the food delicious, prepared by a chef and delivered by a charming waitress. No money changed hands. No tipping either.

For the remainder of the week Stanley and I sat in his home office every night and just talked about our respective lives and various plans we each had for future development. He made it clear that he never invests in projects, other than his own, no movies, no Broadway shows, no partnerships of any kind. Hmmmmm. So why was he so eager for me to visit him? Well, just for fun. And to meet in person after all the correspondence. Fair enough.

On the last night before my departure, Stanley held a party in my  honor at a small park in downtown Amarillo. There were about a hundred people, including a dozen attractive ladies serving champagne. No food. It was close to 7 pm and I could sense that everyone was wondering about dinner that had been promised in the invitations. Oh well, we'll all just get drunk on champagne, I thought.

Suddenly, two large gasoline trucks drove up on either side of the park. Two guys in bell hop uniforms jumped out of each truck, pulled down the sides and revealed a buffet setup with all the trimmings. I'm talking filet mignon, baked potatoes, salads and chocolate cake with coffee. We all lined up and ate like wolves. What a surprise to a wonderful evening of drinks and glorious food.

In conclusion, Stanley's health deteriorated over the years and he passed away in June 2014 at the age of 76. He left behind his wife Wendy, a flock of children...and many exotic animals...along with the Cadillac Ranch, the latter run down and moved to another part of the farm. His reputation in Amarillo was also stained by charges he had made sexual contacts with young boys. Those allegations were all settled out of court, financially, and we'll never know the real truth.

What I Dislike About Staples

Staples is an excellent store to buy business supplies, albeit their prices are too high for print cartridges that don't last long enough, they have stopped carrying dark chocolate covered raisins and you have to wait weeks for a rebate check to arrive in the mail that looks like junk advertising.

Finally, folks, their disclaimer when dispensing a cash award reads like a Congressional Bill that will never pass the Senate. Here is only one portion of it for your displeasure:

Staples Rewards® cannot be redeemed for or applied against cash, taxes, credit remittance, shipping charges, custom printing orders placed online, promotional products, any purchases made on print.staples.com, staplescopycenter.com, staplespromotionalproducts.com, staplescustomprint.btobsource.com, appcenter.staples.com, gift cards, prepaid phone cards, postage stamps, prior purchases, Staples Industrial(sm) purchases, purchases made on staplesmobile.com, or purchases on third-party Web sites. Purchases eligible for rewards is the amount paid at checkout after application of all promotions, coupons and rewards redemptions. Purchases made pursuant to a contract with Staples Contract & Commercial, Inc., are not eligible for the Staples Rewards program. The sale, barter or transfer of rewards, except by Staples, is expressly prohibited. Abuse of the Staples Rewards program, including violation of program policies, or other improper conduct as determined by Staples, may result in legal action, cancellation of member account, exclusion from the program, forfeiture of all rewards accrued, and liability for past rewards redeemed. If reward is not redeemed in full on in-store purchase, a one-time-only coupon with the expiration date of the original reward will be printed for any remaining balances of $1.00 or more. No balance coupon will be given on online or phone orders. Balance coupon may be used for future store, online or phone orders. Expired rewards cannot be reissued. Staples reserves the right to change the rewards program at any time without notice.

Otherwise, their bathroom in Southbury, CT will never compare for cleanliness with the one in nearby Starbucks. I know. I've tried them both!

Drop Down, Post Up, Pay the Piper, Get Out!

According to a recent Neilsen Report there are 900 Reality Shows presently on television channels. And there are hundreds of thousands of ad to interrupt your pleasure of watching TV. But don't despair folks. I have a plan to charge advertisers for entering our homes via television and computer screens. Please follow this scenario closely, then email your Congressman and Congresswoman to introduce a bill that would make it all happen. Here goes:

Beginning in 2015 advertising agencies must pay a modest fee for each client they represent to every home in America. For a licensing cost of $5000 a year,  to each tax payer of record, everyone will then feel comfortable about seeing ads on their TV and computer screens. Kind of like having a relay tower on your property for cell phone companies. They pay tons of money for that arrangement and more each year. Ditto for NASCAR racers with all their labels on uniforms and cars. Athletes too generate more money than winning at sports.

Times have changed. As a kid in Ohio I can remember going to Oberlin College with my music teacher, a tennis buff, to watch matches played by Bill Tilden and Bobby Riggs. Or a basketball game in Akron when Bob Cousey was king on the court. No touching, pushing or stepping on toes then. And no money. They all played for the sport. Winning a trophy was the Holy Grail. More remunerative was grabbing the brass ring when riding a merry-go-round.

Today, money is everything. Consider Nadal's two million dollar check for winning the French open in tennis. Even the loser receives a hefty amount, although not as much as a Christmas bonus for a Citi Bank executive. Money, money, money. That's the name of the game.

If I had to live my life over again, I would be a tennis pro. That was my passion at the age of 12 and we had two tennis courts in Coshocton, Ohio, a town of 12,000. When the Mayor was asked why the population never changed, he replied "because everytime a baby is born, somebody leaves town."

He himself had to run away after he impregnated a high school senior. I can still see Maisy lumbering down Main Street carrying her 40 pound load. They left town together. So the population did change.

I played tennis with all the older guys and I was getting better all the time. When I reached college, I played more tennis with my buddy, Mac Schaeffer, and almost made the tennis team. But I had another avocation, jazz drumming. All the musicians around Columbus would meet every week for an afternoon jam session. We packed University Hall with 1,500 students and there was dancing in the aisles.

But I am getting away from the subject. Now where were we? I do remember and will get back to it some other time. Now the door bell is ringing. Probably more Jehovah's Witnesses. Oh well, this will give me an opportunity to try out my can of Mace. We just don't allow any religion in our house. There is a little church practically next door. That's close enough!

The Screaming Mimi or Nebelwerfer

During World War II the Germans had developed mortor shells in different lengths and widths, often loaded with shrapnel and/or poison gas. Hitler was bent upon destroying mankind anyway he could, regardless of earlier treaties for Germany not to manufacture war materials. He duped the free world into believing that one maniac with only one testicle could do much harm. Especially the USA, so far away from his invasions of Poland, Russia and France.

Hitler's Screaming Mimi, or Nebelwerfer, had another feature that scared his enemies into surrendering. That was the screaming of the thinly constructed mortor projectile as it sailed through the air. It was much louder than a rock band in the present day spectrum known as "music." And this leads me to my beef.

How much louder and higher can singers today sing? The "Voice" or "America's Got Talent" display young people with leather lungs that almost reach the height whereby only dogs can hear them. But not quite. So we humans have to endure the raw audible vocal cords designed to deafen a person, regardless of age. Accordingly, we are all doomed to die with dead ears!

Anthropologists dig up mummies with all their teeth after 5,000 years. But no ears. What happened? Were those earless souls frightened by a dinosaur? Or, like the Indians taking scalps for souvenirs, did early tribes of Neanderthal men and women treasure ear trophies after a battle with sticks and stones? We may never know until the conspiracy mavens tackle that possibility.

Meantime, we the people, must endure the ongoing plight of voices singing too loud and too high in pitch. Forget music lessons learned at Juilliard, Curtis and Eastman. Most singing graduates are stuck with a job at Wendy's and instrumentalists are selling shoes to earn a living. That is, unless one of these unfortunate music graduates has a relative who has donated many thousands of dollars to a symphony orchestra or an opera company. Their donations become viable connections for obtaining a job after four years of college training.

One of my college friends majored in music at The Ohio State University and graduated with his cello and a degree. His first job was with the Birmingham Symphony and a salary that only paid his monthly apartment rent. In order to eat, pay utilities and buy a used car, Chris had to sell shoes on Saturday and wait tables on Sunday. He lasted for about a year and then departed, after he found a lovely Southern Belle who "was loaded with large breasts and money" he told me in a letter. They married and lived happily ever after.

Our twenty-month old son is beating on a street drum I gave him. Jalen also dances when I play some jazzy rhythm. But when I asked him if there was any hope for his future in music, he answered immediately with a resounding "No!!!" It is certainly reassuring to hear such an intelligent response from someone so young. Thank heavens there will be no "Screaming Mimi" in our family!

My Experience With "Commando" Kelly, MEDAL OF HONOR WWII

I happened to share a train seat with Medal of Honor winner Commando Kelly, from Pittsburgh, PA. He was a gentle chap, ordinary looking, mid twenties, wearing his army uniform with a dozen colorful ribbons. We talked and soon became "a band of brothers."

Kelly had been in the bar car and downed too many drinks paid for by well-wishers. I could smell that! But he would tolerate my curiosity about his sudden fame on the battlefield. First he had to laugh when he recited what transpired in the bar at the Astor Hotel in New York City. He was wearing his raincoat and drinking at the bar, crowded with men too old to serve their country, and a few women. One female oldster looked at him with contempt and shouted above the music and talk, "Hey soldier, why aren't you overseas fighting the war? Are you 4-F or something?"  Kelly answered, "Because I have syphilis!"  As the crowd gasped and quieted down, he took off his raincoat, exposing the Medal of Honor medallion and all his ribbons. Everyone broke into applause and cheers, booing the antagonistic woman out of the bar.

I had to laugh at the incident and asked him to please tell me what happened to deserve that highest honor, and also to receive a battlefield commission. Here is what Commando Kelly told me:

"Well, Alan, I was with my platoon on a hill in France. About 39 GI's defending a medical unit on the other side of this steep hill. There were a lot of badly wounded Americans getting treated before being evacuation to a field hospital. The Krauts, about 200, were on the other side of the hill, getting ready to come up, wipe us out, and then overun the medical unit. The way was for them to come up, engage us, then go down the hill and massacre patients, doctors and nurses. Up on top, our guys were in an old woodshed we fortified with machine guns, mortars, grenades, rifles, pistols and loads of ammunition. I was just walking around this large cabin, listening to the noise of German troops below. They were going to attack in daylight and knew they outnumbered us five to one. I saw this closet door and looked inside. There were a dozen bottles of wine! I passed them all out to my buddies except two. I stayed in the closet and drank a bottle in less than five minutes. Then the second bottle was soon empty and I fell asleep. When I woke an hour later I was stone drunk with a massive headache. I didn't hear a sound outside my closet door. Where were my buddies? They had split. Gone. Left all their guns and ammo behind. Where were the Germans? Oh, they were coming, slowly but surely. I looked through the periscope and saw row after row of Nazi soldiers crawling up the hill, not more than a hundred yards away. Well, Alan, what would you do in that circumstance? You say you would run? How far would you get? Remember, that's desertion and you'd get court martialed. Or get killed. The Germans had orders to take no prisoners. So I decided to stay and fight. First I unloaded a belt of 50 caliber machine gun bullets and it was like like a strike in the bowling alley. The whole front row of 40 Krauts went flying. Dead as doornails. Then I picked up a bazooka and sent a shell into the center of the enemy advance. The wounded ones were screaming in pain. I fired a clip from an M-16 and was lucky again. Ten dead. Time to throw a few grenades. About 8, one after the other. More dead and wounded. Guess what, Alan? Those horses asses thought my whole platoon was in position and firing at them. But it was just me. All me alone! The cowards turned around and started sliding down the hill. I picked up the flame thrower, ran outside and torched several dozen wounded. Remember, take no prisoners. I had a Tommy Gun strapped on my shoulder, so I emptied that into the last wave of unholy rollers down that hill. End of story. I went back in the cabin, exhausted, the battle lasted about 30 minutes, and I fell asleep."

I asked Kelly how he got his Medal of Honor. He explained that after he fell asleep he was shaken awake by a Captain and his dozen or so grunts. They had been sent to return Kelly's body! Instead, they counted over a hundred dead Germans and one American soldier sleeping! But when he had dinner at the White House with President Truman, he left out the incident with the wine in the closet. Hmmmmmm.

I JUST LOVE STARBUCKS!

June 2, 2014

Mr. Howard Schultz, Chairman
STARBUCKS COFFEE COMPANY
2401 Utah Avenue, South
Seattle, WA 98134-1436

Dear Mr. Schultz,

I just love Starbucks. Especially how you went from nothing to everything when fulfilling your dream. Besides the enjoyable food, coffee and ambience of all your cafes I have visited in a dozen cities.

Best of all, your Starbucks have great toilets. They’re clean, well stocked with soap, hot water, soft toilet paper and absorbent towels.

In the latter instance, when I ran for Congress against Christopher Shays, as Representative from Connecticut in 1988, my campaign workers and I cleaned up Metro North commuter trains’ toilets.

We scrubbed the johns with Lysol in express trains before they departed from Grand Central Station, leaving behind a large bar of soap, a roll of heavy duty toilet paper, a stack of absorbent towels, a box of tissues, a spray can of deodorant, a plunger, the Wall Street Journal and a small glass vase with a fresh flower.

Did all this scrubbing and cost of supplies generate votes for the READY, WILLING AND ABEL party? Unfortunately not, Mr. Schultz. Even though I journeyed to Washington, DC, and measured the office for redecorating, if I were to win. But I lost by a landslide.

However, the joy of seeing smiling passengers depart from train toilets was thrilling. One man ran up and down the aisle shouting, “You’ve got to see the toilet! Look inside! You won’t believe it!” Other passengers thought he was nuts. Then a few brave souls peeked, came out raving and there were lines waiting to use the johns.

But, to continue this tribute to your Starbucks’ toilets, Mr. Schultz, they are all superb and I want to personally thank you for helping America raise the level of good health awareness with clean bathrooms, especially in Southbury, Connecticut.

I AM NOT A TWITTISH TWITTER!

I really don't have the desire or time to twit. Nor do I plan to follow anyone and I don't think it is practical for anyone to follow me. Many years ago, when I campaigned publicly to clothe all naked animals for the sake of decency ("A nude horse is a rude horse?), reporters Pete Hamill and Susan Brownmiller followed me around New York City to learn what was behind my movement called SINA (Society for Indecency to Naked Animals). They finally gave up the surveillance in despair.

However, nowadays everyone is hooked on twittering. Kind of like smoking. One drag on the weed, it gets into your bloodstream, and you're hooked! In order defeat that transformation, I will tweet in this column for the first, and probably the last time. Just to prove how trivial I can be. Here goes. Follow me.

   The telephone just rang off the hook
   I answered the telephone
   It was a wrong number
   The phone rang again
   I answered again with "Hello"
   It was the same wrong numberer
   I told him to stop bugging me
   He said I should shove it
   I told him to take a long walk on a short pier
   He told me to eat some worms
   I hung up on him
   There was a knock on the door
   I first sneaked a peek through the peep hole
   It was a female Holy Roller
   She wanted to come inside and talk
   I told her I didn't want religion
   She said we could talk about the weather
   I asked whether or not she could leave
   She said I was rude and didn't want to talk
   I said that was fine with me
   She left with her middle finger in the air
   Now the phone is ringing again
   It was Charter Television
   A foreign voice said I had to pay bill
   I said I already paid the monthly bill
   He said his records show I had not
   I gave him my confirmation number
   He looked it up and said I was O.K.
   Charter bookkeeping is out of control
   Suddenly it began to rain cats and dogs
   I closed all the windows
   Now I forgot what I planned to do next
   Oh yes, I remembered and went upstairs
   Into the bedroom and take off my shoes
   I lay on the bed and fell asleep
   No more tweets from me
   And don't even think of tweeting me!