Why Not Let Children Fight Wars?

Since most people agree that wars are childish, why not let children do the fighting? In time of war between two nations, we should send only ten, eleven and twelve year olds against the enemy's kids. By using toy tanks and guns firing streams of water, casualties would be kept low.

Youngsters love to fight. Allowing them to do the job adults detest would be a perfect solution to all future wars. Furthermore, it would cost a government very little to feed, clothe and arm these little warriors. They could fight for a whole day on nothing but hot dogs and peanut butter sandwiches. Their tiny uniforms would use half the material needed for men; and battery-operated weapons are available from China and Japan at dirt cheap prices.

First, we would have to establish a Junior Geneva Convention and introduce new Articles of War, excluding grownups from going into battle except as advisors or historians. As for the rules for fighting, any young soldier from either side who showed the whites of his eyes and heard "bang, bang you're dead" would be considered out of action and must return to school. Naturally the side with the most soldiers left wins the war and dictates surrender terms.

The well known TV Muppets would surely be willing to entertain the kids at the front, and I would also encourage the Girl Scouts to send their cuter members to play nurse and pass out free cookies. Those parents who conscientiously objected to having their boys fight could ask to have them assigned behind the battle lines with a Girl Scout troop. There, these wimps would wash dishes, pans and laundry.

After a war has been declared, I think the conflict should last at least thirteen weeks. This will make the sale of television rights to the battles more attractive to sponsors. And these profits would be split sixty per cent to the winning side, thirty per cent to the losers and ten per cent to the agents responsible for starting the war.

Now suppose for instance, American kids lost a war against the kids of India. In surrendering, they might have to give up several states such as Montana and Wyoming. But so what? There are plenty of people who would just as soon return to the forty-eight star flag. And besides, the United States will someday belong to our current crop of juveniles. So they might as well learn to be losers while they're young!

In addition to fighting global wars, children could turn their attention to internal problems that are too complex for adults to handle. Say the kids of the Daughters of the American Revolution had to take on the youngsters from the Ku Klux Klan, or the entire Civil War might be fought over again just to be sure about the outcome once and for all.

The United Nations would still police each country's regular kiddie army to make sure that no government secretly beefed up their fighting strength by drafting midgets. Then, using satellites and drones to keep an eye on the entire world, anything suspicious could be reported directly to the United Nations, and dealt with accordingly.

Once we let kids handle all wars, adults would never have to serve in the armed forces and the only problems left for world leaders would be racism, inflation, air and water pollution, overpopulation and weapons of mass destruction.

"Bad Birdie"

When I was subbing on drums at Radio City Music Hall during the late 50's, playing four shows a day, the orchestra members would hang out in the cafeteria downstairs back stage, along with the Rockettes, singers and ballet dancers. Concert Master Glenn was a buddy and he dated Marie, an attractive Rockette.

One afternoon, between shows on a Monday, Marie, Glenn and I shared a table. She was laughing so hard tears flowed. Why? Because over the weekend on Saturday Marie and eleven of her Rockette friends had been hired to entertain a wealthy recluse who lived in a Westchester mansion in Bronxville, New York. Here is what transpired.

A 12 passenger van picked up the ladies, drove to the mansion and they had lunch with the recluse, a man in his 40's, only five feet tall and a very large nose. He introduced himself as "Waldo," obviously a fake name, and made small talk about the weather, the Hudson River and his desire to lead a happy life. Hmmmmm. They all smelled a rat on the latter comment.

After the lunch, a delicious shrimp salad, the ladies were told to enter the large bedroom on the first floor where they would find their bird costumes. They would have 30 minutes to change, dress and do their makeup. Then they would all go into the basement family room and dance around Waldo, chirping as birds, singing "Ring Around the Posie."

They dressed in the costumes, put on their makeup (to look like birds), practice singing for a few minutes, and then take the elevator downstars for their performance. No talking or laughing. On cue, Waldo would end this scenario, they would change into their own clothes, each receive a hundred dollar bill and exit to the van for travel back to New York City. That all sounded simple enough.

When the Rockettes, pretending to be birds, entered the downstairs family room, they all gasped at first. Waldo was laying in an open coffin naked with an erection. They started to dance and sing around the casket as Waldo masturbated. Round and round they went for perhaps ten minutes until he ejaculated a stream of sperm that splattered most of them.

It was hilarious to all of them, also somewhat depressing that this rich jerk would subject Rockettes to such a depraved ritual. But they all performed as instructed, except Andrea. She just couldn't contain herself, laughing between chirping as a bird. After they returned to the dressing room and changed clothes, Waldo met them at the door, handing each a hundred dollar bill. When Andrea received hers, Waldo said loudly, "Bad birdie!"

So this was the true tale from Marie that convulsed her in the cafeteria, along with Glenn and I. Both he and I expressed some doubt at first, but she didn't have to make it up. It really happened that way. Would she do it again? "No way" Marie said. "Maybe for a thousand dollars," she added.

DON’T EVER PROCRASTINATE AGAIN

Lee Miles, the President of Bridgeport University, had invited several dozen people to his home on campus for dinner. I was included because I had lectured at the college several times.

Due to heavy traffic from Westport to Bridgeport I was a half-hour late, as was an elderly lady in her 80’s, Clara Mertens. She and I were ushered to a table for two and proceeded to have a lively conversation.

I learned that Clara, a widow, had financed several buildings at the college, thanks to a few million dollars from her late husband’s real estate investments. I suddenly realized Merten’s Auditorium was the venue where I had lectured.

Clara said she was going to Europe for the summer and would return to her estate in Easton around September. She also had an apartment in New York City where she stayed when seeing a Broadway show. But she wanted to know if I had a major project she could finance.

Of course I had a dream to someday establish a museum for unknown creative people who failed to gain proper recognition for their talent. I would be the curator for one year and then depart for oher activities. My museum could be funded for one million dollars.

After our dinner we mingled with the other guests, I said goodby to Clara Mertens, she told me to call her in three months and we would arrange to meet with her attorney to draw up the agreement for my one million dollars to finance the museum.

I could hardly believe this chance encounter that would certainly change my life. Clara had written both of her unlisted phone numbers on my business card and a note to “call before the end of September.” My bucket list of creative people I knew who could profit from a grant began to take shape.

That summer flew by, I had signed to begin a series of lectures in October and was working on my material. Suddenly I realized it was October 1st and I hadn’t called Clara in September. I made the call. Both her phone numbers were disconnected.

My heart skipped a beat. Perhaps she had died. I called the President’s office at Bridgeport University. Yes, Clara had passed away on September 28. Then a call to her attorney. He said he knew about her plan to finance my museum, and had been waiting for me to contact her. I waited too long and she was gone.

Clara Mertens left 16 million dollars to the University of Bridgeport with no strings attached. She had outlived all family member at 89 and so there were no challenges to her will.

But I failed to call her in September and lost my benefactor. Boo hoo.

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!