This is a bio Wayne wrote about himself a couple of years ago. I seriously doubt he'd have minded me printing it here:
Well, here's the short version. I've worked in Central Fl radio for over 30 years. Started as a news trainee with WDBO in 1968. Hired by WORJ as announcer/news director 1969. Employed there until a co-employee broke me up and I laughed my way thru an entire newscast. Manager Tom Doyle stopped me in front of the station, and as he caught his finger in the heavy glass door, told me if I ever did it again, I'd be fired. Well, (I love Tom and have worked with him since) I don't remember exactly what I told him, however I do know my employment ended at that time.
Went to WTRR in Sanford for a couple of years where I worked with Bill Bauman and George Crossley. Did mid-day jock until going back to WDBO as a newsman/anchor. Worked with Perry Moore, Jim Turner, Bob Raymond, until getting fired for trying to start a union movement and the daily trip to the local bar. (Not sure which one was the key.) Wound up doing mid-days at rocker WLOF as Tom Clark, "the Body Beautiful". Did two years there until I quit on the air because they wanted to change the focus of my call-in show. Said in my last on-air statement, "I would rather eat bark off a tree in the woods, than stay here.) A great moment, however yet another one that led to immediate unemployment. Did a couple of stints as a club dj, making more than I'd ever made in radio... then went back to WDBO in the late 70's thru mid 80's as news director. Worked with market long-timers such as Reagan Smith, Pat Flannagan, Dennis Moore. New company bought the station and did not appreciate the rather laid back approach I took to the job. Last straw was they wanted me to wear a tie and appear to be managerial. Well, that obviously wasn't going to work, so I was unemployed yet again. Shortly after WDBO, I went to WKIS, as morning anchor. Worked with market regulars Adrian Charles, Lynn Levine, Jim Philips. Got fired from there after 6 years, something about ratings. It appeared other stations had them, and I did not. Go Figure.
At some point, who knows, I went to do morning news for WWNZ. Later moved to news director then operations manager. Worked with Peter King, Dave Ross. Station sold to Clear Channel and ran it as a paid advertising shill until they switched frequencies and call letters and brought in new management. I left then, just wanting to take a sabbatical, however, based on the number of calls I've received begging me to return to the air, I believe I've retired.
For all the juicy stories about drunken, pot-smoking, naked and degenerate radio people, you'll just have to wait till the lawyers clear the book. (God, if only I had pictures!!!)
It can be found, with the appropriate links, at: Wayne Trout
Please visit my main blog at marinadedave.com
Friday, June 17, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Party Hearty & Die Young!
That was Wayne Trout's motto, credo and all around toast. Wayne never met a party he didn't like. You'd have to be a fool not to invite him. His presence ensured its success. The consummate entertainer, he always acted in a dignified manner, no matter how much alcohol he consumed. Very honest and a very good friend to many.
I first met Wayne soon after I moved to Florida from New Jersey. He was probably the first person, other than family, who made me feel welcome and accepted in this area. At the time, he was the news director for the old WDBO radio station in Orlando. Florida is such a transient state, with people moving in and out from all parts of the country and world. Consequently, native and long time Floridians aren't as acceptable of outsiders who bring in their customs and, certainly, driving habits. It kind of dilutes the old ways. Wayne didn't feel that way. Although, not a native Floridian, all were accepted in his world. He got me to join a two-hand touch football league. He said, "We play every Sunday at 10 am, no matter what you did the night before." Discipline. "You're not going to be able to sit down come Monday," he said before my first game. He was right. I'd never been so sore in my life. But, you got used to it. These scrimmages led up to the final game of the season, so named by him and a few friends, THE TOILET BOWL. I even designed jerseys and had them printed. Most of the players consisted of local TV and radio personalities, cameramen and engineers. One is now the general manager of the local NBC affiliate, WESH.
Wayne had a loyal bastion of friends. One such friend, Jim Philips, who worked alongside and competed against Wayne over the years, said in the Orlando Sentinel, "If you or your buddy got a divorce or dumped, you could stay with Wayne. And he would turn 'em around in a couple of days." I can attest to that. Jim has the #1 rated afternoon talk show here, The Philips File, which is also on XM Radio "Extreme" channel 152.
We used to meet on Saturdays, early in the afternoon, at Harper's Tavern (Le Cordon Bleu) in Winter Park. There was a very good buffet that came out of the kitchen of the very fancy French restaurant. We'd sit around there and then go to Wayne's house to watch college football. Mostly the Gators. Harper's had a real neighborhood kind of feel to it. Things were never quite the same after it burned down. One time he told us, "Hey, meet at my house this Saturday instead. We're going to have a limberger and onion sandwich party." Limberger cheese and onions? You've got to be kidding me. But we all did. Such was the power of Wayne. In a good way. Who else could get you to do that? He had it all spread out in his dining room. Rye, pumpernickel, mayo, mustard, hot peppers, limberger and onions. With, of course, the requisite tequila chasers. And you know, they were good sandwiches. Later on, after the crowd thinned, by that I mean, the married men had to get on home, poor wives, there were about a half dozen of us left. "OK," Wayne exclaimed, "let's head on over to Harper's for a few!" As we started to huddle toward the front door to leave, we got a concentrated whiff of ourselves and decided against it. There would be no way of explaining what we had gotten into to that crowd. They wouldn't have believed it and we would have been told to go home. I have a lot of memories of my old friend. Too countless to tell here.
Pools, parties, babes and fun! That was the quintessential Wayne Trout. One night, he just went to sleep. 56 years old.
I first met Wayne soon after I moved to Florida from New Jersey. He was probably the first person, other than family, who made me feel welcome and accepted in this area. At the time, he was the news director for the old WDBO radio station in Orlando. Florida is such a transient state, with people moving in and out from all parts of the country and world. Consequently, native and long time Floridians aren't as acceptable of outsiders who bring in their customs and, certainly, driving habits. It kind of dilutes the old ways. Wayne didn't feel that way. Although, not a native Floridian, all were accepted in his world. He got me to join a two-hand touch football league. He said, "We play every Sunday at 10 am, no matter what you did the night before." Discipline. "You're not going to be able to sit down come Monday," he said before my first game. He was right. I'd never been so sore in my life. But, you got used to it. These scrimmages led up to the final game of the season, so named by him and a few friends, THE TOILET BOWL. I even designed jerseys and had them printed. Most of the players consisted of local TV and radio personalities, cameramen and engineers. One is now the general manager of the local NBC affiliate, WESH.
Wayne had a loyal bastion of friends. One such friend, Jim Philips, who worked alongside and competed against Wayne over the years, said in the Orlando Sentinel, "If you or your buddy got a divorce or dumped, you could stay with Wayne. And he would turn 'em around in a couple of days." I can attest to that. Jim has the #1 rated afternoon talk show here, The Philips File, which is also on XM Radio "Extreme" channel 152.
We used to meet on Saturdays, early in the afternoon, at Harper's Tavern (Le Cordon Bleu) in Winter Park. There was a very good buffet that came out of the kitchen of the very fancy French restaurant. We'd sit around there and then go to Wayne's house to watch college football. Mostly the Gators. Harper's had a real neighborhood kind of feel to it. Things were never quite the same after it burned down. One time he told us, "Hey, meet at my house this Saturday instead. We're going to have a limberger and onion sandwich party." Limberger cheese and onions? You've got to be kidding me. But we all did. Such was the power of Wayne. In a good way. Who else could get you to do that? He had it all spread out in his dining room. Rye, pumpernickel, mayo, mustard, hot peppers, limberger and onions. With, of course, the requisite tequila chasers. And you know, they were good sandwiches. Later on, after the crowd thinned, by that I mean, the married men had to get on home, poor wives, there were about a half dozen of us left. "OK," Wayne exclaimed, "let's head on over to Harper's for a few!" As we started to huddle toward the front door to leave, we got a concentrated whiff of ourselves and decided against it. There would be no way of explaining what we had gotten into to that crowd. They wouldn't have believed it and we would have been told to go home. I have a lot of memories of my old friend. Too countless to tell here.
Pools, parties, babes and fun! That was the quintessential Wayne Trout. One night, he just went to sleep. 56 years old.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Are You Loansome Today?
Many years ago, while in the restaurant business, we had a very faithful customer by the name of George. George would come in to eat every day. Sometimes two or three times in one day. He called my old boss, Jack, over to him one day. He told Jack he was getting married Saturday and could he have his wedding reception there at the Weiner King. Now, George wasn't playing with a full set of teeth, if you know what I mean. Of course, Jack said. We'll even throw in ice cream cones for dessert or get you a cake. Sure enough, right on schedule, George and his whole entourage showed up. Big hot dog party. Hamburgers, cheeseburgers and fries. Milkshakes and Cokes. The orders kept flying. Plus we had to wait on the other customers, but we had reserved a special section for George and his new bride. After all was said and done, his whole bill came to about $13.00. Back then, if my memory serves me, a hot dog was around 35 cents, maybe 50 cents for a quarter pound burger. Yup, ole George did all right for himself. Everyone had a good time. I think they were going to honeymoon at the old Ringoes Drive-In. George was back that Monday for lunch.
Years later, George approached Jack one more time. This time, he asked him if he could borrow $50. Of course, Jack said. George told him he'd gotten into some kind of a financial mess. Don't worry about it, George, I know you're good for it. Well, George never came back in again. Never saw him around town like we used to, you know, "Hello, George!"
One day, Jack was in downtown Flemington, on Main Street, and sure enough, there was George. Jack asked, "Hey George, where have you been?" George tried to hide his face, like an ostrich sticking its head in the ground. "Listen, forget about the $50 you owe me. You were such a good customer over the years, we just want you to come back. Don't worry about it." George told him, OK, sorry about that. I'll start coming back.
We never saw George again.
Years later, when I owned my own Wiener King, I had a regular customer similar to George. One day he asked if he could borrow $50. I thought about George. I'm not going to let this happen to me. I thought more about it and said, "Of course you can." I never saw him again. You think I would have learned my lesson.
Years later, George approached Jack one more time. This time, he asked him if he could borrow $50. Of course, Jack said. George told him he'd gotten into some kind of a financial mess. Don't worry about it, George, I know you're good for it. Well, George never came back in again. Never saw him around town like we used to, you know, "Hello, George!"
One day, Jack was in downtown Flemington, on Main Street, and sure enough, there was George. Jack asked, "Hey George, where have you been?" George tried to hide his face, like an ostrich sticking its head in the ground. "Listen, forget about the $50 you owe me. You were such a good customer over the years, we just want you to come back. Don't worry about it." George told him, OK, sorry about that. I'll start coming back.
We never saw George again.
Years later, when I owned my own Wiener King, I had a regular customer similar to George. One day he asked if he could borrow $50. I thought about George. I'm not going to let this happen to me. I thought more about it and said, "Of course you can." I never saw him again. You think I would have learned my lesson.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
On Me
Back in the late seventies, early eighties, I owned a restaurant in New Jersey. I closed at 10 pm during the week, and would pretty much be there for another half hour or so cleaning up. I usually kept the doors unlocked until ready to walk out for the night, but I turned the outside sign off at 10. Once in a while, a wayward soul would come in and ask if we were still open and did we have any coffee left? After a while, the coffee gets pretty nasty and I would throw it out if I had made it hours earlier. Some nights, coffee's just not a big seller, especially during the summer months. Of course, late at night, when I'm closed anyway, I'm not about to make a fresh pot for that one customer who may or may not show up for a cup. Instead, I would run a pot of water through the Bunn-o-matic to get it hot and put it on the burner, just in case. If and when that person asked for a cup, I would say, well, we're really closed, but I have some instant I can make for you (unless the coffee that was left was still fresh enough.) Great! I'd make them a cup and say, no charge, my pleasure. Besides, the register's already locked up for the night. Of course, the coffee didn't cost all that much, but the individual half & half and sugar containers did, plus the to go cup. Oh well, I was always glad to help, and I never lost a customer for doing it. Don't know if I really made any new ones, either. They may have been truck drivers passing through who I might not ever see again, but it didn't matter. If they needed coffee that time of night, there must have been some reason for it and I was only happy to oblige.
Monday, June 06, 2005
A Hard Cell? or Do We Stem The Tide Of Research?
I remember, here in Orlando, a young girl who had a chance to go to New York City on a business trip. It was optional. She asked me for advice. I told her to go for it. It was a chance of a lifetime. You are old enough now and it is time to break out of your shell, to see what the world has to offer. She chose not to go. She'll probably never know what she missed, unless she has opened her mind since then.
Early Christian and political leaders believed that the world was flat and the center of the universe and punished scientists who thought otherwise. Some were put to death for their heresy and others were imprisoned or severely castigated for their teachings based on scientific facts of the day. Many governments adhered to strict interpretations of the Old and New Testaments. What part or scriptures of the Bible spoke of the world being flat? Where does it state that the earth is the center of the universe? Early church and political doctrine was clearly based on a patriarchal interpretation of the Bible, to suit their own needs and prejudices. What they professed was based on an innate fear that change is the devil's work. These beliefs shut out many who came up with sound and logical ideas. Where would we be now if the church did not bend its own rules throughout the ages? Today, many hospitals are affiliated with organized religion. If science, through the church, closed its doors to research, where would these hospitals be today? There would be no one working on cures for cancer. Organ transplants would not exist.
But, does experimentation upon human life at any stage of development have a place in a civilized society? That is a question of great debate.
When does human life begin? Generally, there are three positions to be noted. One is that it begins with the existence of the egg. Another is with the fertilization of the egg, and the third maintains that life begins at the awareness of one's own being. By that, I mean, pretty much when one realizes, "Hey! Let me out of here!" In baby-speak, of course.
Recently, a Harvard stem cell scientist asked the following question: “Imagine an In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) clinic that has caught fire and will burn to the ground. There is one person who is left trapped within the burning building along with thousands of fertilized eggs stored in liquid nitrogen tanks. Who will the firemen attempt to save?” I think we all know the answer to that question. But think about it. Thousands of human lives are destroyed to save one person, if you believe life begins at fertilization.
Since the advent of successful IVF in the seventies, leftover eggs and embryos have been routinely discarded. Why then, are there no arguments for the sake of protecting these? Why are they being allowed to be thrown away? What makes it all right to discard them if they are considered by many to be human life? Where are the watchdog groups? They only seem to be there when the stem cell and cloning issues arise. Who authorized the harvesting of eggs for IVF to begin with? Isn't this also experimenting with human life?
A frozen egg, fertilized or not, could be maintained for years beyond the typical 18 one gets to claim as dependents on their taxes. Someone has to pay for keeping these eggs intact. Certainly, the IRS is not going to offer a deduction on eggs or embryos. I believe the official position was explained when expectant parents tried to claim fetuses as dependents and the government shot back: We need a footprint. We need a fingerprint. We need a birth certificate. Is it true, then, that the IRS, a federal government agency, does not recognize these objects as viable human life? Consequently, how much involvement should the federal government (or any state with an income tax that allows deductions for dependents) have over this issue?
Stem cells are primitive "master" cells that can be programmed to become many kinds of tissue. Human stem cell cloning, as far as it has advanced today, in my opinion, should not be used to make genetically identical babies - called reproductive cloning. That is not what stem cell research and cloning is all about. Unfortunately, a lot of people think that way, since Dolly, the sheep, was "born." And that's all they know. There are ways to utilize stem cells for the benefit of humankind without risking life.
In the case of clinical experiments currently being explored in Korea, to make them patient-specific, researchers have taken DNA from the skin cells of volunteers and put this genetic material into donated human eggs that have had their own genetic material extracted. These eggs were grown to a very early stage of embryo development, when they were just small balls of cells. The scientists then extracted the stem cells. When researchers examined them in the laboratory, the cells appeared to be immunologically compatible to the individual who donated the DNA. This could potentially lead to the eradication of diseases such as diabetes and Alzheimer's, by using your own cells to rebuild and cure yourself. This, by no intentions, means you can perpetually replace cells and parts and live forever. But I wouldn't mind growing another head of hair.
Many people equate this research to creating life, like the Frankenstein monster - in other words, to go against the laws of God and/or nature. In their minds it is morally wrong and reprehensible. I don't think there are any passages in the Bible that clearly address this, among many other issues, so what do we do? Who is qualified to set ground rules? What do we base these rules on? Who polices all the labs in the world? For every black there is a white. Do we keep it white or black or do we use the grey matter in our heads to come up with some kind of working solution? This is the future. There are alternatives, such as obtaining adult stem cells from other means, like bone marrow and vascular organs. At least open your mind to research at different levels. Get to know more about stem cell research before formulating an opinion generally based on religious or political views. Have compassion for the afflicted. What can we do to help? These people might otherwise die. Aren't their lives worth saving? My mother is a diabetic. Wouldn't it be great if a cure were just around the corner? My brother-in-law has leukemia (AML.) Where would he be without the bone marrow transplant he recently underwent?
What if scientists never looked beyond the confines of what is commonly referred to as "acceptable" research? Acceptable to whom and by what consensus? Would the world still be as flat as their minds?
Early Christian and political leaders believed that the world was flat and the center of the universe and punished scientists who thought otherwise. Some were put to death for their heresy and others were imprisoned or severely castigated for their teachings based on scientific facts of the day. Many governments adhered to strict interpretations of the Old and New Testaments. What part or scriptures of the Bible spoke of the world being flat? Where does it state that the earth is the center of the universe? Early church and political doctrine was clearly based on a patriarchal interpretation of the Bible, to suit their own needs and prejudices. What they professed was based on an innate fear that change is the devil's work. These beliefs shut out many who came up with sound and logical ideas. Where would we be now if the church did not bend its own rules throughout the ages? Today, many hospitals are affiliated with organized religion. If science, through the church, closed its doors to research, where would these hospitals be today? There would be no one working on cures for cancer. Organ transplants would not exist.
But, does experimentation upon human life at any stage of development have a place in a civilized society? That is a question of great debate.
When does human life begin? Generally, there are three positions to be noted. One is that it begins with the existence of the egg. Another is with the fertilization of the egg, and the third maintains that life begins at the awareness of one's own being. By that, I mean, pretty much when one realizes, "Hey! Let me out of here!" In baby-speak, of course.
Recently, a Harvard stem cell scientist asked the following question: “Imagine an In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) clinic that has caught fire and will burn to the ground. There is one person who is left trapped within the burning building along with thousands of fertilized eggs stored in liquid nitrogen tanks. Who will the firemen attempt to save?” I think we all know the answer to that question. But think about it. Thousands of human lives are destroyed to save one person, if you believe life begins at fertilization.
Since the advent of successful IVF in the seventies, leftover eggs and embryos have been routinely discarded. Why then, are there no arguments for the sake of protecting these? Why are they being allowed to be thrown away? What makes it all right to discard them if they are considered by many to be human life? Where are the watchdog groups? They only seem to be there when the stem cell and cloning issues arise. Who authorized the harvesting of eggs for IVF to begin with? Isn't this also experimenting with human life?
A frozen egg, fertilized or not, could be maintained for years beyond the typical 18 one gets to claim as dependents on their taxes. Someone has to pay for keeping these eggs intact. Certainly, the IRS is not going to offer a deduction on eggs or embryos. I believe the official position was explained when expectant parents tried to claim fetuses as dependents and the government shot back: We need a footprint. We need a fingerprint. We need a birth certificate. Is it true, then, that the IRS, a federal government agency, does not recognize these objects as viable human life? Consequently, how much involvement should the federal government (or any state with an income tax that allows deductions for dependents) have over this issue?
Stem cells are primitive "master" cells that can be programmed to become many kinds of tissue. Human stem cell cloning, as far as it has advanced today, in my opinion, should not be used to make genetically identical babies - called reproductive cloning. That is not what stem cell research and cloning is all about. Unfortunately, a lot of people think that way, since Dolly, the sheep, was "born." And that's all they know. There are ways to utilize stem cells for the benefit of humankind without risking life.
In the case of clinical experiments currently being explored in Korea, to make them patient-specific, researchers have taken DNA from the skin cells of volunteers and put this genetic material into donated human eggs that have had their own genetic material extracted. These eggs were grown to a very early stage of embryo development, when they were just small balls of cells. The scientists then extracted the stem cells. When researchers examined them in the laboratory, the cells appeared to be immunologically compatible to the individual who donated the DNA. This could potentially lead to the eradication of diseases such as diabetes and Alzheimer's, by using your own cells to rebuild and cure yourself. This, by no intentions, means you can perpetually replace cells and parts and live forever. But I wouldn't mind growing another head of hair.
Many people equate this research to creating life, like the Frankenstein monster - in other words, to go against the laws of God and/or nature. In their minds it is morally wrong and reprehensible. I don't think there are any passages in the Bible that clearly address this, among many other issues, so what do we do? Who is qualified to set ground rules? What do we base these rules on? Who polices all the labs in the world? For every black there is a white. Do we keep it white or black or do we use the grey matter in our heads to come up with some kind of working solution? This is the future. There are alternatives, such as obtaining adult stem cells from other means, like bone marrow and vascular organs. At least open your mind to research at different levels. Get to know more about stem cell research before formulating an opinion generally based on religious or political views. Have compassion for the afflicted. What can we do to help? These people might otherwise die. Aren't their lives worth saving? My mother is a diabetic. Wouldn't it be great if a cure were just around the corner? My brother-in-law has leukemia (AML.) Where would he be without the bone marrow transplant he recently underwent?
What if scientists never looked beyond the confines of what is commonly referred to as "acceptable" research? Acceptable to whom and by what consensus? Would the world still be as flat as their minds?
Thursday, June 02, 2005
A Very Nosy Bee
Years ago when I was in the restaurant business, my boss, Jack Little, would lay me off during the summer months. He would get school kids on break from college to work for him. They got to earn some spending money and be productive, and I got a chance to go paint houses for the summer. He could get 3 or 4 kids to work for what he paid me and I would make a good amount painting. It worked out well for everyone concerned. I must say, though, that Jack was the best boss I ever had. An all around great guy. Helped you out. Brought kids up on the right track, whether they worked for him or were just customers. And this place was "hang out central" back then.
One summer, I was painting a restaurant that had an embankment out back. It was in an area of Flemington called Turntable Junction, kind of a colonial shopping district. Some of the people who worked there would dress up like Ben Franklin. Very touristy, but, I never heard anyone scream, "To arms! To Arms!" when British tourists came around. It was more like, "Arm the registers!"
Down below the embankment are railroad tracks where the Black River & Western train would run "tourons" as the native colonists would call them, through scenic routes and back. All along that embankment were clusters of ground hornets. I don't know if their homes would be considered townhouses or condos. I never could quite figure that one out. But there were thousands of them, the bees, I mean. They would fly around me constantly, being the nosy and adventurous little critters that they are. From years of experience, I knew they were harmless, unless provoked.
One afternoon I was up on one of the roofs, painting trim and other areas, when I decided to take my lunch break. I broke out my sandwich and, yum, they smelled food. I just swatted them away. No problem. Except for this one pesky little guy. He just kept buzzing around me and my food. I'd chase him away. He'd come back. Finally, when I thought I was rid of him, I took a nice big bite out of my sandwich. I'm chewing and chewing, and of course, I'm breathing through my nose. Nice deep breaths, savoring my meal. All of a sudden, my little buddy came around the corner of my face, right to the front. Thwoop. Right up my nose he went. Deep into the depths of my sinuses.
Oh no.
I just sat there, motionless. I knew what was about to happen. And it did.
S-C-H-W-W-W-W-O-O-O-O-O-N-N-N-G-G-G!
Oh, the pain. Excrutiating pain. Sinuses closed up shop. Eyes watered down my face like a Hawaiian waterfall. This was not a funny matter. I didn't know what to do. I got up and walked around trying to shrug off the pain. That didn't work. I knew I had no recourse but to just sit it out. I couldn't put ice cubes up my nose. That bee was gone and he wasn't coming back to apologize. I tried to put my mind on other things. Should I go to the emergency room? What should I do?
The pain only lasted about 15 minutes. Good thing for me, I've never had bad reactions to insect bites or stings. Mosquitos rarely even came after me. I've never had any allergies to my knowledge. Maybe it was payback for the times when I was young and I'd chase other kids around with poison ivy. I never touched anyone with it, though.
After the pain subsided, I went back to work. It didn't bother me at all anymore, but, I don't think I finished my lunch. The bees started buzzing around me once again, but I wasn't afraid. I had probably about the worst thing that could ever happen to me by one of their tribe. Sting me on the arm. Hah! No big deal.
He's still in there somewhere. Probably lodged in one of my lungs. Dead. But I heard that anything in the lungs remains there. The lungs don't dissolve foreign objects.
One summer, I was painting a restaurant that had an embankment out back. It was in an area of Flemington called Turntable Junction, kind of a colonial shopping district. Some of the people who worked there would dress up like Ben Franklin. Very touristy, but, I never heard anyone scream, "To arms! To Arms!" when British tourists came around. It was more like, "Arm the registers!"
Down below the embankment are railroad tracks where the Black River & Western train would run "tourons" as the native colonists would call them, through scenic routes and back. All along that embankment were clusters of ground hornets. I don't know if their homes would be considered townhouses or condos. I never could quite figure that one out. But there were thousands of them, the bees, I mean. They would fly around me constantly, being the nosy and adventurous little critters that they are. From years of experience, I knew they were harmless, unless provoked.
One afternoon I was up on one of the roofs, painting trim and other areas, when I decided to take my lunch break. I broke out my sandwich and, yum, they smelled food. I just swatted them away. No problem. Except for this one pesky little guy. He just kept buzzing around me and my food. I'd chase him away. He'd come back. Finally, when I thought I was rid of him, I took a nice big bite out of my sandwich. I'm chewing and chewing, and of course, I'm breathing through my nose. Nice deep breaths, savoring my meal. All of a sudden, my little buddy came around the corner of my face, right to the front. Thwoop. Right up my nose he went. Deep into the depths of my sinuses.
Oh no.
I just sat there, motionless. I knew what was about to happen. And it did.
S-C-H-W-W-W-W-O-O-O-O-O-N-N-N-G-G-G!
Oh, the pain. Excrutiating pain. Sinuses closed up shop. Eyes watered down my face like a Hawaiian waterfall. This was not a funny matter. I didn't know what to do. I got up and walked around trying to shrug off the pain. That didn't work. I knew I had no recourse but to just sit it out. I couldn't put ice cubes up my nose. That bee was gone and he wasn't coming back to apologize. I tried to put my mind on other things. Should I go to the emergency room? What should I do?
The pain only lasted about 15 minutes. Good thing for me, I've never had bad reactions to insect bites or stings. Mosquitos rarely even came after me. I've never had any allergies to my knowledge. Maybe it was payback for the times when I was young and I'd chase other kids around with poison ivy. I never touched anyone with it, though.
After the pain subsided, I went back to work. It didn't bother me at all anymore, but, I don't think I finished my lunch. The bees started buzzing around me once again, but I wasn't afraid. I had probably about the worst thing that could ever happen to me by one of their tribe. Sting me on the arm. Hah! No big deal.
He's still in there somewhere. Probably lodged in one of my lungs. Dead. But I heard that anything in the lungs remains there. The lungs don't dissolve foreign objects.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
For Everything There Is A Reason...
I went to a fellow blogger's site this morning. We have had a couple of conversations back and forth between comments and e-mails. We have some common interests in food, philosophy and other topics. It turns out, I used to live quite close to where he is now, in Lambertville, NJ. Small world. He is a genuinely good and caring man.
Frank is a Baptist minister and quite the food expert. He lost his father suddenly, on May 26. No matter what your profession, this has got to hurt. Fortunately, his faith will carry him through, but, no matter what, there is still tremendous pain. My guess is that they were extremely close.
All I ask is that you visit his site and if the spirit moves you, write a little message to him in the comment section. Every kind word has got to help a little. You can click on the title of this post to get there. Thanks.
http://www.theworldonaplate.com/
Frank is a Baptist minister and quite the food expert. He lost his father suddenly, on May 26. No matter what your profession, this has got to hurt. Fortunately, his faith will carry him through, but, no matter what, there is still tremendous pain. My guess is that they were extremely close.
All I ask is that you visit his site and if the spirit moves you, write a little message to him in the comment section. Every kind word has got to help a little. You can click on the title of this post to get there. Thanks.
http://www.theworldonaplate.com/
Friday, May 27, 2005
Opening Doors
In the early eighties, I worked for an ad agency. A woman, Linda, who worked with us was, and I'm sure still is to this day, a staunch feminist. Now, I have nothing against the ERA and all that. My only problem was that she just did not like men. She wasn't a lesbian. She actually was married to a really nice guy. He was a police captain, but, she managed to turn him into a veritable milquetoast. You could ask her about the weather, a seemingly innocent topic, and she would somehow twist it into some kind of warped discussion about how most meteorologists are men and how much women have suffered because of male meteorologists. Any topic. So, as a male, you couldn't expect to have a conversation with her without somehow feeling guilty about yourself. She hated Republicans, yet she was registered as one. I sensed an inner confusion.
Another woman, Terri, worked with her in the same room. She was seemingly normal, in a sense that she didn't feel as compelled to destroy the male id. One day, at lunch time, we all kind of poured out the front door at the same time. As I walked out, Terri scampered up behind me. I held the door open for her. She said, in a rather bitter tone of voice, "You don't have to hold the door open for me." I let go. Bam. Caught her off guard. She was so caught up in her contempt she never saw it coming. I said, "Terri, I would hold the door for anyone behind me, whether male or female. It's just the polite thing to do." I mean, heck, I slow down for squirrels in the street. I had this gut feeling that Linda had brought in one of those body snatching pods and it had taken over her body and mind. A few days later, she apologized. She said she was wrong and it was totally out of character for her. Of course, I said I was sorry for letting go of the door, too. She said, no, it kind of opened her eyes. You work with a person, day after day, year after year, bent on indoctrinating you to some cause, it's got to have an affect on you. Terri never showed an ounce of disdain, nor acted impulsively again.
I think that most people aren't always afraid of change with regards to whatever movement arises and sustains itself, whether social, political or religious in nature. I think people are more apprehensive due to the militant nature of so many of the proponents. They just scare people off.
Another woman, Terri, worked with her in the same room. She was seemingly normal, in a sense that she didn't feel as compelled to destroy the male id. One day, at lunch time, we all kind of poured out the front door at the same time. As I walked out, Terri scampered up behind me. I held the door open for her. She said, in a rather bitter tone of voice, "You don't have to hold the door open for me." I let go. Bam. Caught her off guard. She was so caught up in her contempt she never saw it coming. I said, "Terri, I would hold the door for anyone behind me, whether male or female. It's just the polite thing to do." I mean, heck, I slow down for squirrels in the street. I had this gut feeling that Linda had brought in one of those body snatching pods and it had taken over her body and mind. A few days later, she apologized. She said she was wrong and it was totally out of character for her. Of course, I said I was sorry for letting go of the door, too. She said, no, it kind of opened her eyes. You work with a person, day after day, year after year, bent on indoctrinating you to some cause, it's got to have an affect on you. Terri never showed an ounce of disdain, nor acted impulsively again.
I think that most people aren't always afraid of change with regards to whatever movement arises and sustains itself, whether social, political or religious in nature. I think people are more apprehensive due to the militant nature of so many of the proponents. They just scare people off.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Science Fiction Writer
This is my uncle, David A. Kyle. He is recognized in the science fiction community as the elder statesman, certainly to the older generation. I don't know about present day fans. He still goes to many sci-fi conventions around the world. He is now 86 and to this day, has no trouble hopping in his car and driving down to Orlando from Potsdam, NY. Way upstate. He is married to my mother's sister, Ruth. His mind is as sharp as it was 50 years ago. Back in 1980, he was authorized by the late E.E. 'Doc' Smith estate to write further adventures in the 'Dragon Lensmen' series. He has written other books and many years ago, was an author and illustrator for detective, fantasy and sci-fi pulp fiction magazines, such as Analog, and was the founder of Gnome Press. Years ago, he and my aunt owned a radio station up there, WPDM.
I remember, when I was four, going to their wedding in New York City. I sat with my grandmother and great aunt in the front row. During the ceremony, I looked up at the stained glass windows. It was an Episcopal church, The Little Church Around the Corner in midtown Manhattan. Quite ornate and somewhat gothic, if I recall. The moment was very silent. Pointing upward, I blurted out, "Is that God?" And I meant 'was that really God?' It reverberated throughout the whole church. The congregation roared in laughter. I guess I had my 15 minutes of fame rather early in life.
When I was young, probably from around nine to fifteen, they used to fly me up to spend summers with them. Mohawk Airlines. DC-3s back then. Sometimes, they'd entertain guests for dinner. Earlier on, it meant nothing to me to dine with Isaac Asomov or Robert Heinlein. A close friend is Forrest J. Ackerman and not far behind is some guy named Arthur C. Clarke, like anyone would know who he is. Being famous was not part of my vocabulary back then. About the same age, my father took me to a midget or sprint car race in Flemington, NJ, where I'm from. "See that guy out there?" he asked. "That's A.J. Foyt." "So?" I responded. I knew who Superman was.
My uncle has always had a very vibrant and creative mind and a keen, dry sense of humor. He still does.
Every winter, he and my Aunt Ruthie try to come down, to escape the brutal and long winters of the north country.
If you are familiar with him, would you drop me a line? I'd love to pass along any stories to him, especially since he can be the consummate storyteller, himself.
I remember, when I was four, going to their wedding in New York City. I sat with my grandmother and great aunt in the front row. During the ceremony, I looked up at the stained glass windows. It was an Episcopal church, The Little Church Around the Corner in midtown Manhattan. Quite ornate and somewhat gothic, if I recall. The moment was very silent. Pointing upward, I blurted out, "Is that God?" And I meant 'was that really God?' It reverberated throughout the whole church. The congregation roared in laughter. I guess I had my 15 minutes of fame rather early in life.
When I was young, probably from around nine to fifteen, they used to fly me up to spend summers with them. Mohawk Airlines. DC-3s back then. Sometimes, they'd entertain guests for dinner. Earlier on, it meant nothing to me to dine with Isaac Asomov or Robert Heinlein. A close friend is Forrest J. Ackerman and not far behind is some guy named Arthur C. Clarke, like anyone would know who he is. Being famous was not part of my vocabulary back then. About the same age, my father took me to a midget or sprint car race in Flemington, NJ, where I'm from. "See that guy out there?" he asked. "That's A.J. Foyt." "So?" I responded. I knew who Superman was.
My uncle has always had a very vibrant and creative mind and a keen, dry sense of humor. He still does.
Every winter, he and my Aunt Ruthie try to come down, to escape the brutal and long winters of the north country.
If you are familiar with him, would you drop me a line? I'd love to pass along any stories to him, especially since he can be the consummate storyteller, himself.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Wart Tree
In the late seventies, early eighties, I owned a restaurant called Weiner King. I know, it's funny, but I did. The restaurant originated in Flemington, NJ. There were several franchises. One in Warminster, PA, one in Morristown, PA, and mine in Whitehouse Station, NJ.
There was a nice lady who came in at least twice a week to eat. One afternoon, she came in during that slump time beween the end of the lunch rush and before the dinner crowd. The girl who worked with me that day, Lauri Goodell, was studying biochemistry at Rutgers University. I had this plant on a window sill that spanned the front counter and into the service area, on a side wall. At that time, there was no one else in the restaurant. After our hellos and how are yuz, she walked toward the plant with her arms extended to touch it.
She asked, smilingly, "What is this plant? I've been admiring it for quite some time now."
"It's a wart tree," I responded. I don't know where the thought even came from, but it was too late. I said it.
"A WART TREE?" Her arms quickly retracted.
I had to think fast. "Yes, a wart tree. Lauri goes to Rutgers and is majoring in biochemistry. You know how warts have seeds in them?"
"Yes?"
"Well, someone she knew had a plantar wart and she took them and cultivated them into what you're looking at here."
"You're kidding."
"No," I said. "Ask her."
Lauri collaborated my story and went into some kind of microbiospeak that neither of us understood.
She bought it, or it seemed like she believed her. The poor woman composed herself, even though she had a perplexed look on her face, and ordered food. I think she asked for it to go.
I think when her husband got home from work that day, she told him about the wart tree. He probably told her there is no such thing, all the while laughing.
Well, I never saw that woman again. She was either afraid of the tree, warts and all, embarassed by her gullibility, or too mad at me to ever come back.
I guess I probably shouldn't have done that, but, Lauri and I sure did get a laugh. Working 80 hours a week will do that.
There was a nice lady who came in at least twice a week to eat. One afternoon, she came in during that slump time beween the end of the lunch rush and before the dinner crowd. The girl who worked with me that day, Lauri Goodell, was studying biochemistry at Rutgers University. I had this plant on a window sill that spanned the front counter and into the service area, on a side wall. At that time, there was no one else in the restaurant. After our hellos and how are yuz, she walked toward the plant with her arms extended to touch it.
She asked, smilingly, "What is this plant? I've been admiring it for quite some time now."
"It's a wart tree," I responded. I don't know where the thought even came from, but it was too late. I said it.
"A WART TREE?" Her arms quickly retracted.
I had to think fast. "Yes, a wart tree. Lauri goes to Rutgers and is majoring in biochemistry. You know how warts have seeds in them?"
"Yes?"
"Well, someone she knew had a plantar wart and she took them and cultivated them into what you're looking at here."
"You're kidding."
"No," I said. "Ask her."
Lauri collaborated my story and went into some kind of microbiospeak that neither of us understood.
She bought it, or it seemed like she believed her. The poor woman composed herself, even though she had a perplexed look on her face, and ordered food. I think she asked for it to go.
I think when her husband got home from work that day, she told him about the wart tree. He probably told her there is no such thing, all the while laughing.
Well, I never saw that woman again. She was either afraid of the tree, warts and all, embarassed by her gullibility, or too mad at me to ever come back.
I guess I probably shouldn't have done that, but, Lauri and I sure did get a laugh. Working 80 hours a week will do that.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
The Road Trip
Tim is home! Yup. Back from Kirkuk, Iraq. We must have sent a thousand e-mails to each other.
When I arrived in Houston on Sunday the 24th of April, with my best friend, Stew, we went to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center to see Bud. At that point, he was pretty healthy. He had the transplant the Tuesday before. By Thursday, he was pretty sick. The doctors told him and my sister that it was just a reaction to the chemo he had to prep him for the transplant. His white cell count was only .2% at that time. We left that weekend. On the way home, Maggie called me and said his cell count was on the rise, which meant the new bone marrow was starting to do its thing already. By the time I got home, it had gone up to 2.9% and that was good news. He is very tired and weak, but, so far things are looking up for them. It better continue that way. He's not even close to being anywhere near the edge of the forest yet. The doctors did allow him to go home to their apartment for the weekend, so that must have lifted his spirits. One interesting thing. The doctors say that any type of fungus is deadly to him. Kill him outright. I would imagine that would include mold and mildew. Don't know why, but I'll try to find out.
On the way there, we stopped in Rayne, Louisiana for the night. Did you know that Rayne is the frog capital of the world? I didn't think so. Stewart spoke with his wife the next morning. She's pretty gullible. He told her that when we got to the hotel, they only had a room with one bed, but, don't worry, one of us slept above the covers and one below the covers. But we had to share a pillow. I think she believed him. We went through the gambling district in Biloxi, hugging the coast. Pretty interesting. Jefferson Davis had a home there, which is now a museum. A lot of shade trees with spanish moss. Then we went on through Bay St. Louis, which is a very nice little community. From there we went into the French Quarter in New Orleans and took some pictures. As soon as he e-mails them to me, I will post some at my Flickr site. We went to one of the above ground cemeteries with all the mausoleums. St. Louis #1. Very interesting. The rest of the drive was rather boring to look at. Lake Charles to the west is nothing but a giant chemical town. Next door is the town of Sulphur. I looked for Birthdefect on the map. I thought it would be nearby.
Houston itself is pretty big. There is one good sized downtown and clusters of others. The medical district alone is just about the size of downtown Orlando. Bud's hospital is big. Four floors are for leukemia only. The staff is dedicated to that disease and the care is impeccable. He says the food's pretty good, too.
Stewart wanted to go to Galveston. Maggie said it's nothing to see. Don't waste your time. I said, hey, you drove all the way out here and you want to go to Galveston. Let's go. So we did. The three of us. We all actually enjoyed it. It's a nice place. We went on an oil rig museum. We walked through the gaslight area called The Strand with shops and restaurants and second floor iron railings, like in New Orleans. A nice place to escape the city. That night, back in Houston, my sister took us to a restaurant/bar for happy hour called Benjy's. Certainly a good place to eat and drink. Everyone we met in Houston was very nice, but I wouldn't want to live there.
When we left for home, we spent the night in Tallahassee. Little did we know that FSU graduation was going on and virtually every room was filled. We did find the last one at a La Quinta at exit 99. Nice little area. The next morning, back on the road, Stew talked to his wife An, and told her that we did have two beds this time. Good, she said. Then he told her that the air conditioner was stuck on the lowest setting and wouldn't go off. We had to sleep in the same bed to stay warm, but we did have separate pillows. "I'm leaving you!" she screamed. Pretty funny, but she should know better. I don't lean that way.
One thing we really did notice. EVERY exit on I-10 had a Waffle House.
Every exit.
Well, except for the bayou.
And we only saw one cowboy in Texas. Horns on his Ford truck.
It's fun to travel.
When I arrived in Houston on Sunday the 24th of April, with my best friend, Stew, we went to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center to see Bud. At that point, he was pretty healthy. He had the transplant the Tuesday before. By Thursday, he was pretty sick. The doctors told him and my sister that it was just a reaction to the chemo he had to prep him for the transplant. His white cell count was only .2% at that time. We left that weekend. On the way home, Maggie called me and said his cell count was on the rise, which meant the new bone marrow was starting to do its thing already. By the time I got home, it had gone up to 2.9% and that was good news. He is very tired and weak, but, so far things are looking up for them. It better continue that way. He's not even close to being anywhere near the edge of the forest yet. The doctors did allow him to go home to their apartment for the weekend, so that must have lifted his spirits. One interesting thing. The doctors say that any type of fungus is deadly to him. Kill him outright. I would imagine that would include mold and mildew. Don't know why, but I'll try to find out.
On the way there, we stopped in Rayne, Louisiana for the night. Did you know that Rayne is the frog capital of the world? I didn't think so. Stewart spoke with his wife the next morning. She's pretty gullible. He told her that when we got to the hotel, they only had a room with one bed, but, don't worry, one of us slept above the covers and one below the covers. But we had to share a pillow. I think she believed him. We went through the gambling district in Biloxi, hugging the coast. Pretty interesting. Jefferson Davis had a home there, which is now a museum. A lot of shade trees with spanish moss. Then we went on through Bay St. Louis, which is a very nice little community. From there we went into the French Quarter in New Orleans and took some pictures. As soon as he e-mails them to me, I will post some at my Flickr site. We went to one of the above ground cemeteries with all the mausoleums. St. Louis #1. Very interesting. The rest of the drive was rather boring to look at. Lake Charles to the west is nothing but a giant chemical town. Next door is the town of Sulphur. I looked for Birthdefect on the map. I thought it would be nearby.
Houston itself is pretty big. There is one good sized downtown and clusters of others. The medical district alone is just about the size of downtown Orlando. Bud's hospital is big. Four floors are for leukemia only. The staff is dedicated to that disease and the care is impeccable. He says the food's pretty good, too.
Stewart wanted to go to Galveston. Maggie said it's nothing to see. Don't waste your time. I said, hey, you drove all the way out here and you want to go to Galveston. Let's go. So we did. The three of us. We all actually enjoyed it. It's a nice place. We went on an oil rig museum. We walked through the gaslight area called The Strand with shops and restaurants and second floor iron railings, like in New Orleans. A nice place to escape the city. That night, back in Houston, my sister took us to a restaurant/bar for happy hour called Benjy's. Certainly a good place to eat and drink. Everyone we met in Houston was very nice, but I wouldn't want to live there.
When we left for home, we spent the night in Tallahassee. Little did we know that FSU graduation was going on and virtually every room was filled. We did find the last one at a La Quinta at exit 99. Nice little area. The next morning, back on the road, Stew talked to his wife An, and told her that we did have two beds this time. Good, she said. Then he told her that the air conditioner was stuck on the lowest setting and wouldn't go off. We had to sleep in the same bed to stay warm, but we did have separate pillows. "I'm leaving you!" she screamed. Pretty funny, but she should know better. I don't lean that way.
One thing we really did notice. EVERY exit on I-10 had a Waffle House.
Every exit.
Well, except for the bayou.
And we only saw one cowboy in Texas. Horns on his Ford truck.
It's fun to travel.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
I'm Houston Bound & Tim's Coming Home
I'm on my way to see my sister and brother-in-law tomorrow morning. He's through with the bone marrow transplant and now only time will tell if it has been successful.
Today is my brother Tim's last official day in Iraq. He should be home with his loving wife in about a week or so.
Today is my brother Tim's last official day in Iraq. He should be home with his loving wife in about a week or so.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Poor Woman
I was talking to a friend of mine in New Jersey recently. She had a pretty interesting story to tell and wanted an opinion from a male point of view. I've known her a very long time.
She's been dating this guy for 2-3 years. I don't know him. She has a son in his early twenties. Her son decided to place a Yahoo! personal ad. Not being as savvy as older, more experienced men, well, he decided to read what older, more experienced men were writing to learn some lines before penning his own. Scrolling through Yahoo! personals, lo and behold, guess what? He stumbled upon an entry by her "of course I love you" boyfriend.
Of course he showed his mother. Of course she confronted him. Of course he denied it. It was some kind of terrible joke by one of his friends or a rotten thing to do by someone who was trying to get even with him for something he had done. I asked her if she believed him. She said she didn't know what to think. He was so adamant about it. I said, don't you think this jokester or rotten "friend" would have made something up that was more negative than positive? I mean, don't you think he would have said he was gay and written from that point of view? I found it at Yahoo! and it was all this typical personal ad mushy stuff about liking children, boating, fine dining and that kind of puke. Sounded pretty sincere to me. Where did his picture come from? Why would one of his friends or enemies write something that would benefit him in any way? Why would a friend try to set him up with other women if he wasn't going to be there to respond? Besides, someone had to pay for it to be active. Suppose what he said was true, who would meet this dream date, him or his friend? Then she would see it wasn't him. I couldn't find any logical way out of the mess, you know, guy to guy support.
She asked me what she should do. I said I wasn't into messing around with an already messy situation. But, I did give her one bit of advice. I told her to place a personal ad on Yahoo! Heck, I'll even find a picture of a sweet looking babe. In a bikini. Just the right age, size and haircolor. I said, write a description you know he'll respond to. I mean, who knows him better than you? Or respond to his. How much is it going to cost? Do a little chit chat for a while and decide to meet somewhere like a Bennigan's. That seems to be a safe place to "meet" someone "new." When he walks in, he'll be in for quite a surprise. Serves him right.
I haven't talked to her for a little while, so I don't know what is going on. My guess is he finally fessed up and she forgave him. Stupid. Oh well, but hey, he sounded like a nice guy in his personal ad. It must be true. Any woman out there looking for some type of soulmate not into lying or playing games? Add a comment here and I'll pass it on to her. See if he's still available.
She's been dating this guy for 2-3 years. I don't know him. She has a son in his early twenties. Her son decided to place a Yahoo! personal ad. Not being as savvy as older, more experienced men, well, he decided to read what older, more experienced men were writing to learn some lines before penning his own. Scrolling through Yahoo! personals, lo and behold, guess what? He stumbled upon an entry by her "of course I love you" boyfriend.
Of course he showed his mother. Of course she confronted him. Of course he denied it. It was some kind of terrible joke by one of his friends or a rotten thing to do by someone who was trying to get even with him for something he had done. I asked her if she believed him. She said she didn't know what to think. He was so adamant about it. I said, don't you think this jokester or rotten "friend" would have made something up that was more negative than positive? I mean, don't you think he would have said he was gay and written from that point of view? I found it at Yahoo! and it was all this typical personal ad mushy stuff about liking children, boating, fine dining and that kind of puke. Sounded pretty sincere to me. Where did his picture come from? Why would one of his friends or enemies write something that would benefit him in any way? Why would a friend try to set him up with other women if he wasn't going to be there to respond? Besides, someone had to pay for it to be active. Suppose what he said was true, who would meet this dream date, him or his friend? Then she would see it wasn't him. I couldn't find any logical way out of the mess, you know, guy to guy support.
She asked me what she should do. I said I wasn't into messing around with an already messy situation. But, I did give her one bit of advice. I told her to place a personal ad on Yahoo! Heck, I'll even find a picture of a sweet looking babe. In a bikini. Just the right age, size and haircolor. I said, write a description you know he'll respond to. I mean, who knows him better than you? Or respond to his. How much is it going to cost? Do a little chit chat for a while and decide to meet somewhere like a Bennigan's. That seems to be a safe place to "meet" someone "new." When he walks in, he'll be in for quite a surprise. Serves him right.
I haven't talked to her for a little while, so I don't know what is going on. My guess is he finally fessed up and she forgave him. Stupid. Oh well, but hey, he sounded like a nice guy in his personal ad. It must be true. Any woman out there looking for some type of soulmate not into lying or playing games? Add a comment here and I'll pass it on to her. See if he's still available.
Monday, April 18, 2005
BM-Day For Bud
Tomorrow is bone marrow day. It will come in the form of a blood transfusion. No thick needles into his bones. He won't feel a thing. It should take about 8 hours to complete. Then, the real finger crossing begins. Will the host cells like him or will they attack him like some sort of pariah? Time will tell. Not much time, either.
I leave for Houston Saturday morning, from Orlando. My best friend Stewart and I are driving. And he has to come up from around Port Charlotte, leaving his wife behind for a week. We have been best friends for 38 years. He's about as much family as I am. This will be a welcome and comforting sight for Bud and, especially, my sister, Maggie.
We take nothing but hopes and prayers with us.
I leave for Houston Saturday morning, from Orlando. My best friend Stewart and I are driving. And he has to come up from around Port Charlotte, leaving his wife behind for a week. We have been best friends for 38 years. He's about as much family as I am. This will be a welcome and comforting sight for Bud and, especially, my sister, Maggie.
We take nothing but hopes and prayers with us.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Beefy King
Years ago, I was a hardline artist for an ad agency here in Orlando. I also designed and built ads for a department store chain that ran in various newspapers throughout the state. Previous to that job I was mostly in the restaurant business. Soon after I started working there, I saw a sort of fast food place up the street called Beefy King. Since I had come from a background in that industry, I thought it would be nice to meet these people. We soon became good friends.
One of the interesting, if not quirky, aspects of my job was break time. My boss insisted that we all come in at 8:30 in the morning, but we had to take a break from 9 to 10. Strange, but that was the way it was. Pretty much every morning I would drive up the street to Beefy King, make myself a sandwich and pour a cup of coffee. Sometimes I'd help slice meats or whatever, but most of the time I'd stand at the front counter reading the newspaper. They weren't open that early, so I wasn't getting in the way of customers.
One morning I went in, there was a short, chubby man working on an ice machine that had broken down. Seemed like a really nice fellow. The next morning he was still working on it. On the morning of the third day, as he was finishing up, he and the owner, Roland Smith, were standing in a hallway between the dining area and the back room, probably working out the bill. He whispered to Roland, "Hey, that guy up there. He's been here every morning just standing there reading the newspaper. What's he do for a living?"
Now, the acoustics were just right and I heard every word of it. He didn't know. Roland said, "He's a professional newspaper reader."
The guy said, "No way. There's no such thing." Roland told him to go ask me, then.
I was standing there, seriously reading my paper, acting oblivious, when he sauntered up. He very politely said, "Excuse me."
I looked up and in a face that showed great concentration, as I was very deep in my work, replied, "Yes?"
"Well, I've been here three days now and I see you reading the paper. I was just wondering what kind of job you have. What do you do for a living, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Why of course not. I'm a professional newspaper reader."
"No way. I've never heard of such a job."
"Yup. That's what I do."
"No kidding! Well, I'm from Florida. Born and raised. What's the name of the newspaper in Leesburg?"
"Which one? The Commercial or the Gazette? Plus the Orlando Sentinel has a zoned edition."
"No kidding! Alright. What about St. Augustine?"
"The St. Augustine Record."
And so it went. No matter where he asked, I had an answer. I mean, we advertised in all of those publications.
"I believe you. I think I've heard it all. I can't wait to tell my wife tonight. She's not going to believe it."
Later, Roland and I got the biggest laugh out of it. To this day, I'm sure he's still telling people about the job to stump all jobs.
One thing about the Beefy King. Having hung around there for many years, I can tell you that it is, by far, about the cleanest restaurant I've ever set foot in. You could practically eat off the floors. Really good food, too. The same family has owned it since 1968, with the third generation in charge now. If you are ever in Orlando for business or whatever, try to stop by. It's on Bumby. Tell them Marinade Dave sent you.
One of the interesting, if not quirky, aspects of my job was break time. My boss insisted that we all come in at 8:30 in the morning, but we had to take a break from 9 to 10. Strange, but that was the way it was. Pretty much every morning I would drive up the street to Beefy King, make myself a sandwich and pour a cup of coffee. Sometimes I'd help slice meats or whatever, but most of the time I'd stand at the front counter reading the newspaper. They weren't open that early, so I wasn't getting in the way of customers.
One morning I went in, there was a short, chubby man working on an ice machine that had broken down. Seemed like a really nice fellow. The next morning he was still working on it. On the morning of the third day, as he was finishing up, he and the owner, Roland Smith, were standing in a hallway between the dining area and the back room, probably working out the bill. He whispered to Roland, "Hey, that guy up there. He's been here every morning just standing there reading the newspaper. What's he do for a living?"
Now, the acoustics were just right and I heard every word of it. He didn't know. Roland said, "He's a professional newspaper reader."
The guy said, "No way. There's no such thing." Roland told him to go ask me, then.
I was standing there, seriously reading my paper, acting oblivious, when he sauntered up. He very politely said, "Excuse me."
I looked up and in a face that showed great concentration, as I was very deep in my work, replied, "Yes?"
"Well, I've been here three days now and I see you reading the paper. I was just wondering what kind of job you have. What do you do for a living, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Why of course not. I'm a professional newspaper reader."
"No way. I've never heard of such a job."
"Yup. That's what I do."
"No kidding! Well, I'm from Florida. Born and raised. What's the name of the newspaper in Leesburg?"
"Which one? The Commercial or the Gazette? Plus the Orlando Sentinel has a zoned edition."
"No kidding! Alright. What about St. Augustine?"
"The St. Augustine Record."
And so it went. No matter where he asked, I had an answer. I mean, we advertised in all of those publications.
"I believe you. I think I've heard it all. I can't wait to tell my wife tonight. She's not going to believe it."
Later, Roland and I got the biggest laugh out of it. To this day, I'm sure he's still telling people about the job to stump all jobs.
One thing about the Beefy King. Having hung around there for many years, I can tell you that it is, by far, about the cleanest restaurant I've ever set foot in. You could practically eat off the floors. Really good food, too. The same family has owned it since 1968, with the third generation in charge now. If you are ever in Orlando for business or whatever, try to stop by. It's on Bumby. Tell them Marinade Dave sent you.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Last Chance To Dance
Yesterday, my brother-in-law, Bud, went into M.D. Anderson in Houston for his final chance at survival. Today, he gets a small dose of an experimental (clinical trial) form of chemo. The doctors will then monitor him to see how he reacts and to formulate what amount the final dose will be before the transplant. All of his bone marrow must be neutralized. He will be in for a month. As some of you might be aware, Bud has AML (Acute Myelogenous Leukemia.) He has been fighting this since January of 2004.
Originally, he was to receive a donor stem cell transplant. His siblings were all tested and none were considered to be viable. Fortunately, a matching donor was found. What is incredible about this donor is that he decided to donate bone marrow, too, on top of the stem cells. This is quite a nice gesture on his part, since it entails more work and pain to extract the marrow. My sister says it can take up to a week to retrieve enough. Then it must be flown in within 24 hours of the transplant. The doctors will give Bud bone marrow now instead of stem cells, which is a stronger treatment and much more beneficial than just the cells in fighting the leukemia. This man is not just out to help a little, he is out there to try to save someone's life. I wish I could thank him regardless of the outcome.
This is a one shot chance to live. It will work or it won't. The marrow transplant will be done on the 19th of this month. The first 72 hours after treatment are absolutely crucial. Since his body is pretty much in a state of nothingness at this point, the host cells have a chance to eat him up and destroy his organs. He will not have antibodies. The new cells are in total control. If these cells accept his body, then he is well on his way to recovery.
My mother is on her way to see him and my sister, Maggie. She left this morning from Orlando. I will be leaving to see them on the 23rd. I hope the news is music to my ears.
Originally, he was to receive a donor stem cell transplant. His siblings were all tested and none were considered to be viable. Fortunately, a matching donor was found. What is incredible about this donor is that he decided to donate bone marrow, too, on top of the stem cells. This is quite a nice gesture on his part, since it entails more work and pain to extract the marrow. My sister says it can take up to a week to retrieve enough. Then it must be flown in within 24 hours of the transplant. The doctors will give Bud bone marrow now instead of stem cells, which is a stronger treatment and much more beneficial than just the cells in fighting the leukemia. This man is not just out to help a little, he is out there to try to save someone's life. I wish I could thank him regardless of the outcome.
This is a one shot chance to live. It will work or it won't. The marrow transplant will be done on the 19th of this month. The first 72 hours after treatment are absolutely crucial. Since his body is pretty much in a state of nothingness at this point, the host cells have a chance to eat him up and destroy his organs. He will not have antibodies. The new cells are in total control. If these cells accept his body, then he is well on his way to recovery.
My mother is on her way to see him and my sister, Maggie. She left this morning from Orlando. I will be leaving to see them on the 23rd. I hope the news is music to my ears.
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