Gator Tales & It's A Small World After All

Quite a few years ago, three of my friends, Stewart, Frank and Pat, came down from New Jersey to visit. I remember before they got here, one of them asked me if my car had air conditioning. "Of course," I said. When I picked them up at the Orlando airport, they said, "Hey, I thought you told us your car has AC." I said, "It does, but, you didn't ask me whether it works or not."

For months before they got here, I kept telling them about this terrible gator problem we were having. Gators everywhere, strutting up to homes and snatching little poodle dogs away from their owners. "Yelp! Yelp!" A real epidemic. They believed me but it did nothing to stop their trip. Stewart knew better. We've been friends far too long and he can tell when I'm full of it. I think, in the years I had been in Florida, up to that point, I had only seen one in the wild, while canoeing on the Wekiva River.

One of the features of the greater Orlando area back then, was, that it had an abundance of dancing facilities of the female persuasion where the uniform consisted of just high heels. The only time I ever went to those places was when my married friends would come down to see me. They insisted. I felt a little arm twisting and they were so persistent, so I reluctantly gave in. "Hi, Dave," one of the girls said as we entered an establishment in Fern Park. We locals referred to it as the "Fern Park Ballet."

This particular time they came down, they wanted to go to EPCOT. Fortunately, I have enough friends here to get me a free ticket whenever I need one. Having lived here so long, I had been there enough times and didn't want to particularly go, but, heck, a free ticket's a free ticket, and I couldn't let them go without me since it was me they came to see. We got to EPCOT bright and early, paid the parking fee and waited in line. I told them we need to get there early since the lines get very long and the overwhelming crowd can keep you from seeing as much as you want to in a day and, besides, we might want to get out of there early. While we were waiting to get into the park, my friend Stewart asks, "So, Dave, you think there are people from all over the world here?"

"Of course, and I wouldn't be surprised if someone from Flemington was here, too." Flemington is where I was from and where these guys lived. Old time friends.

"Nah, no way," Stewart replied, "If anybody from Flemington's here, I would know it."

All of a sudden, the gates opened up and we were all flowing in. Frank is about 6' 4" give or take an inch, so he towers above the rest of us. "Burgers Cycles, 782..." he says, "Hey, I see someone up there. It couldn't be..."

"What," I asked, "the motorcycle shop up on Route 202 heading to Three Bridges?" We tried to catch up. We followed as best we could. They were heading toward the American pavilion, along with hundreds of other people. As we got to the entrance, the young girl closed the door and announced that they were full and the next show was in about 45 minutes. My friends started to turn around and walk away. I said, "No. Wait." When the remaining crowd dissapated, I asked her if we could go in. She told me no, but, I was insistent. I told her about my friends visiting from out of town and what Stewart told me, that if anyone from Flemington were here, he'd know it. I wanted to prove him wrong and, besides, four more wouldn't hurt anything. "I mean, you didn't actually take a head count, did you?"

"No." She looked around. "OK, go ahead in." We scurried in to the tail end of the line, looking into that vast crowd.

"Oh, no way are we ever going to find that shirt," Stewart said. He underestimated the power of Dave. As we all filed into our rows and sat down, who do you think is sitting right in front of us? I mean, directly in front of us. Morris Postun. We all knew him. Worked at Burger's Cycle Shop. He brought his mother down for a nice little vacation. What a great guy he was for taking good care of his mother like that and having Stewart eat his words. Thanks, Morris.

I don't remember how many days they were here, but, my sister, Maggie and her husband, Bud, had a sailboat they kept on the west coast, near St. Petersburg. Wanna come sailing with us? Great idea, so we all headed toward St. Pete. Back then, long before Bud got sick, he was quite the avid sailor. Maggie helped out a lot, too. He always gave us little responsibilities to get us involved in the sailing. Stewart was the most experienced from our crowd, having grown up around boats. Pat was probably in charge of drinks. Frank was in charge of music on the portable stereo. Stew and I manned the boat with Bud. The stereo was out on the bow. We had started to move at a decent clip, probably around seven knots and the boat started to heel. Frank had forgotten about it. A cassette tape of classical music was playing 'Flight of the Valkyries.' All of a sudden, we watched in horror as the radio slid from the boat into the water. We couldn't stop it. It continued to play as we tried to come about to save it. By the time we got close, it slowly had sunk into the depths of Davy Jones' Locker, but, it continued to play, "blub, blub, blub," until it was out of sight. I guess it's a shrimp reef now, somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.

On our way back from the coast, they had noticed picket and other assorted fences around many of the homes and businesses. One of them asked me if that was to keep the gators out. I had a tough time holding it back.

"Yes. That is the only reason why people put fences up in Florida. Those gators are everywhere." Needless to say, not one of them saw any gators while they were here.

Stewart and his wife now live on the west coast of Florida, just south of Port Charlotte and they have 2 gators in their back yard, right on the golf course, near the retention pond. They've only been here since June of last year. I've been here 24 years and they've already seen as many as me, in the wild, that is. That's them, up top. Go figure.

Fishin' with Frank on Cable 68

When I moved to Orlando from New Jersey, my old friends from up there came up with the idea that we would have an annual party, like The Big Chill movie. All or most of my good friends would meet every summer at the beach house in Beach Haven, NJ. My best friend, Stew's, parents owned it, so we never had to worry about finding a place. Every year, we would all take turns with the video camera and I would edit it into some kind of form that would make sense. It was filled with all kinds of things. I could take a comment made about a model or movie star and splice it into another area so it seemed like someone was commenting on someone else's wife. All kinds of stuff, I did with those videos. Everyone couldn't wait to see my finished product.

One year, I decided to shoot a segment about my good chum, Frank. Frank has always been quite the fisherman. Why not conjure up something and call it "Fishin' with Frank." It has a nice alliteration to it. I worked for an ad agency, so creating art for it presented no problem. I designed a title page that depicted a fisherman on a boat who looked like Frank casting out to sea. For the opening scene, where I did the voiceover, "Yes, it's time for Fishin' with Frank," the camera focused on a pool of water. Then, SPLASH! and clunk as the lure and lead weight was cast into the inside of a toilet bowl. As soon as it hit the water, the toilet was flushed and the camera slowly panned upward to the open lid, which had the picture of Frank carefully taped to it. The next scene was Frank peeing off the stern of the boat. Of course, he was really just spilling a beer can of water into the ocean. "Frank! Frank! You're on!" He pretended to pull his zipper up on his shorts, turned around and introduced himself. Frank knows his stuff. He talked about...fishing! We had the requisite bikini clad babes, who were all wives and girlfriends. We were a lot younger then and they sure did look good. Not that they don't now. So, we had a lot of shots of the girls. Which was a whole lot more important and exciting to watch than Frank. Margaritas flowed. Music wafted in the background. We all took our turns fishing. Of course, the best scenes were when Frank tried to teach some of the girls how to fish. The camera kept moving toward the women's bodies. "Dave! Move that camera here, !#$T#$!*@. I'm trying to show how to tie a knot." Oh, yeah. OK, Frank. Right. That's how it went that day out in the Atlantic Ocean. We all learned something from Frank that day, like, how to talk like a sailor when the camera's not where it's supposed to be. Thus was the taping of the world premier video of the almost famous program, Fishin' with Frank on Cable 68, out of Vineland, New Jersey. Of course, there was no such thing as Cable 68.

After we all got back from that excursion, we cleaned up and went to Buckalew's Restaurant & Tavern for dinner and drinks. They sure did know how to make a great tavern pie there. We sat in the tavern part where they have booths. One side has a long booth and chairs opposite the tables, so we could all sit together. There must have been 20 of us. One waitress asked me who we all were. Wrong question to ask me. "Why, have you ever heard of the Fishin' with Frank show on Cable 68?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure I have."

"Great. We just taped a show up here to be broadcast next month. That's Frank, over there." I pointed Frank out to her. Frank is a pretty tall and good looking guy, so he can have a commanding presence. His uncle was a Hollywood actor named Dick Foran. His father was a senator.

That started the whole theme of the evening. That one waitress had everyone sitting at tables and the bar scrambling to talk to Frank and get autographs. One woman came up to me and asked, "Are you the producer?"

"Yes, I am," I stated as she thrust a paper placemat and a pen toward me to sign. "I thought so," she replied. It seems that everyone had heard of the show, or seen it. The amazing power of suggestion and a whole entourage of "production people." We never took advantage of anyone, nor accepted free drinks, but, it sure was hilarious.

I don't remember if we really caught any fish that day, but, I'll bet you, as Frank always would, that he would have caught the first, the biggest, and the most on the maiden (and only) voyage of Fishin' with Frank.

John W. Fountain

I read in the Sunday, August 14, 2005, edition of the Orlando Sentinel, an article titled, "Black Men Disengage From Church," by John W. Fountain. I read this with great interest and a strong feeling because I can relate to most of what he said. Although I am white, his words ring true in my heart.

My grandfather, like his, was a preacher. He was with the Church of the Brethren for sixty some years, until his death at 93 in 1998. The Amwell Church of the Brethren, in Sergeantsville, New Jersey, welcomed people of all faiths and ethnic backgrounds. I grew up with strong feelings of, "...Be they yellow, black or white, Jesus loves the little children of the world." That is what was taught to us. All were welcomed here, rich or poor. I have no reason to believe it is any different today.

My grandfather went to his grave with the same Spirit that chose him to preach the word of God. He was a simple man, in that, he never aspired to a higher calling from the god of material wealth. He lived off meager wages. The church, every ten years or so, would buy him a new Mercury. The material things he took from the congregation were very tangible. Every once in a while, some of the ladies would bake my grandmother and him a pie or two. He did enjoy his 10 or 20 percent discount that stores and restaurants bestowed upon all men of the cloth.

As a child growing up, a majority of the congregation consisted of women. I remember it has always been like that. Not 75%, though. That is high. The women would fan themselves during hot summer months with the church bulletin. I remember mothers making excuses for their husbands, too, why Daddy didn't go to church. Daddy's got too much work to do.

Many years ago, back in the early 60's, my older brother and I belonged to some type of boy's group, similar to the Boy Scouts, but, not that organization. I don't recall the name of it, but, it was church-based and the meetings were held in a nearby church basement. One time, the preacher came out the front door as my brother was attempting to enter. The preacher told him to step aside. Do you know who I am? It was like the CEO telling the mail room clerk how unimportant he was. That impacted us. We were not brought up in a world of egotistical pastors. We stopped going.

I have lived in the Orlando area since 1981. There are many huge churches here. This is the south and there are many denominations that support large congregations. One that was under construction had massive pillars. Someone spray painted in large letters, "God is not impressed" on one of those pillars. I kind of got a chuckle out of that. Many of these preachers live in multi-million dollar mansions, drive expensive and exotic cars and enjoy the finer things of life, along with maintaining strong bonds with local politicians. This is why I left that realm of religion behind. My faith may still be here, but, this is not the God I know. Not all churches and their ministers are like that, either. Some grew because their congregations grew, also. They had no choice but to expand. They still embody the same visions that came with their inception, only on a larger scale. But, many times, along with that growth comes power, and power is one of the most corrupting things on earth.

Many churches have turned away from their humble beginnings. I think they inherently mean well, and they still do many wonderful things, but, they have somewhat turned away from the underlying message of faith, love, hope and charity, and turned it into some sort of distorted greed. They still preach the message and the flocks still follow, but, the larger and more indulgent mansions of God they build move them farther away from the people they are there to serve. Many members of these churches expect their leaders to enjoy upper class living. But many do not. Are they as active in the community as they could be? Or are they above that now? Do they help the alcoholics, drug addicts and indigents as strongly as they can or do they shun those who do not live up to their standards of God? Dear Lord, don't let them near me. It's like politicians. They are there to serve their constituency, not themselves, whether those in need voted for them or not, and whether they support them or not, too. The church is a servant of God and God ministers to the needy. Church leaders should never rise above that precept.

Why is it that people scrutinize charitable organizations about how high their administrative costs are before making donations, yet these same people do not question what happens to what they drop in the offering plate week after week?

Unfortunately, smaller churches don't have the working capital to help as much as the larger ones. I wonder if smaller community churches could band together to help those in need? Ten small churches offering $100 a week would be $1,000 to charities of their choosing, or whatever they all agree they can afford. Every week it could go to a different cause or outreach program.

I hope his article is read by many. This is a powerful message for people of all faiths and ethnic backgrounds. It's an especially excellent read for those sitting in the hot tubs of their giant mansions, sipping on cold glasses of expensive bubbly, while watching themselves on giant screen televisions. In high definition.

His article can be read HERE .

After the Egg Joke, Scrambled Thoughts

• With the recent addition internet domain name extensions, from the standard .com and .net to newer ones like .us, let's take .us and play around with it. What's to stop someone from registering real corporate names, like ToysR.us or BabiesR.us or any other name that fits those genres. Hopefully, these company's marketing departments already gave that some thought and registered those names to stop internet money-mongers in their tracks. But suppose you want to register your own, and they can be had relatively cheaply now, like one for your 12 year old son, BoogersR.us...the list can go on forever, with just the addition of the letter "R".

It doesn't stop there. Imagine:
stimul.us
arg.us
circ.us
bog.us
religio.us (this would be great for some church organization)
an.us (well, suppose your name is Andrea or Andrew?)
howardstern_siri.us (ha, ha, ha)

Assorted Notes

• I like to come up with company names. A good one for a landscaping company, for example, would be LAWN ORDER. A wine shop could be called THE PORT AUTHORITY.

• A few years back, a Brazilian lawyer contacted me about creating a kiosk design for malls in Brazil. He told me that Brazilians have a major fixation with American westerns. Could I design a kiosk with a western theme? These were supposed to sell fresh squeezed orange juice and offer donuts and coffee. It was a new type of squeezer he and his partners had invented. You drop the whole orange in and out comes just the juice. I'd seen similar machines, but this one was really compact. He wanted it to look like an old covered wagon. I went to the library and took out books that had photographs and sketches of covered wagons. My design had to be illustrated from all angles. I asked him what he was going to call it. He said, "The Orange Juice, Donut & Coffee Wagon." I cringed. How creative, I said. He told me if I could come up with a better name for it, he would throw in an additional $200. I said, OK.

My mind can work in mysterious ways sometimes. Having been in the design business for so many years, you just give it some thought, to plant a seed so to speak, and forget about it. Usually, when you least expect it, an idea pops up in your head and you know it's perfect...

OJ Corral

The guy loved it. And I made the wagon wheels look like orange slices.

• One time, a roofing company asked me to come up with a yellow pages ad design. I drew a cartoon of a doghouse with missing shingles and some at the point of falling off. Above it was an impending storm, with heavy rain clouds and a few drops beginning to fall. Inside the darkened doorway were two bright eyes of a dog peering out that just screamed "ROOF! ROOF! Then, I wrote the body copy below it. It was very effective.

• How come the U.S. Mint didn't come up with a new nickel design for 1976? Instead of Monticello on the back, they could have made a BISON-tennial coin.

Restaurant Joke

Fred and Ethel decided to go to a nice Jewish deli. They went in, sat down and perused the menu. A waitress came over and asked if they were ready to order.

"Yes," said Fred, "we are."

"OK, then, what'll it be?"

Fred says, "Hmmm, I haven't had this in a long time. Let me have the sliced beef tongue and onion sandwich on rye."

"Oh, that's disgusting!" cried Ethel. "How could you eat something that came out of an animal's mouth! I'll have a couple of fried eggs, please..."

The Bald & The Beautiful

My brother, Sam, is two years older than me. He's always been bigger than me, too, even to this day. When I was 11 and he was 13, I said, I can't wait to be 13 so I can be big like him. Oh well. When I was 13 and he was 15, I said, I can't wait to be 15 so I can be big like him. I hadn't really changed that much. When I was 15 and he was 17, I said, I can't wait to be 17, so I can be big like him. No matter how hard I wished, it just never came true. One day, in his early twenties, I noticed he was starting to get that male pattern baldness thing going on. All of a sudden, I didn't want to look like him anymore.

Many years later, after I had a few years of male pattern baldness to deal with, myself, I had a close friend, Frank (see "A Sick, Sick Man," June 30, 2005) who was starting to lose it in the front. Not bad, mind you, but, some people are more conscientious than others in the hair departure department than others. I had already resolved myself to the fact that it just ain't coming back and I didn't have a self-esteem problem that warranted all that much concern. Having hair was not going to make me a better man. Better looking, maybe, but, I doubt it. Anyway, Frank saw an ad in the back of Boyslife or Playboy or something that promised to grow hair if you take these 100% ALL NATURAL pills for the rest of your life for just $29.95 a month. GUARANTEED TO GROW HAIR! Now, mind you, this is long before there was that blood pressure medication that accidentally grew hair out of your nose into a full mustache. Frank sent in for this miracle drug you could take in the privacy of your own home, shipped in a plain brown wrapper, so your neighbors wouldn't notice all of that new hair growth.

At the same time, Sam's girlfriend at the time, decided to whip up this New Age concoction (long before there was even a new age) of vitamins, minerals, herbs, raw eggs, yeast, curdled milk and ground up bull horns or some kind of weird recipe, to kickstart his new hair growth. It must have been of some concern over there at his household, too. He drank one faithfully, every day. Frank and Sam started their rather unique and different regimens at the same time, unbeknownst to each other. The only common bond between them was me. They knew each other, but, not all that well. I became the silent referee, so I could follow their "progression" and to see which program was more of a failure.

After several weeks of laughs, Frank said to me, "Hey, Dave, LOOK! See these little fine hairs growing here? They're new! They weren't here a week ago."

I said, "Frank. Those are the remnants of old hairs. They always get fine in the end, just before they disappear forever."

"Baloney (or words to that effect.) These are new hairs. I should know. They weren't here a couple of weeks ago. You don't know what you're talking about, so, shut up!"

I think I ran into Sam the following day. "Hey, Dave, LOOK! See these little fine hairs growing here? They're new! They weren't here a week ago."

I said, "Sam. Those are the remnants of old hairs. They always get fine in the end, just before they disappear forever. You, of all people, should know that."

"Baloney (or words to that effect.) These are new hairs. They weren't here a couple of weeks ago. You don't know what you're talking about, so, shut up!"

OK. OK. Maybe I didn't know what I was talking about, but, I had a few years of experience under my hat. It was happening to me.

Several weeks went by and they gave me the same spiel again, rambling on and on about their new hair growth. I offered my support and that was it. I never made another discouraging remark. Funny thing is, though, after a couple of months, I never heard another word from those guys about it again.

Never saw any new hairs either.

The Bird Lady of Altamonte Springs

My niece, Ariana, is going home to Germany today. It will be time to go back to "schule" soon. She's been stateside for 6 weeks now. She spent time with her father in St. Louis and my sister in Houston, who is there due to my brother-in-law's leukemia treatment. She came to the Orlando area to visit with her grandparents, my brother, his wife, and me. My sister-in-law, Lindsay, took Ariana shopping and did other "auntly" things. Lindsay volunteers to help feed and treat sick and otherwise defenseless birds of all kinds with the almost world famous Bird Lady of Altamonte Springs, just north of Orlando. Everyone brings Ann Young, the bird lady, these flying creatures to nurse back to health. Her house is a veritable sanctuary. She does this for the birds. Birds do not pay, so donations are encouraged and greatly appreciated. She and Lindsay have been friends for a long time. The Orlando Sentinel does writeups on her every few years.

Wednesday is one of Lindsay's days to volunteer. Ariana was staying with her and my brother that night, so she went along to help feed the birds. My parents and I were going to take Ariana out to dinner later, so I went to pick her up after work. Lindsay said that early in the evening, she and Ann were going to release some nurtured swifts into the wild. These swifts are chimney dwellers. It's where Chinese 'bird's nest soup' comes from, the nests of these birds. They also nestle in the hollows of trees. They feed off mosquitos and other winged insects, so they are great to have around in sub-tropical areas like Florida. Who needs mosquitos? Some people will bring the baby birds to Ann instead of destroying them as they clean out their chimneys due to the noises that can be a little on the pesky side. They might have fallen out of a nest and someone was there to save them. In the winter months, they migrate to South America, Peru, in particular, to avoid the colder climates. Lindsay asked me if we would be back from dinner in time to watch Ann release the birds. I told her, yes, I will do my best.

Ariana and I drove up to the Seminole Community College parking lot around 7:30. There is a large open field adjacent to it. I asked Ann why is it better to release them here instead of anywhere else they might find refuge? She said that this way, if they fall, we are there to collect them up to try again. There is plenty of open space. Oh, I see. Well, what happens if they just don't fly away at all? And why today? She said these birds were about 5 weeks old and if you don't release them, since they are wild, they will become lethargic and die. We will try another day, but, if that doesn't work they must be euthanized. They will never make it, then. Well, we waited. We saw birds of different kinds, but, no swifts. We talked about other types. This woman knows her birds. I wondered why she wanted to wait for other swifts and she said that they will come and fly these little ones to the safety of their own nests. They will protect them and train them to fly home into the chimneys. We waited. Still no swifts. "Well, good luck, little birdies, you might have to be on your own," she told them. She picked the strongest one out of the cage and as she kissed its little forehead, said "Fly away, little one. Be strong!" Up, up and away it went. Within seconds of flight, three other swifts approached the newly freed bird and flew around it. They came out of nowhere. Nowhere at all. Then all of a sudden, they took it under their wings. They all kept flying around and around us as she released the remaining birds one by one. It was truly a remarkable sight to watch nature in action protecting their own.

After they were freed, I asked her, " Where did these other swifts come from?"

"Sometimes, God answers your prayers. Sometimes He doesn't."

Around and around they flew, until off they went, together, to the protection of their new found nests. Ariana and I marveled. This was something we could never learn from reading a book. We truly appreciated the power of God and nature and the amazing heart and grace of the Bird Lady of Altamonte Springs.

Ann Young can be reached at:
Ann Young Wild Bird Refuge
205 Robin Road
Altamonte Springs, FL 32701
Her phone number is 407-339-2900.

For more information on swifts, please go to: SWIFTS.

A Great Salad Dressing!

Through writing this blog, I have become acquainted with some very interesting and friendly people and have visited many impressive and eclectic websites out there. One of interest comes from a woman who produces her own line of gourmet foods, Suzanne, at Three Angels Gourmet. It only makes sense that I would find myself in the company of food types, since I am Marinade Dave, after all. That was originally my point in creating this blog, to write about marinades and to share thoughts on cooking. Last night, I whipped up a really delicious salad dressing made from her Sun-Blessed Tomato Herb Dip Mix. When mixed with balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil, it became a real gourmet treat, with a wonderful bouquet. Everyone who tasted it was very impressed. I highly recommend it, and there are recipes on the packaging. I have several other products of hers to try, but, I would be hard pressed to think that they wouldn't be equally impressive. All of her products are quick and easy to prepare.

Last night, we had a family dinner, since my 15 year old niece is here from Berlin, Germany. We all loved the salad, and my father put some dressing on his brown rice. Whoa, he loved it. I tried it and he was right. It's not just for salads, and I would say it would be great as a marinade. Marinate whatever you want in it. Anyway, if you are a connoisseur of fine food, please give Three Angels Gourmet a try. You won't regret it. Trust me. And don't hesitate to ask me about marinating tips.

In the Heat of the Morning

(This is an e-mail I sent my brother.)

He walked out into the morning dew. The sun shone down and exposed the heat and humidity of the day in unrelenting anger. Beads of sweat started to form on his bald palate and forehead as he slowly ambled toward the vehicle parked in the drive. He pulled on the latch and the door abruptly opened. He slid into the comfort of his seat, put the key into the ignition and turned. He heard the roar of the engine. Something he listened to almost every morning, but this day was different.

Immediately, he felt cold, crisp air blow onto his exposed skin, through his wisps of fine hair, on his face and neck, to his arms and shirt covered chest. The feeling overcame him. It had been a long time since he had felt the comfort of air conditioning in his car. And, thanks to his brother, Sam, he can't wait until late afternoon to feel the same joy. Every morning will be a new and vibrant day to him. It's great to be an American.

My brother, Sam, is not one to read this type of literature.
He is a real macho kind of guy.
That's why I wrote it this way.
A real thank you.
Of sorts.

Bacon & Entering

The server went down. I called Sprint, our ISP, and talked to a technician. He told me how his wife woke up one morning and said, "You know, you were taking service calls in your sleep last night." It kind of reminded me of my old boss, Jack Little, from the restaurant days.

We started serving breakfast after many years of just lunch and dinner, and of course, the night crowd. A bacon & egg sandwich was abbreviated as B&E. One night, in the wee hours of the morning, Jack's phone rang. It startled him out of a deep sleep.

"Yes, we want to report a B&E," the voice on the other end stated.

"Why are you calling me at 3 o'clock in the morning to order a bacon and egg sandwich?"

"No, sir. This is the Flemington Police Department. We want to report a B&E."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your business was broken into. We want to report a breaking & entering."

"Oh. Be right over."

CLICK.

The Bible Can Be Interpreted In Many Different Ways. Try The King Don Version...

There was an establishment I used to stop by once in a while for a refreshing cocktail beverage in Winter Park, Florida. It was called the FBI, short for Fairbanks Inn. Weekend nights they had bands play and some moshing took place. Years ago, we would have called it a dance floor. They called it a pit. That was at night. We were all happy hour types and not into that crowd at all. You'd run into all kinds of people during the day, white collar, blue collar, and plenty of those who had no collars at all. Lawyers, doctors, construction company owners and bums. The place had been in existence for a long time. Over the years, I must have loaned uncounted amounts of $10 bills to people I knew there. Most of the time I'd get them back.

An older fellow who used to frequent the place was quite the character. Most would say he was definitely "different." We called him "Loudmouth Don" because he was, well, very loud. And opinionated. Extremely opinionated to the point that if he got into talking about something he didn't like, no, check that, despised, his face would turn red and the veins in his neck would bulge out, arms flailing away, spewing quotes from the Old Testament. Those somethings he didn't like generally were about (not me saying this) n*ggers and Jews. Hated 'em with a passion. This was coming from a man who went to church faithfully every week. Praise the Lord and pass me the hangin' rope.

Don must be in his late seventies now, but, he's always been in good health and is stronger than a bull. I rarely see him anymore, but, aside from his quirks, I genuinely like him and thought naively that somehow, someday I could change him. One time, he was off on one of his tirades and I challenged him, "OK, Don. You find me somewhere, anywhere in the Bible, the word n*gger and I will drop all of my beliefs and conform to your religious and political views for the rest of my life. Go ahead. Find it anywhere in the Bible. If you don't find it, then would you please refrain from using it so loosely?"

"Well, %@#%&*!, I'm gonna find it!"

I guess taking the Lord's name in vain is all right to a man with an extremely limited vocabulary when in a state of agitation.

I stopped in the following week. He wasn't there, but, my friend Tony was. Tony's a pretty smart guy. He told me Don had found the "N" word in the Bible. I said, no way. He said "Yes sir, Dave. I saw it myself. Don was all excited and went on and on about how he got you. He said, Dave thinks he's so smart, I'll show him."

I said, "No way, Tony."

He said, "Dave, I saw it myself."

I don't know how many days later it was when I had that all omnipotent run in with Don and his King James Version. All bright eyed and excited, he screamed, "I gotcha, Davey!" He liked to call me that. Veins were popping everywhere. Immediately, he opened the good book to where he had so carefully placed a marker. Between the two sides of scripture on a page, some Bibles have a reference area called the concordance that directs you to verses.

He pointed to the word. "I found it all over the place. There it is. Look at it!!!"

Yup. I read it. Right in plain view was THE WORD.

NIGER.

I said, "Don, no, no, no, that's a river. The Niger River. N-I-G-E-R. It's also a country in Africa. And there's Nigeria. The word you're talking about is a derogatory term. It has two Gs in it." He didn't know what derogatory meant.

"Well, it sure does look like it to me."

I explained as best I could how terms come into existence, like Florida "crackers" from the crackling sound of their whips as they round up the herd. I gave him several examples, all of which I thought he could relate to in some way or another. He calmed down and didn't quite seem to get the entire gist of it. But, he was OK and I didn't have to give in and adhere to his strict and twisted beliefs. Whew.

In any event, I don't know if Don really learned anything from that conversation, but, I sure did. I learned that Tony wasn't the best speller in the world.

What Do We Do?

I have Egyptian friends. They left that country because of religious persecution. They are Orthodox Christians and were treated as second or third class citizens living there in a Moslem society. They owned a grocery store in Orlando and sold some of the best meats you could buy and I dare you to ever find hummus and stuffed grape leaves that were more delicious than what they made. I used to make a marinade I sold in stores. They were gracious enough to allow me to mix and bottle it in their store since I needed an inspected kitchen to produce it. I know, living here, there is prejudice, too. I have heard people say they wouldn't shop there because they are dirty Arabs and a few other choice descriptions. How sad. And I would have a few choice words of my own to say back. Sami and Samia are the salt of the earth. They have two children, all grown up now. They were born in this country. That makes them as American as me. Their son went to the University of Florida. A lot of Latino students would go up to him and speak Spanish, assuming he was Puerto Rican because of his skin being a little darker than your average Swede. He always got a kick out of it, but, wondered how people could prejudge him that way. He'd speak Arabic in return to really confuse them.

Since the attacks in London, two families of the suicide bombers have come forward to apologize for their sons' crimes. I've heard a lot of reaction from some of my American friends and what I've heard in the media, much of which is not on the kind side. All Arabs are alike and you can't trust any of them. I mention my friends, Sami and Samia, and they say, "Well, OK, there might be an exception." Might be? I look at those families and the disgrace they must live with for the rest of their lives. What about Sami and Samia? They are so generous. Suppose some sort of Al Qaeda cell got to one of their children. Suppose they weren't Christian, but Moslem instead. There is no law against that. Would Sami and Samia be horrible people now? They are the nicest people you could find and have nothing but contempt for terrorists and their kind. I can look at those families in England and sense how they must feel. This is not how we brought our children up, they say. I am sure they mean it. These criminals were born and raised in England. Native sons. One of the families owns a bakery in London. Did he set up shop there to watch in horror as his son committed a most heinous crime, so his business would fail?

I hear there are 1.2 billion Moslems in the world. They can't possibly be all bad. I understand that perhaps a solid 1% of those are terrorists. That means there are about 12 million people who want to see you and the rest of us around the world dead. That's a lot of nasty people out there, looking to blow you up or chop off your head. But, that also means 99% aren't like that. This majority needs to take a very good and deep look at themselves and their neighbors. They need to weed out these villains who would take their children away to blow themselves up along with as many as they can take with them. They need to throw out their clerics who preach violence. How many old men and women are suicide bombers? These jihadists seem to go after the youth, to indoctrinate them at a very early age. Does this not constitute child molestation of some kind? They are raping their minds and murdering their souls. Isn't this something for the parents to reflect upon?

Since September 11, 2001, there seems to be a sort of de facto prejudice. Where blacks or African Americans, if some prefer, were held in low esteem to many around this country, they seemed to have moved up the American social scale, usurped by people of Arabic origin and of the Moslem faith. What a poor excuse for rising up the ladder and an even poorer excuse for prejudicing over a billion more people, many born and raised right here at home and in other unsuspecting countries. Did the blacks really rise up the ladder or was there just another rung added below it?

What's Left?

Unfortunately, I'm one of those left-handed persons born into a right-handed world. It wasn't my fault. "Oh, yeah," the relatives would say, "wasn't Great Uncle Claude or so and so left-handed?" Oh well, that's me and I'm stuck with it. I'm not here to complain much, mind you. It's been interesting all my life to adjust to the "right" side of things. I guess it would depend on where I was brought up, too. If I were born in Israel or China, I'd write from right to left instead of left to right. I'll tell you, 3-ring binders are no fun to left-handers. That's why a lot of us write halfway upside down. To avoid the binder rings. I suppose if I were born in England or Japan, I would be driving on the other side of the road and be able to shift with my left hand. Maybe that's why we do it the other way here. To spite the British. Maybe our auto manufacturers wanted to please all of the right-handed signers of the Declaration of Independence who hated anything English. They didn't realize that one day we'd have a long succession of left-handed presidents, from Gerald Ford through Bill Clinton, except for Jimmy Carter, who I think could sign a bill into law while cracking a peanut shell with his left hand. Pretty much everywhere else in the world they drive like us. Maybe we got it from them. So much for Yankee ingenuity, if that's the case.

I used to part my hair on the left side. Back when I had hair. Now, I just have a giant ambidextrous part in the middle of my head. Usually, I could focus on famous personalities and tell people what hand they use by which way they part their hair. That is, until the Hippie movement became vogue and everyone had long hair and parted it down the middle. Now, they're old and bald like me.

When I was in first grade, the teacher took the pencil out of my left hand and told me to use my right. I yelled "NO!" and she never bothered me again. My second grade teacher tried to pull the same shenanigans with the same emphatic answer in return. This was a public school, but, back in the fifties, there was still that superstitious element of left-handedness being some sort of mark of the devil or something like that. At least, by the time I was ready to graduate 8th grade, the teachers had learned their lesson and rightfully chose me over John Bixby to design the yearbook cover. So there, John. You always thought you were a better artist until then. Too bad you were right-handed.

Some things are awkward. I never quite got the gist of how to use scissors. Almost forever, the handles were angled to slide the right hand in to fit comfortably. Oh, I guess I can use them now, but not as well as you right-handers do. I can cut with the precision of a surgeon with a No. 11 Exacto blade, though. Doors can be a small problem. You never think about revolving doors, for example. It would be easier for me to push on it and spin to the left. Hmmm.

When I was young, we didn't have much money. I know, there are plenty of stories out there. But, I would always get the hand-me-downs. Clothes I had no problem with. Whenever I played softball with the neighborhood kids, or in school, I had to borrow my brother's glove. It was a left-hander's, which meant it fit on his left hand so he could throw with his right. I had to yank it off to be able to throw. My game improved dramatically when one of my grandfathers got me the right one. Or do I mean left one? Oh well, never mind. Later on, when I was in the Jaycees, we played ball games with the Rotary Club, the PBA, and whoever else we could conjure up for a keg of beer. I pitched many of those games. Struck out a few, too, and that's pretty difficult since it's just lob pitching. These guys would tell me the ball would do all sorts of different things. It would wobble to the left, then right. It would go up, down, and then up again. I could see it sometimes. They hated me. Same thing with bowling and shuffleboard. "You left-handers are weird," was not an unusual comment to me. I took it with pride. I think my favorite outdoor activity was Frisbee, though. That's the only real game where everybody wanted me on their team. I was always the first one picked. We would have teams of, maybe, 5-7 players each. Depended on who all showed up. We'd toss the Frisbee back and forth. If you didn't catch it (with one hand only) the opposing team would get a point. I could make a Frisbee dance and practically sing back then. Skip, do whatever I wanted. The main reason I was so desirable, though , was that the Frisbee spun in the opposite direction. Hard and fast. I would always get to throw it and rack up, at least, the first 7 points of the game because no one could catch it until they got used to the spin.

One time, years ago, I noticed that the NBC peacock logo had been redesigned. "That was done by a left-handed artist," I said to anyone who would listen. "Oh, how do you know, Mr. Smartypants?" I would tell them the face of the peacock now faces right. The old ones always faced left. Whenever I have done portrait work, it is easier for me to angle the face more toward the right. Much easier to draw.

As a minority in the world, I have never heard of an organization like Left-Handers United or the National Organization for the Preservation of Left-Handers. How come? Don't we rate? Or don't we care? Maybe, it's because WE NEED TO STAND UP FOR OUR RIGHTS! just won't work in our case.

To this day, I still get people who have known me for years that will exclaim, "I didn't know you were left-handed!" as if it is a shocking discovery. They always mean well. Generally, they qualify it with a "no wonder you're so smart" or a "no wonder you're so good at art" type of compliment.

How right they are.

He Gave The Finger To His Garage Door

I'm not one to laugh at others misfortunes, but, sometimes, life's experiences are just too painfully funny to pass by.

I have a friend, Dave, who is an intelligent, successful business man. He's in his late fifties, so, he's been around the block and back a time or two. One morning, recently, he opened his garage door to take the garbage out by the roadside. Now, mind you, this was at 5:30 in the morning and your brain is not quite up to speed yet. After he told me the story, I said, "Dave, that's what you get for being so cheap with yourself." He said, "No, Dave, that's what I get for procrastinating," after I asked him why he never installed an electric garage door opener. It's the kind with a handle at the bottom you just lift up after you've unlocked it from the inside. So, down the driveway he goes, taking his garbage container out for an early morning stroll. Brush off hands, walk back up and close the garage door, right?

Well, it didn't quite work out that way. He had grabbed the handle and pulled it down. You know, it never quite goes all the way down, so, instead of bending down or using his foot to push it shut, he just reached in between one of the slats and...

...forced it shut. Now, remember, these slats are on a track and as they come downward, they fit tightly into each other.

All of a sudden, this excruciating pain shot through the middle finger of his right hand. Instinctively he pulled it back and looked in horror at his hand. The tip of his finger just above the first joint was gone. Crushed. He opened the door with his other hand and pulled out his flattened fingertip. After rushing inside, he carefully put it on ice and raced to the nearest emergency room. "There's nothing we can do. We can't sew it back on. It's been crushed," the doctor told him. Yup, flattened like a pancake with strawberry syrup. The fingernail still looked good. So, they had to take snippers to re-form his jutting out bone to make it more rounded so they could close up what remained. 18 stitches. He went home, not quite feeling like the whole man he once was. I think he took the rest of the day off.

Today, he pretty much laughs at it. He says, "You know, that was about the most stupid thing I've ever done. I just wasn't thinking. And, even better, when I pulled away in pain, I tore the darn thing off." Not that they could have saved it anyway, but it did save the cost of amputation.

I'll Show You Mine, If...

When I lived in New Jersey, I spent most of my years in the restaurant business. I had been doing freelance art and design work for a few years because I really enjoyed art. I dabbled in oils, pastels, pen & ink, charcoal and pencil work. I did mostly landscapes, portraits, technical renderings and I just loved designing ads for newspapers and magazines.

I decided to move to the Orlando, Florida area since my folks lived there. I was tired of the restaurant trade and I figured since I had no real experience in the advertising design world, It would be easier to get a job at an ad agency down there than in New York. Then, after a year or so, I'd go back and set New York City on fire with my mega ideas and talent. It never did work out that way.

I answered an ad in the Orlando Sentinel soon after I moved. This place was looking for a hardline and layout artist. It was for a department store chain. My portfolio consisted of mainly portraits, landscapes, technical drawings and ads I had designed for restaurants and other businesses.

During the interview, the woman who questioned me said, "This is really nice stuff, but, it doesn't have anything to do with what we do here."

I had to think fast. I said, "Give me something. Let me show you what I can do."

She said, "Alrighty, then," and proceeded to set me up with a project. No art, but, I had to do a fictitious ad layout that would appear in the local paper. I told her I'd be back the next day with it. I took my work home and scanned the Yellow Pages for a nearby printer with access to a copy machine. I measured the various ad sizes in the newspaper. I formulated a design and set about to put it all together. Back then, glue sticks sure did come in handy. Computers were still years away. It was all cut & paste.

The next day, I went back. Of course, I called first. They liked what I had done and said, "We'll get back to you." And sure enough, they did. The following week they called me in for a second interview. They said that even though my credentials didn't quite fit what they did there, they liked my attitude and the design I did. Most importantly though, they told me that out of the thirty some people they interviewed, I was the only one who said, "Let me show you what I can do." They hired me right then and there, and there I remained for the next eleven years.

The reason why I never made it back to New Jersey? Soon after I got that job, I started dating a really pretty blonde with a tan. I was very happy right where I was. Welcome to Florida.

Saving Solemn Freedom

It is very seldom that I would ever proffer my opinion here, but, I feel compelled to do so. Let me first state that you will never find a more peaceful person anywhere. I have never owned a weapon of any kind. I have no desire to ever own one, and I never will. I am tired of the confusion going on in our country right now.


When I was a freshman at Hunterdon Central, in Flemington, NJ, the history department collaborated with the old Hunterdon Theater to show all high school history classes a special screening of Gone With The Wind. It was, in effect, an effort to show us what transpired during the Civil War years, albeit, Hollywood style. One morning we went to watch it. Back then, any chance to go on a field trip to get out of school was very desirable. I'm sure times have not changed in that respect. I remember it was a very powerful movie, depicting life in the south before, during and after the Civil War. In spite of the fact that it was more of a love story, it did show the horrors of war in graphic detail. Certainly very graphic for 1939 when it made its theatrical debut.

It reminds me of an incredible movie I recently saw, Saving Private Ryan. I cannot think of any other movie of this magnitude that could possibly represent the atrocities of war in more gruesome detail. The last time I had seen it was when it came out in 1998. It was chilling.

During World War II, on November 13, 1942, the light cruiser, USS Juneau, was sunk by Japanese torpedoes. Five Sullivan brothers were on board and none survived. Since that incident, the U.S. military changed the rules. No brothers were assigned to the same ship, nor were in the same unit ever again. In the case of Saving Private Ryan, a fictional account, three out of four brothers were killed in action and an all out effort was made to bring the surviving brother home, to perpetuate the family structure. After securing Omaha Beach from the Germans, a captain was given a new assignment. He and his hand picked squad were sent to find and save Private Ryan from somewhere deep behind enemy lines in France.

What makes this movie so powerful is the realism of the film's battle scenes and the all too real degree of sacrifice our soldiers dedicated themselves to. Over 9,000 American men were lost in a single day between the beaches of Normandy and Omaha in France on June 6, 1944. What compelled these men to drive forward? An intense respect for freedom and the never ending urge to protect it at all costs? To keep our lands safe from foreign intruders bent on the destruction of what we hold near and dear to our hearts? Of course. Men of all persuasions fought and died there and in both the European and Pacific theaters of World War II. Blacks, whites, Indians, Christians, Jews, Muslims. Death sensed no prejudice. In victory, Europe and the United States remain free.

"I fear that we have awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve," Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto stated on December 7, 1941, after the attack against the United States at Pearl Harbor. He was right. Today, we are in a war of a different sort. After the 2001 attacks on our own soil, most Americans sought revenge. We all knew who did it. They tried to take the World Trade Center down in 1993. We laughed in the face of terrorism then when it didn't succeed. You will never destroy us, we said, you will only make us stronger. Yet, we did nothing. This war does not play by the old rules. Here, there are no rules. What civilized group purposely kills thousands of innocents, chopping off heads along the way? The old rules went down with the World Trade Center.

There are people today, in this country and abroad, who feel it was a travesty to drop atomic bombs on the two cities of Japan. That war was going nowhere fast. Did the war stop after that? You bet. Were many lives lost as a consequence of those bombings? Of course, but were many lives saved? Although impossible to count, it is certainly true that untold thousands went on to see the light of day for years to come. Don't let anyone kid you, the Japanese were on the verge of creating their own bomb. They would have used it against us. Anyone who thinks otherwise is extremely naive or stupid or both. For what other purpose would they have it? To dangle in front of us in awe? I don't think so. Remember, they were the aggressors to begin with.

As the Vietnam war era was coming to a close, many facets of the world looked to the United States from a standpoint of weakness. There was total discord at home. We were a nation in confusion. We were getting out of Vietnam in a not so honorable way. We had a president who was fighting his own personal demons. In the meantime, our soldiers came home in humiliation, not as war heroes they certainly deserved to be treated as. It was an unpopular war and we as a nation took it out on them. How unjust and unkind, coming from a nation willing to forgive and forget. Well, we did forget them. The rest of the world saw this and many construed it as a sign to attack. Not in a physical sense, but more of a "kick a dog when he's down" sort of way. Many tried to take advantage of this. It opened the floodgates that fostered terrorist groups. We were in no position to retaliate in any form. We had no stomach for it. We were in internal turmoil. We were no longer the international police force looked up to and admired. We came back strong when Gerald Ford healed our nation from strife. We felt whole again. But, not for long. Along came Iran and the hostages. This came about from years of fomentation over the U.S. stance of propping up dictatorships around the world, including the Shah of Iran. It was the quintessential bursting of the proverbial bubble of American superiority and impenetrable strength. Along with it came fanatical festering, much of it generating from the middle east and some from home. Militant groups looked at the U.S. government from a standpoint of no longer being in control of itself. "Let's go, we got 'em now!" (I always wondered what the outcome would have been with those hostages in Iran had Jimmy Carter not negotiated into the final hours of his presidency. Would the government of Iran have let them go anyway for fear of the incoming president, Ronald Reagan, and his cowboy image of shoot first, ask questions later?)

How quickly terrorists adhere to their own brand of hellfire when it suits their own political agenda. Much of it has its roots deeply based in religion. They interpret their scriptures to fulfill their own destinies. What difference does it make whether quoting from the Bible or Quran, in order to use it as an excuse to blow up federal buildings or abortion clinics, or to fly into buildings or blow one's self up, killing as many as humanly possible? They are interchangeable. When Christians want war, they quote from the Old Testament. When they want peace, the New Testament provides the proper scriptures. Islamic tenets tend to be the same way.

We have gone through years of torment and death at the hands of these terrorists. Not just Americans. People from all walks of life have felt the anguish of murder and destruction. On an international level, many feel that "if" we just give up on Israel, for example, to let them fend for themselves, the Islamic terrorists would go away and leave us alone. That is, by far, one of the biggest ideological con jobs perpetuated by man in my lifetime and a sure sign of real weakness. We should cower to bullies? Even if we did that and sucked up to these lowest forms of life, we would somehow, by the grace of Allah, live in perfect harmony? Offer a vicious pit bull a steak and it will take your arm along with it. Once it smells blood, it will go in for the kill. Try to teach that old dog a new trick. Do we then destroy all the pit bulls of the world? No. Many are good, harmless and faithful. It is only the ones born and bred into violence we need to worry about. But how do we distinguish between the two? That's a pretty tough call. Some say we should just nuke 'em all. How ludicrous. I'm not going to separate my head and destroy my body because of a cancerous mole on my knee. Let's just drop bombs and wait for the nuclear fallout to waft its way back to us. There are always simple solutions to people with simple minds who do not understand the complexities of the world. Instead, what if neighbors weren't afraid to get involved more? How often we see interviews on the news of neighbors who say, "I knew they had bad dogs over there," after a neighborhood child has been mauled to death. Why didn't you get involved earlier? Was it not your problem, too? Maybe not, until you lost your own child. You saw the potential for impending problems, didn't you?

Now, we are in a war with no rules. We might play by our own set, but, the adversaries do not. We bring our men and women to their turf and they rejoice in the fact that it is so much easier to blow themselves up along with us now. They don't need to come to us. We go to them. But, if you believe they won't come to us again, forget it. No olive branch or promise of leaving their lands will ever prevent that. Ever. What made us so evil and why would you ever remotely agree with that perception? Why would you feel guilt while the rest of the world is innocent? Where is your national pride and self esteem? It is of utmost importance to show the world our unity in this conflict. We do not all agree with what we have gotten ourselves into. Many people do not agree with the president and there are thousands of opinions from all sides of the fence, but, we must stand tall. If world perception of us is that of the gun-toting cowboy, then let's be that gun-toting cowboy. It doesn't mean you agree with it, but, it is the surest way to resolve. We must stand united. We are in a mess, a quagmire of sorts, and we are not going to walk away from it. We are stuck with it. It's fine to agree to disagree, but to show the world our internal struggles, we will be perceived as weak once again and that will fester more terrorism at home and abroad. These people are like a cancer. We have brilliant minds. Let us take our minds and try to find cures and answers for its causes. Let's cut out the cancer cells at its source. There are thousands upon thousands of benign virgins awaiting them.

Terrorists have no belief in turning the other cheek. It is a sign of weakness. To do so offers another spot to wreak havoc. And another chance to laugh. I want to laugh back one day, with the premier of a new movie, Gone With The Desert Wind.

Peace One Day.