Senior moments (Relativity explained here!)

Bullets for a better world.

Yesterday my wife, the little French lady, explained relativity to me and she didn't need Einstein around to explain it. She used the three hair theorem. 

• If I had 3 hairs on my head that wouldn't be very much hair.  If I had those same three hairs floating in my soup, that's a lot of hair. It's relative.  See...no Einstein required.
• Ahhh....Relativity.  When I was growing up the superheros wore their underwear on the outside and had big capes.  In the fifties they were called Superman, Batman, Captain Marvel.  Now they are called Interior Decorators or Rap singers.
• In the 50's these Superheros had young companions or proteges who lived with them. In the 50's that was OK.  Now the men would be called Monsignor.
• When Superman was a child and his  "mother" made his "uniform", what kind of thread and scissors did she use to cut and sew the cloth?  I worry about this stuff.
• I am trying to learn Spanish.  Those people have a different word for everything. When I visited Montreal,  I thought if I talked louder they would understand me.  I asked my wife what was wrong with these people?  Why aren't they speaking English?  Didn't you tell them about my impending visit?   She said she forgot.

• When I was growing up in the fifties, my dad worked, my mom stayed home. We owned our house,  my father bought a brand new 1955 Chevy,  our health plan was taken care of by my dad's employer. Everybody in our town was a Republican.  We wondered why anyone would be a Democrat.  We knew nothing of poor people, civil rights, poor schools.  We knew nothing of that other world.
• Times change.  We elected a black Democrat president.  My dear republicans are furious.  How could this happen?  I wonder?  Could it be that their leadership is less than inspiring?  Are George Bush, Dick Cheney, and Sarah Palin the cream of the crop?  Yikes.  Could it be that a majority of americans are concerned about things such as health care?  I really don't care if he was born in Kenya or Hawaii.  
• Rick Perry: OMG!!!!!!
• Former Presidents: George Washington? Father of our country? That is the only thing he fathered.  He had no children of his own.  James Madison? Ditto!!
• President James Garfield was assassinated by...his doctors.  Yeah, yeah...I know. Someone shot him.  If the doctor had left him alone he would have recovered.  He had seen 16 different doctors.  Sadly they poked around inside him trying to find the bullet.  While doing so, they lacerated his liver, he got an infection and died 89 days after he was shot.   An autopsy showed the bullet encapsulated. Oops!!
• Wakes! What a wonderful tradition.  Wakes were started because people in the olden days had a nasty habit of burying people who were still alive. Someone suggested they hold off for a few days before we bury this unmoving person.  The person may "wake" up.  I know I would be real cranky if I woke up from a big hangover, inside a pine box wearing a tie, white shirt and a suit coat, and jockey shorts.  "Hey, get me outa here. My mouth feels like I ate cotton candy. Where's my pants and socks?  What are these pennies doing on my eyes?"  I am sure this could have happened to a few of my Irish ancestors.
• People are protesting the Wall Street shenanigans? What took so long?  The liberal's answer to the Tea party?  Isn't this almost Anti-American and unpatriotic, Rush? 

I just had to get this stuff off my chest, along with those three hairs I just shaved off.

Gotta go to lunch now.

What's that floating in my soup?  Relativity?

My Wild Irish Rose and other companions

Wine Tasting Misadventures

What's the word?...Thunderbird?

She was my mistress and companion on my nightly excursions in the world of youthful sleaze.
I tried to sleep with her on numerous occasions.  Sometimes I was successful, but usually she would get my head spinning and my stomach all queasy.  She had that intoxicating demeanor.

Yeah, she was cheap, but she was sweet.  Cheap wine usually is. Wild Irish Rose is the cheapest.  I have some bittersweet memories of WIR and bittersweet would pretty much describe the taste.  What can one expect for 60 cents a bottle? This wine makes Ripple taste like a winner at a wine tasting contest.  In fact, during my adolescence my friends and I became connoisseurs of cheap wine.

In New York in late 50's and 60's the drinking age was 18.  We were not intimidated by that lofty distant number.  We were not going to wait two or three years before our lips would taste the nectar of the gods.  We were ready.

My friends Jim and Andy had very little money.  This did not dampen our eagerness for an adventure in wine tasting.  We would simply bum money until we had enough to buy a bottle or two of Wild Irish Rose.
We would sneak into the woods nearby, break open the bottle,  take a healthy sip, slosh it around in our mouths and spit it out, look at each other and comment on the bouquet as a knowledgeable wine taster would do.
"Gasoline" Jim would shout. "low test, I might add".
"Kerosene", was my rejoinder. "1957...a good year for kerosene."
"Rancid grape soda with a hint of putrefied toe cheese", was Andy's comment.
"Ah...You have the benefit of both wine and cheese in one bottle.  A bit of luck for you, sir", Jim added.

After a few attempts we got to the point where we could swallow the wine without gagging.  We stopped spitting it out.

We moved on to a higher class wine rather quickly.  We moved on to Thunderbird.  This is also what is referred to as a bumwine, we thought it was a step up and the bottle was bigger. Also, it was a California wine.  We were done with New York wineries.

We got very good at bumming and sharing.  One evening we bummed enough money for about a gallon of Thunderbird.  We just had to give our financial benefactors a sip.
 
We were a bit over served that night.  After a while we were in no condition to drive.  Thank God none of us had a car.  We were in no condition to walk either.  We took turns carrying each other.  We had to walk two miles to get home.   We made it to Jim's house, since his home was the closest.  By this time, Andy was in a total stupor and he was thrashing around making our life difficult.
We brought Andy to the garage, tied him up so he wouldn't thrash around, hooked his coat, with him in it, onto a hook on the wall.
Jim then said, " Come on into the house and meet my uncle.  He's a priest."
"Ah...No..Thanks...Jim.  I will be on my way. Have a nice Thanksgiving."
I also had to get up and watch the vaunted Detroit Lions give the lowly Green Bay Packers a pummeling.
"Oh, come! My parents won't even notice that we had a little bit of wine. My uncle drinks wine all the time.  He won't notice either."
"Okay!"
It is a good thing I was not born a female. I gave in way too easily.  I guess I was a male wine slut at the time.

Jim and I staggered to the house and  stumbled up the stairs and into the kitchen.  Jim's dad was there to greet us.  He took one look at us and asked sternly, " Have you boys been drinking?" We both said, "No" in unison.
"Don't lie to me.  You boys have been drinking."
Finally, we confessed.  "We had a glass of wine at Andy's house."
"A glass?" Jim's dad queried loudly.  "It was a big glass." I added.  We confessed that we had a little more than a glass of wine.  We didn't really fool anyone.  We could barely stand or talk properly.  We told Jim's dad that we had hung Andy in the garage.

"What?...You hung Andy?....Why?....He was a good kid."
"Yeah, but we got sick of carrying him." I answered.
"He didn't even get last rites.  How could you? I will have Father Riley (the uncle) administer last rites."
Jim and I looked at each other. We were puzzled.  What is he talking about?
"Oh....No...Not like that." Jim offered. "We did it with nails and a garden hose."

At this point, Jim's dad is in shock.  He is about ready to have a stroke. "You crucified Andy?  You boys are very mentally sick.  You have ruined your lives."
His eyes were very moist.  He kept repeating, "sick...sick...sick."

Finally, we really had to tell the whole truth.  This was getting out of hand.
We told Frank (Jim's dad) that Andy was out in the garage being held up by a garden hose and a nail to keep him from falling over onto the cement in the garage.  He was too drunk to walk and we left him out in the garage because he would have given us away.  We actually thought nobody would notice that Jim and I could barely stand up straight or talk without a heavy slur.

Finally, Frank explained the situation to Father Riley, who had been in the other room listening to the whole escapade.  I met Father Riley, shook his hand. He gave Jim and I a little lecture about lying and we were remanded to our own custody to take care of Andy, who was still hanging in the garage.

We had to walk Andy to his home, which was another half mile down the road. We didn't really walk him, we carried him.  He was in a stupor.

We carried him to his front door.  We hoped that it was unlocked.  It was.  Nobody was up.  Everybody had gone to bed.  Thank God...we would not have to explain this to more people.  We used stealth to set him just inside the door, on the floor and quietly exited his residence.  Then we ran for about a hundred yards.

"Whew, poor guy. He's toast.  I suppose we will be hearing from his mom and dad tomorrow."

Strangely, Andy was the only one who did not get caught. When I got home my parents were waiting for me.  I gave them the "sip of wine at Andy's house" story.  I think they knew it was a lie, since I still was having trouble navigating.
Jim, Andy and I discussed it on Saturday.We considered this a legendary adventure of our teen years.
We decided we would meet at Scotty's, our hang out, in exactly 20 years.  The night before Thanksgiving.  Wednesday.

EPILOGUE:

The meeting never happened:  Reality got in the way.
Approximately four months after this event, Andy became a diabetic.  He didn't take good care of his disease.  As time went on, Andy lost his vision, his toes, his kidneys and at the age of 39....his life.  He was my best friend.

Jim became a lawyer.  A good one.  Ironically, Jim's daughter was born the day Andy died.  He could not be a pallbearer because of this.  I haven't seen Jim in twenty years.
However he did sign one of my legal documents.  Thanks, Jim!!!

The place where we were supposed to meet is now a pile of rubble. The only thing left of it are the memories.

The town I was raised in has not fared much better.  Ten years after our adventure, the main industry in our town shut down permanently.  The town is in a state of decline.
It was a great place to grow up.  It is heartbreaking to go back and see what has happened to it.

Life...for some of us...goes on.

Baby boomer's memory handbook (1950's Ed.)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Really????

1950 -1960:Actually things were almost idyllic. The worst of times? Hardly.

Life before television was almost barbaric. We had to find ways to amuse ourselves. Things were different. There are things that a baby boomer will remember. There are events you try forget.

This was the era of Polio, the iron lung, McCarthyism, the cold war, the threat of nuclear war. A great thing was happening at the end of WWII (1945). President Truman proposed a health care plan for all Americans. As of this year (2010) things seem to be moving along quite nicely.

McCarthyism: Joe had a good idea. Who liked commies in the 50's?Nobody. Let's expose them. OK!!! I like this plan. Hey, Joe is doing a great job.

A month later I see my name published in the paper. I have been reported to be a communist. HUH???!!!

You go before McCarthy committee two weeks later and state, "I am not a communist."

Joe: Did you or did you not have the "The Daily Laborer", a commie front newspaper in your house?

Me:No. Joe: I have a signed affidavit by your garbage man that you had a copy of this paper in your garbage. I have the paper here. It smells communistic.

Me: Sir, I think that is the smell of cat urine. My dad gets these papers at work. I line my litterbox with it."

Joe: "Hah!! So he works for a communist front organization. Who does he work for?"

Me: "He works for you, sir."

That is how it was. A good idea goes bad.

Forgotten cars of the 50's: I saw a Hudson Terraplane once. My uncle had a 1955 Hudson Hornet. It was a good car. He may still be driving it. He is in his 90's now.

A strange looking car. It right up there with the Henry J. I had an uncle who owned a Henry J. He was still driving it in the early 80's. It was a bit quirky at that point. The Edsel? That seemed like a nifty car to me. We are speaking of a time when Ford made a hardtop convertible (it disappeared into the trunk) and Chrysler had push button shifting on the steering wheel. The spare tire was real. You could recognize a car type from a half mile away. This is the era of the legendary 1957 Chevy. You can go to a place that sells model cars and you will find the 57 Chevy on the shelf. I don't think you will find a 1992 Toyota or 1998 Ford Taurus.

Fashion of the 50's: I began my adolescence at a strange fashion time.

Shoes: White bucks and penny loafers were my fashion choices. It was white bucks if you were going for the Pat Boone look. It was boots if you were going for the James Dean look. The James Dean look was Levi's, white T-shirt with a pack of Camels rolled up in the sleeve. I often dreamed that Pat Boone and James Dean would meet up on some street and start fighting. Pat would be getting pounded badly. Bloody nose, black eye, sore ribs. James would grab onto Pat's shirt and rip it. That is when Pat would go ballistic and start beating the crap of James. Pat would be pounding James' head on the pavement.....and Elvis Presley would rush in from somewhere and save James Dean from imminent death at the hands of Pat Boone. Elvis would snarl at Pat, " Look at the blood from his head on the sidewalk." Pat would answer, "That is Wildroot Cream Oil Hair Tonic, You Cretin." A befuddled Elvis would answer, " Don't ever step on my Blue Suede shoes."

Maybe this happen. Did I dream this? Well, anyway.....clothing was important.

Dressing for a date: My first two dates were disasters. I did not dress correctly for my first date. I had an identity crisis which is very common among teenagers then and today. My Mother made me wear heavy galoshes over my shoes, blue corduroy pants,

A white t-shirt with a box of candy cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve, (I wasn't allowed to smoke.) a headful of Wildroot cream oil, a coonskin cap, (Davey Crocket was very popular at the time, hence, I thought, fashionable.) and of course an umbrella.

The girl was dressed weird. She had layers of petticoats under hooped poodle skirt. I am sure she was wearing a diaper under all this. There is NO WAY she could get all that stuff off in time to poop. I know, I tried to penetrate the fortress to no avail. another thing that doomed the date. I could not penetrate the hair spray on her head with my hand. She was impenetrable everywhere. she wasn't too keen about my hair either.

she told me not to put my head on anything. she also asked me if I wanted to wrap my head in a towel. I guess we were not made for each other.

My second date did not go any better. My friends set me up with a blind date. She wasn't blind. She was in an iron lung. I did not know that until I arrived at her house.

I couldn't figure how I was going to get it in the car. My dad was waiting out in the car. He was going to drive us to the movies. I suppose I could have gotten my uncle Pete's truck and taken her to the drive in theater but that didn't seem practical since I couldn't drive. So I just stayed at her house and we played records. I asked her once if she wanted to dance. She rolled her eyes, but then smiled. She laughed at my faux pas.

It wasn't such a bad date. She recovered enough in time so she would not be in an iron lung all her life. She actually had a fairly normal life.

To give you an idea how carefree and happy we were in those days, we had a little song we sang.

"Hit the dirt, Join the crowd,

Mama, look at mushroom cloud.

looka you daddy, He Know!

Mushroom cloud made him ugly so."

This was a Calypso song. It could have been sung by Harry Belafonte.