Buy Enema U!

It is that time of year again, and the students are returning to Enema U.  On campus, you see a few more of them every day.  They come looking for classrooms, trying to find the cheap used textbook, moving into the dorms, and seeking out professors for advising.  I generally enjoy the latter, even though I tell every student pretty much the same thing:  “Sex and real estate—get all you can while you are young.”

The university is doing a lot of advertising.  Signs, banners, and flyers are all over the campus.  Our bookstore has thousands of sweatshirts emblazoned with the school name and colors.  Every fraternity is pushing for fresh meat, professors are advertising half-filled boutique courses, and the Athletic Department is desperately begging students to attend games.  There is a frantic feel to some of the advertising, which is baffling when you consider that almost all of this can only be seen by students who have already “bought the product”.  Before any student sees this advertising, we have already cashed their tuition checks.

Instead of posting yet another flyer on an overladen bulletin board, perhaps the university needs to be a little more creative.

Years ago, I used to be a little more involved in advertising.  My company bought and sold computers and the various manufacturers all had co-op advertising programs to help small stores defray the large cost of marketing.  The typical arrangement was a 2% budget.  If I bought $100,000 worth of computers and printers from Epson, they would give me $2,000 for advertising as long as their products figured prominently in my ads.  I can remember negotiating a 4% budget once on a quarter of a million dollars of computers, but this only happened after the salesman and I killed two bottles of Absolut vodka in my backyard.   We woke up in the grass when the timer kicked on the sprinklers, but by then the contract had been inked.

Over the years, I have paid for advertising on the radio, have placed ads in newspapers, and have bought a lot of signs.  So it was only natural that, when one of my friends opened up a bar just off the docks of Galveston, he came to me for advice about how to publicize his new business.

“How much money have you budgeted for advertising,” I asked.

He scratched his head, looked at me and said, “I guess I can spare a hundred dollars.”  It was less than a week from the opening, and my friend had evidently thought that the advertising was something that would take care of itself.

Worse, the hundred dollars was not his advertising budget for the next week--this was all he could afford to spend for the next several months.  He had a bank loan to repay, and the bar wasn’t likely to turn a profit until the summer tourist season began in six months.  This was a challenge, but as we spent the evening testing his new bar taps, we worked out an ambitious advertising campaign.

This was more than thirty years ago, and the internet has changed our world so much that we missed the passing of some small ordinary items of our lives.  At one time, if you wanted to sell Aunt Tilly’s teapot, you posted a cheap ad in the local newspaper.  Before eBay, before Craig’s List, and before the internet, the local newspaper carried page after page of inexpensive want ads.  You could post a three line ad every day for a week for as little as $3.50.  This was a price that fit my friend’s advertising budget perfectly.

The first ad was posted in ‘Help Wanted—Professional’.  “Poet Laureate wanted for public cat neutering ceremony.  Apply Anchorage Bar, Canal Street,”

When the ad came out, I think it only took about four days before every person on the island knew about it.  By word of mouth, alone, everyone heard of it.  A few people even applied for the job, but they were disappointed to learn that the poet had to speak Gaelic.  Strangely, no applicant was qualified.

The second week, we posted an ad in the ‘Want to Buy’ section.  “Desperately needed, left-handed Camel blanket.  Anchorage Bar, Canal Street.”  No one showed up with a camel blanket, left or right-handed, but the need for one was discussed at length about town.

We offered employment for a steeple jack, but he had to be experienced and furnish his own safety equipment.  We also offered to sell the Canal Street lighthouse (there isn’t one), and at one point offered ‘Genuine Imitation Moon Rocks’ by the ton.  Business at the bar flourished, the newspaper probably sold more copies than normal, and we kept to the original budget.

Perhaps the university could try something similar.  They could try posting an ad in the student newspaper.  “Wanted—administrative harmony.”  “Desperately Needed--Students with a desire to challenge their preconceived ideas.”  “Library Seeking Patrons.”  “Now Hiring--Faculty who yearn for the classroom.”  “Lost--Regents who care more about the attendance in the classroom than the stadium. (Everyone will be rewarded).”

This Too, Shall Pass

Almost 25 years ago, the History Department at Enema U had a visiting professor.  Keith and his wife were only going to live in New Mexico for a year, but they quickly became good friends with The Doc (my wife) and me.  Keith lived fairly close, and the four of us frequently had dinner together.  So, I was not surprised one night when Keith called me at home.

“Mark, I feel horrible,” Keith said.  “I think I need to go to the hospital.  Can you give me a ride?”

By the time I got to his house, Keith had collapsed onto the floor. Waking him, I made my first (and only) diagnosis; Keith had a kidney stone.  Now, unlike my wife, I have never been to medical school, so I had the kind of absolute certainty that only comes from total stupidity.  Around our house, my wife allows me to put Band-Aids on the children, trusting only that I can remember to put the sticky side down.

Now this is a little unfair, because I have had several decades of semi-alert instruction.  You see, The Doc gets a hell of a lot of phone calls in the middle of the night.  The doctor at the emergency room calls my wife, who asks questions, makes a tentative diagnosis, and then orders lab tests and x-rays.  Over the years, I bet I have heard this done five thousand times.  So, when Keith was moaning on the floor, one hand between his legs and the other holding one side of his back, I knew exactly what to do. 

As I helped him through the emergency room door, a nurse came over and I very confidently said, “I think he is passing a kidney stone.  We need a CBC, a urinalysis, and an IVP.  And run a blood chemistry.”

Damn!  Even Dr. House couldn’t have done this better.  And to my surprise, people actually did what I had ordered.  By the time the test results came back, The Doc was in the exam room with Keith and me.  To her great amusement, they handed the test results to me, not her.  And it was at this point that I discovered the flaw in my unorthodox medical training—I had heard only half of all those phone calls--I had never heard the results.  Those lab results were as meaningless to me as listings in a Hong Kong phone book.  Neither Keith nor I appreciated The Doc’s laughing.

Keith, at least, had a happy outcome.  It turned out that he actually did have a kidney stone, and in time, he passed it.  A few years later, the story had a less than happy sequel.  This time, it was I who was passing the kidney stone.  I would have gladly given the honor back to Keith.

As I went to the emergency room, I was very conscious of the fact that this was a place where my wife worked, and I really did not want to embarrass her.  Now a kidney stone hurts like the hammers of Hell are beating you in a place that usually does not stand much…hammering.  I know women will disagree, but it must hurt a hell of a lot more than childbirth.  After a few years, women will frequently happily decide to have another child, but I have never heard of a man wanting a second kidney stone.

I took a book to the ER, sat as quietly as I could in the exam room, and calmly read a Tom Clancy novel while a rock the size of my pickup truck (trust me--I saw the damn boulder) slowly ground my insides into paper pulp.  Well, that’s my memory of it.  After ten hours, I passed the misshapen monolith.  The ER doctors had not given me even an aspirin.

“You know,” the doctor said, “we didn’t think you actually had a kidney stone.  Usually, people who have a kidney stone make a lot more noise than you did.”  To this day, I sincerely hope that lightning hits that doctor--in the crotch.

Adding insult to the injury, the insurance company steadfastly refused to pay the hospital--claiming that the entire event was “elective,” as opposed to a real emergency.  An elective kidney stone?  Evidently, the insurance company believed that I had taken a rock to the emergency room and asked to have it shoved up me.  In front.

The years went by, and last week, it started all over again.  This time, I went to the university clinic.  (I just realized how predictable I am—I didn’t take a book, but I was listening to a Stephen King book on my iPod.)  Don’t get me wrong--the clinic was great--they gave me great service, and I really like those people, but the lab tests were inconclusive.  The last thing the doctor said to me was, “You don’t act like someone with a kidney stone.”  I must really suck as a historian because I missed the obvious connection.

Less than an hour after the clinic closed, I passed the stone in the men’s room down the hall from my office.  Before they paint, they will need to use some putty to get rid of the claw marks in the wall above the urinal.

According to The Doc, men who have one kidney stone have a 50% chance of having a second one.  After the second stone, you are probably pretty well doomed.  Only now do I realize what kind of rock Sisyphus was pushing.

Men, I have a plan, and I encourage you to adopt it as your own.  At the first sign of pain from a kidney stone, go to the nearest emergency room.  Walk in, look carefully around the room… then punch the smallest person in the room right in the mouth.  Scream at the top of your lungs, then drop to the floor, rolling and moaning piteously.  At the very least, you will get some aspirin.

Don’t Eat Chicken?—Go To Hell!

I am so tired of the Chick-Fil-A controversy.  I am equally tired of the gay marriage controversy.  I am beyond tired of the hate-filled rhetoric from both sides of each question.  We have mayors of major cities vowing not to let businesses expand into their cities just because the corporate managers are narrow-minded paranoiacs.  We need to remember that Chick-Fil-A is a franchise--not every owner necessarily agrees with the company president.

And a peaceful colleague of mine, a woman who is probably incapable of any physical violence, is publicly hoping that the people who eat at that restaurant die from arteries choked with chicken fat.  This is a warm-hearted individual whom I respect, and while I know she doesn’t really mean this, it shows the level the rhetoric has reached. 

The problem, of course, is not the food, but that the president of the company has a narrow interpretation of what constitutes a marriage.  This angers the more “open-minded” people so much that they are staging protests and boycotts in front of the franchise owners' property until the corporate president agrees with them.  People who agree with the company president and wish to show support are force-feeding themselves chicken in the name of God.

If I am supposed to choose between these two positions, I pass.  I don’t eat at that restaurant very often as I don’t like the food that much and I don’t frequent the mall.  If you want to eat there, that is fine with me.  If you don’t want to eat there, then it is like the advice I gave my maiden aunt: “Let them that don’t want none have memories of not getting any.”  The president of the company is allowed to have his opinions and make up his own mind (tiny though it obviously is). 

Since neither side will settle this argument with the time-honored tradition of pulling a wishbone apart, I have a suggestion:

Why don’t we just ignore what other people do as long as it doesn’t abuse children or bother me?  I am particularly interested in the latter.  Let's all agree:  the people who are against gay marriage will not be forced to participate in one.  I can just hear the arguments now:

 “But if we allow gay marriage, somebody will want polygamy or will want to marry a horse.”  I really don’t care.  How many consenting adults have to have a polygamous relationships with farm animals in order for the polar ice caps to melt?  Until we reach that number, I do not care.  I have owned horses and spent more time than I care to admit with livestock (platonically, of course).  When it comes to livestock, as long as you own it, I don’t care if you marry it or kill it with a power sander. 

“But my religion is against it.”  Read your bible.  Your bible—and every other version of the bible—is against every damn thing.  The Old Testament will freely allow me to sell my sister into slavery, stone most women, and smite parking violators.  If we strictly followed the words of just the King James Bible, there wouldn’t be enough people left on this planet to play bridge.

Personally, if I had spent my whole life waiting for a direct personal message from God, I would be a little disappointed if it turned out to be nothing more than, "Eat mor Chikin."

And this whole religious argument could be nothing more that an accidental misreading of the bible.  If you will consult Mark 11: 13-14, you will see it is  FIGS that God hates.

“But marriage is about taking care of children.”  The Doc and I are finished having children, but I’m reasonably sure we are sticking together.  When the preacher said, “Til death do you part,” little did we know we were setting a goal.  And we continue to call this a marriage.  If marriage were really just about raising children, wouldn’t a partnership with multiple partners provide for more stability for the family, anyway?  

Robert Heinlein, in The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, described a linear marriage: a pairing where the collective marriage added a new spouse every few years, alternating the sex of the new partner.  Over time, the marriage would acquire property and wealth, care for aging spouses, and be the most stable possible home for the children.  If marriage were only about caring for children, this might be the only permissible form of marriage.

“But this violates my freedom of religion.”  If that’s so, don’t participate.  There are seven billion people on this planet, and the overwhelming majority of them have a different imaginary friend than you do.  If your religion is against something, odds are that somebody else is worshipping a sentient mailbox who commands them to do just the opposite.  And I don’t care what either of you do--just leave me (and each other) alone.

The famous English actress, Mrs. Pat (Beatrice) Campbell once said, “My dear, I don’t care what people do as long as they don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.”  While this may have been excellent advice 100 years ago, it is irrelevant today—there aren’t that many horses on the street.    As far as I’m concerned, go ahead and do it in the street, just stay close to the curb so as not to block traffic.  My pickup has seen worse.

Football Reconstruction

Professor Ken and The Coach were riding a bicycle built for two.  Now, this is much harder work than you might think--for a bike to support the weight of two grown men, the structural integrity of the frame requires a great deal of additional reinforcement.  Including passengers, we are talking about a quarter of a ton precariously balanced on two wheels.

By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, both of the men were already tired, but they bravely tackled the slope.  Professor Ken, in front, was plainly exhausted by the time they reached the top.

"Wow!" he managed to say between large gulps of air.  "I didn't...think we...were going to make it."

"Yeah," agreed The Coach.  "If I hadn't been holding the brakes all the way up, we probably would have rolled backwards down the hill."

This seems to be the purpose of the Athletic Department at most universities.  At any given point, they are working overtime trying to figure out a way to cancel out everything the rest of the university is striving to achieve.   This week, with a record fine being assessed against Penn State in the wake of the Paterno/Sandusky affair, perhaps it is time to consider a period of what I would call “Football Reconstruction”.

It is a common misconception that Reconstruction following the American Civil War was about rebuilding the factories, homes, and infrastructure of the South that had been damaged during the war.   Towns such as Atlanta and Richmond certainly needed a little more than a new coat of paint, but Reconstruction actually refers to rebuilding the society of the South in such a way that slavery would be impossible. 

How many scandals have we had in…oh…the last 30 years involving football corrupting the educational process?  How would we possibly ever know?  The first stage is always carefully hiding the facts to try to protect the football program.  About twenty years ago, a university about 200 miles away had a scandal when the coach and university administrators tried unsuccessfully to convince a young woman not to report that she had been raped.  If you do a Google search for “Athletic Department Cover-up Scandal” you will get over two million hits.  For some reason, there are no hits for “Physics Department Recruiting Scandal”.

As bad as they are, scandals like that are not the worst crimes being committed at our universities by run-amuck athletic programs.  The real crimes are what we are doing to the student athletes.  We bring inner city children to the university and then systematically deny them a real chance at an education.  Can you imagine the societal uproar if we created a permanent class of athletes and then refused to allow them to learn how to read?  Actually, that is exactly what we are already doing.

Mark Twain once said that “The man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.”  We bring students in from all over the country, pretending to educate them while actually physically abusing them for our entertainment.  I can think of very few things that are as cruel.

Do you remember the Len Bias case?  It has been 26 years now, but Mr. Bias is still considered the greatest basketball player to never play in the NBA.  He died of a cocaine overdose during his senior year just two days after being drafted by the Boston Celtics.  When he died, he was 21 credits short of graduation—almost a full year of classes--yet had used up all four years of athletic eligibility.  He had not attended a class in months, and was said to be incapable of writing an essay as simple as completing four simple sentences about a bunny rabbit.

Has the situation changed markedly since the death of Len Bias?  Recent events now indicate otherwise.  I find it deeply disturbing that so many people miss the whole point of the travesty at Penn State.  Sandusky was a sick pedophile.  Paterno was much, much worse; he pimped out children for years just for the sake of an athletic program's reputation.  I would think better of the man if he had done it for money.

It is not enough to simply remove the statue of Parterno.  We need to reconstruct the culture of universities so that the emphasis is placed on academics and a Sandusky/Paterno or a Len Bias case would never again be possible.  We should never hear of a school transferring desperately needed funds from academics to athletics.  We should be far more interested in the student than the athlete.

To be fair, our country failed at Reconstruction in the South following the Civil War.  At best, we made a commitment to finish the job at a later date. It was almost a hundred years before we made a concerted effort to uphold that promise, and the job is still not finished.  When it comes to Football Reconstruction, we haven’t even yet made the promise.

Where did the Books Go?

As a double grandparent, I feel the obligation to pass on the love of books to my granddaughters.  Since neither live within 200 miles of me, this is a little difficult—I can’t read books to them as often as I would like.  So, right now, I’m mainly just buying and shipping the books in the forlorn hope that if I stack up enough of them in their rooms, it will eventually reach educational critical mass.

Never having been a little girl, picking the appropriate books for then is rather difficult.  Eventually, I just decided to buy the books that I loved as a child.  After all, what could possibly be wrong with my granddaughters being more like me?  I am sure that their mothers will agree.

First, I decided to send all the children’s books from the house.  This would inevitably open up space for me to purchase more books for myself.  After a brief search, it was rather obvious that we didn’t have that many.  Years ago, I bought books for the two boys, What’s-His-Name and The-Other-One by the truck load.  What happened to them?

No matter, I have an account at the local used book store where my credit balance must be in quadruple digits from taking them all the unwanted textbooks that publishers mail me in the vain hope that I will require my students to buy copies.  At least once every two weeks, I am the recipient of a valuable gift such as The History of the US Postal Service: 1824-1832.  It was hard to part with such a treasure, but I managed.

Unfortunately, my favorite local used book store was strangely out of good children’s books, too.  Almost none of the titles that I remembered from my youth were in stock.  I found a copy of Twain’s Tom Sawyer, but the store only had four bedraggled copies of the Hardy Boys.  Where did the rest of them go?  The Hardy Boys have been in continual production since the 1920’s under the pseudonym of Franklin W. Dixon.  Actually, Dixon never existed and the books were written and rewritten by a series of underpaid ghostwriters.  I can remember when my nephew was reading an ancient copy of “The Tower Treasure” when he suddenly had a vocabulary problem. 

“What’s a jal-o-py?” he asked.  It took me a second to understand what he meant--no one jumps in a jalopy to chase after criminals anymore.  Maybe one of the car companies should think about introducing a line of jalopies—authors everywhere would be appreciative.  A chase scene in a Honda Accord lacks panache.

I have no idea how many millions and millions of copies of these books have been printed (the vast majority of them were hard backs).  Where are they?  I know I gave one copy to my nephew, but where are the rest?  And what happened to all the Tom Swift books?  The Nancy Drew series?  I snatched up a single dog-eared copy of L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time but could find not a single copy of Freddy the Detective by Walter R. Brooks.  Where was Robert Heinlein’s Star Beast or The Rolling Stones?

Also missing were the Encyclopedia Brown books by Donald Sobol, my childhood favorite.  Leroy “Encyclopedia” Brown was a smart but otherwise ordinary boy who solved mysteries by using his brains.  He had accumulated a vast knowledge by reading endless books.  This was a very appealing character to a boy who lived in a small Texas town.  I devoured the books.  Encyclopedia Brown, at least to me, made it cool to read and be smart.

Many years later, I worked a couple of years for Bantam Books.  One summer, I got to attend the American Book Association meeting in Miami.  The convention was a lot of fun, chiefly because I got to meet a lot of authors; Leon Uris, Xaviera Hollander, Mickey Spillane, and most importantly, Donald Sobol, the author of the Encyclopedia Brown series.  At some point, I bought Mr. Sobol a drink at the hotel bar and we discussed his books.  Mr. Sobol was intelligent, polite, and talked at length about the publishing business.  To my astonishment—and his amusement—I remembered many of the early stories better than he did.  I had read them since he had, and he had long since moved on to other projects.

Sadly, Donald Sobol passed away last week at the age of 87.  He authored over 65 books, including 28 featuring Encyclopedia Brown. 

As we finished that drink in the bar, Mr. Sobol kindly autographed a couple of his books for me.  I just remembered that I gave them to my nephew. 

I’d call my nephew about those books, but he has four kids and is probably wondering what happened to all the children’s books he used to have.  Where do they all go?  This is a mystery for Encyclopedia Brown.

Weapons of Improvised Cooking

Recently, I taught a class on the history of Spain.  Early in the semester, the class covered the Roman period, and among the topics we discussed were the food and drink of the Romans.  One student, a little more adventurous than most, decided to make garum.  For the Carthaginians among you, garum was a sauce that the Romans used on their food.  As a Texan uses Tabasco sauce, the Romans used garum.  The sauce is made chiefly of fermented anchovies, and is probably the great-grandfather of Worcestershire sauce.

If the class had been in Italy, my student could have purchased the sauce ready-made.  In New Mexico, she probably could find fifty different kinds of hot sauce, but garum is just not for sale.  She found all the ingredients, followed the recipe….and it didn’t turn out well.  It may be hard to get something to ferment in an environment with no more than ten percent humidity.  I had pretty much the same problem in reverse while I lived in Galveston.  If you are trying to make beef jerky while living a block from the beach, you may have to wait a few decades for the meat to dry.

In any case, my student did not produce a two thousand year old condiment.  She did produce something that was halfway between a mobile hazmat super-fund site and a substance that the United Nations would send people in blue helmets to inspect.  That bottle was sealed, wrapped in aluminum foil, and inside multiple plastic bags--and the odor could still gag a maggot off a meat wagon.  This was a stench that made you see dark colors and made you think of creatures that live under rocks.

As my student gave me the sample she was just about in tears.  From her story, the damage to her house bordered on permanent.  Supposedly, the only good thing about the experiment was that the house no longer had an ant problem.

My whole family could sympathize—but at my house we refer to it as the root beer episode.  I am still surprised that you can make root beer without a license.

Actually, to make root beer all you need to do is go to the grocery store.  You need root beer extract, sugar, yeast, and a hell of a lot of empty bottles.  It also helps to have an indulgent wife.    Making the root beer is simple: mix it all up, bottle it, cap it securely, and wait a few weeks for the yeast to ferment.  I made several batches and the boys really enjoyed them. 

The last batch…well, I’m still not sure what when wrong.  The bottles had been stored in an empty kitchen cabinet for weeks when one of the bottles started leaking.  I took all the bottles out of the cabinet, washed them off, and left them stacked on their side in the double kitchen sink.  Then the whole family left for a movie.  The house wasn’t the same when we came back.

The first clue was the absence of cats.  My wife has two—otherwise known as the crazy cat lady starter kit.  The cats always meet us at the door in the hopes that we are bringing more cat food.  That day, no cats—either at the front door or anywhere near the front of the house.  We didn’t find the furry cowards for hours. 

As best as we could recreate the events of the disaster, one of the bottles on the bottom of the pile exploded from the pressure.  This detonation took out all the other bottles in an uncontrolled chain reaction the likes of which had not seen in New Mexico since 1945.  The destruction at ground zero was impressive.  Besides bathing the entire kitchen in a fine and sticky mist of root beer, it took out the ceiling light, and scattered glass all the way across both the dining and living rooms.  Scattered might not be the correct word—blasted is more to the point.  Some shards could not be pulled out of the walls or ceiling even with pliers.  In several places I plastered over the glass and covered it with paint.

If you know where to look, the wooden paneling in the living room still has a piece embedded next to the window.

There must be some lecture where I can work in a discussion of root beer—I’m just dying for one of my students recreate this experiment.  It has to be a student--my wife and cats won’t let me.

Welcome to Montgomery County--NOT!

When I was the Resident Manager of the Flagship Hotel in Galveston, some of the many problems I had to put up with were the conventions that we scheduled.  Conventions maximize profit: the rooms are all full, the bars are at capacity, and the restaurants are packed.  On the other hand, a convention booked at a beach hotel is not there to do much work.  The average patron after a week of heavily organized frivolity is sun-burnt, hung-over, sick, and too broke not to leave for home.  This is not a recipe for happy guests. 

Some conventions were fun.  Others were an adventure in combat anger management.  In 1971, the Veterans of Foreign Wars had a convention in Houston that was attended by Governor Reagan and Vice-President Agnew.  Thousands of students laid siege to the hotel, protesting the war.  Except for the rather humorless Secret Service agents, I thought the whole affair was great fun--in part because I was the only college student at the protest who was getting paid.  But, I was only a lowly security guard in those days--you have a different view when you are management.

Undoubtedly, one of the worst conventions the Flagship ever hosted was The Telephone Workers of America.  This group of miserable, angry drunks (What is the collective noun for a gathering of assholes?  A toilet?  A hemmorhoid?) held its convention at Halloween.   We had more fist fights—in costume--than a Golden Glove bout.  One drunk in particular created havoc by making an endless series of obscene phone calls to every room in the hotel.  Somehow, even in his inebriated state, he had figured out that he could call room-to-room without the assistance of the hotel operator.  No amount of pleading from his wife and friends could convince the large and violent drunk to stop making the calls.

Like most of the staff, I was in costume, dressed as Dracula--complete with a large flowing black cape.  I opened the door to his room with my passkey and stepped in, loudly announcing in my best Tex-Transylvanian accent, “Good Evening!”  As everyone stared at me, wide-eyed and frozen, I walked over and removed the handset from the drunk’s hand, yanked the receiver wire out of the wall, and left with the telephone.  No one in the room moved or said a word until I was back in the hall, with the door securely shut behind me.  I have always wondered how much the drunk remembered the next day.

The worst convention—by far—was the Texas Peace Officers convention.  I would not do that convention again without… hell, I have no idea.  Combat pay?  Personal protection provided by Delta Force?  None of that would be enough.  Part of the problem is that the police do not believe that rules are written for them.  As one sheriff put it, “You can’t break the law when you is the law!”  That seemed to be the general attitude of pretty much everyone at that convention.

There was an enormous amount of drinking, which was followed by an equal amount of puking, retching, gagging, and upchucking.  Most people, when they drink, pass through familiar stages of inebriation: loud, obnoxious, intelligent, handsome, and finally, invisible.  With the police, it is angry, screaming, rampaging Cossack, and finally, crack shot. 

As I have previously explained, the Flagship was situated on a pier over the Gulf of Mexico.  Every room was over the water.  So, when a group of East Texas policemen (including quite a few local cops) managed to force open the door to the roof so they could conduct some target practice at 3:00 am—evidently the Balinese Room a quarter a mile away was the target—other guests in the hotel couldn’t help being aware of the situation.

“Is that gunfire I hear?” asked every phone call to the front desk.  “Is someone shooting?  Should we call the police?”

“The police already know about it.” I answered.  “With any luck, any second now they will shoot themselves and fall off the damn building into the water.”

NO!  Of course I didn’t answer that.

“No!” I actually said.  “That is the sound distant thunder makes when it comes rolling in from the sea.”  I doubt that I was believed.  What I was actually counting on was that the idiots on the roof were too drunk to reload.

The first night of the convention, the deputy sheriff from Montgomery County, Texas staggered out of the bar, stumbled and fell.  A tiny little Spanish .25 automatic fell out of his sock, hit the floor, discharged and fell apart as the receiver, slide and spring all bounced in different directions.  The anemic little toy had punched a neat hole through a nearby window, just inches above a local police lieutenant’s head. 

The lieutenant was a little pissed.  As he grabbed the deputy by the neck, he said, “I hope for your sake that you are a cop.”

The Montgomery County Sheriff was very angry at the cost of replacing that window.  As it turned out, he got a lot angrier.  The hotel had a parking problem when it was at full capacity.  Because of this, the local fire marshal required us to keep the spaces directly in front of the hotel’s doors empty at all hours.  He had ordered that appropriately marked red sawhorses block these spaces at all times.

That night, the sheriff came back to the hotel late, and not finding a close parking space, had moved the sawhorses, parked his squad car, and then moved the sawhorses back in place.  By the time he had finished this chore, the lobby bellman had alerted me, and I was waiting at the front door.  I was very polite, he was very drunk, and found my request to move the car hilarious.  He didn’t even answer me as he got in the elevator and went to his room.

I didn’t live in Montgomery County, and didn’t want to.  I did live on Galveston Island, and did know what the fire marshal would do if he found that fire lane blocked.  I doubt the sheriff had reached his room before I had called the tow truck.  The wrecker driver thought the whole affair sidesplitting.  The sheriff’s car had rotating lights, an official paint job, radios, and a shotgun in the rack between the seats.  And I had it towed away.

The next morning, the lobby was full of policemen from all over East Texas, each of them laughing his ass off while waiting for the sheriff to come to the breakfast the convention was hosting.  When the sheriff finally stepped out of the elevator, the lobby was quiet for a few seconds, then the gathered cops started laughing.  The sheriff, realizing that he was the object of the gathered mirth, looked out the glass doors and figured out the joke pretty quickly.

Furious, he marched over to me.  “Where the hell is my car, boy!” he thundered.

I told him the car had been towed, and gave him a business card from the wrecker company. 

“You better get my car back, boy!” he yelled.  Every word was punctuated by him stabbing me in the chest with his finger, his red face just inches from mine.  “You better get it back now, boy!”

“No sir.” I answered.  The gathered police were roaring with laughter.  I was wondering if any of them would try to stop the sheriff if he was to draw his gun and try to shoot me.  Or would they just laugh harder?

“YES YOU WILL!”  By now, the sheriff was screaming.

“No sir.” 

“That’s an official po-lice car,” shrieked the sheriff.  “Just what the hell were you thinking, boy?”

By now, the finger poking was getting painful, but I had an answer.  Calmly, but loud enough for every law enforcement official in the room to hear me, I said, “I thought it made up for every parking ticket I ever got.”

The last thing that sheriff said to me as the room erupted in laughter was very quiet, and very close to my ear.  “If I ever catch you in Montgomery County, boy, you’re a dead man.”

That was almost 30 years ago.  I know exactly where Montgomery County, Texas is.  I still haven’t been there.

Sugar and Spice?

One of my granddaughters is visiting this week.  I have two:  The Munchkin and the Submarine.  The Munchkin is five years old and I have written about her before.  The Submarine (so called because she is always wet on both ends) is only five weeks old and her mother threatens a restraining order if I write about her.  Obviously, it is the Munchkin who is visiting.

It is amazing the things you can learn from a five year old girl.   Maybe the world just looks different when you are only three feet tall.  Maybe little girls are just special.  Or maybe, I’m listening to every single word she says because she is so damn cute.  Whatever.  Here are the things I have learned this week.

Sideways kissing is “dirty kissing.”  This probably needs some explanation.  Remember in the movies when the actors would mash the sides of their faces together and kiss with just  the corners of their mouths?  I think in the 1930’s, Jeanette Macdonald and Nelson Eddy had a patent on this technique.  This is dirty kissing and according to the munchkin, it is really, really dirty.  Until this week, no one outside of Hollywood ever thought about doing such an idiotic thing, but since we learned it was dirty, the Doc and I have gotten rather good at it.  We’re still working on the dirty part.


If you want boys to eat something, it has to be gross.  It must be something like Dirty Diaper Stew or, my sons’ favorite: Monkey Blood Chicken.  With little girls, this doesn’t work.  Every meal is a negotiation and the menu will accept very few new additions unless you have the guile of a diplomat. Clam chowder only became acceptable after I explained that it was the favorite meal for mermaids.

With other foods, I had mixed results.  Evidently, mermaids do not eat anchovy pizza.  Mushroom risotto is really gross, but mushroom rice is okay.  Onions are horrible unless we pull them from my garden, while any food whose name includes the word ‘berry’ is wonderful.  It is a lot easier to eat broccoli if you call it “baby trees.”

Little girls are very clean.  We swim every day, and the Munchkin wants a bath after swimming—a concept that would have never occurred to a boy.  And the changes of clothes!  I once made the boys loin cloths out of old towels and a length of rope.  That was the only clothes they wore one summer.  The Munchkin, however has at least four changes of clothes a day.  And painted toenails.  And painted fingernails.

Yesterday, the Munchkin asked me to put up her hair so she could go swimming.  I know what she meant, but honest to God, my first thought was to use duct tape.  My second thought was to send her to ask Grandma, the Doc.

When little boys play, you lose a couple of kitchen spoons to the sand pile in the corner of the yard while they slowly bury their toy cars (so years later they can become guided missiles when a lawnmower hits them).  When little girls play...well, I was shocked the other day when I came home to the carnage in the den.  As best as I can reconstruct it, Barbie and Stacy were driving a pink corvette to their fashionable Malibu beach house, when suddenly, Ken (a clandestine member of al Qaeda) detonated a roadside IED.  The blast decapitated Stacy while mussing the long blonde hair of Barbie.  Sadly, several ponies and a unicorn were also killed.  Strangely, the bomb blew the clothes off of everybody.

Do all little girls sing to their toys?  And to the birds?  And the cats?  I don’t remember the boys singing this much.  I heard a lot of muttering under their breath.  (I once heard What’s-His-Name promise his brother that they were going to push me into the pool as soon as I was in a wheelchair.)

I have to be careful what I write.  In a few years I hope to have both of those little girls visit at the same time.  I’m going to buy each of them a pony.

The Spirit of ‘76

My good friend and personal bartender, Chuck, has been researching the favorite drinks of the Presidents.  It turns out that several of these drinks actually sound pretty good, and we are slowly working our way through them.  Chuck is working on his own bartender’s guide, and when he is ready, I’m sure he will share it with you.   But his research has reminded me of several anecdotes about presidential drinking I thought I might share.

Stories of Ulysses Grant’s drinking are legendary—and mostly apocryphal.  Don’t get me wrong, Grant had a well-exercised elbow, but every drinking anecdote from the nineteenth century—and earlier—was attributed to the man.  But there is one story that is both undeniable, and yet rarely remembered.

Grant lay dying of cancer of the throat, caused at least in part, by the 10,000 boxes of cigars that had been sent to him by admirers.  Unconscious and close to death, Grant was sprinkled with holy water by a minister who pronounced him converted and baptized.  As a doctor forced a little brandy between the lips of the dying president, he suddenly regained consciousness.

“It is Providence!” exclaimed the minister.

“No,” said the doctor.  “It was the brandy.”

While Grant may have had the reputation, in fact the president who drank the most may have been James Buchanan.  When he took office, he replaced the funereal Franklin Pierce. (Actually, that is a little unkind, as Pierce and his wife watched their son Bennie die when he was crushed to death in a train accident while en route to the inauguration.  Pierce blamed himself, believing that God was punishing him for the having the hubris to run for office.  The Pierces’ four years in the White House were indeed a long and unhappy funeral.)

Buchanan wasted no time in telling the purveyor of spirits to the White House that small bottles of champagne were no longer required.  “Pints are very inconvenient in this house,” he told them, “as the article is not used in such small quantities.”  Supposedly, the amount of wine and spirits consumed during his term could have quite literally filled a cellar.

Buchanan used to stop off at the distillery of Jacob Baer on the way home from church to purchase a ten gallon cask of “Old J. B. Whiskey.”  Not only did Buchanan regard this as a fine whiskey, but he made no effort to disabuse White House guests who believed the initials meant it was his own private label.

President Harry Truman also enjoyed a few drinks while in the White House--actually, more than a few.  First thing every morning, Harry had a shot of Wild Turkey, followed by a glass of orange juice.   Later, just before dinner, Bess and Harry would have an Old Fashioned.  Shortly after the couple moved into the White House, Bess ordered their usual drinks from the butler.  While the President and his wife finished the drinks, the next night they requested that the drinks be made a little dryer.  “They were too sweet,” Bess complained.  So the butler carefully made the drinks with much less sugar, but the following night, the Trumans still requested that the drinks be made still drier.  Peeved, the butler added a little ice to two glasses and then filled them to the brim with straight bourbon.

“Ahhh” said the President.  “That’s the way we like an Old Fashioned.”

When Jimmy Carter was president, his brother Billy was the most famous alcoholic in the country.  He peddled “Billy Beer”, played the drunk on television, and once publicly asked faith-healer Ruth Carter Stapleton to cure a hangover. 

When asked his favorite drink, Billy answered quickly.  “Bourbon” he said.  “All southerners drink Bourbon.  Never trust a scotch drinker, they really prefer bourbon, but they are just putting on airs.  My brother Jimmy used to drink bourbon, but when he decided to get into politics, he switched to scotch.”

Very few of our presidents have been teetotalers. President Rutherford B. Hayes’ wife was known as “Lemonade Lucy” because she refused to allow alcohol in the White House, and George W. Bush swore off alcohol before he ran for the office.  Abraham Lincoln rarely drank, and sent the numerous gifts of alcoholic beverages he received to nearby military hospitals.

The vast majority of our founding fathers enjoyed a good drink.  During George Washington’s administration, the happy hour began at 3:00 in the afternoon and continued through dinner.  Why is John Hancock’s signature so large on the bottom of the Declaration of Independence?  He may have been feeling no pain.  He was an alcoholic beverage dealer. George Washington himself was at one point the largest distiller of bourbon in the country.

The history books leave a lot of interesting details out today.  Have you ever wondered why the Mayflower (a ship that up to that point had been used mainly to ship beer to France and return to England with wine) dropped off the pilgrims in Massachusetts during the winter?  The original destination was Virginia, but the ship ran out of beer—a surprising fact when you consider that the ship left England loaded with more beer than water.  The colonists started making spruce beer just about as soon as they got ashore.  If they left these details in the history books, maybe students would pay more attention.

There are lots of little stories like this.  Johnny Appleseed gave out apple seeds and seedlings so the pioneers could make hard cider.  Patrick Henry was a bartender.  At the first Thanksgiving, no one ate cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, or pumpkin pie.  They did, however, drink beer, wine, gin, and brandy.  During the early colonial period, tavern owners enjoyed higher social status than preachers.  One of the first buildings at Harvard was a brewery to provide beer for the students.  Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence in a tavern, and at Monticello, made his own beer, bourbon, and--according to the Hemings family—his own slaves.  Possibly under the influence—since the surviving records show the household used over 400 bottles of wine each year.  

Our country was pretty much founded on alcohol.  The bill for a celebration party for the 55 drafters of the US Constitution listed 54 bottles of Madeira, 60 bottles of claret, 8 bottles of whiskey, 22 bottles of port, 8 bottles of hard cider, 12 beers and seven bowls of alcohol punch large enough that "ducks could swim in them."  Not counting the punch, that’s about 3 bottles of booze each. 

The 4^th of July is less than two weeks away.  What better way to celebrate the anniversary of our country than to reenact this party.  Please invite me.  Please leave the ducks out of the punchbowl.

Don't Sing For My Supper

Let me start by saying that I love Mexico.  I teach Mexican history, I have spent a lot of time in Mexico, and I intend to spend a lot more time in Mexico in the near future.  I love Mexican food, Mexican beer, and Mexican novels.  Frankly, I love almost everything about Mexico…except mariachis.

Boy, I feel better.  Who knew confession felt so good? 

I hate mariachis.  How in the world did this silly tradition get started?  You find a handful of really bad musicians, dress them up like Zorro’s gay cousins, and let them play very old music in a restaurant full of people trying to quietly enjoy a meal while conversing with friends.  Why would anyone think this is a good idea? 

And the noise!  Five mariachis can turn a quiet neighborhood restaurant into a deep-fried steel mill.  Do tacos taste better if you beat a bass drum with a cat?  There is a damn good reason why they don’t play French horns at French restaurants.

We are not talking chamber music here.  There is the obligatory large bass guitar (a guitarón) played by the smallest member of the group.  Then, there are one or more violins--out of tune, a high pitched 5-string guitar that sounds like a ukulele but is called a vihuela, and at least one loud and slightly off-key trumpet.  If Gabriel ever does sound his horn, very few people in Mexico are going to show up--everyone will probably just think that “Juan” is warming up for his next gig.

Only a Mexican restaurant does this to you.  If you go to a steak house, you don’t get five guys dressed up like John Wayne singing “Get Along Little Dogie.”  And I have never yet been to a Der Wienerschnitzel and had a couple of blondes in lederhosen sing the Horst Wessel song while goose stepping around my table.

This is similar to the Inverse Democracy Rule of Jukeboxes.  If there are 100 people present and 99 of them want a little peace and quiet, they can be overruled by one idiot with a quarter.  So it is with mariachis--if the table next to you slips the band a few bucks, everyone is subjected to the music. 

Wait, I get it!  It is actually musical extortion.  If you pay these pirates, they go away.  How much would it cost to have them go and play in the kitchen?  Or the parking lot?  And why do we, the paying customer put up with this?  We should take air horns with us to the restaurant and every time they start bellowing “Guantamera” we fight back with equal noise.  Worse still is that old tourist favorite, “La Cucaracha.”    Singing a song about a cockroach (even if it is actually a song about Pancho Villa) is rarely encouraged at most restaurants.

It really doesn’t matter what the words are, since at such extreme volume (the performers are literally screaming at your table) the songs all sound the same.  Also, they are extremely repetitious, too.  It is sort of like heavy metal for people without electricity.

Yes, I understand the history of the music.  I know the tradition started in Jalisco in colonial times, I know that is a rich tradition for hundreds of years… but do you have to play it at my table?  

An Attic With a View

Way up a mountain in the piney woods of New Mexico, The Doc and I own a cabin on the edge of a national forest.  I have briefly mentioned this cabin when I talked about abrief experiment with a wood burning hot tub.

Usually, when someone says they have a cabin in the woods, when you get there you discover a condo with a view of a pine tree.  We own a cabin (a hovel, or possibly a shack) where you cannot see or hear another human being.  Wildlife abounds, including a black bear that makes a regular circuit around the neighborhood.  I’m not exactly afraid of that bear, but I do have a healthy respect for him.  The bear holds me in what can only be called open contempt.

Actually, the bear has solved one of life’s great philosophical questions:  Does a bear shit in the woods?  From deep experience, I can answer:  “No.”   He prefers to shit on my deck—frequently--and with deep satire--on the welcome mat.

Recently, The Doc and I made our annual spring cleaning journey to the cabin--dusting the corners, replacing the mouse traps, and sweeping out the collection of bugs that miraculously can find their way into a closed cabin, but can never find their way back out.  So, it was time to clean out under the kitchen sink, sweep out the storage closet, and poke in all the nooks and crannies of a cabin built over 60 years ago.

Cabins collect history; each and every vacation home becomes the owners’ personal family museum.  When you purchase a new television, where else does the old one go?  And the old sleeper sofa that is exactly like the one Lucy and Desi had eventually gets transported to the cabin, and rests through eternity under the strange Mexican blanket you purchased a third of a century ago.  The binoculars with a small crack on the edge of the right lens, the massive electric can opener, the vacuum cleaner that won’t (and I bet half the fondue sets ever made) can all be found either at altitude or close to a beach.

There is a large collection of VHS tapes in that cabin, right next to the box full of cassette tapes of old-time radio programs.  Few things are as memorable as sipping wine from the last surviving wineglass (from a set of four) while listening to The Shadow on a snowy night with the only illumination coming from a fireplace. 

From a cabinet next to a kitchen stove so old it was made by General Motors, The Doc pulled out a treasure from a bygone era: a tall round quart can of furniture oil, sold by the Fuller Brush Company.  I haven’t seen a can like that in fifty years.  It is funny how an object from your past will throw you back in time to a memory so fresh that it seems to play like a movie being projected on a screen just behind your eyes. 

A long time ago, a can just like that was a favorite toy of my brother and me. We played in the dirt next to the driveway, making an improbable town of cigar box  houses and heavy Tonka trucks.  For some reason, the only inhabitants were green plastic toy soldiers, (many of whom, as they lived their lives in our town, felt the need to crawl up and down the various streets).

My brother had taken an empty furniture polish can. like the one pictured, and used an ice pick to poke a hole through the can along the bottom rim.  This was the town’s water tower.  When you opened the lid on top, water would pour out the hole on the bottom, giving our town… well, a flood.  As I remember it, very few residents of our towns actually survived.  And suddenly, I can remember it clearly, the gritty feel of the sand, the boxes still smelling of cheap cigars—I can still picture the faces of the toy soldiers and feel the molded edges of the plastic in my hand.

It could be that the vacation in a vacation home is the ability to travel back in your own personal time, to leave the now and return to then.

The Purple Martin School of Football

Working at Enema U is like eating fish; enjoy the meat and try not to choke on the bones.  My wife, The Doc, is always telling me that I would enjoy movies more if I had a “willing suspension of disbelief.”  If you work for the state, you need a willing suspension of logic and reason.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job.  I know of nowhere else in the world where I would be paid to read books and tell stories to people who have each paid extraordinary sums to hear me talk.  (You can get a front row seat to hear Paul McCartney perform for less money than it costs to hear me explain the causes of the Mexican American War.  'Maybe I’m Amazed'.)

Years ago, for unknown reasons, our state legislature decided to start a bad football team.  Inadvertently, they attached a small university to this team.  For years, the university tried to stay out of the way of the team, teaching quietly in some corner of the campus not currently needed for the newest set of offices for the coaches.  Now, suddenly, our football program seems to be dying.  All the other teams have quite literally taken their balls and gone home.   Our ball-less coaches, like our teams, are at a total loss.

Even as I write this, the university’s top administrators, Moose and Squirrel, are meeting with the legislature in Santa Fe.  “Save Our Host!” they plead.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t look good.  It seems that all the other universities  decided to reform the various athletic conferences, and as they took turns choosing who got to play ball with them, we just stood there smiling nervously.  They picked the fat kid who looked like three grapefruit in a sock.  They picked the short little kid who threw like a girl.  Hell, they even picked the girl.  Eventually, the only kid who hadn’t been selected was us, the short fat girl who couldn’t even throw like a girl.  No one wants to play with us.

Most people would admit defeat.  (Why not--our football team has been setting an excellent example for fifty years.)  Enema U could either drop down a division, drop football, or perhaps even decide that the primary mission of a land grant university in a poor state (so poor that even our cocaine addicts can only afford to buy rich people’s snot) is to actually focus on education.  Most people would do just that, but not Enema U.  We have a PLAN.  Other teams will want to play with us if we have a better stadium. 

Now, don’t jump to conclusions.  We don’t need—at least I sure hope we don’t need—a bigger stadium.  We can’t even fill the one we have half-way.  We can’t fill it even though we let the students in for free. 

No, the stadium needs…something else.  If we fix the bathrooms, other schools will want to play with us!  So the university has asked the state legislature for $3.5 million dollars to fix the stadium bathrooms.  What in the world did we do in there that takes $3.5 million dollars to fix?  I know plumbers are paid better than professors (and deserve it — they get rid of what we are full of), but that must be one hell of a leak we have in there.  If we are selling that much beer, I don’t see how we could be losing so much money.

I did the math, and I have a suggestion.  If we get the $3.5 million, don’t fix the bathrooms.  Put the money in blue chip stocks and just spend the income the fund generates each year.   There are few home games, and low attendance.  We could easily afford to give every fan at the game $5 in exchange for a promise to just hold it in until they get home.  That’s not even counting the money we will save on water.  Eventually, when we finally drop football, we’ll still have the $3.5 million.  Who knows, we might buy a few books for the library.

Besides the bathrooms, the university is also asking the legislature for an additional $2.5 million to refurbish the press box.  One shudders to imagine what is wrong in there, but it must require the services of the Ghostbusters.  Still, even after we chase the evil undead hell-hounds out of the press box and back to the College of Education, there would seem to be more than enough remaining money to install a steam room and a wet bar.  Possibly, even a brass pole for the cheerleaders.

Naturally—and I bet you saw this coming—I have a suggestion.  Actually, it’s pretty much the same suggestion.  Let’s invest the $2.5 million, too.  At an average of 6 home games a year, we could afford to bribe the reporters, forever, over $20,000 a game to just stay home and falsely report that we win the games.

About the only other way we could win is to put snipers in that press box.