Dr. Jack

Standing Up

I would never want to be a policeman. From my viewpoint, it is a dangerous job for which they are terribly underpaid. More often than not, they deal with the dregs of society, and their view of the world is colored by seeing nothing but the dark underbelly of a particular jurisdiction. A simple traffic stop can suddenly turn deadly, and the stress of the job must be incredible. My friend and college roommate, Bruce, was Chief of Police in our hometown of Burbank, Illinois for years. I always remember him telling me about his “ride-along” with the police during his internship. He said they were called to check out a domestic disturbance, and he was told to grab a flashlight before they went to the door of the house. This was one of those long, metal flashlights with a line of heavy, “D” batteries in the handle. As Bruce hefted the weighty item in his hand, he asked what he was supposed to do with it. He was told something like, “It’s not for reading maps, kid. If this goes bad, it can be a weapon.” This story illustrates how even a seemingly innocuous situation can be fraught with danger. On top of the obvious hazards of the job, police often find themselves in situations for which they are ill-prepared. In particular, they are put on the front-lines in dealing with psychotic or mentally ill people. Most of the intelligent calls for police reform do not call for actual “defunding” or the abolition of police forces, but for dividing responsibilities so that fully trained persons are able to deal with specific situations. I say all of this as a reminder of what a difficult occupation being a police officer can be.

Still, the situation that erupted in the US over the past few weeks points out that something has to change. In 1964, segregation and racial discrimination legally ended with the passage of the Civil Rights Act. A year later, voting restrictions based on race officially came to an end. Yet these problems are still very much with us today. The truth is, it is much easier to pass legislation than it is to change the hearts and minds of people; the government cannot create economic opportunities, open doors to equal education, or end systemic racism with a stroke of the pen. These issues are much more complicated, and we are still wrestling with them almost sixty years after those landmark laws were passed.

No one is born thinking they are better or worse than those of another skin color. Racism is an attitude that is taught by parents, friends, authority figures, and a particular society. I was raised in a racist household that, in both subtle and overt ways, taught me that black people were to be feared and distrusted. I remember my dad putting a Confederate-flag sticker on our front door, even though he had never been south of 127^th Street. Our neighborhood of Mt. Greenwood was tucked into the southwest corner of Chicago. My neighbors were predominantly policemen, firemen, and other city workers who had to live within the city limits to keep their jobs. Mt. Greenwood was as far from the inner city as you could get while still officially living in Chicago. It was also a bastion of segregation, with a buffer zone of railroad tracks and cemeteries protecting its denizens from the encroachment of African Americans. In a neighborhood of Irish-Catholics of modest economic means, my family of Scottish-Catholics was the closest thing we had to a minority. That was my world growing up, and I never crossed paths with people of any color other than white. Until I was thirteen.

I went to a pretty good grammar school (K-through-8) of 1500 white students. That school fed into a good high school called Morgan Park. In 1967, the Board of Education in Chicago announced that they would integrate my school with eight black students so that those kids could get the opportunity to attend a better HS, and, hopefully, increase their chances of getting into college. On the first day of classes, my school was surrounded by 3,000 angry white people, reporters, and other interested onlookers. I watched as a station wagon dropped off those eight terrified kids, who then had to walk from the curb to the front door, a 100-foot gauntlet of people screaming, spitting, and calling them the worst names you can imagine. I recognized many of my friends, neighbors, and role models in that fuming mob. (See picture above)

Within a few days, though, things calmed down, and the school year settled into a familiar routine. Thanks to the institutional regimentation of the Chicago Public School System, I got to know one of the new students. Omar Hester and John Henderson were next to each other alphabetically, therefore, we were assigned neighboring seats in every class. With my upbringing, I’m sure I was leery and standoffish toward this new boy, but the artificial cultural barriers between us soon dissolved. I learned that he was smarter than I was, he worked harder, and he was funnier than me. I also admired his determination to withstand prejudice and verbal abuse in order to fight for what he believed was his right to a good education. It wasn’t as if we became close friends, and we never hung out together outside of school, but he taught me that I had nothing to fear and much to learn from people who were different than me. The summer after that school year, we moved a couple of miles away to Burbank, and I never saw Omar again. Even at that time, though, I often thought about how unfair it was that I should receive better opportunities for education and for life simply because I lived on one side of the cemetery and had white skin, while someone else on the other side with dark skin did not have those same chances. That year changed me in important ways, and college, my study of history, and especially having black teammates on the track team, made those changes permanent.

In the past twenty years, talking to my African-American next-door neighbor in Nashville, I became more aware of the fear of being pulled over for “Driving While Black.” I, of course, never had to endure that particular humiliation, but I once had a similar experience. In the 1980s, I got a gig singing at a North-Side club near Wrigley Field. It was a gay bar that welcomed people of all sexual preferences. I left the place at about 2:00 am, and, as I was walking the few blocks to my car, I noticed that I was being slowly trailed by a police car. When I reached my beat-up vehicle, the police turned on their flashers and got out of their squad. They made me open my guitar case and looked through it, apparently searching for drugs. They examined my license and asked what I was doing in that neighborhood, so far from my home, at that hour. They looked in my car with flashlights. They let me go eventually, but followed me for several blocks until I pulled onto Lake Shore Drive. I’m sure that if I had so much as a broken tail-light, they would have ticketed me or worse. As I drove home, I was shaking my head, trying to figure out what had just happened, when it hit me: they assumed, that since I was coming out of a gay bar, I must be homosexual. I had been harassed for being gay. I laughed at the time, because nothing bad happened, and it made for a good story. Later, though, I was struck by the unfairness of being judged by an officer’s false assumption. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with that unfairness every day as black people do.

After my last blog entry, my friend Barbara commented that she and her daughter (both white), attended a Black Lives Matter protest in their small, conservative town in Illinois wearing shirts that read, “I am listening.” The next day, some of her friends politely questioned her about her participation in what they probably viewed as an almost subversive activity. That story reminded me of an anecdote from the 1840s. Transcendentalist author Henry David Thoreau was in jail, having been arrested for refusing to pay taxes levied to finance the Mexican-American War. Thoreau—correctly—believed that the war was being waged to take land from Mexico in order to add new slave states to the Union and thus expand slavery. He declined to support such an endeavor and broke the law as a protest. His friend Ralph Waldo Emerson came to see him in jail, asking, with amusement in his voice, “Henry, what are you doing in here?” to which Thoreau replied, “I think the real question is ‘What are you doing out there?’” This situation is not a “Black Thing” or a “White Thing.” It is “Our Thing.”

That Thoreau story makes me feel a bit guilty for not doing more, but Kathleen and I are not the activist, protesting sorts. The Covid pandemic has also stifled any impulse we may have had to join marches in recent days. It may be a character flaw, but I have always preferred a quiet form of protest, relying on words and stories to change opinions. This has been my modus operandi while on stage as a folk-singer, in my classroom, or now, in this blog. Still, I have always admired the courage and determination of American protesters throughout history. Whether the cause was Black Lives Matter, an end to the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, unionizing workers in the 1930s, the right to vote for women, or the anti-slavery battles of the early 1800s, those people who fought and died for freedom in the streets of our nation were genuine heroes. They deserve our respect every bit as much as those who fought overseas in our wars.

In fact, one of the first protests in our history occurred in Boston, Massachusetts and helped spark the Revolutionary War. Tensions had been building in that city for months as the British soldiers increased in numbers and occupied the city with occasional brutal repression. Protests against that oppression and what were regarded as unfair taxes grew angrier. In March, 1770, fighting between people in the streets and the soldiers erupted and led to the British firing into the crowd, wounding six and killing five people. Many historians point to that event as the true start of the Revolution, which eventually gave us our freedom and started our democratic-republic.

Protests have been a crucial part of our nation since its inception. We are a great nation today, in large part, because of those people who were brave enough to stand up for their rights. It is also important to remember that the first man killed that March day in Boston and, thus, in the Revolution, was an African-American man named Crispus Attucks.

Divisions

Recently, much has been said and written about the divisions that we have in our country today. This led me to ponder the various dividing points that separate the 15,000 people who live here in our new home of River Falls.

Ironically, a street named Division is a major axis in River Falls. Main Street parallels the Kinnickinnic River and forms the primary artery on a north-to-south line. The east-west running street of Division, however, doesn’t bisect the town evenly into rectangular-grid quadrants, as the name might indicate. Instead, it is on the north edge of town, separating one of the newer sections from the older section. It gets its name, I would guess from the fact that it forms the border between Pierce County and St. Croix County. That’s right: people on one side of Division Street in River Falls live in one county, while those on the other side reside in a different one. St. Croix County hugs the river that gives it its name and straddles I-94 before it crosses over into the Twin Cities. We live in Pierce County, which is predominantly rural and contains about half as many people as its northern neighbor. It also borders the St. Croix River, but, with no major bridge crossing into Minnesota, it has less traffic and a slower pace of life. Aside from the fact that certain government services are centered in one county or the other, this county division is insignificant and appears only on maps. In fact, I have never even seen a sign saying that you are leaving one county or entering the next.

As in most places, sports rivalries play a big role up here. Growing up in Chicago, I know that the Cubs-White Sox rift is the most pronounced division in terms of sports in that town. While loyalty to the Bears, Blackhawks, or Bulls tends to unify Chicagoans, most would agree that, if you have any integrity at all, you can only support one of the two major-league baseball teams. River Falls is only about 25-30 miles from Minneapolis-St. Paul, but, in terms of sports loyalties, it seems to be more a part of Wisconsin than Minnesota. Packers’ fans appear to outnumber Vikings fans by a significant measure, and Wisconsin Badger supporters are more numerous than those of the Minnesota Gophers. However, in baseball, my purely unscientific and impressionistic estimate gives the nod to the Twins over Milwaukee’s Brewers.

There are other divisions that are unique to this town. For instance, living in a cold climate such as this, people take their windows seriously. Fights can break out between those who favor Pella windows over those who swear by windows made by Anderson. A local political controversy revolved around the two dams on the Kinnickinnic River. Some thought they should be should be destroyed and the falls should be restored to their natural state, while others argued that the dams, built in 1904, should remain in place. Just last year, it was decided that the dams will come down in stages over the next few years, but “Free the Kinni” signs can still be seen in windows around town.

More familiar political divisions are, of course, present in River Falls as well. Wisconsin, with its ten electoral votes is definitely one of the battleground states this year, having voted Republican in 2016 by only .77 of one percent. River Falls seems to be in a “purple” region of the state, being evenly divided between Republicans and Democrats. The presence of a university in town means that many people are college-educated and lean toward moderate and progressive candidates. The area around the town, though, is rural and more conservative. As a result, a large number of people support Donald Trump, while a similar number of people tend to support democracy, equality, and the Constitution instead. For our part, Kathleen and I are delighted to finally live in a state in which our vote will mean something. For years, it was depressing watching Tennessee elections called on TV about twenty seconds after the polls closed.

The rigid political divisions that plague our nation today can be traced to three developments a few decades ago. In 1988, Rush Limbaugh began his syndicated talk-radio program that is still on the air. From the beginning, his programs were marked by vitriol, racism, and fear- mongering. He also created the myth that he alone told the truth about politics, and that no other news sources could be trusted. He gained a huge audience among conservatives who wanted to believe that anyone who differed from their viewpoint was part of a left-wing conspiracy or bias. Then, in 1994, as part of his “Contract with America,” newly elected Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich issued a memo to all Republican senators and representatives. The memo indicated that any person who crossed the aisle and voted for Democratic-sponsored bills would essentially be ostracized from the Republican Party and cut off from all party support. Within the next decade, Democratic congressmen responded with similar partisan tactics, and gridlock has resulted. Recent studies on the political logjam in Congress have all pointed to Gingrich’s time as Speaker as a key factor in creating the obstructionist politics and polarization that are such a problem today. Finally, in 1996, Fox News Channel began their one-sided broadcasts. The powerful network routinely ignores facts in order to put a right-wing spin on all events and has evolved into much more a source of opinions than an actual news channel. Today, there are half-a-dozen legitimate news sources available on television, and yet millions of people get a twisted, disingenuous, and misleading form of the news from Fox. In terms of division, these three events have had an impact on this country that have altered Fox’s slogan of “We report, you decide,” to a more accurate “We distort, you divide.”

Then, this week, former Secretary of Defense, retired Marine General James Mattis, a man who has spent his entire professional career staying apolitical and above the fray, issued a statement that urged Americans to unite without expecting leadership to come from the Oval Office. He wrote, “Donald Trump is the first president in my lifetime who does not try to unite the American people—does not even pretend to try. Instead he tries to divide us. We are witnessing the consequences of three years of this deliberate effort. We are witnessing the consequences of three years without mature leadership.” These powerful words from a highly respected figure have been echoed in ensuing days by other military leaders, disillusioned Republicans, and former presidents from both parties. Even the intellectual voice of Conservatism for the past several decades, George Will, expressed his hope that the GOP will lose the coming election in order to awaken the party from the Trump-induced stupor into which it has fallen. His harshest words were reserved for the Republicans in the Senate who abandoned all sense of responsibility to the Constitution in their “Vichyite collaboration” with “this low-rent Lear raging on his Twitter-heath.” I usually disagree with much of what Will has to say, but the man can certainly write, and he always makes me think and question my assumptions.

I will wrap up this entry by pointing out that, in River Falls, the east-west road next to and parallel to Division is called Union Street. I sincerely hope that we as a nation can manage to traverse that half-block and find our way from Division to Union in the near future.

Evolution of a Rock and Roll Classic

A few days ago, the musical pioneer known as “Little Richard” Penniman died. In the mid-1950s, before Elvis, before Chuck Berry, before Jerry Lee Lewis or Buddy Holly, Little Richard combined elements of gospel, rhythm and blues, and boogie-woogie music to create something completely new—something that a Cleveland disc jockey named Alan Freed would later call “Rock and Roll.” In addition to his own career, Little Richard helped teach people such as Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger his unique style in the early days of their development. Despite these achievements, he never enjoyed the same level of commercial success as people who borrowed his style or learned from him. The reason, boys and girls, is the subject of today’s lesson.

Appearing in public from the time he was 14 years old, he became known as an exciting and unpredictable live performer. Developing his act in roadhouses, gin joints, and Blacks-only clubs across the South, he electrified audiences with an approach to music that exuded unadulterated joy. He played the piano standing up, using his hands, his feet, and even his ass while bouncing around the stage in front of screaming audiences. The problem was that recording studios could never capture the energy or magic of his live performances. Also, music producers tried to steer him toward gospel music or types of songs that they believed would be safer, more commercial options. His early recordings died quietly without reaching a widespread audience. Then in late 1955, while sleepwalking through another lethargic studio session, the producer called for a short break for lunch. To entertain himself and the band, Little Richard jumped into a vulgar song he had been performing live for years. The band joined in with frenzied accompaniment, and a new musical genre was born.

He started the raw, exuberant song with the memorable line, “A-wop-bop-a-loo-bop-a-wop-bom-bom!” To Richard, that’s what the drum beat to start the song sounded like in his mind. The tune was called Tutti Frutti, which was a pejorative term for homosexuals, and the rest of the lyrics contained ribald references to sex acts. The producer loved it, but knew it could never be played on the radio. A female writer was called in to clean up the lyrics, and “Tutti frutti, sweet booty,” became the nonsense line “Tutti frutti, aw rooty.” The song, with the sanitized lyrics, was released, and it enjoyed some success on Black radio stations. White teenagers began to discover the song, and sales began to grow in the niche category of “Negro Music.” It reached number two on the R & B charts in the days when “Rhythm and Blues” was a euphemism for music by Black performers. This was 1956, however, and the music industry—along with everyone else in White America—was terrified of Black people getting too wealthy or powerful. Richard’s version of the song never received much airplay on mainstream stations and achieved only modest success on conventional pop music charts. Here is Little Richard’s version of the song:

Within months, other performers lined up to record what they thought could be a major hit. About that time, a different singer was making waves in another new genre of music called “rockabilly.” Moreover, he had one attribute that made him more appealing to the music industry: he was White. Elvis Presley recorded his own version of the song, changing the last words of the onomatopoeic opening line from “bom-bom” to “bam-boom.” Here it is:

His version isn’t bad, but it almost sounds a bit like Dr. Feelgood had slipped him his first amphetamines, like he’s rushing through the song without allowing the beauty of the lyrics to resonate with the audience. (Yes, that’s sarcasm.) This version did a bit better than Little Richard’s, but Elvis had some problems too. Sure, he was White, but he still sounded Black. In addition, he touched another nerve with conservative Americans: he was too damn sexy. No one wanted their teenaged daughters getting any ideas from listening to that sort of music. That’s why ministers made public displays of destroying his records, and TV directors ordered their cameramen to film him from the waist up: they did not want the lascivious gyrations of Elvis the Pelvis to be seen by impressionable teens. Again, the song received only sporadic airplay and never reached the heights—or sales—of later Elvis songs.

What the industry wanted was a performer who was White and completely safe. They found him in the form of Patrick Charles Eugene Boone, better known as Pat Boone. A product of David Lipscomb, a Church of Christ school in Nashville, Boone was as white-skinned and white-bread as any record-company executive could desire. In terms of style, he owed more to crooners such as Bing Crosby and Perry Como than to the early rockers. His wholesome persona and lack of controversy made him the ideal purveyor of this new style of music. He had already had one hit by covering another Black performer’s song with his version of Fats Domino’s Ain’t That a Shame. By taking on Tutti Frutti, he forged a path to success that involved toning down good songs written by Black singers. His version is stripped down, lacking in energy, and extremely bland. Think of a Thanksgiving turkey that has been skinned, boiled, and served without seasoning. I love the background setting of this lip-synched television performance. Every cliché of the late 1950s is in place here. He sits at a soda bar in his trademark white-buck shoes while girls in poodle skirts materialize from nowhere and begin dancing around him for no apparent reason. Here’s the clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBzzlUIEWHA

Boone’s version, of course, was played on every radio station in the country, and it went on to become a major hit. He parlayed that success into a film career and his own network television show.

Today, it seems that pop performers only achieve success if they first appear on one of the multitude of “talent” competitions hosted and judged by celebrities. This process guarantees that pop music will be dominated by singers who all sound exactly like the performers who are already successful. Major labels simply don’t want to take a chance on a sound that is new and innovative. The system thus limits the opportunities for truly original singers and songwriters to rise to the top and receive the backing of major music labels. As my little story about the evolution of a hit song in the 1950s illustrates, as it was in the beginning, so is it now, and so shall it be in the future.

Still, listen again to the self-proclaimed “Architect of Rock and Roll.” The pure enjoyment of Little Richard’s performance screams off of the recording even today, 65 years later. I think we can all use a little joyful noise today.

Self-Improvement

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”

–Ralph Waldo Emerson

The picture above is from the classic 1980 horror film, The Shining. In the family portrait, patriarch Jack Nicholson, who has been isolated with his family for the winter, is showing signs that he is cracking under the pressure. By this point, many of us, too, are getting restless. The weather is warming up, and the activities we normally associate with spring and early summer are greatly curtailed, if not completely halted. As we search for ways to entertain ourselves in these difficult times, I have a suggestion: work on yourself. Anyone who is my age has probably experienced times in their adult lives where they wished they had more time for self-improvement. Well, now you have the time. Take advantage of it.

I’ve always been a bit fanatical on trying to improve myself in one regard or another. In some ways, that’s what the title of this blog, Take Five, is all about. Psychologist Carl Jung once wrote that men mature later than women, but that at some point, the various threads of their life begin to come together. The variety of things I have done in my life have all enjoyed a resurgence in recent weeks as I have sought ways to entertain myself and burn up some excess energy. Perhaps this means that I’m finally starting to mature. I have also discovered the value of YouTube videos to teach almost anything.

Even before this thing began, I was running or walking every day and doing lots of push-ups and other exercises while trying to stave off weight gain. I’ve taken that up a notch in recent weeks by adding a 5K time trial once a week. I mapped out a 3.1-mile course along a rocky ridge in a park near my house, and I run it for time once a week. There are two brutal hills leading to the top of the ridge, and I still have to walk partway up those hills, but the times are improving steadily. Even the downhill sections offer challenges, as I discovered last week when I tripped while trying to gain time on the steep finishing stretch. The trouble with falling while running downhill, as any trail-runner will attest, is that your body doesn’t stop when it hits the ground. You tend to bounce, slide, and roll down the hill before coming to a stop. Then you get up, check for injuries, wipe off the blood, and look around to make sure no one saw how stupid you were. Obviously, at my age, any physical activities come with a law of diminishing returns—my body won’t allow me to do what I once did, and I’ll only get slower as I age. So I understand that I’ll never run the 5K under 15:00 again, but the time trials give me a goal and a reason to run intervals and hill workouts each week.

Another thing I’ve always done is read and write for a while each day. In addition to working on my novels, I usually find myself reading three books at a time. I am currently reading one about the craft of writing, called, The First Five Pages. It focuses on the importance of the beginning of novels but also gives great tips on how to improve and streamline your writing. I always have a fun and relaxing novel going; right now I am reading a John Sandford novel featuring his detective character, Lucas Davenport. Davenport operates out of Minneapolis and often includes locations that are now familiar to us. Finally, I usually have a history book going at the same time. I just finished a history of Wisconsin and am now reading one called Wisconsin Frontier, by a River Falls native. I actually read that one years ago while researching my first novel, but picked it up again last week when I noticed that the dedication was to the town of River Falls. I am enjoying learning a little about my surrounding area through these books. In addition to reading, I have been trying to beef up my vocabulary by adding three new words to my repertoire each day. I make index cards and quiz myself periodically until I reach the point where I can own these words and use them in my writing. Hopefully, this work will help me abstain from solecism and pleonasms, use stronger words as succedaneums for flaccid and enervated vocabulary, and result in prose with a more refulgent quality. We’ll see.

I have also added two new diversions to my daily routine. For the first time in fifteen years or so, I have started playing guitar again. It took several weeks to get beyond the finger blisters and develop new callouses on my fingers, but the muscle memory and latent music theory is starting to return. It was almost like learning from scratch at first, with all of the frustrations of being a new musician. I’m now at the point, though, where I can learn new songs and try to develop better techniques by watching YouTube films. (And I thought they only had cute videos about cats and babies!) In particular, I am trying to improve my finger-picking, and I’ve found some great films about that skill. I am seeing some progress by practicing for about an hour a day. In addition to the things I have done in the past, I have taken up golf as well. I’ve always been terrible at golf, but I love being out on a course. As an 11-year-old caddy, I developed an appreciation for the beauty of golf courses, especially early in the morning when the rising sun is glinting off of the dew. The cost of the game and my inability to hit that damn ball consistently, however, have kept the opportunities to enjoy such scenes to a minimum. But I have tried to play once every 3 or 4 years just to keep my game sharp. I mentioned earlier that I now live right on a golf course, and I have scavenged nearly 200 golf balls from the woods during the winter months. Now, with time on my hands, I take a basket of balls to the nearby park and hit to my heart’s content. Ben, who was on his golf team in college, has showed me a few helpful things, and I have studied some YouTube videos to pick up some more tips. After running each day, I stop at the park and practice these new techniques for about an hour. Here, too, I am seeing some progress, although I have not as yet tried my skills on the actual course.

As the American writer Ernest Hemingway once said, “There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.” Self-improvement has been one of the core values of Western Civilization since the days of the Roman Empire. Rather than bemoaning the fact that we can’t be doing all of the things we would like to do, this is a great opportunity to learn something new or improve some aspect of our lives. I have encouraged Kathleen to take up gymnastics or triathlons, but she has thus far rejected most of my suggestions. She has, however, started reading Tolstoy’s 1400-page War and Peace (Seriously). As for myself, I was thinking about learning how to fish. Or perhaps some artistic pursuit, such as oil paints. Esperanto has always intrigued me . . .

Update: In a previous blog, I mused about the possibility of floating on waterways from River Falls to the Gulf of Mexico and beyond. Well, the other day I read about a worker on a Mississippi River bridge who had his hard-hat fall from his head and float away on the water. It had his name and contact information, but, of course, he never expected to see it again. Recently someone found his hat and called him about it. The amazing thing about this story is that the man found the hat on the coast of Ireland. The adventurous chapeau had apparently ridden the current down the Mississippi to the Gulf, and, from there, caught a ride on the Gulf Stream before winding up on the Emerald Isle. Pretty cool.

Laugh, and the World Laughs With You

“Laughter reduces pain, increases job performance, connects people emotionally, and improves the flow of oxygen to the heart and brain. Laughter, it’s said, is the best medicine. … And all the health benefits of laughter may simply result from the social support that laughter stimulates.”

—Psychology Today, 2005

As the coronavirus crisis drags on, and the number of deaths in only 3 months approaches the total of American lives lost in the Vietnam War over 14 years (58,000 from 1961 to 1975), we may have to work hard to keep our sense of humor. I know it’s difficult, but as the quote above indicates, there are actual physical, emotional, and psychological benefits to joking and laughing. If you think about it, this entire situation is funny in an absurd sort of way. Did any of us, just two months ago, envision a world in which we would be confined to our homes, wearing face masks in public, and washing our hands until our skin was raw? I guess what I’m saying is, as difficult as it might be at times, look for reasons to laugh. If you need something funny to read, try a Christopher Moore novel. I strongly suggest Lamb, Fool, or Noir; in each of those, he takes a familiar genre and turns it on its head. Laugh-out-loud funny.

It seems like a year ago, but as St. Patrick’s day approached, I heard a joke that I liked. Since we had reservations at a casino in Biloxi for March 17th, I thought perhaps I could casually throw it into a conversation at a blackjack table while the dealer was re-shuffling the deck. Then, of course, I never got the chance. So here it is:

A man walked into a neighborhood pub in Dublin, Ireland and ordered three Guinness Stouts. The bartender, who took his Guinness seriously, carefully poured three beautiful beers. In each glass, the dark brown, almost black, Stout was topped by nearly an inch of tan-colored foam. He placed them in front of the patron. Only then did he notice that the man was alone and planned on drinking all three beers by himself. “You know,” he said, “Guinness is best when it is freshly poured. If you ordered each of these separately, I think you’d enjoy it more.”

The man smiled and said, “Technically, friend, these are not all for me. See, a few weeks ago, my mother died and my brothers and I lost the farm we had rented since my dear, departed father passed. One brother moved to Sydney, Australia, and the other went to Chicago, in America. I moved from the countryside to Dublin and found a job. Before we parted, though, we three boys made a promise that we would go to our local pub every Wednesday and have a beer with our brothers living far away. So I plan to drink these three stouts and reminisce about my family—those dead, and those who have moved away.”

The bartender was touched by the story, and he left the man alone as he quietly sipped his dark beers. When the stranger left the pub, the barkeep related the story to the other patrons, all of whom were equally moved. From that day on, the ritual was repeated every week. The other men in the pub respected the ceremony, and the room grew silent until the stranger finished his three beers and left.

Several months later, the man came in and said, “I’ll have two Guinness Stouts.” A hush fell over the room as the bartender and the other patrons assumed the worst. The bartender silently poured the beer and brought them to the bar. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?” the man asked.

“You only ordered two beers today, so I thought that one of your brothers must have passed.”

“No, that’s not it,” the stranger said. “Today is Ash Wednesday, and I’ve given up beer for Lent.”

In this current type of a crisis, though, normal humor often takes a back seat to “Black Humor” or “Dark Humor.” This is a type of humor where a morbid slant on things is combined with comedy in order to give a disturbing effect or to point out the absurdity of life. Many times, the topics discussed under this genre are serious, but the approach towards it is very light and humorous. Some of my favorite films use dark humor to great comic effect. Dr. Strangelove, Harold & Maude, Heathers, Monty Python films or, more recently Pulp Fiction (or anything else by Quentin Tarantino) and Fargo (or anything else by the Coen Brothers) all used this technique. This type of humor is not for everyone. These are the sort of films that make you laugh aloud, but then you glance around to see if anyone noticed that you found those disturbing images humorous.

My family always dealt with loss or tragedy by resorting to the dark-sense-of-humor defense. On the morning my father died, my brother Mark was at the house while the Hospice people were still there, packing up their supplies. Mark asked, “So is this like a rainout, and you get to go home early?”

Kathleen and I went to Chicago for that funeral. My other brother, Dan, showed me a T-shirt that he had bought for me. It was from a local business and read “Chicago Jack” on the back. He tossed it to me from across the room and said, “I was gonna mail this to you, but luckily dad died and saved me the postage.”

I used a variation of that line later when I was sick and missed a month of teaching. Upon my return, colleagues were discussing a particularly lengthy and time-wasting faculty meeting that had occurred in my absence. I said, “That sounds brutal; thank God I had cancer and got to miss it.”

The point is that humor can get you through anything. If your kids are making you lose your temper during your first foray into home-schooling, get a T-shirt that says, “Good Moms Use Bad Words” (I saw that one recently). If watching the news and the gloomy predictions and statistics from doctors is getting you down, turn to the President’s daily press conference for a laugh. That’s right: even the Clown-in-Chief can be funny at times, albeit unintentionally. You can’t help but laugh as he staggers like a drunken sailor from one position to another, claiming dictatorial power one day, and throwing everything back to the states the next.

It is especially laughable to watch him try to shift the blame for his many mistakes. While President Harry Truman famously had a plaque on his Oval Office desk that read “The Buck Stops Here,” Trump refuses to take responsibility for any of his numerous blunders and flings blame around like confetti. In recent days, he has pointed fingers at the World Health Organization, governors of individual states (Democrats only, of course), and even former President Obama, who left office with a plan in place for possible ways to deal with a pandemic (that plan was scrapped by Trump in 2018). Yesterday, instead of providing any semblance of leadership, he touted miracle cures, such as hydroxychloroquine, sunshine, or—wait for it—injecting disinfectant. This puts our country in the bizarre position of having the FDA, CDC, and other government organizations warning people that they should ignore the snake-oil salesman we call a President. Yes, Trump’s antics would indeed be comical if all of this weren’t so damned serious. It is safe to say that no president in history, with the possible exceptions of James Buchanan, Herbert Hoover, or George W. Bush, was so ineffective in dealing with a national crisis. In each case, moreover, many people died because of their ineptitude.

My opening quote today refers to the old saying, “Laughter is the best medicine.” I did some research and found that the origin of that quote is probably the Bible, specifically, a proverb from the Wisdom of Solomon.:“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.”

Laughter may not be the best medicine, but it beats the hell out of drinking Lysol.

Hygiene is the 1st Thing to Go

First, a quick quiz. Without looking it up, What day of the week is it?

The calendar, or at least our instinctive sense of what day it is at any particular time, has probably been another victim of the Covid crisis. Our daily routines have been dramatically altered, we are out of our usual rhythm, and many of us have slacked off a bit. With millions of people working remotely or affected by the stay-at-home orders, my guess is that many people are taking advantage of the chance to sleep in a little later and ease into their day at a slower pace. During the days when Kathleen was retired, and I was still working, she loved illustrating the difference in our personalities by describing the start of our summer. As soon as school ended, I knew that I had only two months to get a year’s worth of work and house maintenance accomplished. So I made lists. There was a master list, weekly lists, and daily lists. Kathleen always got a chuckle out of my master list that had things like “Run 400 miles,” “10,000 push-ups,” “Write two chapters,” “Paint two bedrooms,” “Read 20 Books,” “Re-Surface the driveway,” “Stain the back deck,” etc. etc. She would roll her eyes at my ambitious plans and say, “My only goal is to be out of my pajamas by noon.” I think a lot of people have that same attitude these days.

Living in a duplex/condo now, there is not nearly as much work to do, so my lists are more modest. I still get up at 5:00 most mornings and do some writing or reading for three hours before I feel as if I’ve done enough to have “earned” breakfast. It’s still dark up here until almost 7:00, so I can’t really get motivated to go outside anyway until mid-morning. Plus, it’s still cold most days, and we had snow flurries early on Thursday. My run, walk, or some combination of the two takes place about 9:30 or 10:00, and I try to get 5 or 6 miles in. So, not until after 11:00 do I finally take a shower. After six decades of showering before the sun is up each morning, it feels like a real luxury to shower that late in the day. I suppose that some people don’t shower at all; without regular social encounters, appearance has diminished in importance.

I also shave my face and head while in the shower. That’s where my slacking off comes in. After many years of shaving on a daily basis (except those times when I grew an ill-advised beard), I now shave only every other day. I figure, I’m not going to see anyone, so who really cares? There are some problems with this. After running, pulling a sweaty, nylon shirt off over my bristly head on the second day is difficult. My head grabs that shirt like Velcro and won’t let go. Still, at least once every 48 hours my head is gleaming like a freshly shaven, silent shroud of skull. (I believe Simon and Garfunkel first said that in their alliterative way; I’m not sure if the words are exactly right, or if, indeed, they were talking about my head.)

My step-daughter, Kristin, works at NASA, so she has been working at home for nearly a month. Someone in Huntsville created a tongue-in-cheek quiz to see how everyone was adjusting to their new work situation. Each question that received an affirmative response was rewarded with one point. They included such things as, Did you brush your teeth? Did you take a shower? Are you wearing shoes? Are you wearing pants? Did you get up at your regular time? There were twenty such questions and an accompanying scale with which to grade yourself. Kristin was awake and working, but she scored a “one.” Apparently, she received a point for logging onto an online conference of some sort. Aside from that, she might as well have been lying in bed.

A lot of the stuff happening around the country is so weird that it’s fascinating. Our lives have definitely been altered in both good and bad ways. I do think it’s important, though, to try to maintain a routine of sorts. After all, when this finally ends, I envision a rush to public places like we haven’t seen since the end of Prohibition in 1933. If I’m hanging out at the Nutty Squirrel that day, arm around some stranger, warbling a slurred version of “Happy Days are Here Again,” I want to make sure they don’t stink.

He Was in Heaven Before He Died

Yesterday was a bad day. We in Wisconsin were forced to leave our homes amid this pandemic in order to practice that most basic right of American citizenship: voting. That is only remarkable because the Republican majority in the state house, in a blatant case of voter repression, insisted that there be no delays because they wanted to keep the turnout low and prevent people from voting who are more likely to support Democrats. Our President gave another farcical press conference marked by outrageous statements and a refusal to answer legitimate questions from the media. That conference came after he had dismissed the non-partisan head of the oversight committee whose job it was to see that the $2 Trillion allotted by Congress last week will be disbursed fairly and impartially. Trump, who has never done anything fairly and impartially in his life, will now oversee those funds personally in still another power grab designed to remove all restraints on his runaway authority. All of this occurred on a day when more Americans died from Covid19 than on any previous day. To top it all off, as I opened my newspaper at 5:00 this morning, I saw that one of those who died of the virus was singer and songwriter, John Prine.

I saw Prine perform many times. At one of those shows in Boulder, Colorado in 1978, he was explaining the idea behind a song of his called Bruised Orange. He recalled walking to church one dark morning to serve mass as an altar boy. There was a big commotion because a young kid, another altar boy or paper-delivery boy presumably, had been hit by a train and killed. A crowd gathered near the tracks and eleven terrified mothers waited to find out if the boy was their son. The Police finally revealed who the boy was, and, as Prine told it, “Everyone stared at the boy’s mother to see her reaction. But,” he added, “I’ll never forget the expressions on the faces of those other ten mothers.” That was the secret of his songs: he always saw the world from a slightly different angle.

I first became aware of John Prine in 1971 when his eponymous debut album came out. I was still in high-school and had only listened to pop music to that point. Something new was happening in music at that time, however. It was called “FM Radio,” and new stations were popping up that were not constrained by the limitations of Top Forty song lists. Prine was a Chicago guy, so many of these so-called “underground” disc jockeys saw him at area coffee houses and clubs and played his songs. From the first time I heard him, I was blown away. His songs told stories about ordinary people and their lives. And always, they came at you from a new angle that helped you understand the world and the people in it a little better. Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, the thought registered that I, too, wanted to be a folk-singer. It would take a few more years before I acted on that thought, but when I moved to Austin, Texas to learn to play guitar in 1977, more than anything else, I wanted to write songs like John Prine.

Prine was not overtly political. Still, many of his songs hinted at political issues in subtle ways. In Sam Stone, he touched on the emotional and psychological battles being fought by returning veterans, long before anyone had used the term “Vietnam Veteran Stress Syndrome” (today called PTSD). That song still brings tears to my eyes. He addressed, in a humorous way, false patriotism in the form of people who put decals of the US flag on their cars, but hate most actual Americans (Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore). Six-o’clock News dealt with family secrets and unwanted children. As recently as 2005, he took a shot at our unjustified invasion of Iraq in Some Humans Ain’t Human. I can’t help thinking that he would have written another verse to that song if he saw our current president using a terrible human tragedy to advance his own political agenda.

Like Guy Clark and Steve Goodman, Prine never fit neatly into any commercially obvious categories, so record companies and radio stations didn’t know what to do with him. Rather than give up, though, he started his own record company where he was able to be himself, rather than some executive’s idea of what he should be. Performers such as Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, and Roger Waters of Pink Floyd listed him among their favorite songwriters. Everyone from George Strait (I Just Wanna Dance With You), to Miranda Lambert (That’s the Way the World Goes ‘Round), to David Allan Coe (You Never Even Called Me by my Name) had hits covering Prine songs. In addition to numerous Americana music awards, he won two Grammys and, earlier this year, a Lifetime Achievement Award. So, while he was never a commercial success personally, he managed to find his own niche and earn the respect of writers and singers throughout the industry.

Prine could use words in an incredibly clever fashion, and he had a whimsical sense of humor. If you need a reason to smile today—and we all do—listen to Jesus: The Missing Years, Let’s Talk Dirty in Hawaiian, In Spite of Ourselves, The Other Side of Town, or Dear Abby. He was also a great performer, especially when he was young. Almost every time I saw Steve Goodman, John Prine would show up and do a couple of songs with him, and vice versa. They clearly had a ball performing together, and the enthusiasm was contagious. When I finally sang on the tiny stage at the Earl of Old Town, where both Goodman and Prine got their start, I felt as if I were in some sort of holy shrine. I got chills, and, as I often did, I forgot the lyrics to my own songs.

In 1975, for his Common Sense album, Prine wrote a song about his dad in which he said, “He was in heaven before he died.” I think the sentiment applies here as well. I once heard him talk about singing at an annual family reunion in Kentucky, where his parents were from. He said, “I always have to play the song Paradise about a thousand times; if I only play it nine-hundred times, they think I’m getting a big head.”

Still, I’d love to hear it one more time, John.

Take a Hike

On Wednesday of this week, I filled my gas tank. That may not sound like a big deal to you, but I last put gas in my car in November, over four months ago. That was good gas, though. It must have been, because it was that high-priced, $2.54 a gallon stuff. This time, I filled up with that cheap, $1.79 gas, so I’m sure it won’t last as long. This morning I read that gas is under a dollar a gallon in some places in Minnesota. I don’t want any part of that crappy petroleum, though. It might ruin my car. While I was at the gas station, I took my car through the car wash. When you are as proud of your vehicle as I am of my 15-year-old Ford Focus, you try to keep it looking good. So I wash it every other year, whether it needs it or not.

Like many other people, I have been trying to find ways to stay busy during this period of enforced captivity. More than anything else, I have used the time to write every day. My friend Bruce recently read a draft of my first novel, Forest Primeval, and made some excellent suggestions. So I have been working on incorporating those ideas. (I think this is about the 14^th or 15^th draft.)

I’ve also been working on another novel, tentatively called A Million to One, that centers around golf. One sporting event that we watch religiously each year is the Masters, which usually takes place in mid-April. Kathleen and I often put down a small bet on a golfer with relatively long odds. It gives us someone to cheer for, and, with a little luck, we could win four or five hundred dollars for our $20 bet. We have never actually won these bets, mind you, but it gave me the premise for this new book. In this story, a guy bets on a journeyman golfer to win all four major tournaments in the same year. As the golfer catches fire and wins the first few majors, the man with the bet stands to win an enormous amount of money and becomes a national celebrity. The title indicates the odds he received in Vegas for his $100 bet.

As the weather has warmed up, I have also enjoyed going out for a 4-6-mile run or walk each day. The need to go outside is especially powerful up here, where people have been cooped up all winter due to the cold temperatures. When it finally warmed up, the stay-at-home orders kicked in. Because of that, I thought that the Kinnickinnic State Park would be crowded with hikers when I went there earlier this week.

The park is less than 10 miles from my home, and it covers the last mile of the Kinnickinnic River before it empties into the St. Croix River. This was my first trip to the park, and I thoroughly enjoyed it on a warm and sunny day. To my surprise, I did not encounter anyone else, except for a group of the fattest wild turkeys I’ve ever seen. I politely gave them the right-of-way. The trails are mostly grass covered, although some them still had sections of ice or snow or were muddy from the recent melt-off. I covered six miles on meandering trails, and it was a great opportunity to allow my mind to wander and ponder the possibilities presented by the little river that runs through River Falls. If I were so inclined, I could build a crude raft, Huck Finn style. I could put it in the water of the Kinnickinnic downtown, just past the dam and falls that give the town its name. Then I could let the current carry me, theoretically at least, down to the St. Croix, which feeds into the Mississippi a short distance from here. From that confluence, I could float past St. Louis, Memphis, and New Orleans, into the Gulf of Mexico. At that point, a person would become part of the great waters that make up the oceans and seas of the world. You could sail to Japan, Africa, Europe, or India. The very thought makes the imagination soar.

With no actual Masters tournament to watch this year, I have found it to be somewhat cathartic—and a whole lot of fun—to at least be able to write about a fictional golfer. Similarly, while being locked up at home most of the day, my mind is kept alive by thoughts of travelling to distant parts of the world where I have never been. An American cyclist named Jamie Paolinetti once said that “Limitations live only in our minds. But if we use our imaginations, our possibilities become limitless.”

We may all have to remember that over the next few months.

Coping with a Pandemic

A week ago, we drove home from Florida in somewhat strange circumstances. Our plans had changed dramatically since we first embarked on an extended vacation. Our planned stop at a casino in Mississippi was cancelled due to the closing of all casinos. Everywhere we stopped for food, we were told we could carry food out, but not sit down in the dining room. In Huntsville, our plans for two days of basketball excess during the NCAA Tournament with Kristin and Kevin transformed into card games at home, since there was no tournament. Our anticipation of the opening of baseball season was cut short abruptly.

Perhaps the most surreal moment came in Illinois when we were staying in a hotel. We stopped in a local Walmart near the hotel to pick up a few things, and it was like the circus had come to town. We had been pretty isolated for two weeks and had avoided all crowds, but this place was jammed. Some had masks on, while others had grubby T-shirts pulled up over their mouths (Yeah, that will help). I saw several Amish people shopping there, for TVs and I-Phones, I presume. People waited in line with carts full of toilet paper. In the parking lot as we headed out to our car, we saw a man with a surgical mask. That’s fine, except that his mask was pulled down to his chin, and he had a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. At least his chin was protected.

We have been pressed into extra duty taking care of the grandkids while Ben and Amber, both doctors, work at the clinic. We worry about them and what could happen if they are exposed to the virus repeatedly. They are being extremely cautious, however, and have not yet had to deal with any cases of Covid-19. The weather has warmed up, and the last of the snow finally melted away, so I have been taking the kids on hikes through the woods that border the golf course near us. We have collected bags full of lost golf balls and recyclable trash that we have found. We also taught them how to play Hearts and Spades, and they are getting pretty good. Lucas, the six-year-old, can’t read yet, and he can’t fan out 13 cards in his tiny hands, but he sure knows how to make an accurate bid on a Spades hand. This week was actually their spring break, so we have let them relax and play most of the time. Next week, though, our classes begin. I hope they are ready for AP-level history classes and some intense PE workouts. Their other grandparents just returned from a cruise, so Amber has had them in quarantine for two weeks. They will finally get to see the kids on Sunday.

The number of people that have lost their jobs nationally is staggering. Something like 3.3 million new jobless claims were filed last week, six times the old one-week record from 1982. You can’t imagine what a gut-punch that is for individuals and families that have done everything right, but now have to wonder what they will do in the future. I distinctly remember the 1982 event, because I was laid off from my factory job. That economic slump was what economists call the “Reagan Recession” when drastic cutbacks in government spending caused many businesses to shut down or reduce their workforces. I remember that Monday morning after the layoffs, waiting in a long line at the unemployment office with my dad and my brother, Dan. Dan and I were young and single, we lived together, and we figured we’d get by. But my dad was in his mid-fifties, with an 8^th-grade education, few skills, and with several children still living at home. As we waited in the cold, I looked at his face and saw fear there for the only time in my life. I recall that look today and imagine it on 3.3 million faces.

Yesterday morning, it was in the forties and sunny, so I took a long walk down the river and along Main Street. I didn’t encounter a single other walker, biker, or jogger, despite the magnificent weather. Downtown was deserted, with all restaurants forced convert to carry-out business in order to stay alive. I recently saw an interview with a guy who hosts one of those cooking shows on TV. He predicted that 75% of all independent restaurants will never re-open, explaining that most of those businesses barely survive in the best of times. If he is right, all of those jobs associated with small businesses will also disappear. Those thoughts ran through my head as I walked past a restaurant called the Copper Kettle near the university. We had eaten there once and found it to be a warm, friendly, family sort of place. As I wondered if they’d be able to weather this storm, I noticed the marquee above the door and got chills. It said, “Building for Sale” with a phone number. It has already started. If you read any of my early blogs, you know that I have been completely charmed by this wonderful little town. One of its most attractive features is that small, family-owned businesses have thrived here, while few corporate entities operate in town. I am saddened as I wonder how long that situation will continue and what that might mean for the character of this terrific place.

As a feeling of disbelief and helplessness enters each of my virus-related conversations with Kathleen, we ask ourselves what we can do. All I can suggest is do something. If you can, donate money to some local charity. We have sent a check to our food bank in town. They normally accept non-perishable food items, but because of fears about the virus, they are requesting money instead. Support a local business. We have decided that at least twice a week, we will order take-out from a local restaurant. This will be a little inconvenient, and it will cost more than cooking our own meals, but, if enough people do this, it might help other businesses from going the way of the Copper Kettle. Reach out to your elderly neighbors who might be afraid to venture into stores. They might need supplies of food, and you can make a shopping run for them. These are small things, but this is the time for us to help each other. Please use the comments space if you have further suggestions on what we can do to help.

Finally, stay safe and take care of your families. Conversations with Ben and Amber have impressed upon me the danger of this thing. Listen to the actual scientists such as Dr. Fauci and the doctors and nurses on television. Our President, who is primarily interested in posturing and boasting about his imaginary achievements, has actually made things worse by denying the truth and giving statements that are dangerously misleading at best, outright lies at worst. Practice social distancing, hand-washing, and all of those other things that seemed so silly a few weeks ago. We’ll get through this crisis, but we’ll have to lean on each other in order to do so.

Watering Holes

Since we left Wisconsin, the coronavirus situation took a bad turn in a hurry. We were lucky enough to attend a spring-training baseball game (Cardinals vs. Red Sox) in Fort Myers just before all such games were cancelled. Also our plans to watch the SEC basketball tournament here, and the NCAA tourney in Huntsville with Kristin and Kevin came to a screeching halt as those events were called off. Suddenly we were scrambling for things to do on this trip. We also wanted to avoid crowds, as everyone was warning us to “socially distance” ourselves. I had never before heard the term used as a verb, but we tend to stay to ourselves anyway. Kathleen said it best when she commented, “We practice social distancing as a lifestyle.” With our life savings having disappeared over the past week, I also thought that this might be our last vacation for a while. The first thing that occurred to me was that we could explore the various bars, pubs, and restaurants in the area, and I could call it “research.” After all, no academic worth his salt would go on a two-week vacation without including at least one research component. So, I decided that we would study the bars in and around this resort town.

The first thing we noticed was that there was no shortage of such places around here. So many bars and so little time! We arrived in Punta Gorda on Monday afternoon hungry and in need of a late lunch. Our wonderful hostess sent us a set of instructions for the house, but also included some recommendations for eating and drinking establishments. When we saw an Irish pub on her list, we headed for the Celtic Ray in the downtown area. They had a clever t-shirt that read, “Authentic Irish Pubs in Punta Gorda,” with nine boxes for the names of such pubs. One read Celtic Ray—the rest were blank. We had a couple of Irish beers and ate some fish and chips in the outdoor garden. That started a pattern for us, and we wound up eating outdoors in nearly every place at which we stopped. I have decided that eating al fresco is one of life’s great pleasures, weather permitting, and this area offers plenty of opportunities for such activities.

As you might guess, many of the places around here are built around nautical, fishing, or pirate themes. The Blue Turtle, Harpoon Harry’s, TT’s Tiki Bar, Nav-A-Gator, Hurricane Charlie’s, the Portside Tavern, Manatee Pizza, and the Low-Key Tiki, are just a few examples of food and drink establishments in the area. One place that specialized in craft beers is called the Belgian Monk and used the slogan, “Beer, Food, and Absolution.” I like that idea. Another one I enjoyed is called Shorty’s Place. It was definitely a dive and had the feel of a biker bar, complete with a gravel parking lot, despite being located in the upscale, downtown area of the city. I was attracted by the sign out front which read, “Today’s Special: Drinking Lessons.” The food and drinks were cheaper there than most places, but I think I liked it more than Kathleen did. Too many guys at the bar reminded her of my brother Gary.

Many of these bars had live music, and I was struck by the number “Tribute Bands” listed in the local papers. Some of these bands covered songs from the usual suspects, Elvis, the Beatles, Jimmy Buffett, and the Rolling Stones. Other bands surprised me, though, such as those featuring performers imitating the Eagles, Linda Ronstadt, John Denver, and even Simon and Garfunkle. After observing the age of the people we saw in the restaurants, I guess the bar owners know their clientele. It is also telling that many of these places close at nine or ten o’clock.

As we checked out these watering holes, we kind of used a sliding scale of who we knew that would enjoy that particular place. On one end of the scale was our son, Ben, and his wife, Amber. They are the youngest people on the scale, but also the most sedate. They are both doctors and rarely have more than one drink in an evening. The places they would enjoy would score well on the respectability spectrum. The Blue Turtle would definitely appeal to them—even the slightly disturbing purple mashed potatoes. Near the other end of the scale are our daughter, Kristin, and her husband, Kevin. Let’s just say that they like a good time. A bar that has a pool table or a dart board would rank high on their list. We found such a bar just a few hundred yards from our house as the crow flies. Because of the convoluted nature of the rivers, creeks, and canals around here, however, it takes about ten minutes to drive there over a serpentine route. You take a side road off of the Tamiami Trail, and turn left onto a side road off of that side road, then follow it around until the pavement ends at a seedy-looking marina. There you will find the Alligator Creek Bar and Grill. It is a friendly place with daily food specials, cheap margaritas at all times, and half-priced beer, wine, and cocktails from 5:00 on. The last time we went there, we met the owner at a table doing the books, his wife behind the bar serving drinks, and their daughter waiting on our table. There are only about eight parking spots out front, though, because most of their traffic arrives via boats on Alligator Creek. They just tie up to the pier and have some lunch or get liquored up before continuing on their journey. After eating dinner there, Kathleen and I played darts for an hour. Kristin and Kevin would approve.

At the very far end of our scale are places that my brother, Dan, and his wife, Esther, would enjoy. In his younger days, Dan not only enjoyed a cocktail, but he might also welcome a good brawl to top off the evening. Like all of us, he has mellowed (a little, anyway) as he has aged, but some of my fondest memories involved evenings with him in bars that had a little danger or adventure connected with them. The Dollar Bill Bar on Cabbage Key island practically reeks of adventure. I first came across this place in a scene in one of those fictional books I read on our drive south. The author of the other book I read, Randy Wayne White, frequently pulls his boat up to the dock and enjoys a beer at this bar. In fact, an autographed picture of him rests on the piano. It was easy to get to Cabbage Key. We simply drove south and west for 45 minutes, took a boat from Island Girl Charters to North Captiva Island, and finally, after about an hour on the water, we got dropped off on the dock in front of The Cabbage Key Inn and Restaurant (the official name). Cabbage Key is a beautiful, tropical island with no connection by road or bridge to the mainland. It consists primarily of an inn, several cottages, and the aforementioned restaurant and bar. The island was purchased for $2500 in the 1920s and the quaint inn was built as a second home by the family of author Mary Roberts Rineholt (sort of the American version of Agatha Christie). When we arrived, we first took a short walk on the nature trail. Kathleen made it past the alligator warning signs, but the pictures of native snakes did her in, so we headed to the bar.

The bar is legendary. It is a tiny place, but it spills into the surrounding rooms making the restaurant something of a labyrinth that goes in all directions. The story goes that a local fisherman came in one day after an unusually successful catch. He was flush with money at the moment, but he taped a couple of dollar bills with his name on them to the wall. He said he knew he would run through his money quickly, and he wanted to leave a buck or two so he could still get a beer during the inevitable lean times. A tradition and a new nickname for the saloon were born that day. Today, amidst the mounted fish, faded photos, and other odd paraphernalia decorating the walls, are decades’ worth of signed dollar bills left by visitors. It is estimated that there are 75,000 of them. As the tape wears out and the bills fall to the floor, they are collected and donated to a nearby children’s charity. They give about $14,000 a year to the charity in this way. Among the celebrities who have bent an elbow at this famous bar are Ernest Hemingway, Katherine Hepburn, Jimmy Buffett, Kevin Costner, Ted Koppel, and Julia Roberts.

We were among the first people in the bar at about 10:45, and we moved into the restaurant for lunch a short time later for the first sitting. I ordered a cheeseburger just so I could say I had eaten a cheeseburger in paradise. By the time we finished our burgers and key lime pie, however, every seat was filled, a line stretched out the door and down the hill, and the dock was a chaotic mess with dozens of boats and yachts jockeying for the few spaces available to tie up. Apparently, lunch is a big deal on Cabbage Key, and this sleepy little island turns into a boating Mecca for several hours a day on weekends. It is overrun with tourists and boaters for a while, but by evening, it transforms back into an idyllic island paradise without most of the trappings of the modern world. The trip to Cabbage Key was expensive and relatively lengthy, but it was also fascinating, and I’m glad we took the trouble to go.

Well, I have to stop this prolonged research report: happy hour at Alligator Creek begins in a few minutes.