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All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print
=====================================================================
May 1994 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 3, Issue 3
_____________________________________________________________________
Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
Managing Editor: Formletter McKinley
Associate Editor: Throatwarbler Mangrove
Production Manager: Quinn Martin
Circulation Manager: Dr. Margaret Bean-Bayog
Weapons Consultant: Michael Fay
Drug Tsar: Lou's "Man"
Spiritual Consultant: Massasoit
Bamboo Advisor: Lee Kwan Yoo, Prime Minister Emeritus
Motivational Consultant: Danny Gibbons, Speak, Inc.
Editorial Offices: The Harold Herald
30 Deering St.
Portland, ME 04101
Satellite Office: c/o Golf Course News
38 Lafayette St.
P.O. Box 997
Yarmouth, ME 04096
ARCHIVE SITES:
world.std.com (obi/Zines/Harold.Herald)
fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
Subscription requests to drose@husc.harvard.edu
Submissions welcome
JACKIE AND DICKIE: DEAD.
BY HAL PHILLIPS
Since the Herald last graced your mailbox <20> electronic or traditional
<EFBFBD> the inexorable march of time has laid at our feet the deaths of
Richard M. Nixon and Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis, the rebirth
of Karl Spangler, and a worldwide dirge for those who laid down their
lives as part of the greatest amphibious invasion in the history of
human endeavor. It would be damned irresponsible to allow the passing
of such hallowed events without comment.
* Did you take note of the words used to describe both Audrey Hepburn
and Jackie O? Virtually identical: Grace. Dignity. Class.
Determination. Elegance. Throw in the soft, breathy voice and you've
got a couple of dead mythological ringers. However, I think we
probably knew more about Hepburn than the former First Lady. The more
one read about Jackie in retrospect, the more it became clear that no
one knew a damn thing about her. She never spoke to the press. She
refused to write her memoirs (and who would believe them?). The
families Kennedy and Onassis aren't talking and Theodore White <20>
coiner of "Camelot," whose late-1963 puff piece in Life magazine did
as much to define her as anything else <20> admits he hardly knew her.
And yet feelings for her ran so deep, especially among American women.
When I was a kid, I thought Jackie Kennedy and Jackie O were two
different people; one the mourning wife of the dead president who,
despite her grief, stood so erect <20> far more erect than anyone else
could have; the other Jackie a risqu<71>, jetsetting widow who defied
convention, worked in New York City, even married for money <20> capers
many American women perhaps wished they could pull off.
Jackie was a sort of community canvas for distaff America, a pop icon
of whom women could expect the world, a figure to whom women could
ascribe any and all positive traits <20> traits they wished they had.
There was Jackie, The Good Wife: "She was so strong, so dignified <20>
when her whole world had been shattered... She never cried in public,
not once... She bore her grief and the nation's grief with such
dignity."
There was Tabloid Jackie: "She didn't care how a president's widow was
supposed to behave... She remarried. She went back to work... She
didn't care what the Kennedys thought."
Women remember Jackie both ways. However, these now familiar refrains
better explain Jackie's impact if you include the oft-omitted, almost
subliminal tag line: "I could never do that."
* I'll leave the more heartfelt recollections of Tricky Dick to Mark
Sullivan (see page x), but I can't let him go without asking one
question: Respect for the dead and all, but didn't the national media
go a bit easy on Nixon? I mean, he was definitely the Comeback Kid <20>
but if you don't fuck up every 10 years, you don't need to come back.
He ran the dirtiest Congressional campaign of the century, red-baiting
and ultimately defeating Helen Gahagan Douglas in 1948. He "came back"
from that shameful episode by sitting at Joe McCarthy's side during
House Un-American Activities hearings. He "came back" from that
shameful episode by losing two elections, then appearing on Laugh In.
He "came back" from that unfortunate incident by sabotaging the
respective careers of Edmund Muskie and Alan Eagleton. He "came back"
from that disgraceful scenario by trying to ruin George McGovern,
whose campaign didn't require sabotage, but that's paranoia for you.
Nixon "came back" from the Watergate scandal by walking on the beach
(in wingtips!) for 15 years, waiting for people to forget what a CREEP
he was.
Never forget. We must never forget.
* What do respected historical scholar Steven Ambrose and the
Energizer Bunny have in common? They're both on TV so much, you dream
of clubbing them both to death with a hard-cover version of Six
Crises.
First, Ambrose publishes his multi-volume biography of Nixon, who
promptly dies. Bingo! The talk shows can't get enough and book sales
go through the roof. Okay, this was good fortune... But believe me, it
was no accident he finished his "D-Day" book in time for the recent
50th anniversary celebration.
It is the author's apologist depiction of Eisenhower, however, that
really steams me. He talks of Ike, the soldier's soldier who hated
politics, even the politics of leadership. During the North African
campaign, Ambrose writes, Ike noticed his personal demeanor had a
monumental effect on his men. A continuously smiling, upbeat commander
tangibly lifted the spirits of his troops, Ike observed.
Eisenhower deplored this superficiality, writes Ambrose, but he smiled
anyway <20> every minute of every day for the next 18 years! Ike hated
politics so much, he decided to run for president. He hated politics
so much, he chose not to defend George Marshall <20> the man who made
Ike's career<65> against the drunken, self-serving rants of Joe McCarthy.
Don't want to anger a fellow Republican, now do we Ike <20> especially
one of such high moral character.
* Enterprise boys Jim O'Reilly, John Lamontagne and Sullivan made
their way to Maine early in June, when we took in a Sea Dogs game,
debauched ourselves and reminisced at length about our miserable
Marlboro days, which we've somehow managed to romanticize. Former
colleague Jack Spillane, "whose speech was overrun with stutters,
spittle and flapping limbs, like a rooster surrounded by an arena of
cigar-smoking Dominicans," was also remembered fondly.
However, some common good did come of the weekend. A beer shortage the
evening of June 3 spawned a new drink, the Karl Spangler. Named for
Bill Murray's character in Caddyshack, the Spangler is equal parts gin
and Fresca, with a splash of cranberry juice for color. The cranberry
portion sinks to the bottom, giving the cloudy, colloidal libation a
comely, two-toned effect. Be forewarned, however: The Spangler packs a
mighty punch and tastes like shit.
***
SHIT; I'M OLD.
BY DR. DAVID M. ROSE, PH.D.
Envision, if you will, a pleasant July morning in the year of your
particular Lord 2047. The sun rises, fat and orange, over streets
still damp from a late night thunderstorm, and people sweat and curse
and fight their way into Boston as the Thursday commute begins. In the
city, a scholarly old man, dignified in spectacles, sideburns, and
black high-topped Converse All-Stars, begins his morning
constitutional. Walking three ancient, nearly hobbled cats (two
orange, one snow white), the man leaves his spacious, domed apartment
in the old Christian Science complex, and heads up Massachusetts
Avenue, seeking a cinnamon raisin bagel and a large decaf, black. He
passes the Berklee University of Music and Hair Design, and crosses
Boylston Street. At the Tower Communications Complex, he glances, by
chance, at a poster advertising the new Madonna release, "Justify My
Cervix." Overwhelmed by the clinical and considerably wrinkled nature
of the album's cover art, he falls to his knees, vomits copiously, and
collapses on the sidewalk. A passing beat policeman makes a rather
queasy attempt at resuscitation, but it is no use: the man is dead.
The details are the product of poetic license, but the date of my
demise, Thursday, July 18, 2047, is a cold, hard fact, divined by a
simple computer program that came with our new Macintosh. The computer
asks a few simple questions, consults some actuarial tables, performs
it's grim calculus, and issues its pronouncement: "You can expect to
live until you are 83." This I can deal with; 83 sounds like a fairly
ripe age, and anyway, I have no intention of expiring before I see one
hundred. It is the computer's second line that is harder to swallow:
"Additional years: 53." You can do the math yourself; on July 18th, at
10:46 AM, I turn 30.
First, let me state clearly and somewhat defensively that I am not
obsessed with my age. I do not spend my spare time yanking gray hairs,
interviewing prospective plastic surgeons, or applying Oil of Olay. In
fact, despite what my wife (who is 32 and almost entirely
unsympathetic) will tell you, I give the matter very little thought. I
have never been squeamish about celebrating my birthday, and I
traditionally have very little patience with people who are. The
approach of an age evenly divisible by 10, however, has prompted me to
give the matter more thought, and I must admit that I am less than
pleased over the prospect of entering my fourth decade.
Being thirty years old does not bother me at all. I don't feel old. I
am in better physical condition than I was at 20, my ears and nose are
characterized by a hairlessness that can only be described as boyish,
and I live a life that is remarkably <20> some would say appallingly <20>
like that of a college student. To be sure, there are periodic
reminders that, in some respects, the world has left me behind. For
example, I will never accept the utility of the cellular phone, and I
can be heard to mutter (in a distinctly codger-esque fashion) "get off
the phone and drive your fucking car" whenever I see a self-important
public nuisance with more money than sense conducting a conversation
of undoubtedly earth-shattering significance and, just incidentally,
careening down a public thoroughfare crushing small children. I
categorically disavow any Sesame Street character introduced after The
Count (who the fuck is Elmo?), and likewise will go to my grave firm
in the conviction that authentic Lucky Charms contain only red hearts,
yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers. But these are small
matters; that the quality of life on earth should be slowly eroded by
the inexorable tide of idiots that comprises the human race is only
natural.
More troubling to me is the prospect of being thirty years closer to
death than I was when I entered the world. Whether I live to 83 or 103
makes little difference; the fact is that I have lived about a third
of my life. In other words, I get to live the amount of time I have
already lived two more times, and then the Big Sleep. An atheist of
long standing, I harbor no romantic notions about death. I don't
believe in an afterlife, and in the unlikely event that I do meet St.
Peter one day, I would probably reject his offer of life everlasting
out of spite rather than admit that I was wrong. In short, what I have
to look forward to is unrelieved boredom and a certain amount of
decomposition; neither fills me with glee. The problem is compounded
by my observation that as I have aged, time has accelerated. While
1974 is a dim memory, I remember 1984 like it was yesterday, and by
extrapolation I can predict that 2044 will be here in a matter of
minutes. That will leave me only three years to get my affairs in
order.
The great danger, of course, is that I will fritter away my remaining
years with exactly this kind of gloomy introspection. What good are
even 60 paltry years if I spend them wringing my hands and calculating
how many 4th of July fireworks displays I have left or how many more
chances the Red Sox have to win the World Series? Better to forget the
whole matter, enjoy a piece of birthday cake, and look on the bright
side: no matter what, I'm almost certain to outlive my Macintosh.
***
A DICKHEAD REMEMBERED
By MARK SULLIVAN
Dave was in a triumphant mood when he stopped by my dorm room one
night early in the fall of my sophomore year at Boston University. He
was quaffing mightily from his favorite mug, a prep-school tankard
emblazoned with a Pegasus-like winged beaver, and was pickled to his
sizable gills.
I have a picture in my mind's eye of Dave as he looked that night: The
jumbo build, characteristically clothed in club tie and seersucker
that gave him the look of giant Ivy League Good Humor man, but this
night wrapped in a too-small blue dressing gown; the large head,
topped by an outsized Boys' Regular haircut <20> part Kemp, part Koppel,
crowned by an ungovernable cowlick; the Mr. Limpet-like fish-lips and
spectacles, the latter worn for chronic nearsightedness and leading
him a resemblance to Piggy, the precocious but doomed overweight boy
in the film, Lord of the Flies.
Dave had brought his transcript of President Richard Nixon's
resignation speech, which he proceeded to read in his best Milhousian
timbre. When he came to the end of a page, Dave would toss it with a
flourish over his shoulder, the sheets fluttering through the air and
landing between my bed frame and the wall.
As he approached the end, he summoned all the stage poignancy he could
muster: "Uhh, this is, ehr, not goodbye," he read in choked, Checkers-
speech tones, building to the farewell line in fractured Nixonian
French: "This is, uhh, ehr, au-rev-oyeur."
There were tears in his eyes.
I thought of Dave recently when news came of Richard Nixon's death.
David idolized Nixon, or, as he called him, "the, euhr, Pray-sident."
In conversation, Dave would often lapse into his Nixon voice, which
was similar to the Nixon impersonation Dan Ackroyd did on Saturday
Night Live. The Nixon voice was always preceded and intermittently
punctuated by a distinctive low "euhrr" from the back of the throat,
as in, "Euhrr, get down on you knees and, euhr, pray with me, Henry."
The delivery was always accompanied by a dismissive, two-digit wave of
his index and middle fingers.
Dave Kept about him trappings of his hero. On the large Papal flag
that hung on his dorm-room wall were pinned various "Nixon's The One"
campaign buttons. He liked to compose memos, which he would initial
"RN." Opposed to the Kennedys on principle, he liked to play a 1960s
novelty recording of the Troggs' Wild Thing sung by a comic
impersonating Bobby Kennedy.
Dave had Praetorian Guard leanings: He once assigned himself the job
of advance man to a student-union candidate, preceding his man into
the auditorium and giving the audience the "Up, up" gesture,
proclaiming, "All rise! All rise for the Pray-sident!"
As a character, Dave was, in a word, preposterous.
He came from a Pennsylvania industrial town on Lake Erie where his
family was in the tire business, and from which Dave, given his
predilections, had happily escaped none too soon. He endured a
checkered career in private school and ended up at Avon Old Farms, in
Connecticut, which had been the prep school of last resort.
He weighed in at a good 250 and was given to blazers and oxford-cloth
buttondowns of commodious cut, wide-wale corduroys, Norwegian
fisherman sweaters, L.L. Bean duck loungers, which were tested by his
wide, almost Flintstonian feet. In appearance, he suggested a cross
between convicted Nixon aide Chuck Colson and Tweedledee.
Dave disliked the light and kept the shades in his room perpetually
drawn, leaving his complexion continually pasty. He was ticklish and
did not like to be touched. He chain smoked non-filtered Camels,
several packs a day. The butts in his unemptied ashtrays were piled
like Mayan pyramids, and his fingers were dyed yellow from the
nicotine. He would rise some mornings at 6:30 and immediately begin
drinking straight sloe-gin from his 28-ounce Avon Old Farms mug, the
flying beaver on which was named Amy.
Dave's romantic orientation was a matter of conjecture. Some thought
him to be asexual. He became obsessed with one friend, John, an easy-
going preppie from Wisconsin who sailed boats. Dave referred to John
as "the Pray-sident" and kept an hour-by-hour itinerary of John's
classes, which Dave carried about in a case he called "the political
football." John and his roommates gave Dave a key to their dorm suite,
which Dave would clean and vacuum.
Dave was put out when John took up with Lacey, a coquette who looked
like one of the Sagal twins in the Doublemint ads, who wore lipstick
and earrings in the boat when she coxed the women's crew at Henley,
and who interned one summer for Sen. Packwood. Dave thoroughly
disapproved of Lacey whom he dismissed as a "hussy."
***
In the fall of 1980, when he was a freshman, Dave engineered a
monumental prank on a hapless, pear-shaped junior named Bob, who had
been the butt of numerous practical jokes when he lived on my floor
the previous year. Dave telephoned a Bob, representing himself as an
aide to President Carter, and convinced a credulous Bob the president
wanted to interview him for a campaign radio spot featuring comments
from the college students across America. Dave then segued to his
Carter impersonation, taking in a flummoxed Bob hook, line and sinker.
In a follow-up call to the campus newspaper, Dave, once again
pretending to be a Carter aide, convinced the editor that a BU student
had been called by the president. The paper, swallowing it, ran a
story and photo of Bob on the front page in the next morning's
edition. A happy Bob waddled up and down campus the next day, stacks
of papers under his arm, handing out copies.
Dave was gleeful after he pulled off the hoax, arguably his greatest
college triumph. In Nixonian fashion, he kept tapes of the calls,
which had recorded off a phone jack.
Dave could be lavish in his attention to friends. For Ronald Reagan's
1981 inaugural, Dave hosted a midday champagne reception in a study
lounge he'd commandeered and papered with college Republican posters.
He once presented me with a carton of Sullivans, imported British
cigarettes, he had purchased on a whim after spying the label. He
behaved like a fat cat lobbyist in the way he dispensed gifts and
favors; but rather than buying votes, he was trying, it seemed, to
insure friendship.
Dave expected, in return for his hospitality, to be paid proper court,
as might be extended a Henry Adams-style host of a society salon.
Perhaps I did not continue to pay him the appropriate attention, for
in my last term at college, Dave began to cut me on the street. I
never discovered what slight, real or perceived, I had committed to
end up on the Enemies List.
I wonder where Dave is today.
Watching the Nixon funeral on C-Span, I scanned the faces in the
crowd of mourners. G. Gordon Liddy was there, and Spiro Agnew, and
Chuck Colson. There was no sign of Dave.
I picture him in Pennsylvania, unwilling heir to a tire company, a
hunched figure walking the shore of Lake Erie alone, like his hero, in
wingtips.
***
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR....
Dear Mr. Phillips,
I received last month's copy of your quaint publication dubbed The
Harold Herald. Whereas many of the articles were simply too
complicated for my limited intellect, a letter written by David Kett
and your response thereto brought back sufficient repressed childhood
memories to warrant this brief missive.
In Mr. Kett's Letter ("Kettle, from nowhere!"), he laments the fact
that he was referred to as "Captain Dum-Dum." In your response, you
raise the issue that Mr. Kett has always been a "magnet for
nicknames..."
While I commend you on your astute observation that Mr. Kett has
received several nicknames, the fact there was no mention of my past
tradition of nicknames belies your nescience of what must be a world's
record.
A brief review of my name and its history is instructive:
<EFBFBD> 4/20/67: Don Korn, the first pop Korn and oblivious to the taunting
I would later receive, brandished the name on his middle child, David.
<EFBFBD> 4/21/67: Sister Lyndalee Korn incorrectly pronounces David's first
name, for the rest of his life, as Dafid.
<EFBFBD> 4th Grade: Brother Jason Korn begins to call me Rice Head. Little
did he know he was foreshadowing what was eventually to become a
neighborhood obsession with my head.
<EFBFBD> 5th Grade: School bus kids called me Korny Snaps in recognition of
the new cereal (this nickname was later condensed and streamlined to
Snappos by Greg Batista).
<EFBFBD> 6th Grade: First time away at summer camp. Dubbed Bubbles after
candidly disclosing a dream I had the first night.
<EFBFBD> 8th Grade: Betsy Gannon dubs me Horny Korny and ruins my political
career before it began.
<EFBFBD> 9th Grade: In an apparently uncreative year, Korny and Cornball <20>
staples in my life <20> are hits.
<EFBFBD> 10th Grade: At Exeter, I am referred to as The Ball, a nickname
which one of my subsequent girlfriends founded her entire philosophy
of life upon.
<EFBFBD> 11th Grade: Unsuccessful on Wellesley High soccer team, the younger
players <20> I'm sure out of respect <20> called me by my initials, D.K.
Incidentally, Coach Loyder (sic) refers to me as "that perverted Korn
guy."
<EFBFBD> 11th Grade (summer): Henge. Greg Batista having little to do,
apparently thought Snappos was not a good enough nickname. Harking
back to the original Corny Snaps, he made the following metamorphosis:
Corny Snaps <20> Cornwall <20> Stone Wall <20> Stone Henge <20> and finally, just
Henge.
<EFBFBD> 11th Grade (winter): In what has certainly become and all-time
favorite, the origins of Cone. David Batista, noticing there was
something unique about the shape of my head, or perhaps the odd
quantity and thickness of my hair, was watching Saturday Night Live
when he had this brilliant brainstorm. Andy Eichorn, apparently not
satisfied with Cone, transformed it to Captain Cone, perhaps
mistakenly confusing me with David Kett, a.k.a. Captain Kool.
<EFBFBD> 12th Grade: Summer league basketball team members refer to me as
Chex (apparently, another cereal derivative).
<EFBFBD> College: Korn Dog, a tasty treat during Mardi Gras, is born. In line
with the standard evolution of my nicknames, this was later shortened
to just Dog by Brady Mutrie.
As you can see, nicknames stick to me like jism (sic) on your hand. Of
course, the foregoing list is non-exclusive. However, a complete list
of all my lesser nicknames <20> i.e., Kornacopia, Korndorpons, Korncob,
etc... <20> have all played important roles in my personal development.
I hope your readers can appreciate the effect of all these nicknames
on my psyche. I know many of you, like myself, often pass the days
away wondering who we would be and what we would be doing if we were
born with a different name. I often muse: Would I play the violin?
Would I still have a certain naivet<65>? Would I even care if the
Twilight Zone really existed?
Perhaps your readers can answer these difficult questions.
Sincerely,
David Korn, Esq.
New Orleans
Ed. Hats off to Mr. Korn's young camping compatriots for insight
beyond their years. Had I been there, huddled around the same
campfire, I might have suggested Creamed Korn. Though judging from his
off-handed use and unorthodox spelling of ejaculatory secretions, I'm
sure it's already been coined. It's been my experience that monikers
like those printed above usually stick to those with a substantial
levels of flamboyance. Readers unfamiliar with the letter's author
might wonder whether this holds true for Mr. Korn... Let me assure
you: You have no idea.
***
THE WORLD CUP: GRIN AND BEAR IT
BY HAL PHILLIPS
American soccer cynics hunkered down late in June, preparing for the
worst following the United States' 2-1, breakthrough victory over
mighty Columbia in the World Cup's opening round. In response to their
own incessant, oddly defensive attacks on the world's most popular
sport, the bashers no doubt expected a veritable flood of rejoinders
along the lines of "I told you so," or "Who's laughing now?"
However, these would be reciprocal responses, and I don't believe
they're forthcoming. Contrary to popular belief, America's soccer-
loving population has never taken a proselytory stance. No one has
ever asserted the American public is somehow remiss in its ambivalence
toward soccer. Fans of the game are merely looking for the respect
accorded golf or tennis.
Unfortunately, soccer lovers have too often been forced to defend
their sport in the face of needlessly snide assertions from various
sportswriters and television personalities who feel a patriotic duty
to stick up for "American" sports by demeaning soccer. I've actually
heard soccer derided for its refusal to interrupt play for
commercials.
"How are your supposed to televise it?" the naysayers squawk. "How un-
American!"
This arrogance towards soccer <20> a thinly veiled xenophobia for a game
that can't possibly be globally popular because we're not dominant in
it <20> is the sort of attitude we usually reserve for the British,
French and classical Romans. It's an arrogance we associate with any
culture which experienced a golden age, became full of itself, then
circled the cultural wagons in an attempt to prolong its own delusions
of grandeur. Ultimately, these solipsistic saps watched in decadent
impotence as invading hordes raped and pillaged all they had built.
Koros. Hubris. Ate. Nemesis.
Do you want that for America?
Soccer fans here in the states are thin-skinned, to be sure. Yet it's
impossible to separate the insecurity of America's soccer population
and the xenophobia of traditional U.S. fans, particularly those
baseball and football.
Because it's America's National Pastime, baseball's legion supporters
feel an obligation to trash potential interlopers, even U.S.
basketball and football in recent years. The idea that soccer <20> a
foreign activity practiced by greasy peasants in third-word nations <20>
should supersede coverage of a single Marlins-Padres game is downright
unpatriotic and grounds for deportation.
Football fans are particularly sensitive because they've seen soccer
eat away at their Pop Warner rosters for the past 20 years. Further,
as a fall sport at most high schools, soccer competes directly with
football for the flower of American youth.
As a soccer player myself <20> one of fairly large, more football-like
proportions <20> I can't tell you how many times I was attacked, my
manhood questioned because I chose to play soccer instead of American
football. It was so petty! One of my favorite missives involved the
inappropriate nature of soccer shorts. "Pussy shorts," they called
them.
When was the last time you heard that about basketball shorts, much
less the tanktops?
Let's face it: American culture is exported 'round the world via
sport, fast-food, designer jeans, movies and television. Hell,
"Baywatch" is the most-watched TV show on the planet!
The least we can do is spare the world soccer community <20> and the
modest one here at home <20> our petulant, whining xenophobia during the
World Cup. It's only polite.
***
PEJORATIVE CORNER
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
BY HAL PHILLIPS
Some wag acquaintance of mine, upon hearing I was headed for
Birmingham in May, suggested the next Herald would probably be limited
to a single six-page rant in Pejorative Corner. Well, I can assure
you, gentle reader, I wouldn't waste six pages on Alabama unless I
happened to be wiping my ass. I wouldn't fritter away so much precious
time and paper product describing a state whose most enduring symbol <20>
aside from the Rebel flag, of course <20> is Bear Bryant's pork pie hat.
Despite its troubled racial history, there's something sort of
mysterious and mythic about Mississippi, Alabama's red-neck neighbor
to the West. Faulkner and Willie Morris have given us the impression
that Mississippi is heroically flawed in the human sense, but Edenic
physically... and Elvis was born there.
Alabama can look to no such literary tradition for its self respect.
There is only 'Bama football, bible-beating radio stations and guys
named Billybob, whose parents chose never to leave the friendly
confines of their home town or family gene pool.
Truth be told, I was impressed by the lush beauty of northern Alabama,
where the Apalachians begin to poke their noses over the horizon. And
the only racist comment I heard during my stay emanated from a
traveling acquaintance of mine, whose Florida pool house had just been
burglared by, he assumed, an African-American to whom he referred
colloquially.
However, the vast majority of Alabama <20> especially points south of
Birmingham <20> is a shithole, peopled by big-bellied dolts in adjusto-
strap caps living in trailers surrounded by the rusted remnants of '73
Le Sabres.
Downtown, American flags fly from every storefront, most of which sit
on dingy Main Streets devoid of charm. In these smaller towns, as
opposed to relatively urbane Birmingham, Yankee accents are met with a
suspicious squint of the eyes and ever-so-slight turn of the head.
"Yawl ain't from around here, ere ya?" a gas station attendant
actually said to me.
Two words: White trash.
***
WISCONSIS WONDERLAND
By HAL PHILLIPS
TOMAHAWK, Wis. <20> It was here, in this north Wisconsin resort town, a
little more than one year ago, that Sharon Vandermay traveled to meet
friends she had made years before in Chicago. This merry band descend
on Tomahawk each Memorial Day to drink tequila, play sports, eat food
and root for the Bulls, who are usually well into the playoffs by late
May.
Twelve months ago, amid much breast-beating on behalf of their beloved
Jordanaires <20> then on their way to a third and, thankfully, last NBA
title <20> Ms. Vandermay consulted her friends on the subject of... me.
Or rather, dating me. Should she or shouldn't she? Because Sharon and
I were still colleagues at United Publications <20> and for good reasons
they probably didn't yet understand <20> their answer was a resounding,
"No!"
Well, one year later, Sharon traveled back to Wisconsin, boyfriend in
tow. She had defied these ill-informed matchmakers who, over Memorial
Day Weekend 1994, would have the last laugh or eat their words.
The jury remains out with regard to that score, but a fine time
appeared to be had by all. Basketball, horseshoes, Wiffle Ball,
boating, fishing and golf. Lobster, burgers, hot dogs, barbecue-smoked
turkey, Cap'n Crunch and Pinwheels.
The weather was ideal and the sporting atmosphere idyllic, the Bulls
having been bounced from the playoffs, felled by a foul band of Gotham
Huns, frothing at the mouth and derailing Chicago's "aesthetically
pleasing" run at a four-peat.
[For the record, never has a city and its fans bitched and moaned so
much about the loss of a playoff series. On our way to Wisconsin, we
arrived at O'Hare four days after the Knicks clinched and the Chicago
Tribune was still brimming with sour grapes: "The Knicks are bullies",
"Phil Jackson should have been Coach of the Year", "Pat Riley has set
basketball back two decades", "Marv Albert favored the Knicks", "The
Knicks play football, not basketball"... It appears the good folks of
Chi-town have forgotten the Pistons and Celtics, both of whom beat the
hell out of their beloved Bulls with more vigor than New York did.]
Despite their misguided hoop hysteria, these practical Midwesterners
have down to a science the business of large Memorial Day gatherings.
<EFBFBD> Over the course of a three-day weekend, everyone was responsible for
kitchen duty <20> cooking or cleaning up <20> only once.
<EFBFBD> Each couple was allotted the privacy of a single bedroom for one
night; the other two being spent in large, camp-style bedrooms with
multiple occupants.
<EFBFBD> All receipts were gathered during the weekend, tallied with the cost
of room, board and beer, then split 18 ways. Turns out the total cost
for three days of decadence was a paltry $75 per person!
The weekend highlight, however, took place the evening of Sunday, June
28, when dinner had ended and tequila shots had begun. Ned the Gimp <20>
he of the broken leg <20> was playing his guitar under the stars, as 17
drunken Midwesterners and me wailed along to songs whose lyrics, for
the most part, were a complete mystery.
Then someone shouted from lake's edge, inciting us to "Come look at
this!"
It was the Northern Lights, aurora borealis <20> and it stopped the party
dead.
Off in the distance, what looked like a gas flame flickered all along
the horizon. Over the course of 40 minutes, it danced further into the
sky until it had refracted completely over our heads, shafts of light
waxing and waning in the north Wisconsin sky...
Hey, a sign is a sign.
copyright 1994 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's
worth