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/_/ /_/\__,_/_/ \____/_/\__,_/ /_/ /_/\___/_/ \__,_/_/\__,_/
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All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print
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Summer 1995 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 4, Issue 3
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_____________________________________________________________________
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Now The Best Self-Published Newsletter
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in New England - Some Guy at the Boston Globe
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(Owens went belly-up)
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Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
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Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
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Lifestyles Editor: C. Everett Koop
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Image Consultant: Colin Powell
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Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
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Eyebrow Editor: Rep. Richard Gephardt
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Production Manager: Quinn Martin
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Weapons Consultant: Randal Weaver
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Spiritual Consultant: John C. Salvi III
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Editorial Offices: The Harold Herald
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30 Deering St.
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Portland, ME 04101
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Satellite Office: c/o Golf Course News
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38 Lafayette St.
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P.O. Box 997
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Yarmouth, ME 04096
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ARCHIVE SITES:
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fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
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etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
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Subscription requests to drose@fas.harvard.edu
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+-------------------------------------------------+
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| TECHNOLOGY BREAKTHROUGH |
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| Direct electronic access to our Editor-in-Chief |
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| is now possible: HPHILLIP@BIDDEFORD.COM |
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+-------------------------------------------------+
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A NOTE FROM OUR EDITOR>>>
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Whatever you do, don't throw this away. The issue of the Harold Herald you now hold in your...uh..screen...marks the publication'=
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s third anniversary. So this particular edition isn't merely a monument to self-promotion. It's also a collector's item.
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Thirty-six months ago I sent out the inaugural issue, primitively copied and pasted on a single, 11- by 17-inch piece of paper, to=
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approximately 20 friends and family members. The first few Heralds were published on these oddly shaped ledgers because they could =
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accommodate more information, and I was convinced the newsletter would thrive in the faxed medium.
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I couldn't have been more wrong. Save our readers in Madras, India and Bangkok, Thailand, no one receives the Herald by fax. Inste=
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ad, it is mailed to 150-odd people and uploaded to 100 more via the Internet. To celebrate this unprecedented growth, in addition to=
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my ever-expanding cult of personality, this month's issue of the Harold Herald includes stories from previous issues, all worthy of=
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reprinting and suitable for framing because, let's face it, I wrote them.
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***
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TIME PASSAGES
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By Hal Phillips
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I have never worn a watch that displayed the day and month. Yet whenever someone asks me the date, I look decisively at the window=
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less watch face strapped to my wrist. Then, somewhat embarrassed, I look away and try to determine, without the aid of mechanical gi=
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zmos, just which day it is. In any case, my father always wore (still wears) a watch that displayed the day and month. That's why =
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I look at my watch for this information, despite the fact that I've never owned a piece that did anything but tell time... Amazing:=
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the power of time, its keeping devices and their hold on the anal-retentive among us. I have a new watch, which is why I've recen=
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tly revisited these little tidbits of time-based nostalgia. Actually, it's not new at all. It's a vintage time piece, given to me by=
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my betrothed this past Valentine's Day. I love my new watch, which was manufactured by a Swiss firm, Benrus (pronounced ben-russ), =
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circa 1950. It requires winding which, as you know, is totally cool in the retro sense. The face is small relative to modern men's w=
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atchwear. Indeed, a quick glance might give one the impression I was wearing a woman's watch.
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Anyway, the excitement generated by this watch - arguably the only piece of jewelry I own - has allowed me to reexamine my pers=
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onal history with time. You've heard of Stephen Hawking's Brief History of Time? Well, this is Hal Phillips' even more abbreviated=
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chronicle of time pieces.
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When I was 10 years old, I decided that life was not worth living if I didn't own a watch. My parents - being parents in general =
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and my parents in particular - knew a watch would remain in my possession about as long as did the bottle rocket launcher I order=
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ed via the back of a Bubble Yum wrapper - that is to say, about a week. So I mowed some lawns, saved the money and purchased a Cara=
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velle from Anderson's Jewelers, shelling out the then-princely sum of $14.95. I remember donning it for the first time. Then I remem=
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ber losing it almost immediately. I remember being really upset for a day, but I don't remember what it looked like, so little an im=
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pression the watch made on me.
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My subsequent disdain for time, especially its instruments of documentation, must stem from this pre-adolescent incident, which sh=
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all heretofore be known as "The Caravelle Affair". For the next 12 years, I saw fit never to wear a watch. In fact, I made a point =
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to look down on those cretinous watch-wearers who moaned with displeasure and pathetically groped their naked wrists after realizing=
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they had left it on the bedside table or dresser, where it ticked away without them. I had a good sense of time, you see. I always =
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knew approximately what time it was. Surely there were clocks all over creation, many in plain view. Indeed, you could barely swing =
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the corpse of John Cameron Swayze without hitting a public time piece.
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For 35 days, when I first backpacked in Europe, I did wear a cheap Timex. When you have to catch a train at 11:17 p.m. in Budapes=
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t, it did one little good to know approximately what time it was. However, when the trip was 24 hours from its close, I removed the =
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stainless steel Timex to wash my face and hands in a London hostel. Two minutes out of the bathroom, I quickly groped my wrist and s=
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ped back to the wash basin. It was gone, but no matter. I felt no loss. Indeed, when I traveled again in Europe the following sprin=
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g, I wore no watch at all.
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It wasn't until I had finished college that time became an obsession. My dad, whose father was a jeweler, bought me a watch for gr=
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aduation: a modest but attractive Seiko, gold and square-faced with a lizard-skin strap .
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I was hooked.
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Maybe it was the leather strap. My father, you see, always wore substantial, stainless steel watches with chain-link bands that fo=
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ld over on themselves and snap shut. Perhaps my other watches never allowed me to rebel enough to truly appreciate them.
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Maybe it was the complication of employment, which tends to make you watch the clock, any clock, as the work day grinds slowly tow=
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ard lunch; then through the afternoon to quittin' time. I don't know when the change came. What's clear is that I've become one of t=
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hose cretinous watch-wearers who simply cannot cope without that time-keeping safety blanket wrapped around my wrist. I even have a =
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back-up watch, a black & silver round-faced number to complement my brown & golf, square-faced Benrus. Life is good.
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***
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DOG HEIR
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By Hal Phillips
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Ah, they grow up so fast, II
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Sharon and I are the proud owners of a furry, husky/black-lab mix interested in chewing things, pooping & pissing indoors, and whi=
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ning all night for lack of companionship. Did I mention how cute she is? Well, there. I've said it.
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Actually Trajan is damn near close to a joy. "When did I decide to get the puppy?" Sharon repeated the question. "When I knew I w=
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ould be home for a solid three weeks, when travel hell was over."
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Sharon, who had lost Lilly to a car some 9 months earlier, had mourned for more than a respectful period. It was time. So, upon ou=
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r return from England we went on a puppy hunt. With that, we set off for the shelter in Brunswick on June 17. No puppies; maybe late=
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r in the day, they said. North to Wiscasset and the fertile backwoods of Lincoln County where there were sure to be illegitimate dog=
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gy offspring galore. Bingo: Four black spaniel-lab mongrels, cute as the dickens and extremely lethargic. We chose the most adorable=
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one, but they were only seven-weeks old, apparently too young for immediate adoption so we were obligated to wait a week.
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While returning to Portland down I-95 Sharon and I bandied names back and forth, just like a pair of expecting parents ... Cyril?=
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No, she said. Garth?
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No.
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Festiniog? Yes, Festiniog Dog!
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No.
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Emmet? Too Yankee, she sighed. Diocletian? What? Okay, how about Trajan? That's a nice name. So it was: Marcus Ulpias Trajanius, E=
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mperor of Rome in the second century after Christ, conqueror of Decebulus, the fall of whose kingdom, Dacia (modern Romania), pushe=
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d the Empire's boundaries further than ever they would reach again. Thirty years of prosperity followed, Trajan's hard-won peace.
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We decided to stop back at the Brunswick shelter where lo, and behold, three pups had just arrived. We wanted a puppy and we wante=
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d it right then. So we chose the cutest, wrapped her in a blanket and drove south to Portland.
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Yes, she. But we liked the name and stuck with it, gender problem or no.
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The dashing F. Scott and sister Zelda, the coquettish former Ms. Sayre, weren't thrilled with their new, canine brother. They're c=
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ats, with narrow views of the world befitting animals that eat from bowls on the floor. But they're getting used to it. Zelda simply=
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takes the high ground - stairs, a table or chair - and peers down at Trajan with serene disdain. Being male, Scott is more terri=
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torial and makes it his business to know the dog's whereabouts at all times. A few hissing swipes have convinced the good-natured Tr=
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ajan that Scott's frolicking days are over.
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Readers familiar with my past views on dogs will snicker at this latest doggy development. But my opinions are evolving.
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***
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HOARY; HURRAY; HAIRY
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By DAVID M. ROSE
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He's pale. He's bloated. He's got bad breath. And he's turning ten. You're invited to help celebrate.
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Miles, perhaps the most ill-tempered cat in North America, attains an age ending in zero - for what is likely to be the last time =
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- this Jul y. A scant 10 years ago, Hal, Pen, and I picked him out of the lineup at the MSPCA animal shelter, thereby saving him =
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from a fate that I think we'd all rather not contemplate. Snow-white except for a charcoal gray smudge on his forehead and possesse=
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d of a beguiling pair of unmatched eyes (one yellow, one sky blue), he was easily the most compelling cat in the shelter, and our c=
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hoice was clear.
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Initially cute, cuddly, and openly affectionate, Miles soon cultivated a stand-offishness that has become legendary. In all fairne=
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ss, it must be noted that he spent his formative year in an off-campus house during our senior year at Wesleyan. Surrounded as he wa=
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s by boundless youthful folly, his conclusion that human beings are beneath contempt can only be regarded as well-reasoned.
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Curiously, though, Miles is given to frenzied if infrequent spasms of unconditional affection. On these occasions, which inexplica=
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bly and almost invariable fall on Thursday evenings, he is a virtual love machine. Purring, rubbing, shedding, and even drooling his=
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way to a crescendo of solicitous ecstasy, he finally collapses in a satisfied heap on the back of the couch. Within minutes, thoug=
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h, he regains his composure; sitting sphinx-like, he regards the world with his characteristic air of superior indifference.
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Unfortunately, indifference is likely to be the order of the day at Miles' 10th birthday party, which falls not on a Thursday but o=
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n Saturday, July 22nd. Gifts for the birthday boy are optional (he'll probably be hiding, anyway), but guests are encouraged to bri=
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ng libations. The party starts 8:00 p.m. at Pen and Dave's apartment, 1171 Boylston St. #3, in the Fenway. Call for directions (61=
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7-236-0624); it's easy to get there but hard to explain.
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***
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I had a peak experience the other day, a moment of absolute, visceral ecstasy, sort of a cross between orgasm and epiphany. It wa=
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s a Sunday, and Pen and I decided, about 10 minutes before the first pitch, to run over and see the Red Sox; knuckleballer and all-=
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around phenom Tim Wakefield was pitching, and I wanted badly to see his stuff first hand. Running into the ticket office moments be=
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fore game time, on a weekend, with the Sox in first place, I was nonetheless able to get good seats (next-to-the-last-row, but direc=
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tly behind home plate), and we settled.
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Wakefield did not disappoint. He pitched nine scoreless innings (8-1/3 of no-hit ball), leaving batter after batter staring at mola=
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sses-slow but utterly intractable pitches. The opposing pitcher fared nearly as well, allowing nary a run but beaning the recently c=
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anonized John Valentin, adding just a pinch of blood lust to the air of respectful awe.
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Tragically, Wakefield committed an error in the tenth which resulted in a run for Seattle. As the Sox came to bat in the bottom of =
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the inning, the despair in the stands was palpable. But with one out and a man on first, center fielder Troy O'Leary hit a drive de=
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ep into left field. I remember yelling, "Drop!", hoping the ball would fall for a double; from my vantage point the ball disappeared=
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above the upper deck, and I waited several long seconds before realizing that it wasn't coming down. Home run. The Sox win.
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The crowd exploded. I looked straight up and screamed at the top of my lungs. Thirty-five thousand-odd total strangers screamed wit=
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h me. In 10 seconds or so, we had gone from absolute despair to absolute triumph. Joy, joy, joy!
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Walking home from the game, I listened to a replay of the home run on the radio and felt the rush all over again, grinning like a=
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n idiot and weeping behind my sunglasses as I headed up Brookline Avenue with the crowd. I've been criticized several times this yea=
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r for coming back to baseball so soon after the strike. I understand the anger, and I'm certainly no stranger to spite, but if I =
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can get two or three moments like that out of each season, then I'll be ready to watch baseball anytime they're willing to play.
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***
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Incidentally, the other lasting effect of the game was to convince me to grow a goatee for the second time in my life. Always a t=
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rendsetter, I cultivated my first goatee in 1990, well before the style became popular.*
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Today, of course, the goatee is enjoying a resurgence not seen since the days of Sigmund Freud and Maynard G. Krebbs. Where I live=
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- admittedly very close to Kenmore Square - every third male sports a goatee; among professional baseball players they seem to =
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be as prevalent as penises.
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Watching Boston play Seattle, the sheer variety of chin dressing was positively dizzying. From the solid, responsible, communitarian=
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goatee of Mo Vaughn to the absolutely demonic Van Dyke of Jay Buehner, there seemed to be a goatee to fill every need. But which on=
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e was for me? After careful consideration, I made my choice. Hard working; anxious; under-appreciated; suede-headed: I wanna be lik=
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e Mike.
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Its coming in nicely, thanks.
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* Sure.
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Ed. At one time, Dave Rose had no time for baseball or any organized sport. Indeed, he clung tenaciously to his intellectual prete=
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ntions for the better part of 30 years, refusing to own a television, much less NESN. He did, however, own a radio. The Red Sox crep=
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t into his life via this baseball-friendly medium last year. After a brief period of tutelage where I played Aristotle to his Plato=
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(and he would phone at all hours, even if the Sox played out west, to pose questions like, "What's this Infield Fly Rule thing?"), =
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Rose has become a commited fan, literate in the finer workings of the game; a fortuitous turn of events seeing as he lives 300 yards=
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from Fenway Park. My mother was right: Converts frequently make the best zealots.
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***
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THE HERALD TRAVELOGUE: HAL DOES BRITAIN
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By Hal Phillips
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MARKET DRAYTON - This East Midland hamlet is home to a bazaar that has enervated its quiet streets once every seven days for 70=
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0 years. Herald essayist Trevor Ledger lives there with his lovely wife and co-breeder, Nichola, and their Puckish 5-year-old son, I=
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euan, at Goose Cottage in Victoria Lane. Is that British or what?
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This was our base camp during a week's holiday in the English and Welsh countryside. I had spent a great deal of time in the south=
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of England, mostly London and Sharon had never before tread upon this blessed plot, land of strong bitter, ancient borderland defen=
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ses, swarms of sheep and surprisingly few potatoes. So this was a departure for both of us.
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***
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SHREWSBURY - Trevor, Sharon and I started a day's exploration here in this venerable crossroads of England and Wales, where the m=
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ighty Severn River for many years marked the border between warring nations. Indeed, a bridge to the west is simply called the Wels=
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h Bridge. After changing hands for 1,200 years, Shrewsbury and its stately castle have settled in England and become the capital of =
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Shropshire. From=20here we traveled over the Long Mynd, a string of abrupt, glacier-cut hills (mountains to the English) over which=
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Iron-Age yobs traveled to football matches. Actually, they were probably herding sheep and foraging for food over these highlands,=
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but Britons were extremely territorial even then. We drove southwest to Ludlow, drinking in the pleasing prattle of Aggers and boys=
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who broadcast that day's test match between England and the West Indies, another former British possession who thrash the mother c=
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ountry at its most dear sporting endeavors. Cricket on radio is something to behold and makes baseball sound like Rollerball in comp=
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arison. Further, this was only the first day of a 5-day test. We drove around all day and the match never ended, stopping for tea pr=
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ecisely at 4 p.m. despite two rain delays.
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"Trevor, why don't they play through tea to make up for the lost overs?" I queried, quite reasonably I thought.
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"You can't skip tea!" Trevor bellowed with his most convincing mock aristocratic outrage. But down deep, he meant it.
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***
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The castle of castles was explored in Ludlow, a very old town on the high ground overlooking the current Welsh border. It's here =
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the Royal Shakespeare Company annually performs one of the Bard's offerings in the shadow of Shropshire's most impressive fortificat=
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ion, Ludlow Castle. It's all part of the Ludlow Festival, which we missed by a week. Nonetheless, we toured the eerie 11th century =
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structure, still remarkably in tact, and watched as workers erected a stage inside the castle's inner courtyard. An evening perform=
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ance of Richard III in Ludlow Castle, and we missed it by a week!
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***
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On the way to Ludlow, while gawking at the Long Mynd, we managed to locate Church Stretton Golf Club. Trevor and his brother Andy =
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had discovered this remote design after climbing a peak along the Mynd last yea r.
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"We climbed to the very top and we were completely nackered," Trevor recalled. "Then I turn around and see this 70-year-old geezer=
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pulling a trolley!" [That's a pull-cart for you Yanks.]
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Anyway, we found the golf course which literally runs up and over a portion of the Mynd. Amazing. Unfortunately, we didn't have t=
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ime to play, a display of supreme restraint on my part. "I still can't believe we didn't end up playing nine holes there," Sharon w=
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as later heard to say.
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We did play three courses while in England, the best of which was windswept Royal St. David's in Harlech, Wales. Laid out in the s=
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hadow of majestic Harlech Castle and fronting giant dunes on the Irish Sea, St. David's is a pretty damn good example of linksland g=
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olf, though its remote location, a few average holes and a par of 69 leave the eyebrows of R&A decision makers unmoved. A great golf=
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course, nonetheless, with its exceptional par 3s, a magnificent back-nine loop through natural, Dye-like dunes and always the castl=
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e, visible from every hole.
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***
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It was here in Harlech, after golf, that Sharon entered her first castle, which readers can see for themselves in "First Knight,"=
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the latest cinematic take on Arthur's legend and another chance for Sean Connery to woo women 40 years his junior. Great castle wit=
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h a marvelous view of, you guessed it, the golf course.
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Afterward we enjoyed a magnificent pub lunch at the Lion, where I sampled Stilton pate before dining on gammon steak (nothing exo=
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tic, just ham) accompanied by two lovely Welsh bitters, which allowed me to sleep all the way back to Market Drayton. Luckily, I was=
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awake for the trip's first leg across starkly beautiful central Wales; through the resort town of Bala; past Festiniog, purported =
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to be the coal industry's ultimate victim town, famous for its unemployment and giant slag heaps; through seas of sheep washing ove=
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r single-lane roads and around tiny stone homesteads reminiscent of the shack wherein lived that strange laughing man in the Grail's=
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Scene 23.
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***
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No limey holiday is complete without a few genuine British piss-ups down the pub, where Americans can sample reams of exotic, supr=
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emely satisfying beers. The winner? Old Speckled Hen, which knocked Sharon and me on our respective keesters one night in Market Dr=
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ayton. Two pints of this stuff and Becks Dark begins to taste like dirty dish water.
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***
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LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
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Hal,
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Much thanks for the latest issue of the Harold Herald. Sorry I didn't get my act together enough to write something for it from Wa=
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shington, D.C. Rest assured I will do so for the next edition, if you so desire.
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Regrets we will be unable to attend your party. Were we still in
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Massachusetts we might even have made the trip. Certainly it will be
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carried off with the usual style.
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The real reason I write is to make a suggestion inspired by a recent
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Washington Post item. Why not create your own World Wide Web page? There is one such page on the Internet that shows only the creato=
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r's toilet, another that shows only a giant, unblinking eye. Think of the
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possibilities. Your fans could dial up and view your visage, 24 hours a day. Not to mention hypertext access to the vast HH archives=
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.
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As the HH continues to spread its hegemony over the journalistic world, the possibilities are mindblowing (mindnumbing?). Your pub=
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lication, in fact, seems to truly to be riding the crest of the Tofflers' Third Wave. Speaker Gingrich's heart would be warmed if he=
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knew of your efforts. Perhaps I'll pass him my latest copy next time I'm at one of his news conferences.
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I also wanted to comment on Mark Sullivan's story. I had often wondered about your paddle-paw typing style but feared asking you a=
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bout it lest you fly into a rage over the injustice of your disability. Thanks to 'Loid and yourself for having the courage to bring=
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everything into the open.
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Pete Lucht
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Washington, D.C.
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P.S. I will send you the article to which I referred along with a modest financial contribution toward your groundbreaking efforts=
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. Perhaps the Speaker himself will call you to Washington for a consultation.
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***
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Dear HH,
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I was delighted to receive my first complimentary copy of your distinguished journal. I laughed, I cried, I was intellectually sti=
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|
mulated and spiritually inspired (better than church). I want to become a regular subscriber but nowhere do I see a rate schedule - =
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|
a wise move since the potential customer must plumb his or her own conscience before dropping a dime on the enterprise. Most reade=
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|
rs, riddled with guilt, may very likely pay more than they would have if you specified. When at a later time you seek funding for yo=
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|
ur color edition, those others who underpay can be culled from your market mix early in the game as undesirable backers. I also susp=
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|
ect that, as usual, those looking for a free ride are also the back-biters, scoffers and whiners who can be so discouraging to youth=
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|
ful and exuberant efforts such as yours.
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With my check, I do submit one back-bite, scoff and whine. You feature far too little of one contributor, a Dr. David Rose. I foun=
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|
d his exegesis of the Mike Watt record provocative and powerful in its imagery, although I though his family references a bit reve=
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|
aling for so public a forum. Nonetheless, all of us here would very much like to see Dave's column expanded and even, perhaps, for h=
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im to take over some other writers' columns. Rose is a winner. And who is Mike Watt?
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Thank you.
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Earl Rose
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Boston, Mass.
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Ed. Many thanks for your generous contribution to the Herald Circulation Endowment. You are now a subscriber in good standing. Can=
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|
't help with the frequency of your bowel movements, I'm afraid, though I've found reading the HH on the head works as well, if not =
|
|
better, than the oft-prescribed prune juice/Exlax frappe. In any case, we too would like to feature more material from Dr. Rose. Unf=
|
|
ortunately, exacting copy from the good doctor is even more difficult than trying to take seriously those Jackson-Parris coffee ta=
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|
ble books. Dr. Rose suffers, we believe, from a rare procrastinatory disorder stemming from the childhood relief of himself in movi=
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|
ng vehicles. It is believed Mr. Watt - bassist for the now-defunct-but-seminal bands fIREhOSE and The Minutmen - suffers from the =
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|
same ailment.
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***
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Danny!
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Thought we'd take this thing for a test drive...
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Just got this message from my partner in San Diego and, given your honed sense humor, I thought you would enjoy. This is an essay =
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|
which an anonymous fellow wrote about three years ago which actually got him
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accepted to NYU.
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|
In order for the admissions staff of our college to get to know you, the applicant, better, we ask that you answer the following q=
|
|
uestion: Are there any significant experiences that helped define you as a person:
|
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|
"I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks,=
|
|
making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas=
|
|
, I manage time efficiently.
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|
Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row. I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycl=
|
|
es up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in 20 minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in=
|
|
love, and an outlaw in Peru. Using only a hoe and a large glass of
|
|
water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon
|
|
Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documenta=
|
|
ries.
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|
When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding.
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|
On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of
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|
charge. I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless
|
|
bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I rece=
|
|
ive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured.
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|
My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfie=
|
|
ld in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in th=
|
|
e supermarket. I have performed Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis. I have performed several =
|
|
covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully=
|
|
negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me. I balance, I weave, I =
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|
dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid.
|
|
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|
On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to wri=
|
|
te it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I bat .400. I breed prize-winning cla=
|
|
ms. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. Children trust me. =
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|
I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy.
|
|
But I have not yet gone to college.
|
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Ed. This guy should have his own newsletter.
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***
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(The author, whose nom de plume is used here, is San Francisco-based freelance writer who just returned from two weeks in Burma, kn=
|
|
own also as Myanamar in circles where SLORC is listening. She wisely requested anonymity here because she'd like to go back, which =
|
|
gives you an idea of the political paranoia at play these days in East Asia where men are men, Deng is dying and everyone's nervous=
|
|
.)
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|
A CLOSE SHAVE AHEAD FOR BURMA?
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|
By FOO LING YU
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|
RANGOON, Burma - This is a wonderful country, its people among the nicest in the world. Too bad the place is becoming a Chinese =
|
|
colony. It looks like China (the traditional teak huts are being replaced with buildings designed by the same architects who created=
|
|
the industrial nightmare called downtown Taipei). It sounds like China (Mandarin is the language of Mandalay). It smells like China=
|
|
(there are more Chinese restaurants than in Monterey Park).
|
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|
As one young Burmese informed me, "This is because everywhere is China."
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|
The Burmese, devout Buddhists, are being trampled by their northern neighbors. Meanwhile, the mainland Chinese see the opportunity=
|
|
to make money the old-fashioned way: by exploiting the Southeast Asians. The Chinese own everything, run everything and are set to =
|
|
ruin everything. They are eagerly building roads and bridges - most of them leading to the seacoast. Burma is strategically locate=
|
|
d on the Bay of Bengal and thus offers China one of the things it has been salivating over for centuries: a gateway to the Indian O=
|
|
cean.
|
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|
|
The Burmese need to take responsibility for their own destiny, but as one of the world's poorest countries it is desperate for ca=
|
|
sh and welcomes Chinese traders, military advisers, and hoards of both legal and illegal immigrants from neighboring Yunnan Province=
|
|
. Besides, who can or will stand up to the Chinese? Asean (the Association of SouthEast Asian Nations)? Not likely.
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|
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|
Newspapers are full of editorials cautioning the world about China's military build-up and expansionist policy, but that's all the=
|
|
y are - editorials; editorials the Chinese are using for bird-cage liner. Many American businesses have pulled out of Burma because=
|
|
of the government's human rights policies, effectively surrendering the market and the country's bountiful natural resources to the=
|
|
Chinese.
|
|
|
|
Some people are even calling for a boycott of travel to Burma. However, Burma's situation is no better or worse than China's (Tibe=
|
|
t takes the biscuit for government-organized terrorism) or Indonesia's (don't forget East Timor) or a long list of other well-traver=
|
|
sed places.
|
|
|
|
Barton Biggs, the Morgan Stanley guru, says Burma may be an even better investment opportunity than Vietnam. And the investment ba=
|
|
nking set has few problems with Burma's ruling junta, the State Law and Order Restoration Council (SLORC, pronounced slork; and it i=
|
|
s as it sounds), which is trying to fill its coffers by thinking up new plans to encourage foreign trade. Thus, the venture capital=
|
|
ists can be seen sitting around the Strand Hotel here, discussing such figures as the number of telephones per capita. What they do=
|
|
n't mention is the number of working telephones per capita. There are phones everywhere in Burma, many with three-digit numbers. In =
|
|
most cases, though, two tin cans and a string would be more effective.
|
|
|
|
Politics, human rights and immigration policies aside, Burma is definitely worth a visit - before it becomes China's newest provi=
|
|
nce.
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|
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|
|
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***
|
|
(Timothy Laverne Dibble is the Frederich Nietzsche Scholar at Douglas MacArthur University in Big Sur, Calif., and an active partici=
|
|
pant in Planned Parenthood.)
|
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|
|
NUPTIAL PANDEMIC
|
|
By TIMOTHY L. DIBBLE
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|
SAN FRANCISCO - History has proven time and time again that, in times of crisis, great leaders rise above the fray. It takes a m=
|
|
an, woman or hermaphrodite of extreme vision, character, strength and perseverance to lead the huddled masses forward. The minions o=
|
|
f whimpering sycophants cry out in their darkest hours for a great leader.
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|
As the last year has proven, I am such a leader.
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|
|
|
On what grounds, you may ask, do I stand here and make such an apocryphal claim. The facts speak for themselves; that I am a mode=
|
|
rn-day Moses who has led (and continues to lead) the legions of feckless bachelors to the conjugal promised land. Nearly one year ag=
|
|
o, I stepped forward from the flock of sheep - huddled and frightened by the driving rains of bachelordom - to take the hand of =
|
|
the fair Maureen. Now, I am the shepherd who leads those otherwise spineless souls out of the maw of the male-only lifestyle.
|
|
|
|
Those quick to see the vision of my leadership include Donahue the Younger, Jones the Downtrodden, Phillips the Cold-Filtered. Buc=
|
|
kovitch the Band Fag, and Gibbons the Ever-So Neat and Tidy (technically, Gibbons was married before I, but to this day credits a S=
|
|
hirley MacLainesque out-of-body experience where I appeared to him in the form of Eleanor Roosevelt urging his rush to the alter).
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|
|
This undistinguished list of vagrants, loners, miscreants and real-estate investors, all of whom became engaged within six months=
|
|
of my own nuptials, is proof enough that by power of example, I can move the masses. No doubt, others will soon follow.
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|
|
Although I have done my best to deplete the ranks of the MOLARs (Males of Last Resort), there are still those sheep who do not ha=
|
|
ve sense to come in from out of the rain. Those readers who feel they need my continued guidance can either send a self-addressed st=
|
|
amped envelope for my book, Marriage for Cash and China, or catch me on the upcoming lecture circuit:
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|
* Sept. 17 - Buckovitch/Cuozzo Nuptials, Gloucester, Mass.
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|
|
* Sept. 23 - Donahue/Cassidy Hoe-down, Aspen, Colo.
|
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|
* Oct. 7 - Phillips/Vandermay Smoke-in, Great Diamond Island, Maine.
|
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|
|
* Dec. 25 - Birth of the Jones/Baguer baby followed by an intimate service in the lobby of Beth Israel.
|
|
|
|
To all my followers, look for my upcoming series on procreation... I'm just glad to be of service.
|
|
|
|
***
|
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|
|
PARADISE FOUND?
|
|
By Hal Phillips
|
|
|
|
PORTLAND, Maine - Never in the history of moves, perhaps, has a change of address been so simple. Because the Herald offices hav=
|
|
e been moved five blocks to the northeast, to the former bachelorette pad of the lovely Sharon Vandermay, editorial concerns can now=
|
|
be posted to 30 Mechanic St., Portland, Maine, 04101.
|
|
|
|
Note that only one word has changed from the previous address. This eventuality culminated on the evening of May 30, when I lugged=
|
|
my last possession - a giant plant standing 12 feet high - down the stairs of Thomas Brackett Reed House and into my green Honda=
|
|
Civic, a vehicle not exactly suited to the transport of such cumbersome items. With a melancholy roadside hug to "Aroostook" Mary F=
|
|
owler, confidant and now ex-housemate, I pulled away from 30 Deering and headed for my new residence overlooking the parking lot beh=
|
|
ind Bubba's Sulky Lounge.
|
|
|
|
While the plant's journey marked an end to the move, don't get the impression the upheaval took place over a weekend. Because I to=
|
|
ok up residence with the comely Ms. Vandermay, I was afforded the opportunity to move over the course of month - in this case, May.=
|
|
Never again. Instead of residing in the nether regions for one hellish day or a weekend, I inadvertantly plunged myself into the pi=
|
|
t for a full month. Even when I had moved the bulk of my possessions - with the help of Mike Levan's braun and Tom Flanigan's pick=
|
|
-up - I always knew there was more; there was still some of my stuff in a basically empty apartment. It was a remarkably unsettli=
|
|
ng sensation. On May 30, when the plant settled in the stairwell of my new residence, a great feeling of relief washed over my swea=
|
|
ty body. As Sharon and I dined on champagne and a steak that had been in my old freezer for several months, I finally felt complete=
|
|
ly at peace, at home - and extraordinarily happy. I will miss TBR House, where I forged my new incarnation here in Maine. I will =
|
|
miss the ghost of Thomas Brackett Reed, his late-night martini binges and the 13-foot tin ceilings. I will miss the picture windows =
|
|
and Mary's impromptu visits. I will miss the spring, when the trees along Deering Street would bloom and encase the apartment in a b=
|
|
eautiful green buffer.
|
|
|
|
After all, the three years I spent there represent the longest time I spent in any one place outside my parents' home. But then, I=
|
|
eventually moved from there, too.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
|
|
OK, INDEED!
|
|
By SARAH GIBLIN
|
|
|
|
I hope that you can forgive this presumptuous intrusion into your coveted literary world but alas, I knew not where to turn.
|
|
|
|
It's the Okies. They've got me quite distressed. A truly terrible event has indeed befallen the epicenter of middle America and my=
|
|
sincerest condolences go out to all who have suffered through the complete and total decimation of the federal building - daycare =
|
|
center and all.
|
|
|
|
Having no direct experience with terrorist bombings, I can only imagine how vulnerable such a day must make one feel, and it is no=
|
|
t this fear which has me obsessing on the Okie mentality. Rather it is the apparent insistence of my Midwest neighbors that the fair=
|
|
cornfields and feedlots which blanket their state ought, by right, to be exempt from such random acts of violence. Over and over ag=
|
|
ain bland white farmers can be heard telling Paula Zahn, Bryant Gumbull and Peter Jennings that "not here, nope. This stuff shouldn'=
|
|
t happen in Oklahoma. Vietnam, Iran or some place like that, well that's different, I guess. But not here in Oklahoma."
|
|
|
|
I'm sorry, I don't think I understand. It's not different. Oklahoma is part of the U.S. - I'm sure of it, I just drove through it=
|
|
on my cross-country extravaganza. The U.S. is a significant player on the game board earth, so where exactly do these people think =
|
|
they are?
|
|
|
|
I know, in Oklahoma.
|
|
|
|
But do they honestly believe that surrounding the promised Oklahoman territory there exists a force field to keep the bad guys out=
|
|
? Gosh, maybe it'll keep AIDS out, too. Perhaps even slightly more shocking than the ignorance rampant throughout our agricultural m=
|
|
otherland is the pride of its possessors in having achieved and maintained such a delirious mindset: "We'll never be the same. We'l=
|
|
l never be able to forget that this happened."
|
|
|
|
Well, if you ask me, hallelujah! Maybe, just maybe this horrid event will pry open some of those hermetically sealed minds, thus =
|
|
making them realize there are worse fates in life than reducing the amount of grain the Federal government busy and then destroys.
|
|
|
|
Lest you think I'm part of a radical Buddhist sect gone horribly insane, I should state that I do not enjoy suffering nor do I wis=
|
|
h for others to suffer. However, I do feel that such an unabashed lack of appreciation for the world's unpleasantries is inexcusable=
|
|
and repugnant at a time in which one can, in a matter of minutes, electronically serve up such journals of news insight and wisdom =
|
|
as the Harold Herald.
|
|
|
|
There. Thank you. I feel much better.
|
|
|
|
Ed. The above piece was postmarked April 20 - when much of the country - especially middle America - desperately wanted to bel=
|
|
ieve the bombing was perpetrated by some Muslim extremist. As we've learned, America produces its own, equally dangerous form of ex=
|
|
tremism and, for that reason, I hesitated before publishing the above opinion. However, the more I thought about it, the more releva=
|
|
nt Ms. Giblin's points became. Isn't it ironic how the radical xenophobia of an insular few has tragically hit home in Oklahoma City=
|
|
, where folks were convinced the world's heathen elements and, indeed, the moral decay of urban America could never touch them? Isn'=
|
|
t middle America a breeding ground for the Timothy McVeighs of the world?...
|
|
|
|
Sarah Giblin is a former management consultant who has turned her attention to more noble pursuits, namely consulting on education=
|
|
al matters to the Boston and Milton (Mass.) public schools, among others. She lives in Boston and shows remarkable insight, despite =
|
|
having done her undergraduate work at Trinity College in Hartford.
|
|
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
|
|
|
|
THE HAROLD PLAYBILL
|
|
"Persuasion" by Jane Austen
|
|
The Re:Creation Theatre
|
|
|
|
GREENWICH, England - Given a choice, I'd rather know too much than be left in the dark. Luckily, the former prevailed as we seate=
|
|
d ourselves, the lovely Ms. Vandermay and I, here at Ranger House for a production of Jane Austen's "Persuasion," as performed by th=
|
|
e Re:Creation Theatre, a troupe commissioned the British Heritage Foundation to update and keep vital bits of the English artistic c=
|
|
anon. One of Austen's main characters, Captain Wentworth, was played by Adrian Preater, my housemate at the University of London and=
|
|
publisher of Adrian's Oracle, an extremely profane, puerile knock-off of the Herald. Indeed, Adrian was our London host and the rea=
|
|
son we indulged in so cultural an event. In any case, Adrian's lovelife has complicated the subtext of this particular production, w=
|
|
hich has toured the south of England, playing magnficent old manor houses like the Ranger, which overlooks Black Heath. Adrian's re=
|
|
al-life girlfriend, the fetching Emma Powell, is merely his flirt interest on stage; whereas his love interest in Austen's Victorian=
|
|
setting, xxxxxxxxx, desperately wants to create some off-stage chemistry. All this we knew before seeing the production, making th=
|
|
e normally mind-numbing prospect of anything Austenian positively riveting.
|
|
|
|
In truth, the production was first rate; an inspired bit of physical theatre where the six cast members played all 20 parts, chang=
|
|
ed characters by donning a scarves or capes, bent over to form anthropormorphic furniture, and gamely impersonated a hedge. The iron=
|
|
y of Adrian's theatrical love triangle made everything even more engaging for Sharon and me. However, I gathered commeasurate satisf=
|
|
action from watching Adrian - a notorious ham perfectly suited to comic, bombastic roles - portray the straighlaced, ultra-Victor=
|
|
ian Wentworth. On several occasions I could almost see his sphincter seize up, as the impish Preater stoically resisted his inate u=
|
|
rge to mug for the audience.
|
|
|
|
To give credit where it's due (and to avoid giving Adrian any more than absolutely necessary), Ms. Powell nearly stole the show. O=
|
|
f all six parts, hers provided the best opportunity to display some real versatility. But she also made the most of it, convincingly=
|
|
going over the top with her portrayals of xxxxxxxxxxxxx, the coquettish, upper-class, teenage twit who appears to have beguiled Wen=
|
|
tworth, and xxxxxxxxx, the Swansonesque, middle-aged hypocondriac whose ailments kick in most egregiously when her well-meaning-but=
|
|
-absent-minded husband pays her too little attention.
|
|
|
|
Unfortunately, Emma made a quick exit from the pub where cast members gathered after the show so Sharon and I had little time to m=
|
|
ake her acquaintance. However, she's coming to the United States with Adrian the first week in July, when we'll see if she can play =
|
|
the xenophobic Brit who looks upon all things American with a curiously insecure combination of disdain and envy - a role her boyfr=
|
|
iend has made famous in some circle s.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
***
|
|
THE MARLBORO MAN
|
|
By MARK SULLIVAN
|
|
|
|
MARLBORO, Mass. - Postcard Marlboro:
|
|
|
|
If scrapbook pack-rat Hal Phillips were still sports editor of the Marlboro Enterprise, he would have fashioned a special edition =
|
|
on the recent title game between the Marlboro Shamrocks and the Toledo Thunder for the national semi-pro football championship.
|
|
|
|
The game of tackle between hard-nosed day laborers and former college jocks - some with beer bellies, at least one with a full Mo=
|
|
hawk, most in patched-together uniforms - was the sort you envision being played on a rocky pitch back of the coal foundry in Amp=
|
|
ipe, Pa., but was held on this occasion under the lights, before 1,800 fans, at Kelleher Field, home to the Marlboro High gridders.=
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Shams pushed on to their second successive Minor League Football Alliance championship, 36-16, rallying in the face of what so=
|
|
me Marlboro boosters deemed the excessively roughhouse play of the Toledos.
|
|
|
|
"Most of them are black, and you know they don't have anything between the ears," blunt-spoken Marlboro City Councilor Herman Huds=
|
|
on said of the urban squad from Ohio. "It looks like they were recruited from up around Cleveland."
|
|
|
|
One is tempted to fall back on the old plus ca change chestnut in talking about Marlboro, but, sad to say, the more Shoe City cha=
|
|
nges, the worse it gets. Observations drawn there on a recent visit:
|
|
|
|
* A monster three-tier downtown parking garage - unveiled more than two years ago amid much ballyhoo by local Chamber of Commerc=
|
|
e Babbits operating under the assumption that if you build it, they will come - was empty of cars on a Saturday night. An alternat=
|
|
ive community use of the empty parking tiers, as skateboard ramps for hangabout teens, has been banned by local authorities. * Vacan=
|
|
t storefronts abound in Marlboro Center. On the up side, two new businesses are in evidence: The record shop near City Hall is now =
|
|
a gun store, with assault weapons in the front window and a massive bear trap for sale in the center of the floor. And a permanent h=
|
|
ome seems to have been found for the booking office of a minor-league circus, Allen C. Hill Productions, which plays fundraisers fo=
|
|
r Kiwanis and Jaycees, and once offered to dispatch Lisa - a baby elephant - to play the harmonica in t he Enterprise parking lot,=
|
|
a publicity stunt refused by the unadventurous newspaper brass for reasons of liability.
|
|
|
|
* The closest thing to an old-fashioned general-store crackerbarrel feel in Marlboro Center is found at Pastille's, a mom-and-pop=
|
|
liquor store across from City Hall. There, mom and pop sit in lawn chairs watching a portable television while sales are rung up by=
|
|
their son - a bespectacled little man with a bulbous, bald head who on Monday nights, in clashing check bib-and-tucker, serves as=
|
|
sergeant-at-arms at City Council meetings. On this Saturday night, as we stopped in to buy a half-pint of cinnamon brandy to smuggl=
|
|
e into the football game, mom was watching TV in the corner, hooked up to an oxygen tank, smoking a cigarette.
|
|
|
|
* At Sully's First Edition Pub, our frequent late-night haunt during our Marlboro newspaper days, a painting hung prominently beh=
|
|
ind the bar pays tribute to the bar's late owner, Dick Sullivan, a sporting curmudgeon of not inconsiderable thirst who died two yea=
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rs ago. The late pub owner is pictured behind the wheel of pick-up truck, floating up and over the tavern on his way to heaven. In t=
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he bed of the truck are a set of golf clubs and a pyramid of liquor bottles. From the cab of the truck, hand at his nose, the smirk=
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ing Sullivan flips the viewer the bird. A leprechaun with angel wings looks down from heaven and says: "Sure and 'twill be a lot mor=
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e fun up here now."
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***
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IT IS *NOT* JUST LIKE "LOU GRANT"
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By Hal Phillips
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What follows is a scene-setter for the television screenplay I've been toying with for some time now. I've done everything but act=
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ually write an episode. Mark Sullivan's adjoining "Postcard Marlboro" reminded me of the central Massachusetts city where, for thr=
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ee years, I worked on the local paper:
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The story of eight to 10 young editors, reporters and photographers who work for the Press-Chronicle, a 100-year-old newspaper in =
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a slowly dying industrial city. Fifty years ago, the city of Eastborough was a self-contained, thriving, albeit sollopsystic communi=
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ty that could support a daily paper. "Shoe City," they called it.
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Today, the Press-Chronicle barely survives on a dwindling advertising base that mirrors the city's downtown retail substructure. T=
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he Press-Chronicle staff sees this analysis clearly, while the middle-aged and elderly Eastborough residents - including a small ba=
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tch of long-time employees at the Press-Chronicle - refuse to acknowledge the march of time. They long for the good ol' days when =
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the paper was strong, when the city was strong. The young editorial staff members, for whom the Press-Chronicle represents the firs=
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t chance at daily newspaper work after apprenticeships at even smaller-time weeklies, see their employ as a momentary stop on the j=
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ournalistic ladder of success: Put in a year or two at the paper, move on to a bigger daily. Resume updates and overhauls are a cont=
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inual ritual. After a honeymoon period, staffers ultimately come to resent the meager pay, long nocturnal hours and petty board meet=
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ings on which they report. In fact, the staff is somewhat dumbfounded that many lifelong residents of Eastborough read the Press-Chr=
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onicle and the Press-Chronicle only, not the larger, regional dailies. At the same time, the community and long-time Press-Chronicl=
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e workers resent the younger staff attitudes. They resent that their paper has become a mere stepping stone for young sprats, wherea=
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s they and many of their contemporaries had spent decades working for the paper, raising families in town and contributing to the co=
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mmunity. In their eyes, the modern staffers are transient, cynical hyenas who openly laugh at the city's decaying infrastructure and=
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self-image.
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But this makes the newsroom sound like a crucible for cross-generational venom, which it was not. It was a raucous, lively place d=
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ominated by blunt, sometimes guttural humor, strong political beliefs, deadline freneticism and office romance. These sentiments wer=
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e rarely the source of confrontation because despite their '90s Easton-Ellis indifference, the young staffers understood the sad pli=
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ght of the city and its people. They never confronted Eastboroughites with their cruel insights. Indeed, dwelling on the pathetic st=
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ate of Eastborough and the paper which covered it only made more clear the staffers' place on the journalistic ladder: bottom rung.=
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Only when they were drunk or wallowing in their generational nihilism would they lash out - to each other - about the nearly exti=
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nguished cit y they knew so well. Managing Editor Frank Callahan would often lament his confinement-like tenure in "this miserable, =
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fucking berg," then trundle off with his staff to Sully's for a host of latenight cocktails.
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***
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LAST REED BASH A BLAST
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By Hal Phillips
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The Goodbye TBR House/Sharon's Birthday bash held April 22 in Portland was an unqualified success, as more than 70 folks packed th=
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e top two floors at my former address, 30 Deering St. Ballsy attendees included all those who trekked up from Boston and those memb=
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ers of the Herald subscriber list who showed up to catch a glimpse of me, in the flesh. Peter McDonald actually heard someone say th=
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is: "No, I don't actually know Hal. But I've heard of him."
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I am content. Danuta Drozdiewicz gets special mention because she showed up with friends and a brand-spanking new bottle of Absolu=
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t. She was rewarded with my spot-on pronunciation of her whacky Carpathian sirname: Droz-doo-witz. Fellow newsletter editor and 14=
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-year-old provocateur Elise Adams also deserves credit for showing up, though the poor kid had to bring her dad, Peter (who actuall=
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y behaved himself very well). Unfortunately for Elise, who arrived and departed quite early in the evening, she didn't experience th=
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e evening's full measure of debauchery, i.e. the complete and utter fumigation of my phone booth; Mike Levans and Megan McDonald do=
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ing their Liz Taylor/Richard Burton routine; Dave Rose and Levans doing their Westerburg/Stinson routine; and Mark Sullivan moving i=
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n for the kill. She also missed the traditional closing ceremonies, i.e. Jim O'Reilly and I sitting at the coffee table around 4 a.m=
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., grunting intermittently and glaring glassy-eyed at areas somewhere to the left of each other's faces.
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Good party, all in all. Ranks right up there with the Medford bash in 1987, when the cops stole my bong, and the Somerville soire=
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e in 1989 when Obvious Reasons played in the basement.
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"Line of the night" goes to Jason, cousin of party co-host Mary Fowler. Jason is a man of few words and, by the looks of it, even =
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fewer brain cells: "Hey, great phone booth dude."
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***
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(Timothy Laverne Dibble is the Frederich Nietzsche Scholar at Douglas MacArthur University in Big Sur, Calif., and an active partici=
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pant in Planned Parenthood.)
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NUPTIAL PANDEMIC
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By TIMOTHY L. DIBBLE
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SAN FRANCISCO - History has proven time and time again that, in times of crisis, great leaders rise above the fray. It takes a m=
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an, woman or hermaphrodite of extreme vision, character, strength and perseverance to lead the huddled masses forward. The minions o=
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f whimpering sycophants cry out in their darkest hours for a great leader.
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As the last year has proven, I am such a leader.
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On what grounds, you may ask, do I stand here and make such an apocryphal claim. The facts speak for themselves; that I am a mode=
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rn-day Moses who has led (and continues to lead) the legions of feckless bachelors to the conjugal promised land. Nearly one year ag=
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o, I stepped forward from the flock of sheep - huddled and frightened by the driving rains of bachelordom - to take the hand of =
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the fair Maureen. Now, I am the shepherd who leads those otherwise spineless souls out of the maw of the male-only lifestyle.
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Those quick to see the vision of my leadership include Donahue the Younger, Jones the Downtrodden, Phillips the Cold-Filtered. Buc=
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kovitch the Band Fag, and Gibbons the Ever-So Neat and Tidy (technically, Gibbons was married before I, but to this day credits a S=
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hirley MacLainesque out-of-body experience where I appeared to him in the form of Eleanor Roosevelt urging his rush to the alter).
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This undistinguished list of vagrants, loners, miscreants and real-estate investors, all of whom became engaged within six months=
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of my own nuptials, is proof enough that by power of example, I can move the masses. No doubt, others will soon follow.
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Although I have done my best to deplete the ranks of the MOLARs (Males of Last Resort), there are still those sheep who do not ha=
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ve sense to come in from out of the rain. Those readers who feel they need my continued guidance can either send a self-addressed st=
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amped envelope for my book, Marriage for Cash and China, or catch me on the upcoming lecture circuit:
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* Sept. 17 - Buckovitch/Cuozzo Nuptials, Gloucester, Mass.
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* Sept. 23 - Donahue/Cassidy Hoe-down, Aspen, Colo.
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* Oct. 7 - Phillips/Vandermay Smoke-in, Great Diamond Island, Maine.
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* Dec. 25 - Birth of the Jones/Baguer baby followed by an intimate service in the lobby of Beth Israel.
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To all my followers, look for my upcoming series on procreation... I'm just glad to be of service.
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***
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MOTOWN MOVE FOR "THE OTHER PHILLIPS"
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By Hal Phillips
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They grow up so fast, don't they?
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Yes, brother Matthew has moved to Michigan where, with his knowledge of cars and my contacts in the fertilizer business, he should=
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be called in for questioning any day now. Actually, he's taken a job with Darcy, Masius, Benton & Boles (DMB&B), an advertising age=
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ncy in the posh Detroit suburb of Bloomfield Hills.
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Young Matthew is working on the Cadillac and Pontiac accounts for DMB&B, which is quite a high-powered agency judging from the eye=
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-popping reactions I get from those in the know. Indeed, everyone seems to know it by the abbreviations, which is fortunate because=
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it's hard to say Darcy, Masius, Benton & Boles but once, much less five times fast. Matthew has found an apartment in another Detro=
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it suburb, Royal Oak, where he'll soon be joined by his significant other, the comely Tracy Dowd, who also deserves congratulations.=
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Ms. Dowd this spring secured her MBA from Babson College, ending four grueling years of working by day, schooling by night. At thi=
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s point, virtually everyone I know possesses an advanced degree except me. ***
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Another matrimonial hurdle was cleared over Memorial Day weekend as the Phillips and Vandermay clans gathered on West Lake in Port=
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age, Mich., for a casual get-together. I'm happy to report there were no punches thrown and everyone's behaviour was beyond reproac=
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h. Well, everyone but the minister at the Vandermay's church, where we all went to witness the christening of Sharon's new nephew, B=
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rian Michael Vandermay. Unfortunately, the preacher chose this particular Sunday to repeatedly whack the Jews. He probably doesn't c=
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ount on very many showing up at his services - certainly not in the front pew.
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Aside from that little escapade, the weekend was great; the high point being a huge barbecue featuring all of Sharon's brothers, s=
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isters-in-law, aunts and uncles. The Phillips contingent was typically small, but did include brother Matthew who started his new j=
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ob the Tuesday after Memorial Day. These parental summits are damned interesting affairs, as each side curiously dips a toe in the g=
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ene pool, as it were; gently feeling each other out, determining the taboo and exploiting that which everyone has in common. One wor=
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d of advice for anyone dreading one of these future in-law conclave: Bocce.
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Yes, the Italian version of lawn bowling is one doozy of an ice-breaker. The Vandermays have a condo in Florida, where Sharon's fa=
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ther, Bill, became hooked on the game. Being a mason contractor, he saw no reason why he couldn't build one in his Michigan backyar=
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d.
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What a great game! Perhaps the greatest drink-while-you-play activity of all time. And as I said, a great diversion/ice-breaker. T=
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here's no telling what kind of controversial, unsavory subject might have been raised if people hadn't been lounging about the bocce=
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court, watching folks throw big green and red balls at a smaller yellow one.
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copyright 1995 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's
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worth
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---------------------------------815987036136--
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