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The Harold Herald Volume 4 Issue 3
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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
_____________________________________________________________________
Now The Best Self-Published Newsletter
in New England - Some Guy at the Boston Globe
(Owens went belly-up)
Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
Lifestyles Editor: C. Everett Koop
Image Consultant: Colin Powell
Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
Eyebrow Editor: Rep. Richard Gephardt
Production Manager: Quinn Martin
Weapons Consultant: Randal Weaver
Spiritual Consultant: John C. Salvi III
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:
fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
Subscription requests to drose@fas.harvard.edu
+-------------------------------------------------+
| TECHNOLOGY BREAKTHROUGH |
| Direct electronic access to our Editor-in-Chief |
| is now possible: HPHILLIP@BIDDEFORD.COM |
+-------------------------------------------------+
A NOTE FROM OUR EDITOR>>>
Whatever you do, don't throw this away. The issue of the Harold Herald you now hold in your...uh..screen...marks the publication'=
s third anniversary. So this particular edition isn't merely a monument to self-promotion. It's also a collector's item.
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=
approximately 20 friends and family members. The first few Heralds were published on these oddly shaped ledgers because they could =
accommodate more information, and I was convinced the newsletter would thrive in the faxed medium.
I couldn't have been more wrong. Save our readers in Madras, India and Bangkok, Thailand, no one receives the Herald by fax. Inste=
ad, it is mailed to 150-odd people and uploaded to 100 more via the Internet. To celebrate this unprecedented growth, in addition to=
my ever-expanding cult of personality, this month's issue of the Harold Herald includes stories from previous issues, all worthy of=
reprinting and suitable for framing because, let's face it, I wrote them.
***
TIME PASSAGES
By Hal Phillips
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=
less watch face strapped to my wrist. Then, somewhat embarrassed, I look away and try to determine, without the aid of mechanical gi=
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 =
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:=
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=
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=
my betrothed this past Valentine's Day. I love my new watch, which was manufactured by a Swiss firm, Benrus (pronounced ben-russ), =
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=
atchwear. Indeed, a quick glance might give one the impression I was wearing a woman's watch.
Anyway, the excitement generated by this watch - arguably the only piece of jewelry I own - has allowed me to reexamine my pers=
onal history with time. You've heard of Stephen Hawking's Brief History of Time? Well, this is Hal Phillips' even more abbreviated=
chronicle of time pieces.
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 =
and my parents in particular - knew a watch would remain in my possession about as long as did the bottle rocket launcher I order=
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=
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=
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=
pression the watch made on me.
My subsequent disdain for time, especially its instruments of documentation, must stem from this pre-adolescent incident, which sh=
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 =
to look down on those cretinous watch-wearers who moaned with displeasure and pathetically groped their naked wrists after realizing=
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 =
knew approximately what time it was. Surely there were clocks all over creation, many in plain view. Indeed, you could barely swing =
the corpse of John Cameron Swayze without hitting a public time piece.
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=
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 =
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=
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=
g, I wore no watch at all.
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=
aduation: a modest but attractive Seiko, gold and square-faced with a lizard-skin strap .
I was hooked.
Maybe it was the leather strap. My father, you see, always wore substantial, stainless steel watches with chain-link bands that fo=
ld over on themselves and snap shut. Perhaps my other watches never allowed me to rebel enough to truly appreciate them.
Maybe it was the complication of employment, which tends to make you watch the clock, any clock, as the work day grinds slowly tow=
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=
hose cretinous watch-wearers who simply cannot cope without that time-keeping safety blanket wrapped around my wrist. I even have a =
back-up watch, a black & silver round-faced number to complement my brown & golf, square-faced Benrus. Life is good.
***
DOG HEIR
By Hal Phillips
Ah, they grow up so fast, II
Sharon and I are the proud owners of a furry, husky/black-lab mix interested in chewing things, pooping & pissing indoors, and whi=
ning all night for lack of companionship. Did I mention how cute she is? Well, there. I've said it.
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=
ould be home for a solid three weeks, when travel hell was over."
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=
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=
r in the day, they said. North to Wiscasset and the fertile backwoods of Lincoln County where there were sure to be illegitimate dog=
gy offspring galore. Bingo: Four black spaniel-lab mongrels, cute as the dickens and extremely lethargic. We chose the most adorable=
one, but they were only seven-weeks old, apparently too young for immediate adoption so we were obligated to wait a week.
While returning to Portland down I-95 Sharon and I bandied names back and forth, just like a pair of expecting parents ... Cyril?=
No, she said. Garth?
No.
Festiniog? Yes, Festiniog Dog!
No.
Emmet? Too Yankee, she sighed. Diocletian? What? Okay, how about Trajan? That's a nice name. So it was: Marcus Ulpias Trajanius, E=
mperor of Rome in the second century after Christ, conqueror of Decebulus, the fall of whose kingdom, Dacia (modern Romania), pushe=
d the Empire's boundaries further than ever they would reach again. Thirty years of prosperity followed, Trajan's hard-won peace.
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=
d it right then. So we chose the cutest, wrapped her in a blanket and drove south to Portland.
Yes, she. But we liked the name and stuck with it, gender problem or no.
The dashing F. Scott and sister Zelda, the coquettish former Ms. Sayre, weren't thrilled with their new, canine brother. They're c=
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=
takes the high ground - stairs, a table or chair - and peers down at Trajan with serene disdain. Being male, Scott is more terri=
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=
ajan that Scott's frolicking days are over.
Readers familiar with my past views on dogs will snicker at this latest doggy development. But my opinions are evolving.
***
HOARY; HURRAY; HAIRY
By DAVID M. ROSE
He's pale. He's bloated. He's got bad breath. And he's turning ten. You're invited to help celebrate.
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 =
- 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 =
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=
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=
hoice was clear.
Initially cute, cuddly, and openly affectionate, Miles soon cultivated a stand-offishness that has become legendary. In all fairne=
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=
s by boundless youthful folly, his conclusion that human beings are beneath contempt can only be regarded as well-reasoned.
Curiously, though, Miles is given to frenzied if infrequent spasms of unconditional affection. On these occasions, which inexplica=
bly and almost invariable fall on Thursday evenings, he is a virtual love machine. Purring, rubbing, shedding, and even drooling his=
way to a crescendo of solicitous ecstasy, he finally collapses in a satisfied heap on the back of the couch. Within minutes, thoug=
h, he regains his composure; sitting sphinx-like, he regards the world with his characteristic air of superior indifference.
Unfortunately, indifference is likely to be the order of the day at Miles' 10th birthday party, which falls not on a Thursday but o=
n Saturday, July 22nd. Gifts for the birthday boy are optional (he'll probably be hiding, anyway), but guests are encouraged to bri=
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=
7-236-0624); it's easy to get there but hard to explain.
***
I had a peak experience the other day, a moment of absolute, visceral ecstasy, sort of a cross between orgasm and epiphany. It wa=
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-=
around phenom Tim Wakefield was pitching, and I wanted badly to see his stuff first hand. Running into the ticket office moments be=
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=
tly behind home plate), and we settled.
Wakefield did not disappoint. He pitched nine scoreless innings (8-1/3 of no-hit ball), leaving batter after batter staring at mola=
sses-slow but utterly intractable pitches. The opposing pitcher fared nearly as well, allowing nary a run but beaning the recently c=
anonized John Valentin, adding just a pinch of blood lust to the air of respectful awe.
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 =
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=
ep into left field. I remember yelling, "Drop!", hoping the ball would fall for a double; from my vantage point the ball disappeared=
above the upper deck, and I waited several long seconds before realizing that it wasn't coming down. Home run. The Sox win.
The crowd exploded. I looked straight up and screamed at the top of my lungs. Thirty-five thousand-odd total strangers screamed wit=
h me. In 10 seconds or so, we had gone from absolute despair to absolute triumph. Joy, joy, joy!
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=
n idiot and weeping behind my sunglasses as I headed up Brookline Avenue with the crowd. I've been criticized several times this yea=
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 =
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.
***
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=
rendsetter, I cultivated my first goatee in 1990, well before the style became popular.*
Today, of course, the goatee is enjoying a resurgence not seen since the days of Sigmund Freud and Maynard G. Krebbs. Where I live=
- admittedly very close to Kenmore Square - every third male sports a goatee; among professional baseball players they seem to =
be as prevalent as penises.
Watching Boston play Seattle, the sheer variety of chin dressing was positively dizzying. From the solid, responsible, communitarian=
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=
e was for me? After careful consideration, I made my choice. Hard working; anxious; under-appreciated; suede-headed: I wanna be lik=
e Mike.
Its coming in nicely, thanks.
* Sure.
Ed. At one time, Dave Rose had no time for baseball or any organized sport. Indeed, he clung tenaciously to his intellectual prete=
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=
t into his life via this baseball-friendly medium last year. After a brief period of tutelage where I played Aristotle to his Plato=
(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?"), =
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=
from Fenway Park. My mother was right: Converts frequently make the best zealots.
***
THE HERALD TRAVELOGUE: HAL DOES BRITAIN
By Hal Phillips
MARKET DRAYTON - This East Midland hamlet is home to a bazaar that has enervated its quiet streets once every seven days for 70=
0 years. Herald essayist Trevor Ledger lives there with his lovely wife and co-breeder, Nichola, and their Puckish 5-year-old son, I=
euan, at Goose Cottage in Victoria Lane. Is that British or what?
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=
of England, mostly London and Sharon had never before tread upon this blessed plot, land of strong bitter, ancient borderland defen=
ses, swarms of sheep and surprisingly few potatoes. So this was a departure for both of us.
***
SHREWSBURY - Trevor, Sharon and I started a day's exploration here in this venerable crossroads of England and Wales, where the m=
ighty Severn River for many years marked the border between warring nations. Indeed, a bridge to the west is simply called the Wels=
h Bridge. After changing hands for 1,200 years, Shrewsbury and its stately castle have settled in England and become the capital of =
Shropshire. From=20here we traveled over the Long Mynd, a string of abrupt, glacier-cut hills (mountains to the English) over which=
Iron-Age yobs traveled to football matches. Actually, they were probably herding sheep and foraging for food over these highlands,=
but Britons were extremely territorial even then. We drove southwest to Ludlow, drinking in the pleasing prattle of Aggers and boys=
who broadcast that day's test match between England and the West Indies, another former British possession who thrash the mother c=
ountry at its most dear sporting endeavors. Cricket on radio is something to behold and makes baseball sound like Rollerball in comp=
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=
ecisely at 4 p.m. despite two rain delays.
"Trevor, why don't they play through tea to make up for the lost overs?" I queried, quite reasonably I thought.
"You can't skip tea!" Trevor bellowed with his most convincing mock aristocratic outrage. But down deep, he meant it.
***
The castle of castles was explored in Ludlow, a very old town on the high ground overlooking the current Welsh border. It's here =
the Royal Shakespeare Company annually performs one of the Bard's offerings in the shadow of Shropshire's most impressive fortificat=
ion, Ludlow Castle. It's all part of the Ludlow Festival, which we missed by a week. Nonetheless, we toured the eerie 11th century =
structure, still remarkably in tact, and watched as workers erected a stage inside the castle's inner courtyard. An evening perform=
ance of Richard III in Ludlow Castle, and we missed it by a week!
***
On the way to Ludlow, while gawking at the Long Mynd, we managed to locate Church Stretton Golf Club. Trevor and his brother Andy =
had discovered this remote design after climbing a peak along the Mynd last yea r.
"We climbed to the very top and we were completely nackered," Trevor recalled. "Then I turn around and see this 70-year-old geezer=
pulling a trolley!" [That's a pull-cart for you Yanks.]
Anyway, we found the golf course which literally runs up and over a portion of the Mynd. Amazing. Unfortunately, we didn't have t=
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=
as later heard to say.
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=
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=
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=
course, nonetheless, with its exceptional par 3s, a magnificent back-nine loop through natural, Dye-like dunes and always the castl=
e, visible from every hole.
***
It was here in Harlech, after golf, that Sharon entered her first castle, which readers can see for themselves in "First Knight,"=
the latest cinematic take on Arthur's legend and another chance for Sean Connery to woo women 40 years his junior. Great castle wit=
h a marvelous view of, you guessed it, the golf course.
Afterward we enjoyed a magnificent pub lunch at the Lion, where I sampled Stilton pate before dining on gammon steak (nothing exo=
tic, just ham) accompanied by two lovely Welsh bitters, which allowed me to sleep all the way back to Market Drayton. Luckily, I was=
awake for the trip's first leg across starkly beautiful central Wales; through the resort town of Bala; past Festiniog, purported =
to be the coal industry's ultimate victim town, famous for its unemployment and giant slag heaps; through seas of sheep washing ove=
r single-lane roads and around tiny stone homesteads reminiscent of the shack wherein lived that strange laughing man in the Grail's=
Scene 23.
***
No limey holiday is complete without a few genuine British piss-ups down the pub, where Americans can sample reams of exotic, supr=
emely satisfying beers. The winner? Old Speckled Hen, which knocked Sharon and me on our respective keesters one night in Market Dr=
ayton. Two pints of this stuff and Becks Dark begins to taste like dirty dish water.
***
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
Hal,
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=
shington, D.C. Rest assured I will do so for the next edition, if you so desire.
Regrets we will be unable to attend your party. Were we still in
Massachusetts we might even have made the trip. Certainly it will be
carried off with the usual style.
The real reason I write is to make a suggestion inspired by a recent
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=
r's toilet, another that shows only a giant, unblinking eye. Think of the
possibilities. Your fans could dial up and view your visage, 24 hours a day. Not to mention hypertext access to the vast HH archives=
.
As the HH continues to spread its hegemony over the journalistic world, the possibilities are mindblowing (mindnumbing?). Your pub=
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=
knew of your efforts. Perhaps I'll pass him my latest copy next time I'm at one of his news conferences.
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=
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=
everything into the open.
Pete Lucht
Washington, D.C.
P.S. I will send you the article to which I referred along with a modest financial contribution toward your groundbreaking efforts=
. Perhaps the Speaker himself will call you to Washington for a consultation.
***
Dear HH,
I was delighted to receive my first complimentary copy of your distinguished journal. I laughed, I cried, I was intellectually sti=
mulated and spiritually inspired (better than church). I want to become a regular subscriber but nowhere do I see a rate schedule - =
a wise move since the potential customer must plumb his or her own conscience before dropping a dime on the enterprise. Most reade=
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=
ur color edition, those others who underpay can be culled from your market mix early in the game as undesirable backers. I also susp=
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=
ful and exuberant efforts such as yours.
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=
d his exegesis of the Mike Watt record provocative and powerful in its imagery, although I though his family references a bit reve=
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=
im to take over some other writers' columns. Rose is a winner. And who is Mike Watt?
Thank you.
Earl Rose
Boston, Mass.
Ed. Many thanks for your generous contribution to the Herald Circulation Endowment. You are now a subscriber in good standing. Can=
'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=
ble books. Dr. Rose suffers, we believe, from a rare procrastinatory disorder stemming from the childhood relief of himself in movi=
ng vehicles. It is believed Mr. Watt - bassist for the now-defunct-but-seminal bands fIREhOSE and The Minutmen - suffers from the =
same ailment.
***
Danny!
Thought we'd take this thing for a test drive...
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 =
which an anonymous fellow wrote about three years ago which actually got him
accepted to NYU.
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:
"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.
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.
When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding.
On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of
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.
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 =
dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid.
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. =
I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy.
But I have not yet gone to college.
Ed. This guy should have his own newsletter.
***
(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=
.)
A CLOSE SHAVE AHEAD FOR BURMA?
By FOO LING YU
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).
As one young Burmese informed me, "This is because everywhere is China."
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.
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.
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.
***
(Timothy Laverne Dibble is the Frederich Nietzsche Scholar at Douglas MacArthur University in Big Sur, Calif., and an active partici=
pant in Planned Parenthood.)
NUPTIAL PANDEMIC
By TIMOTHY L. DIBBLE
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.
As the last year has proven, I am such a leader.
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).
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.
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:
* Sept. 17 - Buckovitch/Cuozzo Nuptials, Gloucester, Mass.
* Sept. 23 - Donahue/Cassidy Hoe-down, Aspen, Colo.
* Oct. 7 - Phillips/Vandermay Smoke-in, Great Diamond Island, Maine.
* 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.
***
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=
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=
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=
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=
e fun up here now."
***
IT IS *NOT* JUST LIKE "LOU GRANT"
By Hal Phillips
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=
ually write an episode. Mark Sullivan's adjoining "Postcard Marlboro" reminded me of the central Massachusetts city where, for thr=
ee years, I worked on the local paper:
The story of eight to 10 young editors, reporters and photographers who work for the Press-Chronicle, a 100-year-old newspaper in =
a slowly dying industrial city. Fifty years ago, the city of Eastborough was a self-contained, thriving, albeit sollopsystic communi=
ty that could support a daily paper. "Shoe City," they called it.
Today, the Press-Chronicle barely survives on a dwindling advertising base that mirrors the city's downtown retail substructure. T=
he Press-Chronicle staff sees this analysis clearly, while the middle-aged and elderly Eastborough residents - including a small ba=
tch of long-time employees at the Press-Chronicle - refuse to acknowledge the march of time. They long for the good ol' days when =
the paper was strong, when the city was strong. The young editorial staff members, for whom the Press-Chronicle represents the firs=
t chance at daily newspaper work after apprenticeships at even smaller-time weeklies, see their employ as a momentary stop on the j=
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=
inual ritual. After a honeymoon period, staffers ultimately come to resent the meager pay, long nocturnal hours and petty board meet=
ings on which they report. In fact, the staff is somewhat dumbfounded that many lifelong residents of Eastborough read the Press-Chr=
onicle and the Press-Chronicle only, not the larger, regional dailies. At the same time, the community and long-time Press-Chronicl=
e workers resent the younger staff attitudes. They resent that their paper has become a mere stepping stone for young sprats, wherea=
s they and many of their contemporaries had spent decades working for the paper, raising families in town and contributing to the co=
mmunity. In their eyes, the modern staffers are transient, cynical hyenas who openly laugh at the city's decaying infrastructure and=
self-image.
But this makes the newsroom sound like a crucible for cross-generational venom, which it was not. It was a raucous, lively place d=
ominated by blunt, sometimes guttural humor, strong political beliefs, deadline freneticism and office romance. These sentiments wer=
e rarely the source of confrontation because despite their '90s Easton-Ellis indifference, the young staffers understood the sad pli=
ght of the city and its people. They never confronted Eastboroughites with their cruel insights. Indeed, dwelling on the pathetic st=
ate of Eastborough and the paper which covered it only made more clear the staffers' place on the journalistic ladder: bottom rung.=
Only when they were drunk or wallowing in their generational nihilism would they lash out - to each other - about the nearly exti=
nguished cit y they knew so well. Managing Editor Frank Callahan would often lament his confinement-like tenure in "this miserable, =
fucking berg," then trundle off with his staff to Sully's for a host of latenight cocktails.
***
LAST REED BASH A BLAST
By Hal Phillips
The Goodbye TBR House/Sharon's Birthday bash held April 22 in Portland was an unqualified success, as more than 70 folks packed th=
e top two floors at my former address, 30 Deering St. Ballsy attendees included all those who trekked up from Boston and those memb=
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=
is: "No, I don't actually know Hal. But I've heard of him."
I am content. Danuta Drozdiewicz gets special mention because she showed up with friends and a brand-spanking new bottle of Absolu=
t. She was rewarded with my spot-on pronunciation of her whacky Carpathian sirname: Droz-doo-witz. Fellow newsletter editor and 14=
-year-old provocateur Elise Adams also deserves credit for showing up, though the poor kid had to bring her dad, Peter (who actuall=
y behaved himself very well). Unfortunately for Elise, who arrived and departed quite early in the evening, she didn't experience th=
e evening's full measure of debauchery, i.e. the complete and utter fumigation of my phone booth; Mike Levans and Megan McDonald do=
ing their Liz Taylor/Richard Burton routine; Dave Rose and Levans doing their Westerburg/Stinson routine; and Mark Sullivan moving i=
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=
., grunting intermittently and glaring glassy-eyed at areas somewhere to the left of each other's faces.
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=
e in 1989 when Obvious Reasons played in the basement.
"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 =
fewer brain cells: "Hey, great phone booth dude."
***
(Timothy Laverne Dibble is the Frederich Nietzsche Scholar at Douglas MacArthur University in Big Sur, Calif., and an active partici=
pant in Planned Parenthood.)
NUPTIAL PANDEMIC
By TIMOTHY L. DIBBLE
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.
As the last year has proven, I am such a leader.
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).
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.
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:
* Sept. 17 - Buckovitch/Cuozzo Nuptials, Gloucester, Mass.
* Sept. 23 - Donahue/Cassidy Hoe-down, Aspen, Colo.
* Oct. 7 - Phillips/Vandermay Smoke-in, Great Diamond Island, Maine.
* 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.
***
MOTOWN MOVE FOR "THE OTHER PHILLIPS"
By Hal Phillips
They grow up so fast, don't they?
Yes, brother Matthew has moved to Michigan where, with his knowledge of cars and my contacts in the fertilizer business, he should=
be called in for questioning any day now. Actually, he's taken a job with Darcy, Masius, Benton & Boles (DMB&B), an advertising age=
ncy in the posh Detroit suburb of Bloomfield Hills.
Young Matthew is working on the Cadillac and Pontiac accounts for DMB&B, which is quite a high-powered agency judging from the eye=
-popping reactions I get from those in the know. Indeed, everyone seems to know it by the abbreviations, which is fortunate because=
it's hard to say Darcy, Masius, Benton & Boles but once, much less five times fast. Matthew has found an apartment in another Detro=
it suburb, Royal Oak, where he'll soon be joined by his significant other, the comely Tracy Dowd, who also deserves congratulations.=
Ms. Dowd this spring secured her MBA from Babson College, ending four grueling years of working by day, schooling by night. At thi=
s point, virtually everyone I know possesses an advanced degree except me. ***
Another matrimonial hurdle was cleared over Memorial Day weekend as the Phillips and Vandermay clans gathered on West Lake in Port=
age, Mich., for a casual get-together. I'm happy to report there were no punches thrown and everyone's behaviour was beyond reproac=
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=
rian Michael Vandermay. Unfortunately, the preacher chose this particular Sunday to repeatedly whack the Jews. He probably doesn't c=
ount on very many showing up at his services - certainly not in the front pew.
Aside from that little escapade, the weekend was great; the high point being a huge barbecue featuring all of Sharon's brothers, s=
isters-in-law, aunts and uncles. The Phillips contingent was typically small, but did include brother Matthew who started his new j=
ob the Tuesday after Memorial Day. These parental summits are damned interesting affairs, as each side curiously dips a toe in the g=
ene pool, as it were; gently feeling each other out, determining the taboo and exploiting that which everyone has in common. One wor=
d of advice for anyone dreading one of these future in-law conclave: Bocce.
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=
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=
d.
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=
here's no telling what kind of controversial, unsavory subject might have been raised if people hadn't been lounging about the bocce=
court, watching folks throw big green and red balls at a smaller yellow one.
copyright 1995 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's
worth
---------------------------------815987036136--
