Rootbeer Float, Please

Posted on February 10, 2006 by Jim

I had to stop into a CVS Pharmacy on my way to the gym this morning. I could have chosen one in either Derby, near my Nest, or one in Norwalk near my gym. Quite convenient. Both are open 24 hours a day. That’s important for me. You see, I keep strange hours.

It is rare for me to get home before 10:30 on any night, either in Derby or Woodbury. And I am at the gym as close to 5:00 in the morning as I can get.

My purchases today were quite mundane: shampoo, deodorant and Stars and Stripes flavoured water (with just a bit of sparkle). Of course, if I had wanted to, I could have purchased Valentine cards, candy, food in abundant variety, electronic stuff (not fancy), snow shovels (had it been summer: everything for beach & patio), DVDs, CDs, magazines… I could have dropped off film for development. And… oh yes, actually had a prescription filled. Surprised? Well, after all, it is a drug store.

Fine.

At the gym I put in 3 miles on the tread mill. Nothing fancy. Cut a sweat and warmed up for my 6:00AM yoga class. This was to be my second session.

I had been grousing to a couple of my gym-mates about the increasing loss of flexibility (I grouse about other things; but that need not be described here). Two “brothers-in-sweat”, one younger, one older, both endorsed yoga and its rigorous stretching as something that would help me. And classes are offered at our gym on a pro bono basis.

I checked it out. I loved it.

So here I sit for the second time. On my unfurled floor mat. Sitar music in the background (which I find as soothing as listening to LL Cool J), I am in a position that is somewhere between somewhat and completely uncomfortable. Eyes closed. Our instructor, who truly has a soothing “WQXR” voice, reminds us about breathing, maintaining posture… finding our inner core beginning with our spine as a source for relaxing… “relax fully and seek our place.”

I don’t know about this “inner core” stuff. I am thinking that this is merely meant as a diversion to keep simple folk, like me, from recognizing how uncomfortable they are. Sorry. This “inner core” malarkey is too esoteric for me.

Still, the idea of “our place” is not without merit…

So when I am in the “ultimate land crab” position, also called a pose (something that I will hold for three minutes)… my mind takes a “stroll” to Beck’s Drug Store in New Haven.

Don’t look for it today. It exists no more.

But when I was a kid, it graced the corner of Edgewood and Central, four blocks from our home on Alston. It was an easy walk, even for a little kid… cross McKinley, Alden, Marvel and then Central.

Beck’s was a small place. Even to a little kid like me. The floor was made of tiny hexagonal white tiles. There was a counter with a soda fountain & maybe a half dozen stools. There was also a counter where you picked up prescriptions. And on the wall behind that counter were shelves filled with a small collection of pint and fifth sized bottles of hootch… although at that age, brand identity was not important to me, I can imagine that Dewars, Canadian Club and Beefeaters were represented.

I don’t recall there being anything in the open floor space… no kiosks with greeting cards, or displays with hair spray. I think it was just a place to stand and wait for a stool (although I can’t remember ever having to wait for a stool)… or for your turn to pick up your prescription, or perhaps a fifth of rye.

The presence of spirits for sale in a drug store was a residue of Prohibition. The Volstead Act (our 18th Amendment) which became the Law of The Land on January 29, 1920 prohibited the “manufacture, sale or transportation of intoxicating liquors… for beverage purposes.”

There was, however, no prohibition of alcohol for “medicinal” purposes. No surprise that the period between 1920 and 1933 saw a dramatic rise in sympathetic physicians who would prescribe a “wee dram of the devil that bit ya”.

Well here it is, the 50s and a small neighborhood drug store still dispensed alcohol; but no longer with the need of an Rx.

The presence of a soda fountain, on the other hand, had its origin to the previous century when soda water was considered a healthy tonic. And eventually ice cream became layered in.

Of this I can assure you… when Ian Gordon and I walked into Beck’s, demon rum was not on our minds, a tasty ice cream soda was.

“Can I have a rootbeer float, please?”

*******

You know, you can get a lot at a CVS today; but you can’t get a rootbeer float.

*******

Hey… are three minutes up yet?

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Humor Patrol

Posted on February 1, 2006 by Jim

No one has to remind me the seriousness of finding quality humor in the market place. Even with the advent of the internet, most of what gets passed from one citizen to the next is nothing more than tripe.

And you may think tripe is funny. I don’t. It doesn’t look good, it probably tastes worse than it looks… and it certainly isn’t funny.

It is why I have created the Humor Patrol. An organization dedicated to finding only the funniest examples of humor (not tripe) and presenting them to our subscribers. This way, you will not have to sift thru countless forwarded emails to find one that will split your sides! The Humor Patrol will do that for you!

Now this isn’t an easy task… especially when one considers the amount of tripe that is out there.

But I am sure that you will find the subscription fees perfectly in line with other professional services. The initial payment of $100. American, will be good for the first six months (six months filled with mirth and merriment).

If after receiving two installments of humor and you are not satisfied, your money will grudgingly be returned (less some incidental expenses that have been incurred on your behalf). If, however, you are deemed to be a humorless cur by the Oversight Review Committee, then you will receive an additional billing of $25. to terminate your subscription.

An example of the exceptional quality of this service is provided below. It was discovered by Senior Agents of the Patrol… Alan, working in concert with his brother Stuart. Brothers Cadan have exerted due diligence in their responsibilities, although some of their material is not meant for polite society.

This tale is gender neutral… meaning, that while it is told from one perspective, it can easily be inverted.

 

An 80 year old woman was arrested for shop lifting.

When she went before the judge he asked her, “What did you steal?”

She replied: a can of peaches.

The judge asked her why she had stolen them and she replied that she was hungry.

The judge then asked her how many peaches were in the can.

She replied 6.

The judge then said, “I will give you 6 days in jail.”

Before the judge could actually pronounce the punishment the woman’s husband spoke up and asked the judge if he could say something.

He said, ” What is it? “

The husband said “She also stole a can of peas.”

Posted in Ministry of Humor | 1 Comment

Bongo Charlies

Posted on January 30, 2006 by Jim

Look for it on your map and you won’t find it, and maybe that’s what makes it so special.

To find Bongo Charlies you have to take the main drag out of town heading west. When you reach an old red barn on the right that looks like it had been a target for an artillery range, take the next left.

You will be on a narrow lane, trees to the left and sporadic “homesteads” to the right (you know the sort: boat trailered on the front lawn, a few bikes & riding toys scattered on the gravel drive, screened porch door hanging from a hinge, and any folks you see look like the casting call from Deliverance).

The road twists for a bit and it will feel like you’ve been on it forever; but just short of two miles you’ll “feel the presence of water”, you’ll “smell the sea”, and the road will take a sharp turn to the right to follow the path of the shoreline not yet seen.

But just before the road turns, there is a quick left (you will see a “Dead End” sign), turn on to the road. It’s not far ahead, just about a quarter of a mile.

The road ends in a smallish black square… big enough for about 25 cars to wedge in (although you’ll always find cars parked under trees and pinching into the sand).

Straight to the front is a fifty yard opening to the beach and to the water beyond. The sand is finely grained and in the bright sun, nearly white. In the shallows near the shore, the water is turquoise which transitions to emerald in the mid-distance, before receding to a deep cobalt at a distance.

The trees surrounding the opening and framing the beach are a combination of big pines, scrub pines and some deciduous types mixed in.

For a public place, this is as private as it gets. Just a hand full of folks take advantage of the beach’s quiet charm, and those that do, I am sure are praying that no one else discovers their spot.

To the right you will see the building. From the blacktop the building’s features are but a mere suggestion… from this angle small trees, large perfumed gardenia bushes and shrubs that look like they are from the Jurassic (which suits, since the daytime bartender looks like he is from the Jurassic), and the lush vegetation all but completely obscures the white clapboard siding of the establishment.

An unnecessarily narrow flagstone path on the beachside leads to the entrance. One can only imagine the difficulty in negotiating that path in the wee hours… particularly if you had spent the better part of an evening reviewing the finer points of well made mojitos.

There is a patch of scruffy grass that separates the building from its open portion to sea and sand. There you will see a clutch of those good sized Adirondack chairs easily dispersed… some on the grass, some under trees, some inched on to the beach with an occasional small table placed between.

And now, turn to the entrance… two steps up (also a danger point late in the eve), and there on the door, a small simple hand painted sign hung on a wire proclaiming “Bongo Charlies”. The sign is permanently askew, and woe to the person who tries to straighten it! According to legend, it guarantees bad luck in the love making arts.

Welcome to Bongo Charlies.

Step inside. It’s dark. It’s naturally dark (maybe to deter the insincere?). In the daytime the dark is magnified by the contrast to the brightness of the sun… sun reflected by sand and azure water.

Move to the left. The right brings you to a cozy dinning room… too many retirees there. And even if you are a retiree, why would you want to be surrounded by folks who only saw themselves as retired?

No. Go left. To the bar.

Nothing could be better! A close horseshoe bar… easy for patrons who can “visit” with other patrons across the way; but hell for the bartenders who have to navigate a small workspace to service the thirsty souls.

The bar itself is of thick substantial wood… something that you can put your elbows on and know that the world is good. TV screens are tucked in here and there and only important for major “sporting” contests (you know how it is… CNN covering wars during the day, college hoops by night).

I love the haphazard art and knick knacks that decorate the space. It’s nice to see a proper old fashioned nude hanging in the center of the back bar. How can you not love these paintings of a reclined nude woman (no skinny waif) stretched out in a wooded glen, attended by two bearded men in suffocating vested suits, three little cherubs frolicking with a small dog in the foreground. The title of the canvas? “Picnic in the Country”. I love outdoor dinning.

There are the odd photographs of famous personages, one with a hand written inscription, “Bongo Charlies is the best, and when I’m not sober it’s bester!”

The nautical stuff is to be expected. A handsome brass ship’s telegraph. Heavy block and tackle. Port and starboard lamps. And then my favorite, an unexploded sea mine that sits below the big screen TV. I guess it is meant to discourage guests from messing with the controls.

Then there are the true treasures… a signed report card from the fourth grade; and old photograph, brown with age, of this family standing in front of an old building with suitcases, trunks & packages pile high; a Sandy Koufax baseball card; and old lacrosse stick made of wood and gut; a recipe for fish soup; a Pith Helmet; and a map of the United States printed in Russian.

The overall impression of the place is one of warmth, easy hospitality and humor. You feel welcome. You feel you have come home.

So look me up there one day… I’d like to see you.

If I’m not at my spot on the corner stool… step outside into the starlit night… I’ll be in one of the Adirondack chairs, sitting with my Dad, listening to the water curl onto shore, breathing deep & taking inventory of the stars.

Bongo Charlies — a slice of heaven.

Posted in Stories & Brief Tales | Leave a comment

The Child’s Playground

Posted on January 23, 2006 by Jim

I am no different than any kid growing up… I just did it in the 50s. When I was a kid there were no Nintendo games, or PCs, or computer games.

Different times I guess. What amuses us, or how we seek to be amused.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not one to complain. As an “adult”, I found great joy in the Legend of Zelda and the Oregon Trail… two games that we had for the kids that I fancied.

But as a kid, my world was largely one of my invention… the simplest of “props” would be the source for hours of play.

Take our staircase, for example… from our downstairs hall 10 stairs to the landing, and another 4 stairs up to the second floor hall. It was fully carpeted. This you must know, or what follows will appear more ridiculous than it actually was.

But first, a small, but somewhat related digression. When was the last time you rolled down a hill? You know… spread yourself out, and let gravity take its course… slowly at first, and then accelerating as your form rolls down the grassy hill like a log… bumping hither and yon. For the record, I did it in front of Suzy’s dorm last year. She has a perfect hill made for this activity. One sunny afternoon I was waiting for Suzy to come down from her room and I saw some little kids rolling down the hill and giggling… what can I say? I couldn’t resist.

When I was a kid, our staircase took on the form of an indoor hill. No grass. Just carpet. I would go half way up, pick a stair of my choosing, sit down, give myself a little forward push, let momentum take over, and thump my way to the bottom. Sometimes I would begin the journey from the stair at the landing.

But if I decided to make my “run” from the landing, more often than not, I would flip over to my belly, spread out length wise… and slide down the stairs… somewhat like a human “slinky”.

These forms of staircase play would occupy me briefly… you know your tush or belly can only take so much of a beating.

When I got a bit older, our staircase morphed into a field for athletic contests. I must have seen Paul race into the house and run up the stairs two and three at a time. And while he may have been the inspiration, my pursuit of excellence in this endeavor was purely solitary. I spent many an hour running up those stairs.

I can remember the joy when I was finally able to do three stairs. And then there was the day when I began my approach from the den, picking up speed in the living room and then jumped three steps followed by another three!

The real test would be to make the landing in three jumps. This I couldn’t do until I was a teenager… four steps (that was hard enough), followed by three and then another three.

“Downhill” events were also part of the sport. There was not much variety here… it was simply a matter of what stair you would use as a launch pad to the hall below… and, of course, how far into the hall did you land.

Quite unintentionally I set the record in this event in 1966, my senior year at Hamden Hall. Earlier in the day I had broken my leg on the gridiron. After the game, Paul (it was the only time he saw me play football) took me to the hospital where a cast was put on my left leg from my toes to mid-thigh. My football career was at an end.

But that not withstanding, I was scheduled to take Ellen to our homecoming dance that night (it was to be our first formal date). Back at the house I changed, I knew I was running late, I was rushing and not yet skilled in the art of using crutches…

I fell down the stairs face first. That would be from stair #8… clearly a record. Although not great distance into the hall.

It was a miracle that I sustained no further injury, save to my pride.

Well… you know, no one ever got hurt playing Legend of Zelda… and pride is but a small matter when you consider the glories of the staircase.

Let me think about this for a second… OK, here it is… One part heart, one part athletic ability, two parts imagination & give me a staircase any day.

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