Up Your Knowledge! with Bob Lacey

A Day with my Daughter

My middle child Ally was home from college recently. The way it usually goes is like this: Ally arrives sometime near dusk, drops her stuff at her mom’s and goes out Friday night with her friends. She comes in late and sleeps till eleven. Then it’s to the mall with friends. On Saturday evening at six I get a call saying “Can we move our dinner together up from seven-thirty to six-fifteen?”  This is not to accommodate my early morning hours, but rather allow her to go to a party she was just invited to.

I understand. If I were she, I’d rather be with my friends than a long dinner with daddy. Her friends will provide laughs, gossip, and I am afraid, beer. I will provide the very latest statistics on the dangers of smoking, drinking, speeding, tanning, urban crime, rural crime, plus questions concerning her grades, cell phone usage and why there was a 22 dollar charge by her bank for an overdraft. I will be informed that one of her friends used her bank card “by mistake”, and that she is going to straighten it all out on Tuesday and the bank will actually owe her money. I end up understanding less about the overdraft problem than I do Portuguese politics.

Well, I decided I’d had enough. I plotted a little day trip with her. I was going to take her to the house she was born in and had not seen since she was four years old. The house is about 45 minutes away, so, with lunch it will take most of the afternoon. I must not let her know what my plan is.

I picked Ally up and said, “I’m going to take you to see a place you will love just before lunch.” She smiled and said “O.K.” not really concentrating on what I just said.

After about 20 minutes on a highway south she started to wonder where we were going. “What is this place I’m going to love?”

“It’s the house you were born in.” I blurted out, figuring she was too far away from home to jump out of the car to avoid a trip down the most horrible street known to womankind…. DAD’S MEMORY LANE!

We arrived at the neighborhood and I was really excited. Ally was kind of into it too. I was curious if the people living there now had changed it much. Gigi and I built it when we were married just two years. It was designed by us to feel like a big beach house you would find at Hilton Head. It had wide-open rooms, eleven-foot ceilings, and each child had their own bedroom. There was a guest room and a working fireplace in the master bedroom. The decks were on two levels with a ten-mile view of sunset over a distant golf course fairway. I had a great TV job and we were on our way.

We pulled up to the house and I said “Well, that’s it.”

“It’s so pretty!” she said.

I told her those three maple trees in the front yard were planted by me the summer she was born. They were now over twenty feet tall. I loved that. I showed her, which room was hers, and how a lighting strike blew a window out, and that glass shattered into her crib while she slept.

I showed her where we used to walk our Alaskan husky Stoli, and how I walked her for hours and hours up and down the streets around the neighborhood to calm her down from the colic she had during her first year.

“Why did we leave here?” she asked.

“I think we just needed to be closer to town.” I answered.

We had lunch and I drove her back to her mom’s place. She gave me a big hug and said she had a great time and that I should write about it. Or something else, as long as I talked about her. With that she laughed and went inside.

I looked at her mom’s townhouse and thought; it’s nice, but a lot smaller. And back at my condo I thought this is cool, but I could put three of these in that house we used to have. When most people spilt, one of the first shocks is the downscaling of where you live.

If I am to be honest with myself, I have to admit there was a little part of me that wanted Ally to see that house because of it’s size. To remember that I was able to pull off a place like that for the family. With most kids, bigger is always better.

A few weeks later I visited Ally at the apartment she shares with four other girls at school. Her space is tiny, not much bigger than a large closet.

“I love my room!” she beamed. “Thank you so much, daddy.”

I have come to realize that yes, kids would like to have parents with a big house, but in the long run, given a choice, they would prefer parents with big hearts, that are always there, wherever we live.

It was Twenty Years Ago Today.....

  It Was Twenty Years Ago Today......

My father died twenty years ago this week. He was in the hospital with a quarter-sized cancer on his lung. We were hoping for a successful chemotherapy treatment, but he had a heart attack before it could begin. So what got him was a combination of  Kent cigarettes and his own hyper-tense personality. He was 62.

I'll never forget how I got the news. My new wife Gigi and I were moving from an apartment to a house we were building. She was pregnant with our second child Ally. Landon our first, was not yet two.

We didn't have that much furniture, so I was doing the move with the help of a guy from a day labor pool.  His name was Dave.

He was stocky, with a 2-day growth, and a mottled complexion that made his face looked bruised. His hair was mid-ear with a shock that drooped over his forehead. He looked around 55, but was probably 40. Dave said he lived in the men's shelter. He complained that the food was fatty or full of sugar.

"They give you anything that's donated. We get a lot of supermarket cakes. They figure it fills us up."

As I was loading our couch onto the back of the truck, Gigi ran up. She was in tears.

"Your father just died! I am so sorry!" And she held me.

I just stood there.

After about a minute or so, I looked at Dave through my tears. This guy was a drunk. Probably a bad one. He was fighting his disease every day. Living on the streets or in a shelter if he stayed sober. I am sure the 50 bucks or whatever I was going to pay him meant a lot, but he looked at me and said, "I understand if you need to not work right now."

I looked at him again.

"No, let's finish." Gigi got into gear preparing to go to comfort my mother, and to be with my brother and sister.

Dave and I drove to the new house in silence for about ten minutes, then he asked, "What did your daddy die of?"

"Cancer from cigarettes. And probably stress," I answered.

Dave nodded. He kept his Kools in his pocket for the rest of the move.

I learned later my father's heavy drinking made the poison from the cigarettes even more virulent. Alcohol and tobacco combine to kill you even faster. From a health standpoint, the difference between my father and Dave was just a matter of degree.

My father was not an easy person to relate to. You couldn't tell him anything. I guess he figured if the Nazis couldn't kill him, neither could Lorillard or R.J. Reynolds. He was wrong.

I miss him though. For years later, every so often I would have a question about a plumbing problem, or a banking mystery, and I would reach for the phone, only to realize he was not there. All old habits are hard to break.

I am sometimes mad at him. He never met Ally, or John. Never saw my first house, or heard me with Sheri, or left my mother with any insurance. We all missed out on a lot. I am very thankful to have had such a wonderful radio career. It has made our lives better.

About a year after he died I was picking up some dinner at a restaurant in Charlotte called Alexander Michaels. While waiting in the bar, I had a beer. A woman I used to work with saw me and came over to ask about my daughters.

"They are so much fun," I replied smiling, as I lit the cigarette between my lips and inhaled the poison.

She stared at me for a moment and said, "Don't you want to see them graduate high school?"

That was the last cigarette I ever smoked. Twenty years ago, next year.

Getting His License

My son John went to get his license a few days ago. Any parent knows there is only one thing good about your kid driving. YOU don't have to pick him up as much. Everything else is a negative. You are worried about his safety, you are wondering where he is, you are worried about his safety, you hope he doesn't crack up the car and run up the insurance bill, which in my case with two college- age daughters and now a 16 year old boy, is approaching Bolivia's national debt. And you worry about his safety.

With my two daughters we let the dates where they could drive slip a little by getting them their learners permits late. No such scam with John. He knew to the minute when he was eligible to drive, and let us know too.

Off John and I went to the DMV on Friday afternoon. There is nothing better than finishing up a long week of getting up at 4:30 am every day with a visit to the good 'ol DMV. The plastic chairs, the sullen folks without the right papers, the picture of the Governor on the wall, I dreaded it. But luck was with me! A listener called to tell me if I went to a smaller office outside of town it would be better. We did and it was!

A wonderful man with a great sense of humor was John's DMV Test Officer.

"Son, does it look like fun when your mom and dad drive?" He inquired.

"No " replied John.

"Then why in the world would you want to drive?" he asked with a smile.

"So I can free myself from their rusting chains that keep me from the life I know I am meant to live!!!" said John.

He didn't really say that, but I am guessing he thought it.

John passed easily. He is a great driver, which I take credit for. At the age of 8 I had him driving the golf cart with me when the pro couldn't see us.

That night was John's first to drive alone. I told him, "I am going to give you 'The Talk.' And I did, ending with the command to call me a couple of times, and to be home by 9:00 PM, which is law for the first six months. At 9:00 pm his car turns into a pumpkin, and if he is not home, I turn into Charles Bronson with a bad case of hemorrhoids.

I watched as he drove away at 6:30 in the 1996 Ford Explorer with 147,OOO miles on it.  It was an old car Kristen used to haul stuff in. She gave me the Friend's and Family discount. I had it painted Jet Black.

Two hours later John called.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm tailgating."

"What?"

"I'm tailgating at the football game."

I  smiled at the idea of a 16 year old with the tailgate open and a six pack of Red Bull in the back.

He was hanging out, looking so cool. With his own car.

I closed the cell phone and stood there in the kitchen for a few minutes. I drifted back to the first month I had a license. We had one car in our family, a burgundy Pontiac convertible, the only really nice thing my father owned.

On a Friday night he reluctantly gave me permission to take his prized jewel out. I picked up my best friends Paul Miserindino, Richie Carleton and Peter Walen. We also jammed two girls into the car and the six of us headed to downtown New Haven to see a rock band. I cut through a state  park. The park had tight, winding roads and after a mile or two I took a corner too fast and slid into a brick retaining wall. Everyone was O.K., but I had done a fair amount of damage to the Bonneville's driver's side.

Later that night I walked leaden-foot into our tiny house to face my father. He was still up reading the paper. The cigarette smoke drifted up from over the top of the New Haven Register. A can of Ballentine beer at his side on the small table next to his chair.

"I had a small accident" I choked out.

He said nothing.

"I'm sorry." I said.

After a moment, "Novice drivers."

The next day I got a job at the IHOP as a busboy and spent the next six months paying off the repairs.

If you think I am going to regret John reading that his father cracked up a car at his age, don't. Teen-age boys don't read much, and this week Halo 3 is out. I'm covered.

WorldVision - Dominican Republic

I remember the first time I went into the home of a poverty stricken person.  It was in the late 1980's in the woods of the Appalachian Mountains in North Carolina.  I was with a TV crew doing a story on the poorest of the poor during Christmas time.  We were led to a structure that looked more like a shed than a house.  Rough hewn wood with some sort of metal roof.  The door opened as we approached.  A women stuck her head out to see who was coming.  She was told we wanted to tell the story of her suffering, which we did.  It was in the 20's outside, so she only opened the door a crack.  When we were a few feet from the door she opened it a bit wider for us to enter.  I don't remember her name, she looked about 50 but was probably in her early 30's.

What struck me right away was how dark it was inside.  There was only one light on and a little natural light streaming from a couple of small windows.  My eyes took a few seconds to adjust from the glare of the frozen snow outside.

The air was heavy with sickness, a wood burning stove fighting the cracks in the walls that were wide enough to let in cold drafts and fading daylight.

Without speaking she moved me toward an even darker room.  I stopped at the doorway not knowing what was in there.  I felt nervous.  How should I act?  I didn't want these people to think I was shocked by how they lived or that I was there to belittle them with that intimidating TV camera.  There on a bed lay an old man.  How old? 60? 70? 80? He was dressed in a gray shirt and stayed under some ratty, thread-bare blankets.  His thinning gray hair was uncombed and his face looked unshaven for several days.  He locked eyes on me and we just stared at each other for what seemed like forever.

"I am here to tell your story" I said.

He didn't respond, just continued to stare at me.

"He's real sick" the women said.  A deep cough from the man backed her up.

We took shots of the house and briefly interviewed the women who turned out to be the old man's daughter.  He was dying of emphysema, lung cancer or both.

As we left I reached into my wallet and gave her ten of the fifteen bucks I had on me.  She looked at me and nodded.  She said nothing.  I loved her dignity.

Last month Sheri and I went to the absolute poorest place I have ever been.  The slums of the Dominican Republic.  Our friend and guide walked us down a wet mud street to a tiny shack made of scrap metal.  As we approached I thought back to that freezing day in Appalachia.

Again I was worried about how we would be perceived.  The idea of other humans on display because of their despair repulses me. I didn't need to worry.

A smiling grandmother warmly met us at the entrance.  There was no door.  We walked into a two room structure.  There was a pot of something heating on an ancient stove.  Because the place was made of metal it had to be close to a hundred degrees inside.  The grandmother pulled up two chairs and motioned for us to sit down.  A little boy about five played on the bed in the only other room in the house.  He had shinny dark hair and eyes like big chocolate drops.

The grandmother told us his mother, her daughter, died of AIDS eight months ago.  The little boy was born with AIDS.  Her life was to care for her grandchild.  She made money by selling a few pieces of fruit and whatever came her way at a little stand outside the shack.  On a good day she might pull in a dollar.  On a bad one nothing.  On a dollar they could survive for a couple of days.

We visited for about a half hour, holding the boy, taking pictures, and meeting some of his friends who had gathered with great curiosity outside.  I wondered the obvious.  How long will this lovely childs path be, and how hard?

When we left, I quietly gave the grandmother the twenty-two dollars I had on me.  A little more than half of what I pay for a haircut.  She nodded her head.  I love the dignity.

What struck me was this; White, black, cold, hot, father, daughter, grandmother, son.  The poorest among us all want the same thing.  To survive.  And if God blesses them, to live with a tiny amount of human dignity.

You can learn more about World Vision and view videos and photos of our trip at www.bobandsheri.com/worldvision.

New York, New York

Novelist Truman Capote once wrote, “New York is the only real city city.” I know what he means. Nowhere else in the world does your rhythm pick up as soon as you enter it. I’ve spent time in Paris, Madrid, Rome, Cairo, and Birdsville, Australia, and nowhere else do you get the feeling “I am at the center of civilization” except New York. One of the hoods on The Sopranos said, “Boston is Scranton with clams” (compared to New York). I agree, and I’m a Red Sox fan.

Recently Kristen and I spent three days in the city. That’s what you call New York if you live anywhere near it as I did as a kid. She had not been to New York since she was 12 and didn’t remember much, so I got to do my tour guide bit, which I admit I enjoy.

I had access to a cool apartment on the East side within walking distance of Central Park, the 5th Ave stores and three hundred dogs who relieve themselves each morning on the streets. Most of the owners do a good job of cleaning up after their pets, but I never could figure out why anyone would want a dog in New York City. It’s like having a teenager at a retirement home. No one wins.

We went on the ferry ride to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. I’ve been to the Statue several times and I always am in awe of it. Say what you want about the French, but they gave us four great things: Lafayette, The Statue, French Cuisine and nasty lingerie.

Ellis Island was a surprise. It was great to see where my relatives stood in line to enter America, but it is mostly empty. The place was abandoned for many years and the furnishings are for the most part gone. Still, it is amazing to walk the halls and see the story of how so many of our people passed through this one tiny island to struggle for the freedom that allows their great-grandchildren to ignore their parents’ cell phone calls.

The view of the Financial District from the ferry is wonderful. After our ride, we walked from The Battery along the mouth of the Hudson River to a lovely area with parks, restaurants, a marina and a great view of the refurbished riverside towns in New Jersey. Lower Manhattan.  After lunch I told Kristen, “ Let’s walk a bit more, and then I’ll get a cab.” We strolled two blocks and there it is. Ground Zero. It is very easy to find, look for the tall cranes, listen for construction noise, and taste the dust in the air. It was the worst event that happened in many of our lives, and it is hard to believe that we are still looking for that ugly devil.

On Kristen’s birthday I took her to The Russian Tea Room. The place was one of the most famous spots for dinner, drinks and celebrities about twenty years ago. It closed for a while but has reopened, and the over-the-top splendor of the place remains. Bright red leather banquettes, shimmering chandeliers decorated with Christmas tree bulbs, gold painted trim, all explode visually when you walk through the door.  Portions are small, prices are high, but the food was very good.  Kristen looked great in a soft emerald green dress, which worked perfectly with the strong Christmas colors of the Tea Room. I had on my navy blazer and a white shirt with a blue and orange tie. Other people were similarly dressed, except the guy with the pretty girl at the table in front of us. They were both about twenty. She wore a simple beige summer dress and he wore cargo shorts, an old gray t-shirt, sandals and a ball cap. He probably has more money in a trust fund than I will earn all my life. There are no dress codes in America anymore. You can probably get served at the best restaurant in New York if you walked in wearing a jock strap with a cactus up your ass.

We also ate at the Grand Central Station Oyster Bar. Wonderful chowders and a look back at what life was like for travelers in the 1930’s.

My favorite new thing in the city is a large sculpture of the famous photo of construction guys taking a lunch break on a steel beam high above the streets with no safety harnesses. The photo is freaky-scary and the sculpture, which is right around the corner from Carnegie Hall, is a good likeness. It’s on the street and you can sit on it like you are one of the guys.

Just before we left I went by Bloomingdale’s to see if I could pick up a cool clothing item for the fall that you could only find in New York. I noticed a lot of waist- length leather jackets that were great looking. I picked one out, and then noticed the price. $2,300.00. That is right at the cost of a semester at college for my daughter Ally. I didn’t get it. But I bet that kid with the trust fund at The Russian Tea Room will. And he will lose it.

A Tale of Two Cities

I have been on the road a little bit this summer, and recently visited two of my favorite cities, Minneapolis and New York.

Sheri and I went to Minneapolis for a mid-west radio convention called the Conclave. I love hanging out with radio guys because you know you are never underdressed. A radio guy will walk into a fancy dinner in a chandelier-lit ball room wearing cargo shorts and a Big Johnson t-shirt he slept in the night before. This same guy will be the first to ask at a seminar,”Why is it management doesn’t take me seriously?”  It’s because you look like you run the Tilt-A-Whirl for Col. Fuzz’s Freak Show you knucklehead.

That said, some of the seminars were great, especially the one Sheri led on building a solid morning show. She was very funny as the M.C., and had many insightful things to say about our wonderful business. I overheard several people complain that she didn’t talk about me enough, but you know how petty some people can be.

Another seminar featured a fairly popular talk show host who is mostly known for being a pompous blowhard. He regaled us with his many radio exploits, including one where he played a trick on his audience by telling them he was going to throw cats out of a helicopter. Oh how the local animal lovers went nuts. He said the news and protesters showed up to cover and protest this event, and then at the last minute he told them it was all a trick! HA! HA! HA! on you audience! Stupid audience! Sheri and I didn’t know that pissing off the audience was a way to get more popular, and because he makes a lot more money than we do, we are taking a page from this great broadcaster’s book. Next month we are going to sneak-up on squirrels all over town and set their tails on fire!

Guess who I met at The Conclave….Bob Eubanks from the Newlywed Game! Wow! I remember watching him when I was a teen-ager! He was hawking a radio version of the old game show and speaking at a seminar. At one of the big parties someone walked Bob over to meet me, and it was so much fun to talk to him. Sure it was a real cheesy show, but the guy is a game show legend. We talked about how great the name Bob is, and I mentioned that even though I have five kids with two women, none of my kids is named Bob. Bob Eubanks nodded and said, “I know what you mean; my new wife and I have a three-year-old.” Bob is somewhere around seventy. When he told me he had a baby I thought of him doing the Newlywed Game.

“Couples, what word comes to mind when you hear about a seventy-year-old man having babies?”

Couple number one…..”Pathetic?”

Couple numbers two…..”Tired?”

Couple numbers three….”Awesome?”

“That’s right couple number three! It is awesome to have babies at seventy! You won a cheap washer and dryer to wash those nasty diapers in once you join me in parenthood!”

I thought Bob looked great, and I was really glad to meet him.

On my off time I ran by the Mississippi River, admired the restored mills, marveled at the city park with the sculpture gardens, saw The Mary Tyler Moore statue (her show was supposed to take place in Minneapolis), and took a light-rail train to the Mall of America. The Mall has everything your mall has times ten. The MOA even has an indoor amusement park complete with a giant roller coaster so you can throw up two times. Once on the coaster, and once at the wall pictures at Abercrombie and Fitch.
I love Minneapolis and I hope if you have never been there that you go sometime. The shopping at the mall and downtown is great, the Twins play, and the restaurants are terrific, unless you go to the Italian chain like we did. I still have heartburn.

Next time I will tell you about my trip to N.Y.C. The Mall of the World.

My Old House

My dear friend Sheri loves to go to New Home Shows. You know the scene: a developer or charity takes over a house and shows you how to have a home that makes your friends feel like crap when they come over. A full in-home gym, a home theater with actual movie seats and a 108-inch flat-screen TV, six bathrooms, and an indoor kitchen with a Sub-Zero. I’m talking about the heart of the woman who lives there, not the appliance.

I never go to New Home Shows. I go to Old Home Shows. My old homes.

Next month I am going to another Old Home Show with my girlfriend Kristen. Or as my friends will call her - my next nostalgia victim.

It all started about ten years ago when I had a dad-daughter vacation in New York City with Landon who was nine years old at the time. We saw the Empire State Building, FAO Schwartz and ate in a cool restaurant in Little Italy. She asked me where I lived when I was her age, and I told her about an hour and a half away.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         The next day we were pulling off I-95 to drive down the main street of Old Lyme, Connecticut. My family lived there for only three years, but it was a tumultuous time. We lost everything we owned in a bad restaurant investment and ended up living in an old converted one-room schoolhouse that came with the restaurant. It was located right across the street on what was called the Shore Road, a blissful stretch of highway that brought nothing but misery to my family.

As Landon and I drew closer to the scene of my father’s financial ruin, I got a queasy feeling. Why was I choosing to show her this particular house out of all the places we lived? Why not the nicer houses, with memories associated with happier times?  I hadn’t set foot in this town for fifteen years. I hated this place more than Dick Cheney hates the New York Times. I still remember the day we were evicted, and the sheriff knocking on the door asking if I knew where some of the plates and all of the liquor bottles were.

We came around the corner, and I knew at the crest of the hill was the Alamo of my childhood security…. “Schlosser’s Countryside by the Sea,” the absolute worst name I have ever heard for a restaurant. “The Rancid Clam” would have been better. “Bob’s Crap on a Bun” would have been better.

“It’s right at the top of this hill, Landon,” I said in a voice that was a mix of excitement and dread.  I pulled into the parking lot and there it was. Actually there it wasn’t. The restaurant was gone. I got out of the car held Landon in my arms.  She had no shoes on and there were nails and rocks all over the lot. Either the place burned down or it was razed. There is an old restaurant joke about two partners, Manny and Sal.

Manny: “Sal, we only had two customers Monday.”
Sal: “Yeah.”
Manny: “And only one customer Tuesday.”
Sal: “Yeah.”
Manny: “Think it will go?”
Sal: “It should. It’s made of wood.”

I felt an odd disappointment that I couldn’t stare that old dump in the eye one more time and spit contempt at it. Then I realized how perfect the moment was. I had built a successful life in Charlotte, a new and beautiful city. I was doing what I loved, and I was holding a beautiful child who would not have to wash dishes, clean lobsters, sweep floors, and lie to a sheriff. We needed those plates. The nasty past was burned to the ground and I was holding my future.

“Where is your house daddy?” asked Landon.

I swung around and said “Across the street, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it’s pretty.” Landon said.

And it was. Someone had restored the little place and planted some colorful flowers throughout the front yard.

“Where was your room daddy?”

“On the right, Landon. Really, it was a closet that we used as my room. The house only had one bedroom and my mom and dad had that.”
Landon asked if she could sleep in her closet. I hugged her and said yes.

Over the next few years I would return to Connecticut now and then to visit friends, and drive by one or more of the houses I used to live in.

I was even invited into two of them by friendly people who happened to be working outside at the time of my drive-by. It was fascinating to see the house with the sunny little living room my grandmother held me in as a baby. The house where my birthday party with the pony was held. The house where the police came to demand my rock band stop practicing at two a.m.

My kids have all been on “Dad’s Old Home Tours,” and have slowly found much more stimulating things to do with their friends. I can’t blame them. They did their time, and got a feeling for my past.  Last year I took the tour alone for one day, and then picked up my friend Geoff and we drove to see the Red Sox play at Fenway. Every year that I go, I say it will be my last. I pronounce I am done searching the pentimento of a strange youth spent, but I know that is a lie.

Kristen is in my life now, and there are seafood joints to be introduced, rocky beaches to be walked, and old houses to be checked on.

This July we are staying for a night at the Old Lyme Inn, a charming spot in one of the most picturesque villages in all of New England. I can’t wait to show her the Revolutionary era buildings I used to race my bike by, to savor the cherrystone clams, and to listen for the voice of my father’s ghost telling me to pull a crate of lobsters out of the walk-in freezer.

Dick Trickle for President!

A few years ago a radio personality who was arrested for sending his maid out on the streets to buy drugs for him, told me that there was no such thing as a political moderate, only far right-wing people who were always right, and far left-wing people who were always wrong.

He said the far right-wing people loved America, and the far left-wing people loved Communists and wanted to have very dirty sex with anyone named Kennedy or Clinton.

He said people in the middle did not really exist. You were one or the other.

This confused me because I have voted for both Republicans and Democrats. I feel conservative on some issues, and liberal on others.

I am very proud of the way our men and women in uniform have served our country. They know this is an unpopular war and yet they do their jobs with bravery, skill and dignity. They should be treated with honor.

I like the idea of student loans for college. Since this has been privatized, some unscrupulous lenders have screwed some kids with quite high interest rates. I hope our government watches this more closely. I got a low interest government-backed loan for college from the Industrial National Bank, and I paid it off in three years. I always appreciated the opportunity.

I am conflicted over the death penalty. On the one hand it seems barbaric, and yet when I think of that animal that buried that little girl alive, I could kill him myself with my bare hands.

I can see why people want the right to bear arms, but I don’t know why we need to allow assault weapons that our police departments hate. Even the NRA is coming around on this one after Virginia Tech.

I wish more of our wetlands could be kept out the hands of developers and put into a protected state, and yet I agree with President Bush about exploring the possibility of new nuclear reactors. The nuke power program France has seems to have worked well.

I used to love the stories years ago about the meetings between then House Leader Tip O’Neil and then President Ronald Reagan. The icon of new conservatism and the standard bearer of old time liberalism would, from time to time, sit and drink a scotch together, and no doubt argue about issues. Two men with nothing in common but the respect each held for the others commitment to his beliefs, and an Irish ancestry.

That seems to be gone today. Maybe forever. I can’t see Harry Reid helping President Bush clear brush at the ranch and then knocking down lemonade together. We Americans now want our politics played like our sports. Either you are on my team or you are the enemy.

As a Red Sox fan, I am not allowed to appreciate A-Rod. He is a worthless showboat in Red Sox Nation. And so is Johnny Damon, the bastard traitor.

I don’t think we will ever go back to political civility again. The screaming heads on radio and TV won’t allow it. Neither will the single-issue people, or the political advisers like Rove. Too much money involved for them. They only make money when there is hate to broil. Believe me, I see it everyday.

I have decided to not fight the new ways. In fact, I have come up with a fiscally brilliant idea based on our love of sports!

I want all our candidates to dress in either blue or red jumpsuits, depending on their political persuasion. Like a NASCAR driver, each candidate would slap a patch on his or her suit representing some company or organization that supports him or her.

For instance, John Edwards could have a “Gee your hair smells terrific” patch.  Hillary could choose from dozens of Hollywood studios for patches, as could Fred Thompson. As a Mormon, Mitt Romney would be a natural for bike companies and producers of white short -sleeved shirts. With all these endorsements we could end the election reform problem forever!

In the end though, it probably doesn’t matter. It looks like in a couple of years the White House will be occupied by a New Yorker, one-way or the other. Rudy is the front-runner for the GOP, Hillary the front-runner for the Dems, and Bloomberg the billionaire mayor of the Apple has just gone Indie, and will probably run too.

The next President of the United States…will be a New Yorker. That ought to piss off about 75 percent of the population beyond the Hudson River.

Start spreading the news, it’s gonna get ugly.

A Visit to the Jail

A friend of mine is in jail. He is the only person I have ever been friends with who has spent more than a night or two behind bars. I will call him Hal.

I met Hal quite a few years ago at a golf club where we both used to play. He was a much better player than I, and was kind enough to help a neophyte conquer the initially frustrating techniques a beginning golfer must learn, so he can move along to the next set of frustrating techniques.

Hal was a salesman and did a lot of business on the golf course. He was a natural comic, fast with a bawdy joke told with a big smile, which revealed bright white teeth framed by a deep golden golfer’s tan. The kind of guy who women gravitate toward at a party. He was engaged twice, but slipped the rope both times. He was also a drunk. His favorite line was “I always stop drinking for a month every year. February, the shortest month.” This was his attempt to manage his alcoholism.

It didn’t work. Hal was stopped for DUI a couple of years ago. Then he was stopped again, and his license was suspended. And then it happened. Police spotted his car late at night as he headed home from a bar. They ran the plates and discovered the suspended license. Bottom line…. he was driving drunk for the third time and with a suspended license. The judge gave him fourteen months in jail.

Guys like Hal have a lot of buddies, and his close ones show up with regularity for jail visits. But after a few months, and with better weather warming golf courses, his closer buds started calling his less close buds. That’s when my phone rang.

Hal’s close friend: “Bob you don’t know me but I’m a friend of Hal’s.”
Me: Right.
Friend: ”Hal, as you know, is a guest of the state and could really use some new company. Several of us trade off seeing him on the weekends, but to be honest, we’ve got this traveling game that in two weekends is at Myrtle Beach, and to make a long story short, can we count on you to go see Hal?”
Me: Sure.

Can we count on you? Very clever. What kind of guy wants to be known as a man who can’t be counted on? What kind of guy would turn his back on some poor schlub who was in a miserable cell with God know who in the next bunk.  I had not seen Hal in several years, but off I went for a weekend in another city, in another state, for my first visit inside a jail.

I found the place without any trouble.  It was just on the outskirts of town. Visiting hours were one to three, and I sat in the parking lot for about an hour thinking about how a guy I used to ride in a golf cart with could find himself here. Golf course restaurants generally have pretty mediocre food, but I’ll bet Hal would give about anything for a ham and cheese sandwich, fries and an Arnold Palmer Lemonade. I also thought about what to say to him. “How are you?” seemed ridiculous. He might be too embarrassed to talk about what he is going through.  Maybe I’ll tell him about my life. My girlfriend, and my trip to Maine coming up. Get his mind off of where is. No! That is stupid! Why would I talk about women and travel to a guy living behind bars with other men!! As I walked toward the entrance to the jail I had no idea how I was going to fill the next two hours.

From my car in the lot the facility looked no more threatening than a middle school. But as I got nearer, the razor wire above the metal fencing became more obvious and serious. The quiet of the countryside was broken now and then by a shout, or a metal door slamming shut. I admit, I was a little uneasy.

I opened the double door to the office area and walked into a surprisingly small room that again had a middle school feel to it. In the right corner of the room was a large window with a sheriff’s deputy leaning against the counter. Not that big a guy. About 28 or so. His face wore a mask that said “I’ve seen and heard enough B.S. for a life time. I don’t care what you brought, what you forgot, or how you feel. Here, we go by the book.” He gave me a form to fill out.

“You can sit over there,” he said, motioning toward a bank of gray plastic chairs set against a beige cement block wall. On the opposite wall was a rudimentary mural that covered the entire wall. It was done in gaudy, almost psychedelic colors, and depicted several people walking up a golden hill. Each of the people was either Hispanic or African-American. Along the sides of the golden road was a school, smiling family members, a church and for some reason bikes and birds. The only white face was a middle-age man giving a diploma to a Hispanic appearing male. Political correctness had not made much of an impression here.

I filled out the form which basically explained who I was, and sat down on the gray plastic chair. In a couple of minutes an older guard poked his head from behind the counter and growled at me, “You need to wait outside.” I shot up and went out to lean against the brick wall. In a few minutes other visitors started to arrive. They were closer to the actual time we would be let in. First, an African-American family. I guessed a brother, mother and grandmother.  Then a very pretty brunette woman about twenty-five and a little blond girl I thought to be her daughter. After that around ten to fifteen other people showed up representing a cross section of today’s America.

After about thirty minutes we were one by one called inside. I was asked to pull out the pockets of my pants and walk through a metal detector. Then I walked into a small space where I was sealed, as the sliding metal door closed behind me. A second door opened where another young sheriff’s deputy with the same “I don’t need to hear it” face greeted me. He searched me and directed me to a room about the size of a company lunchroom. More gray plastic chairs ringed it. I sat and waited for my friend. First to the room was a white guy who I guess was the husband of the pretty brunette. Then it was Hal. Another deputy walked him in. I must say this was handled with as much respect as one could hope for, given the situation. Hal was wearing street clothes, jeans and a light blue short-sleeved shirt. He waved and smiled when he saw me.

“How ya doin?” Hal asked, in a relaxed surprisingly happy tone.
“I’m great, thanks,” I said.
“Thanks for coming, I know this sucks, blowing a weekend.”
“No, it’s fine, I found a great little mom and pop place for breakfast.”

We talked non-stop for two hours, and he did most of the talking. He told me about the second week when a new cellmate went nuts and started screaming at him at three am. The guy took off all his clothes and for no reason kept throwing a small chair at Hal. Then he grabbed Hal’s small radio and shoved it up his own butt. It was three days before they moved the guy. And the other prisoners thought Hal snitched, so when he would walk down a hallway the occasional fist would meet his face or shoulder. He spoke of working hour after hour in the kitchen. This business of lying around a cell all day and reading was not a part of Hal’s life. I won’t disclose anymore of our time together other than to say he told me this….

“I will never, ever allow myself to be in this situation again. Most of these people are drug addicts. They have never held a job for more than a few weeks at a time. They have no life-skills. I volunteer to help them understand how to fill out a tax form and a job application. It is impossible to sleep at night. I have a hearing problem and no one cares. The noise is unreal and I am worried about my other ear.”

I listened for two hours. When I was ready to leave we stood up and I hugged him. He seemed resolved to his situation and to turn his life around. I also think he put on his best upbeat face for me.

“You see that hot looking girl there” referring to the brunette with the child. “That’s her husband, not a bad guy. We go to the AA meetings together. He’s a cokehead.”

I looked at the brunette. Her eyes had a distant anger; her face revealed resentment that life landed her here with a child, at her age, with her beauty. Her husband wore a wide smile as he tickled his daughter’s chin. She stared through the window looking for some life that didn’t exist.

I told Hal I would return in a few weeks, and I will. His jailer led him away for more work in the kitchen. He smiled and waved at the exit of the room. At nine tonight his day will end and he will fall asleep on the hard bed with a blanket for a pillow. Screams and shouts will ring throughout the night. The prison soundtrack.

Be careful, Paris. Be careful Lindsay, Britney, and Nicole. You are but a party or two away from the same fate. In an equal America.