Claymont, Part 2

Claymont has always been a place that had a civic pride in things uniquely Claymont. I'm not necessarily talking about any famous landmarks such as the old library, Archmere Academy or the Christmas Weed. No, I'm talking about things we older Claymonters revere with whimsical nostalgia even if we were ambivalent - and maybe downright hostile - towards them in our youth.

How does the Tri-State Mall sound? Back in the day, it's where we hung out, in our Purple CHS jackets with gold lettering, filling up night after night, complaining how bored we were. The Mall was uniquely Claymont. It wasn't really shared as a hangout with any other Delaware school. Notice I said "Delaware" school because the good students of Chichester found a need to hang out there, too. Generally, the two schools kept their distance from each other, but, sooner or later, a cute girl from "Chi" would be talking to a "Claymonster" and before you knew it, a jealous boyfriend emerges from nowhere. Fists are thrown, bodega attendants are yelling and steady-handed bystanders are sneaking hash pipes from under the counter of Village Records in the confusion. Within a week, a simple scuffle gets the grapevine treatment and next thing you know, "oh-my-god!" teenagers are telling a tale of an all-out gang fight, with knives, chains and nuclear warheads; thousands killed, millions of dollars in damage and echoes of "When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way..." filling the air.

As much as we hated the Tri-State Mall, we sure as hell spent a lot of time there. Could there ever be a more delicious and disgusting pizza as you would get from the Orange Bowl? I don't know if that place had seats. Everything seemed to be like a lean-on-the-counter arrangement and lots of orange. LOTS of orange. The pizza itself had a thin crust so firm it could snap a bike chain. It was also heavily floured so when you burnt your mouth of the volcanic cheese, your tongue would magnetize to the bottom (thanks to the flour) so, in effect, you were destroying the roof of your mouth with every bite. Look at the roof of the mouth of any older Claymont folks and it resembles the ceiling of an abandoned farm house. But, ma-a-a-a-a-n, was that the best freakin' pizza in the world. I think they sold insanely-oversalted soft pretzels there, too. They must have had a secret deal with Coke or Pepsi. All that heavy salt and flour conspired in a way that if you didn't have enough money for a drink, you went somewhere else for food. I've seen some first-timers dehydrate in front of my eyes. They run to the doors and collapse in a heap of bones and dust like a time-challenged vampire.

Oh, there were other choices, to be sure. Just next door at Grant's (which then became Grant's City and then K-Mart...I think), they had a little restaurant. Grant's was a department store where you could find a perfectly good scarf in the toy section, a Ted Nugent Album in the bathroom accessories section and some woman smacking her kids so hard and with such skill she never lost the two-inch ash on her Benson & Hedges cigarette in EVERY section. They had a little lunch counter/restaurant thing. I can't remember what it was called, but I remember they had a mascot named Buddy Bradford. Think about that for a second. A department store lunch counter with a mascot they put on everything, including a plastic hand puppet of Mr. Bradford. Hell, Starbucks doesn't even have a mascot. Grant's was also the place of my Cub Scout undoing. Don't feel bad for me - I only signed up to get the knife. My brother, Dave, and I, were at Grant's doing our weekly shoplifting. With us, happened to be two of the baddest dudes around - I won't give their names, and if they are reading this, you know who you are! - who decided to turn on us, run back to our house and rat us out. Dave arrived at the house first. Me? Oh, I took my sweet old time getting home. I figured mom would be completely exhausted taking her anger out on Dave. The most I would get would be the residual. That was the end of my Cub Scout days and besides carving an Ivory Soap canoe, making the worst Soapbox Derby car in the history of the world and being able to legally carry a weapon, my scouting days were largely forgettable.

The Tri-State Mall had a few other unique facets to it, such as the Hong Kong Shop. It was one of those places that had a lot of glass, ceramic and tapestries. It always smelled sweet and intoxicating, almost to the point of being disorienting. The owners were always friendly, but suspicious - as they should have been - and you had to walk VERY carefully through the aisles because one trip over the shoe laces would have resulted in a cataclysmic cascade of every breakable thing in the universe. Me and my friends always flattened ourselves against the left-most wall and made a beeline towards the back corner where the black light posters were. Oh, there were non-black light posters there, like 500 posters of The Doors, a painting of a man holding a lantern with the lyrics to "Stairway to Heaven" and the six-panel "Stoned Again" cartoon. The black light posters were what kept you in the store five hours at a time. There were the multi-colored zodiac velvet posters, some giant, rainbow-themed Spiro-Graph-like drawing and some naked woman with a cheetah and a spectacularly-large afro. The room was small and had a curtain to accentuate the black light wonderfulness. Sometimes, we would just end up being fascinated with how freaky our teeth looked.

Further down the way was Village Records, which had everything - posters, clothing, mirrors, pinball machines and yes, even records. I still remember seeing a price tag on one of my dad's Emerson, Lake & Palmer albums for $4.00. That wasn't a sale price. It was the actual retail price. Bought my first album there, too - "Kiss Alive II" because, well, I rock. Between the Hong King Shop and Village Records, I probably spent a total of 8-9 years, if you add the hours together. And I'm going to get this out of the way now so I never have to revisit this again. In 11th grade, we had a school-wide fund-raiser Dance-a-thon for, I think, Muscular Dystrophy. I was determined to raise more money than anyone, and thanks to an out-of-the-blue donation of $10.00 from Paul Eckler, I barely edged out sophomore Amy Guderian. I was so focused on winning I didn't even think of the fact that, "oh ****, now I have to dance! I can't dance! And now I have to do this for 12 hours?" So there I was, doing the Cabbage Patch Dance, The Smurf and The Curly Shuffle - all with the patented white-man-overbite. Then came the dance contest where everyone formed an alley on both sides for contestants to dance down. I was forced into doing it against my will, especially with the delicious Donna Tenshaw being the judge (man, all the Tenshaw girls were lookers) but proceeded to groove my way down the path. I must have looked like The Joker wrestling a rogue fire hose. By the time I made it to the end, Donna was laughing so hard I thought she was going to snort. As it turned out, I actually won the dance contest, probably based on pure humor alone, and received a gift certificate to Village Records. I took that certificate, won on the musical stylings of "Bette Davis Eyes," "Centerfold," and "Pac-Man Fever" and bought an Ozzy Osbourne shirt. See? It all came around.

The movie theater was one of the best around, for first-run movies. There was even a balcony section where you could smoke, and smoke they did. Smoked things legal and illegal, drank and had their way with their partners. Not a movie went by when you wouldn't hear several empty bottle of something rolling down the aisle - and that was for the Benji movies. I saw Star Wars the first morning it opened - and proceeded to see it 20 more times in the theater. I've only gone to see a movie more than once with one other film (that's a lie, but, whatever) and that was when I went on a date with a girl I really didn't want to go out with, and took her to "Silence of the Lambs." Game. Set. Match. Anyway, it was great to get a large gathering of friends together to bellow, in unison, "Your lack of faith is disturbing," in between Jujubee fights. When I was older, we had another large contingent go see "Halloween II." It was a fun movie to watch with friends and the blood wasn't confined to the screen. The marvelously cute Bev Wilson literally lifted little Tim Troutman out of his seat when she dug her nails into his arm during the scary parts. Tim lost a pint of blood that night. I just have to add this other Tri-State Mall movie theater nugget. For anyone who remembers when "Porky's" came out, tell me you didn't laugh more during that film than any other. It's not the funniest movie around, although it was damned funny, but it was the funniest movie to watch in the theater. The Cherry Forever scene, Michael Hunt scene, the hysterical assistant gym teacher - and the legendary shower scene made you laugh yourself sober. Good times.

On the opposite side of the Mall from Grant's was Wilmington Dry Goods, which is worth mentioning primarily for the fun we used to have sliding down the escalator handrails. But something dark was at the bottom of those stairs...something sinister. There was a lower level, which was split-level and perpendicular to the main floor of the mall, like a strip mall super glued to the proper one. My mom used to work at the lamp store down there with some of the most amazing-looking women (including my mom). One night, when, thankfully, my mom wasn't working, two of them were robbed at gunpoint. There was a stairwell next to the lamp store which also led up to the main level. Mom arrived one morning to open the store and saw firemen hosing down the stairs. Apparently, one of the girls who worked at the massage parlor was blown away by some nut job (who was finally captured LAST YEAR) and they were cleaning up the aftermath. Mid-way up the stairwell was a recessed metal door, behind which was a highly exclusive massage parlor. I'm sure nothing illegal was ever happening back there, and even if I wasn't sure, I value my life too much even 25 years later to tell you what I really think. There was also a comic book shop on that lower level. Ever watch The Simpsons? Know who "Comic Book Guy" (Jeff Albertson) is? Well, THIS guy looked exactly like him - ponytail, goatee...stunning, really. Aside from having some of the more obscure comics and being a birthing ground for aspiring Dungeons & Dragons players, he had the most extensive collection of Playboy magazines - going back to the early 1960's. Even though we were nowhere near legal age, he still let us buy them. You know how it is when you're young - you go to buy a Playboy, look around first, check out the Sports Illustrated, flip through an Archie's comic, your eyes shifting this way and that - then, you gather all the possible nerve you possess and reach for the magazine. Then, you quickly slither your way to the register and get the hell out of there as soon as possible. You'd always buy a newspaper and maybe a MAD Magazine to provide some subterfuge in case you were ever approached. And yeah, I had the first Bo Derek issue.

Of course, you cannot celebrate the greatness of the Tri-State Mall without paying homage to the annual carnival, which occupied the southern third of the parking lot. The rides weren't half bad, actually, and the girls were amazing, in their feathered hair, dark eye shadow and roach clip earrings. The Midway games were your standard fare of duck ponds, darts and goldfish bowls. Spider rings were everywhere and if you were really good, you walked off with an Aerosmith clock or REO Speedwagon mirror. It was no Holy Rosary Carnival, that's for sure, but it was always a nice thing to see such a dark place lit up, and for a brief moment, magical.

Sometimes, I long for those semi-innocent days of the Tri-State Mall. The chance to flip those old Playboys on eBay for big bucks, actually buying a velvet Elvis at the Hong Kong Shop and perhaps getting to see what was on the other side of the big metal door in the stairwell. I also would like a chance to have another slice of pizza from the Orange Bowl with whatever is left of the roof of my mouth.

Even if I have to go to Chichester to get it.

Claymont, Part 1

I grew up in Claymont, Delaware. I was not born there; that dubious distinction falls on the unfortunate shoulders of Chester, Pennsylvania, but Claymont was home to me for almost all of my first 18 years on this planet. For many years after I left, I regarded it as a place best viewed in the rear-view mirror. I was fond of my own cheeky description when describing it to non-residents: "Claymont: A Nice Place to Leave." Slowly, as I have grown older and maybe a smidgeon more intelligent, I have come to regret those sentiments. I always regarded Claymont as a collection of bland, split-level houses, suspect apartment buildings and a biting resentment for the more affluent neighborhoods. I suppose that still exists to some degree today, but, if we're being honest here, the same could be said for almost every middle class suburban community in this country. Maybe it's taken me longer than most people to understand Claymont isn't defined by what lies in its borders, but who lives in it.

I have recently been in contact with some people from my past. This, naturally led to digging out and dusting off the old high school yearbooks - and in one case, an old middle school yearbook. What I saw shocked me. I realized the people with whom I attended school were actually some pretty likable folks. Some of them were downright terrific people. And the teachers, the ones I loathed and rebelled against so long ago were actually decent and often amazing people. It would be convenient and maybe even logically correct to tuck into my Claymont experiences by starting at the beginning, but memories played out in a chronological manner steal a little bit of the magic for me. Sometimes, it's just more emotionally satisfying to chase the rabbit down the hole and embrace whatever dirt gets kicked back into my face.

I grew up in a development known as Greentree. It was one of those 1960s-era sections perfect for the first post-World War II generation to buy an affordable house for less than $20,000. It's where the promise of newly-planted trees would deliver ample shade once the young parents of the day sent their children to college, the military or the working world a decade or two later. The streets were all named for different trees: Plum Tree, Elm Tree, Birch Tree, Walnut Tree, Peach Tree...well, you get the picture. It was Americana, with children's bike parades on the Fourth of July, Little League and flashlight tag, back when it was safe for young kids to be out, unattended, at night. Maybe it's me, but in the 1970's, it seemed there were more kids swarming throughout the neighborhood than a smacked hornet's nest. If you wanted to make mud pies, play street hockey or throw rocks at the train, you never had any difficulty finding several accomplices.

Oh that. Yeah, well, I cannot say I condone it now, but when were young, throwing rocks at the passing trains was one of our daily pastimes. The tracks were in the woods about 500 feet from my house. To hear the horn was similar to the sound of the Good Humor man in that dozens of kids high-stepped it out the door, all of us at top speed, to await our lumbering, metallic victim. The tracks had an endless supply of pirogue-sized rocks, perfect for winging. The goal was to hit the train as many times as possible and create a spark when one of the rocks hit a piece of metal JUST right. Our "station" was about 10 feet below the tracks on the west side of the slope. It was quite a sight. All these kids of varying ages rifling dangerous projectiles without any fear of danger, repercussion or common sense. The locomotive was always off-limits because, well, because we could get in trouble if the conductor slammed on the brakes. Never mind the fact by the time the train would stop, he would be miles away. We were just afraid of the railroad police which would patrol the tracks from time to time. The caboose, on the other hand, was not only fair game, it was the ultimate target. The caboose was legendary. There was always someone in the group who knew someone who knew someone who said there was a person who sat in the caboose waiting for smart-alecks like us, just aching for a chance to blast us with a salt rifle. For some reason, that never deterred us. If anything, it just made us more determined to knock the windows out of the caboose. How we all didn't end up in the Boy's Home is one of God's miracles.

We had a great cast of characters: Freddie and Donie (yes, he spelled it "Donie") Lang, who were two of the few African-American kids who would come around, the three Kevins - me, Kevin Smith and Kevin Grant, Greg Newton, Eddie Kupsick, Tommy Patton, Bobby Cook, Rich Piroli, Kenny Radke...the list was endless, but the one who made it his life's mission to enact as much anarchy wherever he went was my best friend, Raymond Butler. I'll get to him later, because he is worth an entire book by himself. Even my very first friend, Steve Jennings, who was 6 feet eight at birth and by all accounts one of the kindest, most decent people I have ever known, could get caught up in the excitement, hurling rocks at the train with such force they sucked the air out of your lungs when they whizzed over your head.

However, when trains weren't available, we needed something else to occupy our time. So what do adolescent boys do when they don't have easily-available trouble to get into? That's right, we created our own. There was a Wawa convenience store on the other side of the slope of the train tracks. We would buy or steal our daily supplies of chocolate milk, soda, chips, Tastykakes and candy and sit on the rails of the tracks, waiting for something to happen. Then, a funny thing would happen. No one would leave. No one would leave because the minute you descended the rock-covered slope and disappeared into the canopy of trees of the adjacent woods, someone - usually Freddy, but we were all guilty - would yell "Rock 'em!" and with that, dozens upon dozens of rocks would rain down in the projected direction of the kid who had the temerity to leave the boredom of a hot July day at the tracks to go do something else. When we weren't attempting to cold-cock our friends, our rock-throwing would be focused on the back of the mini-strip mall that housed the Wawa: Carpenter Station. There was a dance studio which would sometimes have the back door open for ventilation. Claymont was a blue collar town, which is another way of saying, "We mock what we don't understand." Culture, especially dancing, was lost on a bunch of scraggly-haired delinquents such as us. So, we responded in the best way we knew how, by trying to throw rocks through the back door of the studio. Can you imagine watching these dangerous missiles skipping across the floor as young girls are practicing their five positions, chassés and chaînés? When the prospect of being strangled by the dancers' fathers proved off-putting, we shifted our attention one door down to the back of the arcade.

It was known as "The Arc," but the official name was TJ's, I believe. The owner's father pretty much ran the place but we understood the "true" ownership was in the name of his infant grandson, for tax purposes. The back door was made of this very resonant aluminum, which, when struck by a rock, would make a sound so loud, neighbors several hundred yards away thought we dynamited a garbage truck. Eventually, you just want a place to hang out and even brainless miscreants like us realized we needed to find a more constructive way to be destructive; a better target, in other words. So, we chose each other.

We already had been used to having rocks showering down on us whenever we left the sanctity of the tracks. In time, you do things like try to pick off bottles we set up on the rails. Sometimes, we wouldn't wait for the person setting up to get out of the way, which was usually followed by "I'm going to kill you!" or "You son of a..." This eventually evolved - or devolved - into us breaking into teams maybe 30 yards away and firing rocks at each other. There was no malice intended; it was just a way to burn up the hours of a lazy summer afternoon. Sometimes, when it was just Ray and me, we would station ourselves 50 feet from each other and try to bean the other. We did have rules, though. You had to wait for the other guy to throw his rock first before your next throw, no decoy lobs in order to set up a kill shot, and skipping shots off the rail was worth double. So, there we would be, best friends trying to brain each other while talking about how this new guy, Dallas Green, was going to be a better or worse manager for the Phillies than Danny Ozark, the new Kansas album or when Ray was going to go back home and steal money from his mom's purse so we could grab a pizza pie in Northtowne Plaza next to the Super Saver grocery store.

While Ray and I could generate our own brand of mischief, sometimes it came gift-wrapped to us. Like many neighborhoods, people are always up in each others' business. My community was no different. When Gina Giantonio's house went up in flames on Elm Tree Lane, the crowd was so thick it was like people were waiting for Jesus himself to emerge from the flames. It was the social event of the season. Cute girls you always liked never failed to show up (I'm looking at you, Barb and Carol Tenshaw and Christine Lewandowski). Adult neighbors would be standing, cross-armed, shaking their heads at how disgraceful it was so many people are watching someone else's life being destroyed in full public view. The volunteer fire fighters were looked at like rock stars, including our friend, James Mayfield, a high school student and the first African-American volunteer fire fighter in Claymont. It had all the makings of a block party. All we needed was a hot dog cart, sparklers and someone selling t-shirts with iron-on decals of bug-eyed maniacs power-shifting over-sized GTO engines. Standing there with Ray, watching the Giantonios' house being destroyed wasn't really celebrating the fact, though. Not a single one of us didn't imagine our thoughts if it was our own house. Even Gina and her younger brother Nicky would have attended the burning of someone else's house. There was something intoxicating about sharing a terrible event with others. It brought the residents closer, in some weird way. A camaraderie gets forged, if only for a little while. These weren't necessarily bad people, and truth be told, we weren't evil kids. We simply had a destructive streak that was meant to fill the boredom of the days.

I think perhaps I held a distaste for Claymont because it held up a mirror to myself, of all the distasteful things I was in denial about in my own character, but I now realize circumstance and subjective limitations cloud the mind. These weren't bad people. In fact, we had some very good people. People like James Mayfield, Steve Jennings and the people who offered their help and support to the Giantonios, among many, many others. It's a reason I am returning to my roots to write this series of valentines to the place I called home for so many years and has shaped me, for better or worse, into the person I am today. I don't know where this road may lead, much as I did not know where it was leading all those years ago, but I want to invite you along with me to discover something that will exist within me forever and maybe give you a chance to visit a place of your own you may have left behind. It may not be the same location as mine, but it might be the same place:

Home.

The Birth of Cool

We're at that time of the year where I like to mess with peoples' heads - the dead of Winter. Actually, that's a bit of a misnomer since the first day of Winter is tomorrow (Sunday)...

(A little aside here. As I was typing "Sunday," I actually typed "Sinday." Just thought you'd like to know that. Anyway, back to your story...already in progress)

Either way, folks appear to claim the start of December as the beginning of Winter by default. For those who worship the sun and carry an incandescent, nuclear glow year-round, Winter begins the day after Labor Day. For those who live at the Equator, they're too far away to matter for this story and aren't my target audience anyway. You see, I hate wearing pants. I'll pause while you think disgusting thoughts. What I mean is I love wearing shorts - year round, no matter the weather. Yes, I'm one of THOSE guys. We're usually single because we're insane. Friends, strangers and various domesticated animals give me the ol' wonk-eye when they see me easing my way into Best Buy or cruising the produce section of the supermarket in shorts while a Himalayan nightmare was piling up outside so fiercely the Abominable Snowman would be pounding on the store windows yelling, "Someone throw me a freakin' sweater!"

It's not like I'm trying to prove a point. I'm not one of those drunken chuckleheads you see at a Chicago Bears home game, shirtless and painted, with his 1970s-era sunglasses and wooly bear mustache boldly announcing "Bon Voyage" to his sanity for millions of us unfortunate viewers. For me, it's all about comfort. If I felt more comfortable wearing an admiral's hat and Buckingham Palace guard's jacket, I'd flit about town in that, but I can't pull of wearing red and I'm not much of a hat guy, anyway. My friend, Tim, is incredulous about this fact and continually tries to convince me to stop, which, of course, will never happen. As you know, I include my non-work friends in my stories, so if you're not familiar with Tim, consider this a primer.

Tim was a roommate of mine here, in Delaware and previously, in Cleveland. A relentless social dervish, Tim is easy to like, and if you don't like him, he'll eventually make you like him. When we lived in Cleveland, the Lake Effect Snow (capitalized, for your pleasure) was as unpredictable as a schizophrenic in a Hall of Mirrors. I recall driving to work and there being about six inches of snow on one side of the street and the other side of the street looking like a Frosted Mini-Wheat. I half-expected my alarm clock to go off after a purple tornado of vampires touched down in one of my tamer dreams. One fine March Sunday, we went down to the waterfront to listen to some bands and grab a bite to eat. It was in the mid-70s, I wasn't the only person in shorts and one could almost detect the faint smell of cocoa butter. Tim had a Jeep and put the top down, and for one glorious day in March, we were kings of the world.

Then came Monday. It snowed. Tim, rushing to get to work that morning, didn't have time to put the top up on his Jeep, and it was coming down pretty hard. Tim, in his suit, was struggled to keep hold of his Cool Points and by the time he arrived at work, he looked like a Sugar-Coated Businessman (again, capitalized, for your pleasure). This was back in 1994 and they're still thawing him out today. I'm just hoping he doesn't come back as Encino Man. If you haven't seen the movie, I'll save you the trouble of looking it up on Netflix and suggest you watch mold grow on your bread. Better plot, funnier and better acting.

Taking the Mind Shuttle (again, capitalized...never mind) back to Delaware. In Cleveland, and other snow-encumbered places, they're prepared for snow. As the first flake is about to hit the ground, the snow plows are already shifting out of first gear. Here, in Delaware, when one of the local Weather Guessers predicts snow, there is an almost biblical charge to the hardware stores and supermarkets. Everyone takes a large swig of Stupid and has a Dagwood-sized bite from the Irrational Overreaction Sandwich (...), it makes an 1800s cattle drive look like an Elementary School Halloween parade. In fact, I recall the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse hanging out in the parking lot trying to get anyone's attention:

War: "Um, hello! Excuse me. Can I just get your atten..."

Death: "Forget it, we can't handle this."

Famine: "Why are we in front of a grocery store? I'm FAMINE, remember?"

Pestilence: "Who's the idiot in the shorts?"

Weather does that to people. It turns relatively insane people more insane. People fighting over snow shovels, rock salt and canned peaches, everyone losing their minds and mentally filling out their wills as another Winter storm front lurks several hundred miles away. Survivalists laughing themselves silly from their rural fortresses, yelling to the television, "See? I TOLD you! But you wouldn't listen!" Meanwhile, I'll be home, kicked back in my shorts, eating whatever I can jimmy free from the sides of my refrigerator, completely oblivious to the pandemonium outside. When I'm hungry, I'll hitch up my shorts and start the car, secure in the knowledge that, since everyone else is bunkered down, I won't have to wait in line anywhere. You just have to keep your wits about you. See, it's one thing to be cold.

It's another thing entirely to be cool.

Give Up the Funk!

As a crotchety 40-something, I owe certain debts to society. One such debt happens to be my never-ending rebel yell railing against the state of music of the past 10 - 15 years. There is no shortage of bulls eyes on which to focus my high-powered assault rifle. It really isn't fair, to be honest with you. It's like challenging a convent of armless nuns to a tug-of-war with a dead water buffalo as my anchor man.

But, this isn't about snatching such low-hanging fruit. No, this is about the almost sudden and inexplicable disappearance of a treasured musical form. Now, before you make your usual incorrect guesses, let me first say it's not about the vanishing of heavy metal barbershop music, punk flugelhorn or country/western opera. It's the milk carton-worthy extinction of Funk.

There was a time you couldn't flip on an AM radio or tune into one of the UHF stations and not get your groove on to some of the most funkelectric sounds this side of George Clinton's mothership. Leading the parade would be the monstrously smooth Don Cornelius, he of the tinted-window shades, dazzling rings and Harvey's Bristol Cream voice, hosting another fuzzy-pictured session of Soul Train. You didn't even need to be a fan of Funk to get righteous with the mega-afroed cats bubbling out beats like an overheated cauldron, but it helped. When they got down with the showcase dance, or whatever it was called - you know the one where the dancers lined up across from each other while couples snapped and popped their way down the middle - there wasn't a single two-legged, multi-celled organism who could resist playing air bass watching all those wide lapels, towering platforms and thick belts groove their way into your living room.

And the acts! Parliament-Funkadelic, Earth, Wind & Fire, Heatwave, Curtis Mayfield, Sly & the Family Stone, Kool & the Gang, The O'Jays, The Brothers Johnson and even Stevie Wonder - he of the highly dangerous and should-be-outlawed "Ebony and Ivory" - could crank out the funk like it was nobody's business. It wasn't just music, it was a block party clocking in at four minutes and thirty seconds per song. Even a miserably uncoordinated jester like yours truly would have the money-maker cranked up to "Full Boogie," knocking unread Social Studies books, Little League trophies and Aqua Velva bottles across the room.

Some would blame rap music for Funk's demise, but I can't get behind that. The Gang from good ol' Sugar Hill, Newcleus, Cameo, Melle Mel, The Gap Band, Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five and the irrepressible Kurtis Blow were early to the rap scene without sacrificing any of the funk. And if you still think Funk wasn't a major player in the 80s, look up the Purple Lord of Funk, Prince, or whatever hieroglyphic he goes by these days, and his stable of proteges, including Sheila E and the Clown Prince of Sex-ay, Morris Day and The Time. Oh, there have been recording artists out there who have tried to resuscitate and kick-start funk by paying homage to the masters (I'm looking at you, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Jamiroquai), but it just was never able to get off the disabled list once grunge, gangsta rap, prefabricated pop and the Coor's Light-drinking/khaki-wearing/SUV-driving/play-dates-for-the-kids, doughy, middle class-embraced Hootie, Dave Matthews, Matchbox 20 and soundalikes (of which there are several million) started clogging up the airwaves like an airport toilet.

I always believed then, and I still believe now, music shouldn't be a passive experience. It has to be pulled out of the listener. Sometimes it is caressed out of your heart; sometimes it is hypnotically teased from your soul; and sometimes...sometimes, it explodes from every pore on your body. That's what Funk does. It turns you inside out, like a hand grenade in a microwave. Know that expression, "Dance like no one is watching?" well THAT is what Funk does to you. It's arms, legs, booty, head, the whole magilla, not unlike when you were young and, as a joke, told your loudest aunt she had a hornet hovering around her head. You never thought you could see a woman her size move like that. She was a double-knit blur.

While it's true the best Funk was primarily generated from the legends of the African-American community, Funk's appeal crossed racial lines, genders and socio-economic classes. Don't believe me? Then tell me, wasn't that YOUR mom, uncle or grandmother spilling their scotch and soda onto the dance floor at your cousin's wedding while singing, "Play that funky music, white boy!..." wildly off-key? Yeah, thought so.

I dream of a day when Funk is resurrected, when I can flip through the high-definition channels of the satellite television and stumble upon between five and fifteen dudes in matching multi-color outfits, wild sunglasses and big whacked-out afros with lasers and smoke, all of them grooving the same dance steps in time. I'll crowbar my ragged carcass off the couch, reach for a broom handle and pop and groove right along with them, knocking Sudoku puzzles, lottery tickets and bottles of Gold Bond across the room. No matter what else is going on in my life and whatever worries I might have - the economy, rising unemployment, nations who wish us harm - will disappear for that four minutes and thirty seconds of Boogie Bliss.

I can't move without groovin' and I'll be groovin' 'til I'm done. I'll be groovin' to the funk.

Can't have "Funk" without "Fun".

I Hope There's a Heaven (For Liz)

I hope there's a Heaven.

I found out last night my best friend, Liz Roberts, passed away this weekend. I have felt lost and untethered ever since. She was the best person I have ever known in this world. She made me a better person, a better man. More importantly, she made me want to be a better man. She was nonjudgmental and endlessly encouraging. She was everything that was good and right in this world. She was smart, compassionate, very witty and dear. I talked with her every day for over four years. She lived in Connecticut while I was in Delaware. Every night, at seven, we would talk about everything and nothing. The fact we never ran out of things to talk and laugh about speaks volumes about the friendship we had

I hope there's a Heaven, because she had to weather some of the worst circumstance I have ever known a person to handle. In the space of a short period of time, she lost her mother, father, brother, younger sister, best girlfriends and the husband of another best friend. She suffered two heart attacks, contracted a staph infection and came down with pneumonia - all suffered while she was in the hospital. Could you blame her for being stubborn about going back when her health took a severe downturn? I hope she is with her husband, Bryce, and renewing her life with him. She adored him beyond measure and I would have gladly traded my life for his. THAT is how much I cared for her. That is how much she cared for me. We did not have a romantic relationship, but we loved each other very much. I miss her laugh. I miss her care. I miss her simple elegance. I miss her.

I hope there's a Heaven so she can smile down on her young children, Kate and Matt, and her lovable puppy, Tiggy. I feel like I have watched them grow. We talked about them constantly and we joked how I would chaperone Kate whenever she went on a date. We laughed about how wonderful it was when Matt hit his first home run in Little League this year. She let me come up with suggestions for the kids's birthdays, science projects and dinner menus. She adored her children and puppy. I feel so very bad for them. I love them, too, like they were my own children. And I always will.

I hope there's a Heaven so her sister, Julie, brother-in-law, Charlie, and nephew, Jared, can rest assured Liz is gone, but waiting for them on the other side. Julie was phenomenal, making sure her younger sister had everything she needed, not waiting to be asked - just knowing, as only a loving sister could, what Liz's needs were. If situations were reversed, I am sure Julie would agree Liz would do the very same for her. That says a lot for their parents, Gladys and Milton, and for themselves as siblings. They had such a tremendous bond and love for each other that it is difficult to imagine we live in a world of cold distance and selfish interest. Charlie was always involved in trying to make things easier for everyone, including Liz. He has the heart of a lion and the love of a great woman. Jared was always doing things for Liz, from cutting her grass to running errands to just stopping by for a visit to talk, nephew to aunt. She was so incredibly proud of him, and just like our many, many talks about her kids, we had just as many about Jared. I feel like he is my nephew, too.

I hope there's a Heaven so God has taken Liz into his embrace and took all her pain away. I hope her suffering is over and that her spirit exists somewhere. I would gladly volunteer my soul to Hell if it would guarantee she has a place in Heaven. The world is in such sort supply of great people, of people who do not push their agendas on others, of people who actually listen instead of just waiting for their turn to talk, of people who volunteer themselves to others before needing to be asked. There is a pain in my heart I have no idea will ever pass, but if it does, it's because of the love of my best friend, Liz. She was a much better person than me and I will strive to be the best person I can be every day, for her and for me. If I can find a way to harness my love for her to others in my life, to family, friends, acquaintances and strangers, I feel I would be carrying on her legacy. I wish everyone knew her. I pity those who never had that chance.

I hope there's a Heaven so I can carry that hope to embrace her and let her know just how much she meant to me. I love you, Liz, and I always will. When this world is through with me, I hope the way your influence has impacted my life will mean I can ask Bryce if I can have one dance with you in Heaven.

I hope.

License to Shill

Like many children from the Northeast, my parents took us to Walt Disney World for vacation. At the beginning of the trip, everyone was full of fun and laughter - even if we left at three in the morning. The promise of sunny skies, sweet smells and giant, white-gloved rodents was enough to turn an adolescent's stomach into cotton candy. Being awake at that time of night (or day, depending on your collective unconscious) is surreal. Gas station lights look like oases, the navy firmament of the sky fissures and feathers and the road is fairly traffic-free. It leaves you wondering, as you pass the man in the brown Cordoba, with its rich Corinthian leather, "what in the hell is this guy doing on the road at this hour?" Is he going to work super early to sink his teeth into the ass of the American Dream or is he returning home from an all-night bender and practicing his excuses to the wife who fell asleep on the couch waiting for his untrustworthy backside to try to sneak past her - shoes in hand? I knew one thing for certain, though. He wasn't headed to Walt Disney World, like us.

When morning finally blessed us with its sun-drenched glory and we were full of coffee, donuts and pixie stix, we would inevitably start into the traveling games, like I Spy, the Alphabet Game and License Plate Poker. Don't even pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You probably played License Plate Poker on your way home from work today. Eventually, boredom and ennui settle in like a rude uncle and the ride turns into a waiting game of "Are we there yet?" as Dad puts the steering wheel into a death grip and grits his teeth until they crack. That's when it hits...

"Did you see that? That car is from North Dakota!"

All heads slam to the same side window, temporarily listing the car onto two wheels. Even Dad gives a quick glance. The car starts buzzing with new life and someone (usually me) suggests we start keeping track of all the different license plates we see. We'd see all the plates from Delaware to Florida, but there were the other more common ones we would see regularly, like New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, D.C., New York and even Quebec, which seems to collectively vacation at the Jersey Shore. Once, we saw an Alaska license plate and the resulting roar about made Dad drive into a ditch. To this day, I still have a bit of a license plate fetish.

In Delaware, if you have a low-number license plate number, you wear it like a badge of honor. Some people convert these plates to black and white ceramic replicas as a status symbol. They are all the rage, and I'm not making up this next part: people pay tens of thousands of dollars for the right to have a low-number license plate. Did you hear me? TENS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS! Conspicuous consumption is alive and well in The First State.

Ah, there's the other shoe falling. Delaware is The First State, and proudly announces that proclamation on the back of every car registered here. New Jersey touts itself as The Garden State, though many might proclaim it the "Which Exit?" state. Pennsylvania is the Keystone State and used to offer "You've Got a Friend in Pennsylvania." I hope I get a choice of whom to choose. If you have enough people sign up, you can have your group or alma mater on your plate. I suppose it's only a matter of time when we see people's personal MySpace page links, cell phone numbers and whether they sleep in the nude listed. I know one thing, there will be a lot of tailgating and rear-end collisions in the future if that last scenario comes to fruition. I'll end up in the Tailgating Hall of Fame and my car paint will be on the back of every Jetta in the state.

"But what about vanity plates?" you may ask. I'm getting to that. Calm down already. Usually, when you see a vanity plate, you would roll your eyes and yell out the window as you drove past, "Have a nice day, Miss Self-Absorbed!" before being passed on the right by a guy who looks like that wind-swept dude in the Maxell advertisement who is sunk deep into his chair listening to his stereo and steadying his wine glass. As he zips by, you can see he has something cheeky like "STOLEN" on his plate. Grudgingly, you mutter to yourself, "ok, that one was good." Then you would rattle off in your mind different letter/number combinations if you were to get one for yourself. A word of warning first. Many people put their occupations on their plates. These people should be locked away, but, if you insist on following suit, make sure you're not a therapist because "THRAPST" can very easily be misinterpreted as "The Rapist" and then you're in a world of hurt if your car breaks down in the wrong neighborhood.

We live in a world of efficiency. Some of those efficiencies come at a cost. Vowels are now an endangered species as some knuckleheads (teens are excluded because, frankly, they don't know any better) go for the cnsnnt nly spelling in ALL phases of their desperately-trying-to-be-hip lives. I once saw a plate that said IH8TRSTS. It was a California plate, so they had eight characters. It took me a while to figure out it meant "I hate tourists." I think we're all guilty of this. How many times have you seen one of these license plate mash-ups and spent the better part of your commute trying to figure out what the hell it meant?

I guess these days a license plate isn't just some rectangular wafer of cheap metal letting Mr. PO-liceman know you spent the better part of a miserable morning in line at the DMV to prove your car is legally registered. Nowadays, it's a way to tell the world you support the local wildlife, you're the proud member of a fraternity that's now on double-secret probation and you know how to spell like a teenager. Enjoy them now because we're probably not far away from them being flat screen images with advertisements from Stub Hub, ESPN scoreboards and toothy infomercials from Tony Robbins. It'll be the birth of a whole new game.

And the death of License Plate Poker.


Thanks to my friends Kim Martucci and Andi Buckman for this topic!

The Fling

This is the ultimate in Jazz Writing. Normally, when I sit down to write, I at least have a topic in my head. I don't necessarily flesh it out because I prefer everything to flow organically. I'll have a thought, sit down, type like a mad man and before you know it, you're sitting there reading it, wondering, "Where does he come up with this crap?"

To tell you the truth, I have no idea where it comes from. I have no idea what the next sentence will be, where it is going or how it will end. It just does. When the story picks up steam, I do the sensible thing and get the hell out of the way. From there, the story basically writes itself and I just sit back, like the rest of you, and shake my head incredulously at what spews out.

I was watching an episode of the best show to ever hit network television, Northern Exposure, about 17-18 years ago. In this particular episode, Chris Stevens, the felon-cum-philosophical disc jockey, was looking to fling a cow using a medieval trebuchet. If you don't know what a trebuchet is, it's basically a catapult, with a counter-weight that provides locomotion and increases velocity (all you trebuchet fans please calm down, you know that's the basic gist of it and it's something my readers understand). Chris abandons the cow for a piano after Ed tells him it was done before in a Monty Python movie. When asked why he was going to fling a cow, he said it was "to create a pure moment."

I really didn't understand what he meant. Philosophically, I understood, but from an artistic point of view, I wasn't fully developed to appreciate it. For me, art had always been eternal, something to walk away from and say, "Yeah, I painted that," or "Do you like that vase? Made it myself." I never really put any stock into transient art, the art of the moment. Here right now and gone in an instant. There is no proof remaining. Well, let me amend that, there may be physical proof, like the dead cow or the ruptured piano, but, that's not the piece of art. Let me take it a step further: a body in the casket no longer remains that person. It's an empty vessel that carried a living person. The true person transcended that body. He/She was a soul, a spirit, a being cased in hair-covered meat. Change the exterior of a person and the same person remains inside. It's like that with transient art. As Chris Stevens said, "It's not the thing you fling, it's the fling itself." Damn straight.

It took me a while to really grasp what he was saying. Oh, I understood it, from a spectator's standpoint, but from an artist's standpoint, I was a drooling idiot. I eventually came to understand the value of creating, the old cliche of "It's not the destination; it's the journey." It's what led me to where I am today, from a creative platform.

Say what you will. I may not be a great writer - hell, I might not even be good enough to be a poor writer - but, the finished products of mine you read are the shattered pianos of my efforts. Truth be told, I really don't care how these stories turn out. Oh, I appreciate the comments others make when they are being sincere, but if reading these stories are those pianos, the process of writing is the fling for me. I'm along for the ride, just like you. I never go back and edit anything. Once it hits the page, it's done. If someone else wants to edit them, be my guest, but I've already moved on to something else. Revisiting a moment in your mind is great when living vicariously through yourself. How many times have you reminisced about a family vacation, laughing with friends or the first time you fell in love? Chances are, you might be doing that at this very moment. That's good; there's nothing wrong with that. It cleanses the soul. However, I cannot revisit the same pure moments I create for myself. All I can do is surge forth and create more, and it's incredibly worthwhile because pure moments are in an endless supply. There is no blueprint, nothing needs to be arranged, there is no right or wrong. All you have to do is feel and express through those feelings.

I've often said I'm an artist without an art. I can't draw worth crap, can't sculpt, can't paint, can't play a musical instrument...hell, I can barely feed and clothe myself. Yet, when I sit down to write, I feel a rush of expression and a giddiness one feels like when you still believed in Santa Claus and Christmas was just a few weeks away. I never really felt at home with people who don't appreciate the daily esoterics (probably not a word, but you know what I mean) of life, how ironies flutter by like butterflies and moments appear before you, however fleeting, that you can't share with anyone else because no one was in your shoes and experienced them like you did. Too many people walk this planet like stimulus/response zombies and the nuances of the incredible nature of life bounce off them like ping pong balls. They miss the ecstasy of being a sponge, absorbing the subtleties that nine out of ten people completely miss. We are mechanical people, in a mechanical age, product-hoarding automatons desperate to remain trendy. It's sad, and sadly, it's not going away.

I owed it to myself to offer something back to this world, no matter how inconsequential. Sure, my writing is basically for my own satisfaction, but others have told me how they enjoyed what I tossed out there, and that's ok, too. It's made me a better person for being able to squeeze that sponge and release those butterflies when I write, and in that, I feel like I am giving something back to this world, if even in my own little way, regardless if anyone reads it or not. Too many people ask "Why?" and not enough people just accept. Everyone seems to be afraid and they care too much what total strangers think and box themselves in. They don't really express themselves; they don't think they have a piano to fling. Paint a picture, write a story, sculpt something, just DO something to express yourself, no matter how poorly you may perceive the end result. THERE is your piano. Fling the hell out of it. It's this creative drive that makes us feel alive - it makes us human.

Don't be a passenger, be a driver, because, in the end, you don't want to be old and regretful of the things you should have done. When the atoms and molecules of this world came together, they created you as a human, not a rock, not a tree, not the crusty residue around the top of the ketchup bottle at a family picnic. As a human, you have an obligation to act on your humanity. Be alive! It's so easy to be self-defeating and make excuses that you are too tired, have no time or are afraid of what others may think or say. Is that really living? Is that really being human? In the words of Peggy Lee, is that all there is? There is not a single one of you out there who doesn't have something to give of themselves. Don't worry if no one sees or reads it, as long as you FEEL it. Dare to be human! Because, in the end, you are not the face in the mirror and you will not be that body in the casket; you are the light you brought to yourself and to others.

My name is Kevin, and I wrote this.

Fling away.

Car Tune

"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."

- Gary Numan.

You've heard the song, you know you have. Even if you don't like it, you still find yourself humming or singing it if you hear it. It's one of those songs that's fun to sing and all those worries you might have just disappear for three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For those, like me, who have a quirky love affair with music from the 1980s, it's an essential component of any 80s mixed CD you make for a cute girl. Well, that and "Take On Me" by A-ha, but that's another story.

For me, a car was always nothing more than a four-wheeled, motorized conveyance vessel for the purpose of getting you from Point A to Point B. Of course, this was in the days when I didn't have a car and just wanted to give my feet a much needed rest (I walked EVERYWHERE. I walked more than Jesus. In fact, I WAS like Jesus, save for the fact I don't look like a hippie, can't perform miracles and will most likely go to Hell).

I learned how to drive using the family van. This wasn't the emasculating minivan other men my age dejectedly have to pilot when they cart their precious little hellions to some organized activity they seem to feel their kids need. No, this was a Ford Econoline with a 351 Cleveland engine, mag wheels, captains chairs and a bed in the back my Pop constructed. It was a rolling love machine. I suppose it was a bit of a unique way to learn how to drive, surpassed only by a rocket sled, space shuttle or stolen police car. Whenever I was allowed to drive to the store, I always made sure I detoured to the school parking lot, where my friends hung out, and blasted "Kashmir" in a desperate attempt to look cool.

Eventually, I needed my own car. My Aunt Peg won a Benson & Hedges contest where she won every item shown in a magazine photo. One of those things was a Thunderbird, which made their Bronze Age-era Honda Accord expendable. It was my first car and this beggar wasn't being too choosy. My new car wasn't the most stylish thing on the road. It looked like it was designed by manic-depressive Dadaist artists. Each door, quarter panel and the hood were different colors and it was rusting so badly that pieces of it would fly off whenever I went at least 35 mph. But, it was mine, all mine, and for that, I loved it.

When I was in college, I found myself short on funds for rent one month, so I sold it to my friend, Norm. I told him I would sell it to him for $200 and split any repair costs for the next six months. Norm said if I sold it to him for $175, he would take care of any potential repair costs that ensued. Regrettably, I agreed and parted with my first car, but I needed a roof over my head more than four wheels under my ass. Two weeks later, I ran into Norm on campus. I asked him how the car was doing and he said "Doc (one of my many nicknames in college), it's running like a dream." I muttered a few insults in his direction through a clenched-teeth smile and went on my way to blow off another class. The following week, I ran into Norm again, but this time at one of the campus bus stops. As I recall, the conversation went down like this:

Me: "Say, Norm, why are you taking the bus? Where's the car?"

Norm: (exasperated gust of a sigh) "Doc, it died on me."

Me: "What happened?"

Norm: "Engine block cracked."

Me: "Bummer. But a deal's a deal."

Norm: "Yeah, but I only had it a few..."

Me: "Deal's a deal, Nommy."

I pivoted on my heel and walked towards another class that I eventually blew off. It taught me a lesson. Don't look for that lesson here because I've forgotten what it was. I was now ready for car #2.

My next vehicle was a 1972 Ford Maverick. Eggshell white. It was owned by my grandparents and probably never saw the north side of 45 mph. Ever. I took care of that within two seconds of turning the ignition. In fact, me getting behind the wheel probably shocked the poor automobile into a heart attack. Before you can say "You need to change the oil every now and again," it was left a smoking, hollow shell by the side of the highway.

Next was an early-80s Cutlass Supreme I inherited from my other grandmother. I never put oil into this car, either. It also died by the side of the road. This time, I I finally learned my lesson - never accept a car from a relative. It was time to buy a car from a respected used car dealer.

It was a stunningly beautiful Mustang. Ultra cool and as classic as they come, I had finally arrived. Unfortunately, it was possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled employee of Henry Ford. The first week I had it, the windshield cracked. After the first month, the paint started to flake off the hood. I was driving a leper car. Since it was rear-wheel drive and a very light car, driving in snow was sheer terror. Hell, it would careen all over the road even when it was cloudy. I'm a pretty brave man. I've killed a Bengal tiger with my bare hands, punched out a bull elephant and drank Coor's Light (don't let anyone fool you - Coor's Light isn't beer; it's grassy water with a hint of beer "flavoring"), but I was terrified driving this thing in bad weather. I once had a cackling truck driver put me into a snow bank on an uphill climb because I couldn't get any traction. Good time. At least I put oil into it. It was time to move on. It was also then I entered into a tortured love affair with the Ford Probe.

My mom owned an early model Ford Probe and that car was incredibly fun to drive. The one I bought (actually leased) was the same color as my ill-fated Mustang but it was a new model and looked like a sports car. Handled like one, too. Best of all, it was front wheel drive. Bring on the snow, Mother Nature, you bitter wench!

I. Loved. This. Car. It was so much fun to drive and handled like a Corvette. It also looked kinda cool. Then, on April 1, 1997, it all changed. I was driving back from Red Lobster with my girlfriend when an 18-wheeler merged into my driver's side door on I-95. I said to Michelle, "Man, that tire is getting awfully close to..." BANG! The tire hit my door. I couldn't have changed lanes because there was a car barely ahead of me to the right and I was waiting for him to get completely clear so I could change lanes. The impact sent us violently to the right. I tried to control the car and the steering locked up - and sent us right back towards the truck. We were headed right under the tires when I somehow had the wherewithall (one word?) to somehow guide the car away from certain pancaking and bounced back off the same tire that initiated this fun little adventure. We shot from left to right again and slammed into the guard rail. The impact was so great we rebounded back into the middle of the highway. God must have done well at the track that day because he was feeling generous and ensured there were no other cars close enough to us to either hit or hit us. After checking to see if Michelle was ok, I assessed my own personal damage. I was alive. We both were; and we both walked away relatively unscratched. It was a miracle. Hmmm, maybe I AM Jesus. Sadly, my little car didn't make it. It was completely totaled. It looked like it was destroyed by a truck or something. I was back at work by April 3rd.

I decided to get another Ford Probe since the first one sacrificed its life to save ours. This one was black, even sportier, and this time, no lease. Not much to say about this car other than it was an absolute dream to drive. I drove it until the wheels fell off and the engine seized in front of my Pop's house. In fact, it died just as I was coming off the highway ramp. The steering partially locked and I coasted off the ramp, merged on to the road, coasted slowly down to my Pop's street, pulled the muscles in both arms to turn down his street and eventually came to rest in front of his house. Time for Ford Probe #3.

This one was white and took a while to like, but once I did, it was a love affair all over again. It was a GT, with a tremendously expensive sound system, black tinted windows and erotically magnificent Pirelli tires. I had it for four years until it mysteriously stopped starting. I would have it towed to the shop where the mechanic would tell me that "It started right up for me." I would pick it up, drive it for a month or two, and the same thing would happen. This occurred about seven or eight times over the last two years and it was as frustrating as my experiences on Match.com (a future story. I won't reveal any names, sorry). It was almost as bad as having an insane girlfriend. I eventually had to cut the cord. Fortunately, my mechanic had a car he was willing to sell me for cheap. Wouldn't you know it - it was a hunter green...wait for it...Ford Probe. I'm not going to waste a new paragraph on that car because the transmission dropped out of it within two months. It was time to walk away and try a new direction.

I hunted all over for a Saab. My buddy, Doug, whose opinion I hold in high regard (one of the only people whose opinion I actually respect), has two of them and raves about them. He also knows it takes a certain dedicated person to own and properly maintain one. I figured I finally learned to change the oil in my car so I must be ready. I went to the lot to pick it up after seeing it online, but when I arrived, the convertible top wouldn't open. I had about three people try to make that damned thing open. Once it was finally opened, it wouldn't shut. I wouldn't have minded if it never was cold, rainy, snowing or I lived in a world without crime, but Utopia is a story not a reality. I took that time to case the lot to occupy my mind.

Then I saw it.

When I was young, there was a car a few neighborhoods over that bugged my eyes out of my head. It was a cherry red 1968 Jaguar XJ-12. Black convertible roof and brilliant, shimmering spoke rims. It was that classic "slipper" shape and even my primitive brain knew this was like dating the cutest girl in the office. No, I take that back. It was like being Hugh Hefner. Owning a car like that means you would never be able to notice what color the car was because it would be such a chick magnet women would just throw themselves on it. Ok, I'm drooling now. Moving on. Back to the car lot.

It was a Jaguar. I didn't dare...or did I? The owner of the lot came over to me and could see my Adam's Apple bouncing up and down like a Super Ball in an OCD asylum. "She's a beaut, isn't she?" I gurgled something like, "Me want" and he slapped the keys into my sweaty palm. I got behind the wheel and almost had an accident even before I turned the key. It was love. It was obsession. It was WAY out of my league.

I had to have it.

After taking what seemed like a fortnight, the paperwork was signed, the Saab was a vacant memory and I was pulling out of the lot. Ever date a girl who you KNEW was WAY too good for you? I have. Pretty much every girl I've ever dated. I didn't feel good enough to even look at it, let alone drive it. I could almost hear the car say to itself, "You've gotta be kidding me. I have YOU as an owner?" It was like holding a loaded gun and my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I knew I had to get a grip and calm down. I was so worried about crashing that I almost crashed. Fortunately, I had my mp3 player with me. I had the cassette adapter and searched for a song to ease my mind. Then I found it and turned it up loud:

"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."

Now if I can only remember to change the oil.

The Cereal Killer

I love cereal. MAN, I love me some cereal. I want to climb to the top of my Beavis and Butthead DVDs and proclaim to the world, "I *BLEEPING* LOVE CEREAL!!!!"

So, as you can see, I think cereal is pretty gosh-darned neat-o. It all started out back in nineteen-sixty-none-of-your-business when I could finally chew solid food. No more strained turkey necks, tapioca goo or other disgusting stuff that looks like it was wiped from the face of a sniffling third grader. No more! I had graduated to cereal. Wholesome oats and grains and milk...all a part of this balanced breakfast. Oh, and I forgot - about 10 wheelbarrows's worth of pure can sugar. But first, a little revisionist history on cereal.

Cereal was invented back in the 1800s by some self-righteous quack who served cold gruel in his sanitarium. That's right, you heard me - cereal was invented for the insane. One day, whilst concocting this fine blend of food mortar, some spilled on the stove. It cooked, cooled and flaked, creating the first dry cereal. As the years rolled into even more years, companies added spokespeople and mascots to get kids to pester their parents to buy it. Some things never change. Then, afraid that too many kids were pouring so much sugar into their bowls that the spoons actually could stand on end, the Battle Creek, Michigan cabal decided to create pre-sweetened cereal in an effort to CURB sugar from the diets of the pre-adolescent monsters.

Ok, pencils down. Before you know it, America was bombarded by cartoon tigers, sea captains and mysterious onomatopoetic elves. Sugar was still something that was a concern for parents, but only mildly so. It's what explains such names as SUGAR Pops, SUGAR Frosted Flakes, and most damning of all - SUPER SUGAR Crisp. The result were entire generations of kids eating so much sugar they vibrated across the living room floor while watching The Banana Splits. Bright colors, sing along jingles and progressively more annoying cartoon mascots brought things to critical mass and the moms of the world kicked a soccer ball into the crotch of the cereal manufacturers. Gone were any references to "sugar" in the name of the product, and seemingly overnight, we were buttonholed with officious-looking actors stressing the importance of fiber. The idea, I suppose, was to bring the kids off the swing set and into the bathroom. The sharp increase of children yelling, "Mommy, help!" from behind those bathrooms doors was deemed acceptable collateral damage.

When I was a kid, it was all about the prizes, from the cut-out Archies record on the back of Honeycomb cereal (the song was "Sugar, Sugar," according to the printout from my Irony Machine) to the rubberband-propelled car in Cap'n Crunch to the "Help Sugar Bear find the stash he ditched when the cops pulled him over" maze. As these novelties start impacting the bottom lines of these already-overpriced breakfast meals, more and more companies started giving away junk after you sent in about 100 box tops. My brother, Dave, and I saw through all that and always went for the cereal that had the coolest prize, like the zombie monkey paw or the fake vomit with little pieces of Alpha Bits embedded in the gunk. Good times. Often, Dave and I would be so torqued up to get the prize, we would jam our disease-laden hands deep down in the box to feel around for the plastic package. If it was Cap'n Crunch, we would pull our hands out, raw and bloody, from cereal that was as tough as unripened pine cones. The box opening, by that point, would resemble a gigantic oval and about two full bowls-worth of cereal would be all over the floor and summarily crushed under our feet as Dave and I wrestled over who would get the Frankenberry pencil sharpener.

In the 1970s, cereals really started to boom as cross-marketing tools for whatever hot new movie, video game or limp, wimpy cartoon was all the rage. There were Pink Panther Flakes, C-3POs (I'm not kidding), Donkey Kong, Pac-Man...hell, I won't be surprised if there's a South Park cereal on the horizon. Personally, I think the cereal manufacturers should have been a little more aggressive and dived in with both feet. Can you imagine the following cereals:

Godfather Cereal - shaped like little machine guns, with a picture of a strangled Luca Brasi on the front. The prize could be a life-like Sonny after he was machine-gunned down on the Causeway. Hey, it's the cereal "You Can't Refuse."

Pulp Fiction Cereal - shaped like little "Royale With Cheese" burgers and suitcase marshmallows, the prize would be a cut-out Gimp mask on the back. The front of the box would be Jules Winfield (portrayed by the amazing Samuel L. Jackson) saying, "Mmm-hmm, this IS a tasty burger!" Substitute Ezekiel 25:17 for the mask in Piggly Wigglys in the Bible Belt.

Boogie Nights Cereal - shaped like little disco balls and having an art deco design, it would have a cut-out record of "Disco Duck" by Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots (along with a suicide hotline number) on the back with the words, "You're a Star. You're a Great Big Shining Star" on the front. The prize would be, well, if you've seen the last minute of the movie, you'll be wrestling your mom for the oversized prize, let's put it that way.

And now, I'd like to bring us to the part of the program where I get to share with you some of my favorite cereals from my youth. Pull down the blinds and put the gum under your desk.

Ah yes, the Freakies. Where else but in this country and during the early 1970s could you find a product AIMED AT KIDS named "Freakies"??? Pretty much like every other sugar-sweetened toasted oats cereal on the block, but the weird characters, oddly entrancing jingle and chuckling older siblings made this THE cereal to have when you were an aspiring adolescent. I had all the Freakies magnets and used to sing this song at the TV screen when the commercial came on. It explains my fondness for straitjackets.

Oh man, does this cereal ever bring back memories. Knowing full well how EVERYONE loves clowns and aren't creeped out by them at all, General Mills presented us with this eerie concoction of Stepford-smiling cereal pieces. Favored by Uni-Bombers and Ed Gein enthusiasts, it wouldn't have been a stretch to call THIS cereal "Freakies."

The name says it all. Nope, no drug culture references here. Taking a cue from those renowned counter-culture tricksters, Syd and Marty Krofft, creators of H.R. Pufenstuf (think about that name) and the less-veiled "Lidsville" (a "lid," in drug parlance, is a measure of drugs. Of course, no two people could ever agree how much was in a "lid"), Magic Puffs was just the next natural progression in getting youngsters to grow their hair long, smoke dope and build their entire code of ethics around Jim Morrison lyrics. The magic "trick" inside was how to turn a stalk of celery into a bong.

Ah, Quisp, my personal favorite. I still have a Quisp T-shirt somewhere around here. You never see this cereal anymore although legend has it Quaker is still producing it. Don't you dare say anything bad about this cereal or I will come to your house and beat you up.

Another favorite of mine. One of the Monster Cereals that never gained any traction. Count Chocula, Frankenberry and Boo Berry had a good racket going and money split three ways goes a lot further than split four ways. Pretty much the Pete Best of the Monster Cereals, and later replaced by the staggeringly similar Yummy Mummy, Frute Brute lives on in the widescreen edition of Pulp Fiction when Lance is watching the Three Stooges at night before John Travolta careens his car into the side of the house.

See? SEE??? I TOLD you Cap'n Crunch made a vanilla crunch cereal! And you didn't believe me. Oh, you believed me when I told you my dad built the Empire State Building all by himself, but NOOOOOO, you didn't believe me when I told you about Vanilly Crunch and Wilma the White Whale! This is my sweet, sweet victory for all you bozos to face up to after years and years of doubting me. Feel the sting!

Let's see here. There's a cheeky rodent on the box (yes, beavers are rodents) and what looks like rodent droppings in the bowl. You first. Actually, these weren't bad...and that says more about me than I care to share.

Part breakfast cereal, part ensemble comedy cast. G&S&G&L took longer to say than it was on the shelves, but that didn't stop me from plowing through several boxes of it in my youth. Something about an anthropomorphic cereal machine with ears by its mouth appealed to my cosmic adolescent nature. From Purina, this Kid Chow featured mascots who looked like middle management accountants tripped up on nitrous oxide with the only normal character being the funky robot with cereal for brains. Most likely made on a dare, this product was the AMC Pacer of breakfast cereals. The person responsible was probably not only fired by Purina but brought up on charges for treason.

I still enjoy a bowl of cereal today. Like many idiots my age, quite a number of people can groove on a bowl of Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs or, as I am finding out, Fruity Pebbles, which has an almost cult-like following. Dad can keep eating his bland shredded wheat and Wheaties. Mom can have her Grape Nuts and Total. Me? I'm about to tuck into some Frosted Flakes. I still think they taste good. Oh hell, you know it's coming and I know it's coming. Breakfast cereals aren't just good food.

They're GR-E-E-E-A-A-T-T!

Pop

It's hard to sit down and write your thoughts about your dad. I've known him my entire life and I still don't think I've even begun to scratch the surface of the old man. Like a lot of people, I've always regarded Dad in almost mythic proportions. He's not an easy diamond to cut, but his facets are many.

Dad was born in 1943, the oldest of five children, and he played up the older brother card like a shark. Never one to shy away from laughing at his younger brothers while sitting on their chests and slapping their faces, he firmly established himself as the alpha wolf in any room he chose. Headstrong and stubborn, like the rest of the Irish side of my family, he grew up with rock and roll and he and his crew were staples of most every school's high school dances in their teenaged years. It was then that stories of his squaring accounts with the local hoodlums began to take seed, such as the time he chased off some clowns who pulled a knife on his brother and the time he made some ruffians go back and pick up the books they knocked from a girl's arms, at the risk of a thrashing.

And yet, for all of his menace towards bullies, he never dropped the gloves. He didn't need to. Dad possesses two of the most electric blue eyes God ever produced from his workshop and they cut you down like a laser. I kid you not when I say you could feel him looking at you from behind - that glare giving you a donkey kick to the kidneys. As the 1960s rolled on into the 1970s, Dad decided to complete the outlaw look with a Harley Davidson and some intimidating facial hair. Friends would be afraid to come into the house because of the "pit bull," as they called my Dad. He was tough as nails and he and mom ran a very tight ship with us kids, but his laugh could lift you out of your shoes - even if you were down the block.

Dad also has one of the keenest intellects I have ever come across. He has read pretty much every science fiction book ever written and has a near-genius IQ. He was also the first person in town to be the proud owner of a Harley and a Cadillac at the same time. On two wheels or four, Dad was always a sight to be seen when motoring down the road.

Yet, Dad was not a perfect man. How many of us can say we are? He made many mistakes in his life that he regrets. He was the Headmaster of the School of Hard Knocks, and, one evening, we had an argument . It was heated and very, very tense. It was the kind of argument that makes you consider making a radical change in your life and pointing to that moment as the catalyst. We allowed our disagreement to fester overnight.

The next morning, Dad came down before work. I was already in the kitchen, preparing to head out the door to catch the bus to my job in the city when he said to me, "You were right, son. I'm sorry." It was the first time I had ever heard him say he was wrong. It was then that Dad stopped being perfect to me - and I loved him more for that fact. Dad, if you're reading this, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Males, when we reach our late teens, and into our early 20s, try to assert ourselves as adults. Frequently, if not always, that assertion manifests itself into clashes with your dad. I was no different. It's a scene played out in almost every animal species and in most every culture in civilized history. It's the gumption of arrogant inexperience butting heads with stubborn reason. It can turn father and son against each other or it can bring two generations closer in understanding. Fortunately, for me, it was the latter.

Dad and I became friends. We talked as men, we laughed as men, we bonded as men. We went to see the Beavis and Butthead movie together - and I think it was HIS idea. Later that year, we went to a baseball game and a brawl broke out. Dad leaned over to me, and in his best Butthead voice said, "Baseball fights are cool!" I think I laughed for a solid year.

I remember when I was younger I called him "Pop," once. Oh, Dad didn't like that one bit. Since I'm a bit of a smartass, I would say, as I was headed out the door, "see ya, Pop!" knowing full well, I had a head start and was a pretty fast runner. In time, Dad not only grew to accept it - he embraced it. Now, whenever he calls, he says, "Hello, Kevin. It's Pop." After all, my Dad has taught me, it's nice to know I can teach him a thing or two.

Today, Pop is retired, has a brace of grandchildren and, if you pulled a turtleneck on him and plopped him down on a bar stool in a Key West dive, you would think Ernest Hemingway was alive and well. He's mellowed in his years, attends church regularly and would rather give you a hug than a hard time. When his father died in the early 1980s, I realized I had better appreciate my family. Without any hesitation or weirdness at all, every time I talk to Pop, we always say "I love you" to each other whether winding up a phone call or parting ways at the front door. It's a lesson we should all heed: tell someone you love them, even if they already know. Sometimes, it's just good to hear. It ain't bad to say, either.

I am a realist. I know there are things in all of our pasts which haunt us and have hurt other people. We are not perfect human beings. Sometimes, we have to make those mistakes - even the costly ones - to eventually emerge as better people. Perfection isn't a destination; it's a journey we will never complete, no matter how hard we try, but it's a trip made all the more worthwhile with each step you take in its direction. Maybe Pop took a bit longer to make that trip, but at least he's on his way.

He's far from perfect, but he's perfect for me.

Hey, he's my Dad.

Inside the Actors Studio With Scooby Doo

I was flipping through the channels one day when I happened upon a program that caught my eye. It was "Inside the Actors Studio" with the irrepressible James Lipton. If you've ever seen this program, you can skip the rest of this paragraph and get right to the comedy, which starts in paragraph number two. Lipton interviews various actors, directors, writers, musicians - basically anyone in the "business" who carries a SAG card and has made multiple covers of People Magazine.

On this particular program, he was interviewing one of my childhood favorites. He's still working today and he hasn't changed a bit in the past 40 years. And I lied to you; the comedy doesn't start in paragraph number two. But, then again, you'll believe anything you read or hear, won't you?

James Lipton: "He's beloved by millions of children all over the world, and just as beloved by the parents of those children. He's appeared on television, in movies, on lunch boxes and on bubble bath bottles. He has a bottomless appetite and never seems to gain a pound, but if you mention "pound" to him, he might just get your ghost. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Scooby Doo."

Scooby Doo: "Hello, James, lovely to see you."

JL: "A pleasure, sir. I must ask you about your voice. It does not resonate with the character you have played lo these past 40 years."

SD: "I'm glad you asked that, James. Like William Shatner and Bob Denver, I have 'become' the character I played to many - if not all - of the viewers. It is a cross I have come to bear, but I also realize it's what has afforded me the most lavish of lifestyles, including ringside seats, prompt seating at Nobu and the end piece of the meatloaf."

JL: "Fascinating stuff. Tell me, were there any on-set tensions between you and your cast mates?"

SD: "Keep in mind we, like you, are cartoons. But, even as cartoons, we're not above the occasional row."

JL: "Do go on."

SD: "Let me get this out of the way: Shaggy reeks. He smells like he looks. He would scare the soap right off the rope. He smells like a strip of uncooked bacon your grandmother dropped behind the stove in 1940 - and went unnoticed until you threw her into the old age ghetto 60 years later."

JL: "But, you seemed like such good chums on the show."

SD: "Two words: Hydroponic Chronic. The man smelled like a Cub Scout's drawers after camping for several weeks but he sure knew how to grow the kind bud. Half the ghosts you saw on that show was the result of us tripping."

JL: "Now I know a lot has been surmised about the relationship between Daphne and Fred. Care to elaborate?"

SD: "Fred was as cut-throat as they come and Daphne couldn't tell you the color of orange juice, but they would disappear as soon as the hunt was on and conveniently reappear at the end when everything was sorted out. I can't tell you how many damned purple dresses she went through because of what we now call "Lewinsky" marks."

JL: "Moving along. Thelma. Now I find her a fascinating character."

SD: "Saw this one coming a mile away, Lipton. She was straight."

JL: "But, she seemed like such a champion for young girls and people of alternative lifestyles."

SD: "So was Wonder Woman. Look, do you have any idea what was hiding under that gigantic sweater? Two of the roundest, most delicious, strawberry-tipped scoops of vanilla ice cr..."

JL: "Fascinating. Tell me - the Mystery Machine; Was it as 'groovy' on the inside as it was on the outside?"

SD: "Look, Lipton, if you interrupt me again, I'll bite your face off. Yeah, the Mystery Machine had all the candy on the inside: mini-bar, water bed, the works. I preferred sitting on the floor, however."

JL: "You were a purist, I take it? Suffering for you art?"

SD: "Purist, nothing. Ever sit on one of those hard seats on a school bus - especially near the back? It was very "uplifting," if you get my drift. It was instant Red..."

JL: "I'm sure that..."

SD: "Rocket. Say it, Lipton! Say it!"

JL: "Very well. Red Rocket."

SD: "Thank you. Anyway, it was a total chick magnet. Any time we rolled into a new town, the local girls would go crazy. We had to kick Shaggy out to get any action at all."

JL: "Even Velma?"

SD: "I told you Velma was straight. Anyway, it was Daphne who swung both ways. Mind if I smoke?"

JL: "How could I? Now, you have had myriad guests on your show, such as the Three Stooges, Batman and Robin and The Addams Family."

SD: "Pretty ****ed up, isn't it? Oh, can I say "****" on here? I mean, it IS cable."

JL: "Go on, please. We'll edit around it."

SD: "Ok, first of all, the Three Stooges were all but dead or farting dust by that time. Batman and Robin could have solved any of those mysteries themselves and let us play Mousetrap for bong hits in the hotel room. And the Addams Family? Oh yeah, THAT'S what we need - something creepier than the Phantom on OUR side. Don't even get me started on "Special Guest: Don Knotts." We may as well have had "Special Guest: Cousin Oliver from the last season of the Brady Bunch" instead."

JL: "How did you know who the Phantom was on every show?"

SD: "Look, Lipton, any time you see an adult at the beginning of the show, chances are THAT is the bad guy. And they all had the same voice. It was always the caretaker or the old retainer or it was Fred being a smartass and setting someone up to take the fall."

JL: "You mean Fred was..."

SD: "A blackmail artist, yes. He had Polaroids of the entire cartoon underground."

JL: "So, you eventually branched out with some new concepts. It must have been an exciting time. For example, there was your nephew, Scrappy Doo."

SD: (silence)

JL: "Mr. Doo, I wonder if..."

SD: "Are you trying to hurt me, Lipton? Are you? Because if you are, we can throw down right here, right now!"

JL: "My apologies. I retract the question."

SD: "You do that."

JL: "Now, it is that time of the program where we ask our guests ten questions and see what their responses are off the tops of their heads."

SD: "Yeah, I never knew THIS was coming. It's not like I didn't have time to pre-plan my answers."

JL: "Very good. First, What is your favorite word?"

SD: "**********"

JL: "Um, ok..."

SD: "It's really a compound word. But it's one of Carlin's."

JL: "What is your least favorite word?"

SD: "Toenails. Have you ever seen nice toenails? I mean, they're pretty disgusting. There are no pretty toenails - just ones that aren't as disgusting as say, your grandfather's."

JL: "What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?"

SD: "Watching Velma in the shower. To her, I was just a dumb dog, but let me tell you something, Lipton, that crotch-sniffing we dogs do is ANYTHING but innocent."

JL: "I feel a bit sick. What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?"

SD: "You."

JL: "Me? Why is that?"

SD: "Well, Sherlock, this whole gig you have set up was so you could feel part of an industry that otherwise wants nothing to do with you. You're like some sort of celebrity vampire leeching off our fame and fortune just so you can tell the guys at Jiffy Lube, when they're changing the oil in your 1988 Toyota, "Guess what? I'm close personal friends with Pauly Shore." Face it, Lipton, if it wasn't for this cushy gig, you'd be the assistant manager at Radio Shack or selling porn comics to minors for 'favors'."

JL: "I admire your brutal honesty. Tell me, what sound or noise do you love?"

SD: "The whistle of a sniper's bullet as it tears through that over-ripe melon of a head of yours. My God, it's perfectly round! You make Charlie Brown look like Beeker from The Muppet Show. Oh, and I also like the sound of a freshly opened beer can, Star Wars light sabers when they clash and the sound the lint guard makes on the clothes dryer when you pull it out to clean it - something you've probably never done."

JL: "You're a cynical dog, Mr. Doo."

SD: "Tell me about it."

JL: "What sound or noise do you hate?"

SD: "I would say your voice, but that's a lay up. I'll tell you what noise I hate. I hate the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. It's so precious and delicate that I want to poop all over the carpet. Your carpet. And kissing. The sound you humans make when you kiss. Not you, mind you, as the closest you've come to kissing someone else was playing Truth or Dare with your cousin Steven. Kissing noises sound like the ass of a person trying to extricate itself from a mound of wet clay. I should know. I've caught Fred doing all kinds of weird sh..."

JL: "What is your favorite curse word?"

SD: "****," just like everyone else."

JL: "A moment ago, you said your favorite WORD was an actual curse word."

SD: "I'm an artist, Lipton, I'm full of contradictions. This is dragging. How many more of these do we have, chief?"

JL: "Three more. Tell us, Mr. Doo, what profession other than your own would you like to attempt?"

SD: "I think I'd like to something with children. Maybe write children's books. Brainwash the kids and turn them into my army of terror."

JL: "Inspiring. What profession would you not like to do?"

SD: "President. I like to keep things on the down-low. Besides, I'm a dog and if I was elected, I could see Vladimir Putin tossing Scooby Snacks at me until I let him put nuclear warheads on the White House lawn. Those things are addictive. I'm a hedonist. Sue me."

JL: "If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?"

SD: "I'd like to tell me that movie, "All Dogs Go To Heaven" isn't fiction. But, in all seriousness, I want to hear him do his impression of me. Imagine that, the most powerful entity ever known reduced to say, "Rut roh, Raggy!" Yeah, that would be the stuff."

JL: "Well, I'd like to thank you for being our guest this evening, Mr. Doo. You candor is matched only by your rancor. Do drop by again sometime, won't you?"

SD: "Tell you what, sport, I'm leaving a piece of me with you as we speak."

JL: "My goodness! That smells awful."

SD: "Um, that's not me. It's Shaggy. He's your next guest and he's right behind you."

It's a sad thing when you get to see your childhood heroes up close and in their real personalities. It's like finding out Dad was really Santa Claus, mom was really the Tooth Fairy and Ted Danson was wearing a toupee. It's all an illusion we happily buy into for fear of the truth being less than savory. It's about honesty and truth and being able to trust others to say what they mean and mean what they say and to suspend your disbelief for the little fantasies and disillusionments that we allow ourselves without completely disconnecting from the real world. It's about allowing yourself to be innocent again and believing what you're told.

It's all right there in the second paragraph.

John and Jayne

John and Jayne...Jayne and John. They were as inseparable as minutes to the hour. Back in the old neighborhood, John and Jayne Steffler were the folks everyone knew - or knew about. With a big old boat in the driveway sharing real estate with what may have been the bitchin'est custom van in the county, they were hard to miss. Always smiling and impossible to not like, you just knew how much they loved each other by how they treated other people.

John Steffler died this past weekend. I went to his viewing tonight. The obituary said he was a year short of 70, but the man I saw at rest tonight easily looked half that age. As you may know from my other stories, I grew up in a fairly unique household. It was made all the more colorful with John and Jayne stopping by to visit. They lived less than a block away and the late night card games my folks played with them were legendary. At night, when my brother, Dave, and I were quiet long enough - when we should have been sleeping, mind you - the house just shook when John laughed. You couldn't miss it. I could go another 100 years and pick out that laugh. He was the very definition of wiry, with his trademark mustache and a laid back manner that would have made Jeff Spicoli look like a drill sergeant by comparison.

Jayne. Well, what could you say about her? I swear, she hasn't changed one bit in 30 years. She always had an elegance about her that underscored her good ol' girl charm. Tonight was no different. Under the most trying circumstances a person must endure - the death of a loved one - she was grace personified. John and Jayne were married for 48 years. Think about that. Forty-eight years. Most couples don't last 48 months and John and Jayne were together for half a century. It boggles my mind. If the good Lord owed me any favors, I would have asked him to give them 48 more.

John and Jayne would have done anything for a friend and they scored major points with me by treating my brothers and I like real people instead of mere kids, when we were growing up. It was at their house where Dave and I discovered Pong. In this time of the Internet, wireless communication and virtual reality, it might be hard to fathom the excitement Pong had on the country at that time. To two rapscallions like Dave and I, it was better than air hockey - and that was saying something.

John loved hunting, fishing and boating, but he held no gods before his sports teams. The only time you heard him raise his voice was during an Eagles or Phillies game, but it was always short-lived, as the next moment, that laugh - that intoxicating laugh - filled the room. He was lying in state wearing his Philadelphia Eagles gear, a true fan through and through. Even tonight, as my dad pointed out, he seemed to have a smirk on his face. That's one thing those who knew John will never forget - he was almost always smiling.

I had not seen John and Jayne more than once in the past 20 years. Yet, John's passing takes from me a part of my childhood that I'll always hold dear. On the other hand, seeing John and Jayne and the other folks from the old neighborhood kicked up the old forgotten memories like the residue in an old fish tank when you move the fluorescent pirate skull from one end to the other.

Looking at the serpentine line waiting to pay their respects, I was struck by a line from the movie, "A Bronx Tale." In the movie, the mob boss, Sonny, tells the teenaged Calogelo that "nobody cares. Nobody cares when you die" - a point driven home twice in the film. Looking at all the people John and Jayne touched made me realize that people do care, but maybe it just takes a special person - or special people - to make others care. You have touched many, many people in your lives and the world is that much brighter because of folks like you, even if it seems a bit darker today. John and Jayne. Jayne and John. Never one without the other.

Thanks for making me care.