The Grand Finale

You can hear it far in the distance, the clanging of blade on armor, the whizzing of terrifying projectiles as the Old Guard, protectors of the past, battle the Neo-Langoliers, toothy interdimensional creatures out to destroy every semblance of the past by eating it.  An old alchemist once remarked “Raking over the past and sifting its dust is an occupation for the idle or elderly retired,” an uncharitable opinion at best.  We prefer the words of the English historian John Dalberg Acton: “To be able to look back upon one’s past with satisfaction is to live twice.”

A love affair with The Past is no diminution of the present or the future, just a healthy recollection of our Glory Days, a time when we were at the height of our powers and ruled the world, a collection of Clark Gables and Marilyn Monroes off to plant our flags, explore the territory and save the world…which we did, if temporarily.  Time and tide, alas, wait for no man, and we are withered and compromised now, so please, let’s have no vilification for seeking solace in our collective past, for trying to remember the kind of September when dreams were kept beside our pillows.

Decades have passed since Woodstock shocked the world, since many of us gathered our resources and traipsed up to the venerable Atlanta Pop Festival to watch our heroes dance across the stage.  We were so much younger then, we’re older than that now, our ranks thinned by the antics of The Grim Reaper, our bodies ravaged by the unsympathetic mandates of Time, our confidence a bit shaken.  But we’re still here, scattered across the universe in big cities and tiny backwaters, some with the world on a string, others playing out the string, but all with one thing still in common; old guys and girls still wanna have fun.  Trouble is, in this day and age our kind of fun is a little harder to come by.  But don’t give up, because help is on the way. 

Without further ado, we officially announce the Coming of The Grand Finale at Heartwood Soundstage, a celebration of our continued existence and our common past, a final gathering of the creaky tribes, geared toward septuagenarians-plus but open to all humans over 15 years of age, to be held on May 2, 2026 between the hours of noon and 8 pm.  Four or five bands will play, preceded by a showing of the LAST TANGO IN GAINESVILLE movie from 2022.  Admission is free with your Medicare card.  The prior evening, Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin will play at Heartwood’s inside stage, and that will not be free, but we guarantee that the 125 people who show up will be glad they did.

When asked to speculate on TGF attendance, Will Thacker said it best: “I think the attendance might even supersede The Last Tango because all of us can see the end of the tunnel from here…they know this really IS The Grand Finale.”

Commentary On The Last Tango

So what should we expect from The Grand Finale?  What was it like that last time the old hippies of the sixties, seventies and eighties clambered aboard planes, trains and automobiles to return to the shrine of their adolescence, the scene of their minor crimes?  Let’s ask some of The Last Tango attendees. 

Paco Paco:  “I realize in retrospect why The Last Tango was designated as a “Grand” Reunion.  Much like the psychedelic headspace the store celebrated, there are so many layers to unpack.  A kaleidoscope of reunions within the greater view.  Beside all the social and professional connections rekindled among people directly connected to the store, there were reunions of all sorts going on among the musicians present.  Seeing players with that spark in their performances that only comes with the joy of reuniting with fellow artists gave me a glow that no money can buy.  Being immersed in that same nostalgic energy with my bandmates during our set was something to savor.  The lineup on stage represented multiple generations of another Gainesville phenomenon known as the Monday Night Jam.

Then there was the audience.  The energy of an audience makes or breaks the show.  An audience that projects love and enthusiasm can carry an artist through any adversity.  In 40 years of playing every type of gig imaginable I have seen some amazing audiences.  Nothing compares to what I experienced at The Last Tango.  The love, positivity and joy in that space at that time was palpable.  Truth be told, I was dealing with adversity in the form of a migraine that had me gobsmacked.  The love and joy in that scene lifted me up and carried me where nothing else could have.  It’s really that simple.  This to me is the definition and personification of a good time.  Good friends celebrating each other’s company and giving themselves over to that vortex of reciprocal energy we call live music.

One of the wisest humans who ever lived once said in a historically respected book that there is nothing better for man than to gaze in retrospect at the good results of one’s hard work.  Let us, every one of us, raise a glass to one another in a toast.  We did some damn fine work that day.  CHEERS!” 

Arthur King, Charlotte, N.C.: “The Last Tango on the Heartwood Soundstage grounds was not of this Earth.  Everybody was deliriously happy.  Didn’t make any difference if you didn’t know a soul, you could walk up and talk to anybody.  It was like being a member of a far-flung tribe, the members of which would recognize and accept you even if you were a complete stranger.  I became very emotional, almost teary-eyed.  I noticed I wasn’t alone.  It was as if a giant bubble existed over the grounds encapsulating all the good feelings.  The music from a lost era just punctuated the joyful spectacle.  I could barely speak.  My past years in Gainesville came flashing by and I was happier than I had been in years.  My God, there’s still life in them there hills, I thought.”

Judi Cain, Morgantown, W.V.:  “As soon as I walked through the Heartwood gate, I was transported to a gathering of all the true hippies I had always wanted to meet.  I danced among the crowd to music.  I stood in a shaded park, reunited with the soul brothers and sisters I had never met but was sure were out there.  I was sure I made the right choice when I opted to change my life and move to Gainesville.”

Cathy DeWitt, Gainesville:  “As I started scanning the field, a petite woman came walking toward me with arms outstretched, a wide grin and tears on her face.  ‘Ginnie!’ I exclaimed, holding out my own arms to receive the longest, closest hug I’ve had in years.  I hadn’t seen Ginnie since she moved to Tampa shortly after delivering my son, Jackson, via C-section at Shands Hospital over 40 years ago.”

Nancy Luca, Los Angeles:  On Saturday, May 7, 2022 in Gainesville, Florida, I took to The Last Tango stage with my bandmates.  We hadn’t seen one another or played together since January of 2020.  I was nervous because of Covid but excited because I started seeing faces from my past growing up in Gainesville.  I started playing with Gregg McMillan in 1974 when my Dad dropped me off at Tim Henry’s house to jam.  We were taking guitar lessons from Mike Campbell of Mudcrutch.  He was teaching to raise money for the band to move to L.A. later in the year.  Now, Greg is beside me on stage wailing on the Johnny Winter version of Jumpin’ Jack Flash we played when we were in high school.  We were cranking it out for our Gainesville Green tribe!!!!”

Don David, Gainesville:  “It was great to Get Back!  I stood on stage singing Strawberry Fields Forever with a string section beside me and the perfect Spring sky above.  A woman twirled in circles in front of a flowered wall.  Friends sat in chairs or strolled about the lawn.  Old friends with young hearts and knowing eyes.  Another band took the stage and treasured songs spilled forth and brought the dancers to their feet.  Joy was rekindled.  Youth felt a little closer than it had a minute ago.  A beer was procured to toast the occasion.  The occasion was The Last Tango in Gainesville, a celebration marking the 55th anniversary of the opening of the Subterranean Circus, a shop for the discerning delinquents of the time.

Time keeps slipping, slipping, slipping into the future.  And here we all were again, in the future.  With the music and the vibration of the past centering us.  Giving us, as it always had, a playful backdrop for the serious business of having a good time, and a good time was had by all.  Girls, now women, still smarter than the boys.  Boys, now men, glad they met smart women.  Together again for one purpose—to revel in our commonality and shared good fortune.  Night fell and as we walked back to our car, for a moment she was 21 again.  In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

Tom Shed, Gainesville:  “The magic conjured up memories of Gainesville when kids were given freedom to explore the world of another reality.  Gatherings in the early ‘70s brought together young people looking for an alternate universe where their ideals triumphed over the bad news of the day.  We were all supporting one another and hoping for the best while trying to avoid getting killed or caught.

A familiar song would start up and a memory would trigger.  Almost every time, it included someone now gone from my life forever, leaving me to wonder how life had gone for them.  A memory so distant it felt imagined.  Looking from the stage during the finale, I recalled the hundreds of events I had seen from a stage in Gainesville.  Working SGP, Reitz Union, the Ocala Fronton, Halloween Ball and the Great Southern Music Hall in the early ‘70s, playing guitar at all the acoustic events in town DJing at WGVL, I was a part of what happened.  Gainesville gave me the chance to become something I wanted to be.

My job Saturday was to handle the finale.  Bill wanted Auld Lang Syne to sum up the day.  Once I started, I realized it was more powerful than I had considered.  The faces looking back and singing with me knew we had all been changed by Gainesville in our youth.  We were the fortunate ones who experienced something at the right time, right place.The Last Tango gave us a chance to look back and realize what a great ride it has been.”

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Life At 85

It’s the New Year, a time for reassessment, resolve and renewal, or as much of it as we can muster wearing these retro bodies.  As the man looking down from the Middle Octogenaria water tower once said, it’s a little scary up here.  And lonely.  Don’t bother calling an old friend, though, he probably got swept away in the Grim Reaper’s last gallop through town…better not to know.  Oh, and the high school just emailed---looks like your 68th class reunion has been scrapped due to a lack of enthusiasm among the trio of alumni.

Make no mistake, there’s still plenty to be grateful for.  The wife remains spunky and your dog still loves you as long as the treats keep coming.  You can still walk a brisk mile every morning in a cheerful neighborhood where Democrats are not burned at the stake.  A new doctor moved in just down the road and you’ve purchased her services, so now you’ve got a captive audience to listen to your litany of health complaints, real and imagined.  The tab is a little inconvenient but it’s way cheaper than talking to a shrink.

With the new president in office, health costs have spiraled through the roof.  Heck, real Viagra on sale is a flabbergasting $60 a pill---some folks are going to have to decide whether to fornicate or eat.  Not to bring up a delicate subject, but the funeral industry has just about priced itself out of business.  Now everybody who dies goes to the fryer and has a “Celebration of Life” where all their old pals tell nice lies about them before disposing of their ashes upstairs, downstairs and in my lady’s chamber.  Heck, we have a bunch of dead guys out here in our yard, mixed in with the horses.  It might be a good idea to tell people where you want to end up in your will, otherwise it could get ugly.

Speaking of post-demise, Allen Morgan, one of our buddies now gone, currently resides in one of those popular new no-frills graves on Payne’s Prairie, though not by choice.  A gentleman by his bearing and a neatnik by choice, Mr. Morgan would consider his current surroundings to be unkempt and downright gnarly.  Allen was never a tree-hugger or one with nature.  When we went to visit his sparse remains we could swear we heard him plead, “Hey, get me out of here!  Dump me at the racetrack or just outside some hooker bar.”  We’d do it, too, but we can’t be sure exactly what’s Allen and what’s not.

Don’t get the idea we’re complaining, we’d just as soon avoid The Divine Comedy and hang around listening to the fiddlers play.  The rare reviews from folks who finally made it to the last station on the line aren’t encouraging.  There’s no there there, no rib joints, no high-school cheerleaders, no banjos.  Some say it’s like Phoenix without the air-conditioning.  So we’re hanging around until Gary Borse shows up in a long white gown with his interstellar allies and sweeps us off to Proxima Centauri, where the air is pure, the skies are an electric blue and John Edward Prine is playing at the Interplanetary Saloon.  Skoal!

Who Was That Masked Man?

I have always liked face masks.  Perhaps it was the early influence of The Lone Ranger, who galloped into my life each week on radio to the zippity-doo-dah strains of the William Tell Overture.  The Lone Ranger’s mask was a product of necessity, hiding from the evil Cavendish Gang the fact that one Texas Ranger survived their massacre.  If anybody foolishly tried to remove that mask from the LR’s face, he instantly turned them into silly putty.

In homage to the Lone Ranger, I nagged my mother to get me my own LR suit, replete with mask and hat from the annual Spiegel Catalogue.  I wore it to school one day as a first grader and the second-grade bully Eddie Melluci came over and told me to take it off or he would.  I had no illusions about being tougher than Eddie Melluci but I knew how critical it was to the Lone Ranger to keep his mask on, so I grabbed Eddie’s arm and threw him over my back.  No one watching was more surprised about this amazing feat than I was, unless it was Melluci.  He got up and drifted off while me and my posse pretended to ride off on our horses slapping our legs.  The Lone Ranger rides again!

I was fortunate enough to make four pilgrimages in a row to Mardi Gras back in the late 1960s.  For a mask-lover, Mardi Gras is the ultimate shrine.  Arabs trek to Mecca, baseball fans to Cooperstown and masquers to New Orleans, where the masks are ornate, spectacular and everywhere.  When Mardi Gras began, masks were popular because they allowed wearers to escape society and class restraints.  A carnival-goer could be anyone they wanted to be and mingle with the higher or lower classes. All MG float riders are required to wear masks in keeping with the mystery and tradition and many of the Krewes never reveal who their kings and queens are.

Halloween is another opportunity to play the fool, the fiend or the fairy.  You can be Darth Vader or Mister Rogers, a wicked witch or a werewolf, Richard Nixon or Donald Trump (bring your spittle-resistant mask).  The roots of Halloween masks can be traced back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, celebrated over 2000 years ago in regions that are now Ireland, England, Scotland and northern France.  During Samhain, it was believed that the worlds of the living and dead overlapped, allowing spirits to roam the earth.  To ward off those spirits or appease them, the Celts would wear masks and costumes made from animal heads and skins.  These disguises served a dual purpose: to protect the wearer from being recognized by malevolent spirits and to connect with the supernatural world.  Looking for fun and feeling groovy.

There are fewer appropriate masking occasions, of course, for mask enthusiasts of a certain age, particularly celebrants in the throes of Octogenarianism.  Nonetheless, my clever wife found yet one final excuse for donning the false veil, and though I asked for simpler gifts for my 85th birthday, she came up with the little-known (and terribly expensive) Omnilux face-saving wonder mask.  It’s faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings at a single bound.  And that’s just for starters.  As an added bonus, you can scare the devil out of the mailman.

Saving Face

Omnilux Men is a home-use wearable LED-light therapy device that produces a cool, narrow band of light which helps reduce the appearance of aging skin, sun spots and other scary stuff that terrifies little kids and potential suitors.  It consists of a flexible silicone device that contains light-emitting diodes and a controller.  The LEDs generate the light.  The device is worn on the face and held in place by adjustable Velcro straps that allow the mask to contour to the skin. 

The controller turns the LEDs on and off and controls power to the mask.  The device emits light energy in the red and near infra-red (NIR) region of the light spectrum and is intended to treat the skin through a non-thermal mechanism called photobiomodulation.  Omnilux stimulates collagen production by encouraging fibroblasts to produce more collagen and elastin, which improves skin tone and texture and promotes a more youthful, radiant appearance.  The mask is best used 3 to 5 days a week for ten minutes a day and is easy as pie to utilize.  If used properly and it doesn’t blow up or stick permanently to your face, the Omnilux is clinically proven to reduce fine lines and wrinkles, reduce the appearance of pigmentation and redness, promote healthier younger-looking skin and set you strutting.  Your money back if the ladies don’t come streaming to your door wanting to pinch your cheeks.  It’s worth the price just to turn it on the first time and be instantly transported to the sun.  You’ve heard the expression, blinded by the light?  This is what they were talking about.

I’ve started my masking therapy already and I have high hopes, high apple pie in the sky hopes.  Could be I come out looking like James Dean in Giant or Marlon Brando in The Wild One.  But what if it turns out like The Picture of Dorian Gray, where you get several years of good looks then suddenly turn into Steve Bannon or Kash Patel or (shudder) the Trumpster, himself?  Ah well, life is a crapshoot.  Plunk my magic twanger, Froggy, I’m in for a dime, in for a dollar.

New Year’s Resolutions

When you’re old as dirt, the first resolution every year is to cleverly negotiate the 365 days until next year.  Beyond that, everything is gravy.  There are two schools of thought on any other resolutions.  The first is, I got this far doing what I’m doing, why stop now?  This thought is popular among smokers, drinkers and Demolition Derby drivers, who believe strongly in Luck.  These people are usually proponents of the Age Is Just A Number philosophy, people who have never seen a balloon filling up with water until it bursts.  Abuse the balloon, the balloon abuses you.

The second school of thought is to sit yourself in the Alamo, hire the Belgravian Army for protection and eat only organic food grown in your own garden.  Keep a physician on the grounds and have self-sealing bubble wrap available at all times.  Never dance or play rugby.  Eschew all political partisanship, hot yoga sessions and the menage a trois, unless it seems irresistibly promising and the participants promise to use face masks.

The best resolution is somewhere in between, a reasonable promise to maintain health, wealth and welfare, to stay off the roof but not the stepladder, to donate your handgun to the Salvation Army but hold onto your shotgun, to avoid having sex at The Villages but not at Assisted Living, to hike with a pair of walking sticks, avoid parking in front of bars or backwards at the Gatorade Museum, use chiropractors only in dire emergencies, and never for your spindly neck.

Yeah, we know…life’s no longer a beach, but it’s the only game in town.  And as you’ve learned over the years, the bigger the game, the costlier the ticket.  This time, for the biggest game of all, your money’s no good here, Bub.  The ticket is paid for with aching backs and balky knees, fragile ribs and atrial fib, sleep apnea and COPD, not to mention the ever-lovin’ never-leavin’ Memory Dissipation Blues.  Too high a price to pay?  Next bus to Oblivion leaves at two o’clock.

Mixed in with all the requisite resolutions, of course, there should be at least one that makes your heart jump.  Everybody needs something to look forward to, even if it’s just a herbal enema.  There are exceptional places to experience all over the country where all you have to do is sit back, light one up and enjoy the view.  If you’re agile and ambitious, find a scenic loop trail and take a walk in the woods.  If you’re still crazy after all these years, pick up a dangerous woman in a dive bar (or be a dangerous woman in a dive bar).  And remember, in some cases advanced age is an asset.  You can actually do it in the road, there’s not a policeman on Earth who really wants to handcuff a naked couple over 70.

Alright then, fellow geezers, let’s get going!  It’s the New Year, you’re alive and time’s-a-wastin’.  Gas up the woody, take a whiff on me and stomp down on the accelerator.  Every little thing is gonna be alright!

That’s not all, folks….

bill.killeen,094@gmail.com 

  

Kathygrams

Kathleen Knight, legendary reporter for The Flying Pie, daily roams the earth searching for news tidbits denied to readers of lesser publications.  We receive her posts at random times, wrinkled yellow pieces of paper hastily telegraphed, often under gunfire, from the far reaches of Rangoon or Rwanda, brief remarks later fleshed out by our alert staff writers for your edification and enlightenment.  Here’s the latest:

Barney & Clod

McArthur Wheeler and his pal Clifton Earl Johnson never did well in Science class.  Like many of their contemporaries, they shrugged off the value of a subject they’d never need in real life.  Au contraire, mes amis!

One fine afternoon, with nothing better to do, the deadly duo decided to rob the Swissvale branch of the Mellon Bank near Pittsburgh.  One of them waited in line while the other stuck up a teller with a semi-automatic handgun.  They left together, $5200 richer.  It was so easy they decided to double their pleasure, double their fun by robbing the Fidelity Savings bank in Brighton Heights.  So far, so good.

Trouble was, the pair’s pitiful science background caused Johnson to think putting lemon juice on his face would make him invisible to the banks’ security cameras, akin to how it functions as invisible ink.  Wheeler didn’t believe him at first so he covered himself in lemon juice and took a Polaroid shot.  Sure enough, he didn’t appear on the subsequent image.

Johnson was arrested three days later.  It took until April to find Wheeler, who was outed an hour after a surveillance photograph was broadcast on the evening news.  Stunned after looking at the photograph, he asked police for an explanation.  The cops attributed his absence in the Polaroid to bad film, a maladjusted camera or Wheeler having unintentionally pointed the camera in the wrong direction.

The robberies inspired research into the Dunning-Kruger Effect, which describes people with little ability in a given field erroneously believing they are experts in it.  “Kind of like the President of the United States,” said one of the cops, officiously.

….and Robbie

Which brings us to one of Marion County’s own bank robbers, Robby Snead.  Growing up, Robbie was not the brightest bulb in the lamp shop.  His energetic mother Ruth tried to raise him better, but her pleading he denied, that leaves only him to blame ‘cause mama tried.  In and out of jail enough to be called Turnstyle Snead, Robbie decided one day to push all of his chips to the center of the table and rob a bank.  Not just any bank, mind you, but the one in his own neighborhood where his mother had her accounts.  While this might at first seem unwise to the casual observer, you have to remember that Robbie had lost his license due to some earlier shenanigans and wasn’t allowed to drive.

The day of the robbery broke sunny and clear, a good day for a larceny.  Robbie walked the few blocks from his house to the bank, pulled a neckerchief over his face and walked up to the familiar teller’s window.  “Give me all your money!” he barked to the matronly lady on the other side of the counter, who recognized him right away, wily disguise or not.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Robbie?” she kindly inquired, because that’s what concerned neighbors do in Anthony, Florida.  “Yes, ma’am,” said Robbie, politely, so the teller sighed, gave him a few dollars and sent him on his way.  Satisfied he had enough for a jolly weekend, Robbie marched back to his house to have some lunch, but was soon interrupted by a polite knock on his door.

“Dang!” cussed the bank robber, flabbergasted at the crime-solving abilities of the local police.  “How do they DO that?” 

The Human Condition

We humans are preposterous creatures.  Our history books will bear this out with stories of wars sparked by a stolen bucket, farmers taking snails to court and emperors fleeing from an army of rabbits.  Whoever thought American voters would elect Mr. Magoo president of the United States?  Further evidence of man’s silliness is below.  Read it and giggle.

1. Liechtenstein’s army of 80 soldiers went to war in 1866.  Shortly, they came back with 81 after making a friend on the enemy side.

2. In World War II, those clever Germans built a fake airfield, replete with faux wooden planes, as a decoy in Holland.  When they finished, the British dropped a wooden bomb on it.

3. In 1945, the American army was rolling through Germany under the auspices of feisty General George Patton.  General Dwight Eisenhower sent Patton a message instructing him to avoid the city of Trier since it would require 4 divisions to take the town.  Patton sent a return message reading “have taken Trier with two divisions…do you want me to give it back?”

4. There was a time when the snobbish French dismissed potatoes as a food fit only for animals.  A farmer named Parmentier, however, knew potatoes were very good food and decided to promote them to the working class.  He bought a two-acre farm, started growing spuds and placed armed guards around the field.  The public took this to mean something very valuable was growing there, and they started eating potatoes, which quickly became popular throughout France.  If it weren’t for Mssr. Parmentier, there’d be no French fries.

5. Never discount the ability of a mid-level bureaucrat to influence history.  One Gunther Schabowski was tasked with informing the world media of plans to open the border between East and West Berlin.  Neglecting to read the full briefing carefully explaining that this would be a slow and gradual process, Gunther said the order would take immediate effect.  Berliners instantly rushed the wall and border guards were overwhelmed and couldn’t stop them.  Schabowski got no Christmas bonus that year.

6. The winner of the 1904 Olympic Marathon in St. Louis was later disqualified when officials discovered he traveled part of the distance in the back seat of a car.  Only 14 participants finished the race on an extremely dusty road that left several entrants unable to breathe.  One of the finishers took a nap.  The official winner glugged down a concoction containing strychnine, raw eggs and brandy.  The designer of the course wanted to test his theory of “purposeful dehydration” so the course lacked any water for the runners.  One of the contestants collapsed and threw up blood due to dehydration and had to have surgery for a dust-lined esophagus.  The fourth-place finisher got chased off the course by a dog.

7. During the Battle of San Gabriel in the Mexican-American War, both sides had an array of cannons and gunpowder, but due to some vague faux pas, they had only one cannonball between them.  The two sides spent the whole battle firing the one cannonball back and forth at each other.

Making Waves

For the past 35 years, dozens of students have walked across Florida International University’s campus lake during November’s Walk on Water contest, the largest and longest-running competition of its kind in the United States and probably anywhere.  Architecture professor Jaime Canaves dreamed this up as a fun design challenge for the students, who build their own floatable shoes, then race each other across the lake.  The winning team gets bragging rights and $1000.  Last year’s champs, Juan Goya and David Mora secured the win with a finish time of 50.90 seconds.  Impressive, perhaps, but a mere sideshow compared to the efforts of Charles W. Oldrieve, a former tightrope walker from Boston.

In November of 1888 at 20 years of age, Oldrieve used his oversized, wooden, canoe-shaped shoes to walk more than 150 miles down the Hudson River from Albany to Manhattan.  The journey lasted six days and involved water temperatures so cold that one night when Oldrieve came ashore to sleep, his shoes were covered in ice.  Unperturbed, he announced plans to walk across the English Channel a year later.  Charles never made it to Europe but he accomplished many other feats like walking across waterfalls and through the ocean to islands off the Massachusetts coast.

Oldrieve’s tightrope skills likely gave him an advantage, but his assured steady gait helped him the most.  “Usually, floating is easy,” says Professor Canaves, “the biggest problem is to go forward.  “If you don’t do something to create traction, you’re moving back and forth but staying in place.”

Oldrieve’s shoes had fins, or flappers on the bottom.  According to the Boston Globe, “When the foot is brought forward and the shoe forced through water, the fins lay flat against the bottom of the shoe until the step is taken, then they drop down and present a surface to press against the water.  That way, the walker is able to move forward.  Without the flappers, he’d make no headway.”  Although Charles’ shoes were similar to those of other water walkers, he continued to experiment with different designs and worked on his technique.  By the early 1900s, he could not only walk forward and backward, but also turn around in a circle, a maneuver that took him five years to master.

In 1907, Oldrieve embarked on his most ambitious journey yet, walking down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers from Cincinnati to New Orleans.  He began the nearly 1600-mile trip on New Year’s Day with a goal of reaching the Crescent City in 40 days, traveling up to five miles an hour.  Slowed down by the need to dump water out of his shoes despite wearing thigh-high rubber boots to keep them as dry as possible, his average speed slowed to roughly two mph.  At Cairo, Illinois, he complained of rheumatism in his back and came down with chills and a high fever but he made it to Baton Rouge by February 6, several hours ahead of schedule.  Approaching New Orleans, Oldrieve was nearly swept under a barge, but he was rescued by several men on board.  He made it to his final destination with an hour to spare on his 40-day deadline.  “I wouldn’t walk that river again for five times the money I won today,” he said.  “I’m lucky to still be in one piece.”

In A Snail’s Eye

At first glance, snails and humans don’t seem to have much in common, unless it’s the pace at which they tend to their income tax forms.  But, surprise—our eyes are structurally akin to those of the freshwater golden apple snail, a species native to South America.  And get this, these snails have a unique and spectacular superpower---after an eye is amputated, they can regrow a new, functional replacement within about a month.  Yeah, we know.  Why the hell would anybody amputate a snail’s eye?  There’s no explaining the idiosyncratic inclinations of scientists.

Anyway, the same scientists have now uncovered a gene related to eye development in these snails.  Further work with this eye-generating species might one day help with human eye diseases and injuries.  Alice Accorsi, a biologist at the University of California, Davis decided a study of the snails to discover the basis of their resiliency was in order,  The results of that study were recently published in the journal Nature Communications.

Accorsi and her colleagues used dissections, microscopy and genetic analysis to study the snails’ eyes and their similarity to human eyes.  The gastropods, like us, have camera-type eyes with a cornea, a lens and a retina with cells to capture light.  The team found that the apple snails and humans share several genes related to gene development.  They also determined the different stages of the snails’ eye regeneration process.  In the first 24 hours, after an eye is amputated, the wound begins to heal.  The body sends unspecialized cells to the affected area, then in just over a week those cells specialize by beginning to form eye structures.  Within two weeks of the amputation, the eyes’ structures are all present, though they still need a few weeks to mature.

The researchers also found that the same gene (called pax6) is used to form eyes in both the snails and in humans.  “With the advent of CRISPR technology, we can now manipulate genes in this species,” says study co-author Alejandro Sanchez Alvarado, a developmental biologist at the Stowers Institute for Medical Science.  “This includes targeted disruption of the pax6 gene, an essential regulator in eye development and regeneration.”

Humans, alas, won’t be growing new eyes just yet.  To investigate further, the researchers will have to mutate or turn off pax6 in adult snails, then access their ability to regenerate their eyes.  If they find a set of snail genes that are important to eye regeneration and vertebrates also have those genes, scientists might be able to one day activate them in humans.  Henry Klassen, an ophthalmologist and stem cell researcher at Cal-Irvine tells Science News that knowing eye regeneration is possible is “a beacon of light. You can at least start asking questions like, ‘Where’s the hang-up. How far along the similar path do things go in humans,’ and what genes, for instance, intervene or have been added to suppress regeneration or fail to respond?  Nature carries out many experiments through evolution, and by exploring how different species solve similar biological challenges, we often find there is more than one way to achieve the same outcome.” 

Exit, eye of the tiger.  Enter, orbs of the mollusk.  Oh, to be a brown-eyed handsome man.  Twice.

Hold It, Mister!

Nobody died last year in Longyearbyen, Norway, and for good reason.  It’s against the law.  If you’re feeling a little mortal, better skitter across the town line and do your business there.  There’s nothing worse than being dead and in jail in Longyearbyen.  It’s not that the locals have anything against corpses, they just can’t bury them in the permafrost and you don’t want them piling up too high in the hospital dumpster.

This edict against death is not a new thing for Europeans.  In ancient Greece, the city of Delos  was considered too sacred for the messy realities of life…and death.  Around the 6th century BCE,  authorities ordered all graves removed and banned both childbirth and dying on the island.  Anyone in a precarious situation was promptly ferried to neighboring Rhenea, which became the ancient version of a designated troublemaker zone.

In 2007, after cemetery plans were blocked by regional authorities, the mayor of Cugnaux, France banned death within the city limits.  The decree worked, as news coverage spread across the country and forced the city leaders to find alternative space.  The same thing happened in the French city of Sarpourenx and the Spanish town of Lanjaron.  In Biritiba Mirim, Brazil, the town cemetery ran out of space in 2005 and environmental rules forbade expansion.  In response, the city’s mayor pushed through a law banning residents from dying.  The move forced state officials to reconsider restrictions and new land was approved for a future cemetery.  Until it was finished, everyone was kindly asked to stay alive.  Brazilians being very polite people, did just that.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

  

Baby New Year Arrives

“There are no second acts in American lives.”---F. Scott Fitzgerald

“I call bullshit on that.”---Daniel Levine, reincarnatee

Here we are on the cusp of the new year and me with nothing to wear.  But maybe that’s how it should be…starting off the annum with none of your accumulated assets, just one of those black boxes with yellow and green numbers and letters, like you got in first grade.  That would be energizing, to say the least, and you wouldn’t be bored.  Everyone would get a Magic Twanger, of course, an ejector-seat-like button which could be pushed when they got to the end of their new rope, but that’s for much later.  Now is a time to consider the possibilities.

First day, everyone will gather in their little homerooms, black boxes in tow, to plan their futures.  If you ever secretly wanted to be a jet pilot, a ballet dancer or an accordionist like Mike Boulware, this will be your big chance.  Just reach inside your black box and pull out your Dummies Guide to Welding (or Waterslide Testing or Reindeer Gelding), then go to the classroom of your choice where a skilled professional will teach you the ins and outs of your chosen career.  (Trainees can also select a backup course like Life Coaching in case the first one doesn’t work out.)

At recess, unencumbered by old associations, students will have the freedom to select new friends, religions and political parties, replete with the wisdom of experiences compiled in their earlier lives.  Since everyone will now be single, the hunt can begin for future companions, but this time with full knowledge of the deadly possibilities.  There will be booths set up in the schoolyard where advocates will advise on subjects like “Planning Your Four-Child Family” or “Touring the High Points of Europe Instead.”

Maybe your old life was in Maine and you wonder what life in Arkansas might be like.  Maybe you’re a tepid city boy and you’ve heard a country boy will survive.  Maybe you’ve felt like a mermaid stuck in the mountains or a goatherd mired in Key West.  This is your big chance for The Ultimate Do-over.  Grab your coat and get your hat.  Leave your worries on the doorstep.  Just direct your feet to the future side of the street.

J.B. in her wild and crazy youth

Starting Over

We asked a few of our interesting friends to consider a rerun of their lives, starting at age 20.  We got all kinds of answers, from the ridiculous to the sublime, which is just what we wanted.  Herewith:

Jerri Blair, Attorney-at-law:  “Bill Killeen waved his magic wand and gave me the opportunity to take back the body I wore at twenty years old and choose an entirely different life than the one I’ve lived.  My first thought was, no, I like my life and I’m happy with my choices, but where’s the adventure in that?  And I’ve always been an adventurer, whether it was finding new ways to interpret the law in the halls of justice or crossing a desert stream and wandering out into the wild.  Therefore, I’m taking the offer and choosing to continue and exponentially expand the path I was on at twenty but left at twenty-three.  At twenty, I was hitchhiking America with no possessions and no particular place to go.  Kris wrote and Janis sang that freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose and they were right.  The feeling of freedom on the road can be exquisite, but I’m taking my highway trek so much further.  Maybe I’ve been inspired by wild animal cowboy Will Thacker, but I’m heading out for the jungles and deserts and oceans and cities of the world.  I’m headed for a few years to an ashram in India and then skipping all over Asia.  I almost get arrested in China for giving a pair of jeans to one of Mao’s teenaged grandchildren.  I escape through Tibet to Nepal and hang with the Buddhist monks until the heat is off.  I slide into Tehran in 1979 and join the protestors seeking a democratic government.  Then it’s off to a Greek island where I’m swept off my feet by a dark-haired Adonis who teaches me the art of dancing and many other things (some of which should make me blush) in the Mediterranean waters.  I work for cheesemakers in the Po Valley and then land in Florence where I immerse myself in Michelangelo and get a job as an assistant to a sculptor.  I tramp through ancient ruins in Africa and then become a guide to the Lascaux caves before they are closed to the public.  I finally settle down in Oxford and spend my afternoons at the Eagle and Child pub discussing the world with all those who love to ponder life.  So my new life is either that fun ride or I lock myself in a lab and discover the answer to everything in the universe by solving the theory of everything.  Whew!”

Marty Jourard, Itinerant musician:  “What would I do differently at around twenty years old if I had the opportunity?  A lost weekend in Monaco with Claudia Schiffer comes to mind—we share the same birthday—but the odds remain slim and I’ve had to let that go.  Opening a music school was a viable choice for me.  But I question how much control we have over our lives.  As the Yiddish proverb says, “Man plans, God laughs.”  I feel I’ve drifted through my life, even in hindsight, with the notable exceptions of deciding to drive to L.A. to see what developed, and then recognizing a good opportunity when it came along.  Going with the flow appears to be my non-method—the Tao approach.  Fumbling through each day is probably more accurate.”

Patricia McKennee, Retired bad girl and world traveler:  “Given some time to ruminate on what I might say should some storybook genie pop in and offer me a do-over life, this is what I’ve come up with.  Because I’ve loved to travel all my life and been fortunate to spend glorious times in countless countries, I would add having the chance to learn to be a really great photographer.  After that, I would become a photojournalist, specializing in world travel, documenting and comparing the different ways disparate cultures raise and treat their children, perhaps with a sideline on how animals fit into different cultures.  I will postulate that my notes, journals and photos might become books—quasi-scientific or coffee-table or both—and sufficiently successful for me to earn the right to speak about my findings and become recognized as an authority in various circles.  The cherry on the cake would be that my future travels would all be paid for by appreciative representatives of various organizations hanging on my every word.”

Ron Thomas, Impostor:  “When I was in college, my father offered to pay for a trip to Europe.  I wasn’t ready to take a break from UF or leave Gainesville at the time so I didn’t go.  But in my second life, I did go.  I had never been farther than the Bahamas so I felt some trepidation, but I also looked forward to taking the Grand Tour I had read about in novels.  London, Paris, Venice, Rome…I was amazed by the sights and the varieties of experiences to be had, and I made lifelong friends in many places.  In fact, I took the leap to actually become what I had thought about for years—a writer.  And since this reverie is whatever I want it to be, I became a very good writer and a world traveler nonpareil.”

Joseph Trepanier, Ancient Mariner:  “I have a second life and I want to do better than I did with the first.  If I can please start before age 20, I would like to grow up with three older sisters so I would understand women better.  I have not done well on this subject.  I blame it on isolation from females.  I was brought up by my father and grandparents, my mother took a hike when I was two.  I had my first real date when I was nineteen with the world’s premier introvert.  I married her at 20, divorced at 22, slightly before we killed each other.  Then I married the world’s premier extrovert, a lady truck driver.  We drove back and forth across the country trying to earn a Guinness World Record title for Worst Food Eaten in Twelve Months by Anybody, Anywhere.  Don’t believe what they tell you, though, sex in the back of a truck is better than advertised.  Obviously, I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places.  I know I’ll do better second time around.”  

Ballad Of The Ultimate Closer

Life is a quirky arbiter.  Sometimes, the villain gets the girl.  Sometimes, as Leo Durocher once said, nice guys finish last.  The Golden Ring hangs there as the carousel goes round and round and it takes a blend of luck and ambition to grab it.  

I first met Danny Levine at the Subterranean Circus in 1967.  His Art Department compadre Pamme Brewer brought him by the store to hustle a job.  Prior to the meeting, Pam advised me that Danny had a wealth of experience selling men’s clothes in Miami.  “He’s a natural salesman with a great personality,” she promised.  “Nobody else here knows jack about selling clothes.”  True, dat.

There was just one small wasp in the ointment.  While in San Francisco a short while back, Danny had succumbed to a drug overload, thought he was Jesus and was committed to a mental institution, not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I’ve always found that short interviews are best, so I asked him “You still crazy, Danny?”  Mr. Levine assured me he was just going through a phase.  We hired him and he sold 50 pair of jeans his first day.  I sent Pamme back to San Francisco to find more crazy people.

A couple of years later, a severe bout with asthma put me in Alachua General Hospital for five days.  On my way out, a doctor told me living in a spic ‘n’ span environment might help, so I moved to the new Summit House apartments with Danny as my roommate.  He wasn’t bad, as roommates go, except for leaving too many wine bottles in the sink and receiving visitors too early in the morning.  That’s when the charming Miss Charlotte Yarbrough, a perky junior at Gainesville High School, would show up for pre-school hanky-panky, after which Mr. L would wake up the apartment complex revving up his Kawasaki to deliver his inamorata to GHS.  Needless to say, Summit House chose not to renew our lease.  Eschewing all blame, Danny preferred to think we were evicted for my playing of lovely Moody Blues music at maximum volume well into the early morning hours, which could have been a contributing factor.

Those Were The Days, My Friend

Opening the Subterranean Circus door each morning at ten was like going to a new musical comedy every day.  We never knew who was going to show up and in what condition, but whatever happened you knew Danny Levine could relate to the psychological deficiencies of any customer.  He was a combination of Class Psychologist, mentor of the young and innocent, loyal friend to the confused and depraved.  He was also an official minister of the Universal Life Church, having sent in his 29 cents and two boxtops from Quaker Puffed Rice.  Now and then, he’d trek out to some woodsy glen and marry an optimistic, starstruck hippie couple while their doting friends released terrified doves into the sky.

Daniel Levine was a man for all seasons, a cheerful bon vivant, a lover of art history, a daring motorcycle racer, a sucker for any crazy new plan.  Once, in Manhattan, he took me to the Metropolitan Museum and taught me more about Art in a few hours than I’d assimilated in the rest of my life, which is a big deal since in college I took Mr. Cyclone Covey’s exceptional Humanities class.  It’s only natural that Danny eventually morphed into a professor of Art History, spending 17 years at the Savannah College of Art and Design.

In all his years, alas, D. Levine never had the good fortune to run across another Charlotte Yarbrough.  It’s a long and a dusty road, a hot and heavy load and the girls you meet aren’t always kind.  He did get a brief jump in blood pressure from one of his SCAD students named Deanne, but quickly put those feelings aside lest he fall prey to the deadly aging-prof-meets-nubile-young-thing catastrophe.    Alone but not unhappy, Professor Levine laid back in his Savannah easy chair and enjoyed the academic life.  He also rambled around Europe, taking in the exotic scenery, examining the surfeit of art and eating at every restaurant in Italy.  If you ever have three hours to pass, call Danny and ask him to tell you a little about Italian food.  Prepare yourself, though, he gets very emotional.

A Fork In The Road

As everyone who has been there well knows, the journey through the switchback corridors of Septuagenaria are unlit and scary, full of foul odors and disturbing sounds.  A step too far to the left and you’re protein deficient, too far to the right, you’ve got kidney problems.  But dismiss any urge you might have to race through there, it’s worse on the other side of the tunnel.

Around the time of The Last Tango in Gainesville in 2022, Danny called and revealed that he’d contracted Parkinson’s Disease.  He came anyway, had a good time, looked great in his movie interview, but things soon went downhill.  He called a year later, sounding very much like he was ready to call it a life and cash in his chips.  With Parkinson’s, you generally wake up in the morning miserable and it rapidly goes downhill from there. Sooner or later, driving gets very risky and you’re afraid to go very far by yourself.  You wonder what you’re living for and begin looking for a way out.  But sometimes you get a great notion, and Danny’s was to try Deep Brain Stimulation at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. 

We met Danny and his sister for dinner in St. Augustine just after his first treatment.  He was a little wobbly and very tired, but he ate his dinner and had a good time.  Slowly, but surely, Danny got a little better.  We visited him in Savannah this Spring and he showed us the sights for more than two hours.  Despite the occasional setback, the disease was no longer advancing.  After a subsequent visit to Mayo a few months ago, Mr. Levine called one day to say he felt “almost normal.”  It seemed as good a time as any to start planning that second life.

Danny Levine tracked down the object of his academic affection, Deanne, in faraway Oregon.  She visited him, he visited her and in November the two of them headed off to Umbria, laughing.  Before he left, Danny called to say “This is the happiest time of my life!”  It’s a rare thing to feel, but we honestly felt so happy for him it was almost as if this exciting phenomenon was happening to us.  Sometimes, the end of the line is not really the end.  Every so often, the conductor empties the train, winks, and carries us all the way to Coney Island.  Sometimes, on those very special occasions, we find our second wind, discover a hidden dimension, are truly stunned by our good fortune.  Sometimes, we actually grab the Golden Ring.

That’s definitely not all, folks.  Have an exhilarating New Year!

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

 

Ghosts Of Christmas Past

On Christmas morning of 1962, Marilyn Todd climbed out the bedroom window of her parents’ house in Austin and walked across the frozen lawn and into my steel-grey 1952 Cadillac Superior hearse for an unknowable adventure across time and space.  Even brilliant young ladies like Marilyn will do crazy things when they are in love.  We headed east, then north to my old home town in Massachusetts to find work and build a future, hopefully in Gainesville, Florida when the time was right.

Marilyn and I had met at Threadgill’s bar when it was far from famous but picking up interest from University of Texas faculty, the Austin Ghetto crowd and a few enlightened local high school kids.  Marilyn was one year removed from high school, having forgone her first year of college to care for an ailing mother, and was thrilled to have a night to herself.  She sat on the stool next to me, the only one available and we had a humorous conversation when her date dropped his beer glass and it fell to pieces at my feet.

Next day, Marilyn’s best friend, Pat Brown, who was dating Gilbert Shelton, brought her by the Ranger magazine office and I was smitten, walking her a very long way home over what seemed like miles of hills.  Thus began a delightful three months of almost daily phone calls and meeting when we could.  There was no work for me in Austin, however, and I was fast running out of what few funds I had after replacing the radiator in my giant vehicle.  I had to head back home to Lawrence…would she come with me?  Turns out she would, knowing full well all hell would break loose when her father woke for breakfast.

None of that mattered, nor did the fear of future folly.  We were young and foolish, optimists riding a cloud of adrenaline, off to see the world, unthinking of its tolls.  Reality would have to wait, right now we were alive, together and rolling forward.  Right now, it was Christmas.

2

Marilyn Todd, 1964

Celia’s Christmas

Alphonsine Wickey was born in Alsace-Lorraine, emigrated to the United States at an early age, married and morphed into Celia Gosselin, wife of Bill.  Her husband bought a roomy two-story house on Garfield Street in Lawrence, Massachusetts and also a bar on South Union Street.  He named it The Whippet Club, celebrating his fondness for racing dogs, of which he had several.  Celia and Bill had one child, Marie, who married an old guy named Tom Killeen when she was barely out of high school.  Her first child, Billy, set Marie back a bit and she remained in the hospital a few days after giving birth.  Billy went home with grandma, or Nan, as we called her.  Whether it was this very early communion with her grandchild which created a permanent bond or something else known only to Celia, from Day One, Billy could do no wrong in his grandmother’s eyes.  If I shot someone in the middle of Winthrop Avenue, she would have said he deserved it, then called a lawyer.

The depth of this love was occasionally tested.  We had four officers of the law living in our neighborhood and they took turns giving me a hard time, but when Celia showed up they fled in terror.  “Yes, Mrs. Gosselin.  You’re right about that, Mrs. Gosselin.  We’ll leave it to you then, Mrs. G.”  One afternoon playing baseball, I hit an unusually long home run over the Eidam’s Oil Company building and right onto my grandmother’s upstairs porch, where she sat reading the newspaper.  That baseball bounced all over hell as she jumped around the veranda trying to avoid it, cursing me loudly in German as she danced.  What does “Verdammt nochmal, du verruckter bastard!” mean, anyhow?

I saw my grandmother cry only once, at the death of her husband, but she almost shed a tear when I headed off for college at age 17.  Despite an undistinguished university career as a writer/troublemaker with average grades, Celia never let her friends forget she had a genius grandson.  She maintained a small bedroom for me at one end of the house and kept it in sparkling shape for those few days at Thanksgiving or Christmas when I might come home.

Celia Gosselin didn’t know what the Subterranean Circus was, just that “Billy owns a store in Florida.”  I think my mother was as vague about the place as possible.  In 1968, the Circus really took off and was grossing about $1000 a day, $300 of which was net.  It was the first time in my life I had a nickel to my name and by then I was a shocking 28 years old.  Celia was also getting along in years and I thought it was about time I did something for her.  She was a big TV fan, spent hours watching her old black and white set in the living room.  It was more than time for a Christmas upgrade.

I searched around and found a very large RCA color floor model with all the bells and whistles, a furniture piece as much as a television.  We put it in a gigantic box, wrapped it in holiday paper and put it beside the tree with someone else’s name on it.  Every time Celia walked by, she stopped to look at it and wonder “what the hell this is?” never imagining it might be for her.

When Christmas finally arrived and everyone gathered for the ceremonial drinking of nectars and the dramatic gift reveal, Celia was the recipient of the usual gifts, glowing every time she opened something.  Finally, all the presents were delivered but one, the treasure in the enormous box.  Everyone was in on the game, of course, and when I announced that the gift had been mislabeled, all eyes fell on Nan.  She didn’t quite get it at first and had to be encouraged to open the box, a slow and laborious process during which she was unusually confused.  Finally, the veil fell and the colossal TV was exposed.  Nan gasped and almost fell backwards onto the floor.  Then, for just the second time since I’d known her, Celia Gosselin began to cry.

Celia the Great

A Little Romance

They met at a small gathering spot in the University’s Student Union, she sitting in a booth with a smiling girlfriend, he walking by with a dormitory roommate.  The young woman invited them to take a seat, they did, conversation flowed, people laughed, phone numbers were exchanged, facile promises were made.

The taller of the two boys called the taller of the two girls one day and a meeting was arranged at a park with a pond at the center of campus.  The boy, who came from the East, related tales of life in New England, replete with blizzards and baseball and history.  The girl told stories of a very different existence on a Native American reservation where her father was an “Indian Agent.”

The boy liked the girl very much and the girl liked the boy.  One day, they went to the movies together.  Another, they dined on banana splits at a sweet shop.  They had dinner together at a cheap restaurant with a tiny menu.  They walked together often, automobiles being a great luxury in those days.  The boy was always very respectful of the girl.  At night, she returned to her dorm and he to a room in an old lady’s home.

Time passed, emotions rose.  When they kissed on a bench by the pond on a twilight meeting, the girl from the Indian reservation made it known by her actions that something more was required.  The boy said he would make the arrangements.  The boy and the girl had limited experience in these matters and the excitement was palpable.

A few nights later, the boy whisked the girl in the back door of the old lady’s house and into his small room, adorned with a bed, a desk and little else.  They were careful to be quiet as this was a forbidden adventure promising severe retribution if discovered.  The tall girl smiled as the boy helped her unbutton her clothes.  The bed creaked a little too loudly as they fell into it, bringing muffled laughter.  In a warm room in an old lady’s house on a chilly winter night in December, the Eastern boy and the Western girl shared a night of rare bliss.  “Merry Christmas,” said the boy a few days in advance.  “I’ll say,” replied the girl.  The next morning, the tall girl left before the old lady rose to start her coffee.  The New England boy kissed her out the door.

Two days later, the boy met the girl one more time at the downtown bus station.  He was leaving school for the last time, moving back East where he had a nice job waiting in Manhattan.  The girl would stay in school one more year, then move back to the reservation, possessed of great knowledge to help her aging father.

“I know that I will never see you again,” said the Western girl.  “I know I will never meet anyone like you, and my future is cast.  Just do me one favor as you leave—don’t turn around when you go to the bus.”  The boy had a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat, but humor was always his saving grace.  “You sure that’s not a line from some movie you saw?” he smiled.  “No, it’s not,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time.  “I have seen about three movies in my whole life.  Just do as you’re told and get on that bus.”

The tall boy from back East walked up the steps of the bus with tears running down his face.  The sympathetic bus driver touched him on the shoulder and asked, “Are you sure you want to be leaving THAT woman?”  The boy tried to smile and said, “I’m not sure of anything right now.  Well, maybe one thing.  I’m really sorry that I’ve been rooting for the cavalry all these years.”

That’s all, folks….and Merry Christmas from the Eastern boy and the Western girl….wherever they may be.

Theta Pond, Oklahoma State University

bill.killeen094@gmail.com   

Scary Business!

Life is good.  The air is warm, the skies are clear and you just put down a big deposit on that golf course house you’ve been pining for all these years.  What could be better for your health than fresh air and 9-18 holes of exercise every day?  Maybe a tent in the ghetto.

Turns out you might be moving in to Parkinson’s Country.  You know…that fast-spreading neurological disease that seems to be blossoming at a distressing pace.  In 2020, researcher Michael Okun, M.D., first used the term “Parkinson’s pandemic,” projecting 12 million sufferers by 2035.  People laughed at his excessive numbers, called him wrong as sex while driving.  Looks like Doc Okun was an optimist.  There are 11.8 million cases today.  “The growth has been explosive,” Okun tells us.

He and his co-author, Ray Dorsey, M.D., another leading Parkinson’s researcher, examine what’s driving the uptick in their new book, “The Parkinson’s Plan.”  Here’s Okun on what they learned: “About 20 years ago, research started coming out about how pesticide exposure is associated with a higher prevalence of people with Parkinson’s.  For a while, nobody paid much attention to this, but then the same patterns started to emerge globally.  While we’ve discovered is that some of these pesticides, with chemicals like paraquat and rotenone, are linked to Parkinson’s, as is trichlorethylene (TCE), which is used in dry cleaning and as a degreaser for airplanes.”

Bad news, but what’s that got to do with my golf course?  Dr. Okun and his colleagues found that if you live within a mile of a golf course, you have a much higher chance of developing Parkinson’s.  They think it’s because when the golf courses are sprayed with pesticides, they leak into the groundwater and contaminate the drinking water.  The affected water impairs mitochondria, the powerhouse of cells, and that changes how the brain is able to regulate itself, knocking it out of homeostasis.  If you happen to have one of the genes that’s linked with Parkinson’s and you’re exposed to Parkinson’s on top of that, your risk is greatly increased.

But hold on a second---most people who live on or near golf courses are probably drinking city water.  Is there some problem inherent in just traipsing over these courses day after day?  Nobody seems to know.  Until somebody figures it out, you might want to take up Pickleball.

Or Not

Pickleball injuries are on the rise, driven by the sport’s surging popularity among older adults.  The most common injuries are the usual suspects---sprains, strains and fractures caused by sudden movements and falls.  Between 2000 and 2022, emergency department visits for Pickleball-related injuries shot up by 91%, with hospital admissions rising by 257%.

Eye injuries are also on the rise, with a recent study showing an increase of about 405 injuries per year from 2021 ro 2024, with 1200 in that latter year alone.  The primary mechanisms are direct hits from a pickleball or even a paddle and also falling on the court.  Some injuries have been severe, including retinal detachment, orbital fractures and globe trauma.

You won’t be playing any Pickleball at fussy Carmel-by-the-Sea.  The snob capitol of California has become the first city in the state to ban the sport at its public courts due to noise complaints from its residents.  “I just can’t stand that pop-pop-popping sound of the balls hitting the rackets,” griped long-time local Sanders Venderveer.  “It would make me grit my teeth if I had any.”

City Council members Jeff Baron and Hans Buder hatched a plan to require players to use “quiet” paddles and balls but residents said those snippy Pickleballers wouldn’t abide by the rules.  “Who’s going to enforce it?” one woman in the audience protested.  “These Pickleball people are rowdies and worse.  They drink and swear and pee in the bushes.  One night last week there was an 80-year-old man playing bare naked.  You don’t want to see that!”  No, Ma‘am, we certainly don’t.  All in favor of the ordinance say, “aye.”  The “ayes” have it.  Somebody hand that man a toga. 

Disturbing Notes

Now, all of us know that musicians are prone to annoying ailments like tendonitis, trigger finger, arthritis and getting hit in the groin by thrown fruit, but it’s worse than you think.  If you or a loved one is a maker of music, better make sure your health insurance is paid up.

With musicians, one minute you’re up, the next you’ve fallen through a hole in the stage while gliding along playing violin for the Viennese Waltz.  At a 2015 Foo Fighters show in Sweden, Dave Grohl asked for the mic to tell the audience he’d just broken his leg somehow.  No sissy, Grohl promised the audience the band would require just a short intermission.  An hour later, they returned, and so did Dave…on a stretcher.  He and the Foos returned to Sweden in 2018 and gave the audience a jolt by having a lookalike immediately fall off the stage.

It was worse for Black Sabbath guitarist Tommi Iommi.  At age 17, a machine at his day job in a metal factory cut off the tips of two fingers.  Tony was told he’d never play again, but he just laughed.  Iommi crafted prosthetics from thimbles, wax and strips of leather from his jacket.  The lack of sensation in his fingers allowed him to tune his guitar lower than normal, creating the low, rumbling sound that came to define Black Sabbath’s music.

At least Tommi wasn’t electrocuted like poor KISS guitarist Ace Frehley.  Ace was walking down a flight of stairs and happened to grab a metal railing, unknowingly creating an electrical current with his guitar.  It was only by seizing up and being thrown back by the shock that Frehley was able to let go of the railing before he was shocked to death.  Unfazed, Ace wrote a song about the experience for the band’s next album.

Slipknot just begs for trouble, with fire being a regular part of their shows.  Sid Wilson and Shawn Crahan typically set themselves and their equipment ablaze to the delight of pyro audiences everywhere.  During one performance, bandmate Corey Taylor’s leg caught fire, but no worries—he just sort of stared at it, then walked away, letting it burn for 13 seconds.  Taylor later showed off the tattoos on his leg decorating the burns he endured during the show.  Slipnot is nothing if not gutsy.  On a separate occasion, Wilson leapt off a platform and plummeted fifteen feet down, landing on his heels…and breaking both of them.  He was able to limp back on stage and finished the set barely standing.

In a 1992 show in Montreal, Metallica had to cut their show short at an infamous concert when James Hetfield was accidentally hit with a massive pyrotechnic blast, which severely burned his face, arm, back and leg.  It took awhile, but he eventually recovered and rocked on.  Kirk Novoselic of Nirvana was well-known for tossing his bass in the air, which sounds innocent enough.  Alas, at the 1992 MTV Music Video Awards he gave it a toss and the bass landed smack-dab on his face.  After the paramedics left him, Queen’s Brian May came over with a glass of champagne to celebrate the occasion.

Crazed showman Alice Cooper was subject to do anything for a scare.  Several minutes into his live shows, he liked to fake his own death by decapitating himself with a guillotine or hanging himself on a gallows.  During a performance in 1988, however, Cooper almost hanged himself for real.  The piano wire used to keep him from strangling broke, leaving the helpless Alice to dangle for a few seconds before plummeting to the ground unconscious.  Not one to be put off by piffling threats to life and limb, Gainesville, Florida guitarist Nancy Luca is thinking of giving it a try.

Scary Facts

1. A public toilet seat is cleaner than your smartphone.

2. There exists such a thing as zombie ants.

3. If you fall into a black hole, you might be turned into spaghetti.

4. Your bed is full of millions of bugs which feed on dead skin cells.

5. Butterflies can drink blood.

6. There’s a fish that has human-like teeth.

7. While in the womb, babies have mustaches.

8. Crows can remember your face.

9. Pineapples eat humans.

10. A Christmas tree can grow inside the human body.

11. A chicken named Mike once live for 18 months without a head.

12. The Golden Poison Dart Frog is so poisonous it can kill you with one touch.

13. Horned Lizards squirt blood from their eyes.

14. If Reincarnation really exists, Donald Trump could come back as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

Thirteen Months And Counting

“Some things are even worse than zombie ants.”---W.T. Killeen

The image in the windshield is enormous, frightening and two inches from your face, then all hell breaks loose.  Your ears are assaulted by a cacophony of a thousand banshees screaming in the night, your nose is invaded by the searing smells or erupting volcanoes, your vision clouded by smoke and atomic particles of once useful automobile parts flying through the air.  A determined airbag, set loose after years of imprisonment, drives your head back, another slams your right arm into your chest.  Terrified blood from your innards blindly seeks shelter in the shadowy depths of your bladder.  And then, like nothing ever happened, it is quiet as death.  The shitstorm has come and gone in a flash and left you smashed and at sea.  This is a job for a superhero named Adrenaline, who arrives like a bolt from the blue, temporarily assuaging injuries and raising hopes.  You settle yourself, move your legs, grind the car door open and get out.  Somehow, despite an attack from the Hammers of Hell, you are still alive and functioning.  It’s a great day for the Irish.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com