Rolinka And The 24 Dwarfs

Our first meeting with the Rick Steves tour guide was Sunday at four p.m. at our new base camp, the tiny four-star Londres Eiffel Hotel in the 7th arrondissement, one of Paris’ prettiest neighborhoods and just around the corner from the Iron Lady, which towers over the terrain.  Nearby is the hallowed Jardin du Champ de Mars with its high-end food shops, renowned restaurants, cute little streets and chic village atmosphere.  If you believe the natives, Barack Obama ate at a restaurant half a block away and loved it.

There are 30 rooms in the hotel and ours was #51.  Better not to ask.  Suffice to say, our group of 24 pretty much filled the place up and was treated like long-lost kin.  The charming concierge, Richard, looked and dressed like Elton John at an earlier age.  Richard knows everything, but everything, about Paris, including how long it takes to get from the hotel to the airport at any hour of any day and who to call to get you there.

When we arrived fifteen minutes early for our introductory meeting at 3:45, Rolinka Bloeming, our shepherd for the next five days, was already in action, kicking ass and taking names.  Rolinka is a tall, lean Dutch woman who goes everywhere in a lightweight duster attached to a small communication device, the better to keep in touch with her brood, which carries similar gadgets.  After everyone had arrived and filled out their paperwork, Rolinka marched us off to dinner at a Brasserie down the street.

Ms. Bloeming has been with the Rick Steves organization for 30 years, so she knows her stuff. She is also a bit of a martinet, so there will be no talking in class, at least when Rolinka is communicating.  Offenders like the irreverent Siobhan Ellison get a little nudge on the shoulder to let them know they have displeased the queen.  If this seems a little harsh, consider the intricacies involved in herding 24 strangers around a big new city.  Somebody has to be the boss.

Rolinka, who has a bit of an accent (quite similar to German), starts off the evening by assigning buddies to each of us.  She unintentionally pronounces the word “booties,” which we like and decide to keep.  My bootie will be the quiet and very nice Ann, while Siobhan winds up with Rolinka.  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?

Rolinka wants us to try speaking a little French in our daily interactions.  She also requires maintaining a healthy pace for the 5+ miles we will walk each day.  We will learn the Metro routes by practice, also the bus lines and how to get the train back from Versailles.  The Rick Steves philosophy is to make you self-sufficient in a strange place because at the end of each day’s scheduled event you will be expected to find your own way back to base, like a homing pigeon.  You will also keep pace with the group or you’ll be shifting for yourself, like a cheery Asian lady named Sharon did when she lingered too long at Notre Dame.  Rolinka gave her an extra five minutes and on we went.  Sharon got home just fine and conceded the abandonment was her own fault.  At the site of the offense I told Siobhan Rolinka would make a good nun.

Above, Bill outside Notre Dame; center, inside the Cathedral; bottom, Rolinka at Sainte-Chapelle.

Cheer, Cheer For Old Notre Dame!

Strict or not, Rolinka was a fountain of valuable information about every aspect of Paris.  On our first trek to Notre Dame, she took on the important subject of public toilets, which are very nasty, by the way.  “You can only be on the toilet 5 minutes,” she said.  “After that, the doors will open up and there you will be in all your glory.”  As tips go, I think we can all agree this one is right up there with “don’t pet the wild bison.”

Despite its flirtation with death, Notre Dame might actually be better than ever.  The intense post-debacle cleaning of the cathedral removed centuries of dark soot to reveal the bright, original limestone walls last seen when the structure was built in the 12th century.  The 8000-pipe Grand Organ was completely taken apart, cleaned of toxic lead dust and put back together piece by piece.  Repair work on the floors uncovered hidden 13th-century stone carvings and architectural pieces previously lost to history.

Engineers installed a specialized, hidden mist extinguishing system and improved the timber framework safety to prevent future disasters.  The rebuilt spire and roof closely mirror the historical design using authentic oak and lead while benefiting from modern engineering strength.  Dedicated workers rejected modern power shortcuts for parts of the timber frame, using hand-hewn axes just like 12th-century builders.  While we were there, workers with mallets were busting rocks in an adjacent street and fitting them in place in the roadway.

Rolinka the Reliable got us to Notre Dame early to avoid the long lines that form in mid-morning.  Inside, the Cathedral’s stained glass was a particular treat for an old lapsed Catholic boy.  The sheer size of the place is, if you’ll excuse us, awesome, and we’re sure God is proud.  By the way, while we’re cheering for old Notre Dame, let’s hear it for Victor Hugo, without whom the place would likely be toast.  The Cathedral was in ruins and slated to be demolished in the early 1800s until Victor came along and wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame in 1831.  The book’s massive success sparked a public outcry that prompted the government to launch a major restoration instead of killing the church.  So let’s hear it for the writers, once again saving mankind from itself.  Salud!

Above, Rolinka doles out the goodies; center, our heroes at play; bottom, Jewish memorial at Le Marais.

Le Marais Hijinks

Le Marais is a historic and trendy district in the third and fourth arrondissements of Paris known for its medieval streets, aristocratic mansions, vibrant Jewish quarter and thriving LGBTQIA+LMNOP community (just covering all the bases).  The Marais blends old world charm with modern boutiques, art galleries and diverse eateries.  The word itself means “swamp” or “marshland,” which the entire area was built over, like Orlando.  Rolinka brought forth Brad, the professorial guide, to enhance our experience, and he was a fountain of arcane knowledge, familiar with every building on any street.

Le Marais might be the falafel capital of France.  The big dog is L’As du Fallafel on Rue des Rosiers, where the line of would be customers stretches down the street.  The New York Times calls the place “THE falafel destination in France, indeed in Europe.”  You might catch Lenny Kravitz there, waiting in line like everyone else.  Lenny says it’s his favorite place in Paris.  Don’t go on Friday afternoon, though.  The place closes for Shabbat, so every Friday there’s a wild-eyed, panicky crowd beating its way to the falafel counter like maniacs at the Apple store on iPhone launch day.  Oh, and don’t wear white—that tahini gets all over everything.

The Jewish quarter of Le Marais, historically known as the Pletzl (Yiddish for “little place” or “salty bread snack”) features a rich community heritage dating back to the 13th century.  It centers around the medieval Rue de Rosiers, famous for its synagogues, kosher food shops and those merry falafel stands.  Waves of Ashkenazi Jews fleeing persecution in Eastern Europe and Russia settled in the area in the nineteenth century, creating the first Pletzl enclave.  The community suffered devastating losses during the Nazi deportations of the Shoah, but Sephardic Jews arriving from North Africa relit the flame in the 1960s and 70s.  The Memorial de la Shoah right in the heart of Le Marais features a Wall of Names listing the 76,000 French Jews deported and murdered during WWII.  You might need more falafel after that stop.

All You Need Is Louvre

Last October’s brazen daylight robbery of the priceless French crown jewels was not the first big art theft at the Louvre.  In 1911, a handyman named Vincenzo Peruggia, 29, stole the Mona Lisa by simply hiding it in a broom closet overnight, then walking out with the painting hidden under his coat during daytime hours.  Vinnie was no petty thief, he was an Italian nationalist miffed because he thought the Mona Lisa belonged in Italy.  Nobody noticed for 24 hours.  Then Paris went crazy.  Tourism actually went up, though, because everyone wanted to see the hole where the missing painting used to be. Go figure. 

The theft made the Mona Lisa world famous.  Before 1911, she was just another Renaissance painting, but after the heist she became the most famous painting in the world.  Peruggia managed to get Mona into Italy, where patriots treated him like a hero.  The painting was displayed in Florence and in Rome before the Italians gave it back in 1914.  Vinnie got a mere six months in the calaboose.

Don’t try that stuff today, you’ll be beaten to a pulp by security.  The closest you can get is 10 to 15 feet away.  Mona is protected by bulletproof glass 2.5 inches thick and acid-proof.  Alarms go off if her casing is opened or moved and cameras watch her 24/7.  An incredible 20,000 people a day show up to see her, most of them leaving the crush of humanity after 30 seconds.  I patiently weaved my way through the crowd, made it to the front and stood there for two minutes or so, immune to the discomfort, alone in my bubble with the painting.  Then I took four pictures, each better than the one before, tipped my cap to Mona like the gentleman I am, and left her smiling.  It must have been something I said.

Eduardo Talks The Talk

Since the Louvre frowns on large globs of tourists blocking up their hallowed halls, our group was split in two, each with its own guide.  We got Eduardo, an enthusiastic young art historian. who carried an iPad, the better to inform you with, my dears.  Eduardo loved his job, worshipped the Louvre and did his best to describe the inventory in great detail.  He begged us to ask him difficult questions, challenged us to stump him, recited chapter and verse about all the major pieces.  He laughed, he cried, he replied lovingly to dumb questions, twirling his iPad more deftly than a lead majorette.  By the end, we thought we might need to take him home with us to make life simpler, but Rolinka dashed our hopes by giving him another appointment.  Eduardo started in the basement, explaining how and why the building was constructed.

In the year 1190, King Philip II decided he needed a stone fort hard by the Seine to protect Paris from attacks.  By the 14th century, a fort was no longer necessary, so King Charles V decided to move in and making the building a living space.  King Francis I tore down the medieval keep in 1546 to build a modern Renaissance palace, also starting the royal art collection and buying masterworks like Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.  In the 17th century, King Louis XIV added grand wings but removed the royal court to the Palace of Versailles in 1682, leaving the Louvre to house artists.  In 1793, during the French Revolution, the revolutionary government officially opened the Louvre Museum, displaying hundreds of confiscated royal and church art pieces to the public.  Napoleon Bonaparte expanded the building complexes after adding items from his military campaigns.  In 1989, the famous glass pyramid designed by architect I. M. Pei was added as a new central entrance.

The current Louvre Museum covers a total floor area of 2.26 million square feet, with 782,000 square feet dedicated specifically to public exhibition space.  The collection size is over 615,000 works of art, if you can imagine that, of which about 35,000 works are shown to the public at any given time.  Viewing every single piece of art takes several days, but the major highlights visited by most tours can be seen in 3-4 hours, maybe a tad longer if you place no limitations on Eduardo.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com 

 

Lafayette, We Are Here!

“How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree?”---Young & Lewis

There is an old adage, almost always true, that anticipation is greater than actuality.  But ooh la la, the statement needs an asterisk when it comes to the reality of the City of Light.  Henry Miller once said, “When Spring comes to Paris, the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.”  It’s not bad in Summer, either.

Quoting Anais Nin: “Sometimes I think of Paris not as a city but as a home.  Enclosed, curtained, sheltered, intimate.  The sound of rain outside the window, the spirit and the body turned towards intimacy, to friendship and love, an alcove.  Everything designed for intimacy.  Five to seven was the magic hour of the lovers’ rendezvous.  Here it is the cocktail hour”

We arrived from our interminable flight at the St. Germain apartment of our niece Kathleen Ellison and husband Charley McCarthy at a sprightly 8 a.m. on a Friday morning but nobody felt like napping.  Hemingway’s movable feast waited outside in all its intoxicating glory.  It is the only temptress in the universe, the sole siren on a rock that could induce an 85-year-old grump to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous flying.  Then we went outside to play with the kids.

If anyone is unhappy in Paris, we didn’t run across them.  It’s safe to say that seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day.  Morning temperatures while we were there hovered in the mid-50s, with afternoons jumping to 75 and giving way slowly in the evenings.  Most of the citizens do not drive, availing themselves of the ubiquitous Metro and the dependable bus system.  Charley daily walks the 30 minutes from his apartment to his job at the U.S. Embassy, crossing the Pont Royale bridge over the Seine by the Louvre Museum.  “Sometimes I pinch myself when I realize I get to make this walk every morning,” he smiles.  And rightly so.  When he was previously stationed in Kabul, they brought him to work in a tank.

Above, Amar and Zack at the Brasserie; below, Kathleen, Siobhan and Charley linger by the Seine.  Louvre in the background.

“We’ll Always Have Paris…”

On our first full day, a Saturday, we got up early and let our hosts sleep while we went out for breakfast and croissants-to-go.  It was mid-fifties cool and quiet with just the occasional jogger or bicycle-rider to keep us company.  The Saint-Germain-des-Pres area is a chic, historic neighborhood on the Left Bank of the Seine known for its iconic literary cafes, art galleries and deep intellectual history.  The French Prime Minister lives and works there at the Hotel de Matignon on Rue de Varenne, not far from the Ellison/McCarthy digs.

After a short walk, we ran across a Brasserie called SIP.  Though it was not on the menu, Siobhan ordered an egg-in-croissant sandwich, which temporarily bewildered the 3-man French-speaking crew.  Then Amar, who knew a bit of English, figured it out.  “Is poss-i-blay!” he celebrated, then went back and created this new delicacy.  It was delicious, by the way, and next day we went back for more.  We’re hoping it becomes standard fare and they put Siobhan’s picture on the wall in appreciation.

A word about the people we met along the way; they were almost unanimously great---warm, welcoming and often funny.  Stories we’ve all heard of French aloofness, disdain of Americans and utter rudeness were not experienced anywhere except for the occasional Arab cab-drivers whose indifference is legend.  There was little problem with our unfamiliarity with the language.  People went out of their way to provide directions.  When Kathleen went back to SIP after we left, the staff spoke well of their funny American visitors who treated them like old friends rather than servants, especially “le formidable inventeur de sandwich, Mademoiselle Siobhan.”

Views from the tippity-top.

Visiting The Big Guy

Day two involved a wealth of walking…from our hosts’ apartment down to the Seine and across the river to the Louvre area, home of the notorious clip-board women.  Fortunately, we were onto these nasty voleuses thanks to advance notice from our pals at Rick Steves Tours, so we opted not to fill out phony surveys for one babushka while another one stole all our earthlies.  Further warnings of pickpockets plying their trade at the major attractions proved exaggerated.  Siobhan nonetheless bought me a veritable cell phone harness to wrap around my neck and keep my invaluable blog photos safe.

In the early afternoon, we Ubered over to the venerable Eiffel Tower, originally built as the entrance for the 1889 Paris World’s Fair and intended to be dismantled when the party ended.  The city kept the structure despite a ruckus stirred up by writers and painters who complained the massive tower would ruin the classic look of Paris’ stone buildings.  The city government retained the Eiffel, however, because its great height made it a powerful radio and military telegraph station.  It even helped catch spies during World War I.

The Eiffel Tower is a tricky devil.  Walking around Paris, one minute you can’t see it at all, the next it’s tapping you on the shoulder and giggling at your innocence.  You are allowed to climb a bit of the tower, but the 674 steps stop at the second floor, and just as well we say, because that’s 30-45 minutes of octogenarian horror.  Kathleen’s tickets graciously took us all the way to the top in two installments.  The views of Paris below are more than delicious.  As one blurb put it, “Paris lies at your feet.  The noise of the boulevards can’t reach you here, but the wind catches you and your heart begins to race.” 

Siobhan read somewhere that in a healthy wind, the structure moves 3 1/2 inches at the top, slightly more in a big storm.  She said she could feel it.  We gave her a flute of celebratory champagne and she calmed down.   

Vive Les Femmes!

Everyone thinks of Paris as a city for young lovers, and they are everywhere, but the Capital of France is a runway for women of all ages.  The streets are safe to walk at virtually all hours and the ladies take advantage, parading proudly through them in self-concocted fashions in tandem or solo, comfortable in their solitude.  In Paris, you’re allowed to create your own personal fashion, and these women take advantage of their freedom, knowing the look that best suits them and unafraid to flaunt it.  It is not unusual to see a lone woman of 70 strutting down the Champs-Elysees in haute couture or minimalist perfection as if she owned the place---and, of course, she does.

Paris is also the city of eating out, and for this occasion we mean that in the epicurean sense.  Surely, someone must eat at home because we see them in the markets buying escargots and andouillette and cuisses de grenouille, but there are 44,000 restaurants in a city with 2.14 million residents as opposed to 28,000 in all the boroughs of New York City, which has a population of 8.5 million.  It seems like there are lighted Brasseries on every prominent corner with several smaller companions down the block, and none of them are empty.  People-watching from a chair in a bistro is the national sport and everyone wants a piece of the action.  We ate at several, particularly La Terrasse Du 7 on Place de l’Ecole Militaire.  One night for dessert, they brought out a bowl of mixed strawberries and raspberries and another overfilled with whipped cream.  “Vive la France!” I shouted, and ate them every one.  The cream, too.

Gilbert Shelton Lives!

There aren’t many people you can go and revisit after a 64-year sabbatical, especially if they live 4500 miles away, but 85-year-old Gilbert Shelton happens to be one of them.  Shelton has lived in Paris with his wife Lora since 1985 and is perfectly content to stay there forever.  He still has a workshop just off Avenue Voltaire, which he visits an average of two days a week.

I first ran across Gilbert in 1960 while publishing the Charlatan magazine at Oklahoma State University at the same time Shelton was a staffer at the University of Texas Ranger.  There was considerable communication between the two of us and Gilbert later visited me in Massachusetts in 1961, when the notion of a new satirical superhero to be called Wonder Wart Hog was hatched.  I eagerly wrote the script for the first episode and later migrated to Austin in the Summer of 1962 to help new editor Shelton put out the Ranger.  To say it was a memorable six months in my life would be a colossal understatement.  It was more like an awakening to all the possibilities of life I hadn’t considered.

Gilbert Shelton is an extremely unique individual, possessed of great charisma and unlimited talents.  He can write, draw, play the piano and guitar and catch a fast-pitch softball game without a mask or an injury.  A History major at UT, he expected to be a writer but developed a talent for cartoonery and went with the flow, a boon to the zillions of eventual readers who bought up 46 million comix featuring the Wart Hog and later The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers and Fat Freddy’s Cat.

The Freak Brothers captured the erratic drug-riddled hippie lifestyle of the 1960s and 70s like nothing else could.  It was easy for Gilbert because it was an inside job…he lived with the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers every day, doted on their fears and their foibles, celebrated their successes and coined their motto:  “Dope will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dope.” 

I revered my six months in Austin despite being poor as a churchmouse and surviving on one meal a day.  The people I met were brilliant, the city was impossibly attractive, my days and nights were filled with adventure.  I lived with an as yet unheard of Janis Joplin for several weeks there, polished my prose for hours a day in the Ranger office and found my first wife, Marilyn Todd, with whom I later fled to the East Coast, her father chasing close behind.  Settled in Florida, I watched my old mentor Gilbert Shelton rise to preposterous heights in the comic book world and I looked forward to the inevitable day I would see Gilbert again.  Incredibly, it never happened…until now, in Paris, France, when both of us old goats are clinging to the edge of the cliff.

I was ten minutes early, waiting down the street, and I winced when I saw this old fellow with a cane struggle around the corner because I knew it must be Gilbert.  He was very sharp, though, like always, albeit with a bit of a hearing problem in one ear.  We talked about the miracle of Austin ‘62 and life in the good old days, about friends who’ve faltered along the way, about the strange ways the chips sometimes fall, about our own expectations for the future.  After 80 minutes or so, Gilbert walked over to his wall and took down a framed illustration of Wonder Wart Hog he’d done in 2016 and handed it to me.  He wouldn’t take a nickel for it, and I’d hate to guess what it might be worth on eBay, as if that would ever be in question.  Then Siobhan, Kathleen and Charley came by to pick me up.  We took a few photos with Gilbert and I was suddenly profoundly sad and grateful at the same time because both of us realized this was it, there’d be no more meeting at the UT Chuckwagon or the next class reunion.  I looked at Gilbert and told him how pivotal my experience, my time with him in Austin had been to my life and how much I valued him.  Shelton is not one to break down in tears, he just smiled brightly and bade us a final farewell.  See you later, old man.  Long live your fame and long live your glory and long may your story be told. 

That’s all, folks…

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Tune in next week, Video Rangers, as we meet our pals on the Paris Rick Steves Tour and venture into the bustling world of our camp counselor, Rolinka of The Netherlands.  

Kathygram III

Out of the night when the full moon is bright comes the horsewoman known as Zorro, but only to close friends.  You and we know her as intrepid reporter Kathleen Gramkowski, mother of the storied Kathygrams that tell us tales of derring-do and derring-don’t which we would never read about in civilized publications.  Truth be told, scouring the world for suitable stories is a difficult and thankless job and Kathy occasionally falls prey to bouts of ennui, heavy drinking and indiscriminate sex and drops out of polite society for awhile, but she always returns with robust tales that clamor to be told.  Like these:

Smokin’ In The Boys Room 

So you’re racing through Hartsfield International Airport to connect to the second leg of your flight seven miles away and---oh, no!---you have to go to the bathroom.  Everybody has had this debilitating feeling more than once, we are all slaves to our bowels.  Most of us have seen photos of that famous lady marathon runner who didn’t take the pause that refreshes and we recoil in horror at the thought of a similar “accident.”

Fear not, some toilet geniuses in the United Kingdom, of all places, have cleverly created the world’s fastest motorized toilet.  Imagine gaily doing your business while rocketing across town to the dentist at 70 miles an hour.  The HAWC (Highly Advanced Water Closet) Mk1 was built by the savvy quartet of Robert English, Thomas Ellis, Joe Summers and William Beaty on a slow day in London when the bars were closed.  In a scientific test, the albino throne reached a speed of 70.545 mph over a two-way straight at Elvington Airfield in North Yorkshire.  The toilet was driven by Ellis and was flushed at the end of the trial to prove it functioned as required.  The boys fixed a toilet and  cistern to a go-kart frame powered by a 250-cc Yamaha engine, and used a toilet brush as a gear stick.  The attempt was monitored by the UK Timing Association as part of the Straightliners Autumn Top Speed Weekend in Elvington.  “Me dad always told us if we wanted to get rich we should find a need and fill it,” said Ellis.  “We felt that this would certainly fit the bill.”

 

God Bless The IRS!

Having worked for the Internal Revenue Service for a few months at age 19, Bill has always had a soft spot in his heart for the dear old IRS.  While there, he learned that the Service might be the most thorough government bureau of them all because they had rules for everything, and this mania for regulation has only increased since.  For instance, one rule stipulates that in case of a nuclear strike on the United States, the agency’s multi-tiered continuity plan insists the IRS must get back to processing tax returns, remittances and refunds within twelve hours, even if the building is still glowing.  All positions left open by nuclear radiation must be filled within 30 days of the strike, so bring along your barf bag.

There’s good news if you’re ever taken hostage by foreign entities.  “Collection action, like levy or liens, can be deferred during the time the taxpayer is held hostage or wrongfully detained for an additional six months after the date the taxpayer is released.”   Well, that’s sure a relief.  It’s unclear if paying a ransom is tax deductible but some tax experts believe a company may be able to deduct ransomware payments to cyber criminals.  Scott Harty, a corporate tax attorney with Alston & Bird told the Associated Press, “It fits the definition of an ordinary and necessary expense.” 

An updated Special Process from 2023 directs IRS agents to “respond effectively” and ask “concerned questions” if any taxpayer threatens to kill himself over the phone.  “Do NOT transfer the call or place the taxpayer on hold.”  It’s understandable how this could happen since now and then IRS pulls up to a delinquent’s house with Two Men & a Truck and cleans out all their earthlies.

If you are an “Astronaut Killed In The Line Of Duty,” take heart, you’re off the hook.  The Service orders agents to “discontinue all collection activity,” but only if you are an astronaut employed by NASA.  Rogue astronauts working in the private sector need not apply.  Take that, Elon Musk.

I Don’t Know Much About Art, But…

“If you ain’t got the LSD, folks, if you ain’t got the LSD…better go back to beautiful Texas…Oklahoma, Kansas, Georgia, Tennessee.”---Woodie Guthrie & Owsley Stanley

Snuggled well inside San Francisco’s Mission District at 3466 20th Street in an old Victorian house typical of the area is a very untypical tourist attraction, even for The City by the Bay.  For here sits the venerable Institute of Illegal Images, which has amassed a curio of the Acid Age said to be greater than that of the entire United States Drug Enforcement Agency.  The house’s lower level is actually a gallery of chemically inactive sheets and individual samples of LSD collected since the early 1960s by one Mark McCloud, proprietor of the world’s largest collection of acid blotter art.  McCall recalls he originally “kept tabs in the freezer for a long time because I was still snarfing them, but one day when I decided to frame a couple I realized it was the only way to avoid eating them.”  Enter the Institute of Illegal Images.

Famous artwork ranging from Mickey Mouse in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice to comics by Robert Crumb have appeared on blotter sheets, but the images are used without the permission of the artists in order to protect them from being prosecuted as co-conspirators in illegal activity.  McCloud has also made blotter art for years, but is careful to label himself an artist and art advocate and not a chemist.

Curating this fine collection hasn’t come without its share of drawbacks.  McCloud has twice been brought to trial based on the Institute’s contents and his collection has undergone inspection by the nosy FBI.  Both times judges have agreed with McCloud’s original statements that none of the sheets are dipped.  It’s just a very specific genre of art…and another avenue for a visit down memory lane.  If you still have one.

Lucy In The Sky With Jailbirds

Speak of the Devil, The DEA estimates that William Leonard Pickard and Gordon Todd Skinner produced up to 90% of the LSD circulating in the United States during the latter half of the 1990s in a missile silo.

Originally installed by the Air force as part of a missile system in the Topeka area in 1961, the site ceased operations in 1965, when it was decommissioned and abandoned.  Following three decades of decay, the building was purchased by Skinner, a young psychedelic drug enthusiast with a massive inherited fortune, who converted the mostly underground structure into a kind of hidden palace, complete with luxurious hot tubs and baths and furnished with imported marble.  Skinner invited Pickard to move in so the two could work together.

Skinner, a self-taught chemist and pharmacologist is known to have synthesized other psychedelic drugs, such as synthetic mescaline, earning the attention of the DEA, which nabbed him and made him a deal he couldn’t refuse.  As a result, Pickard and his lab partner Clyde Apperson were imprisoned, leading to a major dearth of LSD in street markets lasting for years.  Don’t worry, though, as always with stoolies, Gordon Skinner eventually got his.  He was later arrested and convicted of kidnapping, assaulting, torturing and forcibly dosing a number of victims, including his former girlfriend Krystle Cole, as well as several minors, with dangerously large amounts of various psychedelic and dissociative drugs.

Hey, everybody can’t be Timothy Leary.

Doc Holiday Bramhall; "Have Argon Beam, Will Travel." reads the card of a man.

Whatever Happened To The Good Old Branding Iron?

Now Simon Bramhall was a merry old soul, and a merry old soul was he.  He’d call for his pipe and he’d call for his bowl and he’d call for his fiddlers three, which was fine with everybody at Birmingham, England’s fussy Queen Elizabeth Hospital.  But then one day, Doc Bramhall called for his argon beam machine to autograph a few human organs---that’s right, while they were still inside their owners---and the Medical Practitioners Tribunal Service almost had a nervous breakdown.  Sputtering and fuming, they declared Bramhall’s autography “an act born out of professional arrogance…an action which undermined public trust in the medical profession!”

At least.  The Doc eventually admitted to a pair of assault charges and was fined 10,000 pounds.  Although the tribunal said it accepted that “no actual physical damage was caused to either patient,” Bramhall’s actions had caused one of them “significant emotional damage,” (translation: “we’re suing your ass off.”).

“I thought they’d never find out,” said jolly Doc Simon.  “It’s a million-to-one shot.”  Indeed.  His actions came to light only after the 1.6 inch initials were discovered by another doctor on an organ that had been transplanted by Bramhall and failed about a week after the operation.

Bummer! 

Bad News For Vicki Bordeaux

Baton Rouge’s notorious serial snuggler Steve Danos was looking at hard time—five years in a Louisiana jail---before sensitive District Court Judge Todd (“Old Weepy”) Hernandez took pity and gave him 60 months probation.

Danos’ attorney Robert Gill said that previous to his crimes, his client had been an outstanding high school athlete who expected to find fame and fortune in college.  When he didn’t make the baseball team at LSU, he sank into depression, however, and sought to soothe his funk with Xanax, alcohol and marijuana.  Next thing you know, there’s young Steve sneaking into women’s apartments to get a sympathetic snuggle.  None of his snugglees were hurt, of course, and Danos could never be accused of bad manners.  Sometimes he folded clothes or made pizza and nachos.  Once, he crawled into a woman’s bed to rub her stomach.  Nice, but everyone agrees he should have asked.

In court, Judge Weepy made his way through a thick pile of letters written to the court in Danos’ defense by friends, teachers, school administrators and snuggle victims.  “The support for this man is unbelievable,” he said.  “Before all this happened, he was a model citizen.”  Then he ordered probation, gave the perp 200 hours of community service (oh-oh), required he attend weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and submit to regular drug screenings.  When Steve asked if he could give the judge a big hug, Hernandez raised his hammer menacingly.

Good News!

ABC-TV always closes its 6:30 p.m. nightly news program with an upper, a positive story about some person or persons (human, animal or both) involved in a touching tale to make you feel better about the previous 29 minutes of death and destruction.  We thought this was a worthy tradition and have decided to incorporate it into this week’s Flying Pie.

Our story begins in 2016 in Almaty, Kazakhstan with a loveable dog slipping into a dam and finding itself unable to to climb back out.  The steep, slippery sides made escape impossible and the animal was struggling to stay above water.  A young man nearby quickly sized up the situation and jumped in to rescue the dog, but was soon trapped himself.  The situation looked dire because the steep walls and the lack of footing made it impossible to gain any traction.

Just as all seemed lost, a group of people, all strangers to one another, rushed to the rescue.  The group formed a human chain, linking arms and carefully coordinating their efforts to reach into the dam.  One by one, they pulled, holding tightly and working in unison until both the young man and the dog were brought back to solid ground.

The entire rescue was captured on video by a bystander and shared online, where it quickly spread and resonated with millions of viewers around the world.  The moment became a lasting symbol of courage, teamwork and compassion, showing how ordinary people can sometimes create extraordinary outcomes when they act together.  Now, 10 years later, that unforgettable act has been honored in a lasting way.  A statue has been created and unveiled in Almaty to commemorate the rescue, preserving the memory of the strangers who decided there would be no disaster that day.  The simple truth at the heart of the matter---when we help those who can’t help themselves, we bring out the best in humanity.  And they all lived happily ever after.  We just read this story to our dog Roxy, and we’re not sure but we think we saw a tear fall. 

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

 

So Long, It’s Been Good To Know You!

Tomorrow, Siobhan and I pack up all our cares and woes, here we goes singing low, bye-bye blackbird!  We’re leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when we’ll be back again because there are 3800 miles of open ocean between here and Paris and no convenient little islands with airports, just in case.  And shit has been alleged to happen.  Why just recently on June 1, 2009, Air France Flight 447 took the big dive with 228 disappointed passengers and crew aboard.  Did we mention we have to cross the Atlantic twice?

I figure my bride and I have been lucky all our lives, and luck has a way of catching up with you at the worst times, like the afternoon I fell off a roof and sprained my ankle just before our neighborhood baseball team played John Kelly’s east side boys.  It’s the Cosmic Arbiter’s way of tapping you on the shoulder and telling you to stop doing silly stuff, like walking into gunfire or flying in a fragile bubble over a major ocean at 30,000 feet for eight hours.  Why, oh why, did we eschew the sensible ocean liner? True, the Andrea Doria went down off Nantucket in thick fog in 1956, but 1660 passengers and crew were rescued and only 46 met King Neptune.  I’ll take those numbers anytime.

Too late now, I guess.  Anyway, we’re as ready as possible with our compression socks and airline seats which lay back into beds.  We’re wearing our “JFK IN ‘60” campaign pins, hoping the Jackie-loving French will take pity and not throw lighted matches at us.  Kathleen Ellison, our hostess, has gone out and bought air conditioners to fight off the European heat wave and Gilbert Shelton has been warned we’re on the way.  But just in case we die grisly deaths at the bottom of the sea, we wanted to say it’s been fun knowing you (in most cases) and tell you to forever keep your freak flags flying in spite of it all.  And somebody make sure to go over and tuck Chuck LeMasters in at night.  See you in the next life.

When First We Came Unto This Town…

“It’s a long and dusty road, it’s a hot and a heavy load, and the folks you meet ain’t always kind.”---Tom Paxton

Gainesville, if I never see you again, you’ve been berry berry good to me.  I originally came to town in 1963 with my first wife, Marilyn Todd.  We found a decrepit old apartment in Old Gainesville near the Thomas hotel and started doing a little work for Jack Horan and Bob Dixon, who were publishing the off-campus Old Orange Peel in competition with UF’s New Orange Peel, captained by the famed cartoonist Don Addis.  The magazine was doing well enough but Jack and Bob had delusions of grandeur and decided to print 10,000 copies of a Spring break issue and have us haul them to Daytona in our refurbished but aging 1950 Cadillac hearse.  We got a little cash and a free room for three days at the Beach, so what the hell.

Being young and inexperienced in weights and measures, however, all of us failed to consider that 10,000 magazines weighed approximately 7000 pounds, or roughly as much as 50 full-grown men, which is a lot of bodies to pile in a 13-year-old hearse with senior issues.  For one thing, the brakes were adequate but not of award-winning quality, and when we went rattling over a bridge heading into Daytona Beach, they gave up the ghost.  We had to circle a used-car lot about 25 times before we came to a stop.  Nonetheless, task accomplished, General Horan.

Sad to say, the Old Orange Peel did not sell as well to strangers as it did to UF students and the boys had 7000 left over, which we were not eager or obligated to take back.  Jack agreed to stuff 2000 in his car and pay us a huge bonus to haul the rest back to Hogtown.  This unexpected good fortune allowed Marilyn and I to enlarge upon our daily diet of pancakes, potatoes, and ground beef cooked in 1000 exotic ways.  Poor as churchmice, we shed a tear of regret and emigrated to the city of seven hills, Tallahassee.  If there was to be a college humor magazine in our future, it could not start up in a town which already had two of them.

Tallahassee Lassitude

After living in hotspots like Austin and Gainesville, a relatively inexperienced youngster might assume all college towns are interesting, exciting, intellectually-oriented and fun.  Then there’s Tallahassee, capital of the Florida panhandle, moribund to a fault, filled to the brim with criminally ignorant conservatives, a frat-rat fantasyland where the word “stimulating” is kept in a hidden box in a locked room.  Marilyn and I found a cheap cellar apartment near Leon High School owned by a besotted couple who lived above us and restaged the Battle of Thermopylae in their living room every evening.  Nonetheless, I started working on the Charlatan and Marilyn took on the chore of selling ads to a magazine that didn’t exist.  She was good at it, too, because not many women as stunning wandered into Mr. Biffburger’s place, smiled and sat down.  Also, our prices were cheap.

Of course, not a printer in town had any interest in taking on such a venture.  More than one of them rubbed his chin and opined, “Well, I’d like to help you but we have a lot of church customers…”  I wound up hitching to Albany, Georgia, where a tough old guy named Wilson Smith was managing a worthy print shop after moving there from Maine.  Smitty had church customers, too, but take my word for it, Maine breeds independent children who take no blather from anybody.  We printed in Albany for a couple of years until we finally moved to Gainesville and Smitty was just too far away…but I’ll never forget his benevolence or those hitchhiking odysseys through the pecan groves of Georgia in pig trucks and sleeping inside the print shop across from a strip joint.  I have stories even Kerouac couldn’t tell.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the Charlatan was selling like crazy at tables outside student haunts like the Sweet Shop and Bob’s Book Store.  Bob, actually, was eventually hassled by FSU, so we had to move down a few feet.  The Tallahassee Catholic Women’s Club kept complaining about us until the cops finally came by, picked me up on vague charges and confiscated the magazines.  Helpful students ran over to Marilyn’s table at the Sweet Shop and warned her to pack up.  “Are you kidding?” she said.  “Now we’re going to sell out over here.”  And she did.  The cops never paid her a whit of attention.  An ACLU lawyer quickly got me released and the magazines returned and the police never bothered us again.  Now the college kids thought we were really hot stuff.  We fought the law and the magazine won.

Take Me Right Back To The Track, Jack!

“We’re going back to where we both belong.  Back to sing our favorite song.”

It wasn’t long before we were selling more magazines and advertising in Gainesville than we were in Tallahassee.  We tipped our hats politely and sang along with Big Brother Bob Emery: “So long, small fry, it’s time to say goodbye…”

We found an affordable apartment somewhere near the northwest city limits of Hogtown owned by a character named Marcel Marty and set up shop, almost immediately running across a needed asset, photographer Gerald Jones.  GJ did amazing work, had a sophisticated lab in his little house just north of where the Gainesville Mall would locate and would have been the answer to an editor’s dreams but for one thing.  Gerry was a narcoleptic, capable of falling soundly asleep in an instant without warning.  You can imagine the problems driving or with one’s sex life.  Forget the snooze alarms, Jones was immune to clanging clocks, insistent phone calls and rap-rap-rapping on his chamber door.  We hired him anyway and he persevered through apnea and bad dreams to eventually become the photographer of the famous Pamme Brewer brouhaha, gaining great fame.  Alas, he fell asleep and missed his Walter Cronkite interview, but c'est la vie.

The appearance of Pamme Brewer on the scene led to the eventual flight back to Texas of Marilyn Todd, who deserved a better husband and got one in Austin, where she lived happily ever after.***  Pamme became a presence at the infamous NW 6th Street house, where I lived with Dick North, Newt Simmons and tagalong Gerry Jones.  When one of the (as the newspapers like to describe them) “scantily-clad” UF girls featured in the Charlatan was hauled in and threatened with expulsion by the UF administration, we went to war with the university, arguing for the abolition of the en loco parentis rule which allowed schools to enforce codes of conduct for students outside of class time.  Obviously, we needed a test case but finding a subject would be near impossible with suspension or expulsion pending.  That’s when Pamme stepped in and offered to be the glamorous guinea pig.  Bill said no at first, but she was adamant.  “Right…it’s okay for somebody else to risk it, but not your girlfriend.  Don’t be a hypocrite!”

Okay, then.  The rest is legend.  UF attacks, thousands of students pound the walls of the hearing room to jelly, the trial is moved to the Law School Auditorium, Pamme wins and Walter Cronkite has another good story, even without Gerald Jones, who finds a nice job in Atlanta.  As a major result, the University of Florida discontinues en loco parentis and before long so does every other public college in the country.  All us smug rascals celebrate.  Then, almost before you know it, it’s September of 1967 and time to get down to business.  Does anybody here know how to open a head shop?

Those Daring Young Men And Their flying Trapeze

After all was said and done with the Brewer fandango, reprints of the Pamme issue had netted us a whopping $1200.  Snicker if you will, but for a barely-scraping-by Garfield Street lad of 27 years and nary a bank account, that pile of cash looked like the contents of Scrooge McDuck’s money bin.  Summer had always been a cash flow nightmare since UF was devoid of students and no magazines were published between May and September, so the brain trust of the Charlatan house gathered to develop a plan.  I had seen a couple of  head shops pop up in San Francisco so the first thought was a headshop/counterculture book store.  “We also need to sell pot pipes,” said roomie Dick North.  Okay, but where do we get them?  “I can make them with lamp parts and plumbing screens,” said Dick.  Our other housemates were less enthusiastic.  Newt Simmons said “Those head shops work in California but we don’t have any hippies here.”  “We will,” I told him.  It often takes a while, but the West Coast inevitably comes east.

We put ads in underground publications searching for merchandise to sell but there were no wholesalers yet.  I decided to head to Greenwich Village, where retail poster and paraphernalia stores like The Infinite Poster and the Psychedelicatessen were thriving.  Maybe some of them would think about selling bulk to us.  Turned out they would.

We opened the Subterranean Circus on a weekday in September of 1967 in an 80x30 converted fertilizer warehouse just off University Avenue on SW 7th Street.  Critically, it was a building with six parking spaces out front.  We weren’t ready, but people kept knocking.  We made $27 the first afternoon.  Next day, it was $54.  The third day, the Gainesville Sun ran a photo of Pamme out front with a rose in her teeth, and we made over $100.  Twelve months later we were averaging just under $1000 a day.  We didn’t even have a cash register and we never got one because business was brisk and registers just slowed down transactions.  A side benefit of our open till was that it gave the impression we had a tiny gross, and we never were robbed.  Any bill over a ten went in an envelope on the shelf under counterman Bob Sturm’s .45.

The early success of the Circus led other young entrepreneurs to open small businesses, something that had been reserved for older folk previously.  Miamian Ira Vernon started a jeans shop called Tuesday Morning with Florida Gator defensive back Steve Tannen, and Doug Bonebrake opened a health food emporium called Mother Earth.  Eateries like Snuffy’s and the Morning Glory Juice Bar seemed to be popping up daily.  After we bought the entire corner, we leased a building to ex-Gator offensive lineman Dan Iannarelli, which became the notorious Dan’s Beverages, open til 2 a.m., where anything could happen and usually did.  Youth business became a runaway train with the advent of hippie clothing manufacturers, the dawn of waterbeds and the wealth of wholesalers of paraphernalia of every description arriving on the scene daily, selling everything from bongs to suspect bananas.  It was, indeed, the dawning of the Age of Aquarius and we just happened to find ourselves in the middle of the maelstrom.  Some guy name Donald Luskin once said, “I’d always rather be lucky than smart.” 

Whenever it’s goodbye to Gainesville, we leave with gratitude and wonder, thankful for the opportunity to partake of her largesse.  Tom Paxton once told us it’s a long and dusty road, a hot and a heavy load, and the folks you meet ain’t always kind.  Maybe he never made it to Our Town.

Post Script:    

Okay, I just found out about the Azores, God bless them.  They’re in the mid-Atlantic, have adequate runways and are “routinely used for major diversions.”  I feel better now.  Of course, it’s still a long way to the Azores.

That’s all, folks….except for one thing below.

***For anyone interested in more details on Marilyn Todd, there is a grand column about her called The Girls of Summer in the blog archive of January 31, 2013.  The archive is available via the box just under the PIE logo.  Get your Kleenex, it’s a tear-jerker.

Stayin’ Alive!

Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 86?”---Billy the K.

The other day, Siobhan asked me what I wanted for my eighty-sixth birthday in November.  I thought about it for a minute and said, “How about 20 more years of good health?”

“It has to be something I can get from Amazon,” she advised.  Oh.  “Do they still have the original Fudgsicles?” 

She says they actually do, but I’ve heard that one before.  Try to find an original Members Only jacket like the one Betsy Harper bought me forty years ago or a fine Toker II, or a car—any car-- with a cassette player that will utilize the 150 tapes I still have in my garage.  They tried to repay us with the iPod, then they killed that and gave us nothing.  And they say old people are grumpy.  Just give us our stuff back and we’ll go quietly.

I’m hoping Captain Trumpy of the Horse Marines sends a delegation to Cuba with a peace offer--you get your oil shipments, we get our 1950s cars back.  There are people in Havana who are actually in possession of 1955 Ford Thunderbirds, if you can believe it, and the poor automobiles are not being treated properly at all.  A friend of mine just back from there said he saw a T-Bird on the Malecon which was painted a vile aquamarine, a grave infraction of the Marquis of Queensbury rules.  I’m not here to cause no trouble, I’m just here to do the Octogenarian Shuffle, but I don’t believe we can let outrages like this stand, so I have volunteered to be among the first flight of fake Jehovah’s Witnesses to land on the Cuban beaches and terrorize the motley defenders.  I wouldn’t mind part of my booty being one of those cute little ‘55 Chevy Bel Airs in baby blue for my sweetie-pie, either.

Pondering Oblivion

They say that age is just a number, which is fine if it’s 62 or even 75.  When you become 86, it’s like the Japanese Air Force screaming into Pearl Harbor.  Bombs to the left of me, strafing to the right, stuck in the middle with few.

Just for fun, try calling the Rick Steves tour arrangers in Edmond, Washington and asking about a brisk jaunt through Paris.  They have the thankless job of getting a couple dozen folks together who won’t bog one another down.  When agent Mirabel heard my age, she began heavily emphasizing there would be lots of walking.  “Up and down, frontwards and backwards, all around the town. And hills will be involved.  How do you feel about hills, Mr. Bill?”

“I eat hills for lunch, Mirabel.  Did you ever hear of San Francisco?  They got hills to die for.  I run up and down ‘em and then I cross the Golden Gate Bridge for a chaser.  What else y’got?”   Mirabel put me on the list but I have a sneaking suspicion she added an asterisk.

Good thing I’m not involved in the dating scenario.  Imagine filling out one of those profiles and writing in “Age 86.”  The ladies would toss you straight onto the burn pile.  “This guy will be in the hospital before lunch, Mabel.  And that photo he put in there looks suspiciously like Pierce Brosnan.”

People automatically assume 86-year-olds are incapable of sex, which isn’t necessarily so, although they might have to take precautions.  No, not those precautions.  Things like having enough gas in the car to get to the emergency room.  This, of course, necessitates “appointment sex,” so spontaneity is out the window.  “Don’t be getting frisky, George, I wrote it right down here in my appointment book—Tuesday at 6 p.m., and not a minute sooner.”

All of which is remindful of the old college humor magazine joke about Henry and Henrietta.  The regulars in the poolroom were discussing how often they got it on with their wives and girlfriends and one of them noticed that Henry, whose wife was a notorious iceberg, was smiling.  “What have you got to smile about, Henry, you said your wife only gives it to you one night a year?”  “That’s right,” said Henry, “but tonight’s the night!”

Paint It Black

Thankfully, the old fashioned funeral is on the decline.  Nothing is more uncomfortable than to hear some anonymous priest or minister bloviate over the fine qualities of that rascal Uncle Joe, who had six wives, voted the straight Republican ticket and shot a few bullets into his neighbor’s kitchen whenever he got into the Mountain Dew.

There are few things on Earth as much fun as standing over an open grave at the cemetery in subzero temperatures as the tears freeze on the poor widow’s cheekbones and some cretin with a bagpipe plays A Whiter Shade of Pale.  Then everyone retires to the fancy reception hall for prosciutto and burrata cheese, checking their watches to make sure they don’t miss the start of the ballgame.

Some people have delusions of grandeur about their post-death ceremonies, leaving detailed request lists.  Aretha Franklin asked for a fleet of 100 pink Cadillacs to parade the route, and four glamorous outfit changes for her open-casket viewings.  Imagine being part of that pit crew?  Hunter Thompson, always a showoff, demanded his ashes be blasted from a cannon atop a 150-foot tower.  Tupac Shakur had his ashes mixed with marijuana, the better to smoke him with, my dear.

My sweet little sister Kathy asked me once what song I wanted played at my ceremony.  “Take Me Out To The Ballgame,” I told her.  “What would you like?”  If my first choice isn’t available, I suppose I could live with Another One Bites The Dust.  If they have a little extra money, however, I’d really like somebody to hire the Fralinger String (Mummers) Band to march around the crematorium playing Happy Days Are Here Again on their banjos and saxophones.  Nobody has a bad day when the Fralingers are in town, even the dead guy.  If we’re being honest here, I’ve always had a hidden desire to captain one of these groups, sauntering from side to side of the street in my outrageous costume hyping up the onlookers.  I think it might be like that in Heaven.  No matter what the nuns say.

Heroes Of The Breed

1. Okay, he wasn’t an octogenarian, but Duke “The Hammer” Davis 78, of Alta, Iowa gets an excuse slip from the office since he was blind when he bowled a perfect 300 game.  “I wasn’t nervous,” Davis told CBS News.  “I just thought, ‘Good Lord, let me throw three more good balls,” so I guess I got some help.”

2. Sister Madonna Buder, aka “the Iron Nun,” owns the current world record for oldest woman to finish an Ironman Triathlon, which she obtained at age 86 by finishing the Subaru Ironman Canada test of endurance.  The Ironman competition involves completing in one day a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride and a 26.2 mile run.  Buder has competed in 45 of these contests.

3. Dorothy Custer, 104, is a bit of an adrenaline junkie.  After several years of base jumping off 500-foot bridges and the like, Dot took to the skies with the goal of becoming the world’s oldest skydiver ever.  She tandem-somersaulted head-first out of the plane and performed a fearless forward roll before free-falling back to the ground.  “Couldn’t have gone better,” she said.  “Now get me a stiff drink.”

4. George Corones only resumed swimming at age 80 after a long career in medicine.  Corones competed at the 2012 World championships in Italy, with top-three performances in various 90-94 age group events and in 2013 smashed two world records in 95-99 freestyle events in Australia.  But George was just getting warmed up.  In Queensland on February 28, 2018, Corones swam 50 meters in 56.12 seconds, breaking the previous record for 100-104-year-olds by 35 seconds.  Three days later, he set the world record 100 meter mark at 2:24.21 at the same meet.  Asked what he would do next, the amazing Mr. Corones said, “Only one thing is left.  I’m going to Disneyland!”

The Old Philosopher Rambles….

So here comes that big lug in the clown suit and flappy shoes, walking straight toward me with a giant smile on his face.  It’s Mr. 86, and he has big plans for me.  “Thought I’d come and pick you up,” he says, “the assisted living place is too far to walk.  Besides, you’re already a few years late.”

I look at the poor bastard with sympathy.  “You’re still working on commission, right?  Too old for Walmart, too young for dominoes in the park.  I hate to give you the bad news but I’m going to Paris next week to sashay down the Champs Elysees and dance at the Moulin Rouge.”

Mr. 86 falls back in horror, his hands over his face.  “WHAT??  But consider the awful possibilities!  You’ll be thousands of miles from your doctors.  The food is too rich.  Do you know how much it costs to ship a body back home?”

I see the future with rose-colored glasses.  If the plane goes down in the middle of the Atlantic, well, it’s not like I tossed away the best years of my life.  If the hills in Montmartre are too steep, there’s always the funicular.  If I become ill, I have a $384 insurance police that guarantees everything but replacement parts.  If I fall in love with a young Frenchwoman, well, Siobhan will whip out her two-shot Derringer and send me off to oblivion, no fuss, no muss.  What’s the downside?  Okay, the plane could be hijacked and taken to Memphis, but outside of that?

Polish up the Arc de Triomphe!  Throw some glitter on that Eiffel Tower!  Ring the bells at Notre Dame!  Billy’s flying your way and he won’t take non for an answer!

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com