Yeah, we know. Winter sucks, especially this winter. In 7-degrees-Fahrenheit Austin, our old pal Harry Andrews had to dig to the back of his closet to find his furry Mao Tse Tung hat with the red star in front. In Ann Arbor, niece Ashleigh Schaub slipped on invisible ice and wiped out a perfectly good knee. In Kirkland, Washington, shivering Florida boy Marty Jourard, bereft of expensive fuel, was burning old album covers in his fireplace. And all across this wintry landscape, nonbelievers in climate change were dancing a merry jig to their spunky national anthem, It’s A Cold World After All.
If one has the bad fortune to live in New England with my sister Kathy, bad news: another blizzard packing a foot of snow is on the way, the third or fourth one in a month. They’re running out of places to put the stuff. It’s like somebody out west keeps reloading the snow cannon and firing away, sending one wintry blast after another across the country. In Texas, which is not used to such abuse, they ran out of electricity and Senator Ted Cruz, who is severely allergic to inconvenience, was forced to flee to Mexico before his spleen exploded.
Don’t worry, though, help is on the way. Daylight Savings Time is rushing to the rescue in a few days and with it, the promise of Spring. Before you know it, the sound of bat against ball will echo across the land, wildflowers will pop up in open fields and fashion doyennes will be shopping on Fifth Avenue for clever face masks to wear in the Easter parade. It’s good to remember it’s always darkest just before the dawn. Or better yet, to take the time-tested advice of Peggy Lee’s Manana:
The window, she is broken and the snow is coming in.
If someone doesn’t fix it, I’ll be soaking to my skin.
But if we wait a day or two the storm will go away
And we don’t need a window on such a sunny day!
Manana is good enough for me.
We’ve Got The Fever!
“Oh, why should I have Spring Fever, when it isn’t even Spring?”---Oscar Hammerstein
Okay, we’ve done the dance, paid our dues, skipped the ballgames and been stabbed twice by Mr. Pfizer’s magic needle….can Billy go out and play now? It’s practically Spring, time for the brilliant garden festivals, colorful art fairs decorating the streets, a trip to the beach, a ride on the Ferris Wheel at the county fair.
We promise to be good. We’ll wear our little masks, lather ourselves in liquid sanitizer and promise not to sneeze on anyone. We’ll stay out of crowded bars, eschew the rush-hour subway and not hug anyone under 65. Us old folks don’t have a lot of time left, we can’t afford to give away another year, skip a second vacation, march in place for 12 more months. It’s a deal-breaker.
We’re lining up at the starting line like those wagoneers at the Oklahoma Land Rush, waiting for the starter’s pistol. We’re waxing down our boards, polishing up the woodie, charting a course for Surf City and we don’t want to hear any guff. There’s a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die. A time to plant, a time to reap. A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together. And, consarn it, a time for Road Trips! Pete Seeger said that and nobody argues with Pete. Let the frolicking begin! Vroom vroom!
Your Calendar Of Events
Lovers of politically incorrect entertainment will be flocking to the Hellzapoppin Circus Freak Show at The Abbey in Orlando on March 13. The scaly Lizard Man will be there, split tongue, implanted horns and all to swallow swords and frighten the children. Shorty, the half-man, will be back to walk barehanded on broken shards of glass while on fire, no less. Meanwhile, the beautiful Miss Willow will one-up Shorty while actually eating fire, regurgitating razor blades and swallowing a lifesaver which she will then pull out of her neck before your very eyes. You might want to leave grandma at home for this one. Just a thought.
Alaska has its freezing Iditarod sled dog race in March, but that’s too cold for you. Instead, try the March 6 Chiditarod in Chicago, which will feel a lot like Alaska but has better hotels. Instead of dressing up in mukluks and riding a sled, contestants show up in wacky---and often scandalous---attire to pull shopping carts down the street. Four pullers and one musher navigate a cart filled with vittles donated to the Greater Chicago Food Depository. At the finish line, everyone peels off for a well-deserved pub crawl. Inappropriate for children under ten.
The folks in Nederland, Colorado haven’t made up their minds yet about Frozen Dead Guy Days, presently scheduled for March, exact dates to be determined. The festival celebrates one Bredo Morstol, whose family opted for cryonic treatment upon his death. Bredo was summarily frozen in California, then moved to Nederland in 1993 and kept in the family’s shed, remaining there until the remnants of the clan were evicted years later. The corpse remains frozen to this day, tended to by designated caretakers for the past 24 years. While waiting for Morstol to thaw, event planners celebrate with coffin races, frozen t-shirt contests, ice turkey bowling, brain freeze challenges, a parade of hearses and the ever-popular frozen salmon toss. If they cancel the thing at the last minute, Rocky Mountain National Park is right next door. It’s still March in Colorado so bring your own snowplow.
Not To Mention….
….the Waikiki Spam Jam in Hawaii. For some arcane reason, Hawaiians consume more Spam than any state in the union so it’s only natural to celebrate canned meat. Might be the only place in the universe to cop a Spam t-shirt. While we’re talking food, don’t forget the famous Atkins Picklefest in Arkansas. You’ll love competing in the pickle-juice drinking bout or vying for fame in the Mr. Dill Pickle contest. They even have a rodeo. “RIDE that pickle, cowgirl!”
You just knew there had to be one of these. The World Grits Festival takes place every April in the town of St. George, South Carolina, which claims to gobble up more grits per year than any other place in the world. Have a few drinks and dive into the grits-rolling contest where you can flounder around in a gooey pool of carbohydrates.
No, we are not making this up—there is actually a Fire Ant Festival in Ashburn, Virginia. Who doesn’t want to be selected Miss Fire Ant or join the the jolly pet parade or gorge at the tantalizing barbecue cook-off? In honor of the ceremonies, all local fire ants have promised to take the day off, so picnics are encouraged.
Festivals under this last heading are teetering on the brink, so check with your trusty travel agent to make sure they’re still on. If not, the Hellzapoppin Freak Show is a traveling circus---you’re allowed to go twice. Maybe you can figure out how Miss Willow extracts that lifesaver.
The Wearing Of The Green
Without question, the most important day in March is St. Patrick’s Day on the 17th. On that day, Irishmen and supporters everywhere dress up in the color that people were hanged for wearing by the English during the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Sons of Ireland in the United States lead the Green Charge with festive parades in Boston and New York, the Beantown version having taken place annually since 1737. The first St. Paddy’s Day parade in Dublin only arrived in 1931.
In 1961, the business manager of Chicago’s Journeymen Plumbers Local, Stephen Bailey, received permission from the city to turn the Chicago River green for St. Patrick’s Day. A true Irishman, Bailey wanted to make sure the water didn’t wind up a whiter shade of pale so he inserted a massive dose (100 pounds) of vegetable dye into the drink. The river stayed green for a week. Today, the boys apply a more modest 25 pounds.
Some of St. Patrick’s relics can still be viewed in Ireland today. Down Cathedral in the town of Downpatrick in County Down is thought to contain the saint’s remains, with the possible exception of a tooth and jaw. Allegedly, he lies with Saints Columcille and Brigit. The tooth and jaw rest comfortably in Dublin at the National Museum, while Patrick’s copy of the four gospels is held at The Royal Irish Academy.
The global corporate relations director of Guinness says 5.5 million pints of his beverage are sold on any given day but the figure rises to an astounding 13 million on St. Patrick’s Day. IBISWorld reports that the holiday brings in over $250 million in total beer sales worldwide, which probably makes March 18 International Hangover Day. Curiously, the strict laws on the curtailment of alcohol sales during the 1927-1961 Holy Days in Ireland left but one place in the country a man could get a drink on March 17---The Royal Dublin Dog Show. The show, of course, was massively attended and often described by imbibers as “a grand occasion except for all the dogs.”
That’s all, folks….
The Best
Each week, The Best Day of someone’s life seems to get longer and longer. Our old pal Danny Levine has pushed the envelope like no other, but he has a worthy tale deserving of its length. You should have seen it before the editing.
Best Day: Daniel Levine, Savannah, Georgia
I’m the Jewish exception, I never really knew my father. Met him four or five times, but there was never any real relationship. The first time I saw him was at age 13 and I was much more interested in the car that he drove, a Studebaker coupe, with its lovely Raymond Lowey-designed shape, modified and chopped, the roof removed and cover added behind the front seat to create a two-seater sports car. Meeting my father was okay but the car was astounding.
I had lived so long without a father that he had become more of an idea than an identity. My mother’s family never spoke of him. All anyone ever revealed was that he was in the Army Air Corps during WWII, that he had a brother and that he was a singer. That was it. Eventually, I stopped asking about him.
In my early twenties, I had a job at a men’s clothing store in Surfside on the north side of Miami Beach. One day, a couple of middle-aged guys came in accompanied by a stunning young woman who turned out to be Miss Argentina. This was at the beginning of the credit card era, when anyone who had one was probably loaded. When the man with Miss A. put down his Amex card, I noticed he had the same last name as I did. I looked at the other fellow and said to myself, “That’s me!”
Without any hesitation, I approached him and said, “Hi. I’m Daniel Levine.” His considerable jaw dropped so far it might have broken a toe. We spoke for a bit and he told me was married and had a family. He came by the shop a few more times, once on a Honda Super 90, which I though was very cool for a middle-aged Jewish guy. Not Triumph Bonneville cool, but still. He talked about going out on his boat but it never happened. Eventually, he vanished from my life again. I didn’t understand his lack of interest in me but I didn’t dwell on it. He had a life of his own.
I talked to him one last time after another one of my failed love affairs. Just called him on the phone. I felt alone and needed someone to talk to. We talked for awhile and he mentioned he had Parkinson’s disease and was practically broke, not what I wanted to hear. I was looking for love and support, not interested in hearing someone else’s travails. I was hurt and damaged. I picked up a semi-automatic rifle, put a round in the chamber, placed it in my mouth and put my finger on the trigger. Close call. I never spoke to the man again.
My father died at 84. His obituary in the Miami Herald didn’t mention me but it did speak of a brother, his wife, a son and two daughters. Interestingly, he had enrolled at the Art Institute of Chicago at age 14, so we had Art in common. Later, he went to Rochester to get an engineering degree before becoming a navigator in the AAC during the war. I learned from the obit that he had earned the Distinguished Flying Cross for getting his crew back safely after their plane was shot down. After the war, he went back to Rochester to get a Voice degree and either had a chance to sing or sang at the Metropolitan Opera. Even my best friends don’t know this but I was some sort of singer as a child. I even sang at a hotel in Miami Beach. “He gets it from his father,” people would say. I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.
One more thing. Mr. Levine was also in the racing business. He was one of the early inshore boat racers, while I, of course, ended up being a world-famous motorcycle racer. Mere coincidence? I think not. There was little of this sort of thing to be found on my mother’s side of the family, good solid conservative members of the bourgeoisie. I tilted more towards the sire line.
Eventually, there was a memorial service for my Dad in South Florida. There, I met the rest of the family, including Jeff, my brother, who walked up to me and handed me a box, saying “Say hello to your Father.” His ashes, of course. Everybody laughed. I think it was the moment we all connected. I got them and they got me. For the first time in my 60 years on this Earth, I didn’t feel different. I was like them. I was accepted immediately. After a life-long struggle trying to understand all the voids in my life, I felt at peace with myself, my family and my place in the universe. I was still crazy, sure, but I was crazy like them! I think you could say it was The Best Day Of My Life.
