yustyoking

Everybody Likes A Parade

 

            Some traditions demand loyalty. I’m trying to work up enthusiasm for the Mason-Dixon Line Parade. What is it with Oxburg, Maryland and parades? This one starts at the Oxburg Regal Hotel. A cultural landmark, it’s a converted, two-story clapboard farmhouse from the 1840’s. Ever since 1933, a local dignitary has spoken from the second story balcony, followed by a Long March to Natalie Woods where a mock Civil War battle is enacted. By torchlight. In the old days, the re-enactment preceded a mighty bonfire at which people consumed unidentified beverages concealed in brown paper bags, only the neck of the bottle nestling visibly in the creased brown paper. I remember those wondrous conflagrations of my youth, the sparks spiraling upwards into a 1950’s sky filled with stars. Many a pagan dance lent pageantry to the evening, one of the few times of the year when the adults acted childishly and we youngsters stood in awe of them.

            Open fires have been banned for years and night glare blots out the sky, but in 2011, I get an invitation to attend this rite of passage from my candidate herself. Anna Bola all but begs me to come.

            “The Mason-Dixon Line Parade?” I ask, staring at her over her kitchen table.

            “Please! I need you there!”

            “Uh…”

            You’ll remember, I promised myself no more outdoor barbecue campaign events for this puppy!

            As soon as I say yes, Anna and campaign manager extraordinaire Eric are off to the Eastern Shore. They are on a veritable crusade. We have the same problem there as the Obama presidential campaign struggled with in rural Pennsylvania. The locals love their guns and their Bibles. No sweet-talkin’ jive cat from the ‘burbs can possibly fathom the rights and obligations of a waterman, a tobacky grower, a Southern Maryland cornhusker or a ‘coon hunter. At least, that’s the opinion of the locals.

            I keep waiting for Anna and Eric to call me. I’ve spent summers in my youth drudging for “arsters” on skipjacks. I know more about the Eastern Shore than they do. In this instance, they fall victim to the old adage: You only value help in direct proportion to what you pay for it. I work for free, I cannot be a valuable commodity. Busy, they don’t call.

            “It’s my smartphone,” Eric insists every time I complain about his not returning my calls. “You call, I’m gonna answer.”

            Unbelievable! He never answers. I get so alarmed, sitting at home, unable to even book my next day of work, I telephone Amy. Maybe she knows where the campaign is sequestered.

            I get her on her cell phone. “I haven’t worked on the campaign in three weeks!” she rages. “Why call me?!”

            Yikes! “Hey! I’m sorry. I didn’t—“

            “Just keep calling Eric. Eventually, you’ll get him,” she advises me.

            This is the first indication that Eric has pushed Amy aside. Not an amicable divorce.

            So I call the Oxburg Regal Hotel. “The Mason-Dixon Line Parade. What time does the… official speak from the, uh, balcony?”

            “The Lieutenant Governor,” the prim Events Coordinator says. I can barely hear her.

            “Right. The Lieutenant Governor of the Great State of Maryland. When does he speak? I’m supposed to attend—“

            “Out of privacy concerns for the organization hosting the event, we refrain from giving out any details,” she tells me.

            “Wait. What? The Lieutenant Governor is speaking from the hotel balcony and you won’t tell me the time?” I marvel, laughing incredulously. “Are you serious?”

            “Check your invitation,” she tells me, annoyed. “Get in touch with the organizer!”

            “Okay-y-y,” I say. “Who is the official organizer?”

            “Out of privacy concerns for the organization hosting the event, we don’t give out that information.”

            “Thank you!” I guffaw and hang up. This is why hotels have such a bad rep!!!

            I google the parade and find the info online in, like, three minutes.

            On my way to the parade, I am hyper nervous. I hate crowds. I feel totally out of my element. Luckily, none of this seems to show. Apparently, I look just as much like a party animal as everyone else.

            Maryland in June, it’s a steamy night, muggy as a sauna. People drain their plastic water bottles in one gulp and begin beating one another over the head with the empty containers. Bonk!… Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!

            “If one more hooligan hits me over the head,” Eric growls ominously, “that person’s in trouble.” But I’m laughing hysterically. Having found Eric in the crowd, the “hooligans” attacking us are all young girls. Slow-eyed schoolgirls, they keep giving us “come hither” looks and beaning us in the head.

            “You’ve got a hat,” I remind him.

            Incongruously, Eric is dressed like Marlon Brando in The Wild One: Leather jacket, black leather cap, jeans, black leather boots. “These young ladies on the cusp of womanhood need a good spanking,” he opines, “preferably with the flat of the hand on their round, little heinies.”

            I smell alcohol on his breath. Opening a bottle of champagne, he drenches me. In the old days, I would have raised a fuss. In campaign volunteer mode, Mr. Cool, I roll with it, wiping off what I can with Kleenex. “See,” I imply, “no worries!”

            Eric’s still babbling away: “I believe the actions of these young maidens constitute an existential threat. They are channeling repressed sexuality. Long live Dr. Kinsey!” He seems serious. “I’m a number cruncher. The number of girls waiting to be crunched is insurmountable…”

            It never occurred to me that Eric cannot hold his liquor. A finely-tuned machine, even a few drops make him a wild man, spouting gibberish.

            “A hot-blooded pedofile like yourself must be going mad in this heat,” he tells me.

            Accurate gibberish, but never-the-less, the guy is out of control.

            “Too much!” I mutter, bemused. I duck into a green Porta-Potty, both to take a leak and to escape his verbal assault.

            Hiram Whiplash, Anna’s opponent in the upcoming Democratic primary, is there with his supporters. It’s hard to criticize them. Everybody likes a parade. They think their candidate is best.

            Hiram’s 12-year-old daughter sings the national anthem, holding a cordless mike, looking as serious as Ben Kingsley. She sounds uncannily like an ad for Pennsylvania Dutch Oatmeal. When I congratulate her on her performance, she turns to her dad for reassurance.

            “Who are you?” demands Hiram.

            “John Q. Public,” I say. I can’t very well tell him I volunteer on the campaign of his fiercest opponent.

            “What do you want?” Hiram inquires angrily.

              “Fewer speed humps. Better public transportation. Smart growth. Mixed use. An end to wasteful police procedurals on television.”

            “Move to Russia!” Hiram counsels me.

                                                                          *

            “Was fatty there?” my mom will later ask.

            Well, yes, Arthur is there. His lifestyle has left him overweight, but he is a precinct captain of some renown. His current claim to fame is an excelling daughter. Graduating top of her class in economics at Harvard, she now works in the West Wing of the White House. Heady stuff for a lady one year out of university. Since economic recovery is a major bone of contention between the voters and the current administration, I’m not entirely sure she is the right person for the job.

                                                                         *

            The Lieutenant Governor never arrives. Instead, the designated keynote speaker is Jackson Jones, one-time candidate for governor. The “keynote” is reserved for a rising star in our hierarchy. Jackson lost the Democratic primary in the last gubernatorial election by a landslide.

            “I know you didn’t vote for me!” he roars, smiling toothily. “I came to the campaign with bright, burning ideas, well outside the box. ‘If you like my ideas, vote for me! If you don’t, don’t!’ That’s what I told you. True to your convictions, you didn’t! I’m getting the message.

            “Maryland is an incremental state, we do things in small steps.

            “I tried to get a reputation as a sexist pig by twittering lewd comments to college girls. I must be doing it wrong. They keep texting me, ‘R U coming by or what?’

            “I’ve been dating a lady half my age. She keeps asking me, ‘When do we get to the fun part?’ I offered to take her hiking on the Appalachian Trail, but she opted for Venezuela.

            “Speaking of hidden engagements, I offered to work for the current administration in the White House. ‘Sure,” they said, ‘as long as you don’t tell anybody!’

            “You know someone is employed in the security sector when they cannot tell you what they do for a living. ‘Oh, I’m a chiropractor, but I can’t tell anybody. Top secret. Hush, hush. Highest security clearance. I’ve seen some X-rays in my time!’

            “I’ve been in Egypt working with members of the democracy movement. One of the women I worked with most said, ‘I don’t know how to ask this without seeming forward.’

            “I thought she was propositioning me. No such luck. ‘You keep telling us how to go door to door and how to man phone banks,’ she said. ‘But you lost!’

            “Ow, ow, ow! Not the most impressive entry on my résumé…”

            I look around at the audience. Using the applaud app on their smartphones apparently saves them wear and tear on their hands.

            Anna works the crowd as only she can. By the time she’s finished, everyone has left.

*

Summer In the Suburbs

 

            Where was I? The I.R.S. keeps sending me refund checks. I don’t want these refunds. I am working to attain 40 Social Security credits toward Medicare. I don’t want the I.R.S. reducing my earned income for the year and returning me money. Most people want the money. I just want to pay my taxes!

            I go to my bank to get a larger safe deposit box. My Senior Account gives me a free box, but it’s only 3” X 5”, although all the boxes are a glorious 18” deep. The only things I can imagine keeping in this rectangular metal box…

            “Oh, and no explosives,” Margaret, my personal banker, tells me wryly.

            “What?!” I complain, “I can’t store my collection of ammunition clips and hand grenades?!”

            She is such a mind reader.

            Since the box has been sitting empty for almost a year, I decide that here, finally, is a bank service I can really use. A really big box to store all my drug money! No, actually, my unpublished book manuscripts. If the neighbors burn down our house  (see below), I don’t want to lose my scribbling.

            Gunhilde, the icy blonde bank clerk from Iceland, looks through their inventory online. “How big?”

            “This stack of papers is 4” high, 8½ X 11 inches,” I tell her, pointing. A mix of spiral notebooks, CD-RW discs, printouts and old-fashioned hard leaf binders, it sits majestically on the corner of her desk in her cubbyhole of an office.

            This is a distractingly beautiful woman! “All I have is one box that is 5 inches by 10 inches. Maybe that will do,” she tells me, raising my hopes. “For some reason, it’s not available,” she adds, dashing my hopes. The girls of Iceland are such heartbreakers!

            It turns out the box is on the reserved list for internal use by the bank. Being an incredible bank, Gunhilde gets on the phone and has them make the box available to me.

            “Only problem is,” she explains, “it takes two days to complete the transfer. Can you come back in two days? I’ve got the keys. I won’t let anyone else rent the box!”

            Somehow I knew this process was not going to get done speedily. Margaret would have found a way to get me the box within the hour.

            This is a bad air day: Since early this a.m., my mom has been chasing around the house with her smelly vacuum cleaner. I go out back to cut branches and have to don my dust mask for the pollen. I drive down the street and an old geezer helpfully waves the nozzle of his weed killer canister at me. I go into the drugstore to buy a spiral notebook and a two-man crew is boring holes in the wall, raising pounds of concrete dust, in preparation for installing an ATM machine. Thanks, guys.

            Ms. Anna Bola, candidate for elective office, on whose state-wide campaign I labor as a volunteer, tells me, “You may also get called before the State Elections Board and grilled—I mean grilled—about my campaign. Please explain to them that there is nothing devilish or tricky about a campaign being run from the kitchen of my home.”

            In an effort to maintain love forever, my mom has me go to the local Post Office and purchase 20 of their “Love” stamps and 20 “Forever” stamps. This is a woman whose husband abused her and whose parents abused her. Guess if she argues with me night and day about anything and everything. Sulking, worried that her life is making too small an impact as she approaches “four score and ten,” she monopolizes the kitchen and washing machine. If I start to enter a room, she hurries there first, a defiant look on her face. Since I hate arguing, I ignore this erratic behavior. The silence is deafening!

           Mom and her bridge cronies, this coterie of little old ladies, keep congratulating each other on having air conditioning in their cars. Where are we living, Cuba?

            Our next door neighbor Tracie Sherer has left a message on the answering machine. “Hi! I’ve got a little something for your mom since it’s her 90^th birthday and all. Call me and tell me when to bring it over!”

            This has nothing to do with us. This is Tracie trying to feel good about Tracie. This Madwoman of Chaillot is demanding that the Town Council put in speed humps. Busy with her knitting, she wants speeders guillotined; she wants to watch. Not your friendliest of spirits. Since I oppose speed humps, she has chewed me out at public meetings. That neighbor. Single-handedly, she has destroyed our peace of mind, ruined our sense of community, and left us seething at our neighbors. Thanks to Tracie and her husband Skip, we are going to end up with speed humps, nubs and multi-colored crosswalks on our residential street. That Tracie.

            What do you mean you want to come by and give us another $8 plant?! I’m still watering the cactus you gave us on Christmas.

            Mom listens to Tracie’s message. She doesn’t say a thing. I see the “1” on the display and listen to the message. We don’t need to discuss this. You know where Tracie can shove her $8 plant, folks.

            So when Tracie comes knocking at our front door, keening “Kevin! Kevin!”, mom goes deaf. I ignore the brouhaha. Eventually, she goes away. Though she’s so peculiar, I can’t tell if she’s getting the message.

            It’s the ‘burbs, for God’s sake, walk around the side of the house and beard us on our back porch. Tracie no can do. Paranoid, she’s afraid we’d take her to court and sue her for trespassing. Even our least auspicious neighbors, to our chagrin, come around the back.  Not Tracie.

            I am delighted not to have another of her plants to water!

            Let her go to church if she wants absolution.

*     

Rolling Thunder

     How riding to the nation’s capital on a motorcycle honors our veterans, I don’t know. Different folks choose various symbolic acts. In the 1960’s, spilling beer on the bar, we’d tell people, “I don’t drink because I’m a slobbering drunk, I drink to protest the war in Vietnam!”

     I would think that a contribution to a veterans’ organization would be more to the point, but then you run aground on my mother’s complain that, according to the ratings agencies, veterans’ organizations are among the most corrupt, money-wasting charities. So you really cannot win.

     It’s always fun to ride a hog and it is certainly a visible presence wherever you go. Keep the faith. Semper Fi!

Gaga Performance

     For some of us, Lady Gaga’s appearance on Saturday Night Live was counterproductive. Finally getting to see and hear her, I found the stunts sophomoric, the costumes loony and the thick New Yawk accent unappealing. Of course, anyone whose fan base consists of 15-year-olds isn’t trying to earn a degree in astrophysics.

     Do I think she can win the Republican nomination in 2012? Well…

Campaigning

 

 

            Quote of the Day: “Freedom is not free, as we all know.”

            Even if you never believe anything else I write, you’ll believe this: Towne Day! A crowd of 3,000 in shorts, T-shirts and tennis shoes—families with children, weirdos and teens—fill Riverdale Park. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day.

            It’s also May 21, Armed Forces Day. I have other places I should be, even other countries. Instead, I’ve been bamboozled by the Anna Bola campaign into participating in this IMPORTANT CAMPAIGN EVENT.

            At the Democratic tent, ward bosses, precinct captains, donut eaters and enthusiastic middle-aged women vie for attention as the crowds swirl by in a euphoric daze. One of the ladies helpfully shows me the events program, pointing out the list of 30 GOV’T. AGENCIES & NGO’s and 60 corporate sponsors.

            Freebee City, every tent is handing out woven cloth shopping bags (Made In China) with the organization’s logo and insignia. Every one. Helium-filled balloons, corporate pens, pencils, crayons, train whistles, fans, people are going nuts gathering goodie bags.

            Taking a nice ballpoint pen from a local vendor, I make up my mind to skip all the rest, until I come to a bridge table on the grass that steals my heart: The C.I.A.

            No shit.

            The C.I.A. is there recruiting, situated right next to the little white tent housing the Army Proving Ground Ordinance Demolitions Program.

            “Hi!” I say, removing my sunglasses. I’m wearing an Anna Bola For Attorney General T, so it’s not like the carrot-topped young lady behind the card table has to guess my identity.

            “Hi!” she says, smiling. “Another campaign promoting law enforcement.”

            “Nice to see you guys out and about,” I tell her, blushing. “I’d kill for a C.I.A. tote bag and some of your gear.”

            “Start with a lanyard,” she says, opening a blue bag and popping one inside. She gives me a fancy ballpoint pen, a pad of C.I.A. stationery (size, small), a C.I.A. pencil (“Central Intelligence Agency, www.cia.gov”) and a strange plastic blue object. “It’s a CD cleaner. You know, for kids to clean their musical CD’s.”

            “Um, okay,” I smile. Each item embossed “C.I.A.,” this is very cool stuff!

            “How’s your campaign going?” she asks.

            “Great! Hey, uh, want to, uh, sign Anna’s petition to get on the ballot? She needs 500 signatures. Right now, we have 320.”

            The young lady laughs and shakes her head, “no.”

            “Aha! Right,” I blurt out. “Of course. No can sign. You’re C.I.A.”

            I take the stash back to our tent and carefully stow it with the Anna possessions: the bag of water bottles, the yard signs, the foldout map showing our state, Maryland, divided into voting districts.

            A pile of fliers in hand, I go back to the entrance to the park and start handing them out, chanting

                                        “Hola! Anna Bola,

                                         Democratic candidate.

                                         One of a kind for A.G.

                                         She’s herself alone!

                                         Take no substitutes,

                                         Get the real Attorney General.”

            My competition are school children: High school girls wearing next to nothing shorts and campaign T’s in a rainbow of colors. Grade school kids wearing enormous red T-shirts that go down to their knees, handing out cardboard fans on popsicle sticks, “VOTE CALLOWAY FOR A.G.” They are my opposition. Around us circle a dozen other people of various ages hawking the abilities of people running for Town Council, for Sheriff, for the State Senate.

            As the sun reaches its zenith, we all begin to melt.

            One hour, two hours, a high school lass channeling a sundrenched Kelly Ripa has the field covered, hands down, everybody loves her, the popsicle fans jump from her fingers. This is one sweet kid, even I want to jump her bones.

            Calloway hisself shows up, the only human in the park dressed in a business suit. Walking up the drive, surrounded by his staff, he spots me and pauses to take a mental snapshot, nods in recognition, and trudges on. Later, I hear him orating onstage: “Freedom is not free, as we all know…”

            One of Calloway’s henchmen comes marching back down the road, a passel of 6^th-graders in tow. The youngsters are lugging a 4 ft. by 5 ft. blue yard sign, proclaiming “Calloway for Attorney General.” They head for the main road. This is closely followed by the arrival of the same Pirates of the Caribbean hag (bandana, earrings, bangles) who so graciously showed me the list of corporate and non-corporate donors.

            “Look at them,” I say, pointing at the Calloway gang rapidly disappearing from view. “Pure, unadulterated penis envy. ‘My yard sign is bigger than your yard sign.’ Pitiful.”

            “I understand that Calloway has unlimited funds for his campaign,” she says.

            Huh? What do I know? Nothing. “Is Calloway independently wealthy?”

I ask.

            “No,” she replies. “What I hear, it’s mafia money, out of Baltimore.”

            “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I say. “I don’t even want to hear that! Even if it’s true, that’s a matter for the authorities to take care of. This campaign isn’t going in for slanderous accusations and mudslinging. That just sullies the campaign for all contenders. Let’s keep our noses clean and take the high road.”

            “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

            “And I’m asking you not to say such things. For our benefit. For the good of the Anna Bola campaign. Let’s not go negative.”    

           She leaves, looking unhappy. I know, I know, all that juicy gossip and I’m no fun at all.

           Dogs everywhere, school kids, concession stands are selling doggie treats, bottled water, popcorn and Tex-Mex cuisine.

           After three hours, Anna comes by and orders me to accompany her to the taco stand for lunch. “I’m buying,” she insists, but only has a $20 bill and wants to get on line at the salad bar.

           “I’ll pay for myself.”

          “No, no, no. Take the $20 and give me a ten.”

          “Go get your salad! I have money!”

           The Latinos behind the counter look surprised that I’m only ordering a $4 taco, everyone else is going for the $7 fajitas, which is a more substantial plate of meat. When I stay with the taco, they heap the entire plate with chopped meat, tomato, cheese, guacamole, sour cream and lettuce. And a taco shell.

          “You no go hungry,” the burly Mexican smiles, revealing a fine, gold molar.

           I don’t mind paying, but I expected to eat my lunch with Anna and, you know, talk politics and bond a little.

            She gone.

            When I return to the tent, Eric, our campaign manager, sends me back to the front of the park.

             Yes, I attract the voters, but this is boring work. Boring. That’s why mostly school kids are doing it. Finally, at 2:15, Eric comes and tells me to pack it in. When I get back to the tent, my crew is already homeward-bound.

            This is why I don’t work as an extra in the movies. We have family friends who rave about it: “The work is a lark. Play-acting! They always make sure you’re comfortable and that you have enough to eat. Most of the time, you’re sitting around on your duff and, best of all, they pay you by the hour! What’s not to like?”

             I need more attention than that. I’ve paid my dues, I’ve been Mr. Nobody. I don’t do crowd scenes.

             Someone has rifled my C.I.A. bag, leaving me the printed lit, the lanyard and the bag. All the other stuff, they’ve stolen. Oh, in compensation, they’ve left me a yellow plastic Frisbee from Palmtree Banking Corp. Even my red lanyard and wooden train whistle from the Metro Authority are gone. I go back to the Metro tent and get a new wood whistle and cloth lanyard. At the C.I.A. table, carrot top looks at me and says, “You’re back!”

         What a memory!

          C.I.A.

          They remember everything.

          “My friends… my coworkers… cleaned me out. They took all your wonderful gadgets. They left me the lanyard and the bag.”

           Of course, it’s late, all they have left are pencils and notepads. “Take as many as you want,” they say, but hey, I’m feeling abused and it ain’t the same, no how. I thank them and leave the goddam park. I manage to keep my cool, but I’m not doing this campaign event bullshit anymore. Let them find another volunteer. Even data entry, typing names, addresses and voter preferences into the office Mac, is more stimulating than this.

           At the office, grateful to have a volunteer, they thank me too much. Today, no one thanked me at all.

           Believe me.

*

 

 

 

NO MORE KISS KISS BANG BANG, BIN LADEN

The National Herald

Correspondent Mitch Daniels reports

 WASHINGTON, D.C. May 2, 2011 –  “Like flossing your teeth, eventually that nasty food particle will get dislodged,” a military source tonight likened the demise of America’s arch enemy Osama bin Laden.

            “We wanted him, we got him,” said another official familiar with the operation.

            Not only was bin Laden killed by U.S. Special Forces on the ground in Pakistan, his dead body was recovered, dispelling any question of his having survived this most recent attack. After ten years of persistent pursuit, America’s efforts have borne fruit.

            Sundays are traditionally a slow news day, which made our ears perk up when we heard that the President would be making a statement from the East Room of the White House sometime after 9 p.m. EST. Still, it was almost midnight before the President addressed the nation in a serious, nationally televised nine minute speech. He said U.S. Forces killed bin Laden in the Abbottabad Valley of Pakistan and “took custody of his body.” The city of Abbottabad lies about 100 miles north of Islamabad in the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. A city of 100,000, it is the headquarters of a brigade from the Pakistani army’s 2^nd Division.

            Within an hour of the President’s speech, a spontaneous, enthusiastic demonstration of mostly young people in jeans, sweaters and sweatshirts lined the north fence surrounding the White House, cheering and waving American flags. Among them stood Amal Habeeb, waving a Palestinian flag.

            “This is a great moment for democracy and peace,” Amal proclaimed. “Muslim, Christian, Jew, Buddhist, Sikh, Hindu, Baha’i or Jain, all of us have reason to celebrate the victory of democracy over violent extremism. May today hasten regime change in the Arab world as well!”

            Perky and young, Ms. Habeeb seemed a personification of the sentiment permeating tonight’s triumphant vigil.

            Standing next to her, Orlov Kosygin declared this a great victory for the working class. “Workers of the world, unite!” said Orlov. “All you have to lose are your chains!”

            Stephen Harrington, visiting from Bristol in the U.K., expressed chagrin. “If only Prince Harry had led the charge, you see,” insisted Stephen. “What a gloriously great day for England that would have been. Rather!”

            Dos Lance kept trying to unfurl a Confederate flag, but his friends seemed determined he should keep it furled. “The South has a long and glorious military tradition,” he explained. “That’s my only point in coming here tonight.” The blonde next to him, sporting a button that said “Pretty Girls For Obama,” assured me that Dos was only carried away by the excitement of the moment. “He’s really not a racist,” she insisted earnestly. Looking at me longingly, she added, “I’m also available in orange flavor.” I think it was my press pass.

            Battling through the tightly packed crowd, I stumbled upon a goateed college person named Monty Pellier, wearing an Uncle Sam costume. “I’m Canadian, I have to emphasize my patriotism,” he said, “otherwise you might revoke my visa.” When I protested, he told me that he was joking. Regarding bin Laden, Mr. Pellier said: “I thought, like the Unabomber, Osama would be hiding in the hills, but apparently he preferred the suburbs. I’m from Calgary. You drive two miles, you are outside of town.” Monty claimed he was glad Osama was dead. “What did he ever do for Canada? Nothing!”

            At one in the morning on a balmy May 2, a veritable kaleidoscope of opinions

                                                                                                 [ more on page 10 ]

*

Forget Ayn Rand, Here’s Silvia

 

            I wish to give fair warning: Silvia de Plathelovich will be a recurring name. Not only did I go to school with Silvia—also known as Sydilvia—but we remained friends during that fruitless period of the late 1980’s when she was lead singer in the garage band The Brass Tacks. I knew her then! Silvia de Plathelovich, songstress, seamstress, seductress. You may watch her on the nightly news, trying to figure out what she’s saying, but remember, some of us wax nostalgic whenever we hear a Sarajevo accent. Long live Bosnia-Herzegovina, Kampuchea, Nagorno-Karabakh and any other historical construct that solves a knotty problem by creating a conundrum. If you can’t beat ‘em, give ‘em a country of their own! Look at Palestine, for God’s sake.

            But I digress.

            Did I ever have sex with that woman?

            Did I ever have sex with that woman!

            Alas, the answer is “no,” Silvia never invited me into her bed. With Silvia broadcasting on network television in New York, I would have to classify current opportunities as non-existent. It’s not for want of trying. Undergraduates at Moosegrave College, I drove up to her house in Scranton, Pennsylvania one Christmas and, sitting on the floor of her bedroom, spent a long afternoon listening to her daddy’s collection of 8-track cassettes on his mammoth, homemade tape deck. We called him “sir” and “Mr. D.” We tended to be respectful to former members of the Yugoslavian Armed Forces. That he escaped with his entire family in a Russian-built An-2 cropduster bi-plane added greatly to his rep. I never heard him speak anything but Serbo-Croatian. He had taken an 8-track deck out of the car, bought the right size transformer, linked them to an amp and speakers and shoehorned the entire contraption into a bulky pine box.

            Even I was impressed.

            That didn’t stop me from wanting to screw his daughter, but Silvia had, as they say, other plans: She romanced her way through a series of television producers, each time improving the quality of the show. Yes, there are tapes of Silvia on the daytime soap “Egalitarian Courtroom, “ where she played heroine Margaret Welch, paralegal to and romantic interest of hero lawyer Max Blair. They lasted three seasons, before they got muscled off the air by the excellent stagecraft and brilliant scripts of Law & Order, which, in addition, aired on prime time. Who could compete with a behemoth like that? A juggernaut.

            Next she appeared on “Yoo hoo, America!” That was the morning show that wasn’t Good Morning, America or The Today Show. A perennial also-ran, they never tried to be anything but the third morning show. To her credit, bringing the concept of the plunging neckline to ever greater depths, Silvia became a revolutionary influence on women in television. Network television is a somewhat timid medium—all those millions of dollars in ad revenue at stake if you goof—but that never stopped Silvia.

            I liked her best as pitchwoman for “Elastishirt,” her wide-eyed, busty profiles, with tons of backlighting, gelled perfectly with the company slogan, the only thing she ever uttered in those ads:

“What? Me busty?!” 

            Yes, dear, you busty.

            That income carried her through the 1990’s. About the time I left the Army, Silvia began to show up in news segments on the local New York stations. After all, we were both journalism majors at Moosegrave. And now, there she is on national TV, the same molto vivace, staccato delivery transforming t’s into d’s, f’s into v’s and v’s into w’s. A sulky voice, a smoldering glance, the medium is the message, but what is she saying???

            Damn if I know.

            To her credit, again, I never watch TV, but I’ll watch Silvia. She’s that good at what she does. Flirtation Television.