The case of the Pre-Columbian stall art

Faith is an important part of our lives and our strength.

The account of any life demands chronicling not only those moments which happen to make the writer 'look good,' so to speak, but also the things that do the opposite. It is true the Larsen incident (described in the post before this one) did make me look pretty good among my peers, as well as the staff at Admiral Farragut Academy, in Pine Beach, NJ. However, no one (no matter what one may hear to the contrary) can be the best person they can be at all times. If I am wrong, I have yet to meet that individual after 48 years of walking around thus far; and after traveling over great expanses of this world. Well, there is one exception, I believe, in the Lord Jesus Christ, but other than that perfection has yet to be attained.

Feeling quite good about myself amid the semester at Farragut, I was having an excellent time. Of almost no note was that, in the head (bathroom) on the second floor of Farragut Hall, some of my classmates (cadet residents lived together in grades, grouped together) had taken to creating small graffiti images in a few stalls. I didn't give it much thought, really. It was some kind of vandalism. But, there is an old saying that "...pride goeth before a fall." This is true, in my opinion.

Cadets didn't have much entertainment; a television in the dayroom and a personal radio in one's room was about it. So, we ran, played sports, read or just hung out and talked. Bored one day, I happen into a room and some of my classmates began urging me to draw a nice-sized piece of graffiti on one of the stalls because I was generally considered the "artist" of the class. I could draw some.

I thought graffiti was useless; profane. But, I did have a public, of sorts. And, it was nice to be recognized for my artistic ability, so to speak. Well, I drew a picture of a woman. In hindsight, my depiction actually looked a little Pre-Columbian. Some of the other cadets went to the stall after I told them I had done something "artistic" there and I received mixed reviews about my depiction of a woman from the bottom of her head to the top of her knees. However, the cadre and staff at the Academy were far more critical of my latest work.

Farragut Hall

It was a Friday afternoon, after class. Some cadets were preparing to go home, others were on the way out to play sports or whatever, still others were cleaning up and getting ready for a good book; a few were in the dayroom watching whatever on television. I was coming out of the communal showers when the voice of the school's commandant, Commander Theodore Grahl, rang through the whole of the antique building.

"Everyone, out of your g-damn room, into the hall -- at attention and now!" Grahl bellowed. The commandant of cadets was a short, heavily muscled man with jet-black hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He spoke with a Brooklyn accent and was, when away from the Academy, a company commander in the United States Army Reserve. Walking up and down the halls, he threw a small garbage can into the center of the walkway, creating a horrible noise atop his screaming. It was scary. I settled back in the position of attention outside of the showers. Everyone was finally out in the hallway.

Cdr. Grahl settled into the center of the main hallway. He called for Petty Officer 3rd Class Fred Koch, a tall, thin high-school junior who was as shocked as the rest of us about this eruption out of nowhere. The commander ordered Koch to monitor the hallway he could not observe from the main hallway and said any command not followed by any cadet should be reported to him for punishment. Koch did not argue. He did as he was told and, for a change, acted just like a regular  non-commissioned officer (generally he was quite a nice guy who was worried about his grades and not the rank on his collar).

Pre-Columbian art

One could have heard a pin drop. Grahl's footsteps was all anyone could hear. In all that silence, though, it was deafening.

"Some [one] has drawn a picture of a woman in my [bathroom stall]. And, I want to know just who the hell it was, [right now], or I am going to punish you [people] until I get my [answer]! Am I [understood]!?"

In unison, we all shouted, "Yes, sir!"

Before calling for the moment of truth, Grahl talked about the need for military discipline, the importance of respecting other peoples' property and the poor choice of action this was for a gentleman. Consequently, he said the offender would come forward and assume responsibility for this, and receive 60 days restriction and 60 days scrubbing toilets one hour per day, not to mention extra duty (cleaning garbage cans, mopping, sweeping, whatever). The commander stated that if the actual offender of this "crime" did not come forward, he would be compelled to make the entire floor experience the full penalty to ensure the wrongdoer was adequately punished.

Well, I was the offender. Every one of the approximate 20 kids in that hallway knew I was the offender too, thanks to my big head about my 'artistic talent.' And, I was terrified of Commander Grahl. Truly. Utterly. Terrified. And being almost naked did not help a thing. I have had more pleasant nightmares in my life than this reality.

The commandant kept us there for a half hour like that. He said he would make one more call for the offender. Despite the fact I was freshly showered I could smell that coppery scent of fear coming off me. I was honestly trying to work up my courage to come forward. I was trying to get through the fear -- but it was so thick.

And then -- Class President Dan Brown (will the cheesy fake last names ever stop?)  steps out into the hallway and claims responsibility for the act, and I shrunk back into rigid attention. Brown was screamed at and called every name in the book in front of us. The commander humiliated him in ways that made us all wince -- dropping him for pushups and screaming at him to "do the (darn) push-ups or I am going to [be angry]!" Brown did not break his usual placid demeanor. He answered "Yes, Sir!" and "No, Sir!" as appropriately with all the confidence of any other day. He was unaffected by the punishment, as far as I could see.  He didn't even sweat.

This went on for about 20 minutes. Grahl then allowed Brown up and informed him the punishment would begin tomorrow. He then told everyone, equally as loud: "But I know Brown didn't do this! I know who did this -- and all of you know who did this! And, that [bad person] should rightfully feel about 2 [inches] tall right now!" Grahl did not look at me. He looked at everyone but me.

We were dismissed. I went to my room without speaking to anyone.

The next morning it was business as usual. The whole day was business as usual. Maybe what happened was a horrible dream, I thought. But, at the end of the day, as I returned from school with a few friends -- there was Brown: scrubbing toilets. He wouldn't speak to me. And, he was right not to.

I was truly ashamed for the first time in my life.

Lo' and behold some 30 some odd years later, I am sure Brown has forgotten entirely about this incident, while I recall it with some frequency. It was the first time I let myself and everyone else down. And, I tried very hard not to do that again in my life. Sometimes, I did not. Sometimes, I did. But, I wasn't going to hide from blame for anything else.

The old saying is true, I think: "Cowards die a thousand deaths; but the brave only one." What that means is that people who are upright about something can live through a moment and move on with their lives, whatever problem or roadblock in their way settled (for the good or the bad). But, people who fail the test of character remember that moment many times and truly never forget it. This is the case with myself, Brown, Commander Grahl and my ridiculous Pre-Columbian art.

Still, I do not believe everyone can be a hero in their own story every single time or every single day. Many times, people are up for the challenges in front of them; other times they are not. Everyone finds strength in different things: God, their friends, the family...whatever. But in the particular moment of decision, none of those things helped me do the right thing.

That day I learned an expensive lesson about character, and sometimes the lack of it. Fear makes people do the dumbest, weakest things anyone can think of doing. Yet, giving fear too much respect only leads to disaster.

Truly sad was that I had no real family at home. The details of that whole thing are embarrassing, but suffice it to say my nuclear family was nothing to write home about. Largely, we were individuals who shared familial connection, disagreed with each other intensely and did only the bare minimum by way of relationship to get through things as quick as they might be -- culminating in that day when my parents could wash their hands of my brother and I and they go their own way. So, the cadets were my only family, as well as the staff. And, I just screwed myself as hard as anyone could. Worse than a laughing stock, I had demonstrated I was a coward when things were down. Sure, people forgive -- but they do not forget. Things were quite different for me after that. My fellow cadets avoided me for a time.

Perhaps it was for this reason that a first-year cadet, named John Smith (let's call him that), pushed me into some particularly thorny bushes outside Farragut Hall on the way back to my room from class after the graffiti incident. It was very painful to be hurled into those bushes. My uniform was torn. I had a cut going across my face. And, I was fast on the way to being prey for my classmates, as I saw it. There was enough determination left in me, though, for that to not happen. I was very angry and my control was not firmly in place. I knew, though, that if Smith got away with this it would set a dangerous precedent for how my classmates would treat me: Life could become hell.

So, I went back to Cadet Smith's room (all our doors were unlocked) and waited for him behind his door for some minutes. He was going to be back. And, when he did arrive, I barked at him insanely from behind him. He was scared and turned around. I was a lunatic for several minutes. When I got off the boy other cadets were prying me away from him. I finally allowed them. It was fortunate I did not do more harm. He was terrified. So was I. Before I left his room, I informed Cadet Smith that if he ever bothered me again I would be very cross. Of course, I am cleaning up the language a lot. No one was speaking reasonably, and I certainly was not being eloquent. But, you get the idea.

Smith never told the cadre or the staff. It was not the way we handled things. And, with the exception of one knucklehead, I did not have any more issues with anyone that year. I had earned a frost coming over me socially during this whole process, though, and it was deserved. I could not escape the feeling I was letting yet another family down -- one I wanted to keep very badly. Instead of being considered a coward, I suppose now I was thought to be unstable by my comrades. I suppose they were not far from right at that point.

It is easy to learn from defeat and humiliation. It is said that defeat instructs character like nothing else. Perhaps this is true; but it is a bitter medicine to swallow, indeed. Following this incident, into adulthood, I always tried as best as I could to get along with others. Certainly, I can be very social and sociable when it is necessary. It would have been nice if it came a bit more naturally, though.

Cdr Grahl, Chris and my 1901

Chris Larsen and I were roommates in the 8th Grade at Admiral Farragut Academy, in Pine Beach, NJ. It was the first year for Chris, whose father was a commodore in the U.S. Coast Guard. Chris didn't exactly reflect that military tradition yet in his life. He was sloppy, fidgeted constantly, could not help being loud, unkempt or inappropriate most of the time.

When I turned in at night, the window was closed and Beethoven was on quietly. When Chris went to bed, he blasted Heavy Metal music and kept the window open. It was not a match made in heaven. When he grew up he wanted to be a night club owner, and I was thinking about the priesthood even then. Chris considered Farragut a prison where he was away from his friends. I considered Farragut as a refuge from my stuff at home, and the people there were my friends.

Academically -- there was some difference between us. Chris was actually very bright, but he probably suffered from some kind of ADD or ADHD or some such thing.

Anyway, there was Laughlin: How tall is an 11-year-old generally? Somewhere in the 5-foot range -- spanning tall to short. Meanwhile, Laughlin was already taller than six feet and was as narrow as a piece of paper seemingly. He was quiet and very academically inclined. He played no sports and busied himself with his studies. Unlike Chris and I, Laughlin was a "day student," which means he was dropped off in the morning and picked-up in the afternoon.

The uniforms at Farragut were simple but traditional, and mirrored those of the United States Navy: uniform overseas cap with insignia, shined brass belt buckle, navy blue trousers, long-sleeve shirt, collar rank insignia, tie, socks and black shoes (highly shined).

Our class, which included perhaps 13 or 14 students, was waiting outside of Commander Theodore Grahl's Pre-Algebra Class in Dupont Hall, near the tennis courts, where Larsen and another new fellow, Schulman, were slap fighting and carrying on and whatever. Cdr. Grahl may have been the commandant of the school but he was also one of the hardest teachers we had in the building: hard but fair. If someone were not prepared for his class it was no fun: embarrassment, extra homework and a mental note in case you were ever looking for the benefit of the doubt as a cadet. Why mess with him?

Well, Schulman and Larsen decided to get into a real fight. Schulman was a martial artist as well as being a good student, who was loud only when teachers weren't around. He was also the nephew of famed martial arts entrepreneur "Tiger" Schulman and had dedicated himself to a certain amount of training. Well, great big Larsen attacks like a bull: straight on. Schulman responds by jumping up and drop-kicking him in the chest. This is repeated three or four times before Larsen finally gives up. Even I couldn't help but laugh...and so did McLaughlin.

So, we hear Cdr. Grahl coming and straighten-up. He appears, sharp as usual in his uniform, opens the door and tells us: "Just take your seats, I will be back in a moment. Get your homework out because it is the first thing we are doing." He disappears quickly. Cdr. Grahl did everything fast.

On the way inside, Larsen turns on McLaughlin: "So you thought it was pretty funny with me getting whipped and all. Admit it, you think it was funny!"

Here it came.

Larsen, who was a big kid, started taunting McLaughlin viciously out of nowhere. He pulled McLaughlin's cover from underneath his belt and threw it across the room. He poked McLaughlin with his finger, and it was clear he was hurting the thin, studious boy.

Then, Larsen started calling McLaughlin's mother names and that was it.

Maybe I interfered because I really didn't like Chris, or because he kept me up late at night when I wanted to sleep, or he didn't wash his clothes or his body as frequently as I otherwise would have liked, but I certainly was done with the antics of the day.

I called Chris out and led off with: 'Hey, enough with McLaughlin's mom: Yours gives you an allowance from what she makes working her ass on a corner Friday night outside a saloon.'

Chris pushed me hard and started screaming. He got in another shove, sending me back into 3 or 4 desk/chairs. He was laughing and started to sit down. I jumped up from where I was and launched myself at him, knocking him over while sitting in a desk/chair. He came spilling out and we wasted no time throwing rights and lefts to each other's head.

It felt like Chris and I were hammering each other for a long time but it was only seconds -- maybe a minute on the outside. Grahl comes in and there is an explosion of authority. Everyone snaps to attention immediately: myself as well. Chris stopped fighting and felt the wounds on his face.

In those days, and at Farragut, a certain amount of physical contact was fine in things like breaking up fights or the like. Grahl threw both Chris and I against the wall at the back of the classroom and we were told to remain there quietly in a savage tone and with Grahl using plenty of expletives.

He instructed the other cadets to get the room back into shape, to get homework out then, and to remain seated and quiet until he comes back in. The commandant throws us outside the classroom simultaneously and, again, up against the wall in the corridor with both his hands at about the knot in our ties. He said he did not want to know what happened here and now. He instructed us to go to the office, write our accounts and go to our room: we were suspended for the day. If there was an altercation in our room in any way, someone was going home (as in getting thrown out).

We went to the Commandant's Office, wrote our accounts and proceeded back to our room in Farragut Hall, across campus beyond the quad. Walking together, Larsen beamed, "THAT was an awesome fight! AWESOME!"

I was incredulous: "We're in deep shit. Like I don't know how bad -- but f-ing bad."

Larsen said it was "no big deal" and that when the punishment was over the story was still going to be passed around the cadets. I shook my head: "There is no arguing with that logic."

After we left, Grahl did do the homework, and got an account from the other cadets in the class about what led up to the fight and how the whole thing started. At 1630, I was instructed to report to Grahl's office. I had taken a nap and when I awoke Chris was gone and I was being summoned by cadet Petty Officer 3rd Class Fred Koch who instructed me to "get my ass to the commandant's office...now". I went there and reported correctly. Cdr. Grahl returned my salute and placed me at ease.

He told me fighting is not tolerated on school grounds. He said I was not to fight with any cadet again. He told me another instance of fighting within 3 months would lead to extra duty for "a very long time" but for this instance Larsen and I were going to pay for it in sweat. He said Larsen and I were to report to the track on the football field at 0630 Saturday morning, where Larsen and I were going to be running at "high port arms" for a mile with our weapons and that he would personally oversee the punishment. If I was late then I would receive extra duty long enough "that I would remember not to miss something again." He asked me if that was clear. I snapped back to parade rest and responded in the affirmative. He did not release me from parade rest but instructed me that my decision-making in this fight was not something that he was displeased with.

"If there is a bully then someone needs to whip his ass. That is the nature of life. Bullies will be there at every age, in every profession and in every field of endeavor there is. Today, you showed that you're not going to put up with their shit, and I am proud of that. You also looked out for another, weaker cadet. I am proud of that. But there are better ways to do that than throwing chairs around and wrecking my class: Am I clear?"

I answered in the affirmative.

The commandant told me that would be all and added, on my way out of his office, that Larsen was moving out of our room and that, by now, he should already be gone to the other side of Farragut Hall. He instructed me to stay away from him. I answered in the affirmative.

Chris was, in fact, gone when I returned. 3PO Koch had helped him move while I was with Cdr. Grahl. Well, one benefit of this affair was that the window was going to be closed from now on and Maestro Beethoven would be getting the proper respect due him and his work. In the process, I was finally going to get some sleep, for a change.

Chris and I passed in the hallways and nodded to one another. There was no animus on our part: I think Chris rather liked this whole thing, really.

Saturday finally came around and there was Grahl, holding our two .30-06 M1903 Springfield rifles (used by the U.S. military between 1903-1974). Each one weighed about nine pounds and that day I discovered nine pounds feels like a lot when someone is running with it above their head. My ass was kicked early on with this, and I was gulping air like it was going out of style. At that time, I was a good runner, active in sports and the like. But, this was absolutely wearing me out. Larsen was doing better, but not by much.

As Grahl oversaw us, he continually barked at Larsen to get "that goddamned rifle up right f---ing now!" And, with me, he would jog over and more quietly encourage me to get the weapon up. I did everything I could to do it. By the time a mile was up, Larsen and I were done. He brought us to attention with the rifles, we went through inspection arms and then he recovered the weapons from us and took possession of them. He then instructed us to shake and declared the incident was over. We were then dismissed. The commandant brought the weapons back to the armory. Larsen walked off. I trotted down to the other side of the football field and laid down, exhausted on the grass and staring at the gray, angry sky. The only thought I had on my mind was bed and sleep. So, I finally mustered my strength, got up and made that dream come true, sleeping for many hours, with Beethoven's Consolation No. 9 playing gently in the background. It was wonderful.

I didn't see Chris after that year. And, indeed, I did not even attend Farragut for high school. But, Commander Grahl, Chris and high-port arms, not to mention the M1901 Springfield, are people and things I will not forget anytime soon.

Of some note, many years later, in 1995, I would bump into the headmaster of Farragut when all this happened (who was and maybe still is a political figure in one of the small towns along the Barrier Island in Ocean County). It was always kind of awkward. I guess 'what happens at Farragut stays in Farragut,' but that is another story.

Below: A statue I found in a graveyard along O Street in Lincoln, Nebraska, commemorating U.S. soldiers from the Mexican-American War. I shot it quick because it was as cold as heck there in the late Fall.

MAESTRO PICASSO!

An early Pablo Picasso I shot in either Washington or Princeton. Love his work.

Harry

Harry Larrison

The late and long-time Monmouth County Freeholder Director Harry Larrison (1926-2005) is not a complicated subject for me.

I knew him. I liked him. I respected him.

I did what he told me to do. He knew me. He was fine with me.

Every now and again we had things in common, but it was usually rare we interacted to get anything done. Still, when we did it was usually a big deal. Despite that, we used to pass the time of day pretty well, though, when there was call for it. Harry never did a thing for me or against me, so I can tell it like it is: good and bad in equal parts.

I successfully pushed for Harry's last award, a lifetime achievement award from the Monmouth County GOP, in December, 2004. He liked the award a lot and kept it on his kitchen table in the final months of his life.

Along with some people on my staff, I sometimes visited him at his hangout, a Perkins Pancake House on the circle in Neptune. Mostly, he complained about his health and talked about big projects he was proud of, like the Manasquan Reservoir. I would jokingly call it "Lake Harry" to him and it made him smile. But, as I learned, life shouldn't be about just getting along to go along. 

Harry died while charges were pending from NJ US Attorney (at the time) Chris Christie. Harry's case was prominent among several others in Monmouth, which were characterized as "Operation Bid Rig" by the FBI and repeated often in the newspapers of the time. Operation Bid Rig involved corrupt politicians who accepted money or services from people and repaid them with political favors or contracts or whatever. The abuses happened over a long period of time and involved many friends and associates of mine at the time, most living and some dead. There were some horrible excesses, really, but that will be another story. From what I knew and saw, absolutely every charge against Harry was legitimate. It is my belief that it was not disease that finally killed Harry, but heartbreak, betrayal and maybe even some guilt. With that said, charging Harry with corruption in Monmouth County was not unlike writing a speeding ticket to a single racer on the Daytona Speedway during a qualifying heat.

Harry died with charges pending, as did a mutual friend of ours, former Keyport councilman and Monmouth County Clerk's Office confidential adviser Bob Hyer.

OK, now the part of the truth that isn't in the newspapers: Harry oversaw a Republican Party in Monmouth County that was at once familial, byzantine and thoroughly incestuous; and whose tentacles extended through nearly every one of Monmouth's towns and certainly through every governmental entity in the county, including municipalities. It was a conspiracy (my word) of a sort, and there were certainly many incidents of questionable legality that I witnessed take place for many years as part of that conspiracy. I do not claim to have been aware of everyone's life in office or around politics back then, or even most of them. I knew many leaders in the county, though, and my impression was that they ruled with an absolute steel glove and believe it would have been remarkable if these leaders did not influence, to one degree or another, many peoples' political careers and careers, in general.

What is the difference between a successful lawyer and an unsuccessful one? In many cases, a governmental appointment. Who appoints them? Politicians. Mostly that goes for a score of people, not just professionals and not just lawyers among all professionals.

I first got involved with the Monmouth County GOP as an active member helping campaigns in 1998. At the time, the party struck me as being an almost feudal system of minor 'princes' who all towed the line and swore their allegiance to Harry (quite literally I feel comfortable saying) and a few other major players (some of whom are still in the game) or they faced political extinction. No one was a successful candidate or office holder for very long if either Harry or a few others took a disliking to them. Likewise, no one got or kept county or prominent municipal jobs (or professional work) if they were disliked by Harry 'and company.' Harry was sometimes referred to as the "President of Monmouth County," and that was not incorrect. This went on for many years.

There were exceptions to this general rule above, as in the case of former Wall Township Republican Chairman Bob McKenna, who was smart enough, tough enough, successful enough and rich enough to be able to ignore anyone else's notions of pulling his strings. Consequently, Harry frequently expressed his dislike for Bob in front of me. I must say, though, as much as Bob McKenna was not an affable fellow, he was among the most honest politicians I saw in major leadership. Of course, my boss, Assemblyman Joe Azzolina, was (far and away) the most honest, credible guy I knew during my entire time in Monmouth politics/journalism. People will say otherwise, but I saw that man every day and when he played hardball with someone, it was only because they were already a player in the league. Joe never challenged anyone who was defenseless politically or not coming after him.

Back to Harry: Jobs were doled out by Harry or close political subordinates of his in the county government to loyal (if not competent) Republicans he liked as rewards for either excellent service, campaign contributions or favors of some kind to him. I don't want to go into specifics, because it sounds terrible. And, I don't want Harry to sound terrible because he wasn't. When Harry came to power, in 1966, as he came to fill a vacancy on the Freeholder board, Monmouth County was a rural expanse with very limited economic production and activity. The county included large tracts of farmlands and agrarian ventures in places and these kinds of micro-economies dominated many towns: Howell, Middletown and Wall townships, prominently. Harry and his age of politicians dared to have a vision of the county and possessed the rocks to make that vision happen. 

Basic services like dumps and garbage collection, the county Sheriff's Department, Public Works and the Department of Roads were barely functional, let alone anything to write home about when Harry took his seat. Brookdale Community College, in Lincroft, which is now a prominent and well-respected county college, was a pipe dream when Harry took office. More than any single person in this world, Harry improved, honed or, in the case of Monmouth County waste disposal facilities, as well as Brookdale, created these institutions. He made them with his own two hands the way a potter would a vase. The only difference is that Harry used politics and government to accomplish his ends.

If anyone paints Harry as purely a villain, they are, in my opinion, either misinformed, purposefully hateful or very shortsighted. Monmouth County may have 'grown up' without Harry, but it may not have grown up so handsomely or efficiently. He was a great inspirational leader and did many good things.

Harry was a sympathetic person, and he frequently provided free oil to customers of his heating fuel business in Neptune if they could not afford to pay his fees, especially in the Winter. He literally saved people's lives because of his humanity. And, I admire him so much for that.

Harry also accepted money from people, either for his personal use or for his campaigns, and frequently repaid that back with county work for the benefactor. Sometimes, he would give someone a job because they were political allies, or subordinates and a "good soldier" or they were the family members of subordinates or good soldiers. In fact, very few people got a big job in Monmouth County, to my knowledge, simply because they were only good at what they did -- and that is the truth as I saw it. This was frequently true at the municipal level in many places also.

But, being a member of that inner-circle itself came with privileges just for belonging. A small example was an old joke Bob Hyer told me once: "Where does a Monmouth County Republican park?" I said I don't know. Bob responded, "Anywhere he wants, who the hell is writing the ticket?" And then he laughed. I even found it funny at the time.

In my case, being good with Harry and company, even if it did not translate to a job for me in the county, did allow me to keep my position at my newspaper and enjoy a great deal of job security, be in good with Big Joe and help me out when Joe was deciding about whether or not to give me raises (and the decision was close), as well as grant me a lot of influence in the county. It also helped me get side work, which I will discuss later on. I was not the only publisher or journalist to have 'flexible morality' back then -- most were just flat out kidding themselves (they must have been) about why they received support for their projects, employment or certain doors opened for them. Journalists have some of the most enormous egos known to mankind, I think, myself included. There were many journalists in various media sources involved. But, I was popular among the GOP folks -- at least until the whole Town Center thing (now that is definitely another story). I will talk about GOP "friendlies" in the media later, in a general sense. No names. No duty positions. I don't want anyone taking legitimate issue with me (not that they won't anyway). Anyway, anyone who knows me probably knows my response to their objections.

Well, working in my capacity for Big Joe and being trusted by Harry, I could get a lot of things done politically -- and I did, for the good and bad looking at it in hindsight. For the first time in my life I was a bona fide member of the middle class, and everything that came with it. I loved it. All it cost me were little bits of my soul a piece at a time until, in the end, I had barely enough to put into a Tick Tack container.

A former attorney of mine (many years ago) once said that it made "no sense" for anyone to try to include me in Operation Bid Rig. "Even if you did hang out with those guys, knew what they were doing and let it go, what you would have done isn't illegal. Sure, it's unethical and immoral, but not illegal. You're fine," he said. What he said struck me like a hammer in my chest. Yes, I had done all of that. And, sometimes I told Big Joe about what the knuckleheads I hung out with were doing and sometimes I didn't. Of course, I didn't know everything that was going on (far from it). Still, I knew enough for that lawyer to be right. I thought that since something didn't involve Joe, plausible deniability would be the gift that keeps on giving.

I don't want to rehash the events leading up to Operation Bid Rig or the painful costs involved in it as a consequence. It was a whole thing, and so much of it caught me totally off-guard and there was so much going on I had no idea about. But, it is enough to say it was hard for me to look at myself in the mirror and proudly proclaim that I was one of the 'good guys' when soberly contemplating my actions of the past several years at that point. Of course, in the beginning, I absolutely believed the only way to 'fight fire was with fire' and used to always say to make an omelet 'sometimes you had to break some eggs' but that the ends can sometimes justify the means. Many people in the game today still believe that.

Besides Big Joe, I did what Harry said (like a lot of people who won't own up to it today). It was Harry's game and Harry's rules and I played the game so I did it his way. I was absolutely aware of what he was doing in a general sense, and sometimes specifically. But, for me to try to take a stand against his conduct or anyone else's in that circle would, in my estimate, not be a great idea because: 1. There were plenty of people in law enforcement circles who owed their jobs to Harry and company so they would identify me and bury what I said (and I would lose everything for nothing); 2. It would be the end of my journalism career also, because I would rightfully be blacklisted by credible journalists who sometimes suspected (but never knew) of my ties to the powers that be, and 3. I would not be making the money I did anymore and would no longer be a comfortable member of the middle class. Sure, many others made more but I made more than enough working for Joe. More than I had before and certainly since.

People in politics tend to either canonize someone or vilify them, without any middle ground whatsoever. Some of the loudest voices against Harry in the years after his death were people who directly benefited from his favor and leadership and, in fact, owed their political or professional careers to how he did things. To me, Harry was neither the greatest sinner nor the biggest of saints. He was what we all are: complicated, occasionally self-serving, kind, committed, selfless, selfish and often a hero and only sometimes a villain. Harry may have made some important steps some might not take. But, more than a few people, I think, would have taken much greater license with the kind of power he enjoyed and wielded. Absolute power did not corrupt Harry absolutely. It did help him in making some terrible decisions that have to reflect on him, though.

I would offer, without using names or even job titles, that those of us who were playing this game, and especially Harry's game, have a lot to account for to ourselves and our higher powers, whatever that may be for someone. I am not about to excuse my actions at this point in my game.

There was, in fact, a lot of good done by Monmouth County Republicans over the years. They made a wilderness someplace wonderful -- I grant that. I'm very glad of my participation in many things, which I will include in this blog. But, there was a lot of wrong there too -- and not just by Harry but by everyone. I will accept my share of that blame without any bitches, moans or gripes. However, for those of you who come here (from the Old Days) wondering if I am going to 'rat anyone out' -- no, I'm not. I won't.

So no now-geriatric politicians or office holders have to come up with any ridiculous means of retaliation. And yet, I am not going to shut up about my story because I have any fear of anything left in this world: Everything is gone, what is there left to take? However, dragging other people down is not my thing; not spilling other peoples' business. Everyone has to inevitably make their own peace with their own God in their own way. I do, however, suggest that can be a big priority for some more than others.

My Mom and Brother...and Jack LaLanne

When I was a child, during the early 1970s, there was a black-and-white television show in the afternoons called "The Jack LaLanne Show." Mr. LaLanne (1914-2011) was this very worked out host who would guide viewers through various exercises and talk about nutrition while he was doing it. In no time at all, Mr. LaLanne gained a widespread following and housewives from sea to shining sea were working out with Jack.

My mother, Ruth, was no different. She would go upstairs in the afternoon and patiently wait for Mr. LaLanne's show. Quite often, my brother (who was a little heavy) would join her. The paces Mr. LaLanne put his faithful through were nothing like what workouts are today. Nevertheless, it did get plenty of people off the couch and into uncomfortable positions on the floor on a regular basis.

At the time, I could barely make it up the stairs, since they were kind of steep. But, one day, eager to learn the 'secret' going on upstairs (which came along with something like jumping noises) I carefully trod up the stairs lightly. At the top of the staircase, as stealthy as a ninja-toddler, I got to the precipice to see my mother and brother working out. Mom asked if I wanted to work out. I told her 'no.' I had no idea what they were doing. Meanwhile, David took great exception to seeing me and vowed never to work out again. Well, from what I can tell, he was good to his word about that one.

In her youth, my Mom had been a striking red-haired girl who was known for her beauty as well as her red locks. As everyone does at a certain age, and in their own way, she tried very hard to fight back against the inevitable march of the years.

People nowadays look so much better in their 50s and 60s than people of a similar age so many years ago. Working out probably has something to do with it; watching one's diet is another factor; as is stress, regular medical and dental attention and lifestyle.

When I was a young man, I could have sworn my body and appearance would always be what it was, and perhaps change a little but not much over time. Similarly, my third ex-wife (how is that not a joke?), Dawn, once affirmed very loudly and definitely that she, in fact, was never going to age. As proof, she cited her aunt who looked exactly the same that day as she had 20 years before. Nine years older than her and already seeing the effects of time beginning to take hold, I agreed easily. 'That is a wonderful thing. You bottle that and we're buying a house in Las Vegas next week.' I didn't even get her to break a smile with that one.

Dawn informed me that her genes allowed for a vastly slowed aging process. I recall saying I was very gratified to hear that and then suggested for us to create a time capsule that she can open in a hundred years or so as she started to get her first wisps of gray hair. It was another joke that didn't go over too well.

When I was young, and around so many of my friends, we were sure that life was long and friends and family would always, always be there -- no matter what. Yet, while some of us were lucky in love, family and jobs; others of us were lucky with jobs; others lucky with love or family; and still others not lucky about a darn thing. Ask me today and I will tell you I have no idea what or where luck is -- it has been so long since I last saw it. I guess I learned that everything has a time and a season, as brief as a quick Spring too often. It is marvelous to enjoy the smell of the flowers in the Spring as they again bloom to life. But, it never hurts to plan for the inevitable winter that always seems to show up a bit too soon. I believe this is a wonderful piece of advice not only for everyone (in the metaphorical sense) but also a worthy thought in considering the nature of everything in the world.

Howell, kids and forts

Howell Township, New Jersey is where I grew up, from the time I was about 5 years old until 9 years old, after which time I was first put into a military academy (1972-1977). At the time, the 61-square-mile rural community was largely farmland and horse farms, with the only real signs of industry going on around the immediate vicinity of Route 9, which cut through the municipality and joined Freehold Township (Monmouth County) to Lakewood Township (Ocean County). In all, there were about 20,000 people there then, so neighbors were scarce in some parts.

THE MANASQUAN RESERVOIR: At about the time I left for Admiral Farragut Academy, in Pine Beach, NJ, the town elders were talking about a county plan for flooding the woods not fat from Town Hall and creating a reservoir. I thought it sounded ridiculous. The kids in the town loved the woods. Every one of us was darn near a Daniel Boone by the time we were 8 or 9. Nevertheless, it was done. And, the Manasquan Reservoir turned out to be a pretty good idea by the county Board of Chosen Freeholders of the day. Later on, I found out a future acquaintance of mine was the principal person behind the plan, long-time and late Freeholder Director Harry Larrison. Harry is in some of my stories, so I won't beat it to death about him here.

SPORTS: I didn't care about any of that public building and creating junk at the time, though. I was a kid. And, having endless woods everywhere is what kids love. Technology was not that big of a deal back then. There was none. We played sports: baseball, football, basketball, some tennis and stickball. We played them all the time. Each kid had their favorites, but all the kids played all the sports -- or they were just bored out of their minds. Seeing as Howell also seemed to be a pot-growing and smoking Mecca of the day, as well as a party hub also, it was better for kids to play sports.

I didn't have a great family situation, but I had some friends and liked sports, particularly baseball. My father also enrolled me in boxing classes at the YMCA in Lakewood with one-eyed barber (and former professional middle-weight fighter Pat Spataro). Pat had to be the absolute worst barber that ever received a NJ barber license. The first time I met him he accidently cut my ear in the back leaving this big permanent scar. But he was a nice guy and knew his way around the ring, and how to deal with kids. My neighbor, Paul Jones, and I both attended his sessions. I think Paul quit after like 3 of them. But I was for anything that kept me out of the house so continued to go. I also played Little League Baseball at the Howell North Little League near the Freehold border behind some firehouse that had fields.

AWESOME TUNES: Great Adventure in nearby Jackson Township was just starting to be built too, though bands had already started playing in this ad hoc outdoor auditorium that was set-up. I didn't go there all the time, but sometimes some of the older kids would give Paul and I a lift out there to hang out in the parking lot (which was really popular then). There would be like a hundred kids, mostly older but some younger, hanging out in this large dirt parking lot; smoking pot, drinking and flirting with the batches of girls that showed up there to do the same thing the guys were. And, we could hear the bands from the stage perfectly clearly. It stands out that I remember hearing "I Want You To Want Me" by Cheap Trick, and Meatloaf singing his famous "Bat Out of Hell" album live: Awesome in the first degree.

THE SUMMERS, THE PARTIES: The older kids smoked a ton of pot. It was the 1970s: free love, unprotected sex, lots of booze (the drinking age was 18 then) and no sense of responsibility by a lot of younger people. I was envious but always said to myself, 'One day, that's going to be me.' Well, it never was because by the time I was 17 and really able to be taken serious by a girl back home I was already in the military and the drinking age was raised to 21. Not only that, but the outbreak of AIDS pretty well put the brakes on the free love thing. House parties were large and epic. Parties with bonfires in the middle of the woods were large and similarly epic. But I only witnessed what the older kids did. Well, I did until Danny Hunter from across the street turned Paul and I onto drinking, pot and amphetamines. I think I was eight years old.

It was an old story and not the one I want to tell here. I want to talk about Howell, with the perfect summers -- just the right amount of hot (about 91-degrees F tops by day and 75 degrees-F by night). The summers began promptly at the end of April. Fall began immediately in mid-September (and I mean a real Fall, not the kind we have now, which is Winter). Yes, we always got snow right after Halloween, but Spring always showed up right at the end of March. The weather was perfect. All the kids played outside until their moms called them home for dinner, which was usually when it started to get dark. There was endless bike riding, wrestling and sporting matches of every kind. Far from thinking girls were "icky," boys and girls were going out by the time they were 8 or 9. But, no one thought about sex: Kissing? Sure. Sex? No.

SOFTBALL, NOT THE SPORT OF KINGS: There was this nice softball field behind my father's house on Crest Drive, and every Saturday during the Summer dozens of softball players would be playing hard-fought games while literally dozens of people, mostly young women swooning over the teen-age, male players (there were quite a few). How many neighborhood romances began after some 19-year-old player hit a home run to win some meaningless game on an unofficial field. But, the fact the players played so hard even though their games would never be counted in some book or league standing is precisely why those games were the very best. This was sport in he purest form to me.

Neighborhood girls who were juniors and seniors in high-school would sometimes walk around in string bikinis that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Herds of us smaller, younger boys in primary school would breathlessly and silently stare in awe as these goddesses walked by. None of us knew what sex was, but all of us were sure that girls like that had something to do with it. And, at that time of the world, the Daphne Lemmings of the world (Daphne was my favorite goddess. lol) were able to walk around like that because even though it was not a wholesome idea to do what she and her girlfriends did, no one was going to attack her either. Kids had respect then, for adults and for each other. There is no such thing anymore, and the world is poorer for it, in my opinion. Even if we did not like our mothers and fathers (and many of us didn't for very good reasons that were personal), we still respected them and would never dream of throwing them "under the bus," so to speak. We just waited our time until we were adults and could relegate that family to the occasional telephone call.

THE SMALLER KIDS: At Halloween, kids used to Trick-or-Treat everywhere because we didn't think of the world as having a pervert behind every tree waiting to pounce. Sadly, though, they are. And, they were then only we didn't know about it.

I think we were all very busy trying to be the best athlete we could. It was nice, really. Local girls of all ages would come out and see the guys play ball -- which made us try to act like we were very cool. Often, though, girls would end up joining in the games and then, pretty frequently, finish the day by showing a lot of us up (me included...I sucked at football). I shouldn't say 'everyone,' though, because smart guys like Greg Schon (frail and sensitive) spent all of his time studying and with his parents. Of some note, Greg (who endured a torrent of abuse by other kids in the day) went on to become a big deal stock broker on Wall Street beginning in the mid-1980s. Last I heard he was filthy rich: Good for you, Greg.

A lot of kids had bad parents then, though. So kids made their own rules outside; their own society. In those days parents could do a lot to kids without anyone caring that much; people didn't get involved. Parents were a whole other thing then the life kids led among each other. And, no one was eager to talk about it to them.

Until we were 10, kids on my block were fascinated with building forts: above- and below-ground. It was a grand obsession that built up for years. Like anything that is practiced a lot we all actually got pretty good at it. Paul and I must have made our first fort together at like 6 years old, in front of the back door of my house. It was terrible but we were so proud. Just a few years later, we helped a couple other kids build one in the backwoods near the Prince of Peace Church, along Aldrich Road, that was probably 12 feet long and 5 feet deep and 6 feet wide with a respectable roof, wooden floor and camouflaged so it didn't stand-out unless someone was standing right up on it.

What did we do with all these forts? Well, little kids invaded other kids' forts and defended their own. We had fist fights over them and threw rocks at one another -- hard. Older kids who admired a group's fort would drink and smoke pot there, and sometimes bring their girlfriends there for private time. It was a little strange, thinking about it, actually. But it sure did develop our arms with all that digging. Sometimes the older kids left booze behind for us as a kind of thank you. It didn't last long.

About the rock fights (and they were plentiful); no one was trying to miss anyone with rocks. Literally, we were trying to knock each other out. I was hit many times by rocks in these moronic match-ups, and loved it every time (believing then it showed how tough I was). Of course, we were collectively and individually idiots for espousing this kind of game. But, espouse it we did. While I went home with more than the occasional black eye from some dumbass thing we were doing, I do remember my finest throw of a rock ever -- bar none.

It was the Summer of '76, after my family and I got back from seeing the Tall Ships in Boston, Massachusetts. It was dwindling to the end of Summer and I went over James Urig's house to play "All for All" Football Card Flip. This was an elongated game where two people literally flip every card they had in their collection until there was one winner (and the loser had no more football cards left). Well, I won James' collection and he did not like it. So, on the way out, he slapped my arms, filled with football cards, with many of them landing in a puddle (making them useless). I picked up the cards and walked away until, halfway down the street, I see rocks landing near me. James was throwing them. 'Well, OK, enough of this cheek turning BS,' I remember thinking. I put the armful of cards down and returned fire on James, who was about 30-40 meters away, as I recall it. I could not throw with any accuracy that far so I decided to loft the rocks high, giving them more distance. After an exchange of a dozen rocks or so I lofted one as far as I could. I was picking up another rock, in fact, when I saw James fall over, his feet flying into the air, and land unmoving onto the ground.

James had an older brother. Usually, John Urig and I were good but if he came out and saw his little brother laying dead with a rock in his eye and me standing down the street with a rock in my hand -- that could be awkward. So, discretion being the better part of valor, I scooped up my football card winnings and ran as quick as I could back to my father's house a block away. As a note, James was OK, but his pride was injured a bit. 

Meanwhile, this one kid, Jimmy Green, used to always build above-ground forts; really nice ones. Not surprisingly, when he grew up he became a contractor building houses. He became quite successful at it and today still lives in the house where he grew up on Woodland Drive.

Howell kids refined the art of staying busy while not actually doing anything of worth. It was like the township was an enormous park for our use. It was nice, really. Kids came home every day tired, dirty, worked out, exhausted from laughing or cursing like sailors for something or other. All the kids in my very large cul-de-sac knew one another, and for a long time. So when someone moved away a big loss was felt. It was a big loss because it was a nice place to live; and that is probably one reason why so many of those kids I played with are still there, watching their grandchildren doing the same things they did so long ago (minus all the rock throwing and fort digging, I hope). As for the homes most of us went back to, well, that is another story. Some of those stories were good and some of them were not so good.

It is common to blame parents for a lot and maybe they do deserve to get a knock for being a bad parent. At some point everyone's life becomes about them and what they do or do not do. Sure, no one wants a bad childhood. But, I doubt if a terrible childhood actually ever drove anyone to become some horrible person. It is a factor. One thing among many. Perhaps bad childhoods are just something to get over and forget. As anyone who has had one knows, though, it doesn't stop it from sucking all the same.

Bob Menendez knows how to deliver a speech

Bob Menendez

Being around politicians, one tends to hear a lot of speeches: ranging from the very good to the outright terrible. In 20 years of being around elected folk and politicians, no one has come near Bob Menendez, currently one of the U.S. senators from NJ in DC, where it involves delivering a speech: absolutely inspirational.

This shot was taken in Atlantic Highlands, NJ several years ago. That night, Mr. Menendez had given the best speech I ever heard live. It would have to be, because if we were talking about "all-time" oratories then recorded speeches would come into the game and as awesome as Sen. Menendez is at oration, I wouldn't want to go up against FDR, JFK or Winston Churchill if I was him. He's good but let's not get nuts.

Was this 2004 or 2005? Maybe. Sen. Menendez came to Atlantic Highlands at the behest of former Middletown Democratic Chairman Joe Caliendo, a good guy and once-close friend. It was a great night. Everyone had their photos taken with the senator and I even got the Color Guard for the North Jersey Chapter of the 82nd Airborne Division Association to show up. The late Blair Rush was still color sergeant of the guard, which I served in for a few years before giving it up, and he liked the night a lot. Blair was awesome.

Someone from the senator's office asked myself and someone I was with at the time to come up to his office when we went to DC on a vacation. The last thing either of us wanted to do, though, is wait around someone's office for yet another photo-op with another politician of any caliber. Hey, he is and was an incredible U.S. senator but a politician is a politician.

It was a great night, though.

Uncle David, Grandma and World War II

My father was not a big talker and there are only a few things he said about his past, life before my brother and I came along. So I treasured these memories. My father was one of five children: three boys and two girls. Their names were: Jimmy, Charles, David, Susan and Marie. Dad was born in 1919 and I have no idea when the others were born, aside from the fact that David was the youngest boy and Marie was the youngest girl. Originally, everyone lived in Newark, New Jersey and it was not until after World War II that everyone seemed to go their separate ways.

The only time I ever saw my aunts was during Thanksgiving during the mid-to-late 1970s, when they would frequently come to Howell, New Jersey for a long weekend at my father and mother's house. My Aunt Susan would show up with my Uncle Danny and Aunt Marie would show up alone, as she was a widow, or with her son, Jimmy, who was older than David and I by a few years.

The story I am telling was told by Dad, Mom, my aunts, and to some degree also confirmed by my grandmother, Agnes, who lived with my Mom, Dad, my brother David and myself. I never saw Uncle Charlie: All that was ever said was that he and Dad had a falling out and that was it. And, to the heartbreak of all of these people, my Uncle David perished while serving in the United States Navy as a gunner's mate second class off the shore of Italy during the Allied invasion there. This is one of the two stories I have of him.

My grandmother showed me a newspaper clipping from the Newark Star-Ledger, yellowed with time and fragile, talking about an upcoming memorial service for David at a Catholic church. The announcement included a grainy black-and-white picture of him in his dress blues. He was a handsome boy. He joined the Navy in 1942 and, apparently, was killed by the winter of 1943 and was having his memorial either in late 1943 or early 1944 (my memory of the clipping fails me and the family dickered about if it was '43 or '44 when the service was held). Initially, he was reported missing in action. However, thanks to eyewitness accounts of his death, the Department of the Navy declared him killed in action. My father and aunts said he was ferry soldiers back and forth to a beachhead and his boat was struck by artillery, killing him.

My paternal grandmother, Grace, was a heavyset woman, who was strong and distinctive by her black hair and blue eyes. I saw a photo of her, but again it was black and white so I had to rely on those who knew her. She scrubbed floors to support the family after my grandfather, a postal worker in Newark, died years ago. My father became the man of the house and helped however he could, which could not have been very much as a child. Apparently, though, David was that one in the family with an easy smile and reportedly a joke on his lips at almost any time. He was a peacemaker too, who often kept a fragile truce in place between my father and his brother, Charlie. Both men apparently loved David very much and did it for his sake. This is not to say that Uncle David was without fault, as the next part of the story arises.

My grandmother was dressed in black, mourning terribly at the service for her fallen son, of course. At her side was my mother, who was engaged to my father. My father was overseas, fighting as a combat engineer in Europe. I am not sure where my aunts were for this, but I believe they would have been there, considering their great love and admiration for David. Friends of the family filed in, as did my uncle's friends and those who knew him, well those that had not gone off to the service. My maternal grandmother and my mother's side of the family also filed in to pay their respects. It was all the usual suspects, so to speak. But slowly, almost without noticing at first, my mother saw random women, dressed in black (some with veils) filling in here and there and dispersed through the sanctuary's pews.

In all, Mom said between 5 and 7 young ladies were mourning my late uncle, and neither my mother nor grandmother knew who they were. My mother said Grace stopped her crying for the moment and she just looked. Then, her eyes still wet with tears, she began laughing her very hearty and loud laugh. My mother didn't understand at first, so my grandmother set her straight. She reportedly said, "Well, if he didn't get killed in Italy he sure as [heck] was going to get killed back here when he got back."

Apparently, my uncle was dating these several women before he left and during the leave he got from the Navy before he was assigned to a ship. My mother truly understood the nature of this when these girls started speaking to one another and shouting and minor pushing matches began to erupt to the side of the church sanctuary. My grandmother could not help but have a good hard laugh as these young ladies were arguing vehemently about who was David's fiance and who was not. Apparently, even in death, David found a way to get people laughing again.

Yet, Grace was a woman who bore much, by all accounts, and lived with a lot of heartache. Certainly, David's death was a terrible loss for the entire family, still felt decades after his passing. But, life is a gift and so is laughter. While not disrespecting any of the young ladies involved in this, even I think it is pretty funny more than 60 years after it happened.

I do wish I knew my grandmother Grace, but she died during the 1950s. My father was devastated by it. Her life and death were not talked about because it injured my father still, many years after it happened. She must have been someone very special.

In the meantime, not usually known for their cohesion normally, my aunts traveled to Italy, near the area where their brother had died, after the war, to see if they could find anything of him at all to bring back to Newark. The women, usually a bickering duo who constantly slighted one another in little jabs, had tears moving down their cheeks as they recounted the trip one Thanksgiving, after the meal was over and everyone but my mother and I were gone from the big dining room table upstairs. If David was brought up around my father, he would have ceased eating and went to his room upstairs without a comment, not wanting to be bothered for the rest of the day. He grieved David as well, very badly, even after all these years.

I truly suspect that, aside from my mother and her mother, Dad's mom and brother were the center of his world. Losing that center disrupted him quite a bit and he never did seem to get over it. I do hope wherever he traveled after this life he has the chance to be with them again, along with my Mom and her mother. I think it's the thing that would make him the happiest.

Putting a little yellow in your life



One of my former wives, an art teacher who attended Georgian Court College with me, in Lakewood, used to have this saying about "Putting a little yellow in your life" to brighten things up. I think that is probably the only sensible thing I ever heard that woman say.

Light out of dark

I know this shot isn't great. But, I have always liked it just the same. Originally, it was this horrible picture of a building I shot in the Warehouse District of Manhattan during the book launch of "What's Your Exit?"

For the record, I had nothing to do with that at all. I was just someone's "plus one" and was looking to kill some time snapping shots in-between all the hobbing and nobbing going around to the left and right of me.

"What's Your Exit?" was a nice book this person did, though. I said it at the time and meant it. But, the only thing more smothering than a room full of writers is two rooms full of writers. Well, writers are a necessary evil -- someone has to know how to spell stuff.

In this photo I looked at it in the context of transformation: dark to light. The photo also has an ethereal quality to me that is captivating.

Speech therapy and Miss Buck

It was 1973 when I first met Miss Buck, whom I will forever remember as incredibly tall and with the widest smile ever seen. I was 7 years old and don't remember how tall I was, but in comparison to the rest of the fellas in school I guess I was a little on the short side. At the time, I was attending Aldrich School, on Aldrich Road, in Howell, New Jersey. A nice lady, Miss Moore, was my teacher. It would be years before I figured out Miss Moore was something of a Hippy, and that is not bad but only lends coloring of the period.

So, Miss Moore made a referral to the principal for myself and Carl Jones, as well as Karen Smith, because all of us had speech impediments. Carl tripped over his words very awkwardly and had real trouble expressing himself. Karen never had an issue I could notice, but her being referred was just one of those things that was a mystery for a little kid. Then there was me.

My parents, Jim and Ruth, spoke a strange version of English, influenced by a very limited vocabulary, Newark slang of the 1930s, Irish slang from the 1920a and Jersey City inflection. It was a wreck. And I spoke it fluently -- with a natural speech impediment. But, the way I spoke was noise to an ear, barely recognizable as conversational English and mispronunciations were incredibly common. Carl and I would be an assignment for any speech therapist.

Well, that referral by Miss Moore was, indeed, for a speech therapist. Miss Buck had the nicest voice, eyes and smile of anyone I knew until then. She had what may be termed as 'kind eyes.' And, she looked to be an athletic girl in her early 20s.

So, Miss Buck ducked her head into Miss Moore's classroom one day and called out the names of Carl, Karen and myself. I had no idea whatsoever this was all about. Miss Buck led us down the hallway, around a few turns and into a media closet near the cafeteria. In that media closet, packed full of projectors and the like, was a small fold-up table and four metal folding chairs.

We sat down and she introduced herself and said she was our speech therapist and we would be working with her for the rest of the year, three days per week in 45 minutes per session.

OK, I thought, a nearly free period of no classwork. That was fine. At first I thought some mistake was made, I didn't have any problem speaking -- but I would play along for awhile and see where it went.Somewhere along the line I listened to myself objectively and was horrified, I remember that.

Over the course of the next two school years, though. I worked with Miss Buck, Carl and Karen. I credit those two years for being pivotal in my verbal development, more so than any other thing in my life. Without Miss Buck, I would have went through life not only with a speech impediment, but nearly unable to communicate with average people. This might not sound like a big deal to people who have never had a speech impediment -- but it was to me. She gave us kids the gift of language and communication.

Her language and sound drills and practices changed the way I communicated 100 percent over what it had been before. Along the way, I hadn't noticed how much this meant to me, until Miss Buck said one day the school district let her go and didn't have a budget for this anymore. It was alright. I could speak by then, but I was sad. I was only a little kid and not able to verbalize what her work had meant to me.

Karen just cried and threw her arms around Miss Buck. Miss Buck hugged her back. Carl and I cried. I told her she had been really important to me, and us (speaking for the group). I said it made me really sad thinking I wouldn't see her anymore -- and editorialized 'that sucks' in there too. Carl also told her his heartfelt regard emotionally. Miss Buck was overcome by our reactions and could not help crying herself, which was a surprise -- usually she was very contained and ultra professional. She tearfully praised our efforts and work in defeating our speech impediments and told us we were going to be fine, and that working with us and making the progress we did together was the reason why she became a speech therapist. At that moment, I thought speech therapists were cooler than being a superhero or a baseball player, the latter being the highest evolution of humanity. This was the first thing I really ever did that was hard and it happened not in a classroom or sports field, but in a media closet next to a school cafeteria.

Outside of that little class, Karen, Carl and I were not friends. So we didn't talk about speech therapy or Miss Buck to each other again. I was sorry that other kids with speech impediments were not going to have Miss Buck. But, I am sure whatever happened to her she did a lot of wonderful work for people.

At this point, I am trying to remember the important things. Miss Buck was one of the most important people in my life, really, and I owe so much in my life to what she did for me in school. When I was a newspaper writer, editor and publisher I wish I had spent more time pushing speech therapy; that is a regret.

I don't know what Miss Buck earned by the hour but it was worth a million dollars to me. There are never enough caring, talented educators in the world.

 

Ft. Jackson and reception

So, I am 17 years old. My father signed me into the U.S. Army Reserves and I was assigned to a separate infantry brigade out of Bristol, Pennsylvania as a mortarman. At that time, units in the PA Reserve were a part of the 79th Infantry Division. So I went to a few drills (that my father had to drive me to) and my date for Basic and AIT (called "OSUT" for One Station Unit Training) at Ft. Benning, Ga., finally came in June, 1983.

I had a friend from my hometown named Frank Hines, back in Howell, NJ. He was in the National Guard and he came back with his blue infantry cord as a graduate. And, Frank wasn't exactly SGT York, so I thought it should work out fine. And it did, but there were some big surprises along the way.

After being cloistered like a prisoner in a rundown Newark, NJ hotel room by the recruiters for a night, there was a plane ride from Newark to Columbia, South Carolina. At that time, the reception station was not built at Benning, so the Infantry School was using the reception assets at Ft. Jackson to welcome its recruits into the Army.

At the time I was probably 5'8" (I grew 2 more inches in the next few years), did not grow any hair on my face (unless you call peach fuzz hair) and weighed about 150 pounds. Oh, and I was scared as all hell.

Anyway, so the flight arrives to Columbia and, in the airport there, was a section measured off for incoming recruits. Tough-looking drill sergeants, men and women, tersely told recruits to be quiet and move into that area and remain quiet or they would be severely punished, without exception. OK, didn't need to tell me twice, I was absolutely aware I was a dumbass teen-ager who knew absolutely nothing about really anything (a perfect infantry recruit).

After 50 or 60 of us arrived, we are all herded onto a few buses and then off we went to glorious Ft. Jackson, South Carolina, which I came to learn was, at the time, the Uniform Code of Military Justice-dispensing leader in the Free World, as well as the Army's unofficial cockfighting Mecca. Actually, while at reception, I had no idea what cockfighting was or that it involved roosters and would have probably thought that was a dirty word someone made up with in Los Angeles.

They dispensed bag lunches like the old YMCA lunches used to be: bologna and cheese, an apple and a generic soda. A guy next to me, let's call him Smith, tried to make a joke to me about something and his opening his mouth was met with a torrent of screaming from a male and female drill who got up from their places at the front of the bus and barraged both he and I with derogatory profanities, which involved (but was not limited to) descriptions of our heads and our mothers. I went blank as they screamed and lost expression and stopped chewing. All told, a wise move.

We get to the front of the Ft. Jackson Reception Station and we were screamed off the bus and were told to form lines. We did it as fast as we could because slow people got extra rations of screaming and threatening. This "unit" was joined by like 15 other trainees (they had uniforms and everything. lol) and we stood there absolutely quiet (what moron would talk after that?).

Two new drill sergeants appeared theatrically through the front, glass double doors of the reception center: a man and woman. This blobulous unit we were in was hastily cut in half by one of the bus drills and then split like a big, teen-aged amoeba into two smaller amoebas. My amoeba/unit was assigned a diminutive black female sergeant with the last name of "Loving" (an irony). At 5'1" or so, SGT Loving made quick, no-nonsense work about explaining the following things, sprinkled with profanities: She was in-charge of us and our entire time at Ft. Jackson, if we did anything dumb like disobeying her or anyone at the fort she would make sure we got our very first Article 15 there and that no one had any authority in the group except for her and if anyone -- anyone -- tried to think they did then they would be "made an example of" and would regret it. She then stated this group (I think we were collectively given a number, let's say 325) would process into the Army for three days and then be transported to Ft. Benning, Ga. "...where we would be trained as infantrymen to serve the United States Army." Well, she did have a way of putting things. All in all, I was scared shitless of the woman.

After being placed in an old barracks bay and grabbing bunks we would start the ball rolling with haircuts and uniforms. I placed my stuff on a lower bunk near the door and a young black man, a little older and wider than me, told me I made a mistake and it was his bunk. His name was Sibley, he was from Chicago, and we bitched about the bunk for like 10 minutes before I moved off it. Later on, Sibley would become a good friend. But, for right now, he was just the guy that took my bunk.

In the meantime, I found a bunk near Smith and, two scared suburban teens, we tried to find some strength in propping ourselves up with acting both worldly and unafraid. We were horrible at it.

At reception, we were issued uniforms, boots, covers, belts, clothing bags, waterproof clothing bags, ID cards, filled out insurance forms, administered every shot they had back then, and given quick physicals to make sure that nothing changed from wherever we joined the Army until here. Platoon 325 was assigned a Basic Training Soldier's Book (think it was called a "Blue Book") to read, like everyone else was, and we sat upright with our mouths shut or there were many push-ups that would happen to the offender -- and let's not forget the profane screaming, folks.

Well, everything was going on schedule. The afternoon before we were supposed to leave, SGT Loving instructed us to clean the barracks for the next group coming through the following day. We were given every kind of cleaning agent, towels and rags, a buffer with several head and gloves (for the latrines). No one knew how to clean anything but there was furious activity everywhere. We were some cleaning like madmen people -- I think I polished bedframes and even dusted mattresses too.

Anyway, by the time we were collectively done, maybe 2 hours later, there was a call of alarm from one of the platoon's bald teen-agers at the far side of the bay. All of us, similarly bald and sweating from the heat, came over immediately in our new, uncomfortable BDUs and un-shined boots (which hurt). As it turns out, someone operating the buffer had used bleach to strip the floor. Yeah, it stripped the floor alright, and the fake green marble coloring off the floor's tiles leaving a large white circle about 6 feet by 3 feet. Oh, by the way, SGT Loving was going to check on us before she went home at 5 p.m. to make sure everything was OK. There was, rightfully, this feeling we were going to get screwed. No one liked it.

My first moment of military leadership happened. I almost immediately had a plan and needed a little cooperation and, if I got that, I knew we would be out of this: well, hoped. Here was the risk: SGT Loving had not, as yet, come up to the barracks since showing us in. Rather, she told us when to be out front and would send someone in to get whomever was late. She had showed us what to clean, but it was necessary for her to do that. This thing could fall to pieces if she made us snap to parade rest when she entered the room: a qualified risk given the number of men that would be standing in front of the white mark. Alright, here was the plan...nah...not yet.

OK, I tell Smith and he agrees, so between Smith and I we gather the biggest guys in the platoon and tell them the idea. They agree to help us make this happen: Two of them were really, really big.

At 5 p.m. (1700...whatever), SGT Loving comes through the bay door and there we were, every single man gathered, sitting in a semi circle, while I was reading from a King James Bible. She comes through the door and I called the fellas to parade rest but (THANK GOD), SGT Loving takes off her hat and says, "No! You boys stay right there. You go on with what you were doing. You just keep on doing that right there." She then turns and leaves. There was no laughter, only this feeling we had dodged an enormous bullet. No one wanted to start their military careers with more pain than necessary, or more delay than they had to experience naturally.

The next morning, while it was still dark and at a suitably insane time, the two in-processing platoons became one again and we were all herded onto new buses, with what seemed tons of our brand-new Army gear in duffel bags and waterproof bags. The buses were headed for the Home of the Infantry, Fort Benning, Georgia. And, something told me it wasn't going to get easier there. Still, a bunch of dumb-ass, teen-aged and early 20-something recruits were able to come together for one moment to get something important done (albeit a bit devious) to make sure everyone made it out at Jackson clean and without an Article 15. So I was encouraged. Maybe things were going to suck at Benning -- whatever. If we worked as a team and didn't bitch at one another then maybe this thing would be OK; might even be better than OK. And, with minor exception, it turned out that way. But, that's another story.

Cute, isn't he?

In honor of Veteran's Day

What would Veteran's Day Weekend be without a vivid reminder of "Gun Boat Diplomacy," innovated by former Undersecretary of the Department of the Navy Theodore Roosevelt, who went on to become the president of the United States (and he was also the guy who started the Spanish-American War while his bosses were on a junkit).

Gun Boat Diplomacy (also balled "Battleship Diplomacy") was simple: When the U.S. wanted some other country to do something, and that country didn't, the U.S. would send a battleship off the shore of the offending country and menace or out-right bombard that other country until that country, inevitably, did what they said.

Cheers!

Sherman and his approach

Wm. T. Sherman

Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman's final rank was something like Lt. Gen. or full General. During the Civil War, though, Sherman was a Maj. General and Army Chief of Staff Phillip Sheridan's 'go to' guy. Sheridan was also pretty tight with the commander of the Army of the Potomac, and future U.S. president, Gen. Ulysses Grant and so Sherman was given a hale and hearty acceptance to the 'Blue Team' when he came on board.

Well, I don't think badly about Sherman's record in the South: He was a soldier who did what he had to do, to his view, and thus he introduced the "Total War" concept that, to some extent, our collective consciences still wrestle with. There are those who said he issued the final "death blow" to the South as he cut a bloody and fiery swath from Maryland to Florida. Was he right or wrong? I don't know. Give me one argument and I can give you the other.

Like so many others, Sherman was a veteran of the War in Mexico, where those classes from West Point (North and South) received their seasoning before the Civil War (aka War Between the States, War of Northern Aggression, etc.).

Anyway, between the Mexican-American War and the Civil War, Sherman was not, by and large, an Army officer. He tried his hand as a teacher in Pennsylvania. He poured his heart into it, was supported by his loving wife, and was certainly enthusiastic about the profession. It just didn't happen, though. He returned to the Army not for fame or glory, but simply to support his wife and children (at a trade he was trained to do).

Sherman was a reluctant warrior who, once in harness, brought Hell on Earth to the enemies of his country. So, once the war was over, like other heroes of the North, he was given many honors and positions of trust. He did well for himself and his family, indeed.

He also busied himself helping veterans of his Army in business ventures and charitably. He worked exhaustively at this, to the point of veterans knocking on his door at early morning hours, with no place to go, and he still accommodated them, down to the lowest private who served. In addition, Sherman was also generous to the veterans of the Confederate Army on many occasions. And, Sherman worked at charity privately and with all of his energy.

People would say he had a good heart, and that would be right. Perhaps they would say he might have been bearing the burden of his class, a common notion back then. Well, I have a different take on it.

MG Wm. Sherman demanded everything his soldiers had, bar none: their honor, their blood, sweat, friends, obedience and trust. It could be argued such a request was unreasonable. A war was on, though, and there was no time for courting his troops. One nation had to be saved, another had to go down, and Sherman's men were the difference between the Union going on or dissolving. In asking for and receiving some part of his men's souls, Sherman came under obligation to them. A good commander understands this. This is why it is hard to be a good commander: It is a job fraught with responsibility, first, and privilege, last.

Though Sherman may have been a reluctant warrior, he was a true warrior. He showed respect to his enemies in war and peace, and undying devotion to his men, in uniform and out. I daresay there are few officers I have ever seen capture the loyalty and imaginations of their men as totally and as quickly as Sherman, especially in light of the near-suicide mission his army was given to hasten the end of the war.

Though Sherman's "Total War" approach my have cemented his place in the history books of children in later generations, I cannot help but believe it was his heart and character that ensured his place in the ages among the greatest tactical leaders ever.

Middletown Democrats on Election Night

http://www.youtube.com/v/Xqw1bIrRTtc?version=3&autohide=1&showinfo=1&autoplay=1&attribution_tag=TG17oGHj5S6CjxibNy-J6Q&feature=share&autohide=1

The Boiler Room, Episode 1

http://www.youtube.com/v/cqPQi45ndEY?version=3&autohide=1&showinfo=1&attribution_tag=uxW9_THJZcG2IT1WBw9KCg&autoplay=1&autohide=1&feature=share

Among the dumbest things....

So, it's summer 1985; rolled into the U.S. Army Airborne School at Ft. Benning, Georgia from Ft. Huachuca, Arizona. I guess I was 19 years old, and utterly awed by the place and the heritage and all that Airborne stuff. I  get assigned to the 45th Company and SFC Luster was my "Black Hat" Platoon Sergeant. And SFC Luster was, in fact, a badass. In all, it was the experience I totally expected.

Well, at the Airborne School, each of the services send people to get airborne qualified: Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. Yet, everyone looks exactly like a granola bar in the morning, because PT is done in this big-ass sand pit.

The day begins at like 5 a.m. and everything usually powers down around 4 p.m. or so. OK, so it is first thing in the morning, and everyone is in a torrent of pain because the black hats are really doing it to us today. And there is this one black hat in particular, SGT Gustafson, who had these amazing legs and this body. Full-on hot. However, seeing as how she is a black hat, no one with an ounce of common sense chose to compliment SGT Gustafson on her appearance or go so far as to stare at her a little too long or, God forbid, catcall her outside of the training area. It was clear, that would be tantamount to masochism.

Isn't there always one in the crowd, though?

So, at this particular morning session, SGT Gustafson is barking commands at us while we were doing many, many leg lifts. And, as I am doing my leg lifts and wondering how I arrived here, SGT G barks at this guy behind me: "What the hell are you looking at soldier!? You want to date me or something, troop!?" This was common-enough jargon of the time. I was surprised, however, when the voice behind me says, "Yes, Sergeant Airborne! (the term airborne candidates are given to refer to their trainers) I want to date you very much!" And, in that moment...there was a small seismic shift. I could have sworn Ft. Benning, GA experienced a slight movement of the underground plate upon which it lied.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY!?" SGT Gustafson inquired. "I'M SURE I DIDN'T HEAR YOU RIGHT, GRANOLA BAR!"

Her and two other black hats descended upon the helpless granola bar, who was commanded out of the sand pit and all we could hear for a while was a lot of yelling by the seargeants airborne occasionally punctuated by this young man responding, "No, Sergeant Airborne!" And then, like a passing storm, it was over and no one could hear anymore yelling or barking as the voices eventually lessened en route to the fabled little white house in the training area where airborne candidates went to quit.

How do I remember this so clearly? Good question. You see, when that jackass said one of the dumbest things I've ever heard, the platoon was doing leg-lifts and our legs were in the air when this started and, with all the commotion, no one told us to put our legs down. So a lot of us, working hard not to be noticed, silently kept our legs in the air (the last command we were given). It hurt. But, eventually, the platoon got a stand-in sergeant airborne to continue our PT training.

I don't know if there was ever a real white house. I always suspected that the sergeants airborne white house was like Molly's Animal Farm, made famous by my parents when it was time to take a pet on that long drive. I never wanted to go to either Molly's Animal Farm or the little white house to confirm or deny their existences. Just as my family's first dog, Missile, never returned from his visit to Molly's Animal Farm, the young man who admired SGT Gustafson so much never again returned from that little white house, wherever it was. I will say, though, it was quite a relief to put my legs down finally.

So, that anonymous young man behind me in PT that day is remembered by me because he did, in fact, utter one of the top 10 stupidest things I have ever heard this side of the dirt.

Good dogs do go to heaven

Winner of the Best Dog Ever: Winston Purcell.

If someone were to ever ask me if there were, in fact, dogs in heaven I would have to answer 'yes.' The question might then be posed, 'Well, since you have not been to heaven yet, how could you know there are dogs in heaven'? I would respond simply by saying, 'But, it couldn't be heaven without dogs.' Makes a ton of sense to me.

A well-kept Chi-Town Secret

The Hideout Bar is a well-kept Chicago secret that dates back to Prohibition when rum runners and gangsters used to run that Second City. Today, the bar celebrates its former infamy and is host to contemporary, original bands and a lively cast of local characters.

Gay Rights and Assembly Politics

So I ran this newspaper for Joe Azzolina Sr., called The Courier, for 11 years (April, 1998-April, 2009). And, it is no secret that Joe involved me in his politics during that period: He was a NJ assemblyman during the time I worked for him. I was a veteran campaigner behind the scenes before I was with Joe and I was a former Army spook so I knew how to shut up (until now, of course. lol). Anyway, Joe and I had ups and downs, for sure -- no two people who work very intensely over a long period of time will not have ups and downs. But, this is not about that. This is about something funny, in my mind, that happened I want to say 2008 or so.

Joe's official offices were in Arin Park, Middletown. This is just down the road from where The Courier was. I went there regularly and it was for some very mundane reason I was there on the day I speak of. Joe was on some Assembly subcommittee I think at the time and considering his stand on gay marriage in New Jersey. Like I said, I was involved in his politics but not his legislative life -- two different things.

Joe was a true 'every man.' He didn't discriminate against anyone. One the of the finest guys I knew like that. Self-made but not a snob. Anyhow, my business with him is done and then he asks me to hang around for a minute. He wanted to get his aide, Barbara Horal. I wait for a couple minutes (I always found myself staring at his Navy photos). Joe gets Barbara and says, "I want to hear about what you two think about gay marriage."

I was and am a dyed-in-the-wool social liberal and Joe knew that. Barbara was a social conservative. He knew that too. Generally speaking, Joe was somewhere between the polarities that Barbara and I represented.

I said words to the effect of 'OK, I'll start off this show. People who are homosexual and lesbian should have the same rights as heterosexuals to marry. Love is not legislated so marriage should not be. These New Jerseyans pay taxes like anyone else so they should have the benefits of marrying like anyone else. Besides, homosexuality is not a disease, a disorder or a choice. It is a God-made orientation someone is born with. You asked for my opinion and there it is.' Well, that kicked things off. lol.

Barbara said words to the effect that there are benefits associated with being married, involving taxes among other things. And if gay and lesbian people were allowed to marry and have equal rights like heterosexual people then they would enjoy those benefits too and it would discourage them from stopping their homosexuality and lesbianism and changing their sexuality back and getting married in a heterosexual context. She said homosexuals would want to be married so they will stop being gay.

Joe sat between us and watched quietly. At the end of Barbara's brief summation I laughed. I thought she was joking -- honestly. But, she sat there straight faced. So I stopped smiling and said words to the effect of 'you don't actually believe that gay people will stop loving who they love or change their natural sexual orientation in order to be in a sham relationship so they can legally be married, do you?'

Barbara responded, "Yes, I do" very matter-of-factly with her chin in the air.

Joe was still silent. I finished with words to the effect of 'so it is fine to deny Americans their rights because you want to reflect your personal biases upon them. Well, I can't argue with that logic.'

Barbara responded words to the effect of 'well then, you agree.' Joe cut in and said he had to go to another meeting but thanked Barbara and I for our views. He didn't comment one way or another to us about the subject matter.

Walking out the building I thought something like 'I guess that is what aides do in Trenton, think up stupid stuff and act like they are horribly bright.' There was no use wasting a moment about it, though. Joe was his own man and liked to hear what people thought all the time. In the end, though, he always made his own calls. That gentleman was a force of nature.

After Joe passed some years back I didn't attend his funeral and sometimes I feel guilty for it. But, because of politics, he surrounded himself with a pack of jackals, vultures and weasels. If I wanted to see that much animal life, I would have went to a zoo and not a funeral. In the meantime, I said earnest prayers for the big guy and went about my way. He would have understood. I was always a wiseass and he would have been the first to say I'd only get in trouble in that environment.

Good Day, Sunshine

Lovely day, today was. There could always be more like this one. :)