Lagauche Classics

SNOW

For the past few days, I have spoken to people in the Northeast and they told me how they were bracing for the forecast blizzard. Today, I read the results.

The Fall River (MA) Herald News reported that schools were closed as well as most businesses. More than 100 of the city’s fleet of 135 snow plows were in use. Some had broken down. The city had to borrow anything that looked like a plow from businesses or individuals to assist in clearing the white stuff.

Here, in San Diego, we received a rain storm a couple of weeks ago that broke a 182-consecutive day streak of no precipitation. We get about three inches of rain a year. Virtually all San Diegans brag about our weather and call it the finest in the world. However, they are using only the gauge of precipitation as a guide. Frankly, after 22 years here, I am sick and tired of looking to the sky each day and seeing only blue and suffering temperatures of 70-90 degrees Fahrenheit daily. It is boring.

The last time I saw snow was in 1982 in The Netherlands. I miss it.

While growing up in Tiverton, Rhode Island, a town bordering Fall River, Massachusetts, the winters always included snow. Not as much as say, Minnesota, but enough to make it interesting.

Snow was magic. It was enlightening. It was fun. I never could understand why adults cursed the white flakes.

The main asset of snow was the closing of schools. I always received good marks, but I hated school … always. It was boring and restrictive. School showed me nothing other than it was an unquestioned obligation. Even today, I find no joy in my school experience. Education is paramount, but schooling, many times, ran counter to learning. That was not education.

My house was located on a hill that overlooked a bay. Once the snow began, I began a vigil that transformed into a drama with many acts.

First, the ground began to turn white. Then, all appeared to be clean and perfect. No blemishes at all.

Once the snow began to accumulate, say to three or four inches, the old black iron railroad bridge that spanned the bay began to turn white, making for a surreal view.

Then, a silence crept in. A positive and beautiful silence. There were no cars on the road. There were no activities from the day-to-day occurrences in the neighborhood.

The next few hours were spent just looking out the second-story windows of my house. No words were necessary. The opposite side of the bay became a contoured white silhouette against the gray skies. Once the snowflakes hit the water, they immediately disappeared in an endless flow of futility. The water remained calm and dark.

When nighttime came, another act began. The images of millions of snowflakes falling under the a street light was mesmerizing. It was a continuous, seemingly never-ending flow.

About 500 yards or so from my house was a small wooded area with a stream. When I went there during a snowstorm, the entire area was different from its normal guise. It was almost like an actor taking on a new role. A role that was only temporary. The stream had the same effect on the snowflakes as the salt water bay — it melted the white particles on contact. But, the trees took on new personalities. They were aligned at different angles and were thicker. If I shook one, an instant barrage of snow came falling down. The ground was so different from its snow-less state, that one would not be remiss in thinking he/she was in an unknown area.

The day after a snowstorm was just as enjoyable. Out came the sled. My small white dog, Daisy (appropriately-named) would be camouflaged while playing with me in the yard. There was no brown or green vegetation: it was all white.

At a young age, I learned that fairy tales are for kids and that the tremendous enjoyment I had experienced would end — but gradually. First came the snow plows clearing the roads and piling huge stacks of snow beside the thoroughfares. That broke up the consistent pattern of white.

Next, came the cars. A few at time at first, then back to a more normal pace: old mufflers roaring and horns blaring.

Despite the gradual reverting to normalcy, the worst of the storm’s aftermath was soon to come and it would abruptly state to me that my fun was over: school would reopen.

After a couple of days, the only evidence of the snowstorm was the piles of snow on the roadsides that the plows created. Now, we saw the negative aspects of snow. Mud everywhere. On our first day back at school, the entire building would be laden with muddy footprints. When they dried, it looked like a mudslide had occurred inside the building. Outside was no better. The playground was unusable for nothing more than kids to stand and talk. That’s not what playgrounds are meant for.

But, in a couple of days, the temperature usually dropped and the mud turned into frozen dirt. Shortly after that, things were again normal. Until the next snowstorm.

Despite the gloomy aftermath of snowstorms, the experience of the storm itself was priceless. When April came, there was some sadness. Unless a fluke of weather happened, the snow was done for the year. But, those of us who were forward thinkers, knew it would return in about seven or eight months. That never changed. In August, I would think, "Only three or four months to go."

To this day, I still wonder why the adults cursed snow. Then, I put it down to them being a bunch of grumpy old-timers. It never occurred to me that I did not have to drive or go to work in the snow, or worse, shovel it. That’s the luxury of being a kid.

AMERICA’S LOSS — THE DEMISE OF THE DRIVE-IN THEATER

Kids growing up today in our country possess the technology and the tools to perform tasks, both educational and recreational, that previous generations could not envisage even in their wildest moments of imagination. There is one aspect of yesteryear, however, that most young people of today will never experience — an evening at the drive in movies.

Since the French first showed a one-minute moving picture presentation of a train in motion in 1895, movies have captivated every society on the Earth. Despite the intrusion of VCRs and DVDs, movie attendance is staggering and movie industries worldwide are flourishing. Most Americans think of Hollywood as the film capital of the world, but India has a movie industry that eclipses that of the United States. Mexico, per capita, has a larger film output than the United States. In other words, the attraction of the movie is universal.

Despite the overwhelming affinity to the screen, only the United States experienced the magic of an unusual (by international standards) method of showing movies — the drive-in theater. For a few wonderful decades, the drive-in was king of the hill for movie presentation. Adults brought their families and adolescents used the drive-in for social progression. Today, the drive-in theater is on its last legs. Even those that still are in operation risk going out of business soon. American demographics have altered the face of movie attendance and there is little economic value in keeping a drive-in theater afloat.

Let’s go back to the heyday of American drive-in theaters. I was fortunate enough to have grown up in an era when the drive-in was popular and widespread. The area of Rhode Island and southeastern Massachusetts was ripe with the outdoor magic carpets made of concrete — Ponta Delgada Drive-In(Tiverton, RI), Somerset Drive-In (Somerset, MA), Westport Drive-In (Westport, MA), Bay State Drive-In (Seekonk, MA), Seekonk Drive-In (Seekonk, MA), Newport Drive-In (Newport, RI), and many others from "foreign" areas of the outskirts of Rhode Island, such as the Quonset (North Kingstown, RI) and the Rustic (Woonsocket, RI).

For about five years, the drive-in theater was the focal point of my social life. I began attending them on a regular basis when I was about 16 years old. Initially, I would go to watch the movies with various friends. At this age, one rarely had a steady girlfriend, so the drive-in experience represented camaraderie.

You always tried to arrive early so you could see other friends in other cars going through the same motions of trying to act cool — the bravado of hollering, "Hey, Souza (or Medeiros, or Robinson, or Walsh, etc.), what are you doing here?" A common response would be, "Just checking things out." Both the question and answer were attempts to show your dismay at not having a date that evening.

Certain social patterns began emerging. You took for granted that the drive-in was your recreation and you went to watch the movies, despite your attempts at acting cool. After attending several performances, the experience became habitual. The only time you were thrown out of the routine came when you saw a friend with a girl — "Holy shit! Souza’s got a girl with him!" Then, you went to his car and began a mundane conversation, all the time acting cool and not making it obvious that you were checking out the girl. When you and your comrades went back to your vehicle, there would be only two exclamations — "What a fucking dog!" or, "How the hell did he get such a good looking girl to go out with him?"

I went to several drive-ins during my formative adult years, but the Ponta Delgada in Tiverton was my "home" drive-in. When I was about 10 years old, I read where the Ponta Delgada soccer team won the U.S. amateur title in 1953. Being a sports nut, this impressed me immensely, even though I knew absolutely nothing about soccer. To me, any Tiverton team that won a national championship was worthy of praise. I asked my older brother about the feats of the soccer champs and he told me they used to play in a stadium that was now the Ponta DelGada Drive-In. Every time I entered the Tiverton drive-in, I imagined the warriors pounding their way down the soccer field that was once under the curved concrete of the drive-in.

In 1965, The Ponta Delgada had the distinction of showing the premier of a movie filmed in Fall River (MA) called "Below the Hill." The anticipation of the release was staggering. For weeks, I and a couple of friends were waiting for the announcement of the movie presentation. Word had spread that a teacher at Henry Lord Junior High School in Fall River was the star. His name was Mr. Bernier and no one knew he was an actor.

The magical night finally came. When we arrived at the drive-in, there was a line about half a mile long waiting to get in. A thick fog contributed to the line’s length. As we inched closer to the ticket booth, the fog became more dense. It was evident that we might not be watching a movie that evening. Just as we were about to buy the tickets, the word came down that the movie was cancelled because of the thick fog. The drive-in management decided to give those who had already paid a pass to see the movie the next night.

In the ensuing chaos, a fellow of about 17 years took offense at the offer made by the theater bigwigs. He wanted his money back. A manager came out and attempted to tell him that this would not be possible and he would have to take the free ticket. The teenager began to fume and he responded, "Crabs on ice water! If you don’t give me my money back, I’ll kick you right in the twanger." To this day, I have never forgotten that statement where he put pubic lice in the same category as an elementary necessity of life. The beauty of his statement was that he had never suffered from that genetic deficiency of aging and had not yet achieved the ugly disease of adulthood. In the same circumstance, an adult probably would have said, "Excuse me sir, I would like a refund." The anonymous stranger’s remark was much more imaginative.

The following night, we saw the movie. I was quite surprised to discover that it was professionally done and was entertaining. Mr. Bernier played in a steamy scene (for those days) and from word of mouth, we found out that his students and fellow teachers never let him hear the end his R-rated performance.

Drive-ins had the worst food imaginable, yet we always saved a little money for a snack. Every time we bought something from the snack bar, the same statement was made — "This stuff tastes like shit, and it’s too expensive." We always went back.

The clam cakes at the drive-ins were about the size of marbles and they had the consistency of a rock. I am sure that more than one patron over the years broke a tooth on these culinary disasters. The pizza was cold and soggy and the burgers made those of McDonald’s appear to be haute cuisine. However, like everything else, when you don’t have it, you miss it.

I moved to Europe in 1975 and soon discovered that, along with having no drive-in theaters, no one knew what a clam cake was. When I returned to the U.S. in 1983 and landed on the west coast, I finally realized that clam cakes were a regional dish that no one outside of southern New England has ever tasted or heard of. I longed for the days of the pebble-sized clam cakes of the Ponta Delgada.

Winter was problematical for drive-in attendees. If the temperature was about 20 degrees, you had to keep your engine running to create heat in the car. All the pollution emitted would make an environmentalist cringe today. In addition, in those days, the engines of the cars were not built as well as those of today, so keeping an engine running meant that you ran the risk of having your engine die. Plus, the amount of gasoline used took a large chunk out of your gas tank. At the age of 17, most of us did not have an unlimited budget for gas.

Throughout the drive-in experience, certain experiences stick out above the rest. In those days, nudity was not available in movies presented to the general public. In 1965, I and a friend went to the Bay State Drive-In to see a feature movie. I don’t recall which one it was. Usually, there were two movies and the first one was a z-grade production that stunk. On this particular evening, the opening movie was called "The Bellboy and the Playgirls."

About 10 minutes into the film, a bunch of girls surrounded the bellboy in a hotel. Then, a miracle occurred. They took off their shirts and had no bras on. I and my colleague choked on our food and simultaneously hollered, "Holy shit! Bare tit!" We could hear the same statement from other cars. This was a first. The world had changed and there would be no turning back.

For the next year or so, I and my friends couldn’t wait for the Friday version of the Fall River Herald News to appear. On Fridays, the newspaper had a page dedicated to the new movies showing at the drive-ins. Rarely did a drive-in show the same movie on consecutive weeks. There, on the drive-in page would be all the graphics of the current movies. Despite our looking at the page every week for years, we were still conned into believing the messages put in the advertisement. The graphics always made the movies appear to be more exciting than they were.

After seeing The Bellboy and the Playgirls, we always attempted to discover which movies would show some "bare tit." Most didn’t, however, during the next year, a few movies took the leap into topless female nudity. Ironically, those movies that stated they were racy, rarely showed nudity. Those that did show some skin, in most cases, did not advertise the fact. In other words, we tried to scientifically assess whether there would be nudity, but our methods of investigation failed. One could see as much nudity through random attendance as through scientific investigation.

At about age 18, those who attended drive-in movies changed their reasons. Most males had now developed the skills necessary to have a girlfriend, either casual or steady, and the drive-in became a venue for sex education. For a couple of years, attempts at almost every kind of petting and sexual arousal were employed at the drive-in. Some girls were prudes, others not. How far you went depended on your partner’s attitude and your skills. One thing was consistent, however. If a guy was involved with heavy petting and nothing else, he would usually brag that he "got in." On the other hand, once this elusive act became fact, the male usually kept quiet. Yes meant no and no meant yes.

When I met my current wife in 1969, the drive-in was a regular venue. Rarely did we see an entire movie. That was not why drive-ins were invented.

Four years later, we were married. We still went to the drive-in, but for different reasons. "Let’s look at the movie," either I or she would say. "We spent good money on this." Four years earlier, it was immaterial what movie we saw. After marriage, we scrutinized the newspaper and only went to watch movies we wanted to see. Despite the change in attitudes about movie-viewing habits, one thing remained constant — the terrible food. We always would say that we would not buy any, but we always succumbed to the crappy ad on the screen between movies that heralded the quality of the delicious food inside the snack bar.

We used to bring our dogs to the drive-in. Most dogs get a little dysfunctional when in a car for over three hours, but that didn’t stop us. Almost every time the dogs accompanied us, there were problems — "Oh, oh, Tippy just took a piss," or "Shannon’s throwing up." The next day was usually spent on de-fuming the back seat of the car.

We spent eight years in drive-inless Europe. When we returned to the USA, we re-located to the San Diego area. At the time, there were about eight drive-in movies within a half hour of our house. We again began to go to the drive-ins. Little-by-little, they closed. Within a couple of years, there was only one drive-in left in San Diego County. It still stands today, but the magic is gone. The movies they play are mundane and the spectators are comprised mostly of redneck pickup truck drivers. It doesn’t feel the same. Rarely do we go to the drive-in any more.

Times change and our culture changes. The youth of today have no clue about the former allure of drive-in theaters. To them, it is ancient history that has been orally passed down from generation-to-generation. I feel sorry for them because of their inability to participate in what was one of the positive aspects of Americana.

STREET CORNER SOCIOLOGY

Rites of passage have become a part of the human experience. There is a broad spectrum of subjects that are included in such rituals — geography, age, religion, sports, education, clubs, and many others. Some rites are violent and mindless, such as hazing to the point of causing severe injury, while others are benign and meaningful, as in the case of a Little League baseball participant playing in his or her last game and then, because of age, attaining membership at the next level of the sport of baseball in a local Pony or Babe Ruth League.

In my area of southern New England, the practice of hanging out on a street corner (or on a stone wall in smaller towns) was instrumental in one’s journey to adulthood. The social nuances and implications were staggering.

I grew up in Tiverton, Rhode Island, a town of about 5,000 people. The town was quite large geographically and it represented three distinct regions. The northern section was the most populous because it bordered a city of about 100,000 people in Massachusetts and accommodated the spillage of the "foreign" population migrating from the adjoining state. Toward the middle of town, the people were of old Yankee heritage and this was considered the "real" Tiverton. The Tivertonians from this area considered the people of the northern part of town to be carpetbaggers. There was cultural friction. However, both these segments of the Tiverton population would knock those of the southern part of town, most of whom were farmers. This area was considered to be Hicksville, USA.

Until I was about eight years old, my view of my town consisted mostly of school and home life. Then, I was old enough to participate in a ritual with my father — accompanying him on a daily one-mile journey in his 1949 Chrysler to the center of town to purchase the newspaper. I sat in the back seat, my head barely reaching over the front seat to talk to my father. My legs did not reach the floor. This journey became the highlight of my day.

After a few trips, I noticed a person sitting on the stone wall outside the general store (the only one for miles around). This barrier extended for a couple of miles and it acted as a breakwater to separate a beach and the Sakonnet River from the main road of the town. Every day, the same person would be there. He was about 20 years old, although to me, he was an adult. I had no concept of one being 20 or 40 years old. They were all adults. Eventually, I learned that his name was Billy Padilla. It was odd because he never did anything but sit on the wall and occasionally wave to a selected few passersby.

About a year later, my feet reached the floor of the car and I could see over the front seat without having to stand up. It amazed me how one’s perspective could be altered so drastically by the growth of a couple of inches. By now, our daily trip was expanded by about one more mile to a gas station that carried a brand of ice cream that my father enjoyed. On a stone wall near the gas station sat another mysterious figure. Always there and always doing nothing. I asked my father about this person and he told me that his name was Jim Scorak.

For the next few years, I noticed others in various areas performing the same duties of sitting on stone or concrete walls. I did not question why they did this. I only observed and saw that is was occurring.

Seventh grade was the next step in my sociological journey of wall-sitting. My new school was farther from my house and was situated in the northern part of Tiverton. A new world opened before me as I saw different people sitting on different walls. I now realized that this practice was universal.

Two years at Pocasset Junior High School made me acutely aware of wall-sitting. The only problem with me trying to find out more about this mysterious hobby was my age — I was too young to participate. You never saw anyone younger than 15 or 16 years old sitting on a wall. Unwritten rules were in play — participants in wall-sitting ranged in age from about 15 to well into adulthood.

When I graduated from eighth grade, I had a summer to prepare myself for the most courageous experience of my life. In the fall, I would be attending a school in the "big city" of Fall River, Massachusetts. My town only offered education up to the eighth grade. From then on, one had to attend public school in Fall River.

On the first day of school, I saw more students than I ever knew existed. My home room had more people than the whole of the eighth grade of my previous school. The new school was dilapidated and old compared to the educational institutions I had attended. For the first time in my life, I encountered people of many cultures and social backgrounds. Some Tivertonians were thrown into culture shock and had a hard time adjusting, but I quickly embraced the new surroundings. I made new friends, while most of my home town comrades fraternized only with each other. Little did I know at the time that I was destined to want to explore new avenues, while others were much more comfortable being around more homogenous environs.

After the initial newness wore off, I noticed a new phenomenon — in Fall River, people would hang around street corners in the same manner in which people sat on walls in Tiverton. Every day, I would see the same people on the same street corners as I took the school bus home. I quickly assessed that these were the same occurrences only with different venues.

For the next two years, I became more aware of hanging out on street corners. As I expanded my areas of engagement in Fall River through sports or social activities, I noticed that geography played a major role. Various areas of the city sported different looking street corners (location of lights, width of roads, width of sidewalks, etc.) but they all sported an assemblage that did not vary — the same people were there every day. Another common denominator in hanging out was the weather. When it snowed or rained heavily, the street corners were barren of a human presence.

Magic occurred when I turned 16. I earned my driver’s license and bought a beat-up 1955 Plymouth for $30. The car had no reverse gear, so I always had to park facing uphill. This way, I could roll the car if I had to back out of a parking spot. If I was facing downhill and was wedged in, I had no way of putting the car in reverse. After a few times, one becomes adjusted to this deficiency and it becomes habit to always park facing uphill.

With the car, came the freedom to travel where I wanted. In addition, at 16 years old, I became old enough to venture into meaningful hanging out on street corners. This was no easy task, however, because there are myriad social mores involved that one has to learn. You just don’t park your car and stand on the corner. You must be introduced.

Within about a year, I had earned the respect of enough people to hang out. I was a freelance participant and had no home corner. I began in Fall River when I saw a friend from high school standing on a corner. He waved to me and pointed to an area to park my car. This was an invitation. At first, I was nervous, but you quickly acclimate yourself.

After a few months, I had a few corners where I hung out. I was a casual participant, while others stood on the corner every night of the week. I relished my independence. After a while, I would beckon drivers of cars whom I knew to park and hang out. I was now an accomplished participant, although not a full time one. Because I played a lot of sports, many of my evenings were taken up with athletic endeavors.

At the age of about 17, the social implications become immense. Some people who hang out on street corners are revered by the general teenage populace. For instance, in the area of Fall River known as "The Globe," six different streets converge. Here, a high school football and baseball star, Jim Klunka, could be seen nightly. You could go by his corner many times and he would not wave to you. One day, you would receive a wave and from then on he would always wave. After a few weeks, you were allowed to initiate the wave.

If, for some odd reason, you chose to wave to him before he acknowledged you, he would become unhappy and you would have forever lost your chance at ever receiving a wave. Waving at someone before he acknowledges you is bad form in the worst scenario.

Accomplished street corner participants would elevate their careers by adding head nods to their presence. Each individual had his own style. Some would nod in a quick, jerky motion, while others would be slow and deliberate in their styles. For the uninitiated, the head nods may have seemed similar, but for those in the know, each one was as distinct as a person’s height or weight.

Some who hung out on street corners gained legendary status. People would copy their head nods (not in front of them, of course), while not making it obvious, much in the same manner as copying a baseball player’s stance or a basketball player’s shooting style. In the early ‘60s, a basketball player at Providence College, Jimmy Stone, had a unique style in which he would bend his elbows and put the ball halfway down his back and then take his jump shot. On all the playgrounds of the area, kids would shout, "Jimmy Stone," as they copied his style. In the same vein, one would drive by a street corner and give a nod, while telling his comrade in the car, "Jim Klunka."

Being copied was the ultimate form of flattery. Once you developed your own head nod and became comfortable in introducing it, eventually word would come back that there were others copying your gesture. You would take pride and realize that all the hard work that went into establishing a street corner presence now seemed worthwhile.

Most freelance participants in hanging out on street corners are in their prime at about the age of 17. A year earlier, many would still be considered rookies. A year later, and most would be looking at retirement. Only the hardcore people last beyond the age of 20. There are various sociological reasons behind their extending their careers that I will explain later.

While in mid-career, one must add other social experiences to hanging out on street corners. In my case, after a couple of hours of waving and looking cool, it was time to get something to eat. I would turn to a comrade and say, "Let’s go to Dirty Nick’s and get a hot dog."

Dirty Nick’s was the street name affixed to the small eatery officially called Nick’s Hot Dogs. There was one item on the menu — hot dogs. The patrons sat in chairs with an extended and wide right side on which to put their wieners. These chairs were identical to those used in high school back then where the kids could write. I was always puzzled, however, about the exclusive right-hand area. Left-handers had to go through hell to write or eat their hot dogs.

Dirty Nick’s earned the moniker because of rumors. Nick, the owner, was always dressed in a spaghetti-style T-shirt. In a flash, he could place half a dozen hot dog rolls on his left forearm, insert the dogs and slap mustard on them. The establishment did not earn the name of "Dirty" Nick’s because of Nick’s skill of serving hot dogs, however. Many people told of him lining them up on his forearm and then putting a couple under his armpit at the same time. When he finished garnishing those on his forearm, he would pull those out from under his armpit, put mustard on them, and then serve them to the customers.

I must have eaten at Dirty Nick’s hundreds of times during my street corner days. Every time I ate there, I would observe him in action, waiting for the time when I would see him put hot dogs under his armpits. I never saw him do it. The dozens of colleagues I knew who ate there all told the same rumor, yet not one had ever seen Nick perform the duty. Rumors abounded, yet not one eye witness could come forward to testify that Nick inserted hot dogs in buns under his armpits. Probably the rumors contributed to much of Nick’s business — many people went there to see him put on a legendary performance, yet it never occurred. His name of "Dirty" Nick actually was an asset, when a name such as that would have halted most eating establishments.

By the age of 19, I was ready for retirement. When it happens, there is no ceremony. You just never again go and hang out. Usually, your evenings are taken up by other social activities such as dating girls and playing sports. There is no time for hanging out on street corners. You never miss it or think about it again.

I said "usually" when discussing street corner retirement. Let’s go back to some of the legendary people I mentioned at the beginning of this article. Jim Scorak sat on the same wall for decades until he was well into his 60s. When I was nine years old, he was an icon. However, in my 20s, I learned the truth. He never worked a day in his life. Ditto for Padilla. Klunka, although a sports hero in high school, fizzled out quickly after. He hung out on the same corner for decades after.

I have not been back to Fall River since I left the area in 1975. Recently, I was talking to another transplanted Fall Riverite who brought up the subject of hanging out. He occasionally returns to Massachusetts to visit his family. He told me that some of the people we saw in the 1960s who hung out on street corners are still active participants. He went down a list of names and venues (The Globe, Maplewood Park, Columbus Park, etc.) and it seemed like I was living in the past. My colleague told me that they were in the same places at the same times every night, weather permitting. They are in their 40s, 50s, and even 60s. These were the hardcore legends who will eventually make the Street Corner Hall of Fame. They were also people with few skills in the experience of life.

LET'S KICK THE MERDE OUT OF SADDAM

(While reading this article, remember that it was written in 1999. Although it was meant as satire and it is four years old, the article, in places, is eerily accurate when one looks at current Iraq and the invasion of the U.S. and its aftermath.)

For the past nine+ years, I have been a strong opponent of the United State's aggression against Iraq. Since August 2, 1990, I have written many articles and given numerous speeches condemning, among other things, the embargo that has been placed on Iraq, the disproportionate violence used against Iraq by the United States, and the deceit used by both George Bush and Bill Clinton to maintain the embargo. Now, however, I have changed my attitude about Iraq and its plight.

I am calling for the immediate invasion of Iraq by the United States for the purpose of toppling the Saddam Hussein regime. America should spare no weapon in ridding the world of Iraqi Ba'ath Socialism and its leader.

Defections over the years by members of Saddam Hussein's inner circle have prompted my change of mind. I am not talking about his sons-in-law who fled to Jordan a few years ago. They stated that Saddam was ready to invade Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Israel (either singularly or all at once). To me, this was merely an intramural squabble which the United States should have ignored, with the exception of the possibility of harm coming to Israel. After all, poor beleaguered Israel is almost our 51st state, in essence making that country family. Currently, the State Department is attempting to use creative geography and officially include Israel in the Monroe Doctrine (the 19th century document that protects the Western Hemisphere from foreign invasion). That one is a tossup.

No, I am talking about the defection to Liechtenstein of Saddam Hussein's grocer's second-cousin's nephew's next-door neighbor's uncle's barber's best friend — Issam Ibrahim Sabah al-Sabah Fahd Ali al-Hussein Naji Ibrahim Imaschmuck.

Imaschmuck made the perilous trip to Liechtenstein under complete anonymity. It took him two weeks to reach his destination, riding camels and hitch-hiking through the Middle East and Europe. Once in Liechtenstein, he demanded asylum and said he would only speak to CIA operatives. Because there is no shortage of CIA officials anywhere in the world, he had an audience within 10 minutes of his request. He then exposed Saddam's evil plan to take over the Western Hemisphere.

According to Imaschmuck, Saddam Hussein was planning to invade Bermuda. He stated, "It took Saddam a long time to decide on Bermuda. He wanted to invade somewhere that had never been invaded. Since most countries of the world had already been ravished by the United States, either militarily or economically, it took months of research for Saddam to choose Bermuda."

Enough is enough! Bermuda is in our backyard and Saddam's plans were diabolical. He did not plan to invade Bermuda for the sake of spreading Ba'ath Socialism. The Soviets tried to use the Caribbean military powerhouse of Grenada as a vehicle for spreading the evils of communism to our hemisphere, but a brave President Reagan stopped the Reds (Moscow, not Cincinnati) in their tracks by destroying that island bastion of sedition.

Saddam Hussein was about to implement a malevolent plan that transcended political ideology. He was planning to invade Bermuda for the sake of gradually changing the food offered to its American tourists. Slowly, Americans would have been weaned off their healthy diets of hot dogs, burgers, fries, milkshakes and fried chicken, and they would have had to eat (and become addicted to) the smelly and unhealthy foods of the Middle East. Just think, a decade from now, staples in the American diet would have included such junk food as rice, lamb, humous, tabouli, curry and pita bread.

Imaschmuck is scheduled to address the United Nations. He is in line to receive a prestigious award. During a session of the General Assembly, he will be awarded a golden bagel by the United Nations ambassador from Israel.

Just because Saddam was caught before his plan came to fruition, don't think he is out of the woods. The United States Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, has plans for Iraq. In keeping with her tradition of blaming Iraq for something it has not done, she has stated that the United States will retaliate for Saddam's thoughts. Despite her warning, she was not specific about U.S. plans. The administration does not want the public to learn of the cruel punishment it has in store for Iraq and its leadership.

After calling many of my contacts, I have finally discovered the United States' plan of retribution. If you think Desert Storm was violent, it was kid's play compared to what Iraq is about to receive.

First, there will be a massive bombing campaign. Once the Iraqi air defense system is incapacitated, the U.S. intends on dropping every out-of-date bomb in its arsenal on Iraq. This makes lots of sense because the defense contractors will have many new orders in hand. They will be able to replace their Vietnam-era bombs with much more expensive models, insuring many new jobs. Why should they have to convert their plants to making peacetime goods?

After the bombing campaign, the ground offensive will start. This time, however, the United States will march to Baghdad. There is no way the Iraqis will be let off the hook.

As in any worthwhile event, the best will be saved for last. After Baghdad is secured, the United States will, under the cover of darkness, drop 200 airborne troops (dressed in clown uniforms) into Baghdad. Within 24 hours, there will be a half dozen MacDonalds hamburger stands in operation. The Iraqis will beg for an unconditional surrender.

CRAZED NEGROES & MARIJUANA ARE JUST UN-AMERICAN

I have smoked my last joint. Last night, I threw away my roaches, my rolling papers and roach clip. Despite my occasional use of the herb, I did not realize that I was putting my health in danger as well as contributing to the decline of American civilization and culture.

The determining factor in my choice has been the frequent editorials in the San Diego Union-Tribune which have enlightened me to the perils of marijuana. For instance, in criticizing Judge Richard Posner for advocating the legalization of marijuana, the daily paper stated, "If Posner’s will were to prevail, and marijuana were legalized, America would move a step closer to becoming a nation of junkies."

As scary as it may seem that we could turn into a nation of junkies, that was not reason enough for my rejecting the weed. After all, according to the Union-Tribune, I already qualified as a junkie, so, at least the number of social deviants would not increase by my still smoking marijuana.

No, it was the health warning that scared me. The Union-Tribune has stated, " ... while most tobacco and alcohol users don’t graduate to illegal narcotics, many (if not most) marijuana users move on to even harder drugs ... it not only is a dangerous drug in its own right, but also a ‘gateway’ drug to harder narcotics like cocaine, heroin, and LSD."

At first, I thought these messages were merely replays of the 1939 anti-marijuana propaganda film "Reefer Madness," but I began to ask myself, "Why are they saying these things?" My conclusion was that the newspaper must have current information of which I was unaware. I have never used cocaine, heroin or LSD despite my decade-and-a-half-long use of marijuana. Many of my friends like to light up occasionally as well, yet none has used the "harder" drugs, so I deduced that the impending addiction to hard drugs must be a delayed reaction and that if I stopped using marijuana now, it would decrease my chances of becoming a derelict addicted to heroin.

After my choice, I conducted further research and found a quote from 1937 which is attributed to H. Randolph Hearst, the publishing tycoon. His newspapers editorially stated, " ... after they smoke their marijuana, the crazed Negroes then play their barbaric music."

What a powerful message! The music of the "crazed Negroes" of the time was jazz and blues. By the early 1950s, some of these "crazed Negroes" had combined their music forms to introduce a new kind of music to the world — rock n’ roll. This depraved music has led to the downfall of our society and it all came about because of marijuana. If the "crazed Negroes" had not smoked the deadly herb, they would have had to have been content with playing their banjoes and fiddles just like their white brethren.

Now I was beginning to see the overall picture — marijuana not only is a dangerous drug that leads to hard drug addiction, it also is a catalyst in the destruction of our society. In addition, I do not want to be considered "un-American." The events of September 11, 2001, have led our government to state "either you are with us or against us," therefore, every American citizen should unquestionably do what our government says.

To be frank, I had never put the pieces of the puzzle together, despite my background as an investigative journalist. Now that I have been enlightened, I must mention a positive step in our society that may eliminate marijuana use and, at the same time, deprive our country of the music of the "crazed Negroes" — the emergence of Country and Western music as America’s favorite lyrical and melodic choice.

Let’s face it. What other music portrays the greatness of America better than C&W? All the artistic and cultural majesties of our country are heard on the airwaves that highlight country music — pickup trucks with gun-racks, alcoholism, incest and violence.

We must stop listening to namby-pamby music that glorifies love, beauty and justice. These concepts are just not American. As a matter of fact, they are just as un-American as marijuana. The "crazed Negroes" and their white trash allies who play rock n’ roll must not be allowed to further erode our values and standards. After all, many clergymen have told us of the evils of rock n’ roll. Who better can we trust than our religious leaders?

Another positive conclusion came from ensuing articles in the San Diego Union-Tribune. The editorials assured me that alcohol users rarely graduate to illegal drugs. This is comforting if I try to substitute a new item to help me get by withdrawal symptoms and cure me of my past marijuana addiction. Evidently, the use of alcohol does not harm one’s health and it must not be addictive. I have not touched a drop of alcohol in over 30 years — I am not a drinker. However, I may start now, but I will not begin until I experience severe withdrawal symptoms. Surprisingly, I have not had any heebie-jeebies yet from the cold-turkey elimination of marijuana from my system.

For the first time, my head is clear. My only problem is that I still have no taste for Country and Western music and I still enjoy rock n’ roll. I am sure that my quandary will clear up in time. If the addiction to C&W music is a delayed reaction, similar to my impending addiction to hard drugs, then I must wait for my musical tastes to change. Possibly, the adjustment will be curbed for a long, long time.

A GENETIC DEFICIENCY

Last year, I read an article in the Fall River Herald News that told of a harrowing occurrence in my hometown of Tiverton, Rhode Island, just across the border from Fall River. The Tiverton Town Council voted to disallow a band concert at the town beach because the groups played rock n’ roll music. A councilwoman stated, "We don’t want that kind of stuff in Tiverton." She then alleged that one of the groups had used an obscenity in a concert the year before in Fall River.

First, she was wrong about the obscenity. A person brought the case to court in an attempt to shut down the group. The judge listened to a taped recording of the group and then lambasted the plaintiff for brining such a fraudulent case into the court system. There was no obscenity.

The oddest part of the case in Tiverton, however, was not about obscenities. The person who stated that rock n’ roll music was unwelcome in my home town was a generation younger than I. I thought all the horse merde about rock n’ roll being a degenerate art form was a dead issue years ago. I was wrong.

A few days ago, Oceanside, a city in San Diego County, California, pulled a similar stunt. The Oceanside school board has banned all contemporary music that may have unsuitable lyrics at school functions. There were no specifics. It is up to the committee to decide.

Oceanside is the same city that is attempting to purchase a $6,500 plaque (with taxpayer money) that states "In God We Trust," and place it outside the City Council chambers. First God, then censorship in the public arena in Oceanside.

One of the reasons given in banning contemporary music is that it portrays violence. If they are consistent in their messages, the city officials should ban the song "Onward Christian Soldiers" because of its violent and bigoted messages.

With the advent of rock n’ roll in the 1950s came an outcry stating the music was immoral. One of the innovators of the time was Little Richard, an outrageous performer who dressed flamboyantly and hinted that he was homosexual. This was too much for the people of his hometown, Macon, Georgia. He was escorted to the city line by police and told never to return to Macon. Ironically, when he returns to Macon today, he is considered a hero. There is even a street named after him.

By the early 1960s, the edge had been worn off the anti-rock n’ roll movement. With time, even original naysayers began to begrudgingly like the art form. Then came the Beatles and the British invasion. Music groups were again chastised by the elders of American society. In addition to playing the devil’s music, they were scruffy and the smoked dope. A standard question in 1964 in Britain was, "Would you let your daughter go out with a Rolling Stone?" in reference to the group the Rolling Stones. The Stones’ lead singer, Mick Jagger, was the epitome of non-cool. He was shabbily dressed and gyrated his hips so much that he made Elvis Presley look sedate. How times have changed. Last year, Mick Jagger was knighted by the Queen of England.

In the early 1970s, the smoke had cleared and all types of music were being accepted and false dress codes had gone by the wayside. Rock n’ roll music started and finished a revolution as big as the world had ever seen.

However, things have gradually reverted to the 1950s attitude. In 1972, the popular group The Who produced an anthem for the counterculture. It was called "Don’t Get Fooled Again." The title was a warning not to become complacent after changes in society were made. They also could be reversed. In a prophetic manner, the song ended with the line, "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

We are now experiencing the time of "the old boss" in the United States. TV presentations, whether drama, comedy or documentaries are coming under fire for using "improper" language. Rock n’ roll songs are being banned. Even sports events are being scrutinized. And the perpetrators are the same people who, one or two generations ago, were the warriors in America’s culture war. Only today, they have changed sides. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

Let’s take a look at some famous and not-so-famous milestones in rock n’ roll music that concern perceived and real use of obscenities.

The most-recorded rock n’ roll song of all time is Louie, Louie. It has been recorded by thousands of groups and singers and has been used as the theme song for movies and events. The truth is that had it not been for some faulty recording equipment and the hoarse voice of the lead singer of an obscure group called The Kingsmen, the song would still be considered a little-known West Indian folk offering.

In 1956, Richard Berry wrote and recorded the song Louie, Louie. It was a mild hit on the Pacific Cost in 1957. The three-verse sailor’s lament was sung in the style of a laid-back ballad. The lyrics were patterned after West Indian English. Soon after, it faded away into obscurity.

The song never totally lost popularity in the Northwest, despite its demise elsewhere. In the early 1960s, the song became popular in the region and various groups recorded it using different styles. However, it still failed to catch on outside the area.

In 1963, two Portland-area bands recorded Louie, Louie: The Kingsmen and Paul Revere and the Raiders. By the end of 1963, both versions were fighting for national dominance. Eventually, The Kingsmen version was the winner and the definitive version of Louie, Louie was established.

In 1964, the song sold millions and millions of copies. Overnight, The Kingsmen were famous and rich. However, the song was popular neither because of its musical adroitness, nor its world class lyrics. It was a smash hit because the kids who bought it thought the words were somewhat different from those of the song. Once a few copies were sold, the word spread like wildfire and nothing could stop the record from taking its place in the history of rock n’ roll.

Here are the lyrics:

Louie, Louie, me gotta go. Louie, Louie, me gotta go.

A fine little girl, she wait for me; me catch a ship across the sea. I sailed the ship all alone; I never think I’ll make it home.

Three nights and days we sailed the sea; me think of girl constantly. On the ship, I dream she there; I smell the rose in her hair.

Me see Jamaica moon above; it won’t be long me see me love. Me take her in my arms and then I tell her I never leave again.

The words as sung by The Kingsmen sounded anything like the real words. The listeners began to affix their own words to the song. Despite the differences in interpretation, some areas of the song gained universal translation. Suddenly, "Louie, Louie, me gotta go," became "Louie, Louie, grab her way down low." "Three nights and days we sailed the sea; me think of girl constantly," was transformed into, "Each night at ten, I lay her again; I fuck my girl all kinds of ways." The ending of the song changed from "Me take her in my arms and then I tell her I never leave again," to "I’ll take her in my arms again and tell her I’ll lay her again."

When Louie, Louie came on the AM radio of a car, every teenager ceased talking about the subject matter at hand and reverently began to sing the adapted lyrics. No other song of its time had such an impact. Every few years, the song re-emerged and went to the top of the charts.

How did The Kingsmen create such an aberration of a ballad that turned into a rock n’ roll anthem? First of all, they changed the tempo of the song to one of a hard-rocking, drum and organ-driven song. Before it was recorded, their version of Louie, Louie sounded much different from the slower-paced Richard Berry offering, but the words sounded the same. On the day The Kingsmen recorded Louie, Louie, several factors emerged that made the classic come out the way it did. The lead singer has strained his voice the night before while singing in a 90-minute Louie, Louie marathon. He also was wearing braces on his teeth on the day of the recording. The microphone in the studio was set way too high for the lead singer and he had to stand on his tiptoes to get near the mike. To make matters worse, the group thought the recording was a rehearsal for their real offering, but it turned out to be the only take of the song. In other words, The Kingsmen thought they had blown their chance of recording Louie, Louie because the result was a song that was totally different from the version they played to live audiences. Were they wrong.

The F.B.I spent more than two years attempting to decipher the lyrics of the song and determine if they were obscene. They called in every so-called expert, except the group itself, to gain opinions. After spending more than a quarter of a million dollars on the project, the sleuths’ verdict was that it was inconclusive whether the song stepped outside the boundaries of decency.

From 1963 to 1972, many rock n’ roll songs upped the ante for openness. Some openly extolled the virtues of marijuana use, while others spoke openly of sex. However, not one used the "f" word. When that barrier was broken, nobody seemed to notice.

In 1972, the Kinks released a song called Ape Man. It was about a person who decided to live in the jungle away from society. In it, the line "and the air pollution was a fuckin’ up my eyes" came forward. Because the song was sung in a reggae style before reggae became in vogue, censors thought the singer said "foggin’ up my eyes." Unlike Louie, Louie, this was real, yet nobody thought the "f" word had been uttered. This was just the opposite effect from the experience of The Kingsmen. One fact that could explain why there was no furor over the word was that Ape Man was not a big hit in the U.S. In Britain, it sold many records and the British are less uptight about what are called obscenities.

Then came Frank Zappa, a musical genius who went well below gutter level in his lyrics. There is not an obscenity, or a variant of, in the English language that Zappa did not use in his prolific songwriting and singing career. He sang of every sexual divergence and perverse action that a human being could encounter; and some that no human being probably has. He gave advice such as "don’t eat yellow snow," all the time speaking of Nanuk the Eskimo and his "teeny weenie." No body part, either on a male or female, or bodily function of, was left out of Zappa’s repertoire.

Zappa knew he was pushing the boundaries in his recordings. He also had a great sense of humor. One time, he came out with a song called "I Promise Not To Come in Your Mouth." Many fans bought this offering, eager to see what kind of bizarre lyrics Zappa would affix to the subject. It was an instrumental.

Despite all his unconventional songs, Zappa was a musical genius. He once conducted the London Symphony Orchestra. In France, he was invited by Rene Goulet to collaborate on an album of songs. Goulet is considered by many to be the top musical genius in the world. He is so good that the French government created a cabinet post for music and named Goulet its minister.

Zappa can be perceived as genius or jester, depending on one’s views of popular or classical music. However, his brightest moment came in Washington D.C., in the 1980s when he appeared before the U.S. Congress and saved the American public from a diabolical scheme that would have censored music and been the beginning of a witch hunt in the country for anyone who did not adhere to the cultural mainstream.

Tipper Gore, wife of the former vice-president and 2000 presidential candidate, Al Gore, took to the floor and presented a plan where record albums would be rated and, ultimately, censored. Her version of culture made Disney look x-rated. There was little opposition.

Zappa, by then a recluse who worked 20 hours a day at his home/studio in Los Angeles, went to Washington. He wore a stringlike necktie that was about 30 years old and then he presented the case for freedom. He made Gore and company look like the jerks they were. He was so eloquent that his opposition was hard-pressed to even attempt to rebut his statements. When the smoke cleared, Gore and comrades quietly left the city, never to bring up the subject again. Then, Zappa went back home to his work.

Soon after his Washington appearance, Zappa was misdiagnosed during a medical checkup. He was given a clean bill of health, yet he was experiencing the beginning of prostate cancer. When he finally was diagnosed correctly, it was too late. Medical experts stated that if he was diagnosed at his earlier checkups, he would have easily conquered the disease. Zappa died at age 52. Way too young.

The human race suffers from a genetic deficiency called the ugly disease of adulthood. This disease takes hold on people who were once open and their minds were clear. They could spot deceit and hypocrisy in humans, yet they were too young to be heard by their elders. They were told to be seen and not heard.

With such ostracizing, the once-honest people begin to gather symptoms of the full-blown disease. Finally, they succumb and become similar to those adults who are hypocritical, deceitful and egotistical. As the disease progresses, it becomes uglier and uglier. In its full-blown state, right and wrong, lying and telling the truth, creativity and copying, greed and altruism, hypocrisy and integrity all become interchangeable. And few question the results.

Zappa was rare in that he never contracted this ugly disease. His work, whether at a crass rock n’ roll level, or on a world-class classical level represented his criticism of the insincerity one acquires as he/she ages.

There is one irony present in this discussion that Zappa would have easily seen and pointed out. Many of those people in Tiverton, Rhode Island and Oceanside, California who denigrate rock n’ roll music and are attempting to censor it, a few decades ago were the same people who, while cruising in their automobiles, enthusiastically joined in the chorus "Each night at ten, I lay her again; I fuck my girl all kinds of ways." They had not yet contracted the ugly disease of adulthood.