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    Get rid of the name Oscar*

    I never cared about award shows and this weekend welcomes the grandperson** of them all, the Oscars. Whoopee! People are people and we all sit on the Jane the same way (is it fair to only call it the masculine John? If yes, then I’m calling it what it is: blatant discrimination against people named John.)

    So, why do these shows exist? After all, if the country truly is trending toward equality and democratic socialism/communism, why are there ceremonies handing out manly looking statues with a masculine name?

    Equality means that Jennifer Lawrence is no different from the person who was the Employee of the Month, now serving your salad, right? You can enjoy a salad as much as a movie. Which one is more satisfying? Which one costs more? Why does a “star” make more money than a fast food server when equality also means sharing the wealth? No more Employee of the Month, either. Everyone is the same.

    If there is no longer a difference between genders, especially in California, where the award show is always held, why are there separate Best Actor and Best Actress categories? What is the gender-fluid word for an actor/actress?

    A performer?

    Why not a Best Performer award, no matter what the gender du jour?

    Get rid of biased award shows or make them gender-neutral.


    *My parody

    **Notice I didn’t say granddaddy.



    When I was a boy, I’d sometimes watch my father stand at the bathroom sink doing one of his daily rituals. He’d shave. Back then, he used a natural bristle brush with a wooden handle, shaving soap, and a straight edge razor. To me, with only peach fuzz to claim, shaving was a rite of passage I couldn’t wait for. Only then would I be a real man. Even girls go through some kind of… hmmm… it’s not the same thing, but we all go through periods of pubescence.

    One day, probably when I was around nine-years-old, he let me stand on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror, lather up, and slide his razor across my cheeks to “shave.” Without a blade, of course. For a fleeting moment, I felt older.

    When I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, a lone hair sprouted out of my chin. I woke up one morning and there it was, my very own facial hair. For real. Suddenly, I felt a little bit closer to manhood. I was maturing. It was about a quarter of an inch long and I wasn’t about to lop it off. It was my machismo mark; the leap to future strength and optimum virility. It was there for the world to see! So I let it grow. And grow. All of my relatives saw it and said something. Yes, I was glad they noticed. It grew some more.

    “You must be proud of that lonely hair,” my grandfather once remarked. Darn right I was!

    Fortunately for me, it grew during the summer recess months, so not many of my classmates saw it.


    One morning, I got up, looked in the mirror and the darned thing was at least three inches long with a light curl or two. What was I trying to do? The more I looked at it, the more ridiculous it appeared. The more ridiculous I felt inside.

    “This is stupid looking,” I thought, so I got my father’s old razor out of the medicine cabinet and chopped it off. Gone!

    That morning, I became mature enough to realize how dumb I looked. Just who was I trying to impress besides myself? I knew then that I had made the transition from boyhood to – well, I wasn’t really sure yet because… I was still waiting for my voice to change!



    Back in the 1990s, I dated a woman whose father owned a house right on the ocean, just south of St. Augustine. We used to spend weekends there when we could. Her young daughter would usually invite one of her classmates to come with us and it was always a fun time. We’d leave on Friday after work, grab some grub, and settle in to watch movies rented from Blockbuster. The next day, we’d cross the Bridge of Lions into the oldest city in the country, where we never ran out of things to see and do.

    One particular Saturday, we decided to go to the Lightner Museum. Generally speaking, children don’t want to do that. They want to go to the Castillo de San Marcos National Park, the St. Augustine Alligator Farm and Zoological Park, or Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Things like that. Nope, not this time. This time we’re going to the museum. Kids need their culture, too, you know.

    There’s not much I remember about our trip to the museum that day except for when we were just about ready to leave. That’s when we stopped at the gift shop. While moseying around, her daughter called me over to the postcard rack; you know, the kind that spins around. Of course, being the adult and all, I tried to ignore her while acknowledging her at the same time.

    “Dave! Dave!” she insisted, “Come here. You need to see this!”

    I hesitated, but finally relented.

    “OK,” I responded. “What are you trying to show me?”

    “A postcard. You’ve got to see it!” Slowly, I shuffled my way over to her. “Look!”

    She thrust the postcard into my hand. Hmmm… I studied and studied it and saw nothing unusual.

    “Look closely. Look at the girl in the back seat. You’ll see it.”

    Suddenly, it hit me and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

    “WOW” I exclaimed. “This is quite a find.”

    Speaking of finds, I was going through my closet last week, looking for suits and jackets to get rid of. I went through the pockets, not knowing if there was anything in them or not. Then, I found this…

    A genuine St. Augustine promotional postcard! It’s so long ago, I don’t remember buying it, but there it was, back in my hands, some 25 years later.


    The Times They Are a-Changin'...

    I have a Sam’s Club membership. There’s a store in Fern Park, not far from where I live, that is closing. I’m saddened by it because I’ve been shopping there for years. It was a great place to buy bulk items like toilet paper, paper towels, cat litter, and salt for the water softener. Of course, their $4.98 rotisserie chickens are legendary, and it was nice to be able to sample food – and buy it! I also liked the prices of some of the OTC meds, vitamins, and supplements. Oh, yes, I’m going to miss it.

    Yesterday, the store was open to get rid of existing stock. Many of the shelves were bare, but I managed to spend $93 with a 25% discount. On Wednesday, it goes to 50%, if anything is left. At some point, it goes to 75%, but I don’t remember which day.

    I spoke to a manager while there, despite it being rather harried. From initial news reports, 63 stores were going to close, including my store. “Were going to close” is the key phrase here, because that’s not really what happened. The Fern Park location abruptly locked its doors on Thursday and some news outlets reported that employees went to work as usual, only to find locked doors. They had no idea what was going on.

    While it’s true that they went to work not knowing anything, the manager, who came from another location to help out, said that, one-by-one, they were ushered inside where they were told what was going on in a meeting. Everyone else – those on different shifts and working different schedules – were called on the phone.

    He said that there are 174 associates working that store and they were given employment options. They could go to the three other Sam’s Club stores to work, or move to area Walmarts. No one, he said, would lose their jobs if they choose to transfer.

    Some of the soon-to-be shuttered stores will turn into distribution centers to accommodate online sales and shipping. He said that the Fern Park location will just vacate. It’s a huge building. 

    The problem with my store came down to saturation. While sales and volume are keys to success, corporate determined that membership had reached its peak. It had no room to grow, and membership is what drives the stores. The store had stagnated, like 62 others around the country.

    Oh well, there’s another one nine or ten miles away. I will give it a try and determine whether it’s worth the annual $45 price tag.

    As usual, when leaving the store, there’s a person at the exit who checks out your purchase against the receipt. I’ve known this woman for a long time and felt sad for her. I asked her whether she was going to transfer. She said she’s been with the company for thirty years. No, she said. It’s as if she’s being forced out. Blame it on Amazon, I told her. Yes, The Times They Are a-Changin’…


    The Daily Kos



    It’s been two-and-a-half years since I lost my close friend, Doris Willman. June 25, 2015. Not one single day goes by that I don’t think about her. She wrote the following story many years ago and, just before she left, we talked about republishing it that holiday season. It is an honor and privilege to bring you her story once again. I don’t know when it was written, but please enjoy it. She was a very special lady and I’m so proud to have known her…



    By Doris Willman

    [Here is a story I wrote when I was a member of an Amateur Writer’s Club…got 2nd prize, probably because I had all the judges in tears. lol] The Fur Topped Boots


    Christmas was only two weeks away. As I sat by the window watching the snowflakes make their lazy descent to the ground, I was suddenly drawn into my past - to a girl of seven who was waiting for the arrival of Saint Nick. The memories came flooding back. I became that little girl again…

    The snow was falling and I was thinking I could make a snowman if enough snow stayed on the ground. Snowball fights were lots of fun too, but my older brother always chucked his too hard. When I started crying, Mom would make us stop.

    My dog, Patsy, was much more fun than Charlie, chasing and trying to catch the snowballs. When I went sledding, she would chase the sled and try to pull me off. If she succeeded, I would hug her and rub snow on her face.

    I found Mom sitting at the kitchen table looking at the Eaton’s catalogue and writing things on a piece of paper. There was a worried look on her face, almost sad at times, as Christmas drew nearer. I heard her telling Dad that there just wasn’t enough money to go around. I had printed my name beside the fur-topped boots on page 32 and wondered if Mom would notice. She would be even sadder if she knew how much I really wanted those boots.

    Patsy and I went outside to play in the fluffy white snow. I lay down to make an angel. Patsy tried to lick my face so I gave her a big push and she rolled over. She could make a dog angel.

    When Dad came home from work, we went to the hen pen and I gathered eggs while Dad gave them clean water and wheat. I wondered which hen would be our Christmas dinner, and decided it would likely be an old one who didn’t lay eggs any more. As usual, Mom would say, “How can I cook this tough old thing?”, but it was always delicious with stuffing and cranberry jelly.

    On Christmas Eve, I helped Mom put the pretty balls on the tree and decorate the house with red and green crepe paper chains. Some big parcels had arrived in the mail and I knew that they were filled with presents from my auntie Grace. I didn’t dare snoop in them because Mom would get mad at me.

    Dad said, “Santa’s coming down the chimney tonight. You better get busy and write a letter to him.”

    Well I sort of knew who Santa was, but in case I was wrong, I thought I’d better write that letter. The light from the kerosene lamp was poor but I pulled my paper close and wrote: “Dear Santa, bring me anything you want and bring something for my brother and mom and dad. Mom will leave you gingerbread and a cup of water. Love, Sarah” Then I put my letter inside of Dad’s big wool sock and set it by the tree.

    That night, lying on the soft feather tick, I said a prayer to Santa. I didn’t figure God would mind. I asked Santa to try and bring me the black boots with the soft fur, which were on page 32 of the big catalogue, because I hated having cold feet. When I fell asleep, I dreamed of walking in the boots on top of big snow drifts.

    On Christmas morning, Charlie and I raced to get our socks from under the tree. Reaching in, I pulled out a big red apple, a large orange and some nuts, but I loved the barley toys and ribbon candy best of all.

    Next came the present opening. Dad found socks in his, while Mom had some nice smelling powder and a pretty handkerchief. Auntie Grace had given me some tinker toys and a pair of mittens. Charlie was happy when he opened up the plasticene.

    I emptied the tinker toys out of the can and started to put them together.

    Suddenly, Mom said, “Sarah, look. There’s a present still under the tree. You are the smallest, can you crawl under and get it?”

    The present was wrapped in pretty red tissue paper with a big Santa Claus seal stuck to the front.

    “Hey, Mom, it has Sarah printed on it!” I exclaimed.

    “Well, open it up!”

    I tore off the paper and opened the box. Inside were the fur-topped black boots. I took them out and rubbed the fur all over my face. They were as soft as I knew they would be.

    I was so excited, I gave Mom a big hug and kiss, although I didn’t understand why she had tears in her eyes. I kissed Dad and Patsy, and I even kissed Charlie.

    Suddenly, the oven timer sounded and brought me back to the present, but I will always remember that Christmas and the feel of the soft fur atop those little black boots.




    I’m always out looking for a girlfriend and every time I think I’ve found the right one, they get to know me and… and… and…

    Well, it never seems to work out. Maybe, just maybe… my new one will love me for who I am – a soft, cuddly, sensitive, caring, honest and funny, all around good guy. “Funny” being the key word. I can only hope.

    This morning, we were on the phone talking and I was telling her about doing my laundry and how I fold my shirts a certain way before hanging them up in the bedroom closet. You know, the usual routine. She mentioned a few things and one thing led to another.

    I think it’s fair to say that everyone has some sort of quirky behavior, right? Peculiarities and the like, and I’m not talking about the bedroom variety. I mean in everyday life. Growing up, for instance, she knew women who starched and ironed their husbands’ t-shirts and handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs, for crying out loud! I remember those days. My father always carried one and I thought it was a hideous practice to pull it out of the back pocket of their pants, blow their nose into it, and stuff it back into their pocket for God knows how long. Days and days. Enough of that.

    I mentioned something – and I don’t think I’m alone – that I like to do. I only wear dark cotton socks. No matter what. No whites for me! Nothing wrong with that, I suspect. But I like to iron them. I own a sock iron, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. It’s the best thing I ever invested my money in. Not only do I iron my socks, I collect them. Most of them are folded on special sock hangars in my closet, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. They’re easy to iron except for the pleated ones.

    Yes, I own scores and scores of pleated socks. Boy, are they difficult to iron.

    She told me she had to go and hung up. Now, she’s not answering her phone. Do you think she’ll call back?




    A lot can be said about the Kate Steinle death and the outcome of the trial of the man who killed her, Jose Ines Garcia Zarate, the Mexican citizen deported from the United States five times. Clearly, the man was guilty and the jury got it wrong, right? Actually, the answer is never that simple.

    When it comes to presumptions, there are two courts involved. One is the court of public opinion and the other is the kind that takes place inside the confines of a courtroom. The latter is the only one that matters. Having been a part of two major murder trials – Casey Anthony and George Zimmerman – I clearly understand both types of trials and the only court that matters.

    First, I want to make it clear that Zarate’s illegal status was not a factor in the death. If anything, blame the city and state for their sanctuary policies, if so inclined, but not the court or jury. Blame the way the federal government and ICE work. Argue all you want. I see things pragmatically. 

    His prior felony convictions weren’t relevant, either, because none were acts of violence. (If I had three robbery convictions and accidentally killed a pedestrian with my vehicle while drunk, would those convictions matter?) Also, consider Casey Anthony’s prior record. She had NONE until way after little Caylee went missing. The jury was aware of his convictions, though, but was prevented from bringing up any politics related to immigration and gun control during the proceedings.

    In the case of Ms. Anthony, the public was solidly behind a murder conviction from Day 1, yet she was found not guilty by a jury of her peers. With George Zimmerman, the public was split into many factions – whites against blacks, African-Americans against whites (just to be politically correct,) liberals against conservatives, and gun rights that centered around the interpretation of the Second Amendment. Zimmerman was also found not guilty and all that mattered was what went on in the respective courtrooms. Between both trials, I’m certain that I wrote several million words. I tried to explain courtroom drama, decorum, motions, rebuttals, and the interpretation of case law into layman’s terms that made things less complicated to grasp. Everything I wrote was open to discussion (of which there was plenty) and, to many people, justice was not served in either case because the juries came back with those verdicts. What about the Zarate trial? Did the jury get it right or wrong?

    The first thing you might be inclined to think is that it was a stereotypical California jury, filled with “gentle people with flowers in their hair,” especially “for those who come to San Fransisco,” only it couldn’t be further from the truth. Juries are never predictable. Nothing in a trial ever is except the charge(s) filed against the Defendant that are laid out for everyone to read.

    For a moment, let’s go back to the capital murder charge against Casey, which meant she faced the death penalty. While the State argued its case, many legal experts questioned how and why the bar was set so high when so many particulars weren’t established. There was no absolute date of death, for instance, no cause of death, which was mostly based on circumstantial evidence, and no solid motive. Casey was, by all accounts, a loving, doting mother until, BAM! She popped a cork and Caylee was dead. Even the police admitted it. Without going into the details further, I fervently believe a lesser charge would have rendered a guilty verdict of some kind; second-degree murder, manslaughter or, marginally, an aggravated child abuse conviction. The bar is set way high when it’s a death penalty qualified jury.

    And so it was in the Garcia Zarate trial; the Prosecution aimed for the sky. While not a death penalty case, he was charged with first-degree murder. The jury was given the option of convicting him of that, second-degree murder, or involuntary manslaughter. Jurors said no to all three.

    Zarate claimed he found the gun in a bag under a park bench at Pier 14. Grainy video showed several people hovering tightly together before he entered the scene and sat down. He claimed he picked the gun up from under the bench and it accidentally fired three times before tossing it into the bay, where it was recovered by a diver the next day. Whether his account was true or not, it established reasonable doubt. Apparently, the gun had a hair trigger, too, in single-action mode. Was it set in single-action mode at the time of the shooting? Who knows.

    The bullet that struck Steinle skipped off the conrete floor of the pier before striking her in the back, penetrating her aorta. That showed it was not murder of any kind and why the Prosecution focused on it is beyond me. Could the jury have returned with a guilty of involuntary manslaughter verdict? That’s a good question.

    In the California penal code, manslaughter is the unlawful killing of a human being without malice. Involuntary manslaughter means “in the commission of an unlawful act, not amounting to a felony; or in the commission of a lawful act which might produce death, in an unlawful manner, or without due caution and circumspection.”

    What I don’t understand is that Zarate was a convicted felon in possession of a firearm. That made it a felony the moment he picked the gun up. That meant it produced a death in an unlawful, without due caution and circumspection, manner. Except for one minor detail the defense was able to cast doubt upon. The gun was wrapped in a cloth. Did this second-grade level person even know he had a gun? Well, the jury did convict him of possessing a firearm by a felon. Go figure. It means he did know he had a gun. Therefore, it should have been an involuntary manslaughter conviction. Except that, sometimes, when prosecutors aim so high a jury focuses on murder charges, they pay less attention to a lesser that lies beneath. Good criminal defense attorneys know how to take advantage of that.



    Ever since the dreaded type 2 diabetes diagnosis in 2005, I’ve strived to be careful about the food I eat. Hmmm… not always, because I’ve been known to cheat, but my diet is much better than it used to be – less sugar, less fat, and zero artificial sweeteners.

    One of my long-time favorite treats has been Nabisco Nutter Butter Creme Patties. Those are the wafer ones with a sweet and smooth peanut butter filling. I think I like them more than KitKat bars. Well, just don’t put both of them in front of me and say “Choose one.”

    Sadly, I can no longer enjoy those Nutter Butter treats the way nature never really intended it to be. I mean, before I was diabetic, I could easily sit down and eat the entire package. Not really, but it’s been over twelve years since I could pig out on them. Please don’t feel bad for me because…

    Here’s what I do instead. I take an ice cream cake cone – not an ice cream cake – just the empty cone, and spread natural peanut butter down into it and around the inside with a knife. Not too much. Then, I make another one as I bite into it. It’s almost as satisfying as a Nutter Butter, but it’s tons less sugar and no hydrogenated oils. There’s my tasty dessert.

    Now, I just need to figure out a way to make my own KitKat bars.




    When I worked for an ad agency, way back when, I’d meander up the street to Beefy King the day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday was one of their busiest days and I would go to help out any way I could. Interestingly, one of the most popular sandwiches on that particular day was sliced turkey breast. For the life of us, the owner, Roland Smith, and I couldn’t figure out why turkey would be such a big hit the day after. And after eating so much, you’d think people would be full of it. Or you’d think they’d have lots of leftovers to munch on. Why go to a restaurant for more?

    Round-and-round in our heads, Roland and I went back and forth over this perplexing ponderance, trying to understand why people would want turkey. I know we went a couple of years wondering.

    Finally, it dawned on us! We figured those L-tryptophan zombies had to work on Thursday. You know, convenience store employees. The wait staff at restaurants that served dinners on turkey day. Theater people. They were shortchanged and didn’t get to eat it. They were just fulfilling their subconcious cravings. Maybe some people ate ham or lasagna instead, yet still missed the traditional meal. They needed their turkey fix. You think?

    Later, I’m headed to Wawa to ask about their seasonal gobbler sub. I’ll bet the turkey farm that it’s a big seller today.





    (I wrote this in 2005 and amended it in 2006. I made minor changes today, but it’s still the same thing.)

    Mr. Robert Higerd was my 7th and 8th grade social studies teacher back in the 60s at East Amwell Township School in Ringoes, NJ. He was good. He was in the National Guard at one time because his favorite saying was, “At ease, disease - there’s a fungus among us.” I think it was an old military phrase.

    At least once a week, we’d sit in his classroom watching old post-WWII black & white films on the noisy projector. Most of them were from the forties and fifties and the sound was always warped and gurgled. It was a lucky day when we got to see one of those newfangled color ones. A lot of them were old government films - you know, the duck and cover variety. The newer ones were usually about some South American country, but we were in the midst of a cold war with Russia then. Civic duties and patriotism were etched into our minds. It was a time when we were proudly taught how great it was to be an American. Communism was evil and Red China did not exist. Nope, it was grayed out on all of the school maps. We knew it existed, but it just wasn’t there and I always questioned which countries had better propaganda, theirs or ours.

    Gee, I miss those days.

    Today, we live in a throwaway world and history changes as rapidly as we replace cell phones. In those days, history books were meant to last a decade. There was no such thing as politically correct and they weren’t rewritten with each change of administrations. When we got new ones, we knew they were going to be handed down for quite a few years to come and to keep them in good shape was part of our daily marching orders.

    One day, Mr. Higerd caught me doing something to one of his prized books in my personal possession and protection.

    “DAVE!!! Did I just see you writing in that book?” Defacing books or anything that’s school property was capital punishment. It was a mandatory trip to the principal’s office and it meant big time trouble. Parents usually got involved. No, this was never a good thing.

    “No, Sir. I was not writing in the book.”

    “I saw you writing in the book.”

    “No, Sir. I was not writing in this book! I was drawing.” Each day, I added a new addition to the following page and I’d been doing it for weeks. No one ever saw me commit this horrendous crime. Why did it have to be him, an ex-military guy, of all people? He was like a drill sergeant in those days, but much nicer.

    He ordered me up to the front of the class with alleged evidence in hand and abruptly snatched the now closed book away. “Knechel! Sit back down now!”

    Walking back to my seat, he rifled through the pages and saw what I had done. Somewhere in that thick book, I drew my character, a hardy stick figure standing motionless. I repeated the same thing for a few more pages, and as time and pages went on, I gradually lifted his legs up and down, moving him slowly and casually forward. At one point he stopped, turned to look at the noise coming from behind him, and with arms flailing, he darted as quickly as he could toward the other end of the page.

    Down came a rumbling boulder, heavily bouncing and rolling toward him. He tried desperately to race away, but the giant rock was coming after him at a higher rate of speed. Finally, it scrunched my poor little guy like a pancake and he was dead. Squoosh. Of course, the boulder kept rolling until it ran off the edge of the paper. The End.

    As he flipped through those pages, watching my cartoon in action, Mr. Higerd started to chuckle. “You know, Dave, this is great.”

    He opened the book for the class to see. “If you can’t see it from back there, come on up and gather around. This is how cartoons were originally drawn. They still are. Action figures that change with each drawing…” and on he went for a while, fanning the pages as he outwardly panned the class, in full education mode.

    On the inside front cover of all school books, there was either a stamp or label pasted in that all students had to sign, date and state their grade at the beginning of the school year. At the end of the year, everyone turned their books in for next year’s use. Like I said, they were new that year. Good old Mr. Higerd told me he was going to follow that book for as long as it remained in circulation and show it to every one of his classes - to explain the history of cartoons. I was honored. Of course, this was long before computers and software, Windows and Macs.

    In the end, he didn’t reprimand me for vandalizing school property, although he readily could have. There was no trip to the principal’s office. Instead, he complimented my handiwork. One of the things I remember most about Robert Higerd is how he brought a lot of life to what he taught. After he saw my talent and appreciated what I had done, I became one of his favorite students. I was, that is, until I ruined one of those newfangled color films about Argentina, but that’s a history lesson for another day.


    Who Was David Kyle?

    There was a science fiction category on Jeopardy! on Friday night. It made me think about my uncle, David Kyle, who was renowned in that field. I did well in the category and knew he’d be proud. That made me think about how much fun we would have if we could sit side-by-side each night, competing against each other while watching the show. (When I was young, we played a lot of chess. He’d almost always win, but I’d surprise him every so often.)

    I miss my Uncle Dave. He was exceptionally intelligent, funny, and a consummate gentleman. He was a veteran of the Air Force; a Lt. Colonel.

    February 14, 2016 - David Kyle’s 97th birthday


    He Gave His Garage Door the Middle Finger

    [This is a reworked story from 2005.]

    I’m not one to laugh at others misfortunes, but… sometimes, life’s experiences are just too painfully funny to pass by.

    I have a friend, Dave, who’s an intelligent, successful businessman. He’s in his late fifties, so he’s been around the block a time or two. One morning, he opened his garage door to take the garbage out by the curb. An early riser, this was around 5:30 in the morning - when your brain is still a little fuzzy and sluggish.

    After he told me the story, I said, “Dave, that’s what you get for being so cheap with yourself.”

    “No, Dave,” he responded, “that’s what I get for procrastinating,” after asking him why he never installed an electric garage door opener. It’s the kind with a handle at the bottom you lift up after unlocking it from the inside.

    Down the driveway he went with his trash bin that fateful morning. After strategically setting it in the perfect spot, he brushed off his hands, walked back up, and grabbed the handle to close the garage door. Only, it didn’t quite work out that way. Yes, he pulled it down, but it didn’t go all the way. Instead of bending down or pushing it shut with his foot, he reached in the crack between the slats and, with powerful manly strength…

    FORCED IT SHUT! Now, remember, these slats are on a track and as they come downward, they fit tightly into each other. They pinch shut.

    In an instant, an excruciating pain shot through the middle finger of his right hand. Instinctively he yanked it back and looked in horror at his hand. The tip of his finger just above the first joint was gone. Crushed. He opened the door with his other hand and pulled out his severed, flattened fingertip. After rushing inside, he carefully put it on ice and raced to the nearest emergency room.

    “There’s nothing we can do. We can’t sew it back on. It’s been crushed,” the doctor told him. Flattened like a pancake with strawberry syrup. Without getting too graphic, the doctor reformed what remained of the end of his finger and closed it up. 18 stitches. He went home, not quite feeling like the whole man he was when he rolled out of bed. I think he took the rest of the day off.

    Today, he pretty much laughs at the experience. “You know, that was about the most stupid thing I’ve ever done. I just wasn’t thinking. I can’t believe I tore the darn thing off.”

    Not that they could have saved it anyway, but it did save the cost of amputation.




    To say that Casey Anthony is mentally ill is an understatement. Aren’t we all to some degree; some more than others? Like me, her parents hold no diplomas in psychology and psychiatry, so none of us are able to make any sort of clinical determinations. We are not doctors, and Casey was declared sane enough to stand trial by qualified medical examiners from both camps - the Prosecution and the Defense.

    In the interview with Crime Watch Daily host Chris Hansen, Cindy Anthony said that Casey often had seizures and blackouts.

    While some may try to substantiate this with testimony from Jesse Grund, her one-time boyfriend, she did have a seizure. In fact, according to his interview transcript with OCSO, he called 911 while she foamed at the mouth and shook uncontrollably. She was transported to a hospital.

    Grund insisted she couldn’t have faked it. “The lips turning that slight shade of blue, the foaming at the mouth, the way her body was uncontrollably shaking, the non-responsiveness — I don’t know how she would have been able to fake all of that…”

    When the hospital test results came back, Grund was told she didn’t have syphilis, she wasn’t pregnant, and she didn’t have epilepsy.

    Grund replied, “She claimed to me that it may have been because she drank too many Red Bulls.”

    In fact, Anthony’s lead attorney, Jose Baez, never told jurors that she suffered from seizures. Period.




    The Night I Screamed on Halloween

    [This is a true story I’ve posted in the past. I think it’s worth repeating every couple of years.]

    A number of years ago, I told my mother about the scariest Halloween I ever experienced. I was with a friend from the neighborhood. She questioned whether she would have let me venture out without her at the tender age of six. Oh, I wasn’t alone, I reminded her. Besides, times were different then. We used to leave our windows open all day and night during hot summer months because air conditioning was a luxury. Screen doors were all that separated us from the outside world. Crime wasn’t something that was ever present in our minds. Heck, we left our doors unlocked. It was a different time…


    It was a chilly autumn night, that Halloween of 1958. It was my first foray out alone. Well, not really alone. I was with Harold, my buddy from school. He met me at my place. We had planned on doing this, by hook or by crook, and no mothers were going to be allowed to come along! We were out to prove we were real men that night, not boys, or so I thought, as we ventured out into the early evening. Be home soon after dark, our mothers instructed.

    There were lots of other children running around dressed in all kinds of costumes, stopping at many of the two story homes in our close knit community. The ones that were spookily decorated were the most inviting. Anyone willing to do all that work on their place would surely be the ones handing out the best candy!

    I remember watching hand-carved candlelit pumpkins flicker with each eerie twist and turn throughout the neighborhood. Skeletons and ghosts hung from trees and porches, swaying back and forth in the cool, gentle breezes, as red and orange leaves softly fell to the ground. We spoke of ghouls and goblins and stayed away from dark alleys and back yards where we weren’t supposed to go anyway, not to mention houses with no lights, because we knew what THAT meant! The monsters inside would grab us by our arms and take us down into their dank, spider-infested dungeons filled with torture devices, where we’d never, ever be seen again. Or… or… or… maybe, lights out simply meant they weren’t home or didn’t want to be bothered. But we weren’t going to take any chances.

    We were on a candy mission. I had a big grocery store shopping bag to fill up. It was brown paper with handles for carrying. There were no ‘plastic or paper?’ options back then. It was paper. Those were the days when milkmen left glass bottles at your doorstep and rabbit ears or rooftop antennas were the best way to watch black & white, round-screen television sets. Color TV? Hahahahaha! We weren’t rich.

    For what seemed like hours, we wandered around the neighborhood. People guessed who we were. “Oh, you’re little Dave, Sam & Dottie’s kid.”

    Harold wanted to finish the night at his house. It was only fair, since we begain our journey at mine, and I had never been there before. His place was across the street, about five houses up. When you’re only six-years-old, that’s quite a distance, and I wasn’t crazy about venturing too far away from my world; a world that wasn’t very big.

    But I was brave and we had candy collection work to do.

    Round and round we went. Back and forth, up and down; to the left and to the right, including places we’d never seen. We visited hundreds of homes, or so it seemed. Thousands, maybe! Eventually, we worked our way to his place. It was dark and I remembered what my mother said. We’d been out long enough, we were getting tired, and both of us had plenty of goodies to last a long time. Of utmost importance, Halloween fell on a school night and we needed our sleep.

    When we arrived, we walked up the sidewalk and climbed the stairs of his front porch. The porch light was off and it was downright sinister. Pure evil was lurking about. I knew it. I just sensed it…

    “Are you sure your mom and dad are home?” I asked. We knocked and, in a snap, the big, dark door swung open. There stood Harold’s father.

    “TRICK OR TREAT!” We screamed in unison.

    “I want to see a trick,” he responded. A trick? I didn’t know what he was talking about. Saying trick or treat meant that I was going to get candy. That’s all I knew. What was this trick thing about? “When you say trick or treat, I can ask you to do a trick first. Then I give you a treat. Where’s your trick?”

    Harold and I gave each other a puzzled look and said, “Huh? Nooooo…???”

    “Well, then, I have a trick for you,” and just like that…

    His top teeth popped out; far, far out of his mouth and quickly slid back in. WHOA!!!!!!!

    I froze dead in my tracks and stared up at him. The glare in his eyes! Then, just like that, he did it again!!!!!!! Those teeth jutted out of his face and wiggled for a second, like they had a mind of their own, before disappearing back inside his mouth.

    “AAAAIIIIEEEEE” I let out a blood curdling scream that must have awakened the dead. Today, anyone within hearing range would have called 911 on that house because of the panic in my voice. I turned to run, but, quickly, Harold’s mother appeared from another room. In a snap, she came out to comfort me.

    “Did you see what he did? He… he… he…”

    “Yes, yes,” she answered, as she wrapped her arms around me. Whatever his name was, she sure did raise her voice at him. She knew exactly what happened. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

    Meanwhile, I could see that the guy was rolling on the floor, laughing like crazy. I didn’t know what to do, but I wanted to get away from there fast while she explained what it was. “When people’s teeth go bad, the dentist pulls them out. He gives you new ones so you can chew your food and have a nice smile. They come out of your mouth and you put them back in where your teeth used to be.” 

    Huh? I had no concept whatsoever of false teeth.

    She turned to him and demanded an apology. I was trying to shake off the fright and sort it all out. Why did a grown not have any real teeth? 

    I doubt he ever said I’m sorry. I’m sure he continued to laugh. I’m certain I was still feeling the trauma. She must have known from the look on my face. “I’ll walk you home, Dave.”

    There was no way I was going to walk home alone, trembling — not after that! When I got to my door, she explained the horror story to my mother. Maybe I sensed a “Snicker” or two.


    All my life, I brushed my teeth in the morning and before bed, especially after eating candy bars. I remember telling my mother that I would never set foot in Harold’s house again. As a matter of fact, when I looked up the street toward his place, I shuddered and turned away, yet Harold and I remained friends. He assured me he had no idea.

    Before the following Halloween, we moved to another town and that was the unfortunate end of our friendship. When I was old enough to understand what false teeth were all about, I wondered how the father of a six-year-old boy could have lost his teeth so young. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. Just maybe… he ate too much candy when he was young and didn’t brush, brush, brush his teeth.



    Me Too?

    In late August of 1968, I turned 16. Living in Flemington, NJ, the hottest place around was the Weiner King. I really wanted to get my first job there. No other place was like “The King.” It was the center of the known universe. One Saturday afternoon, a week or so after my birthday - I was “of age” now - my mother drove up to the front, I got out and went inside to ask the owner if he would hire me. He asked a few questions, jotted down my information, and said he’d get back to me if an opening came up. I made sure I was dressed nicely.

    Some time the following week, the phone rang and the rest is history. September, 1968. I remember, on my first day, I wore a tie. Jack Little, the owner, chuckled a bit and told me it wasn’t necessary. What I needed was an apron. Angie Rocco was assigned to train me and I’ll never forget that first day, nor will I ever forget many subsequent days at that job. One stands out in particular, and the news of late has brought it back into the forefront of my mind.

    The Weiner King went through several transformations over the years. The first one was a little shack. When I went to work, it was a much larger building. The old shack had been tossed in the back of the parking lot. From the highway, the dining room was on the left. The right side was the waiting area, the front counter, and the kitchen. There were two entrances that faced sideways. Jack had lost the key and we had to run a heavy-duty chain between the two doors at night to lock up. There were two rugs on the floor, too, for customers to wipe their feet as they entered. At the end of the night, someone would have to take each rug outside and shake out the dust and dirt. On nights that I worked, that would be me because I was the “junior executive assistant manager trainee” at the time.

    As it was with many summer nights, the crew was a core group of three – Jack, Tom Garefino, and me. Tom was a gruff type of guy with a heart of gold. Some people were kind of afraid of him, but I knew better. A retired Army M. Sgt., he was a great man and full of knowledge.

    Late one evening, it was coming up on closing time. Jack never refused a customer as long as those grills were on. Besides, we weren’t closed. The front of the restaurant, where the waiting area was, was made up entirely of glass panes. I stood at the front counter when a red Fiat Spider rolled up. (Dang! We’re never going to close, I thought.) The convertible top was down. Two guys came in and I took their order. When they picked up their food, they sat quietly at a front table. I’d say they were in their thirties. Meanwhile, Jack, Tom, and I started the process of cleaning up – getting ready to close.

    At some point, I picked up one of the rugs and proceeded to shake it outside one of the doors. It was near the Fiat, but far enough away to not get it dirty. One of the two gentlemen came outside, stood next to me, and began asking questions. How old are you? How often do you work? Is that guy your father? What time do you get off? You know, questions like that. Then, BAM! The proposition…

    “I just got out of prison. I’m a professional photographer and I want to take pictures of you. We have a place not too far from here with a studio and small stage. We have lots of wine and we’d like to take nude photographs of you.”

    I was uncomfortable right from the start, but this was WAY too much. I kept turning around and looking at Jack and Tom for help. They were leaning on the front counter paying close attention, smiling at me. I needed help! Anyone in their right mind could see the look of panic in my face. Why didn’t they rush out to help me?

    “No! No! No! I’m not like that. I like girls. I don’t want my picture taken…” And on it went until… until… until… I turned around and THERE HE WAS, the other guy! Outside the door. It was as if he was reading his friend’s lips.

    He knew what had transpired. “Please come with us. We promise we won’t hurt you. We’ll bring you back.”

    “Noooooo!” I firmly responded, opening the door and rushing back inside. “Where were you? I needed your help!”

    This thin, blond, 16-year-old boy was scared poopless.

    There they were, Jack and Tom, getting a big kick out of it. My heart was racing as they snickered away. “Don’t worry, Dave, we were right here. We weren’t going to let those guys do anything to you. We were watching and would have been over this counter and out the door in a flash.”

    That was reassuring, but, fortunately, I was smart. I resisted. I had help. What would have happened had I been alone?


    You learn a lot when you talk to people

    The other day, I stood in line at the Publix deli, waiting to order their special sub of the week. Meatball. Ah, yes, a meatball sub with tomato sauce, spinach, onions, black olives, and melted parmesan and provolone cheeses. (It was delicious!)


    A young gentleman was standing to my right, just in front of me. Of course, if you know me, you know I’m very personable, so I struck up a conversation. I’d guess he was in his mid-20s or so. Maybe 30. Strapping and good looking, he was very approachable and friendly. I noticed that, although he spoke perfect English, he had a distinct accent. To me, it sounded German. Instead of saying, “You’re not from around these here parts, are you, punk?” I politely mentioned what I had noticed and asked him if he was German.


    “No, I’m from Hungary, but spent five years in Munich. That was a very good guess. I kind of do have a bit of a German accent, so my friends tell me. You’re not really wrong.”


    I told him my niece and former sister-in-law live in Berlin. He asked if I’d ever been there. I said no, but I’d love to visit some time. As a matter of fact, I’d enjoy going to Hungary, too. All over Europe. Of course, curiosity took hold, and that included a pinch of my journalistic penchant to ask questions, so one thing led to another. For sure, I tried not to load the questions. I didn’t blurt them out without any semblance of segue. I asked them as part of the natural conversational flow. One thing had to lead to another. Mostly, I didn’t want to push anything.


    According to domestic media reports from almost everywhere, I wondered how we’re perceived around the world. “What do you think of America over there? Aren’t we kind of like the laughing-stock of Europe? You know, Trump and all?”


    His facial expression suddenly turned from amiable to slightly serious. “No, not at all. America is America and we love it. Everybody loves America. We don’t pay attention to that kind of stuff.”


    Please note that I made no attempt to sway his responses in any way. “Even in Germany? I mean, I can understand Hungary. but that’s only one country?”


    “No, Germany, too. We have our own problems and America’s problems? It’s not something we care so much about. Life goes on.”


    Clearly, I thought, this is not the picture our media are painting.  Granted, he might have been what we would consider “a conservative” in this country. Or, maybe not. I didn’t know. I didn’t address his personal political views at all, and on his own, he brought up something else.


    “You know, Hungary built a wall to keep the immigrants out.” I knew which immigrants he meant.


    “Do you mean, to keep them from settling in your country?”


    “No, they can’t do that. They can’t settle in Hungary. It’s to keep them from passing through our country.” Interesting, because it’s part of the European Union.


    “Do you mean, on their way to Germany?”




    I kind of got the impression that there are lots of nationalists in Hungary, because he said that’s precisely what the country wanted to do. They didn’t want trouble following them like other parts of Europe. The problems you and I don’t usually get to read about or watch on the news.


    “Germany has a problem with many of those immigrants. A lot of German tourists and tourists from other European countries vacation in Hungary and they thank us profusely because they feel very safe. They don’t have to fear immigrants. It’s a real concern.”


    Hmmm… “Do you get many American tourists?”


    “Oh, yes, lots of them.”


    “Do they ever discuss problems like that?”


    “No, not at all. They just come to enjoy themselves.”


    “Oh, I’d love to visit. It’s part of ‘Old Europe.’ It’s rich in history.”


    “You know, as part of the European Union, we weren’t really allowed to build a wall, but we did it anyway because we are still our own country. Everyone that visits thanks us for doing it because,” and he reiterated, “they feel safe.”


    I looked at this as but one man’s position, but I seriously doubted (and still doubt) he’s alone. I had time for one final thought.


    “Do you think that Merkel and the other leaders talk about Trump and all, but the people don’t listen to them?”


    “Yes, that’s the way it works. They are political. They pontificate. We are simply people.”


    And so it went. It was a fascinating conversation that I found to be a bit disturbing. What bothered me most about it was that we’ll never hear this perspective from America’s MSM, our very own mainstream media. If you want to know the truth, you need to talk to people. They really do love America.



    The Las Vegas incident has been eating away at me all week. It affected me tremendously. I’m attached to the reality of it, yet I feel detached from humanity. There’s so much conflict going on in this country and my mind sometimes wants to explode.


    Some people age gracefully. Others do not. They get plastic surgery, they go on anti-aging diets, or they buy creams and lotions to stay as eternally young as possible. Perhaps, all of the above. I know that I had trouble turning 65 this year. It was as if I lost my youth in one fell swoop and became the old, grandfatherly-type guy that my grandfathers actually were. No longer could I pretend that younger women looked at me as a person of interest and, by that, I mean a man about town. I had to admit that my sporting days were behind me and felt compelled to act the part. What was it about 65? I can’t put my finger on it, really, but it hit me. For certain, I got over it after a month, everything went back to normal, and life continues to go on. Fortunately for me, that proverbial midlife crisis hit early, like in my late thirties, and I must say I’m glad I got over that, too.

    Do you remember when you were young and had visions of growing up to be a police officer, a fire fighter or even president? Please take note that I didn’t write policeman or fireman, although I am a MAN. That could be one small, yet significant part of the problem today. Everything has to be packaged just right in the realm of political correctness. DON’T SAY THIS! DON’T SAY THAT! I am a man, yet I cannot publicly call myself one because it could show insensitivity to the remainder of the myriad sexes the world should now recognize. It’s frustrating. Maybe that was part of Stephen Paddock’s problem. He couldn’t handle the world as it rapidly changed all around him… or… maybe it wasn’t morphing fast enough. No one knows what caused him to explode inside and become the American monster madman serial killer of all time. Yes, he was a serial killer, not a domestic terrorist because terrorists always have a motive. In Paddock’s case? All we can do is make assumptions.

    That’s what I’m going to do, but I’m going to base it on what little we do know and what I think.

    One of the most interesting aspects of public digging is how much the media and public get wrong. A good example of this originated from the release of Paddock’s photo with his eyes closed. A few days later, another one emerged. He was much thinner. The mind plays tricks because a lot of people assumed he lost weight prior to the shooting, raising questions like, why didn’t anyone notice? It should have been a sign that something was wrong. Blame it on those around him. What they didn’t know was that it was simply an older photo of him. A media release timeline does not reflect the true timeline. In fact, his girlfriend, Marilou Danley, stated that he had gained weight of late. This was the sort of thing I saw time and time again during the Casey Anthony case. Assuming this and assuming that without factual information. Speculation, assumption, and confusion.

    Paddock was not affiliated with the Republican or Democratic party. He was not a registered voter in his home state of Nevada, nor was he in Florida, when he maintained a home there. Therefore, we can’t really base a motive on anything political. Sadly, many people are under the impression that he shot into that crowd because they were white, conservative, Republican, Trumpians. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is a misconception the media love to jump on. Some even announced their pleasure in it. Had it been a hip hop concert instead, with black, liberal, Democratic, Clintonians – it would have been the same outcome, but pure racism would have been plastered all over the news, everywhere, and that would have been the one-and-only motive. Of course, ISIS is claiming him, too, and I’m not buying into that one, either. I think he chose white people because he didn’t want to spark a national debate about race.

    It had to be about him. Mandalay Bay gave him the best vantage point and it was the perfect venue to shoot up.

    I’m not a gun owner. Never was, never will be. Some, you don’t know they own one. Others, you can easily tell. Or assume. With Paddock, would anyone have outwardly known? I seriously doubt it. He seemed like a safe, sane bet. Did he act like he had a chip on his shoulder? I doubt that, too, although local detectives and federal agents are interviewing everyone he interacted with from childhood on. Obviously, something literally snapped inside of his mind. When? What began as a small gun collection eventually turned into an arsenal. As for his Filipino girlfriend, they tend to be quite subserviant. It’s their culture. (Please don’t attack me for saying it.) I believe his gun rooms were completely off-limits to her and just about everyone else but his avid gun collecting friends, if he had any friends at all. My guess would be no. He was a sociable enough guy, but not emotionally attached to anyone other than his girlfriend and family. To be honest, I think he looked at his girlfriend as furniture, but he treated her right.

    I’m going to make my own guess at what made him do it. Clearly, his mind changed over time, and barring any physical imperfections, like a brain tumor, I think it’s something like this…

    No one wants to get old. I know some people handle it better. If something were miserably eating away at me, would I share it with anyone? No. Hell no! One of the major complaints women make about men is that they don’t open up enough. So, here I am, festering away inside, until I can’t handle it any longer. It’s been building and building in the depths of my mind. It’s my problem and has nothing to do with who or what my father was. That’s part of the problem. It doesn’t but it does. I hated my father, yet he’s still a part of me. Most wanted. Post Office posters. Bad man. Screw him. I can do better, and I have. I’ve made it in the world. Wealth. Success. Women. I’ve got it all.

    But I don’t. I’m going to be 65 next April and I haven’t been able to do the one thing my father succeeded at. I haven’t made a name for myself.

    My father was a gambler down in Georgia
    He wound up on the wrong end of a gun
    And I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus
    Rollin’ down highway forty-one

    Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man
    Tryin’ to make a livin’ and doin’ the best I can
    And when it’s time for leavin’
    I hope you’ll understand
    That I was born a ramblin’ man

    Talk about a major midlife crisis, he was seen in the company of young prostitutes just before his murder spree. How long has that been going on? We don’t know yet, but a midlife crisis, on average, can come any time between the ages of 45-64. It’s a phenomenon brought about by not wanting to accept growing age and mortality. It could be spurred by possible shortcomings of accomplishments. Easily, it could produce feelings of depression and anxiety. It beckons a change in the status quo. He got that.

    Undoubtedly, creepy Stephen Craig Paddock wanted to make a name for himself. He would leapfrog his father into infamy. Why he chose to do it that way is beyond comprehension. If this alone explains it, I can understand why he purposely chose not to offer up any clues. It was his own selfish business and no one else’s. He could justify it because his mony was going to go to his victims. After all, he couldn’t take it with him. And as we all know, it sure didn’t buy him happiness.  



    There are still lots of homes and businesses without electricity. Yet…

    I can’t really complain all that much about Irma. Damage was minimal where I live. A few trees came down in the neighborhood and there’s lots of broken tree and shrub branches and debris on my property, although I have been cleaning it. The roof on the house seems OK. I’ve yet to climb up there to see it. The roof on the shed is missing shingles, but I think I can repair it myself. We’ll see. I’m hoping I don’t have to file an insurance claim.

    We lost power sometime around 8:00 PM on Sunday evening. We got it back late Wednesday afternoon. In my case, it meant no water because we have a well. (We did stock up.) Even with a generator, I could only run things that could be plugged in, like the refrigerator, not things that go to the circuit breaker, like the well and central air.

    In areas where there’s municipal (city) water, it was back up and running in rapid time, even without power. That’s because no one should suffer a sewage problem in the aftermath. A mile or two away from my house, there’s a hospital. Everyone on that grid had power restored the day after Irma left. Actually, it was later the same day, Monday, since it hit us Sunday night into the next morning. Generally, hospitals and emergency services like police and fire departments are restored as quickly as possible for obvious reasons. We were lucky to get it back on Wednesday, with cable following on Thursday.

    Generally, I shop at Publix down the road (I take a couple of back streets to get there) and Winn Dixie, which is located right around the corner. Next to Publix is Home Depot and I spent a lot of time there. It’s running on a bare minimum generator that means no air conditioning inside. Yesterday, I went to buy work gloves and by the time I got to the register, I had broken into a sweat. The pretty, young girl behind the counter looked nice and dry.

    “Look at me,” I said, “my shirt is getting wet. You’re nice and dry.”

    “I just got here but I sweat a lot,” she replied.

    “Girls don’t sweat, they glow. They glisten,” I joked.

    “Nope. I sweat like a pig.”

    I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. I smiled, got my receipt, left, and headed to Publix.

    The shopping center where Publix is located is also without electricity. Instead, they’ve been running a large Caterpillar diesel generator that has kept cold food cold and frozen food frozen, but not without sacrifices. The hours have been cut and the deli and bakery aren’t up to speed due to the high amount of power it takes to run the ovens and fryers. If the generator runs out of fuel, they would lose tens of thousands of dollars worth of perishable food, front and back of store, not to mention refrigerated prescription medications, like insulin. That’s my pharmacy. Some of the Publix stores did run out, like the one in Maitland, and all of that inventory was lost. It’s imperative that diesel is delivered at almost all cost.

    Yesterday, I spoke to the Winn Dixie store manager. Most of those stores do not have generators and I’d venture a guess that, statewide, millions of dollars worth of food was lost. He said that some of the coastal stores have generators, but not many. As I walked through the store, fresh produce was on display, the deli was up and running, and some refrigerated foods had been delivered, but all of the frozen food shelves were barren. I asked him who had to throw out the food and he replied, “We did,” meaning store employees. That’s a lot of work!

    All around the state, small mom and pop convenience stores and restaurants had to toss out massive amounts of food and they lose every day until power is up and running. Many people are temporarily out of work.

    I filled the gas tanks on both cars before the hurricane came. I’m glad I did because, while some stations are up and running, their gas pumps are shut off. I found one station in Longwood selling the precious commodity. I needed it to fill the generator. In any event, I must say… a storm that takes away your electricity, running water, air conditioning, refrigeration, television, and God knows what else, sure does put the world in a different perspective. Was Wilson in Cast Away a Democrat or Republican? That’s a little like what it felt like here for a few days and everyone still seems to be getting along fine… for the better good. We are helping each other and no one cares about politics or party affiliation. As a matter of fact, I had no idea what was going on outside of our own little world until cable came back. So, you see, despite the horrors of hurricanes, sometimes there are slivers of sunshine that seep through. Being naive isn’t always a bad thing. Staying on top of what’s going on in the immediate area is much more important and, for that, I want to acknowledge WDBO radio for keeping me well informed during this time of crisis. Thank you.


    I'd like to thank the prosecutor's wife

    I ran into a bad cop 42 years ago. It didn’t discourage me in the end because I have always known that most are good people, ethical, and very professional. Heck, I know a few. This guy, Jack Demeo, was anything but that. If you look at his résumé, it’s filled with untruths. He was never supposed to be involved in law enforcement again. My story is exactly as it happened. His sidekick, Rich, is someone I knew for years. Eventually, he left that profession. I have no need to impugn him, but Demeo? I will never get over what he did to me. I want no retribution at this stage in life. I do want you to know that there are people like him out there. In uniforms. With guns. And I don’t mind identifying them. If this article happens to fall into the right hands, so be it.

    It’s a long one. I hope you find it interesting enough to read to the end. I last published it in 2014.


    In 1975, I was 23 and the spirit of youth was still in full bloom. It was a great time in my life except for one harrowing experience with the Delaware Township Police Department, located in central New Jersey. I had gone out that night with a friend of mine, Ken [Redacted.] We hit a couple of bars and settled in at a place in New Hope, PA, called John & Peter’s. There’s a café in front and a small listening room in the back. As small as it was (and still is,) they had some pretty big name bands perform, like Iron Butterfly and The Chambers Brothers. One of the local favorites back then was a group out of Philly called Johnny’s Dance Band. Some nights, you just didn’t know unless a barmaid let you in on the secret of who it would be. It didn’t matter who was playing the night we showed up. We didn’t go out for that. We didn’t even go out to drink much. We just went out to have a good time until he dropped me off at my apartment…


    My place was right in the center of Sergeantsville, a very rural community with one blinking light. You were in and out of town before you knew it. Directly across the street was the municipal building and home of the police department. We sat there for a few minutes discussing what the rest of the week was looking like, sort of like planning another night to run around, drink a few, and hit on some babes. Slowly, a police car crept up across the street and parked. Two officers got out and started to walk towards us. I wasn’t afraid of anything. Neither of us were drunk and we certainly weren’t doing anything wrong. I recognized one of them, Rich [Redacted,] from my high school days. I got out and stood at the front of my friend’s Dodge van. Rich and I greeted each other, shook hands, and talked about what we had been up to since those earlier times. The other officer went over to the driver’s window. Both Rich and I were oblivious to what was transpiring until we both heard, “I smell marijuana. Get out of the van right now! You are under arrest!”

    Rich and I looked at each other with surprise. I turned to face the other officer and said, “Hey, what are you doing?”

    He stared at me and said, “You are under arrest, too!”

    He made my friend get out of the vehicle and ordered us over to the police car, where he demanded that we empty our pockets. I didn’t respond in the split second time he wanted, so he thrust me down onto the hood of the car, knocking the wind out of me. In two seconds flat, I was in handcuffs and he was emptying all of my pockets, where he found a frog, a couple of marbles and a secret agent compass. Maybe some pocket change, too, but absolutely nothing illegal. As a matter of fact, nothing of interest was found in my friend’s pockets, either. I asked this overzealous cop what we were being arrested for. He hesitated and said, “For being drunk and disorderly!”

    I knew right then and there we were being charged with something trumped-up. We weren’t drunk and we weren’t disorderly. Had we been drunk, this stupid officer, John “Jack” Demeo, should have been smart enough to charge the driver with a DUI (or DWI back then) because the keys remained in the ignition.

    The cop commandos marched us up the concrete stairs and into the police station.

    “Watch them,” Demeo said to Rich, giddy with delight, as if he had just apprehended serial rapists or something. He went outside and returned with the ashtray, dumped it on his desk and went picking through the tightly packed butts. Lo and behold, he pulled out a marijuana roach that amounted to…

    2/10 of a gram!

    Whoa! The biggest bust of the century! “Ha, ha, ha…I gotcha now!!!” An evil grin and obvious glee had overtaken him, as we were soon to be facing life in prison in his eyes. “So, on top of being drunk and disorderly, I’ve got you on a CDS charge, too!”

    “What’s CDS?” I asked.

    “Controlled Dangerous Substance,” he snapped back, with a sarcastic snarl. That roach could have been in the ashtray for weeks, for all we knew. The ashtray was packed with butts, but had we known it was there, we would have smoked it long before the cops showed up.

    After sitting for what seemed like an eternity, I had to pee. I asked Demeo if I could go. “NO!” I asked him several times and got the same commanding response. Finally, I pulled something out of my head…

    “As a U.S. citizen and subject to rule number 17 of the U.S. Constitution, Section C, Part 203, I am allowed to use a restroom facility when I consider it necessary, under penalty of law.”

    “Take him into the men’s room,” he ordered Rich, “but watch him.”

    As I was peeing, he was apologetic. “Hey, Dave, I had nothing to do with this.”

    Demeo was filling out paper work interrogating my friend when we returned. He looked at me and attacked like a junk yard dog. “Where’d you get this stuff?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Tell me!”

    “You’re going to bust us with that? You’re a joke.”

    After about a half hour of brutal questioning, he realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere, so they loaded us into the back of the squad car and drove us to the Hunterdon County Jail. The entire ride consisted of Demeo making wise cracks and telling us we were the lowest and vilest sub-humans of the community. We laughed. Oh, how it angered him more.


    Finally, we arrived to the fanfare of the hungry jailers. They took our mug shots and fingerprints. One of the guards was a high school teacher who moonlighted at the jail and remembered us. He took us upstairs and put us in a holding cell, It was just me and Ken.

    “I’ll come back and put you in a better cell as soon as we get rid of these asshole cops,” he said, and he did. When we awoke the next morning, the TV was showing an old science fiction movie. Yes, it was high-class. Color, too. There was another guy who was already there. We introduced ourselves, shook hands and I asked him what he was in for.


    “Oh.” I didn’t want to pursue that conversation, so we just settled in. At one point, he got up and switched the channel to American Bandstand. I wasn’t about to say, “TURN IT BACK! I WAS WATCHING THAT MOVIE!”

    Later that morning, the jail doors were opened to freedom, fresh air and sunlight, and our nightmare was temporarily over. $50 later.


    We knew we had to get legal representation. My friend got a lawyer and I talked to an attorney friend of mine, Jay Thatcher. We were in the JAYCEES together. I told him I didn’t have money to hire a lawyer. He asked me to tell him what transpired that evening. I told him. He said, “Dave, this is the most ridiculous injustice I’ve ever heard. I’m going to represent you for free.”

    Jay was a great guy and a very good friend. I was so glad he decided to help out someone in need. He got in touch with the other attorney and they both agreed to file a Motion to Suppress Evidence, a request to a judge to keep out evidence at a trial or hearing, often made when a party believes the evidence was unlawfully obtained.

    The judge at our arraignment hearing was Thomas Beetel. Years earlier, my Aunt Bertie (Warren Knechel) worked for him when he was in private practice before being appointed to the bench. We shared the same last name and they didn’t get along. I think he might have fired her. I wasn’t aware of any connection at that time - I was told later - but he should have recused himself on simple grounds of prejudice. He did not. Our respective attorneys requested that both officers not be present in the courtroom together when each was to give their own testimony. The judge did agree with that. Both cops gave conflicting reports of what transpired that fateful night. I assumed my old high school “friend” would set the record straight. He did not. He lied through his teeth even more than the arresting officer. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Then, Demeo told the judge he was trained by the Marines to smell marijuana better than a dog. When I took the stand, I noticed the judge was doodling stupid little pictures, as if he wasn’t paying attention, and had already made up his mind. I guess he did because he sent it on to trial. Motion to Suppress Evidence denied!


    On the morning after our arrest, the judge we were going to be facing, Jacob Chantz, was attending a funeral with my grandfather, Reverend George W. Landis. They were very close friends. He should have recused himself, too, because of that friendship, but didn’t, and I guess I am thankful for it. The evening we went to trial, it was one big family; the two officers, the prosecutor, our respective attorneys and us. My close friend, Frank Foran was sitting in the gallery, along with my parents. Our trials were to be handled separately, but together, if that makes sense. Our attorneys approached the prosecutor to work out plea deals. 

    After minutes of whispering, Jay came back to me and said, “Dave, this is what the prosecutor wants. He’s willing to drop the drunk and disorderly charge if you plead to the CDS charge. It means that after a year, you can apply to have your record expunged and it’s completely erased. It’s as if you were never arrested. You pay a fine now and there is no jail time. What do you want to do?”

    “No way am I going to plead guilty to anything. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

    “Great! That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear you say.” He went back to the prosecutor with my response.

    “Oh no,” the prosecutor told him, and there came a very special AHA! moment. You see, prosecutors can be moved around to different jurisdictions if the need arises. The need arose on that particular evening. 

    “What do you mean?” my lawyer asked.

    “My wife is 99.9% pregnant. I came up from south Jersey. I’m filling in for the regular prosecutor, who’s on vacation. She could have the baby any minute. I just want to get this over with and go home. How long is it going to take?” 

    “At least seven hours as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to pick every legal trick out of my hat on this one.”

    “You’re kidding, right?”

    “No, I am not. My client is 100% innocent of these charges and I intend to fight it all the way to the Supreme Court, if necessary.”

    “This isn’t all that important of a case to me. Let’s just drop the charges.”

    That was it. It had absolutely nothing to do with my guilt or innocence. Case dismissed. All on account of the prosecutor’s wife being pregnant. Now that was justice.

    My friend had the drunk and disorderly charge dropped but the prosecutor said someone had to take the rap for the 2/10 gram of Mary Jane. It was his vehicle, so he did and a year later had his record expunged.

    So went my first foray into the legal system. The judge later told my grandfather it never should have reached his courtroom. It should have been dropped at the Motion to Suppress level and, if not, he had planned on dismissing the charges against me anyway.


    Oh, yeah. Good old Jack Demeo. He got himself into a little trouble about a year or so after our trial. He was accused - on several occasions - of flashing his badge out of his territory and for trying to pick up women he pulled over. He should have been dealt with for breaking the law but wasn’t. Cop. Good old boy syndrome, I guess. I also heard he had been planting pot in cars to make busts, but had he done that to us, I’m sure more than 2/10 of a gram would have been found. The clincher that finally sealed his fate and brought his law enforcement career to a screeching halt was when he was in Atlantic City inside a casino, Unfortunately for him but lucky for the rest of the country, he flashed his badge at the wrong people at the wrong time. He told a dealer he was with the NJ Division of Alcoholic Beverage Control and was doing an investigation. What kind of favors can you do for me? The manager of the casino got involved and promptly called his brother-in-law, who worked for the ABC. Why is one of your guys trying to bribe me?

    The agency launched an investigation faster than a poker player folds on a five high hand, and dispatched agents to the scene immediately. Jack Demeo was arrested on the spot. Because of that, his credentials were stripped and he was told he could never be a police officer again. The former police chief of Delaware Township, where I was arrested with my friend, told me he did try years later, but the retired chief, the late Warren Peterson, put the screws to that. My guess is that he’s probably assistant head of security at a Dollar General store somewhere in Podunk, Arkansas. I did run into Rich a couple of years later and he wanted to extend an apology for what had transpired. I told him that, “as an officer of the law, you were there to tell the truth. You didn’t. I’m having a tough time with what you put me through.”

    Quite obviously, that experience was still on my mind. One day, he approached me at the Weiner King in Flemington, where I was the manager, to tell me he could get me a really good deal on a Jaguar XKE. He had hung up his gun and went to work for a car dealer. The car had just come in and it wasn’t even prepped yet. I took him up on the offer, it was a great deal, and I forgave Rich after all. I think he just got caught up in the cop ego trip thing and eventually let it go. All was well between us and I know it ate at him all those years. He really wanted to make things right, and he did. I don’t hold a grudge.


    I learned my lesson that you can’t always trust a man with a badge and prosecutors don’t always work for true justice. I’ve known a lot of police officers and a few prosecutors over the years and most of them are honest and hard-working. Never again have I run into a bad cop like Jack Demeo, but that one time was all it took to keep me on my toes. Fortunately, most guys like him are eventually weeded out of police departments, but not always.

    Oh yes, one more thing. The guy we spent the night in jail with who was charged with murder? He was found not guilty. He had a different prosecutor, too.


    55 IN A 65 ZONE

    August is my birthday month. No, I’m not soliciting birthday gifts or anything else just yet because it’s not until the end of the month, on the 27th.

    I grew up in the 60s and 70s and many of us from that era heard the mantra “Never trust anyone over 30.” Over and over and over. We were instructed to buck the system by the likes of Timothy Leary and Abbie Hoffman until, just like that, we turned thirty and became part of the system. So much for not trusting and all that crap. Turning thirty meant nothing to me. It was just a number.

    Then came forty. Eh, it was just another number. Yeah, I felt a little older, but I was still young and active. I was a successful graphic artist and didn’t feel any older than when I turned thirty. Forty was no big deal.

    Along came fifty and I knew my days were numbered. No, not in a life or death sense. As a graphic artist, I was aware of the up-and-coming designers that would usher in more contemporary ideas and do it for less money than I was making - not that I was getting stale at all. It’s simply the nature of the beast. I chose to ease myself away from the career I had chosen some 20-plus years earlier. I always wanted to write and thus began something completely new to do. Along came the Casey Anthony case and the rest is history. In any event, turning fifty didn’t make me feel old at all. Once again, it was just another number, but the cracks of age were beginning to show.

    Out of the blue, I hit sixty. It wasn’t a huge hit, though. It was more like a rather strong gust of hot, dry air. Whoosh! But it didn’t blow me off my feet. By then, I had plenty of time to emotionally adjust to the physical maladies that struck in 2005. I was a diabetic with other medical problems that kept creeping up on me. They still do. So what! I handled everything and I’ve remained an optimist throughout. Until…

    This month, I will hit a milestone and I’m reminded of it every day when the mail comes. Supplemental health insurance policies. Solicitors that starkly remind me I’m going to be 65-years-old.


    My life is about to change forever. On the 27th of August, I’m officially old. On that date, I will have to act “grandpoppish” even though I’m not, technically, a grandfather.

    On my birthday, I will have to change my wardrobe. I will go out and buy light colored polyester pants that come up to the bottom of my chest. An elastic stretch belt. Maybe suspenders. Nothing but white short-sleeved shirts. Slip-on shoes and Velcro sneakers. A Seersucker suit!

    From that date on, I will have to act my age. Decrepit Dave. I will start hanging out on pigeon-infested park benches and in the mall. The one in front of the Everything But Water store. No, not really. Instead, I’ll be looking for my soulmate… a bunhead grandmother with gray hair; someone who wants to tell me about her grandchildren, now fully grown. The ones who stopped calling, except when Christmas and their birthdays come around.

    Wait… I’m not ready for all that! There’s an adult community right around the corner. This is Florida, after all. I’m going to learn how to play outdoor shuffleboard. I’m going to build up my confidence and go there to look for a young and perky 55-year-old. Oh baby. That’s it.

    I will feel young again! Maybe I shouldn’t toss out those Wranglers just yet…