Bob Deakin Short Stories

Tag sales are a tedious event for the homeowner but without the shoppers, it doesn’t work. Most tag salers make a stop a couple times a year but some are professionals known as “taggers” for their years of dedication to the craft.

One glowing example is Tony “Tony the Tagger” Corso of Canton, CT. He earned his nickname by virtue of decades as a familiar face at tag sales and for being featured on both Good Morning America and Hoarders.

Corso comes off as a know-it-all talking about all things, and as cocky as a football player in a night club he explains his strategy for every sale he approaches.

“First thing I do at every sale is back my truck up the driveway. Right away they start showing me around and the prices drop like dollar bills at the strip club.”

Even those that don’t know him quickly notice the tall man in denim strolling arrogantly through the throngs of shoppers with his trademark fedora tilted slightly to the left.

He’s been attending sales throughout the Connecticut-Massachusetts-New York area since Nixon was president and is known for his penchant for late 19^th Century furniture and golden-age Hollywood memorabilia. He not only longs for artifacts but genuinely believes he is entitled to them. Whether it’s an oak cabinet Thomas Edison might have owned or a poster of Betty Grable, Tony the Tagger is determined to call it his own.

He says one of the most memorable tag sales was held by a legend of stage, screen and television. Employing a dramatic pause and taunting this reporter with his good fortune, he elaborated with the tale of rubbing elbows with a star before divulging her name.

“Valerie Harper,” he said, slowly and deliberately, leaning forward in his chair with a wry grin, as if announcing the name of the first lady. He went on to detail the day spent at the star’s home examining items for sale and the cozy conversation he struck up with her. He claims he spent several hours at the swanky estate and ended up rubbing a little more than elbows with the married actress.

Tony "the Tagger" recounts a romantic rendezvous. Photo by Bob Deakin

It all began, he says, with a few innocent questions about her Victorian-era armoire, which led to a personal tour of her movie memorabilia collection from the 40s and before he knew it, they’d locked eyes, both leaning over a vintage cocktail table from the 50s when their hands touched for the first time.

“You can’t put a price tag on what I walked away with that day,” Corso says, smiling, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head.

Asked if he was alleging to have slept with Ms. Harper – made famous by her role as next-door neighbor ‘Rhoda’ on the Mary Tyler Moore Show – Corso asked with a wink, “Who said anything about sleeping?”

While Corso is well-known amongst tag sale hosts it doesn’t always equate to admiration.

“He’s a jerk,” says Helen Fink, owner of a palatial estate in Greenwich, CT, worthy of Bruce Wayne and his ward. “He walks in like he owns the place and makes low-ball offers on authentic hand-made pieces from the 1800s like they’re cheap TVs. He’s married and spends more time hitting on me and the shoppers like he’s at a strip club.”

Complimented for the coincidental strip club analogy she doesn’t bite on an offer for further comment.

“My next door neighbor, Jean, hosts estate sales for homeowners every summer and this guy’s been showing up for years,” says Carol Showalter of Norwalk, CT. “He’s so full of himself he even gave himself a nick-name; ‘T-Tag.’ Jean refers to him as ‘D-Bag.’”

Told of what the estate sale hosts said of him Corso doesn’t even blink, choosing instead to explain the difference between an authentic Universal Studios poster and a fake. Asked what motivates him to continue his week-to-week performance attending sales year after year he conceitedly repeats a quote by baseball great, Joe DiMaggio.

“There is always some kid who may be seeing me for the first or last time and I owe him my best.”

Confronted with the fact that very few children go to tag sales and even fewer show up to see him, he downplays his role as a local celebrity.

“Ah, I’m just a simple man with simple tastes,” he states, again with a wink and a grin. “Who can resist a 19^th Century gem or an authentic framed Casablanca promo? I also can’t help it if the ladies can’t resist a tall, confident, handsome man in a fedora.”

Perhaps they can’t, but when it comes time to get rid of an old relic, a warm body with a wallet often seems irresistible.

Tony who?

Mrs. Showalter was later asked if any of Jean’s clients, by coincidence, were TV stars in the 1970s and said no, then looked up, curiously.

“You know,” she remembered, “everybody always tells Jean she looks just like the next-door neighbor on the Mary Tyler Moore Show.”

Originally published on Greg Van Antwerp’s Video Martyr blog in October 2011

Copyright 2011

Cars heading to the Davenport tag sale clog traffic.

Police responded to a disturbance at 111 Northrup Street early Saturday morning when a traffic jam formed in front of the Davenport home as dozens of people showed up for a much-anticipated tag sale. Police were called by the homeowner, who claimed he had announced no such event.

“I never arranged for a tag sale for today or any day,” said angry homeowner Vincent Davenport to police, who were forced to direct traffic in the rural neighborhood for several hours. “Why would I invite a bunch of strangers to my house on a Saturday morning?”

Davenport was initially awakened by knocks on his door and startled to find several dozen people milling about in front of his house. When they refused to leave he grew angry and returned with a baseball bat to scare them away, only to receive several offers for the bat.

Respondents produced an ad in the local newspaper showing a tag sale slated for 7 am at that address on that day, which police took into evidence. Several attendees also produced a printout of the notice posted on Craigslist for the same event, which police quickly discarded as fraud.

The disturbance erupted at approximately 6:55 am when a prompt group of veteran tag sale aficionados, or ‘taggers’ as they are known in the trade, arrived to peruse the wares at his home at the start of their well organized day.

Mr. Davenport awakens early to find 'taggers' in front of his home.

Tagger Hank Zeppo was typical of those who showed up.

“We were following our itinerary through the southeastern quadrant of town – based on the rising sun – before moving on to northeast quadrant number two at 41°31′33″N 73°21′39″W. From here we move on to central sectors one and two, then to the north and west, as is normal for our coverage pattern launch at dawn on Saturdays.”

These experts come well prepared for the weekend missions armed with food, water and generic soda rations, GPS devices, dubiously-claimed amounts of cash (depending on the item discovered) and small slips of paper known as ‘checks,’ formerly used as a form of currency now used only by women over 50 at grocery stores.

Veteran tagger Ray Hornig was none too pleased with the goings on at 111 Northrup.

“Jannie and I were all set to start here as part of a busy day of tagging and we get this,” he said, incredulously. “I don’t know what’s going on but we were going to designate 20 to 30 minutes to this place and 15 to the next and now we’ve got to make adjustments on the fly all day. This world is going to hell in a hen basket.”

The analogy was later corrected to ‘hell in a hand basket,’ which still makes no sense, but his point was made.

Tagger Justin Mitchell, whose first name belies his age – estimated in his late 60s – intends to approach city hall to crack down on the tag sale ordinance in Springfield.

Mr. Davenport takes a stronger stance against the uninvited guests.

“We must have an ordinance for police to identify permitted tag sales,” he stressed. “My wife and I came here looking for Wacky Packages, Partridge Family and M*A*S*H memorabilia, as any tagger worth his salt would expect to find in a neighborhood like this. We just heard a minute ago he didn’t plan this sale but since we’re all here and traffic’s backed up can’t he just pop open the garage door and let us have a quick look around?”

The ad printed in the local newspaper welcomed early birds and boasted of vintage clothing, Hammond organs, HDTVs, cocktail glass sets, 1970s memorabilia, classic furniture from the 1960s and much more.

All anyone got was disappointment.

“I’ve been searching for a Hammond B-3 organ for the last ten years and I thought today might be my lucky day,” said Troy Dufiss, oblivious to the fact that there was in fact, no tag sale at the house. “Is he going to open that garage or am I going to have to open it for him?”

Davenport continues to guard the home throughout the day.

After several hours of research police determined that the announcement of the tag sale was a hoax concocted by an acquaintance of the homeowner. It turns out Ed Maloney, bartender at the local tavern, “One For The Road,” submitted the advertisements as an act of revenge on the part of Mr. Davenport.

Davenport and his wife – both regulars at the tavern – were there earlier in the week and gave Maloney yet another in a series of extremely poor tips after spending several hours at the establishment.

“What comes around goes around,” is all Maloney is reported to have said to police during questioning.

Mr. Davenport declined to press charges but Springfield Police Sargent Duke Morris confirmed that several of the taggers filed complaints. Asked how residents can prevent such scams in the future, Sargent Morris gave only one bit of advice.

“Tip your bartender.”

This story was originally written as a guest blog piece for Greg Van Antwerp’s Video Martyr Blog.

Copyright 2011

From Greg Van Antwerp:

I have been thrilled to receive several story’s in the past 2 years because, well, it means I get a night off. My friend Bob Deakin whose own site is on my list of favorites has found something within a “find” and in his own way is looking to connect, or should I say ‘correct’ the previous owner.

Here’s the letter to Maria from Bob:

Dear Maria Santoro,

You don’t know me but I feel compelled to write you regarding the cassette tape player I just purchased at a tag sale in Bridgewater, CT. I found your Eustis, Florida name tag and address inside of it when I started cleaning the tape heads and oiling the rollers.

Nakamichi Cassette Deck

It’s a beautiful deck. Nakamichis were some of the best decks available in the early 1980s when this was manufactured. Looks like you took good care of it and for that I thank you very much. Quite forward thinking of you to put your name on it in case it was ever stolen or lost, which I hope was not the case with this one as I intend to keep it.

The reason I am writing is because of the cassette you apparently made and left in the deck. It was a mix tape you must have made some 30 years ago and I have listened to it a number of times and am impressed with many of the musical selections. It’s not every day I hear Eddy Arnold doing a soul song or Glen Campbell singing Jimmy Webb.

What does not impress me is the ebb and flow of your unruly assortment of songs. Early on Side A you follow Jose Feliciano’s “Light My Fire” with Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around and Fell in Love.” These two songs could not be any more different in feel, construction, style or even time period. One is a Spanish acoustic guitar-driven ballad while the other is pure blues rock.

This sequence has me puzzled.

Another combination I have a big problem with is Richard Harris’s “MacArthur Park” followed by Seals & Crofts “Diamond Girl.” What were you thinking? An Irish actor singing a dramatic, lyrically confusing love song followed by an American duo known for their ultra new age religious beliefs?

Bad segue and it detracts from the quintessentially American wholesome, sunshine feel of the Seals & Crofts piece.

The mix tape.

Late on Side B you made the awkward decision to include Ronnie Milsap’s “It Was Almost Like a Song” followed by “If Loving You Was Wrong I Don’t Want to be Right” by Barbara Mandrell.

Emotional confusion anyone?

First of all the Luther Ingram version of “If Loving You…” holds ten times the emotional impact over the Mandrell version but I’ll give you a pass in that Mandrell’s country sensibilities work better on your tape. The two songs should not follow one another, however, in that Milsap’s song laments a genuinely innocent lost love while Mandrell’s song selfishly boasts of an illicit affair that everyone should be ashamed of, including you for putting the two songs back to back on your tape.

I could go on but I’ll keep the criticisms to a minimum. The quality of the tape was good and living in Eustis, FL in the early 80s surrounded by nothing but orange groves, pickup trucks and Richard Petty fans you must have had a lot of free time on your hands to over-think the choreography of your musical mix.

Sometimes too much thinkin’ makes for bad thinkin’.

The audio levels.

I will hold onto the tape if you don’t mind but if you really want it back send me an email or a self addressed stamped envelope and I’ll put it in the mail. I can even – dare I say – burn a disk of it if you want but the audio levels of your mix are so dynamically inconsistent that I fear the audio to digital conversion will sound like crap on your home stereo, computer or whatever contraption you listen to music on these days.

I wish you the best of luck and thank you again for taking good care of this deck. I get the impression you are a nice person and I think we are – to some extent – kindred spirits in our musical tastes. The Nakamichi still works well and will sound even better with some maintenance and more sensitivity to musical selections.

Sincerely,
Bob Deakin

P.S. I mean no disrespect but next time leave more than one second between songs. A more dramatic pause makes for better listening and the music search feature requires at least two seconds to work properly.

Originally published on Greg Van Antwerp’s Urban Archeologist blog in May 2011

Copyright 2011

Snow Miser from "The Year Without a Santa Claus."

I always loved Christmas, especially the television Christmas specials with the little puppet-like characters. Specials such as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Santa Claus is Coming to Town and my favorite, the lesser-known The Year Without a Santa Claus, were something I looked forward to every year, almost as much as Christmas itself.

I can never get the “Mrs. Claus” character out of my mind whenever I think of The Year Without a Santa Claus because it always sets me off on a legendary-in-my-own-mind, never-ending chain of thoughts. Here’s how it goes:

Mrs. Claus is voiced by Shirley Booth, who I always confused with Shelly Winters. Shirley played the wise-cracking maid, Hazel, in the TV show of the same name while Shelly Winters was most noted for her role as the overweight woman in The Poseidon Adventure.

Also in The Year Without a Santa Claus, the Snow Miser was voiced by Dick Shawn, who played LSD (Lorenzo St. DuBois) in the original The Producers movie in 1968. As the Snow Miser he sang one half of the crazy Snow Miser/Heat Miser ragtime-style show stoppers. Yep. Same guy. Mr. Shawn also happened to look just like Max Baer Jr., who played Jethro on The Beverly Hillbillies.

I also remember The Year Without a Santa Claus and other Christmas specials being sponsored by Jimmy Dean Sausage. In my early years I usually confused Mr. Dean with James Dean of Rebel Without a Cause fame. Upon learning that Jimmy Dean was a country singer, I went on to confuse him with Eddy Arnold because they were of a similar genre. I then had an even bigger confusion problem with Eddie Arnold and Eddie Albert of the Green Acres TV show, for obvious reasons.

Compounding this problem in the late 1970s, Eddie Albert starred as a detective in the TV crime drama, Switch, with Robert Wagner, who I constantly confused with Lyle Waggoner, a regular on The Carol Burnett Show. Mr. Waggoner looked like Robert Wagner and the name similarity added to the confusion. It didn’t help that Robert Wagner was married to Natalie Wood, the beautiful actress who I sometimes confused with Joanne Woodward, wife of Paul Newman, because of a somewhat similar physical appearance and the presence of “wood” in their names.

This also reminds me of the 1973 version of the movie, Miracle on 34^th Street, starring Sebastian Cabot. Included in the cast are both David Doyle and Tom Bosley, who I was forever mistaking for each other in the 1970s because of their physical resemblance, and for always playing folksy types. Tom Bosley was most noted for his role as Richie Cunningham’s father on the TV show, Happy Days. Adding to the interlocking ball of confusion was Dolye’s most memorable role on the Charlie’s Angels TV show. His character’s name? John Bosley.

Perhaps the most bizarre cross-up in my history involves the actor Paul Benedict, who played the English neighbor, Mr. Bentley, on the The Jeffersons TV show, as well as the incorrectly assumed title character in the film Waiting for Guffman. When I was little and used to watch the Frosty the Snowman cartoon Christmas special featuring the evil Professor Hinkle, who gives Frosty the magic hat, I thought that Paul Benedict and the animated Professor Hinkle were the same person, even though one was real and the other a cartoon. They both had jutting chins, froppy hairstyles, looked middle-aged nerdy and spoke with similar voices and British accents. Don’t ask me how the mis-association happened but to this day, whenever I see The Jeffersons or Frosty the Snowman imagine my warped confusion.

The Year Without a Santa Claus was created and produced by the team of Rankin/Bass (Arthur Rankin, Jr. and Jules Bass), which created Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Santa Claus is Coming to Town, but I always confused them with the team of Hanna-Barbera (William Hanna and Joseph Barbera), which created The Flintstones, Tom and Jerry, and The Jetsons cartoons for kids, which were really for adults.

Now that I think of it, Dick Shawn was also among the star-studded cast of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, as Sylvester, son of Mrs. Marcus, played by Ethel Merman. The cast included, of all people, Mickey Rooney, who – what do you know – voiced the role of Santa Claus in The Year Without a Santa Claus.

Copyright 2009

Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton sing their hearts out.

It’s another wonderful evening together – Lucy and me at the rooftop lounge. The margaritas are going down like water with hors d’ oeuvres to die for. The moon is rising over a turquoise sky with a velvet breeze rustling our hair as the soft pop tunes from the late 70s so appropriately score the scene with an undercurrent of melancholy.

Could she be the one? I ask myself – a fleeting thought comes to me before I stop it in its tracks. Let’s just take it easy and enjoy our time together, I reassure myself knowing the challenge that lies ahead.

My life with Lucy is developing into a thrilling love story but still, there is but one giant hurdle to conquer before we reach the next level, and she doesn’t even know it. I wander and wonder, looking for a way to break it to her gently: I am an openly obsessed Kenny Rogers fan.

That’s right. The Gambler. The Coward of the County. Kenny Rogers Roasters fried chicken restaurants and the duets with the ladies.

Maybe Lucy will take it well. Maybe she’ll love me and maybe she won’t, but I hope if she leaves that she believes in me. I’ll just have to suck it up and go home singing “you picked a fine time to leave me Lucille.”

All of a sudden I decide it’s time to get this over with. I steady myself, puff out my chest, look Lucy in the eyes and announce loud and clear, “Lucy, I’m a big time Kenny Rogers fan, I’m proud of it, I’ll never stop loving his music and if you leave me as a result, I’ll take it like a man. All I ask is that Lucy… don’t take your love to town.”

I can see she’s uncomfortable, wriggling in her seat, looking at her hands, and I find myself deeply concerned with the condition that her condition is in.

“Lucy,” I stammer, the words crashing into the lump in my throat. “You’re my lady. I don’t expect you to fall in love with a dreamer, but you’ve decorated my life in ways you’ll never know. I’ll understand if you don’t need me baby but if you accept me for who I am, through the years, we can love the world away.”

Out of the blue Lucy sings out, “Islands in the stream!” I start to smile but I don’t know where she’s going with this. “That is what we are,” she continues in her best Dolly Parton.

“No one in between,” I respond at the top of my lungs in my stellar Kenny impersonation, hopping on top of our table. “How can we be wrong!”

“Sail away with me, to another world!” Lucy sings out as she joins me on the tabletop, in the cutest, most adorably shilling, delicate Dolly impersonation anyone has ever heard, as if she’d spent years pretending to be Dolly… as I had Kenny.

Then we sing out in unison, for the whole lounge and the whole world to hear:

“And we rely on each other, uh huuuhhh.”

Copyright 2010

I’ve heard of big asses, fat asses, tight asses and lard asses, but I’ve never known anyone to have a long ass.

Not the case anymore.

I saw a woman at a town meeting last night who had such an appendage. She was a pretty woman of about 55-60, not fat and not unusually tall but she had an unusually long ass. It’s hard to describe it, in that it extended from the bottom of her back to the top of her legs to a length of nearly two feet.

I couldn’t tell anything was amiss at first when she was seated but then she stood to speak to the room and holy cannoli, there it was. Again, she was not deformed in anyway and didn’t look as though she’d been the victim of an accident or surgery gone wrong. It was as properly proportioned as a long ass should be, I guess, not that I’d ever seen one before, but it was just so damn long.

How can that happen? Had she spent in inordinate amount of time sitting down through the course of her life? Perhaps she’d done a lot of driving or row-boating. Maybe she’d been overseas in the Peace Corps in the 60s and 70s and spent too much time sitting Indian style?

Speaking of overseas, she had an English accent which, strangely enough, made the long ass make more sense. How, I’m not sure but the elegant speech patterns and extended vowels seemed to match the longness of the ass. I easily imagined that she might have made the scene at many a “high tea” in England and scoffed down her share of scones and crumpets.

I can be certain she was a stranger to the soccer, or futball field in jolly old England but she’d probably been on a horse or two. Come to think of it, maybe she’d been a horse in a past life or closely related to one. Her ass was like that of a horse without the bulging muscles. She didn’t have a horse face by any means and I wouldn’t ask her “what’s with the long face” but I might ask her “what’s with the long ass?”

Perhaps, “A little long in the bum wouldn’t ya say, ma’ lady?” might be more appropriate.

She probably wouldn’t like that and I wouldn’t ask her that for I wouldn’t want her to kick my bum. Would it be proper to tell her she’s a little long in the bum or is it bad manners to say that to a woman? I think I’ve answered my own question.

I wonder if she spends more money over the course of a lifetime on seat cushions and undergarments? Stands to reason. And where the hell does she buy underwear? The Big and Tall Store? I don’t know of any Big and Long Stores. Does she wear underwear? I certainly hope so but she doesn’t wear panties. Nothing that covers that rig ends with “ies.”

She seems like a very nice woman and very intelligent too. After all, she’d brought up a good point at the meeting, which was organized to address the disproportionate, uncontrolled growth of her pretty little town.

The irony of it all.

Copyright 2009

Rough versions of the yellow and blue topaz.

I’m at this party Friday night following a poetry reading and meet a diverse group of interesting people. It is held at a beautiful home by the lake and many of the guests have very exotic names including Felicity, Brando, November, Heath and Brock. My name being Bob, I almost feel too common to be in their company but I make the best of it and welcome the opportunity to meet new friends.

The poetry was very well done. Much of it inspiring, some of it funny and of course the depressing poets were well represented too, bringing us down with the dexterity of a concert violinist. Not being a poet, I feel out of place at the reading but I’m happy to be there and glad to make my way to the party afterward at the invitation of Rain, the poetry group leader. It’s a step outside my normal bounds and I find myself discussing things I haven’t pondered in years.

The food at the party is wonderful and I’m discovering fascinating personalities, exchanging ideas and views of the world and fitting in rather nicely. It’s a rousing soiree and Vespa, the hostess, is quite the social butterfly with a habit of sternly yet eloquently pronouncing the name of each person she is conversing or joking with, usually Felicity, Brando or November.

After a while however, the names are starting to get to me.

Why would someone name their daughter November? I ask myself as I glance in her direction. Nice name, but everyone who meets her must wonder if that’s the month in which she was born. If not, there must be some long-haired story behind it.

Just then, Brando walks up.

“Hey man,” he says, asking my name and clicking my glass with his. “Brando. What do you do? You an author?”

I don’t even ask him what he does. He’s Brando, and that sounds like a full-time job in itself: I guess I’m starting to get a little bitter.

I then bump into Felicity as we both walk into the kitchen to freshen our drinks and she is quite the sassy lass. She’s had a few already and asks me if I’m friends with Vespa. I think to myself that I once rode a Vespa – the brand of motor scooter – but that doesn’t seem an appropriate reply. She then tells me, ad nauseam, all about Vespa and how she tunes into the human soul with her poetry and that she’s also a brilliant painter.

My patience is waning and I’m sensing a slow burn at the bottom of my stomach. Just then, Heath strolls up and introduces me to a woman named Topaz, and that brings me to the boiling point.

“Your name can’t be Topaz,” I say, condescendingly, refusing her handshake and drawing uncomfortable stares from around the room. “Topaz is an aluminum-based mineral, as far as I know. No offense, but what block head gave you that name?”

Turns out it was her father.

“Were you named after the mineral or the car sold by the Mercury Division of the Ford Motor Company?” I continue, burning every bridge in the room and bringing all happiness to a halt.

She cynically explains that her father was a geologist, that the Topaz held supreme significance for him and that the Blue Topaz was her birthstone, from the month of December. I reason to her that before I was born my father drove my mother to the hospital in a Rambler Station Wagon and that perhaps my name should be Rambler.

“Imagine the number of songs I could put onto a custom CD mix for friends with my name as the theme,” I say to Topaz as she prepares to throw a drink in my face. “You could be talking to Rambler right now. Imagine Rambler asking your daughter out to a movie next Friday? Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” was Number One on the Charts the day I was born. Perhaps Babe should be my name.”

The good spirit now sucked from the room, Vespa’s sister, Polaris, swiftly escorts me to the door explaining that the Yellow Topaz is the November birthstone, and that November’s parents gave her the middle name of Topaz, which means there are actually two Topaz’s at the party.

“It’s time to leave, Bob,” she said, sternly.

Copyright 2010

Mr. Skinny Mini delivers a package no one wants to sign for.

Here he comes,

Walking down the beach.
He gets the funniest looks from,
Everyone he meets.

No, no, he’s not one of the Monkees, he’s a grown man wearing a speedo. Mr. Skinny Mini, and he’s a comin’ this way.

“Honey, hide the kids,” a man on the beach hurriedly calls to his wife, spotting the approaching man in the creepy-small speedo. “Skinny mini at 3-o’clock.”

Honey diverts the kids’ attention as the father rifles through a sack of beach toys for an object that doesn’t exist in order to divert his own attention.

Mr. Skinny Mini pays no mind. He doesn’t see the family scurrying. He doesn’t hear the people laughing. He’s got only one thing on his mind: Mr. Skinny Mini and the flock of women that surely must be waiting for him and his dangling sack of toys.

In a modern-day version of The Emperor’s New Clothes, Mr. Skinny Mini doesn’t see a disturbingly-small bathing suit, he sees the most stunningly beautiful bathing suit in the land, but the “common people” on the beach see almost nothing at all. Either they’re unfit or just too stupid to revel in the beauty bestowed upon them.

Regardless, it’s not the clothing that makes the man, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, and everyone on the beach has no choice but to count: Two. As in the number of potatoes fighting their way out of his bikini bottom, making everyone on the beach wish they were as far away as Idaho and pray that a pretty girl doesn’t walk by, making something the shape of Florida enter the fray in the battle to escape his britches.

It’s an instant theater of the awkward. Otherwise happy, comfortable people scramble to look away, walk in another direction, draw their attention to something else or strike up a conversation about anything but Mr. Skinny Mini and his wares. The prettiest girls cringe, the toughest guys shy away and rambunctious children sit quietly by their parents. Even smoke from a distant fire drifts in another direction.

And just when it looks safe to head back into the water, it’s time for the encore: His bum. Resembling two bulldogs trapped in a balloon, Mr. Skinny Mini does his best to make sure anyone who missed the approaching train will surely marvel at the caboose. He makes just as grand an exit as he did an entrance, living by the old showbiz adage, “leave them wanting more.” Those on the beach just wish he would leave them.

When it comes down to it, Mr. Skinny Mini’s just trying to be friendly, and he’s too busy swinging, to put anybody down. He’s there to impress the women – and maybe even the men – and he’s pulled out all the stops to make it happen. He’s the living embodiment of the phrase “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”

Just like the emperor, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, not in the eyes of those obligated to do so, at least on a public beach. Whether it’s a sack of toys, a couple of potatoes, the state of Florida or two trapped bulldogs, Mr. Skinny Mini has delivered a package no one wants to sign for.

Copyright 2010

One of these days I’m going to find the estate sale from heaven.

I’ll be driving by late on a Saturday afternoon, long after the professional “taggers” have contaminated the place after their week of planning, research and subsequent assault.

I’ll park in the large, shaded driveway, not on a narrow two-lane major thoroughfare with a 55 mph speed limit, and I won’t feel like I’m walking onto the set of King of the Hill if it wasn’t a cartoon. I will comfortably get out of my car and no dogs will be there to harass me, nor will I experience the requisite rise in testosterone preparing to kill them.

I will leisurely stroll over to the house with a presence of pleasant human beings when a lovely female hostess arrives, leading me through the spotless, palatial estate. Thereafter I take in the sights, observe the wares – all tagged with prices – and wring my hands at the countless opportunities while the score of an Italian film from the early 1960s plays softly in the background.

Right away I find an old Hammond B-3 organ, just like the one on the pop and rock songs of the 60s, and it works. I confirm the model by easily looking on the back panel, see that all the parts are in place, and make it known to the hostess that I plan to walk out with it, and find that she wants only $50, a significant discount from the several thousand dollars I would expect to pay.

I then head back to the items on display and what to my surprise? It’s an electric vibraphone with the vibrato foot pedals in place, also working, also with a price tag of $50, again a solid discount from the several thousand dollars I would expect.

Once the purchase is secured, before I even make my way across the room, I stumble over a Bang & Olufsen turntable, never used and still in the box from 1982. There is no price tag on it but the hostess doesn’t even know what it is and tells me I can have it for, “does five dollars sound fair?”

Indeed it does. I secure it and continue browsing.

I pass the countless antiques, Ansel Adams prints, 1920s cuckoo clocks, 1930s telephones, 1940s baseball memorabilia and neon Ballantine Ale signs from the taverns of Manhattan in the 1950s, making small talk with the hostess.

I then spot a dark blue, sharkskin suit with narrow pant-legs, matching white handkerchief and cuff links, circa 1962, a la Dean Martin in the Rat Pack movies. It’s a perfect match for my size, and the hostess modestly utters, “would you be interested in the cocktail mixer set, including etched-glass martini shaker, ice bucket, silver-plated snifters, bottle stopper and tan leather case from the same era?”

“Indeed I would, although I only have so much to spend, and I would like the suit, so…”

All my dreams of the 1960′s are nearly complete and I take a complementary walk around the place, ponder a few more purchases, and notice that I’m a bit parched.

“Would you care for a Negroni? The hostess offers, introducing herself as Maria. “It’s the original martini, the perfect blend of gin, sweet vermouth and bitters. If you don’t mind vintage martini glasses from the set of Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder, I’d be happy to pour you one.”

“Well… I guess one wouldn’t hurt,” I politely respond.

Maria, who is the spitting image of Sophia Loren in 1960, pours two and hands me one, then gently caresses my hair with a swath of her hand, admitting she’s a bit shy for being so forward on a Saturday afternoon at an estate sale.

“My sincerest thanks to you, my dear,” I say, raising my glass toward hers. “Such a lovely day among such opulence, with such a charming hostess being so kind to a gentleman stranger. What, may I ask, have I done to deserve such splendor?”

And just then, I turn over in my bed and wake up. Damn it! Another Monday. Why can’t I have these dreams on Saturday mornings.

(This story was my submission as a guest blogger on Greg Van Antwerp’s Urban Archeologist blog on June 24, 2010.)

Copyright 2010

"You and Me Against the World" is from Helen Reddy's "Love Song for Jeffrey" album.

I was always a sucker for a good sappy song from the 1970s. When I was a little kid roaming the shores of St. Pete Beach, Florida, my only cares in the world were finding sea shells and hoping my older brothers and sisters would let me stop by their rooms and listen to music. They were into Chicago, Steely Dan, The Beatles, Beach Boys and others, and I was hip to everything except why The Doobie Brothers called themselves that when they were obviously not brothers.

I did have some of my own forbidden musical pleasures, however, such as The Carpenters and Gilbert O’Sullivan (yes, Gilbert O’Sullivan), but there was one song that I adored, which was just too sad to play on the stereo: “You and Me Against the World,” by Helen Reddy. I remember it occasionally playing in the house, typically followed by everyone going their separate ways or one of my brothers yanking it off the turntable and quickly throwing on something else.

The song was written by Paul Williams and Kenny Ascher and it sadly emotes a single mother’s plight ‘against the world’ and how they’ll ‘muddle through’ when ‘one of us is left to carry on’ and so forth. It’s an amazingly beautiful song. A small orchestra works the melody with a stunning vibrato electric guitar while Helen works her magic on the lead vocal. For added anguish, Helen’s young child is included in the mix, cooing “I love you mommy” at the end for maximum melancholy. The little bastard.

The song’s sentiment fits any situation at a given time of sadness and unfortunately it works really well. Someone in my family bought the record not long after it was released in 1974 and I played it a few times, but it was just too sad to play, and I wouldn’t play it in front of anyone for fear that I might start crying. The notes were sad enough but to hear the lyrics was just too much. It’s so sad that I almost wish it had never been written.

“You and Me Against the World” always hit me hard. I was very independent in a large family and occasionally had ‘me against the world’ feelings, in an immature, dramatic way. Match this with my realization that not every kid had it as good as me, and there we have a powerful emotional collision to ruin a good afternoon.

I must add that at the time, I still had the wonderful innocence to believe that songs were “real” in the sense that the singer was telling their own true story. This caused me to wrestle with the dichotomy: “If you’re Helen Reddy – rich, famous and beautiful – aren’t things going better than that for you these days?” I always wondered what the inspiration for the song really was, so I decided to go to the source, and I contacted Paul Williams.

“It’s one of those songs that seems to resonate with single parents,” he said. “I get a lot of nice ‘heart payments’ from people thanking me for the song. It’s the best part of being a songwriter. Thanks for honoring the tune.”

I didn’t tell him that I’m not really “honoring” the tune though in a way I guess I am.

Another source of torment for me is the apparent message that the song conveys, which is to retain sad memories: The memories alone will get us through; Think about the days of me and you. You and me against the world.

Somebody get me a drink and some pills.

I didn’t ask if he was trying to torment the listener with that message, but I have a growing list of concerns about the song that just might warrant another phone call to Mr. Williams.

Damn you Helen Reddy.

Copyright 2009

You can't rush the band getting ready for the gig.

The drummer arrives and begins an endless succession of thumps on his kick drum, snaps on his snare and booms on his toms – all to tune the drums – as well as pings and ta-dings on his cymbals, as if there’s anything he can do to change their pitch.

Next up is the bass player, turning up his amp and popping the strings with his thumb – a la funk style – then it’s long slides up the fret board to demo his rock & roll chops before he finishes off with the obligatory 4-string chords to show he can play jazz like Stanley Clarke.

The keyboardist then takes his turn experimenting with every conceivable sound effect on his synthesizer even though he’ll use only two different sounds during the entire performance.

Last but not least it’s the guitar player. He’s already late for the gig but he’s obligated to play the requisite riffs from “Smoke on the Water,” “Stairway to Heaven” and a Jimi Hendrix lick or two. After that he must have the absolutely-precise blend of Myers rum, ginger ale and ice topped with club soda in his tall glass before he’ll even consider beginning the show.

Heaven forbid there is more than one vocalist because they are each required to practice singing a phrase from a Beatles, Journey or Lynyrd Skynyrd song or, of course, the line, “Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends…” from the Emerson, Lake & Palmer song.

Once everyone is ready to go the lights dim, the background music is turned off and each member of the band must check the set list five more times, get another drink, smoke another butt then finally begin the first song.

A famous recording engineer once told me that the way to tell a real professional musician is if he doesn’t play even one note before the session begins.

As I sit in the audience I think to myself that bit of advice is too many miles and too many smiles ago, and how I wish that engineer was sitting next to me here for this evening of 50′s tunes at the senior center.

Copyright 2010

The Office Gallery and Art Studio. That name, and I don’t want to type it again until I have to, makes an excellent phrase for a typing class exercise. It took me about eight takes to get it right with no errors. I type fast and careless and that’s not a very forgiving title for folks like me.

It seems a good setting for a studio/gallery, although a bit off the beaten trail of downtown Orlando, Florida. It’s only a couple blocks from Lake Eola, which makes it charming in the afternoon, and not-so-charming at night. The interior looks like a studio, with doors off the corridors providing entrances into diverse little worlds of artistic creation. The décor is sparse yet there always looks as though something is going on when you walk in.

There’s got to be a better name than The Office Gallery and Art Studio, however. How about the Off-Disney Playhouse? Let’s throw that one by Mr. Eisner. I’m sorry, that would be Robert Iger, new CEO since 2005.

The Office Gallery and Art Studio is surrounded by large buildings owned or formerly owned by large banks, legendary local developers and a courthouse, how about the 800-Pound Gorilla Gallery? It has a certain ring.

It is a studio, and it is a gallery, and it is on E. Robinson St., so how about the East Gallery Robinson? That could be abbreviated to E.G. Robinson and be mistaken for a landmark celebrating late film legend Edward G. Robinson for added publicity and mystery.

Let’s pigeon-hole all of the artists who work here and call it the Art Deco Shadow, in honor of the Courthouse design and it’s looming presence, even though it’s built to the north and will never be able to throw a shadow on this building unless there’s a real big fire on the other side.

Try this one out: The Citric Acid Think Tank. It’s Orlando, so the citric reference works. Citric Acid is an ingredient used in lots of foods that Floridians eat, and Acid, on its own, was a performance-enhancing substance used by artists way back when, and some claim even in modern times, adding a bit of romantic art history to the discussion. Also, the phrase Think Tank could be confused with Washington “think tanks,” adding to the merriment and the publicity.

How about the Orange City Workshop? No. That would be confused with Orange City, Florida, the Volusia County town that’s just far enough away from the Atlantic Coast to piss you off as you head for the beach.

Using the word Orange in the title is impossible, unfortunately. It’s too obvious and too out-of-date. Anyway, the days of smelling oranges near downtown Orlando ended around the time Epcot was being built. Hmm. How coincidental. How did that happen?

Sun City Studios sounds nice but one might expect to see Elvis and Johnny Cash. Additionally, Orlando is “The City Beautiful,” not “The Sun City,” which is El Paso, Texas’s nick name.

With major delays in Orlando’s Downtown redevelopment in the past few years, a subsequent flood of available space in the Orlando area, and the recent economic crisis, no one’s really sure what the future holds for The Office Gallery and Art Studio, so for now let’ just keep calling it The Office Gallery and Art Studio.

Never mind.

Copyright 2010

There she stood, long hair dangling in the warm breeze as she writhed like a snake, to the pleasure of the small group gathered to watch. All the people came to stop and stare, including me. But it wasn’t her belly I was staring at, it was the bells on her bottom.

“Did you hear the music?” Did you see her body sing that song?” the wise man next to me asked.

“I was too busy watching the bells on her bottom,” I replied, feeling foolish and narrow-minded.

I was struck at how the bells on her bottom were the perfect accompaniment to the tabla and other Middle-Eastern instruments. Her veil echoed the winds while her belly played the bass.

A man with a curiously intelligent beard then sidled up to me and asked, “Do you know the meaning of the music?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, pensively, feeling ignorant and shallow. “I was too busy watching the bells on her bottom.”

Her hands and arms were floating in the sound waves of the main theme, while her hair changed directions with every measure.

“Do you know why it is that she is performing this dance?” another man asked me, conspicuously awaiting my reply with raised brow.

“I was really taken with those bells on her bottom,” I replied, sheepishly and embarrassed.

I couldn’t get my mind off the way her hips played a frantic rhythm, uninterrupted and even. Everything on her moved in concert, but I couldn’t get my mind off those bells on her bottom.

“Did you notice those bells on her bottom?” a young child asked, innocently.

“What bells are you speaking of?” I replied, feeling deaf, blind and immature.

Copyright 2010

He might be somebody’s pin cushion but he’s nobody’s fool.

Stephan has had enough of this life on the receiving end of endless barbs, needles, thorns and little pricks. He offers no amends for his bad taste in fashion but won’t give an inch to those that attack, including everyone that tries to stick it to him day after day.

Stephan’s life is a painful one, made no easier by those that try to comfort him by telling him he’s a voodoo doll and not a pin cushion.

“All I ever see is seamstresses in dusty fabric shops wearing thimbles with their hair tied back. The next day I see someone that looks like they’re practicing voodoo will be the first,” he shouts to anyone within earshot on a daily basis.

Nobody ever listens.

An angst-ridden pin cushion is notoriously bad company around Stephan’s work place, and his attitude has been going steadily down hill since the day he was stuffed. His was a life destined as a court jester doll until Rosemary, an apprentice seamstress, tore his little jester suit while sewing the tiny bells to his hat, rendering him commercially unviable.

“I’m nobody’s fool I tell ya! Nobody’s!” Stephan shouted hysterically at the start of his last day at the fabric shop.

And with that remark, Stephan silently rejoiced as he could see that his words had finally been heard. All work in the shop came to a screeching halt. And with a stern look and a march to her step, Rosemary approached, picked him up and tossed him to the floor to soak up the puddle of urine left by Missy, the shop’s pet pooch.

“A little help over here!” he shouted to no avail before giving up, laying back, soaking wet, cold, humiliated, and covered with a new layer of old dust.

Just like somebody’s fool.

Copyright 2009

Frankie suffering for his art.

“Can’t you knock first?” shouted Frankie, the red-faced artist, angrily, raising his pallet so that only his eyes were visible.

He was standing in a small, poorly-lit room, with various objects carefully sprawled about the floor while staring at his painting of a pirate. Included were everything from an ashtray and industrial adhesives to nude photos, bottles and buckets. This was a scheduled visit by the students from Stetson University to see his latest work in progress, but Frankie was not quite ready to show it off.

Everett Thomas, the art teacher leading the students, apologized as the students filed in and quickly viewed the display before leaving. He then had a brief, tense chat with Frankie before heading out with the students. Frankie agreed to come and speak to the group a few minutes later and offer insight into his current work.

The students made their way to another room and sat to discuss the show. Energy was high and they were bouncing in their seats to make comments.

“It was an unconventional display of art of course, but aren’t they all,” Mr. Thomas began. “Did you notice how important it was for the artist, right there, during our tour, to re-position the bucket in such a carefully chosen location? A true artist is never satisfied with random placement of his subjects.”

“It was amazing,” Tiffany interjected, her hands on her knees in glee. “That was such a compelling statement. I don’t know where to start. I’ve never had a work of art hit me like that before.”

“I see a man of the sea in horrible pain,” offered Seth, frantically attempting to explain Frankie’s use of color, texture and ‘found treasures.’ “His ability to emote an emotion is incomparable.”

Other students followed in praising the artist’s work, complimenting everything from the pirate hat in the painting to the mop in the bucket on the floor.

Twenty minutes later, Frankie finally arrived to talk to the students and answer questions.

“What was the message you were trying to send with this phenomenal work?” Mr. Thomas said, kicking off the questioning.

“I must start by apologizing to you all about this project,” Frankie said, his face painted with extreme disappointment. “I’ve been up for three days drinking beer, sniffing glue, looking at porn and trying to fix this goddamn leak in the ceiling.”

Copyright 2009

The straw hat weirdo. Drawing by John Coutinho

Last month, Adam, one of the artists an off-Disney studio in Orlando, Florida, after a long night at the easel realized only too late, when he was home, that he had left his iPod in the kitchen of the studio.

“If somebody finds it they’ll hold it for me,” he assured himself as he lay his head on the pillow for the night, comforted by the camaraderie of his fellow artists.

He returned to the studio in the morning and was absolutely steaming when he found his iPod stomped to a million pieces on the kitchen floor.

“Who the hell did this?” he asked, in deep angst, in no particular direction.

“It was a skinny guy with a straw hat, torn overalls and worn-out floppy shoes,” said Seth, another artist, stepping into the kitchen to counsel Adam. “I’ve seen him before. Real weirdo.”

Last Tuesday, Juan, another artist at the studio, had just completed a sculpture of LAX Airport, cut from a single piece of teak wood. It was a commissioned work and took him nearly ten weeks to complete, and was the darling of the local art scene. The sculpture sat on display in the studio gallery for all to see, awaiting shipment to the West Coast.

That afternoon at the studio, Keisha, after bidding farewell to her tap dancing students, looked up into the security monitor at her desk and couldn’t believe her eyes. There was a skinny guy wearing a straw hat, torn overalls and worn-out floppy shoes, swinging an ax at Juan’s sculpture, which was on fire. Something told her this wasn’t right and she got up to investigate.

By the time she got to the gallery he had put down the ax and was hurrying out. The sculpture was chopped in hundreds of pieces, all of them burning. The heat and smoke set off the alarm and the police and fire departments were on their way.

“He was very skinny, with a straw hat, torn overalls and worn-out floppy shoes,” Keisha said to the officer, who introduced himself as Dan Short of the Orange County P.D.

“Did you notice anything strange about his behavior?” Officer Dan asked.

“He was very weird,” she said. “When I asked, he said he was here to fix the plumbing but he wasn’t dressed like a plumber, and it didn’t look like a plumber’s ax that he was wielding.”

“That is weird,” Officer Dan responded.

Nothing more came of it until this morning when Amy brought in a brand new espresso machine for her fellow artists and proudly set it up on the kitchen counter. By noon it had been inexplicably ripped from the wall, thrashed around the room and tossed out the two-story window and splattered on the sidewalk.

Tears flooded down her cheeks when she walked into the kitchen and discovered the vile act.

“What? Who! Why?” she screamed, and was soon comforted by friends, all staring at the carnage in disbelief.

“It was the skinny guy with the straw hat, torn overalls and worn-out floppy shoes,” Seth divulged, as everyone stared at their feet in search of an answer. “I don’t know where he comes from but he’s a real weirdo.”

Just then everyone looked up, shocked to see Seth adorned in a straw hat, torn overalls and worn-out floppy shoes.

“What a weirdo!” Amy screamed at him in horror.

Copyright 2010

Nothing like a good cardboard box to make the world a better place.

Whenever I’m feeling down or losing sight of my soul, a couple minutes inside a nice big cardboard box always sets me right. It’s like when I was a kid and dad brought home something big and new, there might be a wonderful cardboard home for me to get away from it all.

Just something about the privacy, the comfort in knowing no one could know what I was doing. Or more importantly, what I was thinking.

I know my brothers and sisters and parents couldn’t read my mind, but it felt like they could if they could see me and hear me. Not if I was in a big comfy cardboard box though.

The box always took me to all these places I wanted to go. The acoustics were such that the music sounded cozy, the words from the vocalist’s mouth making more sense in my big cardboard home.

It protected me too. Even if I brought it to the dreaded basement and hopped inside; I was alright. And back in the 60′s and 70′s, cardboard boxes lasted for a long time – built from the wood of freshly fallen rainforests.

I long for the comfort of that big cardboard box again. Just a few moments, maybe just a song or two. A hop back in that big box might just do me a world of good, and some good for the world.

Just as long as no one can see me inside, or know what I’m thinking.

Copyright 2010

Very important couple Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon.

In a closely contested vote this week, the Senate approved the dissolution of the relationship of celebrity couple Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins. The couple credits the liberal majority in Washington for the ability to officially end their unofficial two-decade relationship.

“Our work here is done,” stated a satisfied Robbins on the steps of Capitol Hill following the pre-Christmas vote, the Senate’s last act before the Holiday recess. “We had a great ride and feel we have changed the world in ways we never imagined.”

“We didn’t accomplish everything we set out to do but this does not end the story of our pursuit of freedom for all peoples,” Sarandon declared in a prepared statement. “We will merely be taking different roads toward the same ultimate destination.”

The couple paid homage to several groups for years of support in their efforts to help the plight of the common man in his fight for justice and fair treatment in the face of opposition from “oddball factions” such as heterosexuals, the middle class and military veterans.

“This great nation would not be what it is today without the heroic efforts of people like William Shakespeare, Madonna and Oprah Winfrey, and we wish to thank them, our fans and the Academy for all they have done to further our causes,” Robbins shouted, provoking a long ovation from a sympathetic crowd of reporters from most major news sources. He did not specify which nation to which he was referring but the ovation continued nonetheless, with camera flashes popping like fireworks at a Disneyland celebration.

Sarandon and Robbins each made a point to celebrate the tireless efforts and funding of various government programs that benefit drug addicts, repeat criminal offenders, illegal immigrants and global warming, which may never have existed without the guile of the liberal media and the entertainment industry.

Sarandon laughed at a hypothetical question posed by an NBC reporter – playing devil’s advocate – asking if such programs wasted valuable taxpayer dollars to benefit those who didn’t need, want or deserve Federal assistance.

“I think your presence here this evening is the best answer I can give to that question,” Sarandon giggled as she stepped off the podium before planting a long kiss on the mouth of Rosie O’Donnell.

Sarandon and Robbins added that they will continue to provide assistance and support for the two children they bore during their time in office as a celebrity couple. 

Copyright 2010

“I got it. Let’s get outa’ here!” Mark shouted to Josh, who stomped on the gas pedal and sped into the night, leaving a cloud of dust and a shower of rocks in his rear-view mirror.

“Did you try it?” Josh asked, his veins bulging with excitement.

“No. This guy’s solid,” Mark said with one white-knuckled hand on the door and the other on the tiny white package he just picked up. “He wouldn’t burn us. We gotta pay the extra twenty bucks a bag but it’s worth it.”

The two young men continued on their path toward downtown Orlando, the ’68 Camaro shifting in the breeze and roaring through the night. Eddie Money blared through the speakers as the adrenaline rushed through their bodies. They couldn’t wait to deliver their package to the Big Man and receive their reward.

“Hey,” Josh said with a wink, looking at the package, “let’s take a little sample for ourselves.”

“No way man. The Big Man will know,” Mark replied. “Don’t worry dude. He’ll hook us up with a care package.”

“What’s he gonna do with all that stuff?” Josh asked.

“He said he’s gotta deal with all these wacko artists tonight and needs it to get by. He can’t do anything without the stuff.”

At just that point Josh came screeching around the corner, past the Bank of America Building and into a dark alley.

The two men sat silently staring straight ahead.

There he was: The Big Man. The light in the parking lot cast a shadow over him that covered the entire car as Mark and Josh sat shivering in their seats. He approached slowly then suddenly thrust his hand into the driver’s window as Josh cringed.

“How ya’ doin’ mate. Nice ta meet ya. I’m …(insert name of most unlikely friend of yours)”

Copyright 2009

Students at Springfield Elementary School were greatly upset after learning a hard life lesson Tuesday. At the school assembly, hosted by the “new-thinking individuals” on the Springfield Board of Education, it was divulged that the school musical, scheduled for its opening performance on Thursday, is not up to par. While teachers and parents who spoke at the assembly made it a point to credit the young thespians for their efforts, the hard truth could not be concealed.

“It sucks,” said science teacher Frank Warnock about the play, Anything Goes, a standard in community theater, schools, and chock-full of classic songs by Cole Porter. It first opened on Broadway in 1934 starring stage legend Ethel Merman.

Mr. Warnock directed the annual school musical at Springfield for 22 years until Special Education Teacher Scott Gabriel took over for him two years ago.

“I’m glad nobody but parents ever show up for the show because taxpayers would be appalled at what their dollars are paying for,” Mr. Warnock added, to a rousing ovation.

“I knew Ethel Merman, and you’re no Ethel Merman,” stated grandparent Hedy LaFrance, who spoke at the assembly, pointing to 11 year-old Brittany Matthews, who plays Hope Harcourt, the female lead in the play. Ms. LaFrance was a clothing designer for the New York City stage in the 40s and 50s and knows a thing or two about the theater, or theatre, as she pronounces it. She worked with the Queen of Broadway on several productions and could see right away that Ms. Matthews should keep her focus on schoolwork for future success.

“Broadway wasn’t paved with good intentions,” boomed parent Stan Lockwood to the cast members who cowered in one corner of the auditorium. “If you weren’t spendin’ so much time on them damn computers, maybe you’d have time for some learnin’. Try typin’ ‘THIS MUSICAL SUCKS’ into one o’ them Internet search things and dog-gonnit if ‘SPRINGFIELD ELEMENTARY SCHOOL’ don’t pop up first.”

Mr. Lockwood’s theory was quickly blown by a student with a laptop in the audience when Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats appeared first, but his point was well made, if not well taken.

Marianne Washington, whose ten year-old son plays Moonface Martin, pointed out that a shortened version of the play or perhaps a different musical altogether might be more appropriate for the students, who range in age from 5-to-12.

“How about Godspell or Little Shop of Horrors,” she supposed. “A few songs, easy sets and costumes and a plot that leaves room for the kids to improvise.”

“This isn’t the seventies anymore, Marianne,” responded fellow parent, Diane Stewart, a friend and alumnus of the school with Mrs. Washington. “That was fine when our parents and teachers were smoking P.O.T., even more than you and I were, but we can’t get away with that stuff anymore.”

Conversation then shifted toward the budget and how it is vital that the school show the County that an elementary school can put on a sophisticated musical and that talent presented would provide evidence for more funding to arts education.

“That’s like using Liza Minelli as an example that pharmaceuticals work,” chirped Avi Bjornsen, a brash second grade teacher who has seen many a student ridiculed in class for participating in the production. “Anything Goes is too much for amateurs. This production sucks and the students suck, but at least they’re trying and should be commended for that.

“I find it oddly coincidental, however, that Mr. Gabriel chose a show featuring the song ‘Blow, Gabriel, Blow,’” she added. “Is there another message here?”

Twelve year-old Tate Bailey, who plays the male lead, Billy Crocker, was not a happy sixth grader upon hearing the review of his performance by music teacher Jacqueline Favoir, who also spoke at the assembly, scolding the students she described as “immature” and “unfocused.” The music teacher worked briefly with Bailey until she took a leave of absence from her teaching post for “personal reasons.”

Mr. Bailey, a straight-D student at Springfield, theorizes that the small-town nature of Springfield worked against him in his musical pursuits.

“My uncle said that he once slept over at Misses Favior’s house, but she always acts real quiet when I tell her uncle Ronny says hello,” said the wise-beyond-his-years youngster. “Like it’s my fault she’s married.”

“Everybody knows Josh Brantley shoulda’ got the part,” shouted nine year-old Emily Regis, who plays an extra in the production. “Tate was in Special Ed until fifth-grade. He’s one of the stupid kids. I heard Mister Gabriel just wants him to feel good about himself because his dad used to beat him up.”

Rifts quickly developed between Bailey and other members of the production during rehearsals. He and chorus teacher Jonathan Just nearly came to blows at a high-tension rehearsal on Monday. Mr. Just was coaching him through voice inflections often used by singers of the 1920s and 30s and Bailey was apparently reluctant to follow along with an old recording of “Mammy.”

Still hot over the dispute, Bailey, who reportedly still attends a special education class for his deficient reading comprehension – rumored to be at the second grade level – feels he did nothing wrong.

“He wanted me to sing all these stupid songs from 200 hundred years ago,” said the seventh-grader, taking a long pull off his Marlboro. “What am I? Al-fuggin’-Jolson?”

Copyright 2009