What Has Robby Been Up To?

I’ve been a member of a Facebook Group called You May Be From Capitol Heights, Suitland and Hillside? for quite some time.  I haven’t been active until recently and since the group includes quite a few people I knew during my childhood (I went by Robby back then), many ask me what I have been doing in the 55 years since I moved from Capitol Heights. Since it is really difficult to respond in Facebook chat I thought it would be easier to just add my bio from Classmates. If you click on any of the links below, you’ll be entertained by further details. So, here goes . . . 

     CURRENT RESIDENCE:

1986 – Present – Eldersburg, MD

     SCHOOLS:

1957 – 1959 – Bradbury Heights Elementary

1960 – 1962 – Capitol Heights Elementary

1963 – 1965 –  Maryland Park Junior High

1966 – 1968 – Central High

1973 – 1974 – Prince George’s Community College

1974 – 1976 – University of MD, College Park (Graduated with B. A.)

1977 – 1978 – University of Maryland University College (now called University of Maryland Global Campus) – Studied for master’s but didn’t finish.

     CHILDREN: Pamela, born 11/17/70, Sean, born 4/1/72.

     GRANDCHILD: Jessica, born 02/15/2001.

     WIFE: Nancy Dullea from Philadelphia.  Married on 7/7/84.

     DOGS: (All Yorkies) – Heidi 12, Savannah 9 and Noelle 1.

 JOBS THROUGHOUT LIFE:

     DURING JUNIOR HIGH/HIGH SCHOOL:

1965 – Paper Boy for Washington Post

1966 – 1967 Red Barn in Coral Hills

1967 – 1968 Shoe Salesman at Baker’s Shoes (Iverson Mall and Prince George’s Plaza)

1968 – Shoe Stock Boy at Montgomery Wards in Landover Mall

     MILITARY SERVICE:

May 1969 – February 1973 – Stationed in Taiwan July 1969 – February 1973.

1969 – 1973 – U. S. Air Force Communications Specialist

1970 – 1971 – Taught Conversational English at Republic of China Air Force Academy in the Gangshan District of Kaohsiung, Taiwan.

1972 – 1973 – Disc Jockey with American Forces Network Taiwan

     EMPLOYMENT AFTER DISCHARGE, BEFORE AND DURING COLLEGE:

1973 – Pots and Pans Street Salesman in Washington, DC

1973 – Good Humor Man

1973 – 1976 Cab Driver

1977 – 1979 Computer Systems Operator at University of Maryland

     EXTRACURRICULAR JOBS:

1977 – Failed candidate for Greenbelt City Council

1978 – Organized Antique Auctions to benefit American Cancer Society

1979 – Gong Show Host for two benefits in Greenbelt, MD

1991 – Organized auction for American Heart Association

1991 – 1993 – Managed two Bands in Baltimore, OHO and Experience Wheeler. OHO was signed to a record deal.

2013 – 2015 – Booked and Managed Standup Comedy at Belisimo’s in Finksburg, MD

     PROFESSIONAL WORK:

1979 – 1982 – Business Sales Representative for Liberty Mutual

1982 – 1996 – Commercial Producer at Consolidated Insurance Center

1996 – 1997 – Commercial Producer and Manager of Commercial Property & Casualty Department at  Crawford, Slevin & Hicks – Agency was sold

1997 – 1999 – Producer at Saratoga Insurance Brokers

1999 – 2008 – Commercial Producer at Diversified Insurance Industries

2008 – 2018 – Commercial Account Manager at HMS Insurance Associates

Retired on 12/31/2018. 

Check out the posts for rather funny stories related to some of the jobs. More are on the way.

Heavy Cool Jam and The No Rhythm White Dudes

A few of us got together 30 years and 50 lbs. ago and made this rap video for my son Sean T. Phillips.

Many of you will recognize the backup artists, “The No Rhythm White Dudes.” The guys are John Clayton (John Melon Ice), Tom Campion (T.C. Mallet), Bob Middleton (Spinder Fella), and Ron Stokes (Dr. Cool), Since this was filmed, Tom Campion has died and I believe Ron Stokes has, as well.

This video transformation was made possible by my third cousin Kurt Sussman.

I hope you enjoy it.

Note: This video was made in 1972. If you deem anything here that is inappropriate or politically correct, tough.

I’M BACK

After several years of not maintaining this blog, I am back. Twitter took me away, but Twitter is not the same site now as it was then, so I need another outlet.

I have a lot of stories in reserve and have recently updated the posts and links and will be adding more. The majority of links are nostalgic, but there are a lot of others to useful information of today. Check them out and you’ll see.

The best way to navigate this site is via the menu to the left. Find what is of interest and click on it. As you scroll down, the stories/posts are first, followed by videos, more posts, links categorized for your convenience and more posts.

I upgraded my account, so you are not attacked by ads.  I don’t want to monetize my blog since it is my baby and I want you to stop by.  I plan to write until I can no longer.

Thank you.

With love,

Bake My Fish

Who Left the Red Barn Door Open?

It was 1967. I was 17 at the time and a big fan of the emerging fast-food craze. McDonald’s was taking off, and we had a place named Sidley’s Burger Shack on Marlboro Pike, near the Hillside Drive-in Theater, selling yummy hamburgers for fifteen cents a pop. I loved Fridays because my mother often brought home Sidley’s dinner, which included hamburgers, fries, and shakes. So, I thought the best way to get a constant supply of burgers was to go to work for the new place called Red Barn that had recently opened in Coral Hills. Although the goal was to gorge myself on free eats, I had fallen upon a pretty decent job. Red Barn was a really good chain that was started in the early 60s in Ohio, whose first Franchisee was Harry Barmeier. At its peak, they had around 400 restaurants in 22 states, as well as Canada and Australia. What I liked about Red Barn that was different from McDonald’s, was they sold fried chicken. My mother grew up in Southern Virginia, so fried chicken was one of the foods I learned to love. I still do but have to abstain because of the cholesterol problems we know about now, that we didn’t hear about then.

I was on the night shift, which went until closing. Our shift manager was a fellow named John. He was all of 19 but was still the boss. John was on his way up the corporate ladder, yet he was very down to earth. We often messed around with him. He drove a dark blue Karmann Ghia that usually started, but sometimes did not. John had a rather weak stomach.

The type of hat we wore.

Our blanched French fries were made from scratch, using a potato peeling machine and slicer. We blanched the fries and put them in the cooler for frying when needed. There was a product called Stay Fresh we used to keep them from spoiling. It probably caused health problems, but what the hell did we know in 1967? I couldn’t find anything on the Internet about it, but I would guess it was somehow related to MSG. When Stay Fresh was sprinkled in milk shake mix, it had a foul smell. One of our pranks was to take a bit of shake mix, drop a little Stay Fresh in it, and ask John to take a whiff and let us know if the mix was OK to use. The smell never failed to make him vomit. And we laughed our asses off. Sometimes John would have a drink set aside for himself, and we would add a little Stay Fresh to it when he wasn’t looking. Once he took a sip, he was a goner. It got to the point where we would just tell him it was in his drink (even though it wasn’t) and he would barf. Quite the chuckles for us punks.

My favorite task at Red Barn was to work the grill. Cooking the hamburgers, fries and chicken made me feel like a chef. It kept my Ichabod Craneish persona (picture Ric Ocasek with zits and a paper garrison cap) away from the customers, and I preferred to avoid their whiny orders, anyway. Working the counter usually ticked me off, but running the grill gave me command of the entire process.

The policy of Red Barn was to allow us to have free fried chicken only on Wednesdays and Sundays. But we were cleverer than they thought. At the end of the evening, any leftovers were fair game for our gluttonous ways. Around 10:00 PM, we would drop a load of chicken in the fryer, knowing it couldn’t be sold by the time we closed, leaving us with quite a bit of waste, that either had to be thrown away or consumed. John usually looked the other way, and we had chicken on whatever day we wanted.

Robbery of fast food restaurants was a fairly new phenomenon. During my time at Red Barn, we got hit twice. Once, a guy came in while I was cleaning the grill, hunched down near me to avoid being seen from the window, pointed a gun and yelled, “Where’s the money?” It took me a couple of seconds to realize what was happening, and I just said, “It’s in the back.” He was anxious and ran into the back of the store, while I took a moment to gather myself. Then it dawned on me what was going on. I shook for a while and stood still, then figuring he was gone, went in the back looking for the rest of the crew. No one was around, so I worried a bit, then opened the walk-in refrigerator. Everyone inside instinctively put their hands in the air until they realized it was me, and John asked, “Is he gone?” Since no one was bleeding we figured he was. John then called the police. What the gunman didn’t realize was the cash registers had not been reconciled, so “The money was in them.” Robber Man did get away with the petty cash box, escaping with about $35.00. A big haul, and perhaps a couple of nights of drinking, or one fix of whatever drug he probably abused.

One of the establishments in Waldorf

The second attempted heist was just this side of ridiculous. Oftentimes after we closed, our activities included a drive to Guys and Dolls pool hall in Silver Hill, for an early morning round of pocket billiards, or a jaunt to Waldorf to throw our wages away in the slot machines that were legal at the time. This particular evening John was going to drive a few of us to Waldorf. We closed the store, and started piling into his Ghia, when we heard, “Give me the money!” We looked around to see where the voice originated and saw what appeared to be a gun peeking out from the fence behind the store, with the “criminal” hiding in the bushes. The Karmann Ghia wouldn’t start, so we pushed it with John using the driver’s door as a shield, as we backed out of the parking space, snickering all the way. After popping the clutch, the car started, and we drove away from the “bad guy,” and headed to Waldorf. Our subsequent laughter was probably a combination of fear and relief that this particular robbery attempt was committed by a fool. We survived for another day of French fry blanching and terrorizing John.

My stint at Red Barn gives me fond memories. I’m not quite sure what happened with John’s career, but being the kind, gentle soul he was, I would guess he fared well (unless a corporate audit revealed our chicken thievery). I tend to think if people are good, good things come of it. Since I don’t remember his last name, I can’t Google him to see where he might be (just entering John brought about 1,040,000,000 results). But the last Red Barn franchising leases expired around 1986, so I can assume he has left the night shift.

A Typical Red Bar

I just hope wherever John is, he has a reliable car.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

 

Who’s on the Marlow, the Marlow?

In August of 1973 I began attending Prince George’s Community College, while living in Imperial Gardens Apartments in Suitland, MD. After being discharged from the Air Force in February, I had been through an attempt to sell pots and pans and one season of driving a Good Humor truck. Now it was time to start working on an education. After several months of growing my hair and beard, my Hippie Wannabe look was beginning to take form. You may recall in my Good Humor post I mentioned how several of the Ice Cream Men drove a taxi in the off season. I was glad they directed me to this particular occupation. Since I was also attending summer classes, there would be no further Ice Cream Man duties. Hacking was my immediate future until graduation.

Cab driving proved to be rather lucrative. The Government paid me $388 a month on the G. I. Bill to be a full-time student, and I rented a cab on the weekends from the Bluebird/Yellow/Suburban Cab Company in Marlow Heights, netting between $150 – $200. Working on New Year’s Eve was usually worth an additional $100 – $150 for the night. I was averaging over $1,000 a month, tax free (please don’t tell Uncle Sam), which was a tidy sum back then. It was enough to support my wife and two tots (aged 1 and almost 3), and allowed for the occasional bottle of Boone’s Farm, Bali Hai, Ripple, or a six pack of Black Label. Whenever school was closed for a holiday or snow emergency, I rented a hack and spent the day driving, and studying on the cab stand during slow periods. It was the ultimate temporary profession.

Most of you probably have in your mind the stereotype of the taxi drivers in most cities, who can’t speak English, or feign misunderstanding to drive you out of the way and run up the meter. In 1973, the drivers were primarily American who spoke and understood English. But, in defense of today’s cabbies, we weren’t getting constantly mugged and ripped off by passengers, as seems to be so prevalent now. Sure, there was the occasional robbery and the passenger who jumped out without paying, but not to the extent it is today. Those most desperate for work tend to gravitate toward the danger and hassle, because no one else will do it. Cut the drivers a break when criticizing their lack of language skills, if you don’t mind. You’re lucky they are there when you need the ride.

“Who’s on the Marlow, the Marlow?” That’s the call from the dispatcher over the two-way radio putting out a job in the Marlow Heights section. How it worked was the first cab in line sitting on the Marlow Heights stand, located in front of the Giant Food/Steak in a Sack in the Marlow Heights Shopping Center, was given the job. Why the phrase was uttered twice, I’ll never know. Maybe it was to be sure we heard him. If there was no cab on the stand, the dispatcher called “Marlow 1st,” and any driver who was empty in section could bid on the job. The one closest to the fare would get it. “Marlow 2nd” was the next call if no one was empty in section. In this case, the taxi had to be in Marlow, dropping someone off or out of section empty. The closest to the location of the passenger won. Then if it went to “Marlow, Marlow,” which was the final call, and the first driver to bid got the fare.

Recently I met with some folks who grew up in Marlow Heights. The website in the highlighted link is run by Chuck Fraley. He organizes get-togethers of people who were youngsters in the area during the 60s and 70s. I discovered Chuck’s site while doing research for my Blog, and I’m glad I did. The group met at the Steak in a Sack for a terrific meal that brought back memories of the many sandwiches (basically a steak and cheese in a pita) I ate during my tenure as a cabbie from 1973 – 1976. Chuck was all “retroed-out” in his Ban-Lon shirt, Macs and Chucks with the colored shoelaces. He really works to “Keep the Memories Alive!”

We had several taxi stands in the area. There was the one at the Prince George’s Motel, called “The PG,” which was across the street from Iverson Mall, where I sold shoes at Baker’s in 1967. We had a stand in Suitland at the Scot’s gas station (I forget what it was called). In Temple Hills we were on a dirt lot at the corner of Brinkley and Temple Hills Road, called (now stick with me on this), “The Dirt.” Those clever guys. Then there was the stand outside Andrews Air Force Base at the Ramada Inn called (sing in unison), “The Ramada.” By far the busiest stand was The Marlow. After moving to Greenbelt in 1975, I worked out of the Hyattsville office, and my favorite stand was at the Little Tavern on Route 1, right outside the University of Maryland campus (I was a Maryland student at this point). The reason I liked that location so much was not just because of the great little burgers, but its name. It was called “The Ritz.” Someone had a sense of humor in naming that one.

Most people these days are moaning and groaning about the price of gasoline; how it’s cutting into their budgets and causing them to forego the extra Starbucks coffee or chocolate bar, just to keep their heads above water. Try having no gas when you are driving for a living. On October 17, 1973, just a couple of months after I started hacking, the Organization of Arab Petroleum Exporting Countries decided to get even with the Western world for their support of Israel. Their plan to use oil as a weapon, by making it difficult to obtain, was secretly negotiated in August, in preparation of Egypt and Syria’s united assault of Israel. Both countries launched their attack on October 6th (Yom Kippur), and it was the beginning of the fourth Arab Israeli war.

Fine and dandy for them, but my family had to eat and the Oil Embargo was not a welcome addition to my lifestyle. Sitting in line waiting for gas, and running out of gas while waiting, was not a particular thrill. It was irritating. In one instance, I was lucky enough to get a big fare going to Glen Burnie. The good news was I got a lot of cash for the trip. The bad news was I ended up hitchhiking, holding an empty Clorox container (it was in the trunk in case of an emergency), to get to a station and wait in line, so I could fill up the jug and get back to my taxi, with just enough gas to find another line that I could join and eventually fill up the car. Hitching a ride with long hair and a beard (two more months of growth), wearing jeans, Chucks, and my old Air Force fatigue jacket, isn’t a particularly appealing look to passersby. The addition of the Clorox bottle to my ensemble gave some people the impression I was a bum. My Hippie Wannabe look was transformed into Hobo Chique. It was a killer look, and I don’t mean in the sense of hot and sexy, I mean killer in the sense of homicidal. Fortunately, a real Hippie stopped in his VW bus and drove me around to get the bottle filled and back to my cab. Kindred Spirits. “Peace, Brother. Groovy.”

One result of the Oil Embargo was the proliferation of self-service islands at gas stations. Although the first self-service station was opened in 1947 by George Urich, they didn’t really catch on. In fact, many states banned them due to concerns about the elimination of jobs, and distrust of the inexperienced motorist spraying the ground (and possibly other customers) with petrol or driving away and ripping a hose off the pump. After the crisis that occurred in ’73, and the subsequent spike in gas prices that resulted, stations began offering the choice of full-service at one price and self-service at a lower cost. Still, many states didn’t allow self-service stations, but as we all know, today they are prevalent everywhere except New Jersey and Oregon. Additionally, the many incarnations of forced increased mileage legislation grew out of the Embargo.

Aside from the gas crisis, I enjoyed driving a cab, usually working the night shift because there were fewer drivers to compete with, and fewer old ladies with eight bags of groceries to be lugged to their sixth-floor apartment, who only took the cab a few blocks, which meant a low fare, small tip, a lot of time spent, and losing my place in line at the stand. If I did work during the day, I avoided The Marlow, opting to drive around on the edge of several sections at once so I could “stretch my hood” when a job came out. If there was no cab on the stand of a particular section and it went to 1st call, I would make up a location in that section, hoping no other cab could see me. Any time a driver got caught fibbing he was cut off the air for an hour. If I was lucky enough there was no other cab closer to the job, I would get it, which meant I had to hurry, so as not to be discovered. A long delay in picking up a passenger, when I was supposedly nearby, was a dead giveaway. But we could always use the excuse we had a bathroom emergency on the way.

Marlow Heights is fairly close to Andrews Air Force Base. Andrews is where  Air Force One, the plane used by the President, is housed. There was always a “Press” plane as part of the entourage whenever the President went on trips. Although there were several reporters privileged enough to accompany the President on Air Force One, most of them flew on the Press plane. And, many of them ordered taxi service to get them into Washington and Northern Virginia once their plane landed. Our dispatcher would give us notification that several cabs would be needed in the Andrews section, so those who wanted the fares would go and sit on The Ramada at the appropriate time in anticipation of a pretty decent trip. The passengers were usually interesting, talkative (after drinking on the plane) and tipped well. I had the pleasure of carrying Connie Chung, Pierre Salinger and Garry Trudeau on separate occasions.

But the best part of driving a hack was practicing my “Chicken Call.” There was a driver whose last name was Abel. I forget his first name because they always just called him Abel. He was a full-time cabbie who worked during the morning hours to make enough money to go to the racetrack in the afternoon and bet on the horses. There were several guys who drove to bet. Then after the races were over, if they lost, they’d come back out on the street and work several hours, or if they won, they would take the rest of the day off. Abel was kind of a cut-up and the dispatchers liked him. My task was to cackle like a chicken over the radio, and I am very good. What was so much fun about the “Chicken Call” was the dispatcher always blamed Abel. My original intention was just to cluck for fun, but when they started yelling at Abel, it became a pretty good game. Sometimes I would continue on until the dispatcher was irritated to the point of threatening to cut Abel off the air. And Abel wasn’t even working. We had different dispatchers at different times, and they always blamed Abel. I got a real chuckle out of it, and it beat studying while sitting on a stand.

I often think about what it would be like to drive a cab today, but I’m sure it would not be as entertaining as then. Uber has put an end to most taxis. I’m not even sure Abel is still alive, but if I were ever to cross his path again, I’d confess to the “Chicken Call,” just to see his expression.

“Who’s on the Coop, the Coop?”

With Love,

Bake My Fish

1968 – Fifty-Five Years Ago

In 1968 I was a skinny, pimple-faced High School Senior. My biggest challenges were refraining from squeezing my zits and soiling my undies in my sleep. Worrying about economics, paying bills, who was in charge of the world, or any of those things took a back seat to fantasizing about my Business teacher, Miss Hopkins, and her Tabu perfume, and selling shoes at Bakers in Iverson Mall. But the whole country was going crazy; I just didn’t think about it.

It has been argued that 1968 was the year that changed everything. Lyndon Johnson grew frustrated with the war in Vietnam and decided not to seek reelection. He had become President upon the death of John Kennedy and then won the election by beating a lame opponent, Barry Goldwater. But now he wanted out. The country was being torn apart by opposition to a war that was none of our business. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were assassinated. After the death of MLK, the cities erupted in riots. Whole city blocks were burned to the ground.  Richard Nixon was elected to his first term as President, only to resign the office amid scandal five years later. O. J. Simpson won the Heisman Trophy.

It’s easy to say today that everyone was just out of their minds back then, but unless you were there you can’t know. I was there, but oblivious, so how can anyone not subjected to it really understand? There are news accounts and historical records, but the atmosphere is not in the records. It was surreal. I remember my mother waking me by yelling upstairs to my attic apartment that Bobby Kennedy had been killed. All that went through my mind was that one day five years before, where the only thing on television was the funeral of John Kennedy. Was I going to miss Mayberry R.F.D.? Seriously though, it was shocking. How could I understand what was happening? My graduation was in just a couple of days, and that was heavy on my mind.

The Tet Offensive had just taken place in January. We watched the television reports, while my parents worried I would be drafted. I worried, too. Everyone was expected to wave a flag and declare love for America, but the young people could not figure out why we were in Southeast Asia. We were being thrown to the dogs for the sake of stopping Communist aggression. Or, so the story went. No one wanted to call it a Civil War.

But that’s all in the past. We made a mistake and lost a lot of lives as a result. I just didn’t want to be one of them. John Prine wrote a great song, “Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You into Heaven Anymore.” It was written in 1971, but I always loved the picture it painted. Honestly, I don’t really care what your feeling might be for that period of time, but while I was there, that’s how I felt. When the media was hammering Bill Clinton and George W. Bush for avoiding the draft, I sat back and held my tongue, because I understood. No one really wanted to go.

It’s easy to go to war when you can do it by proxy. Your life is safe if someone else is doing the fighting. Soldiers lose an arm, a leg, an eye, a life, a family, but it’s all OK, if it is them and not us. Politicians wave their arms high and scream “bloody murder,” but it is not them who are suffering. They don’t walk around with a limp, or an eye patch, or scooting around in a wheelchair. Yeah, they send their kids, but they send their kids. Not them. They’re safe. You can label me Liberal or whatever, but the fact of the matter is, war kills. It isn’t good for anyone. Everyone suffers.

As a society, we have to find a way to avoid war. If we are attacked, we have to react. Afghanistan made sense because that was the haven of Al-Qaeda, and they struck first. Iraq was vengeance, getting even for the past. 

If fifty years of history taught us anything, I would be surprised. We never seem to learn. When it comes to economic gains over death, we accept death as a consequence. As long as it’s not our death. Throw a soldier into the heat, and he’ll take it. But we’re running out of soldiers. In 1968 we had the draft, which meant the soldier had no choice. He had to go. Today, there is no draft, and with what is occurring at the present time, fewer men and women are opting to join. They don’t want to die any more than the politicians who have chosen their fate.

With that being said (ha ha), we need to change the future.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

P.S. Check out the videos for 1968.

Remember Pinball?

PINBALL – WHERE TO PLAY

Soccer – 1974

Fantastic – 1972

Swing Time – 1963

Diamond Jack – 1967

Disk Jockey – 1952

Pinbot – 1986

Strikes and Spares 1978

Suspense – 1969

Stars – 1978

Bram Stokers Dracula – 1993

Fish Tales – 1992

Funhouse – 1990

Simpsons – 1990

Gottlieb 300 – 1975

Elvira – Party Monsters – 1989

Addams Family -1992

Eight Ball Deluxe – 1981

Twilight Zone – 1993

Charles Manson vs. Peter Cottontail

After reading this, please don’t form an angry mob outside my house brandishing pitchforks, torches, sickles, and lanterns. There’s no right or wrong position being espoused here. I’m just sayin’ . . . .

Charles Manson is well known for his cult following of marauding murderers and sadistic killers. He had a way of convincing some folks to snuff out lives indiscriminately, without conscience. Fortunately, he died on November 19, 2017, so for some sickos, their martyr is gone.

Don’t you think it’s strange we have a goofy rabbit, sometimes referred to as Peter Cottontail, who (as the folklore goes) carries a basket filled with colored eggs, chocolate images of himself and jellybeans (shaped like eggs) and delivers them to children on a day that celebrates the resurrection from the dead of the executed savior, Jesus Christ? I don’t quite understand the correlation of the two, but I assume when the Easter Bunny was conceived, some thought went into associating his origin with the death of the Messiah.

In its infancy, Christianity was considered a personality cult. Throughout history, many people were killed by the followers of Jesus. The difference is it was not at his bidding, whereas Charlie Manson commanded his people to rain mayhem down upon unsuspecting souls. Christ couldn’t know what was going on (as he was dead), even though those doing the killing and torturing declared they were doing so “in his name.” Was Peter (the rabbit) created as a sort of soothing distraction? Who could blame a cute little bunny, giving away treats, for any indiscretions of the past? I’m sure anyone being tortured during the Spanish Inquisition did not have furry little critters dancing in their heads. They were just a little busy croaking.

There were several phases of inquisitive behavior (1184 – 1860); however, the Spanish Inquisition (1478 – 1834) is considered by historians the most notorious of them all; quite a blemish on the permanent record of influential distributors of The Word. There is not much mention of it during contemporary sermons. It’s better to forget and let bygones be bygones. After all, those who were involved are no longer available for interviews, and descendants can’t change whatever an ancestor considered appropriate.

Although the episode was referenced by many at the time as a “cleansing of souls,” it is argued to have been an economic grab bag, “unofficially” endorsed by the Spanish Monarchy to beef up a depleted Treasury, whose bills were coming due. The Horror Show began as a campaign to rid the land of non-believers and establish the Catholic Church as the one true religion.

But a big factor in its intensified purpose was the King of Spain owed lots of coin to Jewish merchants and money lenders, who helped finance overseas exploration and military campaigns (the Crusades), expecting to eventually be repaid. Because the King’s cupboard was bare, the best way to avoid paying back the loans was to force the Jews to become Christians, and if they refused (which most did) they would be killed under torture and their estates surrendered to the Church state. It was a win/win. If the Jews converted, they would donate a hefty portion of their funds to the Church state and if they didn’t, the money became Church state property upon their expiration.

Apparently, the fun part for the Inquisitors was the torture. They developed Torture Devices that no Confessor could ever withstand. Anyone subjected to these confession-letting tools eventually agreed they were heretics or would become Conversos, or died before they could. It’s interesting to note that several of the torturous contraptions had some underlying sexual perversion (hmmmm) associated with them. Some were attached to genitalia or inserted in orifices normally used for sexual activity or expulsion of bodily fluids and waste. I can picture in my mind a Church official wringing his hands while slobbering on his bib during the confessional ceremonies, enjoying the suffering of the soon-to-be convert or corpse (maybe that’s why they wore the long robes). Once they were done with Jews and heretics, the Inquisitors turned to witches, which gave them even more opportunity to indulge their sexual repression.

As a youngster, Easter meant coloring eggs, eating chocolate, a new suit from either Robert Hall in Suitland or Hecht’s Bargain Basement in Marlow Heights, those colored chicks from the 5 & 10 in Capitol Heights that always died within a week, and pancake breakfast at the First Baptist Church on 57th Avenue. Then there was fidgeting through the preacher’s talk about Christ and why we celebrate Easter, but all that went over my head because I couldn’t wait to get home to find the hidden eggs. I bet more children overdosed on hard-boiled eggs during that time of year than any other. The eventual flatulence was cause for celebration as each kid tried to out-toot the other. It was a grand time, followed by several days out of school. So, what about Jesus? Lost in the childish celebration of Easter is the reason for the holiday.

The Spanish Inquisition was evil, regardless of how it was perceived while taking place. Hindsight and our evolving mores tell us that something like that should not have happened. But it did. The views of torture and execution change with the times. Anyone subjected to the Inquisitors would think Abu Ghraib was like summer camp.

It’s over and done with and we just have to live with the fact it ever occurred. Fanatic following of any personality can lead to evil and multiple deaths of innocents. It just has to be kept in check. We can declare all the holidays we want to make it seem better, but it can’t erase the past. Charles Manson should never be forgiven. His victims can’t speak out for themselves. Neither can those who suffered during the Inquisition.

I’m just sayin’ . . . .

With Love,

Bake My Fish

A Trigger Warning of a Trigger Warning Warning of a Need to Observe the Trigger Warning

“Okay. Okay. Let’s get on with the show. I promise not to get upset.” That’s what I think when starting every TV event because I’m being blasted with all the gibberishy nonsense regarding what I’m about to watch that may possibly in the eyes of someone somewhere upset me in some trivial or possibly major way if I am sitting improperly clothed in a go-cart by the light of the moon in a corn field recently used as a launching pad for the Jeepers Creepers beast. I mean, c’mon, isn’t the Rating System enough?

As of 1996 this is what we have:

• Rated G: General audiences – All ages admitted.
• Rated PG: Parental guidance suggested – Some material may not be suitable for children.
• Rated PG-13: Parents strongly cautioned – Some material may be inappropriate for children under 13.
• Rated R: Restricted – Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian.
• Rated NC-17: Adults Only – No one 17 and under admitted.

That seems sufficient to me. If it’s G, I don’t intend to watch it because it will be too lame. If it’s PG maybe, but probably not. PG-13 might have some dirty stuff and the expletives may fly out of control for a scene or two, so I’ll chance it. R means there will be lots of cussing, violence and sexual innuendos. I’m all in. If it’s NC-17 (which I don’t recall ever seeing) it’ll probably be a terrible movie pretending to be porn. So, why does the media feel the necessity to add more warnings to each offering?

How did the warnings start? No one brought my attention to Barney Fife pulling out his bullet-less gun, Elly May acting too sexy, Coyote trying to kill Roadrunner, Dick Van Dyke almost kissing Mary Tyler Moore before he trips over the ottoman, Popeye punching out Bluto, Curly whoop whooping his way through unintentionally humiliating someone while Moe slaps him silly, or some secretary in some show lighting up a cigarette. Do you get my drift? Today all those things can be considered hurtful if even thought about, so be warned.

I get it. Society changes and so do moral norms. Movies and television shows during the 60s were wholesome and free from meddling by those who would school us regarding what we should watch. We only had three stations, so how much damage to our psyche could there be?

The first time I heard cursing on TV (I think it was “ass”) I didn’t necessarily hold my hand over my mouth in shock and putter away from the screen, but I did notice.

It’s not so much that cussing, and the occasional exposed nipple brought about the need for trigger warnings, but that society has gotten so fragile that everybody deserves to have their feelings addressed. I’ll give you an example of an all-encompassing farcical notice:   “Depictions of child neglect / abuse / abandonment, extreme poverty, alcoholism, Domestic violence (repeated, overarching theme), (Attempted) sexual assault, murder, multiple storylines of sexual assault, including a workplace harassment plotline, a Gay Pride parade, a villain as a serial abductor/assaulter of women, resulting in forced pregnancies, incest, drug use, there is a suicide, a violent scene involving a car, a food fight, a kid putting peanuts up his nose, supernatural horror, some creepy images, jumpscares, fighting over a parking space,  spurting blood, drinking of cheap fortified wine, dog taking a dump, spider walking up a girl’s arm, smoking, racism, classism, discomfort caused by a character inserting a pair of contact lenses which could be uncomfortable for people who are sensitive to seeing someone touching their eyes, Knock Knock and Yo’ Mama jokes, panty hose laid over a chair, skid marks on underwear, back view of some guy peeing on a bush, ice cream cone dropped on the ground, vomiting, eating bugs, etc.”

Ridiculous, huh? Maybe we should have a button added to our remotes to allow us to skip past or hide the trigger warnings. For the moment, I’ll just suffer through them and hope the movie or show was worth all the cautionary advice.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

 

A Rose By Any Other Name

This Christmas I watched Bad Santa. For me it was a rerun; my third viewing. Anyone who has seen this movie was either put off by the profanity or thought it was frickin’ hilarious. I’m among the latter. The movie is politically incorrect; seldom appropriate; often vulgar; but downright funny. The fat kid in the picture to the left latched onto Santa, who holed up in the kid’s house, while avoiding the authorities. He was a Bad Santa.

After an hour into the movie, “Kid” gave Santa his report card (all Cs, with one B). Santa looked at the grades and focused on the boy’s name. “Your name is Thurman?” “Yeah.” “Your name is Thurman Merman?” “Yeah.” Then he looked at the kid with this expression that could only be associated with the thought, “You poor, pathetic loser. No wonder your life is so screwed. What kind of name is that?” Exactly.

Now let’s go through a scenario of the Life and Times of an Ill-Named Child. The first traumatic experience will be at roll call in grade school. Chipper and anxious to learn, until their name is called out by the teacher. This embarrassment lasts however long roll is called. If it’s Reform School, it could be until 18. If college, 22. Then there is employment. An office job brings with it name plates on the office door or cubicles, name badges at any business events and business cards. The snickers and chortles never end, because there is just too much exposure.

What are some parents thinking? They seem not to be able to forecast what a name can do to a child’s future. Richard Head, Tom Thumb, Ira Heinilick, Hymen (anything), Isabell Ringing, Easton West, Howard Ewdune. Should I continue? I like funny names. I mean no offense to anyone whose name may really be one of the aforementioned Monikers. Nothing personal, but the names are funny.

If you go through life responding to “Thurman Merman,” which carries with it wedgies and ass-whippings that linger until adulthood, you have to look at your parents and ask, “What did I do?” “Did I come out of the womb sideways? Did I look too much like Dad? Why did you punish me like this?” Sure, it’s rebellious and patriotic to name a child “America” or “Freedom,” if at the time of birth, you were on some acid trip and flexing your political muscle. But the kid has to spend about 75 years lugging around an Albatross. Imagine being at the Assisted Living Facility and after a lifetime of questions, still explaining your name to the staff, while placing your teeth in the jar and hair on the lampshade. Mom? Dad? Scarred For Life is not a video game. Don’t try to be funny when naming your kids.

I always liked the name Sir Dingle Foot. He was a member of the British Parliament, who died choking on a sandwich in 1978. How he died is not what fascinates me; choking on food is a common occurrence (not always leading to death). What puzzles me is the name “Dingle.” It’s quite possible there may be more than one person in the world named “Dingle.” My question is, “Why?”

With Love,

Bake My Fish

Nine Tenths or a Tenth of a Thent?

Pssst! What’s wrong with this picture? Give up? Well? What? It’s the fraction. I didn’t pay much attention when I was younger, nor have any idea when it began. If you know, tell me, because I am clueless. Now that I’m old and cranky, it just pisses me off!

Why do the gas companies use 9/10 as a measurement? I’ve never purposely pumped 9/10 of a gallon in my car. I usually try to round it off at the .00 mark, occasionally going a penny over (man, it ticks me off when that happens) and then try to go all the way to the next .00. Sometimes I get caught at .77 and can’t fill the tank any more without spilling it on my shoes. My preference is to pay for the fuel in round numbers, not tenths. I rarely have a pocket full of tenthathents.

The consensus is sellers of petrol use the fraction as a marketing tool. That’s not particularly profound information, is it? I’ll bet more than a few of you reading this see 3.23 9/10, and think you’re getting a deal at 3.23, not 3.24. Many will drive a couple of more miles to buy the gasoline at 3.22 9/10, because it seems like it’s only 3.22. The strategy seems to work. I too, fall prey to their ploy. And to be even sneakier, they don’t use dollar signs (like they’re some fancy restaurant), as if we lemmings won’t know it’s money. Lately, I seem to have stopped chasing down the few-cents-cheaper-gallon-several-blocks-away. It just doesn’t seem worth the fight. I’ll probably burn any savings during the chase down. When gasoline is necessary, I just get it.

Using the fraction is really no different than going into a store and buying something for $9.99. You’re only paying nine dollars, right? And you are probably not even calculating the tax in your head. Who’s the better marketer; the petroleum companies or the retailers? The 9/10 is so annoying. Can’t they just round it out? Or switch to .99? That’s almost as irritating, but for some reason not quite as much as 9/10. Decimals are more appealing than fractions. Fractions seem a bit unwieldy. Decimals are quick and clean. Fractions are like a little fence you have to jump. Decimals are to the point. Hell, they are the point.

The price of gasoline is high, but how many of us buy bottled water? If a 16-ounce bottle cost $1.25, a gallon is $10.00. It appears the day has arrived where people are paying more for water than gasoline. Of course, no one can drink 10 gallons of water a day, but we can easily use 10 gallons of gas.

We’ll complain, debate, moan and groan about the price of gasoline, and how the Middle East is the cause of all our problems. Regardless, we won’t walk, carpool or drive more efficient vehicles. Why should we? When it comes to sacrifice, it is better to tough it out and pay the bill. Let’s save on groceries or other things in our lives. Eating at cheaper restaurants is helpful. I wonder how many Oil Executives frequent McDonald’s?

Well, I’m going to go now. I need to drive my SUV to pick up dinner. They don’t deliver. Probably a result of the fuel prices.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

Today’s Gladiators – Professional Football Players

I love the NFL. There’s nothing more exciting to me. After the Super Bowl, I count the days until the Draft, followed by off-season training sessions, then pre-season and the new season. I fear dying before I get enough. It is the coolest and most anticipated thing in my life. When the season starts, I am in 7th Heaven. “Lord, I thank you for the NFL.” Give me football on my death bed.

Millions of Americans and people all over the world love the sport. Players sacrifice their bodies and minds for our enjoyment. Billions of dollars are at stake. Players undergo surgeries we have to research on the Internet to understand. A lateral this and a medial lateral that is music to our ears. Living beyond 65 for an offensive lineman is a luxury, but who cares? We have our sport. Today’s Gladiators provide our entertainment and milk our weaknesses by proxy.

The NFL is a mutli-billion dollar industry. Our stadiums are like the Colosseum of Rome. The players are shoved out on the field, and we hope to catch a violent hit or two. We are just missing the lions and other beasts tearing flesh from the fighters. If it wasn’t moralistically challenged, the creatures would play a part. Like the Gladiators, football players are shown the exit door once they have suffered enough injuries or grown too old to be of use to a team (although a Gladiator’s death ended their careers). Winning is everything, and job security is short-lived.

In virtually every sport there is the hope of tragedy. With Nascar, we are waiting for the fiery crash. In hockey we love the fight, where a couple of teeth are knocked out. A knockout in boxing brings with it a cheer from the fans, and tears from the loser’s family. Baseball brawls, with the dugouts emptying on the field are particularly exciting; the more players involved, the more newsworthy the event. An NBA player entering the stands to punch a fan in the mouth gives us goose bumps. Soccer hooligans are damned-near idols in some countries, tearing down fences and trampling spectators. A near-death collision in the NFL is spectacular. We thrive on the violence. Am I wrong?

Every year the NFL winner comes down to which team is the healthiest. When key players are hurt, the whole complexion of a team changes. How many of you relish the thought of your team’s biggest rival losing a player who makes a difference? I’m happy when Dak Prescott is hurt, or Ezekiel Elliott doesn’t get to do his cereal mime because he’s out with an injury. It helps the Commanders’ chances. And you are thinking the same thing with regard to the opponent of whichever team you cherish. The most anticipated statistics on Friday are the injury reports.

I’m not apologizing. At times I feel sort of bad hearing the news someone has broken a limb or suffered a season-ending injury that can help my team. But I don’t feel that bad. If they don’t die, my conscience is off the hook.

The season is over, and I have to begin the cycle again. Drool is running out the side of my mouth. I only have a few months before I’ll have to apologize to my wife and dogs for ignoring them. Sunday is my domain.

I always justify my love of the NFL by narrowing it down to the fact it is only 16 games, 3 hours each, which really only involves 48 hours. Two days out of 365; unless the Commanders make the playoffs. The math is what it is. Some wives don’t really get it, unless they are into the sport, too. I guess it’s because I watch the other games that can affect the Commanders’ season; crossing my fingers with the hope someone gets hurt.

Hail to the Commanders!!

With Love,

Bake My Fish

Maryland’s Dying Sport . . . On a Morphine Drip

It is generally accepted that duckpin bowling originated in Baltimore in 1900. There are references to it as far back as 1892 in the Boston Globe, claiming the sport to be of New England birth. Personally, I prefer the Maryland version, attributing it to the efforts of John McGraw the famous New York “Baseball” Giants Hall of Fame manager and Wilbert Robinson, the Hall of Fame catcher who played for two Baltimore Orioles teams; from 1890 – 1899 (the National League team that folded after 1899), and the 1901-02 Orioles of the American League, who moved to New York City in 1903 to become the Yankees. That’s right, those Yankees.

Growing up in Maryland with duckpins was terrific. During my formative years (the 60s) the sport was in its heyday. My best friend’s dad coached our team and Saturdays were anxiously anticipated. I couldn’t wait to get to the lanes for the bowling (but really for the French fries). Bowling Alley fries were the best. That was when they cooked them in real fat, not this sissy trans-fat-less stuff we use today. Grease, salt and ketchup . . . . mmmmm, the best. We were active kids, not slothy adults, so the cholesterol didn’t clog our arteries. In my adult years I bowled with a fellow who drenched his French fries in mustard. If we wanted to snatch a fry or two while he was on the lane bowling, we had to eat them with the yellow stuff. I guess his intent was to thwart our thievery of his snack. It worked. Or maybe he just liked them with mustard. On our team, he was the only one.

During the 1960s there were Fair Lanes alleys all over Maryland, and several independent lanes, as well. The sport was going strong. I bowled on leagues in Suitland, Forestville (Parkland), Queenstown, Hyattsville (Prince George’s Plaza), Marlow Heights, Catonsville (Westview), Laurel (with mustard guy), Silver Spring (White Oak), Riverdale (Rinaldi), Wheaton (Glenmont), College Park, and probably a couple of places I’ve forgotten.

The good thing about duckpin bowling is anybody can do it. The balls are small, weighing from 2 to a maximum of 3.75 lbs. But don’t get the impression it is easier than ten pins, because it’s not. You can throw the ball right down the middle and “chop” for just two pins. No one has ever bowled a perfect 300 game in duckpins, but in ten pins it is a frequent occurrence. Many ten pin bowlers think they’re “tough guys” because they can roll the heavy ball down the lanes. They ain’t so tough when ending up with two pins for a whole frame because the first ball chopped, and the next two were rolled through the hole. I guess they really don’t appreciate the challenge and precision necessary to be a good duck pinner, so they make fun of it.

With the game disappearing, there won’t be as many opportunities to test their skill as in the past. The executive director of the National Duckpin Bowling Congress said in 2016 that there were 41 congress-certified duckpin bowling alleys, down from nearly 450 in 1963. The biggest factor in the decline was the demise in 1973 of the only company manufacturing automatic pinsetters (one source says it was 1969).

Ken Sherman invented the automatic pinsetter for duckpins in 1954, but refused to sell the rights to Brunswick because he didn’t want to leave New England. Shortly thereafter, AMF developed a pinsetter for ten pins, and eventually the device became the preferred equipment due to their willingness to expand and Sherman’s desire to stay at home. His company didn’t survive, and today Fair Lanes establishments are named AMF.

After enlisting in the Air Force in 1969, I came back to Maryland in 1973, but didn’t join a league until 1980. Then I bowled for a few more years and stopped in 1987. I still had the itch, so in 1992 I organized a tournament for my employer, which included 40 teams, with 5 bowlers each from companies with whom we did business. Two hundred people participated during the middle of February to have a grand time of socializing and duckpin bowling. It was required that each team have at least two females, so those participating would have to allow the clerical employees (peasants) to take the afternoon off to bowl. Otherwise, they would just send the males, who usually golfed and found other ways to waste their afternoons while the peons did the work.

After five tournaments I left the company, but the event survives to this day. We gave trophies for 1st, 2nd, 3rd and Last Place finishers. That’s all fine and dandy, but my preferred awards were for Best Team Name and Best Bowling Attire. My favorite team name and attire (designed by my son) is in the picture to the left.

Many of you reading this participated in one or more of those tournaments. Most of the pictures from the 1996 Awards Ceremony are posted in the sidebar link “5th Annual CIC Tournament Pictures,” which is under the “Duckpin Bowling” category. Take a peek and you may find yourself or someone you know. Don’t be alarmed by how much older and fatter you look today. It’s always fun to see what used to be.

If you have not bowled duckpins in the past (or even if you have), find an alley and have a good time. Take the kids. Most centers will put down gutter bumpers, so the ball stays on the lane, and the child feels like a star. Spend a few minutes clicking on the links (particularly the videos) in the sidebar under “About Duckpin Bowling.” You might want to check out Robin’s Web, a site devoted to the sport.

It won’t be long before duckpins are completely gone. The equipment can’t last forever.

Roll one for the Gipper.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

Who’ll Gimme Five?

Only a few of you might recognize the guy in the picture. His name was Richard Rose. He died in January 2007, but I didn’t find out until December of that year, just about a year after it happened. I felt really bad that I didn’t know it was coming. He was sick for a while, and I had no idea. Keeping up with friends isn’t that hard. In this case, I failed miserably.

On the debut of my job at the University of Maryland Computer Science Center in 1976, Richard Rose was one of the first people I met. I liked him as soon as I shook his hand. His smile was infectious under the mustache; with those eyes that kind of lit up when he grinned. You know what I mean. People just felt really comfortable around him. I was assigned to his shift and we went right to work. Richard didn’t mess around; always moving and helping. He was a great boss, who made you feel like an equal. What most people didn’t know was he had a passion for Auctioneering.

The setup at the Computer Science Center was Richard at the upstairs card reader console with several intercoms throughout the building, used by the IBM Card Reader Operators to communicate with him. The whole purpose was for the students, who were learning how to program, to have us run their jobs incessantly; sometimes to the point of boring. Then every once in a while you could hear coming from the intercom, “Who’ll gimme five? Who’ll gimme five dolla? Who’ll gimme five dolla, five dolla? Gotta five dolla, five dolla. Who’ll gimme ten? Who’ll gimme ten dolla, ten dolla? Gotta ten dolla. Who’ll gimme fifteen? De fifteen, de fifteen? Gotta fifteen. Who’ll gimme twenty?” Richard used different sing-song inflections and would go on and on into the whole rendition you might observe at a tobacco auction (where as a boy, he developed his fascination). The students loved it. We were all cracking up. Richard really was good.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Yeah, Richard goofed around with the rest of us; shooting rubber bands (we used them to wrap the output before giving it to the students) and playing practical jokes, but he was very serious about his job. When Richard died, he was Executive Director of the University of Maryland Academic Telecommunications System (UMATS) and USM Office IT. He was a Big Shot (not a reference to rubber bands). Richard posthumously received the Rose-Werle Award.

There was more to Richard Rose than the hard-working Computer Guy/Auctioneer. When I ran for the Greenbelt City Council in 1977, he worked the polls for me. His beautiful wife, Carla, was the Executive Assistant to Maryland State Senator Edward T. Conroy, and Richard introduced me to Senator Conroy, who introduced me to Steny Hoyer (who at the time was the 38-year-old President of the Maryland State Senate), Delegate Leo Green and a couple of other local politicos. Even though their implied endorsements were helpful, I lost the election by 128 votes, ending my blip of a political career.

The next couple of years thereafter, Richard helped me with two money-raising Gong Shows (Ed Conroy was one of our Celebrity Judges at the first one). He never balked at lending support to people he liked. Later we had an auction for the American Cancer Society at the Greenbelt Town Center. Of course, the idea of an auction for charity was conceived with Richard’s hobby in mind. When the event took place, he was in his glory; “Who’ll Gimme Fivin'” all over the place. Richard was the show, and what a show he was.

My job at the U of MD ended in 1979, and I moved from Greenbelt in 1980. For a little more than a decade, Richard and I sort of lost track of each other. We talked on the phone a couple of times and I stopped in to see him once, while in College Park on business. That was about the extent of our “keeping up.” Then in 1991, I organized an auction for the American Heart Association of Carroll County. If you have an auction, who do you call? Richard Rose! He jumped at the opportunity.

In downtown Sykesville, Richard occupied the gazebo in the picture and the audience lined the street. “Who’ll gimme five? Who’ll gimme five dolla? Who will give me five dolla, five dolla? Gotta five dolla. Who’ll gimme six? Who’ll gimme six dolla? Who’ll gimme six dolla, six dolla? A six dolla, six dolla? Gotta a six dolla, six dolla. Who’ll gimme seven?” And on it went. Richard was smiling and chattering, and the audience loved him.

When the auction was over, we came back to my house for some grilled steaks and conversation about the past. After dinner, Richard went home, and being the piece of crap I am, I never saw or talked to him again. On January 5, 2007, he died at age 59.

Don’t let a good friend leave you without having a chance to say goodbye.

With Love,

Bake My Fish