Friday, January 26, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
by Jack Johnson
I hope this old train breaks down
Then I could take a walk around
See what there is to see
Time is just a melody
I turned 45 today.
I guess I'm now officially middle aged...
that's if I live to 90.
I need this here
old train to breakdown
Oh please just
let me please breakdown
Martin Luther King Jr. made his "I have a dream" speech at 34.
Teddy Roosevelt assumed the Presidency at 42.
JFK was elected President at 43.
I'm a railroad conductor at 45.
And all the people in the streets
That I'll never get to meet
If these tracks don't bend somehow
And I got no time that i got to get
To where I don't need to be
My father died at 49.
Only four years older than I am now.
You can't stop wishing if you don't let go
Of the things that you find and you lose and you know
You keep on rolling, put the moment on hold
Maybe it's time to stop and smell the roses.
The wisdom's in the trees not the glass windows
I got to break on down
But I can't stop now
Thursday, January 18, 2007
He also appeared on "ABC's Primetime Live," last Thursday. I actually missed the broadcast (you can view most of it here.) They replicated the experiment, and found that the results weren't much different than they were when he acted as the Learner/Victim back in 1962.
For those of you new to this blog, you can read the post I wrote back in March. It's titled "Shocking." This essay tells the "Milgram Experiment" story, through the eyes of my family. It was one of my better received posts and I'm pretty proud of it.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Grand Ahbeets (pizza, for those of you in Utah). May I help you?
Me: Yes, I'd like to order a large pie with moots (mozzarella for all of you outside the New Haven area.)
Grand Apizza: Okay...Anything else?
Me: (Calling into the family room) Do you guys want a salad?
Me: Yes, I'd like a large salad...no onions.
Grand Apizza: What kind of salad dressing?
Me: Poppycorn dressing.
Wife: What did you say?
Me: Poppycorn dressing.
Wife: It's peppercorn. Not poppycorn.
Grand Apizza: Sir?
Me: Sorry, make that peppercorn dressing.
Grand Apizza: Okay. Give us 30 minutes.
Wife: Where did you get poppycorn from?
Me: Well...it has those little poppy seeds in it.
Wife: (laughing hysterically)Those aren't poppyseeds. Those are peppercorns...hence the name peppercorn dressing.
Me: Oops! I did it again.
Wife: Maybe you can put some aspirin and creme rinse on that salad.
Me: Ha! Ha! Ha! Very funny. Very funny.
Wife: Well, at least you have more material for your blog.
Friday, January 12, 2007
This made me wonder…Do you suppose he complains (like I do) about how much money they take out of his check? I can hear it now:
“Blimey! I made $1,000,000 last week, and I only brought home $650,000! Bloody taxman!”
This mornings reports reminded me of the time (in 1976), when I was drafted by The New York Cosmos, (okay, maybe drafted isn’t the right word.) I was 14-years-old, and playing soccer for my middle school’s team. I had gone to the local Morsan’s Sporting Goods store to buy a new pair of cleats, and while there, I filled out an entry form for a contest to become a New York Cosmos’ Ball Boy. I had never won anything before in my life, and I was shocked when I got a call from the store the following week. The woman on the phone told me that I had won the contest and I should be receiving a letter from the Cosmos.
A few days later, an official letter with a Cosmos letter head arrived. In it, the Cosmos congratulated me on winning the contest and said that I should bring a parent or guardian with me to Yankee Stadium (This was their temporary field, while Giant's Stadium was being built in New Jersey). The letter continued, saying that a Mr. Rooney, a Cosmos representative, would meet me at the press window. He would provide me with an official New York Cosmos’ ball boy uniform, and then give me further instructions.
I was beside myself.
Being a fatherless waif, I enlisted my older brothers: Jimmy, Johnny and Brian to take me to the Bronx. Brian’s friend John Murphy also came along for the ride, (side note: this is the same John Murphy who some 25 years later would challenge me for my “Conductor to the Stars” title.)
I remember being a nervous wreck on our drive down to the city. I had never been to New York City before; in fact I had hardly left West Haven. The antennae on my mother’s roof was able to pick up three New York TV channels, WCBS Channel 2, WNEW Channel 5, and WPIX channel 11. Their 10PM newscast left me with one impression …New York = Crime. I thought for sure that I would be mugged the minute I stepped foot in the Bronx. I expressed my concerns to my brothers, but being brothers, they were less than sympathetic. “Don’t be a baby,” they said, “This is a chance of a lifetime. Maybe, you’ll even get a chance to meet Pele.”
At this point in my life, Pele (probably the most popular sports figure of all time) was one of my heroes. I finally decided that meeting him might be worth getting mugged.
I wasn’t mugged when we reached Yankee Stadium, but I was accosted. The perpetrator was Mr. Rooney, the Cosmo Representative. He was a tall, middle aged, balding, white haired, Irishman, who looked exactly like James J. Kilpatrick, the nasty “point, counterpoint” guy on “60 Minutes.”
Before buying tickets at the ticket window, my brothers dropped me off at the “Press” window. I met Mr. Rooney and told him that I was the Morsans’ contest winner. He wasn't impressed. He threw a cheap green rugby shirt and a pair of white nylon shorts at me. Both were two sizes too big. “Okay,” he said in a thick Irish brogue, follow me.”
I followed Mr. Rooney through a labyrinth of tunnels in the newly renovated Yankee Stadium. I wasn’t much of a Yankee fan back then, so the mystique of the place was lost on me. We finally reached a dressing room where I met three other ball boys. After getting dressed, Mr. Rooney spoke with all of us. His face turned red, when he shouted out orders like a drill sergeant. He told us that we were there to do a job, not to play around. He expected us to be on our toes at all times, and that we’d better not interfere, or in anyway delay the game. We were not to approach the players for autographs or bother them.
I wanted to raise my hand and say that I must be in the wrong place. “I’m a contest winner,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t dare. Rooney’s big Irish face was now bright red, and he was beginning to froth at the mouth. “Okay,” he finally said, “let’s get to work.” We followed Rooney out through another labyrinth of tunnels until we reached the Yankee dugout. I was seated next to three identically clad ball boys, who I believe were getting paid to be there. Each of them had thick New York accents and they laced together a string of profanity like I had never heard before. They had the kind accents the kids did on “Wonderama.”
“Unique New Yawk! Unique New Yawk!"
Bob McAllister, the host, ran a contest in which New York kids repeated this phrase ten times fast:
“Unique New Yawk… Unique New Yawk…”
It wasn't like they meant to say New Yawk. It's just that their New York accents prevented them from saying the "R." I used to wonder if McAllister had them repeat this phrase just for laughs.
After we stood for The National Anthem, Mr. Rooney told me to stand on the sidelines, near the 417 marker in center field. This was my turf and I better guard it with my life. While running across the field I heard my brothers screaming my name. They were seated at field level. They were surrounded by a bunch of Mexicans who didn’t know a lick of English. By this time, the whole lot of them had mucho cervezas, and they were shouting to me in unison.
“Hola! Bobby, Hola!!!”
In the first half of the game, I let a ball get by me, and the game was delayed for about two seconds. When I went back to the Yankee dugout at half-time, Mr. Rooney told me that I better pay closer attention to the game. I wanted to shout,…“But I’m a contest winner!,” I felt the words rising in my throat…but I didn’t dare.
In the second half of the game I caught a ball in mid-air and swiftly handed it over to the player on the opposing team. I could hear my brothers and the Mexicans cheering for me from across the field. At the end of the game I returned to the dug out, where Mr. Rooney led us back to the locker room to change our clothes. No paycheck, no “nice job," no "thank you.” No one offered to give me an autograph.
I felt so used.
After I got changed, I was led back to the Press window, where I was reunited with my brothers. I was surprised to find them standing there with two beautiful women. Both of these women were dressed in white jump suits, with big floppy picture hats. They looked like they were dressed for a day at the races in Saratoga, not Yankee Stadium. Apparently my brother John had spotted them sitting a few rows ahead of them. Each of my brothers took turns imagining who they might be. Perhaps they were a player’s wives. Maybe they were a coach’s or an owner’s wife. Finally, John went up to them and basically asked:
“You look rich and famous…who are you?
It turns out that the older of the two women, was the French girlfriend of the artist Leroy Neiman. Neiman was there painting Pele’s portrait. The younger woman, (who was one of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen) was her daughter. The older woman told us to stick around, maybe Leroy could introduce me to Pele, or at least get me his autograph.
With the exception of my brother Jimmy, none of us had ever heard of Leroy Neiman (he is now practically a household name), but by this time, I was tired and disappointed with the whole ball boy experience. I just wanted to go home.
“Suit yourself,” my brothers said. We got in the car and went home.
I wonder… How much a Pele autograph would fetch on Ebay?
Monday, January 01, 2007
NEW YORK POST
December 29, 2006 -- "ANIMAL House" boosted the careers of most of its young stars like John Belushi (Bluto), Kevin Bacon (Chip), Karen Allen (Katy), Tim Matheson (Otter), Tom Hulce (Pinto) and Stephen Furst (Flounder). But one of the brightest, Sarah Holcomb - who at 18 played the mayor's virginal 13-year-old daughter who passes out half-naked in the slovenly Delta frat house - tragically fell off the map. As Chris Miller, who co-wrote the screenplay of the 1978 comedy classic and penned the new book "The Real Animal House," relates to mrskin.com: "She was young, younger than the rest of us. We were a fast crowd. Drugs were everywhere. She fell into what, for lack of a better term, you would have to call bad company. And got [bleeped] up on drugs. Coke, primarily, if memory serves," Miller says. "[She] wound up in some home for [bleeped]-up young girls . . . wound up sort-of erased from life. I don't know what became of her. Sad story." Holcomb only made three more films before vanishing into obscurity after "Caddyshack."
My train had already made its final station stop and was pulling into the Stamford train yard when I spotted her; a lonely, pretty, thin blond woman in her mid 20’s. She was still seated in the middle of the train car when I approached her.
“Ma’m,” I said, “Where are you going tonight?”
“Westport.” She said.
“Well…if you’re going to Westport, you should have transferred in Stamford for the train to New Haven.”
She suddenly raised her head and looked around. She finally realized that she was the only passenger left on the train.
“Where are we?” She asked.
“We’re in the train yard in Stamford,”
“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” She screamed.
“Woo! Calm down.” I said. “It’s no big deal. My shift is over, I’ll just drive you back to the station and you can catch the next train to New Haven from there.”
“When is that?” She asked.
“In about an hour.”
The woman began sobbing uncontrollably. She told me that she had to get to Westport station now. She had someone waiting there for her and she couldn’t be late. If I had a cell phone at the time, I would have let her make a call, but this was about 18 years ago, BC (before cell phones).
“Listen,” I said, “don’t get upset. I drive through Westport on my way home, I’ll make a little detour and drop you off at the train station. I’m sure whoever is waiting for you will still be there.”
The tears that had welled up in this woman’s beautiful blue eyes were suddenly gone and she was now smiling. The extreme mood swings she had exhibited in this short conversation were amazing, and I began to have doubts about her mental health. She climbed into the front seat of my Honda Civic, and I began to wonder if my ride offer was such a great Idea.
“Hi, I’m Bob,” I said, as we pulled out of the train yard parking lot.
“Nice to meet you Bob. I’m Sarah.”
Something about Sarah was familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“So Sarah…Do you live in Westport?”
“No, I’m staying here with some relatives.”
As we drove down I-95, I noticed that Sarah seemed anxious. I chalked this up to the fact that she was in strange car with a strange man. I tried to put her at ease with some small talk:
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an actress.”
Bingo! Like in the old cartoons, a little light bulb turned on over my head. I was slowly beginning to put the pieces of the Sarah puzzle together.
A few months previous to my conversation with Sarah, I had run into an old childhood friend of mine. He had recently been diagnosed as being bipolar, and had spent several weeks in a psychiatric hospital. He told me that a fellow patient of his, was a girl named Sarah. Sarah, he said, had starred as the mayor’s 13-year old daughter in the movie “Animal House,” and as Danny Noonan’s (Michael O’Keefe’s) girlfriend in “Caddyshack.”
I think my friend wanted me to be amazed by this revelation, but I was more amazed that I never realized that the same actress had played both of these parts.“Are you sure, that mayor’s daughter was played by the same actress as Maggie, Danny Noonan’s girlfriend in Caddyshack?”
“Listen,” he said. “I was locked up with her in the looney bin…I’m sure.”
I now looked over at the pretty blond girl that was seated next to me, and wondered if I should dare ask the question. I bit my tongue for a while and then …Ah, what the heck:
“Sarah” I asked, “by any chance…did you play the mayor’s daughter in Animal House?”
“Wow! She said, I’m surprised you recognized me.”
“And didn’t you also play Danny’s girlfriend in Caddyshack?”
“Yes! Yes I did…Not many people realize that I played both of those parts.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I have an eye for those kinds of things. I really liked your Scottish accent in Caddyshack.”.
“Scottish!” She seemed insulted. “I wasn’t Scottish. I was Irish. Maggie O’Hooligan’s the name." She then went into character and recited her lines from Caddyshack. She concluded with…
“Well t'anks for nuttin.”
She smiled and seemed to finally relax, that was until I asked if she had done any movies lately.
“No,” she said. “Acting jobs are hard to come by, and I’ve been dealing with a lot of personal issues lately."
I told her that she was certainly pretty enough to do modeling work and that she had beautiful eyes.
“Thanks,” she said, “and you have a cute smile.” The conversation was starting to get a little weird now, so I made sure that I mentioned that I had a fiancé in the next few sentences.
When we reached Westport Station she thanked me for the ride, grabbed her things and got out of my car. I watched as she walked up the stairs to the platform, where a woman (her mother, I presume) waited for her. Part of me had wanted to tell her about our mutual friend from the mental hospital, but then I thought it best to respect her privacy. It wasn’t till a few days ago, when I read the above story in “The New York Post”, that I decided her problems were public knowledge and I’d share this story.
Before writing today I googled her name and found this entry on the ACME animal house trivia website:
Sarah Holcomb's (Clorette DePasto) four-year film career ended with Caddyshack in 1980. She reportedly turned to alcohol and drugs and slowly lost touch with reality as she suffered from schizophrenia. The 2004 film Stateside is reportedly about her descent through alcohol, drugs, sexual abuse and finally mental illness. I am told she is now living a quiet, obscure life far from the madness of Hollywood under an assumed name and does not wish to be found.
Sad. Very Sad.