Paul Caputo and I began writing humor columns together for the University of Richmond Collegian at the beginning of my Junior year. Paul had started his term as The Collegian’s opinion section editor that year, or maybe he hadn’t. I don’t really remember. Maybe it was me, or possibly Scott Shepard. I know it happened sometime during college. At any rate, Paul and I started writing together and later with Shepard as well. It was the start of a writing partnership that would last years and ultimately result in no tangible lasting value except for some free baseball tickets. I originally had something much more positive in mind when I started writing this introduction.
by Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers
Moyers: Why do we need Good? So that we can have Evil? In every culture, religion and the myths it creates serve to control society and, ultimately, culture. The myth of the mysterious character of The Ticket Lady is a legend that occurs in nearly every culture ever studied. Is this an inherent need every society possesses for a black sheep, or is she just a weasel?
Campbell: No. Actually, every society has a need for collecting obscene amounts of money for miniscule traffic violations. The Babylonians, who, though they did not possess automobiles, foresaw the need for extra parking spaces, called this figure “Gilgamesh.”
Moyers: Really?
Campbell: No. That was just a myth created because the far-sighted Babylonians saw the need for Core Courses one day and became determined to develop the most boring myth possible. Actually, they called this figure “Ur-Golgothis.”
Moyers: The Core Course. Now, I remember taking that course. I recall thinking, “This is interesting, but shouldn’t we be learning something more Western?” I feared the PC police were taking over my college curriculum. I suspected that this had something to do with the imposing figure of the Ticket Lady, or possibly Scott Shepard. Was there a connection?
Campbell: No. The “Shepard Figure” of most early cultures reflected their primal need to have weird Southern accents and be crypto-fascists. The Ticket Lady myth goes deeper.
Moyers: Like the myth of the Light-Bringer of the Aztecs?
Campbell: No. You are on crack. What I was talking about was the primal need for a figure of supreme evil, which would ride around in a little electric cart.
Moyers: One time this enormous football player with a band-aid on his forehead driving a little electric cart crashed into me while I was walking to class. I stayed crumpled in a heap near the Gottwald Taco Bell, whilst stupid people on mountain bikes and skateboards ran over me. It wasn’t until three days later that the Ticket Lady rescued me on her cart. I remember being in awe of her prowess as she pressed those little buttons on that little deally thingy she has. Is it possible that the Ticket Lady could also serve as a force of compassion and love, and not just spite and cold-heartedness?
Campbell: Yes.
Moyers: Really?
Campbell: No. But there are two faces to the myth. Animus and anima. Venus and Cupid. Ticket Lady and Ticket Boy.
Moyers: Does that have anything to do with Flagboy? Is there a Flaggirl?
Campbell: No. The Flagboy myth is a separate myth which deals with each society’s need for seriously annoying people. The Mesopotamians called this “Kwisatz-Haderach.” The early Sumerians called this “Irritating Boy.” But the separate entities of Ticket Lady and Ticket Boy go back to something deeper. The two faces of the Ticket Lady reflect the thousand faces of the Home Shopping Network. It also reflects every culture’s need for being drunk and going to Getty Mart. The Chinook Indians called this “Getty-Mart.”
Moyers: Flagboy was pretty cool. I don’t know that I have ever actually been drunk, but one time I drank 13 32-ounce Mountain Dews at the Getty Mart free refill soda fountain. I went to a fraternity party and they wouldn’t let me in, so I just ran straight through the wall. I was pretty hopped up. Is there a connection?
Campbell: No. By the way, nobody likes you. The myth of the Mountain Dew-buzz, which the ancient Gauls called “WHOOOOOOOOOO-DOGGGEEEEEEEEZ!” is part of the subconscious need for drugs when you don’t have anything else, like free Ny-Quil from the Student Health Center.
Moyers: I went to the Student Health Center once. I thought I had a headache. Turns out I was just pregnant. Cool, huh?
Campbell: No. But as I was saying, the Running-Through-Walls myth relates back to each society’s primal need to be stupid. And yet the Ticket Lady shows us how the power of mythology can recreate us, can redefine our relationship to the world, and can give us tickets.
Moyers: Ah. So the Ticket Lady serves a useful function?
Campbell: No. But the myth remains. There is what is known, there is what is unknown, and in between is the Ticket Lady. Mythology remains a powerful force for enforcing the aforementioned minor traffic violations. The ancient Hebrews called this “Yahweh.” The ancient Phoenicians called this “Not Graduating Until You Pay Your Ticket Fines.” I call it “Herbert.” But the power of the myth remains the same. The myth of pointless tickets remains powerful, intriguing and irritating.
Moyers: I ate too many Buffalo wings at Friday’s a couple days ago and I booted all over the parking lot. At any rate, I had really vivid dreams that night, and I remember that in one of them, I was walking alone through the puddles outside the Commons and the Ticket Lady came to me. She drove up to me and her little mobile deally looked as if it was floating, and she said, in a really deep voice, “Richmond is #1 because Wake Forest got moved up to the ‘Real College’ category.” I was so happy, yet at the same time so empty. Does this relate to the eternal myth?
Campbell: No. But the significance of the dream remains unchanged, in that it is pointless, like…
Moyers: A degree in Leadership? The coordinate system? The Greek system?
Campbell: No. Bite me. And, as aforementioned, everybody hates you. As I was saying, the dream is lame, like Pauly Shore movies or small dogs attempting to eat you. Incidentally, the myth of the Scary Old Guy Walking Around The Lake With The Irritating Little Dog is shared in many cultures.
Moyers: Really?
Campbell: Yes.
Moyers: You’re serious?
Campbell: No. The mythological significance of the Ticket-Boy-as-Tragic-Hero is deeper than the myth of the Chicken-Sandwich-and-Bacon-as-Separate-Entrées. There is a feeling of loneliness in each culture that needs an expression — a feeling of despair, a feeling of nausea, a feeling up of the girl sitting next to you at a party when everybody’s drunk anyway. The myth also expresses a culture’s search for a figure who is kind of minty-flavored and improves gas mileage.
Moyers: Like Fla-Vor Ices, or the show “Newhart.” I know what you mean. But what about her role as arbiter of divine intervention? Can we draw a parallel to the myth of Pebbles From the D-Hall, Bringer of Divine Guidance and Fried Or Baked Chicken?
Campbell: No. Bite me.
Moyers: I see. How does that relate to you kissing my — as the ancient Incas called it — big white ass, you queer-as-a-three-legged-picnic-basket, dumb-as-a-small-dog-sniffing-glue, ornery-as-a-snake-with-hemorrhoids, more-evil-than-Megatron-leader-of-the-Decepticons-from-Transformers son-of-a-six-legged-Nazi-motorcycle-gang?
Campbell: No. Bite me.
Moyers: That concludes our interview. Good night and God bless. By the way, I am an atheist. So leave me the Hell alone.
Thanks to a bare modicum of writing skill and a more obvious fondness for bourbon which aligned with that of my journalism professors, my putative career advanced rapidly through my undergraduate years. I went from a practicum story writer for the University of Richmond Collegian student newspaper in my freshman year to Assistant News Editor in my sophomore year, then on to Greek Life Editor and IT Manager (I read MacWorld magazine!) in my junior year, and ultimately to Opinion Editor in my senior year.
For some reason that escapes me now, I acquired a humor column during this process at the beginning of my junior year. This column, titled “Over the Cliff Notes,” eventually ran for 22 installments and was over the course of two years was read by literally dozens of actual humans, only most of which where KA pledges I forced to do so. Its literary influence was quite literally incalculable, and I’m just going to leave it at that.
It occurs to me now that topical humor from college campuses nearly 30 years ago does not age well. I’m sure it was absolutely hilarious at the time, though. Enjoy!
We here at The Collegian pride ourselves on being responsive to our readers.
We also have a bridge to sell you.
We even-more-also have a whole new bagful of thoughtful questions sent in by curious readers like yourself.
Q: When does housing registration and room selection for next year begin?
A: You know, the biggest problem facing America today is not drugs or crime or non-alcoholic beer or even people who say “acrost.”
It is, in fact, our national short attention span. Every day folks like you or me are hindered in their daily activities by their inability to pay attention to anything for any lengthy amount of time.
So if you don’t pay attention in life, you’re going to end up in the gutter, drinking Mad Dog® and eating moldy apples and talking to yourself about Baywatch, which, interestingly enough, would in Latin be spelled “Bæwatch.” Pretty cool, huh?
So, anyway, it’s really important that you pay attention in life. I, myself, am continually being embarrassed by the fact that on an average day, at least 10 people will stroll past me and say “hi, Jeff,” or a similar acknowledgement of recognition, and I have no clue whatsoever as to who these people are.
This is perhaps simply to be explained as being one of the many areas of life that I have “no clue whatsoever” about (viz. Calculus™ and girls), but it still causes me a flurry of consternation every time this happens.
ME: Oh … hi-de-li-ho! [Jack? Bob? Jorge? Torvald? Yoda? … aw, Hell, better play it safe …] How have you been, guy?
PERSON X: Pretty good … those were some crazy times last weekend, eh?
ME: Yeeeeeeeeeaaaahhhhhh … [Does he work at Taco Bell? Is this my brother-in-law? Is he with the Canadian Border Police? I didn’t meet this guy in prison, did I?] Yup, they suuuure as heck were. Look, I hafta run, but say “hi” to, uh …
PERSON X: Helga and Frothgar?
ME: Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaahhhhhh … say “hi” to Helga and Frothgar for me. [This guy can’t be with the Feds … and I’m sure I paid my bookie last week … I think that Totally Hidden Video™ got canceled a few seasons ago … well, I’ll never see him again anyway.] Bye!
PERSON X: Buh -bye!
This is the last time I ever see Person X again until he adds in to my Tuesday-Thursday 11:15 class. So you should really learn to pay attention.
Q: Well, what is the best way to improve your memory or your attention span?
A: The worst thing is the parking situation in the apartments. How ’bout that Ticket Lady? I think she’s Hitler-riffic. But the one time in my life I want to see some heavy parking fines being doled out (to people who don’t have A-Lot stickers parking in front of my apartment so there’s no room and I have to park somewhere like Æ Lot, which is actually parking in left field of the Diamond, when the Richmond Braves aren’t playing), she’s nowhere to be found.
I mean, do they overbook parking lots like airline flights? Or is there a deeper, more sinister force at work here? I don’t know.
Thanks to a bare modicum of writing skill and a more obvious fondness for bourbon which aligned with that of my journalism professors, my putative career advanced rapidly through my undergraduate years. I went from a practicum story writer for the University of Richmond Collegian student newspaper in my freshman year to Assistant News Editor in my sophomore year, then on to Greek Life Editor and IT Manager (I read MacWorld magazine!) in my junior year, and ultimately to Opinion Editor in my senior year.
For some reason that escapes me now, I acquired a humor column during this process at the beginning of my junior year. This column, titled “Over the Cliff Notes,” eventually ran for 22 installments and was over the course of two years was read by literally dozens of actual humans, only most of which where KA pledges I forced to do so. Its literary influence was quite literally incalculable, and I’m just going to leave it at that.
It occurs to me now that topical humor from college campuses nearly 30 years ago does not age well. I’m sure it was absolutely hilarious at the time, though. Enjoy!
Or, for those of you who don’t speak German, like I don’t, welcome to The Collegian, student newspaper of the University of Richmond, which I assume you are already familiar with.
My name is Danny “Dan-O” Noonan, and I am the Opinion section editor. This means, roughly, that I am paid a teensy amount of money “every so often” for editing other columns and occasionally recycling jokes from other places I have read them. I also carefully read all of the reader mail sent to us, considering its suggestions (most of which are “die in flames, you maggot”) and then respond to our concerned readers in a curteous, appropriate fashion (usually short letters that say, “Yeah, well, you suck too.”)
This is because we here at The Collegian pride ourselves on being responsive to our readers. And, for those of you who are New Readers, we wish to present a brief introduction to our fine college – in fact, sort of an “Everything You Wanted to Know about the University of Richmond but Were Afraid of the People Who Could Answer Those Questions Because They’re Scary.” So let’s dip into the reader mailbag here – for those of you who have read this column before, just follow along with the gag – and pull out some of those Most Oftenly Asked Questions. By the way, for those New Readers out there, since you don’t know any better – everything in any of these columns is absolutely 100 percent true.
Q: What is the easiest way to remember my long-distance access code?
A: Well, I’m glad that you asked about social life here at college. If you’re asking yourself the normal freshman question, “will I meet nice people here?” then you can relax. The answer is no, and you’re not going to have any friends unless your mother sends everybody checks like she did for you in high school.
For those of you who are international students or just not familiar with English, try the following hip American greetings to get you noticed at parties:
“Greetings, Senator. I am the Arch-villain ‘Frogface.’”
“I am glad to meet you [insert person’s name here] and I sincerely hope that the gelatin is no longer in your hovercraft.”
“Will you dance with Mr. Wiggly, Sir?”
“Take my wife – please!”
Ha, ha. Just kidding. I didn’t really mean that. That stuff is actually as crazy as a football bat. But why print it, then?
That’s because we here at The Collegian pride ourselves on thinking that we’re funny. But (sigh) down to business. Now we’ll actually answer a letter sent in by a student at the end of last year.
Q: Whom do I get in touch with if I have a medical emergency?
A: I’m happy you asked about dormitory cable services. All of the dorms apparently have cable now. This improves the quality of life, and leaves you with a few new options for your leisure time and several hundred bitter seniors who had to wait until they got out to the apartments to get cable and feel that this little turn of events really just bites ass.
Of course, I meant “really bites ass” in the strict biblical sense.
But the point remains that back when I was a youngster, the dorms came equipped with exactly two amenities: cold and colder running water in the showers, and large or larger scurrying rodents in the halls. We had to walk to class in snow that was eight feet deep, even if we had both legs broken and it was a Saturday. And did we have “Skinemax” to look forward to when we got home (Channel 2)? Hell, no! So just put that in your hat and smoke it.
Now, for those of you that have gotten this far or even read the other columns in this section, both of you will be happy to note that there is a roughly 15% overall decrease in bitching about the lake and the coordinate system from the same time last year.
This means that our columnists are not up to par and we will be searching for new ones. If you are interested in writing for the Collegian, go to hell. Ha ha. Just kidding. If you are indeed interested, please call and let us know.
By the way – enjoy your year. It’s actually pretty fun here.
Working at the Westmoreland News in 1994 was the best summer job I ever had. I worked for peanuts and had a two hour drive each way from Richmond, but I got to do it all at a small county newspaper where I was a reporter, feature writer, copy editor, layout editor and photographer (because there was nobody else to do those things). Best of all the paper’s editor, Lynn Norris, gave me the freedom to write whatever I wanted – way more journalistic and comedic freedom than anyone should rightly give a know-it-all 21-year-old writing for a weekly in the deeply rural Northern Neck of Virginia.
Astrologer’s Note: Remember what I said about quitting last week? Well, I lied. Partly, anyway. This week’s horoscope section is actually a “Do-it-yourself” kit to allow you, the reader, to interpret the puzzling signs of the inexorable motions of the stars and stuff like that. Then, having a guide to all of life’s little omens and portents, you can forecast your future yourself and you won’t have to shell out all 35 cents for a newspaper.
OMENS AND THEIR PROPER INTERPRETATION
Comet colliding with planet in your astrological constellation: Stay home in bed. But don’t panic yet; this is only the sixth sign of the seven to signal that the Revelations of St. John the Divine are coming to pass.
Comet colliding with planet in your neighborhood: This means you should have moved out six months ago.
Solar eclipse in your constellation: A time of great change. Nickles, dimes, and quarters will eerily appear throughout your room, as if by magic.
Lunar eclipse in your constellation: Time to change favorite radio stations.
Strangely reddish sunset: A time of reversal, with great chaos to come: gravity will fail, Hulk Hogan will be dethroned as World Wrestling Federation champion, Russian President Boris Yeltsin will appear as a character called “Spanky” on Seinfeld, and Westmoreland News horoscopes will become funny.
Strangely reddish sunrise: You’re either getting up too early or going to bed too late.
Black cat walks in front of your car: Time to rotate your tires.
Wild turkey walks in front of your car: Time to change bourbons.
Moose walks in front of your car: Time to hit the brakes.
On the eve of the Ides of March, meteor showers are seen, statues weep, and lions and flaming apparitions walk the streets: You will be asassinated the next day on your way to the Senate by Lucius Brutus and Caius Cassius. Your adopted son Octavian will eventually rule the Empire as Augustus, and you will be deified. Rome will encompass most of the known world within 150 years, but in time, internal decadence and external military pressures will force the splitting of the Empire. The city of Rome will be sacked by Alaric the Vandal in 410 A.D. and the last Western Roman Emperor will be deposed by Visigoths in 476. So you should probably stay home.
Your clothes are stinky: Wash them.
You take stuff that is supposed to be a joke in the newspaper too seriously: Don’t read it.
Ed McMahon appears in your constellation:This is the seventh sign. It’s all over.
Working at the Westmoreland News in 1994 was the best summer job I ever had. I worked for peanuts and had a two hour drive each way from Richmond, but I got to do it all at a small county newspaper where I was a reporter, feature writer, copy editor, layout editor and photographer (because there was nobody else to do those things). Best of all the paper’s editor, Lynn Norris, gave me the freedom to write whatever I wanted – way more journalistic and comedic freedom than anyone should rightly give a know-it-all 21-year-old writing for a weekly in the deeply rural Northern Neck of Virginia.
Astrologer’s Note: Okay, I’m really finished this time. You won’t have the Mysterious Professor Zoltan to kick around any more. I’m outta here. Hey – would I lie?
Taurus (April 20 – May 20): Your money problems can be solved easily: send all of your money to me, and then you won’t have any to worry about. Remember, that address is:
Mysterious Professor Zoltan
c/o The Westmoreland News
Montross, VA 22520
Cash or money order preferred.
Virgo (Aug. 23 – Sept. 22): Share a smile with someone this week. But don’t share your toothbrush. That’s disgusting.
Libra (Sept. 23 – Oct. 22): You know what? On the day that they covered Libras in Horoscope School, I played hooky and went to a Phillies game. Sorry.
Scorpio (Oct. 23 – Nov. 21): Your lucky day for the lottery is June 23, 1993. I hope you were playing that day.
Pisces (Feb. 19 – Mar. 20): Don’t you think it’s weird that you drive on a parkway, and you park on a driveway? Yeah, well I think that’s weird, too. Oh, and some stuff will happen to you this week, also.
Gemini (May 21 – June 20): Orion is moving into the house of Gemini, as is Sirius. That either means that you will have a romantic weekend or that you will grow an extra head. I’m not sure which.
Capricorn (Dec. 22 – Jan. 19): Take some time to relax this week. Kick back with some lemonade. Unplug the phone for a while. Shoot out the televsion if Richard Simmons is on it. Blame household messes on “those darn invisible muskrats.” Call up “Judy the Time/Life Books Operator” and ask her out. It’s okay.
Aries (March 21 – April 19): I predict that if you play for a Major League Baseball team this week, you will go on strike.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22 – Dec. 21): You will discover the secret formula for X-ray goggles that really work. Flushed by scientific achievement, you will go out to celebrate your discovery and the neighbors’ dog will eat all your research.
Aquarius (Jan. 20 – Feb. 18): Eat more apples.
Cancer (June 21 – July 22): Have you ever considered just changing your birthday?
Leo (July 23 – Aug. 22): Strive for immortality this week. You know how Benjamin Franklin said that the only two certainties in life are “death and taxes?” Well, you can apply to the government for special tax-exempt status! See if you can figure out whom to apply to to get death-exempt status.
Horoscope Special:
I received a letter this week containing a bunch of green paper with “funny money” written on it and a question. This is obviously a) a disturbed individual with b) much too much free time who c) should not be allowed access to the Xerox machine. However, their question was a fair one: when will “when pigs fly” be? Here is a quick guide to this type of occurrence:
When pigs fly: April 9, 1991. I hope you were watching that day, because they did.
When the cows come home: Duh. At dinner-time.
When Hell freezes over: Next March 7th.
When the Cubs win the pennant: October 12, 2639.
When Westmoreland News horoscopes are funny: Good luck.
Working at the Westmoreland News in 1994 was the best summer job I ever had. I worked for peanuts and had a two hour drive each way from Richmond, but I got to do it all at a small county newspaper where I was a reporter, feature writer, copy editor, layout editor and photographer (because there was nobody else to do those things). Best of all the paper’s editor, Lynn Norris, gave me the freedom to write whatever I wanted – way more journalistic and comedic freedom than anyone should rightly give a know-it-all 21-year-old writing for a weekly in the deeply rural Northern Neck of Virginia.
For weeks, the messages arrived to herald the news. Royal messenger faxes rolled out of the machine, announcing his progress and later his impending arrival. He – Citizen North, Senate Subcommitte Witness North, Celebrity North, Retired Marine Lt. Col. North, “By golly, vote Ollie” North, Candidate North – Oliver North was coming to Westmoreland County.
He is perhaps the most famous public figure in Virginia. He appeared on live national television – under the gun like perhaps only two other men, Clarence Thomas and O.J. Simpson have been – and not only survived, but became a celebrity. He became a folk hero to some, a demon to others. He faced trial and conviction and then was cleared. His face has adorned the cover of national magazines and his picture burned in a Billy Joel video. He was scrutinized over innuendo concerning his secretary, Fawn Hall; he publicly challenged terrorist Abu Nidal to a one-on-one fight; and he was unceremoniously all-but disowned by several major figures of the Reagan administration and the military. But he had survived. And he had prospered. And now he was coming to Westmoreland County.
•
And now it is 5:10 a.m. on Wednesday, July 27, and the alarm goes off in my apartment in Richmond. I clean up, shave, and dress in an old suit, pre-rumpled to achieve journalistic credibility. It only takes me four tries to tie my tie straight. Then I drink coffee and ride off into the sunrise to meet Candidate North at his first campaign stop.
It is 7:15 a.m., and I’m standing in front of the Coca-Cola bottling plant in Montross. There are only a few other people there, standing in front of the plant, and they are obviously other journalists. They wear the standard reporter uniform of rumpled, kinda-nice clothes, armed to the teeth with notepads and vests filled with extra rolls of film.
At 7:28, the Winnebago arrives. The North campaign staff calls it “Asphalt One,” and it is covered from stem to stern in North for Senate posters. The tour mascot is on board, an armadillo – North later says that it represents his tough hide, and he jokingly identifies the armadillo as the “state bird” of Texas, where he was born. North also notes that whenever he is quoted as such, newspapers get letters correcting him that the armadillo is not a bird.
And then Oliver North steps out of Asphalt One. He is dressed in a light blue button-down shirt, tan slacks, and sensible shoes. The flecks of gray in his hair and his boyish face, coupled with his outfit, make him look as if he stepped out of a local theater revival of Mister Roberts, playing the title character. Candidate North has arrived, and he is all smiles and handshakes as he proceeds into the plant.
He walks through the plant, shaking hands and talking, while the reporters circle him at a distance like moths around a porch light. They look at the crates of Coca-Cola products piled to the ceiling, they snap pictures of the employees or the bus, and they try to talk to the randomly-selected spectators for some “local color.”
North campaign’s press coordinator for this stretch of the trip, Dan McLagan, bounds out of the bus. He is accompanied by other soldiers in the cause, armed with bumper stickers and pamphlets, ready to give them to anyone and/or everyone with hair-trigger quickness. Most of the workers in the factory really don’t seem all that excited about any of this.
I wander over to McLagan – an affable character, casually dressed, who occasionally lights one of his Marlboro Lights while he’s talking to you – and he tells me
that the North crew is rested and ready, having spent a fine night in the Inn at Montross, a hundred yards away. The tour begins here, moves to a rally in Colonial Beach at the house of Jeff and Yvonne Kern, and next to the King George Fire Station on Dahlgren Road. McLagan tells me he’ll try to get me “on the bus” somewhere in between, before the tour heads over hill and dale, all over Virginia – it will be a long day for Candidate North and his retinue.
I talk to two local residents who have come out on this frosty morning to wish North well, Jim and Jean Dundas. They talk about how misrepresented and misunderstood North often is by the press, and how his sincere stances have earned him a lot of enemies.
They say it seems that his enemies are unwilling to let the matters of the Iran-Contra hearings rest, and Jim Dundas mention the Central American and Cuban ties of some of the members of the panel that grilled North. He gives me a pamphlet from North’s campaign committee about the “Four big lies about Ollie North and Iran-Contra.”
After a few minutes, the tour group packs up to head to the next destination. The North Winnebago looks like an alien mothership that has collected all its crew – only after leaving behind bumper stickers to monitor the planet while they’re gone – and left for the next solar system. The press members scurry to their cars like Air Force chase planes. I’m one of them.
•
It’s 8:35 a.m., and I park my car and walk towards the Kerns’ house for the rally. I suppose that Asphalt One drives much closer to a law-abiding 55 miles per hour than I do, since the Winnebago arrives about a minute after me.
There seem to be a about 100 people present, and they clap and cheer and North strides off the bus and on to the house’s porch. There are signs and banners and pamphlets and doughnuts, and the doughnuts are very good.
North ascends the porch steps and, after a mercifully brief introduction, begins his speech.
North supporters will probably disagree with you if you say this, but an impartial viewer observing one of North’s campaign speeches for the first time and knowing nothing else about him would probably conclude that Candidate North’s entire platform is anti-incumbency, anti-the current system.
He pledges to fight the “tyranny of the left.” He says that the moribund monster of the current bureaucracy must be done away with, and that you can only “cut the budget by changing the process.” North says that he doesn’t want to see the reserved congressional parking spots at National Airport in Washington, D.C. to be reserved for him or for anybody – with the possible exception, he says, of making them reserved for disabled veterans. He speaks of getting tough with the criminals that the liberal establishment has mollycoddled. “It’s time,” he says, “that we turn these career criminals into career inmates. We need to weld the doors shut.”
“Some people,” North says, “say I’m not gonna fit in. And they’re right.” North cracks that Jimmy Stewart smile of his. People around me begin to sporadically “Amen” during the rest of the speech. “I’m not going to be invited,” North says, “to the two-cocktails-before-lunch parties, or the Barbra Streisand concerts.”
North tells the flock that he decided to run on the day after the 1993 Presidential Inauguration “when we elected whatsisname.” North calls the Clinton (whatsisname) administration “so liberal it’s scary.” Ollie, being the complete anti-politician, promises to serve at most two terms in the U. S. Senate and then retire from public service.
Undaunted by such claims, a young girl standing near me is wearing a “Ollie North for President” tee-shirt.
Any film student watching this rally could immediately identify the scene: Frank Capra, directing Mr. North Goes to Washington. All political rallies have an overt element of campy super-patriotism to them, but North has pulled out all the stops. The amazing thing about him, though, is that after you talk to the man you become convinced that it isn’t just an act. Oliver North may be the Jimmy Stewart and Apple Pie candidate, for real.
North identifies his one special interest that he will bow to as the families of Virginia. He has a grin that he applies to phrases like, “I believe we’re gonna pull this off…” that makes people all warm and fuzzy inside. Some people are thrilled by his 110 percent All-American traits, and some are frightened by them. Whether he is right or wrong, he communicates an unavoidable air of sincere belief in what he is saying.
Although this seemed to many unthinkable – it still seems that way, to many – recent polls show Oliver North running neck and neck with incumbent Democrat Charles “Chuck” Robb. North has gotten an early start on the campaign, with a TV and campaign tour blitz that has left the other candidates in the dust.
I talk to one of North’s campaign team members about the competition. He says that North has the advantages of an early start and a lot of people willing to donate money to his cause. What about the renegade-Republican independent candidate Marshall Coleman? “We make more money before breakfast than he has this whole campaign,” he says.
This statement may not be all hyperbole; the weekend before the tour, a fax arrived from the Oliver North for Senate Committee, declaring that the North Campaign had broken the towering $10,000,000 mark. North proudly notes that the average contribution is under $30, showing his ties to the individual voter; opponents claim that more than half of the recent contributions have come from California, rather than Virginia.
North closes the speech by asking the crowd for three things. “First, your prayers,” he says. “They say that you can’t win a campaign these days by talking about the power of prayer … we shall see.” More “Amens” are heard from throughout the crowd, but not as many as when he was talking about budget deficit reduction. “I’m living proof of the power of prayer,” he says, and smiles earnestly.
“The second is your pledges,” he says, adding that it is the everyday voter that provides the campaign with the money and the volunteers to keep going.
“And third, I ask you,” North says, “to reach out and find five people who didn’t vote in the last election, and make sure they vote in this one.”
Having concluded his speech, North opens up the floor to questions for one of his “people’s press conferences,” where the people have a chance to ask the questions and not depend upon the “liberal media” for their information.
One woman asks how people react to his having lied to Congress. North answers – he has probably only had to answer this particular question about five thousand times – that he did not lie to congress, and that an examination of the facts will show that he stayed true to his duty and followed his orders. The ghost of Iran-Contra will be summoned forth wherever Retired Marine Lt. Col. Oliver North goes for a very long time.
Jeff Kern, who has been standing behind North on the porch, steps forward and announces that unfortunately the tour is behind schedule, and North will only have
limited time. And yet North manages to talk to as many people as he can, smiling and shaking hands.
I ask local resident Susan Wallcraft why she came to the rally. “I’d heard about it at the town council meeting,” she said. Is she a prospective North voter? “Yes,” she says, “we’ve pretty well decided, after we found that he really hadn’t lied to congress.”
Dan McLagan tracks me down amidst the mob leaving the rally, and leads me to Asphalt One to wait for North to finish. He offers me a coke, or some grapes, even though their refrigerator is pretty sparsely stocked. I take a Pepsi, and fumble through my notes.
•
And then North gets in the bus. He reaches across the aisle and shakes my hand firmly.
The Winnebago pulls away from Jeff and Yvonne Kern’s house, and Oliver North perches on a seat across from me. The lady in the front passenger seat says, “Wave to the folks, colonel,” and he turns around to the window and waves at the last few supporters who line the road.
Then it is just me and Oliver North. I work out the nervous lump that has been building in my throat and I ask a question. In fact, I ask several. Here are the results:
What is the last good book that Oliver North read? “Well, I’m still in the process of reading Bill Bennett’s Book of Virtues,” he says.
How does it feel to be a celebrity? “It would be fine if I were a rock star,” he says, “but it’s not something I intended to be. I just wanted to be a marine.”
Doesn’t all the negative attention sometimes hurt, like the sharply-barbed recent jabs in the nationally-syndicated comic strip Doonesbury? “No, you just get used to it,” he says. “That Doonesbury stuff – well, some of it’s actually funny.”
What did the young Ollie want to be when he grew up? “I went through all the usual stages,” North muses, “fireman, policeman, cowboy …” But by the time he graduated high school, he knew that the service was the life for him. “I’m lucky enough,” he says, “to have been able to do something I really wanted to do for 22 years.”
Who are Oliver North’s heroes? His father, he says. Ronald Reagan is named, as is his wife Betsy. North also cites as a hero “the young machine gunner who saved my life in Vietnam.” He says that his heroes are also all the people who work hard for themselves and succeed.
What would he have to do in his life, for him to consider it – in the final accounting – to have been worthwhile? “I’ve already done it,” he says, “by being a good father and a good husband.” He says that he puts a lot of stock in the Marine motto, semper fidelis: always faithful.
Does he belong to a particular church? “Yes, we attend the Church of the Apostles, in Fairfax.” He says that he has not always been as personally religiously committed as he is today, but he was brought up in a good Christian household, and knew what he believed in.
If he could change one thing about himself, what would Oliver North change? “I’d give myself less pride in being a self-made man,” he says. “Pride leads to thick-headedness.” I think to myself that the Bible also says that “pride goeth before a tumble.”
Who came up with the “By golly, vote Ollie” slogan? “It came from a supporter,” he says. “Most of them come from clever people who just think them up themselves.” He produces a stack of bumper stickers given to him by a supporter who dreamed up a slogan and then printed it: a reminder to vote for North, or “Get Robbed.”
What is, at the heart, the essence of America? “Well,” he says, “I can’t reduce it to a bumper sticker.” But he does say that America is a nation “blessed with bounty beyond measure,” and founded around one word: “liberty.”
North praises the Bill of Rights, and says that “you get a sense, in the seminal documents of this nation, that we didn’t get these rights from the government; we were blessed with them.”
“But,” he says, “200 years later – in just the last 90 days – you can see these rights being violated.” He cites the abridgement of abortion protesters’ First Amendment right to assemble peacably. He notes the violations of the Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms by anti-gun legislation. North says that the Fourth Amendment protection form illegal search and seizure is not being received by poor black mothers in public housing whose houses are invaded by the police.
He cites the Fifth Amendment’s guarantee that the government cannot seize property without fair recompense, and then says that the Environmental Protection Agency can come along and “declare your land a protected wetland, and the value is destroyed. You can’t build anything on it.” North warns of the danger of “environmental radicals.”
“You have to stop,” North says, “and say, ‘What happened to these amendments?’”
What about North’s recent statement that drug users should receive penalties nearly as high as those for drug dealers? Is drug use a moral wrong, or a societal wrong?
“All law is based on moral law,” North says. “There’s nothing in the Ten Commandments about the 55 mile per hour speed limit,” he says while I think ack to beating the Winnebago to the rally after it had a three-minute head start, “but the moral idea is there – you don’t go too fast, or you’ll hurt yourself or someone else.”
“There is no stigma against drug use in this country,” North says, “and there needs to be.”
How, then, does that idea relate to alcohol and tobacco? North waves this off on the grounds of alcohol and tobacco not being impairing drugs like drugs are. “There are laws,” he says, “about how much alcohol you can drink, so you’re not impaired. And tobacco is not an impairing drug.”
He cites how much more dangerous drugs are than they have been in the more permissive past: “The marijuana people are smoking today has much more HTC [Tetrahydracannabis, or THC, the active narcotic in marijuna] than it did 25 years ago.” I don’t correct him on the spelling, and the bus slows down as we approach the next rally.
“Um,” I ask, “could I get an autograph for my little brother?”
“Sure thing,” North says, and writes one: “To Matthew– very best, Oliver L. North.” I thank him and shake his hand and Oliver is gone and Candidate North is back.
•
At 9:28, Asphalt One’s door opens and North steps out into the light. I follow him out the door and am greeted by the sight of a rally teeming with probably 250 supporters, festooned with ribbons and bunting. From the loudspeakers, John Phillip Souza’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever” booms loudly.
As North ascends the podium, the rally begins with the Pledge of Allegiance and a prayer, led by a local minister. During the prayer, he adds, “Lord – let this campaign be judged by the facts, and not by the liberal media …” I notice that, as a member of the news media, nobody seems to be trying to get my vote this election.
In fact, right now, in this place, I’m probably just about the bottom man on the totem pole in the whole crowd. Being a reporter for a weekly newspaper, like the Westmoreland News, will get you about zero clout points with the other reporters. Being
a reporter at all gets me about zero love points from everyone else besides the reporters and North’s press representatives. And being 21 years old gets me about negative five credibility points with anybody – you’re less a cub reporter to them than a Cub Scout.
The rally continues with typical patriotic rally style. A retired Marine general is introduced, who speaks very favorably of North’s military reputation and his abilities. North makes a speech – quite understandably – almost exactly like the last one he gave.
I ask a reporter from the Richmond Times-Dispatch how he handles listening to the same speeches all day. He shrugs. He asks me if I’m getting off the tour here, and I say yes. “You won’t miss a thing,” he says. Behind us, a woman drives by the rally, scowls at the assembled throng, and waves a downturned thumb.
Dan McLagan tells me that I can climb up onto the roof of Asphalt One to get a picture if I like. I thank him and climb up, until a minute later a hefty man with a few wisps of hair in front sidles over and barks, “Get down from there!” I bleat out, like a caught third grader, “But somebody said I could just …” “I don’t care who said what,” he says. “It’s dangerous. Get down from there.” I step down the ladder and secretly wish that I slip and break my neck and boy will he be sorry.
North’s speech finishes, and he spends probably half an hour milling through the crowd, shaking hands, smiling, and answering questions. He talks on camera with a reporter from a Fredericksburg cable station. The supporters slowly begin to drift away. And then North hops back into the bus, and waves at the last 30 or so supporters.
The Winnebago backs out slowly onto the road, and Candidate North waves again. Then Asphalt One slips away and on to the rest of its day, which is only beginning. I’ve only been on the campaign trail three hours, and I’m exhausted. Oliver L. North has come and gone. It’s 10:35 a.m., and I need a cigarette badly.
Working at the Westmoreland News in 1994 was the best summer job I ever had. I worked for peanuts and had a two hour drive each way from Richmond, but I got to do it all at a small county newspaper where I was a reporter, feature writer, copy editor, layout editor and photographer (because there was nobody else to do those things). Best of all the paper’s editor, Lynn Norris, gave me the freedom to write whatever I wanted – way more journalistic and comedic freedom than anyone should rightly give a know-it-all 21-year-old writing for a weekly in the deeply rural Northern Neck of Virginia.
“Westmoreland State Park is a great place to run,” they told me. “Write up a story about it.” “But I don’t like running,” I said. “But it’s a great place,” they said, “You’ll love it.” That was a couple of days ago.
Right now it’s one of the hottest days I can remember and I’m tired and I haven’t even been running for ten minutes. A little over a mile, and the sticky heat of the day is drawing the energy out of me like a wall of tiny sponges barring my path. I pass through the imposing woods along a trail in Westmoreland State Park, and I begin to remember all those reasons why I don’t go running very often anymore.
My friends and I who ran varsity cross-country in high school came to the conclusion after many grueling practice runs that the “runner’s high” is actually just a “bad trip.” But I keep running.
Last year, 116,000 people came to Westmoreland State Park. They jogged and they walked and they camped and they swam among other things in its primarily wooden 1300 acres. They walked on the several scenic trails and saw the cliffs. They came from hundreds of miles around to rest in the shade and see some of the park’s raccoons, deer, wild turkeys, or even the occasional bald eagle.
They rented a boat or swam and played in the Potomac River, or in the lifeguarded swimming pool that is open during the park’s busiest season, from Memorial Day to Labor Day. They stayed in some of the park’s 30 cabins – some of which were built by Franklin Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps over fifty years ago – or in one of the park’s 118 campsites. And, judging by the way that this year’s attendance figures are ahead of last year’s pace, many of those 116,000 had a good time and came back.
There are six miles of scenic trails in Westmoreland State Park. This seems odd because the hill I’ve been running up on Turkey Neck trail seems about fifteen miles long by itself. Actually, it seems about fifteen miles high, since it’s all vertical anyway.
Sometimes when you’re running, it’s a wonderful relaxant because all you have time to do when you run is think and sweat. Right now, working my way up the hill, I’m devoting almost all of my time to the latter. I watch a rabbit pass me, moving up the hill through the leaves that cover the base of the woods. It’s beautiful, I think, and then I go back to sweating full-time as I near the crest of the hill.
Willie E. Bowen is the Park Manager. You can generally find him in his office, where he’ll answer your questions with a no-nonsense style. Bowen treats the job with the earnestness of a man who has spent most of his life in the Park Service, but flashes of personality show when he talks about the park.
Does Westmoreland State Park have a personality? “Yes,” he says, “I’d like to think it does.” Bowen calculates that the park’s unique personality is a combination of its sense of preserved nature and the people who flow daily in and out of the park, bringing to the park an endless stream of new experiences, and new friends. I figure they also bring new cans of mosquito repellent.
Bowen tells me more as we drive on a tour of the park. Bowen is administrative chief of the park’s five full-time and 26 seasonal employees. He lives in a charming-loking house on the park’s property, often visited by over-friendly deer, and not far from where the Park Ranger lives, and his morning commute to the administrative office of the park is about five hundred yards of road through shady woods. He doesn’t usually have problems with rush hour traffic, either. Driving along with him through the park, it doesn’t seem like too bad a job at all.
Is there a best part to the job? Bowen thinks for a moment and decides that it is getting to meet the people who come to the park every week. Conversely, the worst part of the job is the slow winter months when – although the park is open – it sits in a lonely, quiet white winter sleep.
Winter. What I wouldn’t give for winter right now. I’m gliding down one of the park trails, sidestepping roots that encroach on the path’s edges, and imagining how great it would feel to get caught in a sudden snowstorm. Of course, in a few months I’ll be complaining about how desperate I am for summer heat, but running is no time for foresight.
In fact, if you did have foresight, you probably wouldn’t be running because you’d realize that you ended the trail at exactly the same place as you started. Not only did all of this running not actually get you anywhere, you spent a good part of the time that you ran being irritable and making statements calling into question the legitimate ancestry of your local weather forecaster, the persons who built the trail, the persons who built your running shoes, and indeed the entire National Park Service.
Bud Altman is an employee of the park who provides a fairly new service – he is a camping coordinator. He lives in one of the camping areas with his wife and serves as sort of a general guide and ombudsman for the camping community. He says that he is thoroughly impressed by how clean and self-sufficient the campers are. “Most of them,” Altman says, “leave their spots as clean – or cleaner – than they found them.” Are the campers ever unruly? Altman claims to have heard an astonishing two crackles of fireworks in the park over the Fourth of July weekend. This campground certainly isn’t the Woodstock festival.
Altman says that plenty of large groups come camping at the park – that week, there was a large contingent from L.O.W. – an organization of widows and widowers. “If they start dating each other, or if they get married,” Altman recounts what he was told of the group’s rules, “they’re out of there.”
Bowen notes that the demand for the cabins in the summer is great – he recommends making reservations several months in advance, especially if you want a cabin during July. The cabins are fairly well furnished, and are affordable at about $300 per week, with the rental periods available ranging from a weekend to a fortnight. Demand is always highest for the cabins that overllok the spectacular cliffs.
Altman says that there aren’t many complaints or problems with the park’s many campers, because they tend to be very self-sufficient people. “In general,” Bowen adds, “campers aren’t complainers.” The most grievous problems reported by cabin dwellers tend to be busted lightbulbs or air conditioning problems.
I don’t have much farther to go on my run. After about another mile, I will collapse back in the seat of my car, turn the air-conditioner on “sub-arctic,” and shotgun half a case of Mountain Dew. After you have been running in hot weather for a while, you cease to think about where you are or what you’re doing, and you just begin thinking about where you’re going to be and what you’re going to be doing after you finish being where you are and doing what you’re doing now.
So I’m plodding along and I hear a bird chirp loudly and I grind to a halt. And I look around me and I’m in the middle of a beautiful wood, and it seems like the forest has accepted me silently as just another tiny flywheel in the intricate machine that a forest is. The other panting beasts – and I don’t feel so bad, because I figure that raccoon fur can’t be too comfortable in this weather – in the forest quietly go their ways and leave me to go on mine. As I slowly pick up speed and begin to run again, I feel that – for a moment – I realize why this place is special and why running through the woods is all worthwhile. Then I go back to thinking of the end of the trail and the Dairy Freeze not too far away.
Down at the beach, the pool is busy and the beach is jammed with picnickers and players in the surf. Indeed, so many people seem to be laughing carelessly and enjoying themselves that the cynic in you expects to see a shark fin on the horizon at any moment. But the people play on, and the families charge the picnicking tables and retreat to the water later to cool off. The lifeguards sit like bronze statues consecrated to the Greek sun god Ray-Ban in their chairs by the pool. On the far side of the beaches, the sharp cliffs can be seen.
Everyone I speak to repeats the same reason they are here: “The kids wanted to come.” “The kids wanted to swim.” “We figured we’d take the kids somewhere to get away from the heat.” “The kids insisted.” I half expected to hear someone claim that their kids had kidnapped them and driven the car themselves to come to the park. But I somehow suspect that the adults there weren’t too averse to the trip.
Terry Sanford wears a friendly smile at the contact station that straddles the road entrance to and exit from Westmoreland State Park. She says that some people come down the winding road into the park, find out that they have to pay an admission fee – one dollar during the week, and a dollar and a half during the weekends – and turn right around and drive away. Others drive in to ask directions, often to Lee’s Birthplace or Washington’s. Some even drive in an ask where the monuments are, expecting that they are at one of the birthplace memorials.
But most of the people who pass through the gates enter and leave the place they wanted to be. And, judging by the many happy returns to the park, they fell in love with it again.
Working at the Westmoreland News in 1994 was the best summer job I ever had. I worked for peanuts and had a two hour drive each way from Richmond, but I got to do it all at a small county newspaper where I was a reporter, feature writer, copy editor, layout editor and photographer (because there was nobody else to do those things). Best of all the paper’s editor, Lynn Norris, gave me the freedom to write whatever I wanted – way more journalistic and comedic freedom than anyone should rightly give a know-it-all 21-year-old writing for a weekly in the deeply rural Northern Neck of Virginia.
Editor’s Note: We here at the Westmoreland News pride ourselves on being responsive to our readers. We have received numerous requests from our readers to stop making the horoscopes funny. This aroused some confusion, as we really didn’t think they were funny to begin with. However, your wish is our command, and this represents the final issue of the Mysterious Professor Zoltan’s tenure as Staff Astrologer.
Cancer (June 21 – July 22): Well that’s just great. They’re firing me. Wonderful. I hate you all. Do you hear me? I’m gonna go down the subscription list and come to everybody’s house with a bazooka. Oh? You want a horoscope? Here’s your flippin’ horoscope: I’m having a rotten week and I think you should too.
Leo (July 23 – Aug. 22): Consider your business dealings with strangers carefully. Make your move to let someone know you care. Eat lots of fruit. And believe everything you read.
Virgo (Aug. 23 – Sept. 22): There is a great amount of money in your future this week. Unfortunately, it is somebody else’s money. Stay alert this week: opportunities are here! They are bad opportunities, but they’re opportunities anyway.
Libra (Sept. 23 – Oct. 22): Be careful in your business dealings this week: don’t fall for that old “I’ll trade you two tens for a five” trick. Avoid Tauruses and corrugated aluminum siding.
Scorpio (Oct. 23 – Nov. 21): Alright, you didn’t send me any money, so here’s your horoscope: you will die in the next 24 hours.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22 – Dec. 21): This is the dawning of the aaage of Sagittariuuuus! da-dah The aaage of … that just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it? Never mind.
Capricorn (Dec. 22 – Jan. 19): You should take yourself too seriously this week. Like me.
Aquarius (Jan. 20 – Feb. 18): Be sure to recycle this week: cans, bottles, motor oil, unwanted family members, you name it. Keep an eye open for something which will happen this week and don’t worry about something else, which will not happen.
Pisces (Feb. 19 – Mar. 20): Did you send me any money last week? Huh? No! Nobody did! Do you think it’s easy coming up with horoscopes week after week? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to cash checks addressed to “The Mysterious Professor Zoltan?” Well, no money – no horoscope.
Taurus (April 20 – May 20): This would be a good week to stay home and catch up on soaps. Avoid Sagittariuses and rat poison.
Working at the Westmoreland News in 1994 was the best summer job I ever had. I worked for peanuts and had a two hour drive each way from Richmond, but I got to do it all at a small county newspaper where I was a reporter, feature writer, copy editor, layout editor and photographer (because there was nobody else to do those things). Best of all the paper’s editor, Lynn Norris, gave me the freedom to write whatever I wanted – way more journalistic and comedic freedom than anyone should rightly give a know-it-all 21-year-old writing for a weekly in the deeply rural Northern Neck of Virginia.
Dear Mme. Mannerisms:
Last night my husband and I had some dear old friends over for dinner. After our repast, we had some light sherry cocktails. In fact, our dear old friends had about fifteen each and began behaving inappropriately. We tried saying that we were out of sherry but they ran upstairs and drank all our cold medication. We tried excusing ourselves but they said, “That’s fine. We’ll just stay here and break things.” Eventually we got them to leave, but only after they had destroyed our china and eaten our drapes. But today I wonder if this was the proper thing to do. What is the acceptable way of dealing with cherished visitors who have gotten bombed out of their minds?
Signed, Worried in Waukeegan
Dear Worried:
Politely ask them to be more sociable in their behavior. If they keep it up, shoot them.
Dear Mme. Mannerisms:
Is it proper to serve three silver forks if one is having a seafood appetizer between the salad and cognac, but before the main dinner course?
Signed, Questioning in Quamsattucket
Dear Questioning:
Yeah, right. Just steal a bunch of those plastic “sporks” from Kentucky Fried Chicken. You can eat anything with those.
Dear Mme. Mannerisms:
Is it proper for a lady to ask a gentleman out on a date? If so, should the lady first request some sort of social activity with other persons in the party, if an unchaperoned date is too forward?
Signed, Confused in Cleveland
Dear Confused:
Get with it. It’s the nineties. You should not only feel free to ask a guy out, but to insist that they go out with you and threaten them if they don’t. The next time you meet a man in a proper social situation, like a church function, funeral, or sleazy topless bar, ask him out and tell him that if he says “No,” you’re going to tell all his friends that he is gay. If he is gay, tell him that you’ll tell all his friends that he’s straight. Or you can tell a young gentleman politely that you have a snub-nosed .38 pointed at him that you’re not afraid to use. It works surprisingly well.
Dear Mme. Mannerisms:
I was at a dinner a few nights ago and I was eating the veal course when I took a bite and found that my veal was very undercooked. I excused myself and placed my napkin over my mouth and placed the veal in the napkin, but I was left with a soiled napkin and an uncomfortable situation. What is the best way to remove unpleasant food from one’s mouth at a polite dinner?
Signed, Embarrassed in Edgeville
Dear Embarrassed:
Spit it out at the host who served you the crap.
Dear Mme. Mannerisms:
What is the proper gift for a couple on their sixth anniversary? I know that certain anniversaries have a certain gift intended for them: first anniversary, paper; fifth, wood; twenty-fifth, silver, seventy-fifth, diamond; and so on. What are the proper gifts for anniversaries six through ten?
Signed, Unknowing in Underwood
Dear Unknowing:
Sixth anniversary: dried leaves
Seventh anniversary: fake rubber cat droppings or whoopee cushions
Eight anniversary: lint
Ninth anniversary: magnesium
Tenth aniversary: loose change
Dear Mme. Mannerisms:
I am horribly worried about the impending arrival of my cousin, who is coming to visit for a week. He always brings his cat, which is not housebroken, and his 8-month-old daughter, who is not housebroken either. Furthermore, he insists on commandeering the television set to watch Hee-Haw reruns at all hours of the day and night, and becomes violently mad if everyone else does not “Hee-Haw” with him. Worst of all, he has not brushed his teeth since 1978, and I am afraid that his breath will melt my porcelain collection. I am so upset about his arrival that I’m fretting at all hours of the day and night. What can I do?
Signed, Sleepless in Seattle
Dear Sleepless:
Move. If he does find you and come to visit, ask him politely to be more sociable in his behavior. If he persists, shoot him.
It seems that we have run out of space for this week, but please keep your questions and comments coming – by the way, a check for $20 will help – to:
Dear Madamoiselle Mannerisms
c/o Westmoreland News
Montross, VA 22520
And remember: manners are as good as gold, but not as good as an American Express gold card.
Working at the Westmoreland News in 1994 was the best summer job I ever had. I worked for peanuts and had a two hour drive each way from Richmond, but I got to do it all at a small county newspaper where I was a reporter, feature writer, copy editor, layout editor and photographer (because there was nobody else to do those things). Best of all the paper’s editor, Lynn Norris, gave me the freedom to write whatever I wanted – way more journalistic and comedic freedom than anyone should rightly give a know-it-all 21-year-old writing for a weekly in the deeply rural Northern Neck of Virginia.
July 3: A Descent into the Maelstrom My friends and I arrived in Washington about 11 p.m. after three wrong turns, two heated arguments about which direction “North” was, and the Chain Bridge into D.C. being closed after a tree fell on it.
As a journalist, my obligation was to do what I could to talk to the residents of Washington, to experience the mood and the messages of the masses on the brink of the holiday. With this firmly in mind, we went to spend the night at my friend’s house in the southwest of the city. My friend attends American University and lives in a large house with several of his Delta Chi fraternity brothers.
Unbeknownst to us, he and his friends were holding their annual “The Fourth and a Fifth” party and the house was packed to the walls. Since I had brought along some bourbon – and that is one of the first things you learn in journalism school – we blended in and it seemed like a perfect opportunity to “talk firsthand with plenty of Washington D.C. ‘Generation X’ representatives.”
Being a “Generation X” representative myself, I can say with fairly absolute certainty that the idea “Generation X” is actually pretty insulting and a wildly inaccurate generic label for twentysomethings. However, editors seem to love it – and it sounds better than “I interviewed my drunk friends” – so it seemed like a good idea to investigate. Besides, I owed my friend some bourbon to make up for the last time I came to visit and drank all his vodka and destroyed his computer’s dot-matrix printer.
Looking back on my notes, it didn’t turn out quite as well as I’d hoped: most people didn’t have a whole lot pithy to say besides “Whoooooo!” or “Where’s the bathroom?” and even if anybody had said anything witty and revealing, I certainly wouldn’t have remembered it.
The best information we could glean was that everybody and their grandmother planned to spend tomorrow on the Mall. The whole city was gearing up for the celebrations that would climax with the fireworks display in front of the Washington Monument.
July 4: Heart of the Matter We all got up bright and early at the crack of 11 a.m. I chugged a couple of cans of Mountain Dew (or “starter fluid” as I call it) and my companions and I prepared to check into our hotel room early to watch the U.S.-Brazil game in the World Cup soccer tournament.
We checked into our hotel and decided to take a stroll to Georgetown for lunch. Everywhere the city bustled with young people, carrying backpacks and cheap fireworks.
They say that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. This was certainly true of all the tourist-trapping vendors selling cheap polyester $3 American flag ties. I bought one. It was made in Korea.
Images of the Stars and Stripes were everywhere. There was even a small American flag in the deli we stopped into for lunch, run by a Pakistani man who prominently displayed autographed pictures on his walls of all the celebrities who had had lunch there. There were also a couple of pictures of the president in there, but it wasn’t autographed and I think he just had it there in case Mr. Clinton decided to stop by for ice cream and have a pen handy. I would heartily recommend the turkey club in a pita pocket if I thought that I could ever find the deli again.
We walked quickly back to our hotel to escape the heat. My friends and I scientifically calculated that the temperature on the sidewalk was about three billion degrees farenheit. You may think I’m exaggerating, but I earnestly expected the hydrogen nuclei in our bodies to start fusing together if we didn’t get back to air-conditioning.
We did return to the air-conditioned environs of our hotel, the State Plaza, just in time to meet another group of friends and settle down for the World Cup game. Our friends had brought cheap American beer (Miller), cheap American food (McDonald’s), and now all we needed was a cheap, unearned, undeserved, unlikely American victory over Brazil to make our patriotic holiday complete.
In our small party watching the game, we had two foreign elements: Adrian , a British exchange student friend and dedicated football hooligan rooting gladly for the “colonies’ team”; and Maggie, a traitorous element of American citizenship but Brazilian descent who chose to root-root-root for not-the-home team.
We all became excited as the game progressed and the Americans did not get immediately slaughtered (as had been predicted) by the best team in the world. The tension mounted, and Adrian – being used, I supposed, to doing civilized British things during soccer games like destroying stadiums and throwing rocks at bobbies – was the most ecstatic and vehement fan of us all.
In fact, Adrian was wildly cheering for the U.S. team with the enthusiasm of a soccer connossieur, while the most spirited thing I could manage to say while watching America’s soccer team players was “Get a haircut, slick.”
The game continued and the U.S. still hadn’t been eaten alive yet – this was exciting. The Americans missed an early scoring opportunity, and then Brazilian shot after shot ended as a near miss. Slowly a great realization dawned upon us: nothing really ever happens in World Cup soccer. It’s great to play but duller than a barn-raising to watch.
Surprisingly, only two tense moments arose during the game-watching party on this most patriotic of days.
First was the inevitable debate of nomenclature with Adrian (“It’s football.” “It’s soccer.” “I’m telling you it’s football.” “I’m telling you that the Cowboys play football and this sure as hell ain’t it.” “It’s football!” “It’s soccer!” and so on).
Second came the moment when the Brazilians scored then one and only goal of the game, well into the second half, and Maggie let loose with some Brazilian fervor. I stood up, leveled a nasty gaze at her, and muttered, “Leave the room.” A few minutes later we all settled down, but only after heated charges that America was an Imperialist jerk and a retort that Brazil’s greatest contribution to world history was Brazil Nuts.
Brazil went on to win the game and the party was adjourned to forage for food. Eventually we joined up again and began our walk to the Mall.
The Mall in Washington is enormous – a stretch of grass with the Lincoln Memorial at one end, next the Reflecting Pool and the Vietnam Memorial, the Washington Monument in the middle, flanked by the Smithsonian Institute’s buildings and a carousel, with the Capitol building at the far end. And the stream of people towards the area was amazing.
Thousands upon thousands of people drifted away from the other events of the day – the Independence Day parites, the various parades, a noticeable contingent from the Great Smoke-Out marijuna legalization demonstration – and towards the mall to see the fireworks that were to be launched from in front of the monolithic Washington Monument.
It seemed like the whole country had gathered for the celebration. The whole Mall was covered with people on the grass and even up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial; we crammed into a tiny spot near the reflecting pool and spread our blankets. The tent of a group who had camped out on the lawn to preserved their spot stood nearby; they took it down before the fireworks began, to avoid blocking the view of the other spectators.
There was a man juggling flaming sticks in the Reflecting Pool, and another who waded through and towed behind him a motorized shark fin. We kicked back and shared a cigar with a State Department official who sat with his family, just in front of us.
The fireworks were set to begin at 9:15, and were expected to be tremendous: the show was to include over 3,000 individual shells, with 1,100 reserved for the finale. As the sky lit up, we were not disappointed.
The crowd oohed and aahed as the night air exploded in white and blue and red in a thousand different patterns and designs. Each firework was followed by the sharp crack of its explosion, a half second later. Several times the crowd bellowed cheers as high firework bursts rained down a multitude of gleaming tiny shells that trailed sparks like shooting stars. It was like an aerial war fought by armies of dueling painters.
The blazing finish came and went, the assembles masses roared and clapped while about a thousand “early-birds” snuck off into the Metro station at once to try to beat the rush.
The crowd began to filter away, and police helicopters with searchlights scanned the crowd. Radios in the crowd played everything from Ray Charles’ version of “America the Beautiful” to Lynrd Skynrd’s “Freebird.” We stopped for a moment in the Lincoln Memorial to look out over the scene, and then wandered back to our hotel.
After seeing some news coverage of the fireworks and a rather lewd game of charades, we walked to a T.G.I. Friday’s restaurant for some midnight snacks. I won the “Draw on the back of your placemat what America means to you” competition that the restaurant was holding that day. My entry had a relatively neatly-drawn (you try filling in all those stars with crayons) American flag, and the words, “A bold experiment. Some successes. Some failures. But we’re still the best house on the block. What can we say? We’ve got Elvis on our side.”
I won a T.G.I. Friday’s button and a balloon which I proceeded to suck all the helium out of and talk like a chipmunk. Then we went back to the hotel and to bed.
July 5: There and Back Again We awoke from our Independence Day festivities just in time to avoid a grumpy cleaning lady. The headline of the Washington Post read, “Respect for American soccer: born on the Fourth of July.”
We took with us some dazzling memories and I took with me the Gideon’s Bible from the hotel room, an act which my friends assured me would lead to my going straight to hell. I assured them in turn that, judging from the rest of my life, this act simply assured that I would get a front-row seat when I got there.
We bade goodbye to Adrian, as he prepared to catch a plane home to Heathrow Airport the next day. And we bade goodbye to our nation’s capital, feeling that we really had found a nicely rounded example of America at large. I was proud that I had shared our national birthday with the rest of Washington, and proud also I had bought a really cool flag tie for only three dollars.
It had been a fine holiday, and we would have driven off into the sunset with a flag draped over the car, if it hadn’t been the middle of the afternoon, when sunsets are hard to come by.