Conned in a game by two con men - The Sting (Revisited) scene and analysis

 Sometimes...what you think you see isn't as real as it seems:

Chapter 2 - The Bait-and-Switch 

(From The Sting - Revisited - A Review of a 7-Oscar-winning film)

 Flush with cash and the responsibility for it, Mattola straightened his tie as he exited the building. As he descended the stairwell, a blonde man who looked rather ungroomed carefully crossed the street across the way. He badly needed a shave and a haircut beneath the cap he wore, and he carried a large suitcase. Mattola gave him a casual glance and then turned his head: someone was shouting for help.

 It was an older black man with gray-white hair, limping in the effort, and he was yelling for someone to stop a younger man who was barreling his way through a dirty alley that led to the street in front of Mattola. “You, there! Hey you, stop him. Stop that man—he’s got my wallet!” The blonde stranger pulled up short, to sum up the situation as well, and Mattola stepped back too. The black man continued to yell for help: “Stop him! He’s got all my money!”

The blonde man immediately sized up the speed and pace of the thief and aggressively threw the suitcase so that it smashed into the man’s left thigh. He went sprawling into the garbage cans that lined the side of the alley. In another motion, he kicked the dropped wallet across the alley toward Mattola. The thief winced in pain and bent over to grab his injured leg. He pulled a knife and waved it at the blonde man. “Goddamn nigger lover!” he swore. He made an oncoming gesture as if to stab at the intruder, but the blonde man quickly pulled over a garbage can to block the move and also grabbed an empty wooden crate as a shield.

 Mattola bent to pick up the wallet and his hat fell off. His efforts at revenge now thwarted along with his attempted prize, the wounded man grimaced. “I’ll get you for this, sucker egg!” the thief vowed in anger, and then he turned and fled around the corner, empty-handed.

The black man continued to holler, “Don’t let him get away! You gotta go after him! My wallet! He’s got my wallet! He’s got all my money!” He kept yelling as the blonde man and Mattola trailing behind with the wallet, came up to him. The blonde man said as he came to a stop, “We got it. We got your wallet.” The man stayed on one elbow, unable to move without pain or effort. “Give it to me, please!” he begged, and reached out for it. The blonde man bent over his prone form and examined a bad bloody wound on his upper left leg. The fabric on the man’s gray-and-black pinstripe suit was clearly torn by something that had caused a serious injury—likely by the knife that the thief had brandished against the blonde man for interfering in the robbery. The blonde man asked, “What happened? He hit you with the knife?” He continued to check the injury and then replied, “Now you sit tight, old man, you need a doctor. I’ll call a cop!”

The injured black man gestured frantically, “No-no-no, no cops!” The blonde man turned in surprise and stared. The black man opened the wallet and examined its contents: a few bills and a large yellow envelope. The blonde man watched in growing suspicion. “You wanted by the law or somethin’?” The black man shook his head. “No, it’s okay.” He opened the wallet to reveal a large yellow envelope filled with bills and a rubber band wrapped around it.

The blonde man shook his head in disbelief. “Are you nuts carryin’ around a wad like that in a neighborhood like this?—no wonder you got hit!” The black man ignored the comment. “Thanks. I’m obliged to ya, but I gotta get goin’.” He tried to push up off the ground on one hand but fell back in pain and groaned in the effort. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere on that leg.” The black man persisted. “I gotta! I gotta run some slots for a mob down in West Bend for a mob here. I got a little behind on my payoffs so they figure I been holdin’ out on them. They gave me to 4:00 to come up with the cash. They don’t get it, I’m dead!” His words carried the fear of the mob doing just that. The blonde man stared back into his eyes. “It don’t look good, Gramps, it’s almost 4:00 now!”

 The black man’s eyes swung back and forth from the blonde man to Mattola. “I’ll give you and your friend a hundred bucks to deliver it for me. Mattola and the blonde man glanced back and forth in silence. “I dunno,” the blonde stranger hesitated. “That little mug that got ya is mad enough at me already—what if he’s waitin’ around a corner with some friends?” The black man shrugged off his doubts. “He won’t know you’re carryin’ it! Come on, you’ve gotta help me out!”

The blonde stranger was having none of it. “Sorry, pal, I’m gonna maybe help you get fixed up, maybe get to a doctor, but I ain’t gonna walk into no knife for ya!” The black man swung his attention to Mattola in desperation. “How about you? All you gotta do is put it in the nose slot. I’ll give you the whole hundred!” The blonde stranger bristled at this offer. “Hey, what makes you think you can trust him? He didn’t do shit.” Mattola flared up, “Hey, butt out, chicken liver. I gave him back his wallet, didn’t I?” He turned to the black man: “How far is this place?”

The black man urgently replied, “1811 Mason. Put it in Box 3C. You won’t have no trouble. There’s five thousand dollars there and here’s a hundred bucks for you!” Mattola accepted the envelope plus the $100 bill. “All right, old man,” he said in a confident voice.” I’ll make your drop for you. And don’t worry—you can trust me.” He smiled and bit down on the match stick, and the blonde man watched in silence.

 As Mattola stood up and began to stride away, putting the envelope in his jacket’s top inside pocket, the blonde stranger called after him. “Hey, hey! If those goons decide to search ya, you ain’t gonna get far carrying it there.” The black man looked up: “What’ll we do?” The blonde man staggered to his feet and asked, “You got a bag or somethin’? How ‘bout a handkerchief?” The black man fished in the left front pocket of his slacks and pulled one out. “Here’s a handkerchief!” The blonde man reached over and said, “Give it to me.” He walked over to Mattola and said, “Gimme the money. The black man looked up and spoke urgently. “Just hurry, will you?”

The blonde stranger took the money and placed it in the middle of the envelope. Mattola put back the numbers money into his front suit’s inner chest pocket, but the stranger insisted, “You got any more? You better give it all to me if you wanna keep it!” He snapped his fingers insistently, and Mattola slowly pulled it back out and handed it to him. “They think I’m holding out on them,” the black man continued. “My wife got sick and I had to pay the bills.” The blonde stranger wrapped up the handkerchief with all the money into a neat bundle and shoved it down the front of his slacks, demonstrating to Mattola that this was the safe way to conceal it.

The black man continued as he watched them, “I always been good for the money before, but this time, they gave me a deadline.” As he rambled on, the blonde stranger continued to address Mattola: “Stuff it down your pants here, like that, got it?” Mattola nodded, “Yeah, uh-huh.” The blonde stranger added, “Ain’t a tough guy in the world gonna frisk you there.” Mattola grinned in compliance, and the black man urged, “Just hurry, will ya?” The blonde man pulled the bundle back up and handed it to Mattola, who straightened his jacket and mumbled “Thanks.” The blonde stranger muttered “Yeah” and turned back to the injured black man. Both of them turned their attention to Mattola as he hurried down the dirty alley and went out of sight.

Holding the bundle securely with his right hand outside his waist, he scurried out of the alley into the main street and crossed over to a waiting, idling cab. He pulled open the back seat suicide door and jumped inside as the cabbie fired up the engine and asked over his shoulder to his new fare, “Where to?” Mattola leaned forward and placed both hands on the back of the window space dividing the driver from the passenger seat. “Which way is Mason?” he asked urgently. Mattola turned around to look over his left shoulder to see if anyone was following him. “Twenty blocks south,” the cabbie replied. Pleased to see that he was not being watched, he leaned forward and said with excitement, “Go north. Joliet Station! Fast!” The cabbie understood: “Right!” and gunned the cab into gear.

Mattola sat back with a satisfied smirk on his face and cackled with glee. The cabbie, startled at the sound, looked in the rear-view mirror at him. “What’s so funny?” Mattola shook with delight and his voice quivered, “I just made the world’s easiest five grand!” He reached down his waistband and pulled up the bundle and snickered. Now it was time to examine his treasure! He opened the bundle and found a pile of thick tissue paper. He burrowed through it quickly, looking for what he assumed would be a stack of thick money. There was nothing at the end except the back of the handkerchief. He looked up in surprise and shock: he had been taken in a scam by the two men and lost the entire thing.

 

Holiday (Horror Day) High School - Chapter Two

(From my book Welcome to Holiday (Horror Day) High School) (On Amazon.com)

 Chapter Two

“Werewolves and Vampires have to go to school too”

          On the other hand, it was Wally Mendoza’s idea that gave the school our special pet name: “Horror Day.” That’s because Wally had a fear of tests that made him scratch and itch whenever the teacher in that class put a paper in front of him. He’d say, “It’s a horror each day I get tested,” or “I feel horrible about how I did on the exam.” We just shortened the phrase to fit the school identity. It was bad enough that Wally was the hairiest boy in school. It was something about his genetics: his family came from Mexico, and they had cousins who worked in the circus as “the wolf people.” It’s a medical fact: Wally’s family had something different in their DNA that caused hair to grow all over. (For the record and for anyone who is into unusual and unique medical genetics, it’s called “Hypertrichosis.”) Wally was the only kid in second grade who had a full mustache. By the time he was with us in 10^th grade, he had a full beard—and I mean ALL over his face—and his arms and back and chest looked like a thick black rug had been stitched onto his body. Naturally, we called him “Wolfie” for fun, but he also had a strange way of verbally letting out his frustrations when he got his grades.

   

Wally would let loose with a long “Oh-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!” when he didn’t do well on an exam. He really howled—like a wolf! Well, it was more of a wail of distress than a true wolf’s sound. Of course, this was on a regular basis each semester in just about every class. I think the teachers fudged his real report card grade just became they felt sorry for him. And it also unnerved them to hear him let loose like that. It just came naturally to Wally to let out this agonizing groan of dismay. So when he howled, we all joined in with him. It drove our teachers nuts. We didn’t care if we had better grades—it was just fun to groan and howl with Wally.

          The weather itself also made it difficult for some of my friends to manage themselves in the blazing heat that really took off in May and lasted through September. Like I said: we were from Las Vegas, and believe me, there were and still are some scorching summers!

I mention the weather because Igor Danielovich had a real serious problem with sun exposure—which is one reason how he ended up so pale-looking. And he was lacking the natural skin color to protect himself: He was also medically supposed to stay out of the sun because he didn’t have the natural pigment in his system. Igor was an albino, and he had blonde-white hair too—which he later dyed dark brown. (“Why did you do that?” we asked him. He replied, “I wanted to look like I fit in with everyone else.” We just looked sideways at him, but at his height, he never noticed.)

It’s also one reason we called him “Dracula,” but in all fairness, Iggy (which is what we called him on a good day in his view) was also 7’0” and 120 pounds when he was sixteen. He didn’t gain much weight after that, and he was the longest, tallest beanpole of a boy I ever saw.

He also had a strange way of eating an orange. Actually, he didn’t actually eat it with his teeth—he drank it. With a straw. Igor had a way of putting a thick straw into an orange and then sucking out the juice. We didn’t call him “Dracula” for just one reason, see?

We also called him “Casper” like the friendly ghost because Iggy really was a great guy and very funny to know. Iggy didn’t like the vampire nickname, but he wasn’t too fond of being known as a ghost either. It was okay when a girl said it to him—but it made him blush.

And THAT, I assure you, was a sight to behold. It was like watching a big vanilla milkshake turn into a strawberry float.

LARGE pine cones

That's an 18-inch laptop. And a pine cone. Welcome to my neighborhood. PS: those spikes are SHARP. You need work gloves to handle those things.
 

The large pine cones in the San Bernardino National Forest come from the Coulter Pine (Pinus coulteri), also known as the Bigcone Pine. This tree is famous for producing the heaviest and largest pine cones of any true pine species in the world, which can weigh several pounds and are known locally as "widowmakers" because of their dangerous ability to fall with lethal force.

"I Want to Push a Tractor," she said

 I Want to Push a Chicken Tractor,

(from my book, "The Surprised Cow...")

============================================= 

        (My then-wife and I lived on a mini-farm in Boaz, Alabama for two+ years. We raised chickens for eggs and food. During that time, this conversation between us took place: She’s ‘C’ and I’m ‘M’. It was the City Boy and the Country Girl.)

 

        When she first told me she wanted a tractor, I was a bit taken back. We only had a 3-acre pasture, and it wasn’t for growing anything; rather, it was for some large animals if we had them—which we later did, with llama and some horses. But it was the dialogue that followed which had me floored: She wanted a tractor. And she said she wanted to push it!

 

        She was tall but not obviously that strong, I thought. And besides: what was a chicken tractor? It was when she told me why she wanted it—and what she was going to do—that had me totally bewildered. “I want to put the chickens in the tractor. And then I’ll push it around.” I thought, “She can push a tractor? By herself? What superwoman strength does she have?!”

 

C: "But I want a tractor for the chickens."

M: "A what? A tractor?"

C: "Yes, a chicken tractor."

M: "What do the chickens do: operate it and plow the field?"

C: "No, they go inside of it."

M: (Desperately) “Are these mechanical chickens or something?"

C: "No, I can move them around the back yard."

M: "You can drive a tractor?"

C: "No, I can push it. It has handles.”

M: (Incredulously):

“YOU CAN PUSH A TRACTOR??!

BY ITS HANDLES??!!”

C: “You don't understand. It's a box, with wire around it, and handles.

I can keep the chickens inside.

I can move it.”

M: "But it doesn't do anything else."

C: "That's right."

M: "It's just a box."

C: "Yes. With wire."

(That part made sense at last, but she really had me cooped up there for a minute.)

(Know what's REALLY strange? I don't know that woman in the picture, but I can sure tell those are Alabama pecan trees. And that SURE looks like it could have been my home.)

 

Oh, look at the...wait, what? Who?

 I know what you THINK you see at first, but I'll bet nine-out-of-10 that you were wrong.

  

From Layla and Other Love Songs: Bobby Whitlock tells his life story to me

 

If you're of the mind to explore the world of rock, blues, jazz, and folk/ballad from the 1970s, you know the band Derek and the Dominos. Four men (plus a short guest feature by Duane Allman. Drummer Jim Gordon, bassist Carl Radle, Eric Clapton on guitar and vocals, and Bobby Whitlock on keyboards and vocals. Layla and other Love Songs. 

Awright, time for another story (or more), but not mine. In memory of Bobby Whitlock.

(I still cannot believe I sat there and heard this. I know there may be different versions of these tales, but I was here first to sit down with him. So maybe I helped churn up these gems. Besides, I won't get yelled at--like I did when I printed something he said and the (other) guilty party in THAT deal called me out on it. How wuz I supposed to know?) And that "Beverly Hills" imagery/reference had me in stitches. {"The guy is telling me THIS?!?"}

Bobby Whitlock - THE DOMINO EFFECT

(From my book Rock 'n' Blues Stew II)

(There I am, sitting on the porch of Bobby’s house in May 2000—at that time, in Oxford, Mississippi—and I’ve flown down from NJ to interview him—on my dime. He’s sitting there fooling around with a dobro, and all I can do is gawk: “Omigod, this is a real rock star musician! This is the guy on the Layla album!” Some things never change. Years later, I saw Bobby at his home in Tuscumbia, Alabama, after he had come over to the Muscle Shoals Sound Studio on his new Indian motorcycle and sporting his new tattoos.

I guess it’s a natural thing to say that when you’ve had a life like mine—especially my early childhood—that “I was born to play the blues.” It’s the way that I was raised—hard physical work was expected to be done by a child to help make money to help support our family. If that meant bending over in the fields, doing back-breaking work like the other adults, then it was understood that this was my way of contributing. I’m talking about real little, like a little bitty boy. Not even eight years old; much smaller.

I chopped and picked cotton until my fingers were stiff and sore—cotton’s nasty stuff; it can make your skin dry up and bleed if you handle too much of it. I rode the back of bean planters in the countryside out there in Arkansas. The sun would be beating down, the air would be hot and dusty and our throats were parched, but we had to work—there wasn’t much else to do and we had to pitch in and help. I hauled all kinds of produce.

Did you ever hear the phrase “a shotgun house”? Well, we lived in one, down there in Marmaduke, Arkansas. That meant you could fire a shotgun from one side and there wasn’t anything like a wall or any other rooms to stop the pellets or buckshot from going anywhere but straight out the door—it was kinda like a three-room, one-house deal. It was also known as a high-water house, because it was sort of built on stilts to keep it dry when the high water rose. You could literally read last year’s news through the cracks in the walls because that was the insulation in this house.

Sometimes, it was necessary to scare off—or worse—anything or anyone on two or four legs that might be trying to break into the place. Yes, we knew we were poor—I could tell that by having to sleep head-to-toe in a bed with my grandfather, “Peapaw” Whitlock. For heat, all we had was a pot-bellied stove, and food…well, I remember one time when a rat ate through a loaf of bread that we had saved… it looked like a train had gone through a tunnel from one end to another.

My daddy was a preacher and what you’d call a “professional student,” and he felt that this would take the mischief out of me, as well as teach me discipline that was necessary to be a son of a man of the gospel. I took my share of beatings, too: tied up by the wrists and whipped because I wasn’t acting serious-like during church services. I’m talking about this happening to me as a young fella of eleven years—not a child anymore, either! He took me out back to the barn and trussed me up and used the leader-line of a mule team on me—I’m talking about a seriously thick piece of leather! He kind of had what they call a “Napoleon complex”—I didn’t know then that he wasn’t six feet tall until I grew bigger than he did.

My daddy would drag my mother and me and my sister and brother—they were too young to work--all over, looking for someplace to work while he did his preaching. I can still see pictures in my mind of her in a home-made dress and high heels, standing over a hot wood stove and cooking on a Sunday. My mother and I had to go work in the fields to feed ourselves because my father would come home for two days and be gone again. On Sundays and Wednesdays, folks would take the preacher’s family into their house and show their hospitality that way. I remember one family—the Turberville’s--whom I thought were rich because Mr. Ross Turberville had two mules and a tractor.

You would have to meet my kind of kinfolk to understand them--they just did things their own way and nobody had better interfere--what we called “rounders.” They would as soon as fight, steal, make moonshine or just get into plain mischief--just imagine how a raccoon would act if they were part-human. It just had to rub off on me, growing up with people like this. I can remember Peapaw Whitlock living with us, whittling and then spitting on that stove, and drinking boiling coffee—I never would have believed it in my life, but it was that hot.

He also did something that I learned about when I was on the road as a musician: Peapaw would smoke regular tobacco—Bull Durham was his brand—during the day, but at night…then he’d take something else from another pocket and light up that. When I first smoked marijuana, I knew what it was! I said to myself, “That old sonovabitch, he was smoking pot!” Of course, it was during the ‘30s and ‘40s, and people’s attitudes were different, and so was the practice of indulging in those kinds of things. Especially for us folks who lived back in the hills and hollows—it was more understood as a way of combining medicine with driving out the pain of making ends meet and getting through the harshness of living.

For example, there was Aunt Berthie and Uncle Elvin--they were my kin from Marked Tree, Arkansas. Aunt Berthie was a great big woman, with hair down to the ground, and Uncle Elvin was my Peapaw (grandfather) King’s brother. Well, you sure can say they were a little bit odd: in their home, they had pigs in the bedroom and chickens roosting on the head of the bed. They ran a store there, a kind of general store where you could buy all kinds of goods. I can see those wooden sidewalks in my mind…but the point is, the government wouldn’t let them sell anything out of that store unless it had a lid on it or a wrapper. I would have been hard-pressed and double-dealt to buy anything from them, but they were kinfolk.

Well, it wasn’t too long before Aunt Berthie went into an institution for the mentally handicapped. One day, Uncle Elvin called Peapaw King and said, “Hey, one of Berthie’s relatives has died, and we gotta take her to the funeral.” They had a pick-up truck with a chair in the back of it--it was something straight out of “The Beverly Hillbillies.” So, they took her out of the side door, which was quite a feat for a woman of her size and put her up in that chair.

Then they took off, doing about 45 miles an hour down a bumpy gravel road with Berthie perched up there, and rocks zinging from under the tires and smoke flying in the air. Peapaw said, “I felt the truck hit a bump and looked up and everything got real springy under the wheels, as though we had just shucked ourselves of some extra weight.” Both men looked in the rearview mirror and saw Berthie tumbling end-over-end in the gravel behind them. Uncle Elvin said, “Doggone, she’s gone and dove out of the back of the truck!” So, both men went and picked her up, dusted her off and put her back in the chair, turned around and drove all the way back to the institution. They hauled her out of the chair, dusted her off and backed the truck up to the side door. Then they went to the front desk and declared, “She ain’t quite ready yet!”

Like I said, growing up with these folk can leave a lasting imprint on a young boy’s mind--and I was an impressionable child. Being poor was a way of life that was just something that we accepted--so the petty criminal activities in which the family participated was just considered another way to make ends meet--it was a way to survive!

Let me give you another example of how they survived: they were “miners.” Oh, no, there was no prospecting for gold or other precious minerals—that was too much hard work for nothing. Their theory was simple: what was once yours is now mine. One time, Peapaw and Uncle Elvin—this must go back about 55 years or so— were out on an “excavating” mission in Mississippi, riding around in an old beat-up car. They were gonna dig up something somewhere, but they just weren’t sure what it would be. Then they came upon a farmhouse and went out and stole this farmer’s chickens—chicken coop and all! They opened up the back of this old car and put the whole thing in there—chickens and coop and all—and drove away in the dead of night.

Well, sure enough, just like Aunt Berthie and the truck, the chicken coop and the chickens fell out of the back of the car, and there were chickens running around loose all over the place. My grandpa, Peapaw King, went back to the farmer’s house—the guy from whom they’d just stolen the chickens and the chicken coop!!—and knocked on the door. “Could you give us a hand out here?” he asked, “We got ourselves a problem with all these chickens!” The farmer followed him back to the car, helped them round up all those loose birds and tie up the chicken coop, and put it in the back of the car again!

They started up the car and began to drive away—but that’s not the King family way of doing things, so they stopped and thought a minute. As a token of their appreciation, they backed the car up alongside the farmer, who was still standing on the side of the road. Uncle Elvin stepped out and handed the farmer a chicken, which the startled man placed under his arm like a loaf of bread. Sure enough, my grandfather and Uncle Elvin drove off and left the poor farmer standing on the side of the road, scratching his head with one hand, holding a hen in the other, and wondering why two men were out in the dead of night with a trunk full of squawking chickens and a coop that looked a lot like his. To tell the truth, a Pentecostal preacher was holding a revival in Lepanto, AR, and he, Peapaw and Uncle Elvin were in cahoots with this chicken stealing. After he stole the chickens, Peapaw left a note on the chicken house, “We steal from the rich and give to the poor, we left you six, to raise us some more.”

Peapaw King also got himself thrown into the Polk County Farm in Arkansas for stealing a loaf of bread and a quart of milk— don’t forget that I’m talking about the times of the Great Depression---and my grandmother, “Big Momma” King got a job working there in the kitchen. It was like a complete scenario from the Paul Newman movie, Cool Hand Luke: they bull-whipped him with a cat-o’-nine tails, and “Big Momma” slipped him some red pepper powder to put in his shoes and helped him break out of there. They had the hounds on his trail real quick-like, but that pepper stuffed them up. I saw those scars on his back from when they whipped him.

On the other side, it was the Whitlock’s that were trouble. My Peapaw Whitlock was a moonshiner, and he died because of it. I remember him literally lighting that stuff up—if it had a blue flame, it meant it was real, real good! He was going out on delivery—but of course, he had to sample it a bit to make sure it was of the proper quality and strength—and he got himself drunk.

So, there he was, taking a case of freshly-made brew across a newly-cut cornfield during the night on what must have been the coldest Thanksgiving Day on record—I mean, it was nasty bitter cold, down near New Albany, MS. He was carrying a pint jug with him on the way back—that was to be expected—but he didn’t see or couldn’t see—depending on his condition—where he was going, and he tripped over a corn stalk. The fall didn’t kill him, but he landed on a sharpened cut stalk of corn, and it punctured his chest. He turned over on his back in the middle of the rows and just froze to death. The boy who was running the fence on that farm came out the next day to work and found my grandfather lying there with his arms outstretched to the heavens and a pint of moonshine behind him. Lord knows if he was trying to ask for help to raise himself up or he was trying to reach out first for that lost jug!

The only joy I had was when I would have a few spare moments to hear music at the church, or when I sat with my grandmother, “Big Momma” King, who would play her dobro for me. Thank heaven for those moments—they were the shining light in my life as a three-year-old boy! It was a beautiful National dobro, made in the late 1880s, and there were hula dancers on the front and back. Big Momma would sit me down and play gospel-style to me, “Turn your radio on, get in touch with Jesus.” I can still hear her now!—and I have that dobro with me. I’ve gone and had it painted—at one time, a lady named Genya Revan, who played with 10-Wheel Drive, had it and kept it safe for me.

See, it was always with me—the music—it was in my soul and in my spirit. So, when I look back at those hard times, I can say I was a singer, and I sang all the time! I’d be working out in the fields with the migrant workers and the poor black folk who were sharecroppers, and they’d sing all the way to the fields in the back of rickety, bouncing trucks, and then they’d be singing while they were working, and then on the way back home. I’d be singing right along with them. So, yes, I’d say my roots were always there in gospel, blues and soul music—I was born living the blues, and I learned to sing them to get through those harsh times!

Something 1/2 THE SIZE of the SUN has Entered our Solar System, and We H...

A FISH is not a fish

 

Notice from my boss: she's pleased with my student evaluation reviews. The dean of the department at the university is pleased with them. I am awarded another FISH. But wait: there are times when a FISH is not a fish.

Franklin U.: "Mr. Lopate! The students are doing so well!"

Me: "Great! How about a raise?"

Franklin U.: "We can't do that; we're a non-profit. But we appreciate you. We're giving you a FISH!"

Me: "A Fish?"

Franklin U.: "No, a FISH."

Me: "That's what I said."

Franklin U.: "No, a FISH. Not a fish."

Me: "A FISH is not a fish?"

Franklin U.: "It goes into your performance portfolio.

And you get an online certificate: Franklin is So Happy. FISH."

Me: "A FISH that's in my portfolio—but no raise. And no fish?"

Franklin U.: "Correct."

I dunno--maybe next time someone asks me for money, I'll tell them I can't spare anything, but I do have a FISH I could share.

That reminds me: there's a fish password in the comments: https://tccwrite.blogspot.com/search/label/comments

James Webb 3I Atlas images unveiled! PLUS, new study reveals the amazin...

The ULTIMATE Impossible to Reach Places on Google Earth

The volcano Vesuvius destroys Pompeii

 This is as frightening as it can get when you realize that it happened over a sequence of hours--and each time, the results were more devastating than before.

Job-seekers and students: Apply here for a life-changing opportunity

 THIS is another reason I say the aviation industry is a place for future students and job seekers.

In 6 years, Justin Mutawassim went from a ramp agent hauling bags to piloting a Boeing 767.

Mutawassim struck up a conversation with an older Black pilot who became his mentor. He gave him a “flight plan” to achieve his goals, & here we are.

Famous Faces in History - WHO are they and why are they famous?

Calling all history majors, English majors, journalists, advertising majors, and marketing reps--and a few instructors too: let's see you solve the puzzle of 16 Famous Faces. 
 ==============================
Here are 16 faces: who's who? (Hint: one just became a royal grandfather again.)

In 1995, I was substitute-teaching and saw a Wall Street Journal. (It's not my normal reading, but it was there.) In it, I saw an advertisement for Dewar's Scotch: these were the images used, and the selling point was something about so few leaders available for such good Scotch. My response: I showed initiative and pro-active thinking BY CALLING THE DEWAR'S ADVERTISING OFFICE AND ASKING TO SPEAK TO WHOMEVER DESIGNED THE AD. I WANTED TO KNOW WHO THREE (3) FACES WERE: I thought I knew 13, and I did. But the last three stumped me--and I wasn't giving up. Not me with my encylopedic-photographic memory. And they obliged me--and I was right about at least one. The other two...now I recognize them.

And there was more. Dewar's sent me a color image of the ad, and I had it framed and hung on the wall for years. I've let it since go, but the significance is in their eyes: who ARE these people, what did they do with their lives to be this important, and why were they selected? 

(Another hint: at least 2 had the same position in life and circumstances as the background; two held the same position of service to their country, and two are notorious strategists. Fascinating, isn't it, what you can do when your curiosity does more than just push buttons on a phone?
       By the way, this would make an excellent history or education--or marketing! lesson--because of the strategic placement of some of the candidates. It's almost bitter irony in some instances.

Otter Eats Sardines for the First Time and Gets Hooked

Hey, kids!! Look what Grandma and Grandpa want to get you!! Your own otter!              And you can swim with it and splash with it and more fun than that!                                                                                                                                                                                   That's right! Tell them that YOU want an otter for a pet, and watch them go...after me with a fury of "What have you done NOW?!? This kid won't stop crying 'I WANT one of those!'"                   

 (Thank you. Today's mischief is brought to you by YoursTruly.)

The Golden Ratio of Math in Nature: the Fibonacci Sequence

Groucho disturbed by crazy eyed guest - Rare clip from You Bet Your Life...

Julius "Groucho" Marx, one of my favorite comedians, gets his come-uppance by a guest who is just WILD about being on the show!

I Surprised African Tribal Warriors by Speaking Their Language

Sawfish - see? So--saw.

 

This is no sword. It’s alive. And it hunts.

Meet the Sawfish — nature’s underwater chainsaw.

Armed with a serrated rostrum that looks like a medieval weapon, this ancient creature doesn’t just slice through water… it slashes through schools of fish with a side swipe. In a flash of motion, its snout stuns prey and stirs sediment, making ambushes even deadlier.

But here’s the twist: that “saw” is loaded with electro-receptors, allowing the sawfish to detect the faintest electric signals from hidden creatures buried in sand. It's both a weapon and a sensor — the Swiss army knife of the ocean.

Once widespread, these magnificent fish are now critically endangered. Hunted for their saws and caught in fishing nets, they’re vanishing fast. And yet, they’ve survived for over 100 million years — longer than the T. Rex.

So next time you picture a shark, remember the one with the blade…see? Saw.

Why Lions Fear The Grass-Eating African Cape Buffalo

Oh, Marketing class! Yes, you do have to design a product and how to sell it...

 Gary Dahl made millions selling… rocks. And he did it with a straight face.

In 1975, the advertising copywriter was sitting in a bar when friends started venting about their pets — the barking, the shedding, the vet bills. Dahl joked, “You know what the perfect pet is? A rock.”

The joke didn’t end at the bar.

He went home and wrote a 32-page manual on how to care for a Pet Rock. It came in a cardboard box with breathing holes, a bed of straw, and simple instructions like “don’t walk it” and “avoid feeding it after midnight.” It was absurd. It was satire. And it worked.

Within six months, Gary Dahl had sold over 1.5 million Pet Rocks at $3.95 each. He became a millionaire off a product that literally did nothing.

But the fame turned sour fast.

He was called a con man. A symbol of consumer stupidity. Fellow advertisers mocked him. Friends turned cold. Everyone wanted a piece of the rock.

Dahl retreated from the spotlight. He bought a bar. He wrote a novel. He created other inventions, but none came close. Not because he didn’t have ideas — but because America wasn’t in on the joke anymore.

He later said, “Sometimes, the best thing that can happen to you is also the worst.”

Gary Dahl’s Pet Rock wasn’t just a gag — it was a mirror. A commentary on consumerism. On marketing. On us.

And the man behind it? Not a huckster. A satirist who proved the line between genius and ridiculous is paper-thin — and often wildly profitable.

=======================================================================Now: why do I mention this (aside from some historical marketing news):

See this. And I have kept an idea since 1975 (and Mr. Dahl's success) that I will share if you call and ask. And it's about...water. Because we ALL need water, yes? Even if someone puts a silly label and brand on it...and it goes viral and sells...something like...are-you-kidding-me Diet Water? 

Mine is just as good an idea. I'm not looking to be in business now. Just to create-invent ideas.

And when YOU buy your own island in the Caribbean after selling it out to a bigger label-distributor...just remember me. (Hint: a new Jeep Grand Cherokee, please.)