March 1, 2010 · 12:59 am

Sailing with the Tsunami

“So foul and fair a day I have not seen.”

Macbeth (Act 1, Scene 3)

Shakespeare’s doomed, regicidal Macbeth was a soldier, not a sailor, but had the bloody Thane of Cawdor been racing a sailboat in the Santa Barbara Channel on Saturday February 27, 2010 – he could not have described the dichotomous conditions better: fair and foul. And one of the major factors that contributed to this strange day on the water was put in play in a faraway South American country more than 12 hours before the race began.

At 10:34 PST on the night before our second sailboat race of the 2010 season, there was a magnitude 8.8 earthquake in Chile — one of the largest temblors ever recorded.

The head of the University of Chile’s Seismology Institute said the quake was “50 times bigger than the one in Haiti.” That might be true, but luckily, compared to Haiti, Chile was well prepared for such a huge shaker. Only 300 people died according to early accounts – but a seismically triggered tsunami was sent racing halfway around the world.

And some 4,900 nautical miles northward toward Ventura, California.

About nine and a half hours after the Chilean quake, Brad Hall and Darroch Greer arrived at my house at 8:00 AM to carpool out to Ventura Harbor for our race. The network weather witches had been heralding a series of storms sweeping down from the north, and indeed, we drove west on the 101 Freeway in and out of patches of rain. We discussed the quake in Chile – but we had no idea it would affect us that day.

We were more concerned about another factor that would make it an odd race. Our supremely capable and experienced lead bowman, Claude Dubreuil, would not be among our crew that day. That meant that leadership of the foredeck would devolve to me. As I’m a relative nautical neophyte — happier to follow orders than give them.

Captain Tom Webber. (Photo by Brad Ball)

I had apprehensions that had nothing to do with the weather. Getting the headsail up and down, rigging, flying, and dousing the spinnaker, these were the maneuvers that occupied my mind. I knew we’d get wet. That was a given. I was hoping there would be enough wind – but not too much. I was hoping I could do my job, not screw up royally – and manage to stay in the boat.

When we arrived at Ventura Harbor, I noticed that the water in the harbor was as muddy and murky as the Mississippi River. Usually, as you walk down the ramp onto H Dock, you can see the harbor bottom. I figured the murk must’ve been churned up by the storms that were already passing through.

Captain George & Michael on our way out of Ventura Harbor. Smooth sailing so far. (Photo by Brad)

Brad's set to haul the jib halyard.

The weather lifted as we pulled out of our slip and sailed out of Ventura Harbor toward the starting line at Mandalay Buoy. There was a heavy swell that promised a wet afternoon — but on our way to the line, we did a pretty good job of getting the headsail up and deploying and jibing the spinnaker, etc, without Claude’s veteran leadership.  Despite the choppy conditions, I managed to stay in the bow and roughly approximate what Master Claude would have done. The few mistakes that I and the foredeck crew made were soon remedied – and we were all feeling pretty good as we approached the starting line

The strangeness began at the start of the race. We were among the first boats to cross the starting line in a crowded, chaotic start. I expected to hear the crunch of fiberglass. Shouts and curses were heard – but miraculously, there were no collisions.

We were among the leaders as we raced toward the first mark, Platform Gail, sailing in and out of a soaking rain.

A cold, soggy Darroch and The Matey on the rail. (Photo by Brad)

The promised storms had arrived on cue, drenching the crew most miserably – but also helping to drive our boat, Sprit Decision, at an average speed of about 8 knots to windward. We were sailing on a direct line to Platform Gail – and aside from the rain – it was a great day so far.

It was a good omen when a pod of playful dolphins starting racing alongside us, darting back and forth across our bow.

Alas, our good fortune would not last.

When we got within a quarter mile of Platform Gail – which we would need to sail around before returning to the finish line at Ventura Harbor – we were suddenly becalmed.  The wind and water both became eerily still. What we didn’t know was that, about this time, 12:24 PM (PST) – a 3-foot tsunami surge from the Chilean quake was arriving in Ventura. It had taken these waves generated by the 8.8-magnitude quake 14 hours to travel from the temblor’s epicenter to our patch of the Pacific. And somehow, the effect was to leave us slack-sailed and drifting in the lazy swell.

Captains Tom & George consider what to do to get our becalmed boat moving again. (Photo by Brad)

Eventually, we got enough of a puff to push us around the oil platform and fill our spinnaker for a downwind run home to Ventura Harbor. As we approached the harbor, our cell phones began to ring with calls from our wives concerned about a tsunami warning. What tsunami warning? We didn’t feel any tsunami…

Then, as we got within a few hundred yards of the harbor mouth, a Coast Guard ship ran out to intercept us. A Coast Guard officer on a bullhorn advised us that we could not enter the harbor because of a surge that was coming out of the harbor.  In my three years of sailing in Ventura and Channel Islands, I’ve never heard of a surge coming out of the harbor – the surf and the tide is usually pushing toward the shore – not out to sea. But the tsunami surge from Chile was hitting the coast and bouncing back out, back and forth — and the two currents were smacking into each other just inside the harbor’s breakwater. It looked like the confluence of two mighty rivers. Strange conditions, indeed. In fact, the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department reported minor damage at the harbor from several buoys getting washing away.

After about 10 minutes of waiting outside the breakwater, the Coast Guard (timing the surge interval) gave us the okay to proceed into the harbor. It was weird to sail into the harbor against such a strong current. And it was yet another lesson in how small – and interconnected — the world is.

As we pulled into our slip, the rain had stopped and the sun was coming back out. Foul was fair again. It was as odd a day on the water as I’d ever experienced.

And I loved every moment of the adventure.

What follows are more photos that Brad Hall, our loblolly boy, took on our voyage.

The Matey (that's me) as we sail out of the harbor. So far, so good.

Foredeck mate Darroch is clearly not wet and miserable yet. Is he thinking about his sandwich?

Captain Tom is also all smiles in the early going. Doubtless, he's thinking about a sandwich!

Tom doesn't look so smiley now, does he?

All's well that ends well.

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February 24, 2010 · 12:58 am

Salute to the Opening of Spring Training

Baseball fans!

This is the week that Major League Baseball’s spring training camps begin. Of course, the hateful, evil, Satanic New York Yankees were among the first teams whose pitchers and catchers reported to spring training on Wednesday, February 17, 2010. I will leave it to the all-knowing baseball gods to explain why my downtrodden, under-achieving Cleveland Indians (who you’d think would want to get a head start on the damnable Yankees and everybody else) were the very last club to hold their first spring workouts on Tuesday, February 23 – nearly a full week after the Yankees. What the hell? Was my Tribe gallantly giving the hated Yanks a head start? My competitive head aches…

But regardless of how my beloved Cleveland Indians have approached spring training 2010, I’d like to celebrate the first flowering of the MLB baseball season with a re-print of a poem I wrote many years ago. Full credit must be given to my wife Victoria (who was not yet my wife at the time) who managed in 1988 to get my satiric take on Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s “Casey At The Bat” published in the Baseball Bible, The Sporting News.

I still remember being at the wheel of our car when Victoria told me that some sports publication called “the sporting something” was going to publish my poem. “Is it The Sporting News?” I screamed at her, pounding the steering wheel! “Are you talking about the Baseball Bible? The Sporting News??” Victoria was a cool, impossibly groovy girl — but she had no idea how absolutely perfect a publication she’d landed. And, as a relatively good South Side Chicago girl, she could not fully appreciate how I felt when I saw that the legendary Mad Magazine artist, Jack Davis, illustrated my poem.

UPDATE: Before I published this article, I wrote to The Sporting News to confirm the identity of the artist.  In September 2010, I finally heard from Sporting News archivist Bill Wilson that is was he — and not Jack Davis — who illustrated my poem. “I hate to disappoint you,” writes Wilson, “but the ‘prominent artist’ who illustrated this piece was none other than me. I’ll take the compliment, however, as well as the comparison to Jack Davis—it is an apt one, as he was one of the biggest influences on my style. I was with TSN as everything from a staff artist and cartoonist to creative director between 1981 and 2008.” Ultimately, I’m not disappointed. The very talented Bill Wilson did a great job.

Here then, in honor of Spring Training 2010, is my poem — first published in The Sporting News on January 5, 1988.

CASEY GOES TO ARBITRATION

Written by Paul Barrosse

With apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer, a tongue-in-cheek look at baseball today…

It looked extremely hopeful for the Mudville nine that year,
The Spring was full of promise, and the fans were full of cheer.
Then came the news by UPI that hit home with such clout,

The star would not report that Spring — Mighty Casey would hold out!

Casey was the MVP on last year’s Series Champ,
And all the writers in the land pitched tents in Casey’s camp.
‘Twas “Casey this!” and “Casey that!” and features on TV,

Now when they came to interview, no Casey did they see.

The Mudville General Manager, his Stetson hat askew,
Bellowed “I’ll make Casey hold his breath until he turns bright blue!”
Casey’s agent, Morton Zucker, raised a challenge in the press,

“No Pay — No Play,” read headlines, “We Want Millions — Nothing Less!”

The season ticket holders soon stopped calling to renew,
As Casey held out six long weeks, and then another two!
Spring training almost over, and the lineup nearly set,

The name of Mighty Casey was not written on it yet.

On Op’ning Day the Mayor threw the first ball out with shame,
Not a fan inside the ballpark dared to whisper Casey’s name.
The players took the field and paused to hear the Anthem played,

A little boy sat crying, Mighty Casey was delayed.

The fans were growing restless, Mudville started 0 and 10,
And rumor was that Mudville would not see Casey again.
But when Casey’s agent Zucker sought an arbitration hearing,

Every Mudville heart believed a blessed settlement was nearing.

The Mudville G.M. cried with rage, “This business reeks of greed!
If Zucker wants to arbitrate, then we’ll make Casey bleed!
Ev’ry error he’s committed, every drunk post-curfew spree,

Will be laid before the arbitrator — bare for all to see!”

The hearing lasted five long days, as both sides thrashed it out,
Some devoted fans of Casey’s were no longer so devout.
“He has problems with his back,” his trainer testified to all,

“He’s drunk so often, sometimes he can’t even see the ball!”

“Casey never hits for average,” Mudville’s G.M. pointed out,
“And let’s not forget the day that ‘Mighty Casey had struck out!'”
The arbitrator ruled that Mudville pay nine hundred grand,

But Mudville brass weren’t buying and they made their own demand.

“If Casey wants his money, we demand he do his best,
And since he can’t be trusted, he must pass a urine test.”
Casey’s test results were positive; all Mudville was in pain,

When Casey was suspended for dependence on cocaine.

Casey rehabilitated while the season passed him by,
Mudville fell into the cellar while he hung out to dry.
There were stories in the paper, graphic photos told the tale,

Of how Casey got into a fight and spent the night in jail.

This was not the season for which Mudville hearts had hope,
The greatness overcome by greed, the dream done in by dope.
By All-Star break, with Mudville’s pennant promise all but faded,

It was announced that Mighty Casey would be reinstated.

Casey soon was reassigned to Triple A Des Moines,
First time up he hit a triple, ran too hard, and pulled his groin.
On a minor league Disabled List, laid low by wear and tear,

Mighty Casey waited for his body to repair.

July was nearly over, Casey wasn’t yet in shape,
If Mudville had a chance in hell, they could no longer wait.
The day at last arrived when Casey showed up, bat in hand,

And was penciled in the lineup for the final pennant stand.

Casey stepped into the box, a hush was heard to fall,
With Mudville on its feet, he tore the cover off the ball.
It smashed against the outfield fence, a triple in the gap,

And Casey, charging hard for third, paused just to tip his cap.

The throw from left was right on line, and Casey had to slide,
But Casey’s legs did not react, he could not find his stride.
The baseman put the tag down from the fielder’s perfect peg,

Before the dust had settled, Mighty Casey broke his leg.

A silence gripped the faithful when they heard that fateful crack,
And realized that Casey was not ever coming back.
They bundled him with air-splints and they trundled him away,

No Mudville man nor boy alive will e’er forget that day.

Somewhere children sing and laugh and play with simply joy,
Somewhere in ev’ry Baseball Play’r still lives the little boy,
Somewhere there’s a place where Baseball’s just a joyous game,
But there is no joy in Mudville — Mighty Casey pulled up lame.

Author’s Note: Of course, if this had been written in the last decade, cocaine would have been replaced by HGH and steroids — and Tiger Wood’s peccadillos would have loomed large. In many ways, my 1988 Casey got off easy.

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February 17, 2010 · 10:14 pm

Rockme Reunion 2010

Rockmes Return to Evanston

SPACE: A groovy place to rock the night away.

It’s my pleasure to announce the 2010 reunion of the nation’s finest purveyors of traditional and original garage music, Riffmaster & The Rockme Foundation, on May 17 in the town of their birth, Evanston, Illinois. This raucous rocking reunion will be held at SPACE (the Society for the Preservation of Art and Culture in Evanston) located at 
1245 Chicago Avenue.

You can check out SPACE by clicking here.

So mark your calendars with a big red “Rockme Reunion” — and plan your travel from whatever corner of the globe in which you currently reside. Our sax man, Tom “Wolf” Larson, will be traveling all the way from his new home in Madrid, Spain – so long distance should be no barrier to attending this splendid not-so-annual event. After all, wherever you are, you’re only 5 minutes away by rocket car!

And for those who wish more information on Riffmaster & The Rockme Foundation, simply click here for a brief colorful history of the band, whose motto has always been, “Make the kids jump!” No matter what age those kids are.

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February 14, 2010 · 12:52 pm

The Matey’s Log: Sailing Season Begins

Captain George Moll wanted his crew on the H dock in Ventura Harbor at 8:00 am on Saturday morning, February 13. It was a good thing that the race was being run the day before Valentine’s Day. Like golfing, sailing is a sport that takes men out of the house for long stretches of time on the weekend. But sailboat racing is worse than golf because it’s never certain when you’ll be done. 18 holes of golf always take about the same amount of time to complete. The duration of a sailboat race depends upon the vagaries of the wind and conditions on the water. The race was set to start at 11:00 am, and if the gods Aeolus and Poseidon were with us, we could easily be back on the dock by 4:00, as I’d promised my wife, Victoria. Or we could be home much, much later.

Captain George wanted us at the dock good and early because our boat, a 32-foot Beneteau First 10R named Sprit Decision hadn’t been in a race since early December. The crew was glad to be racing again. We were all veterans of earlier campaigns, though every one of my crewmates is a far more experienced sailorman than I am.  Captain George and Captain Tom Weber own Sprit Decision. George and Tom are a pair of old salts who keep everyone entertained with their crusty maritime Oscar and Felix act. Affable, gentlemanly Michael Froelich skippers his own boat, and is a key member of our crew as a helmsman and sail trimmer. Claude Dubreuil, an expert diver and sailor, is our fearless leader on the foredeck. (I assist Claude on the foc’s’le.) And my longtime buddy, Darroch Greer, may be the new guy on the foredeck crew, but as a diver, sailor and surfer, he’s also much saltier than me.

And me? Well, they call me “The Matey”, but my virtues as a sailor extend little beyond blind loyalty to my captain, the strength to haul lines and pump halyards, a knack for cursing like a tar in Nelson’s navy — and a good bit of weight on the rail. All in all, the six of us were a fine crew with which to start the 2010 racing season.

The February 13th race was the first of the Spring Series sponsored by the Pierpont Bay Yacht Club out of Ventura Harbor. Sprit Decision was among the twenty or so boats competing in the spinnaker class. The racecourse began at the Mandalay buoy, across the Santa Barbara Channel, around oil platform Gilda, then back into Ventura Harbor.

The Santa Barbara Channel is a glorious stretch of blue Pacific Ocean that separates mainland California from the northernmost Channel Islands. It runs between Point Conception and Oxnard on the coast and the islands of Anacapa and San Miguel. It’s as gorgeous a body of water as you’ll find on the planet, and whether you win or lose the race, it’s a pleasure to spend time on these waters.

As we sailed out of Ventura Harbor, we saw hard-working souls in two large out-rigger canoes paddling their way back inside the breakwater. It was a reminder that human beings have been navigating the Santa Barbara Channel for centuries – maybe even millennia. For many centuries before they first encountered Europeans in 1542, when Juan Cabrillo and his cohorts arrived from Mexico to “discover” the channel, the Native American Chumash tribe went back and forth across the channel in large, primitive dugout canoes, connecting the islands with their mainland villages and establishing trade between them.

We crossed the starting line just a few seconds after 11:00 am, and were sailing among the leaders, headed for the offshore oil platform called “Gail”. (All the oil platforms in the channel are named after women. It does get lonely on those platforms.) Platform Gail is about 10 miles from Ventura Harbor – and with a steady 10-15 knots of wind, we were showing 7-8 knots of boat speed. At that rate, we’d round Gail within a couple hours. Sprit Decision, her bottom newly-cleaned and treated, was knifing through the large, wide, rolling swells, as we made our way toward Gail.

Gail and her sister platforms are sitting in the Santa Barbara Channel because of the many oil fields below its sea floor. The channel has been mined for over 100 years – and was the site of the very first offshore oil well in 1896.

The channel was also fouled by one of the worst oil spills in history in 1969, when the black stuff came oozing out of fissures around a recently drilled offshore well a few miles south of Santa Barbara, blackening hundreds of square miles of water, killing aquatic wildlife, and mucking up the beaches from Goleta to Ventura. That disaster helped to galvanize the nascent environmental movement in the United States.

I must admit, I wasn’t thinking much about that history as we rounded platform Gail because there would soon be important work to do.  Once we got around Gail and were headed back to Ventura Harbor, the wind would generally be on our stern – which meant a spinnaker run to the finish line. Flying the spinnaker is one of the main responsibilities of the foredeck crew, and it’s one of those critical shipboard evolutions that can either kick the boat into a higher gear – or trigger a disaster.

Before the race, we’d practiced deploying the spinnaker – with mixed results. (Among other snafus, I managed to nearly get myself knocked off the boat helping to jibe the spinnaker.) But, rounding Gail, we got our spinnaker flying with very little drama, and were soon making between 10 and 11 knots on our run back to Ventura Harbor.

Claude looks back to admire the swell.

Since the start of the race, the long, rolling swells pushing toward the shore had continued to build – and were now quite large: eight to ten feet from crest to trough. As it was a following sea, Sprit Decision was literally surfing the swells that came in under her stern. The sea, the ship, and the crew were in a great rhythm less than a mile to the finish – but it wouldn’t last.

Suddenly, as we neared the shore and shallower water, the perverse geometry of the sea came into play, and the swell began to fall off more precipitously. The wind was gusting as we were riding down one particularly large swell, and as Sprit Decision’s bow dipped dramatically – a gust of wind drove the spinnaker down toward the trough of the swell.  The boat’s bow was pushed parallel to the rolling swell and the boat was listing heavily to starboard, its rail nearly in the water. In an instant, we were on the verge of getting knocked down and broached by the onrushing swell.

Michael, trimming the spinnaker, came close to a bath when we were nearly knocked down.

Quick work by all hands kept the ship from heeling over disastrously, but it was critical to de-power the spinnaker. (In other words, get the wind out of it, so it wouldn’t be driven into the water, taking us with it.) Alas, one of the spinnaker’s working sheets got hung up on deck cleat! You may not know what all that means – but the bottom line is that we were nearly knocked down a second time before we were able to free that spinnaker line, right the ship, and haul down the spinnaker.  Of course, there are no photos of these wild and wooly moments. At times like that, it’s all hands on deck!

Twenty minutes later, we were across the finish line. It had been an exciting and satisfying first race of the season. I’m not sure where we finished – probably somewhere in the middle of the fleet – but it was a pure joy to survive the experience with Captains Moll and Weber and the gallant men of Sprit Decision.

And, best of all, with the wind as consistently stiff as it was – we finished at 2:00 pm. That’s two hours earlier than I told Victoria I’d be done!  So, I got home earlier than expected.

A good start to the new sailing season, indeed.

What follows is a photo album from the race. All photos were taken on my iPhone — which, luckily, avoided going in the drink.

Captain George at the helm.

Captain George at the helm.

Claude, master of the foredeck.

Captain Tom consults the race rules. "Now, which platform is the mark? Gail or Gilda?"

Michael on the rail.

Darroch at the ready on the foredeck.

The Matey.

"So, George! Do you want us to fly the spinnaker now, or what?"

The Matey on the rail, watching the wake go by.

Captain George. Sailor. Leader. Legend.

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February 8, 2010 · 1:19 pm

The Saints Come Marching In…

You don’t need to read this blog to know that the long-suffering New Orleans Saints won their first Super Bowl this weekend. Their emphatic 31-17 victory over the Indianapolis Colts touched off a party in the French Quarter that will ramble into the Mardi Gras festivities next week. Oh, how I long to be in that number, marching with the jazz bands stepping out down Bourbon Street, celebrating the Saints’ deliverance of the Crescent City from five years of neglect and misery after Hurricane Katrina nearly washed my father’s fabled hometown away.

For centuries, New Orleans has been the cradle of the Barrosse clan. It’s the only town in the United States where you can pick up a phonebook and find lots of people named Barrosse – and they’re all my kin. My father, Peter Adelmard Barrosse, was born there in 1927 (in the 9th Ward, near Jackson Barracks), and though he never again lived in the Big Easy after the Korean War, New Orleans loomed large in our family. We made a couple memorable visits to see my Grandma Barrosse and our many aunts, uncles and cousins – and I returned there several times in the 1980’s to work the Renaissance Faire in nearby Metairie. My grandmother, who lived to be 96, was still alive then – and the New Orleans Saints were still losers.

As if I didn’t suffer enough sports misery as a Cleveland Indians and Browns fan (and later a Cubs fan) – it was also my lot, through my father, to follow the Saints. The team was born at an NFL league meeting on November 1, 1966, which fell on All Saints Day. As New Orleans is just about the only Roman Catholic town in the south, the team’s ownership named them the Saints for the holiday on which they were born. For the next four decades, their heavenly name would be one of the few blessings this star-crossed franchise would receive.

The Saints played their first regular season game on September 17, 1967, in front of 80,879 fans at Tulane Stadium. The Saints returned the opening kickoff 94 yards for a touchdown – and for 43 seasons, it was mostly downhill from there. Naturally, they lost that first game to the Los Angeles Rams — and ended their first season with a 3-11 record.

The only truly bright moment in Saints history, prior to their recent success, was the day in 1970 that their place-kicker, Tom Dempsey booted the longest field goal in NFL history.

On November 8, 1970, the Saints were, of course, trailing by one point in the final seconds of a game against the Detroit Lions. At that point, the only thing remarkable about the game was that the Saints actually had a chance to win it. However, it would take a miracle: a 63-yard field goal. Up to that point, nobody had kicked one longer than 56 yards. And that record was 17 years old.

Adding to the unlikely drama was the fact that the Saints kicker, Tom Dempsey, was born with no right hand and no toes on his right foot. Nonetheless, Dempsey electrified Saints fans – and stunned the football world – by drilling the ball 63 yards through the uprights and into the NFL history books. I was 12 years old at the time – and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. There was finally something about the Saints I could brag about. But that was just a fleeting, fantastical moment. Grim reality soon returned.

Dempsey lives in Metairie now, and because it seems divinely ordained that Saints should suffer — his house was flooded in the Hurricane Katrina deluge.

The year after Dempsey’s epic kick, the Saints drafted the Great Franchise Hope, Archie Manning. With the good-looking and talented Ole Miss star at quarterback, the Saints won the first game of the 1971 season, upsetting the Los Angeles Rams 24-20 at Tulane Stadium. But the Saints finished that year with a 4-8-2 record.

Despite Manning’s talent, and the adoration of his fans throughout Louisiana and Mississippi, Archie could not transform the Saints into a winner. The Manning family would have to wait another generation to put NFL championships in the family trophy case.

For too many years, too many seasons, too many games, and too many crushed hopes, New Orleans beloved Saints would become the ‘Aints. Fans wore bags over their heads, but they still came out to chant, “Who ‘dat? Who ‘dat? Who ‘dat say ‘dey gonna beat ‘dem Saints?”

Ironically, the Saints first Super Bowl victory, nearly 40 years after Archie Manning’s first season in New Orleans, came against Archie’s son, Peyton. Fate is always messing with ‘dem Saints.

Now, perhaps, the Saints curse has been lifted and a new period of hope, optimism and good luck will shine down from the heavens on the city of New Orleans. I sure hope so. My dad did not live to see what Katrina did to his city. It would have broken his heart. And he did not live to see this Super Bowl triumph, which would have thrilled him. But, if there was ever a football team being followed in heaven – wouldn’t it have to be the Saints?

So, Dad, how did you feel when Tracy Porter picked off Peyton Manning late in the fourth quarter and took the rock to the house, giving the Saints’ the Lombardi Trophy?

I think I heard you celebrating with the joyous throng in the Quarter last night. “Who ‘dat? Who ‘dat? Who ‘dat say ‘dey gonna beat ‘dem Saints?”

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February 4, 2010 · 2:01 am

Johnny B. Goodrich

A few years before I met the incredible Crawfords, I was already fortunate enough to have certain of my adventures enhanced and illustrated in cartoon form by John Goodrich, a schoolmate at Northwestern University in Evanston.

In the fall of 1978, John and I were cast in what would ultimately become …But is it Art?, the ’79 Mee-Show. John was a precocious, gangly, and quick-witted freshman, the youngest in a cast that included a senior, Winnie Freedman, my fellow juniors Rush Pearson, Dana Olsen and Bill Aiken, plus sophomores Barb Guarino, Althea Haropulos, and the incomparable Larry Shanker on the piano.

It was my second Mee-Ow show, and I was already behaving (insufferably, no doubt) like a sagacious old veteran, so a young newcomer like John was under my microscope. I liked John right away, but I’m sure I was tough on him.

C’mon! The kid was a freshman. He was two years younger than me.

Even now, it’s strange how, among the friends you meet in college, those who were a year or two ahead of you in school still appear far older and more experienced than you – and will for the rest of your life. Likewise, those who were a grade or two behind you always remain much younger in your mind. And somehow this applies even when we’re all in our early 50’s! I may be nearing 52, but that nearly 50-year old guy who was a freshman when I was a junior still seems much younger than me.

John made unique contributions to …But is it Art? In addition to his role as “The Incredible Dork” and his all-important portrayal of an unsuspecting young man who slips on a banana peel – John drew the poster for the show, created flyers and ads for us — and also began to turn his funny friends into cartoons. As a frustrated cartoonist myself, I was very impressed that John was the real deal.

Click on image to enlarge and read the jokes...

During my senior year in 1980, John and Dana Olsen got together and created a comic strip called “No Dumping” which appeared in The Daily Northwestern. The strip portrayed the adventures of four brain-addled 20-something slackers. Man, I thought that was cool. But then John did something even cooler: he turned us all into cartoon superheroes.

The title of the 1980 Mee-Ow Show was Ten Against The Empire. We were doubtless inspired by the second Stars Wars film, The Empire Strikes Back, which was being heavily promoted at the time, and set to be released in May, three months after our 3-week February run.

John launched our own promo efforts into a whole new galaxy by drawing a series of comic strip advertisements that ran in The Daily Northwestern during the week leading up to the show’s opening.

That's John on the far left, me with the beard, Julia, Rush & Judy. Back from from left: Mike, Kenny, Dana & Rod.

In the promotional strips, John transformed the cast of Ten Against the Empire — 
me, 
John, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Rod McLachlan, Mike Markowitz, Kenny Marks, Dana Olsen, Rush Pearson, 
Judy Pruitt and 
piano virtuoso Larry Shanker – into a team of oddball heroes battling a humorless super-villain.

My own character’s name was Infra Death. You can tell how cool I thought all this was by the fact that I saved all 6 comics in the series. (The rest of them are posted at the end of this article.)

Even before he graduated from NU, John became very involved with the Practical Theatre Company as an actor and artist. He performed in our first production of Subnormal and our first improvisational comedy revue, Bag O’ Fun. He also did great graphic work for our third improv comedy show, Scubba Hey (’81) and a silly Shakespearean send-up I wrote called, Song of the Snells (’82).

John would contribute to many more PTC projects between ’82 and ’84, both onstage and with his brilliant pencils in hand. I’ll save some of those details for the next two installments of my PTC history – but for The Merry Guys Who Windsurf, the comedy revue we staged at The Gooodman Theatre Studio in the summer of 1984, John not only performed – but he once again turned his fellow cast members into cartoons.

John’s still doing his cartoon thing, only now he’s a pro. He’s got his own company, which you can check out by clicking here. He specializes in custom cartoon graphics, graphic design and desktop publishing services.

Check out this funny blog post I found, written by one of John’s satisfied customers.

A few years ago, John and I teamed up on a cartoon series I was trying to sell to — where else – Cartoon Network. Superhero Haven was about a rehab center and halfway house for troubled superheroes.

We didn’t sell the show (Alas, Drawn Together beat us to the marketplace.) But it was great fun to work with John again – and he really brought a lot of great characters to life.

Since then, it’s always a pleasure to get John’s annual Groundhog Day card. For one thing, it’s fun to see how John’s going to work the cartoon groundhog into the photo. And, of course, it’s great to see his lovely family grow lovelier each year. It looks like John has done really, really well in the family business.

The last bit of art John drew for one of the PTC family was the announcement he did for Tom “Wolf” Larson’s big Twin Cities performing arts center opening last year. Of course, Wolf recently left the snowy tundra for the sunny climes of Spain. But before he left, Wolf got the chance to have John Goodrich turn him into a cartoon hero, too.

This is Infra Death, signing off!

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January 31, 2010 · 7:36 pm

Divining Destiny from a Year’s Worth of Fortune Cookies

Growing up an Italian–American on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio, I was wholly satisfied with my mother Mary’s glorious homemade tomato sauce, pasta, meatballs, and lasagna. As I was a third-generation American, our family’s traditional Italian diet had been augmented by New World culinary classics like steak, hamburgers, corn on the cob, and Kraft macaroni cheese – with a few exotic forays into Swiss steak and French toast. But, for the first 17 years of my life, Chinese food was essentially off my gastronomical radar.

As for fortune cookies, the first time they were brought to my attention was through the 1966 film, The Fortune Cookie, directed by Billy Wilder: the first movie to pair Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. As far as I can remember, the film had nothing to do with fortune cookies, but it did have something to do with Cleveland, which made an impression on me.

The opening scenes in The Fortune Cookie were shot at Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium on October 31, 1965, during a game between the Browns and Minnesota Vikings. Lemmon plays a cameraman who gets injured when the Browns’ star running back, “Boom Boom” Jackson (modeled on the great Jim Brown) slams into him on the sidelines, sending Jack’s character to the hospital. The rest of the plot involves his scheming brother-in-law, played by Matthau, who engineers an insurance scam by getting Lemmon to pretend he’s paralyzed. I can’t remember if they ate Chinese food in Billy Wilder’s hilarious movie, but by my junior year in high school, I still hadn’t experimented with Eastern cuisine beyond nibbling some Chow Mein noodles.

Of course, while I had yet to enjoy a fortune cookie, I had been reading fortunes connected to a staple foodstuff for years. For as long as I could remember, Bazooka Joe comics always featured a fortune. In fact, Jay Lynch wrote many of these fortunes. (Maybe Jay will provide us with more detail on the evolution of fortunes in Bazooka Joe comics. Maybe he won’t. Jay is a mysterious man.)

I came late to Chinese food – and fortune cookies. It wasn’t until my junior year at Cleveland Central Catholic High School that I discovered the joys of Chinese cuisine. It had become a CCC theatre tradition to go to Chung Wah on the near east side of Cleveland, where my favorite teachers, Ellen Fasko (art) and Mary Ann Zampino (theatre), introduced me to the Cantonese food served there. I loved the atmosphere at Chung Wah, but I was ambivalent about the relatively bland Cantonese dishes. I dug the fortune cookies, though. They were tasty, and it was cool that there were fortunes inside.

The author (what's with that goatee?), Ellen Fasko, and my best high school buddy, Gary Swisher at Chung Wah on a break from freshman year at college. (1976)

35 years later, I am a dedicated Chinese food fan, though I’m still not big on Cantonese. I prefer hot and spicy Schzechaun dishes — and my passion for Thai food is rivaled only by my blood-bond to my mom’s Italian menu. I eat Thai food at least once or twice (and sometimes three) times a week. I also frequent Panda Express. I’ve cracked open quite a few fortune cookies, and over the years, I’ve thought quite a bit about the fortunes inside them.

Here, then, is a look a year’s worth of fortune cookies that I’ve collected. What do they say about me? And what do they say about the largely unsung and unexamined art of fortune cookie fortune writing?

“Long life is in store for you.”

This is a classic, all-purpose crowd-pleaser. Who can possibly be disappointed with the prediction of a long life? It’s the kind of fortune you keep in your wallet for a few weeks. You may not necessarily believe in the power of fortune cookie voodoo, but such an encouraging omen can’t hurt. This is a real fortune, folks. It makes a bold prediction. It goes out on a limb.

But I must caution weight watchers. No fortune cookie fortune has a chance to come true unless you’ve consumed the whole cookie. In this case, a long life is worth a few extra calories, isn’t it?

“You are original and creative.”

It may be nice to read such a compliment after your meal – but this is certainly NOT a fortune: it’s simply an observation. They are not called observation cookies. In this particular example, it can be argued that the cookie was correct in its assessment of my artistic nature. However, this next fortune illustrates the pitfalls of the observation cookie.

“You have a quiet and unobtrusive nature.”

Quiet? Unobtrusive? Sorry, but this is just not me. Not only is this NOT a fortune – it’s not even a correct observation. It’s a total waste of calories. I would much rather have gotten the weakest, most vague fortune — something like, “You will someday have a good experience.” Fortune cookie bakers should end this practice of making blunt assessments about the reader’s personality, and stick to post-meal prognostication.

“You will be rewarded for your patience and understanding.”

This is better – but only by half. It starts with a legitimate fortune (the prospect of reward) and closes with a snap judgment of my personality. But what happens if I’m neither patient nor understanding? Does that disqualify me from getting the predicted reward? The whole thing is a mess: too many moving parts. Why not simply state, “You will soon be rewarded” – and let the reader decide why he’s getting a reward. Problems arise whenever a fortune cookie strays from the role of sugary soothsayer.

“Soon, you’ll have a chance at a profitable transaction.”

All I have is a “chance”? What kind of limp fortune is this? To call the fortune writer cautious in this instance, is to be too kind. Whoever wrote this mealy-mouthed fortune has no faith in himself – or his reader. He promises nothing. Risks nothing. Says nothing. The word “profitable” is another dodge: a mere suggestion of how lucrative this possible transaction might be. The whole exercise is meaningless. It’s like Charlie Brown getting a fortune that reads, “Soon, you’ll have a chance at successfully kicking Lucy’s football.”

“Luck is with you now, act upon your instincts.”

This is not really a fortune, folks — it’s advice. Fortune cookies are no more advice cookies than they are observation cookies. This one combines an observation (“luck is with you”) with some advice. But, even here, the fortune cookie writer lets me down. Does he suggest something specific I might do to capitalize on my fleeting, momentary bit of luck? No. He just punts the ball to me: “act upon your instincts.” But he doesn’t know a damn thing about me! What if my instinct is to squander my luck? Now, I’d like to think I’m confident enough about my instincts to cash in on a lucky moment, but a non-fortune like this requires too much introspection.

“You will win success in whatever you adopt.”

Bingo! Here you go. This is what I’m looking for when I crack open a fortune cookie. I’ve just eaten a great, hot, spicy meal, I’m feeling full, and I’m in the mood for some good news about my future. I’m not looking for a philosophical brainteaser or well-intentioned advice. I just want a satisfying fortune clearly stated. And this one opens great (“You will win success”) – and closes even better (“in whatever you adopt”). I’m a winner, no matter what I choose to do! I can’t miss. In fact, I’m giving the waiter an extra five percent!

“7 10 18 26 32 37”

Many fortune cookie bakers have been printing lottery numbers on the back of their fortunes. I’m not a lottery player, so I’m not sure how to feel about this. I suppose for lottery players, this is value-added. Do these cookie bakers get a kickback from the state for encouraging the purchase of lottery tickets? And, if I don’t use them in the lottery, do these numbers suggest anything about my future?

The numbers do suggest a little about my past: I wrestled in high school at 126 and 132 pounds. But, other than that, these numbers mean nothing to me. Perhaps if you’re a numerologist, the numbers on the back say more to you than the words on the front of the fortune? I just don’t know…

“Your love life will be happy and harmonious.”

This is a great fortune. And, in my case, I firmly believe it will come true. Thanks to my wonderful wife, Victoria, my love life is happy and harmonious now – and shall no doubt be so for the rest of my days. But it’s nice to be reassured of that after a splendid lunch. Now, I imagine if you got this fortune in the middle of a rocky divorce, you might wince, suffering a pang of painful irony. However, someone in that sad situation might also see this fortune as a promise that his hopes for a happy love life will someday be fulfilled. It’s a fortune that can save lives. For me, it’s confirmation of what I already know.

And, continuing upon this theme…

“You and your love one will be happy in your life together.”

Gotta love it: more confirmation of life-long happiness with Victoria. This is a truly classic fortune – especially as it contains the kind of typo (“your love one”) that used to be a frequent feature of the fortune cookie. Back in my Chung Wah days, the fortunes were full of grammatical and spelling errors – owing to the fact that, for so many cookie bakers and fortune writers, English was, at most, a second language. But no matter how they mangled syntax and spelling in those days, they never forgot the fundamental mission of the fortune cookie. Would that all of today’s fortune cookie fortune writers respected the tradition established by their forbears: a delicious dessert packed with a prophecy.

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January 26, 2010 · 12:01 am

Le Salon de Crawford

After my graduation from Northwestern University in June of 1980, the birth of my daughter Maura that July, and our establishment of The Practical Theatre Company in the newly-built John Lennon Auditorium at the corner of Howard and Custer Streets – the most important thing that happened to me (and all of us at the PTC) was our serendipitous introduction to the remarkable Ron & Sydney Crawford and their fabulous children: Suzy, Jennifer and Ronny, who would soon come to be known as Rockin’ Ronny.

I can’t remember the exact moment I first met Ron & Syd Crawford in 1981 – but it was a moment that changed my life. It’s hard to catalogue the many ways in which the Crawfords contributed to my personal and artistic growth. They gave freely and generously of their love, their many talents, their warm hospitality – and their genuine enthusiasm for what these crazy kids were doing in their tiny storefront theatre on Evanston’s border with Chicago.

Ron and Syd Crawford were – and are – artists of the first rank. To me, they were – and are – a living, breathing cultural institution. In those days, their splendid Victorian “painted lady” on Elmwood Avenue in Evanston was home to the North Shore’s most vital and progressive salon — something I’ve only begun to fully appreciate in recent years. According to Wikipedia, a “salon is a gathering of intellectual, social, political, and cultural elites under the roof of an inspiring hostess or host, partly to amuse one another and partly to refine their taste and increase their knowledge through conversation.”

Rush & Paul, two of Evanston's avant-garde habitues of Le Salon de Crawford.

I didn’t realize it back then, but that was the scene at Ron and Syd’s house. Artists, writers, musicians, peaceniks, revolutionaries, madcap recent NU graduates, and assorted interesting members of the Evanston avant-garde – they all gathered at the Crawford’s home. Sydney and Ron were inspiring hosts, to be sure, and we all increased our knowledge through the passionate, party-driven conversation and camaraderie, as we dug the scene, hanging out with the groovy creative spirits, iconoclasts, and free thinkers at les Salon de Crawford!

Inside the Crawford house, you could still feel good vibrations lingering from the Summer of Love. The walls were covered with the evidence of an artistic and socially conscious life well lived – all arranged with impeccable taste: a poster from Eugene McCarthy’s campaign, neon artwork, and a museum’s-worth of paintings, photos and drawings. Oh, the drawings!

The Crawford's living room turned into an impromptu recording studio.

Yet another fabulous Ron Crawford poster for a PTC/Rockme event.

I’ll get back to the drawings in a moment. But for those who don’t know the Crawfords as well as I do, I should provide some basic biographical info…

They live in New York City now, but Ron & Sydney raised their children in Evanston and lived there for 30 years. (Ron’s dad was Captain Robert Crawford, the “Flying Baritone,” who wrote the Army Air Corps Song, “Off we go into the wild blue yonder…”) Ron did a lot of animation work in the 60’s and 70’s, creating educational films, corporate videos, TV commercials (Fiddle Faddle, anyone?) and television station graphics. When we met him, Ron still had an animation studio and film and video editing equipment in their coach house. (He often used his equipment and skills in the service of the PTC.)

Long before Sydney became the PTC’s beloved den mother, she helped Ron run their business (she even starred in some of their commercials), worked in a local frame store — and made the world turn for everyone in her salon.

Twenty years ago, Ron started working as an actor and, of course, he found success. He appeared in the Steppenwolf Theatre production of The Grapes of Wrath that went to Broadway, and his film career took him to Paris, where he starred in the movie Arthur and the Invisibles, as well as its two sequels. He also performs a one-man stage show, Travels with Mark Twain. You can fill in the gaps regarding Ron’s acting career here and here. Once Ron got to Broadway, Ron & Syd wound up staying in New York City — where they reside to this day. Lucky, NYC…

In recent years, Ron does for New York City what he did for Evanston, Illinois.

Today, Sydney is a talent agent representing fashion stylists, prop stylists, and photographers for print work: advertising, celebrity shots, and catalogs, etc. She started her agency, Sydney Represents, in 1994.  Of course, Syd’s still doing what she does best: creating an enthusiastic, encouraging and productive environment in which artists can flourish. She certainly helped one of the most talented artists I’ve ever met to thrive: her husband, Ron.

Willard Hall at Northwestern University

Which brings me back to those drawings.

Ever since I’ve known him, Ron has always had a pencil and art pad in hand, rendering every scene, every gesture that draws his interest into a kinetic snapshot made of exquisite lines. He drew every important building in Evanston, and every Victorian home that captured his fancy. What Ansel Adams photos are to Yosemite – Ron’s drawings are to Evanston. Lucky for me — and everyone at the PTC — Ron has also illustrated just about every major event and many candid, everyday moments in the life of The Practical Theatre and its house band, Riffmaster & the Rockme Foundation (for whom his son, Rockin’ Ronny, bangs the drums with uncommon artistry).

You can check out the wide range of Ron Crawford’s truly awesome work at his website by clicking here.

What follows is a gallery of drawings that Ron has blessed me with over the years, from the early 1980’s up through today, drawn from the hundreds of fabulous Ron Crawford sketches I’ve been saving ever since I met Ron & Syd — and was drawn into their happy, heavenly circle. Vive le Salon de Crawford!

Note: To see any of the Ron Crawford drawings in this post in glorious detail, simply click on the image. Presto!

Riffmaster & The Rockme Foundation performing at Tuts on Belmont Ave. in Chicago (1982).

"The Basic Food Groups Four" in "Babalooney" at the Piper's Alley Theater. (1983)

"Babalooney" pre-Off-Broadway preview at Crosscurrents. (1983)

Rockme Foundation "World Tour" at Biggies in Cleveland, Ohio. (1983)

Paul & daughter Maura at Q&R Studios, Evanston. (1983)

Paul as Ghost of Christmas Past, Goodman Theatre. (1984)

Rockme party after a performance of "Hula-Rama" at the John Lennon Auditorium. (1984)

Paul hanging out in the house at the Provincetown Playhouse in NYC. (1984)

The Rockme Foundation playing at Limelight in Chicago, opening for Jimmy Sohns & the Cons. (1984)

A meeting of the John Lennon Athletic Club, trying to keep the 703 Howard space open. (1985)

SNL (1985)

SNL, Studio 8H at 30 Rock. (1985)

Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Mary Gross in make-up at SNL. (1985)

Ron's poster for "Art, Ruth & Trudy" (1986)

Paul as "All The King's Horses" in "Art, Ruth & Trudy" ('86)

"Art Ruth & Trudy" preview at Club Victoria. (On the PTC's 7th birthday in 1986)

"Greylord have mercy on me!" ('86)

"Professional Pessimist" ('86)

Paul and Victoria in rehearsal for "Art, Ruth & Trudy". (1986)

Paul, Brad Hall and Steve Rashid taping "Overnight Guest" at WMAQ-NBC. (1986)

Victoria and Paul at home in their apartment in Evanston. (1986)

Taping "Swan Lake" in "Bozo the Town" at the Vic Theatre at Belmont & Sheffield in Chicago. ('87)

"Bozo the Town" notes with Sheldon Patinkin, Victoria, Paul, Louis DiCrescenzo, Bea & Steve Rashid.

I wrote the copy, Ron did the drawing. ('89)

Paul in "The Dybbuk" at the National Jewish Theatre. ('87)

Victoria and Linda Emond in "Serious Money" at The Court Theatre, directed by Terry McCabe. (1989)

Victoria as "Jacinta Condor" in "Serious Money" backstage at Court Theatre. (1989)

Real life & drawing at Rockme Foundation's "Woodshed @ Woodside" recording sessions. (2008)

Paul at the mike. (2008)

Larry & The Rockmes at Woodside Sessions. (2008)

The best way to end this post is with the man himself, Ron Crawford. "Peace. Out!"

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January 20, 2010 · 4:34 pm

“I have not yet begun to fight!”

Among all the depressing, defeatist, hand-wringing, and otherwise pathetic punditry on television and in print this morning in the wake of Martha Coakley’s upset loss in the Massachusetts election for Teddy Kennedy’s former seat in the U.S. Senate, The Christian Science Monitor had this headline (see above) in their online edition. I agree that there are lessons to be drawn from Coakley’s collapse, but not the lessons I’m hearing from all the usual talking heads.

It’s been nearly impossible to watch TV yesterday and today and listen to triumphant right-wingers crowing about the message that this election sends President Obama and the Democrats. Of course the GOP’s take on Coakley’s defeat is easy to dismiss. Today’s Republicans are a bunch of lock-step, talking-point spouting hacks whose analysis of everything in the last decade has been dead wrong. There are just two things the GOP knows how to do: keep their message focused and fight.

On the other hand, too many Democrats are already drawing the wrong conclusions from this debacle. And their messaging is all over the place. Conservative Democrats like Evan Bayh are using this moment as a call to centrism – which is code for a lack of political courage. And I shudder to think what a triangulating corporatist like Rahm Emmanuel is advising President Obama at this moment. I worry that Rahm, who was asleep at the switch in this critical Senate election (he’s supposed to be the White House inside politics genius), will also draw the wrong lessons from the loss of what should have been a safe Democratic seat in a very blue state.

Let me, then, suggest to my fellow Democrats four lessons in courage, and some bold messaging, courtesy of – no! not a group of politicians and pundits – but a quartet of American Naval heroes.

1. John Paul Jones: “I have not yet begun to fight.”

John Paul Jones is revered as the Father of the U.S. Navy, and his exploits in the War of Independence are legendary. But his greatest moment came when he snatched victory from the jaws of defeat on September 23, 1779.  In what has been called one of the bloodiest engagements in U.S. naval history. Jones, in command of the Bonhomme Richard, slugged it out with the 44-gun English frigate Serapis. The gun crews of the Bonhomme Richard and the Serapis traded thundering broadsides until Jones’ ship was burning and in danger of sinking.

Yet, when the Englishmen requested Jones strike his flag and surrender, he replied in defiance, “I have not yet begun to fight.” The battle raged on for more than three hours, ending when the tide of battle turned, the Serapis surrendered — and Jones took command of the defeated English ship.

Sure, the loss of a Senate seat is a terrible blow – but it would be great to hear Harry Reid say something very much like, “I have not yet begun to fight.”

2. Captain James Lawrence: “Don’t Give Up the Ship”

Sometimes a courageous example can turn a cruel defeat into an inspirational moment that transcends that loss – and helps to fuel an ultimate victory — as it did in a dramatic naval engagement early in the War of 1812.

In 1813, Captain James Lawrence was in command of the frigate Chesapeake when he dueled the English ship Shannon at the mouth of Boston Harbor, barely a cannon shot beyond the shore upon which, two centuries later, Martha Coakley’s Senatorial hopes were sunk.

In a brief and brutal exchange of volleys at close range, the Shannon outgunned Chesapeake – and the two ships became so entangled in each other’s fallen rigging that Chesapeake could no longer fire at the English ship. Captain Lawrence gave orders to board the Shannon, but he was hit by an enemy musket ball and had to be carried belowdecks, mortally wounded. Before he was taken below, Lawrence’s last words to his officers were: “Tell the men to fire faster and not give up the ship. Fight her till she sinks!”

Although Chesapeake was forced to surrender, Lawrence’s valiant words served as a rallying cry for generations of officers and men in the U.S. Navy: “Don’t give up the ship!”

3. Oliver Hazard Perry: “We have met the enemy and they are ours…”

The immortal words of Captain Lawrence inspired his fellow officers. In fact, just months after the loss of the Chesapeake, Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry honored his late friend Lawrence by having the motto “Don’t give up the ship!” sewn onto his private battle flag – which he flew during the Battle of Lake Erie.

During the battle on September 10, 1813, Perry’s fleet engaged a fleet of British warships determined to put the Great Lakes in English control as a prelude to a possible invasion from the north. Perry’s flagship, the USS Lawrence (named in honor of the martyred Captain James Lawrence) was destroyed in the battle – but did Oliver Hazard Perry simply throw in the towel and seek compromise with his enemies? No, by god! He had himself rowed a half-mile through shot and shell to transfer his command to the USS Niagara – carrying his battle flag with his buddy’s final words of defiance emblazoned upon it: “Don’t give up the ship!”

Parry's personal battle flag at the Battle of Lake Erie.

Perry won the Battle of Lake Erie, ending the threat of English invasion via the Great Lakes, and sent his after-action report to General William Henry Harrison. Perry’s message contained few words and, like the words of his fallen friend, they became legendary: “We have met the enemy and they are ours; two ships, two brigs, one schooner and one sloop.”

I’d love to hear President Obama call out the obstructionist GOP Congress with a statement as blunt and bold as “We have met the enemy and they are ours…” The right wing may defeat us in Massachusetts, but like Commodore Perry in his rowboat, we must transfer our efforts to the next stage of the fight and press on until we win the battle.

4. Admiral David Glasgow Farragut: “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”

Stop worrying about the Coakley catastrophe, sagging poll numbers, what the GOP and right-wing pundits might say, or foot-dragging fears about your own re-election – just press on with a progressive agenda, keep trying to fix the stuff that Bush broke, fix the health care bill in reconciliation – and forget about bipartisanship. In other words,“Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”

Just about every American my age has heard – and used — this famous phrase many times, but few realize that it has nothing to do with torpedoes as we know them, and that it was actually coined during the Civil War. Of course, the phrase speaks of boldness, courage, and defiant resolution in the face of grave danger – and this time the words were uttered by Admiral David Glasgow Farragut.

Farragut was the highest-ranking U.S. naval officer when he fought the Battle of Mobile Bay on August 5, 1864. Farragut was hanging from the rigging of his flagship Hartford, as his invasion fleet approached the entrance to Mobile Bay, Alabama, intent on sailing past the Confederate defenses and conquering the forts that guarded the Bay.

As the guns of the Confederate forts came to bear on the ships in Farragut’s fleet, the leading ship, the ironclad monitor Tecumseh, was destroyed by a submerged mine. (BTW — we call it a “mine” now, but in Civil War parlance, a tethered underwater explosive device was called a “torpedo”.) With Tecumseh knocked out of action, Farragut’s fleet began to drift in confusion under the guns of the Confederate forts. With disaster in the offing, as Farragut hung from the shrouds aboard the Hartford, he gave the orders, “Damn the torpedoes! Four bells! Captain Crayton, go ahead! Joucett, full speed!”

Farragut sailed his own ship Hartford into the lead — and across the mines, which failed to detonate. The rest of his fleet followed the Commodore’s bold example, ran past the guns of the Confederate forts, and hammered them into submission from a safe anchorage.

Farragut’s fearlessness and resolve — when all might have been lost — saved the day and immortalized his words. If I was President Obama, in command of our mighty Ship of State, that’s the order I would give to Reid, Pelosi, and all my officers. “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”

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January 18, 2010 · 1:48 am

Getting Lucky with Gary Whitney

In the 1980’s, all of us at The Practical Theatre Company were very lucky to meet and work with an artist named Gary Whitney. At the time, Gary was partnering with Jay Lynch on the strip Phoebe & The Pigeon People which appeared in the pages of the Chicago Reader – and all of us recent Northwestern University grads had been fans of Gary’s artwork and Jay’s jokes for years before the incomparable Ron and Sydney Crawford introduced us to those two fascinating and talented artists.

Connecting us with Jay and Gary was yet another important social and artistic contribution made by the Crawfords to the PTC. Soon, I will undertake to express the full measure of our collective gratitude to Ron & Syd by blogging the story of their impact on my life, the history of the PTC, and the musical adventures of The Rockme Foundation. I’m pleased to say it’s an ongoing story.

From the moment I first met Gary, I liked him. We all did. Gary was a relatively quiet guy, but he was also very open and warm. He had a big beard and a big sense of humor. I can easily picture him at any number of gatherings at the Crawford’s house or at the John Lennon Auditorium laughing and enjoying the scene. Few of us knew who Gary Whitney really was (other than the guy who drew Phoebe) and Gary wasn’t the kind of guy to toot his own horn – but he, like Jay, was already a fixture in the wild, wild world of underground and alternative comix.

Gary had already been very active in the underground comic scene in the 1970s, contributing to many titles, including Bizarre Sex, Dope Comix, Kitchen Sink Press, Flying Fungus Funnies, and Windy City Comix, among many others. In the 1980’s, we at the Practical Theatre were blessed to have Gary lend his wit and talent to our efforts.

I can’t remember what the first event was for which Gary drew one of his great posters or flyers – but he drew a lot of them. He created a whole series of fabulous flyers to promote appearances by our house band, Riffmaster & The Rockme Foundation. Gary’s posters for the band’s gigs always created excitement, especially within the band. It was so cool to have the guy who drew Phoebe & The Pigeon People make our next gig look so exciting, offbeat and…cool. There’s no better word for it.

Gary also did the poster for The Practical Theatre’s production of Soapbox Sweepstakes, an ongoing satirical look at the 1984 Presidential election, which ran at the John Lennon Auditorium for 30 weeks, from May of ‘84 through election day.

But the collaboration that I enjoyed most was working with Gary, Brad Hall, Gary Kroeger and Ron Crawford on the one and only issue of Practical Comix.

Practical Comix was a childhood dream come true. I’d been an avid reader of comic books since I was a small boy — and in high school during the groovy early 70’s, I became a big fan of underground comics. I even went to Cleveland’s Cooper School of Art one summer in a vain attempt to develop my artistic talents so that I could draw a comic book of my own. Alas, I never became more than a rudimentary cartoonist, but the dream of my own comic book never died. In 1983, Gary Whitney helped to make that dream come true.

What follows is an excerpt from Practical Comix: Special Family Ties Issue. The story is adapted from a sketch that Brad Hall, Gary Kroeger and I wrote for Saturday Night Live. The sketch didn’t make it to air on SNL – but Gary Whitney made it come alive in the pages of Practical Comix.

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