Penwasser Place

Goodbye Columbus

"I'm not going to tell you again!
If you don't sit down, I'm gonna turn this shit around!"

October, my favorite month, gives us a chance to celebrate the exploits of a band of explorers who set sail from Barcelona in search of a western route to the fabulous wealth of the East (yeah, going west to get east doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, either).

Indeed

In other words, the tenth month gives us a chance to bemoan the rape and pillage of a pristine wilderness by evil, white, European males who wouldn’t know a bar of soap if it smacked them in the heads.

"I say we go say 'hi.' What's the worst that could happen?"

So, in recognition of their accomplishments, mailmen get the day off and stores trot out their very best Columbus Day displays of bed linen (“Just imagine how comfy the Santa Maria would have been if Chris and the boys only had these sheets!!”).

As a holiday, though, Columbus Day really doesn’t rank up there with the Big Four of Hanukkah, Christmas, New Years, and Boxing Day. It doesn’t draw in the romantics like Valentines Day, the patriots like the 4th of July, or even the corned beef and Guinness crowd like St. Patrick’s Day.

"Erin go bbuuuurrrrrpppppppp....!"

More times than not, we hardly know it’s happened until the evening news greets us with, “Happy Columbus Day! Too bad you hadda go to work! Ha, ha, ha!”

My family has for many years celebrated each holiday, no matter how innocuous. For example, on Presidents’ Day, we used to dress up as our favorite Commanders in Chief until my brother spoiled it for everyone when, dressed as Joe Biden, he fell up the stairs and picked a fight with the laundry.

For some reason, though, we never did much to celebrate the day in 1492 when Ferdinand and Isabella’s favorite Genoan set foot in the New World and proclaimed, “What the frik you mean this isn’t China!?"

Everyone knows this is china

In order to make it easier for everyone to properly observe one of the most significant accomplishments in world history (behind invention of “The Clapper”), might I offer the following ways to celebrate Columbus Day:

10. Slash the tires of those obnoxious, know-it-all “Vikings were here first!” punks at the Leif Eiriksson Community Center.

Although, to be fair, Northern Indians were
more badass than the Caribbean ones.

9. Try to convince anyone that parrots, monkeys, and coconuts are just as valuable as jewels, gold, and silk.

8. Go to the local tribal casino, extend a heartfelt apology, drop a bundle at the craps table.

7. Put on a wrinkled raincoat, chew on a cigar, try to figure out who put the poison in Miss Van Dyver’s highball...oh, I’m sorry, that’s how to celebrate COLUMBO Day.

6. Grab some library books, draw moustaches on pictures of Amerigo Vespucci.

"That's right. America. What do you have?
Some city in Ohio? Suck it."

5. Bring Christianity to your neighbors at the point of a gun before selling them into slavery, claim your street for your family, pass out blankets riddled with smallpox to the homeless, and shake down passers-by, insisting they tell you where their gold is.

4. Go to a Chinese restaurant dressed as Columbus, walk in, and shout, “So, HERE’s where you people were all hiding!”

"Hey! Who let white people in kitchen?"

3. Forward a petition to the city council demanding equal time with Labor Day.

2. With your friends, build a scaled-down replica of Columbus’s fleet, drift aimlessly on the town pond, claim YWCA summer camp for Spain.

1. Once more dressed as Columbus, visit a deforested national park (or strip mine), issue “Ooops, my bad!” statement to the press.

There now, I hope this list inspires you to do something other than complain when you can’t use the drive-up window at the bank.

But, if it’ll make you feel better, go get yourself a cannoli.

Chris would’ve wanted it that way.

********

To my good friends north of the border: Happy Canadian Thanksgiving! May your harvest tables be blessed with bountiful feasts and happily free of moose and Celine Dion lookalikes.

As Martin Frobisher would have said, "Sure, it makes more sense than eating outside in November in frikkin' Massachusetts, but that four day weekend for American Thanksgiving would be wicked sweet, eh?"

Read the Label

Okay, this is old. Much like me. But, I thought I'd republish it because it made me chuckle.

And I realized I'm out of lotion.

I Just Can't Help Myself

Feel free to groan.

Shana Tova!

To those of the Jewish faith or those who live with someone of the Jewish faith or to those who just want any excuse to celebrate a holiday, Happy New Year as we bid farewell to the lunar year of 5785 and sashay (or mosey. I won't judge) our merry way into the year 5786.

I know, right? Seems like only yesterday it was 5756. My, how time flies!

Rosh Hashanah is a solemn way to remember the years past and hope to build upon them for a better tomorrow. Not for nothin', we could use all the good thoughts that come our way. Things have really sucked lately.

The new year involves prayer, apples, honey, and the blowing of the shofar.

And, frankly, is Herschel Shofar's favorite day of the year

Much love and hope to you all.

Just remember to get back to work tomorrow.

Dark Shadows

True to my word (no, seriously), the following is what I hope is a lighthearted post with, really, no redeeming social values. If you’re more inclined to topics of a much more sober (as opposed to drunk) nature, by all means visit Nobody Asked Me But... https://seriousal.blogspot.com. Not that you’ll find any redeeming social values there, you understand. It’s just a little more serious than this nonsense.

Thank you for your attention in this matter.

********

I realize most of you in the audience are younger than I am. In fact, since I've reached my own personal "sell-by" date, I can't imagine there's many of you who are older. So, you may not remember the topic of this post.

I’ve recently taken to watching reruns of a television show on Tubi, which is a channel on my Smart TV that I found while surfing for ~~porn~~ cat videos. That show is Dark Shadows (you may have guessed it, you clever boots) and, despite its horrible acting, laughable special effects, and numerous gaffes, I was entranced by it when I was eight years old.

I first starting watching this first-of-its-kind Gothic soap opera upon the recommendation of my mother.

Personal Observation: Interesting that my mom was only twenty-seven years old at the time. She obviously seemed like an old lady to me, but, oh to be only 27 now! (Remember that “sell-by” crack? Yeah).

Anyway, I thought this show was the coolest thing on TV (apart from Batman) and was mesmerized by its cast of supernatural creatures from ghosts to vampires to werewolves.

And whatever TF this weird shit was.

I rushed home immediately from school, stopped in at the Thompson Food Market, bought myself a bag of pretzel nuggets and a Coke, and plopped in front of our console TV to watch the goings-on in Collinsport, Maine.

You'd think I would have spent more time chasing girls.
Clearly, I was a hottie.

Yet Another Personal Observation: The fact that it was set in Maine seemed super-exotic to me, too. Little did I know that the Navy would eventually transfer me there. Yeah, not so exotic. Lotta moose, though.

"Outta my way. Gotta catch Dark Shadows."

Broadcast on ABC from 1966-1971, Dark Shadows became a cult classic, especially for the younger crowd. Sex symbols such as Jonathan Frid and David Selby as Barnabus and Quentin Collins titillated young girls. And probably my mom.

Hee...hee...hee...I said 'titillated.'

Or Boys. I won’t judge.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Oh, don’t worry. We boys, or girls (once again, I won’t judge) had Kathryn Leigh Scott and Lara Parker as Maggie and Angelique.

I mean, even with the dental work, hubba hubba

I was most distraught when it was cancelled and held its replacement, Password, personally responsible.

Effin' Allen Ludden

Oh sure, there were movies in 1970, House of Dark Shadows, and 1971, the dreadful Night of Dark Shadows, but they were...meh.

I remember how excited I was when the series came back in 1991 as a remake, starring Ben Cross as Barnabus Collins. But, it was criminally short-lived. It was entertaining, but it really wasn’t the same.

Ironically, I was living in Maine when this came out.
Still a lotta moose.

Ben Cross would go on to play another out-of-this-world character as the Vulcan, Sarek.
And then he died.
Coincidence?

And don’t get me started on that Johnny Depp adaptation of Dark Shadows.

So, when I rediscovered the original Dark Shadows in all its cheesy glory, I felt like I was transported back to my childhood. Except I was no longer a chubby eight-year old munching on pretzels and swilling soda.

I was a chubby sixty-seven year old.

Where Were You?

Okay, this is a repost of a repost of a...let's put it this way: I've reprinted this a LOT since that terrible day. But, I feel compelled to do so lest we forget that nearly 3,000 people were murdered on a beautiful September day.

The following, tragically, is a true story...

It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon on September 11th (a sad commentary: we don’t even need to identify the year anymore) when my maintenance supervisor stuck his head into my room to wake me.

“Sir, someone just flew a plane into the World Trade Center.”

Minutes later, I watched, horrified, as a second plane struck the South tower. And then, as both of the monstrously huge structures tumbled to the ground as if kicked by a petulant child.

My unit and I were participating in a multi-nation exercise at the Naval Air Station in Keflavik, Iceland (this explains why it was the afternoon). A round-the-clock operation, the Keflavik Tactical Exchange gave us a unique chance to evaluate each other’s capabilities should we ever needed to flex our respective militaries. Little did we know that we were preparing for a type of war which belonged to the past.

Because the 21st Century came roaring into each of our lives on that late summer day.

Naturally, the exercise was immediately cancelled. Foreign aircrews (funny that I call them “foreign’” since we were actually foreigners, too) beat hasty returns to their home bases. We were told that American airspace was closed indefinitely.

Station security forces went into their highest readiness posture. Watch teams at the main gate beefed up, rings of barbed wire cordoned off perceived sensitive areas, and armed patrols roamed the perimeter.

My watch teams and I, on the other hand, remained at our billeting. Only in Iceland for the exercise, we were considered non-essential personnel who’d only get in the way.

And so we spent the next few days.

I received a worried phone call from my wife during this time. She fretted over my safety. I assured her that I was fine but omitted the fact that I was more concerned for her and the kids.

You see, my family lived only a couple hours from New York and only a few from Washington.

The ensuing days involved frantic searches for whatever updates we could glean from the news and how in the world we’d get ourselves and thousands of pounds of equipment back home.

Most importantly, we desperately wanted to know how we could get into the fight. Whatever the fight was.

Four days later, U.S. airspace was opened to military traffic. As I glanced through the window of the Navy patrol plane which took us home, I was struck at how empty the sky was-with the exception of the one plane which approached us as we crossed into the United States. It came no closer than a few miles before it disappeared.

I think it was a fighter aircraft.

What’s more, the radio circuits, normally full of the cacophony of countless air traffic controllers, were eerily silent. The only ones “on the air” were the handful which guided us home. All else were hushed into silence.

Our route of flight took us just south of Manhattan, well out of sight of land. At that distance, even at the altitude at which we were flying, it was impossible to see any of the city skyline.

But, we did see a huge pall of gray-brown smoke lingering in the air like the death shroud that it was.

As we touched ground at the Willow Grove naval air station, there was nobody to greet us. There really wasn't much of anything by way of an acknowledgment that we were back. Somehow, it seemed fitting.

After all, we all had something much more important to do.

Go home to our families.

In memory of:

Commander Bill Donovan, USN

AW2 (NAC/AW) Joseph Pycior, USN

and the thousands whose only crime was going to work that day.