Sidebars

Pizza Adventures....by Bob Sanders

I'm not sure where or when I had my first pizza.  My best guess is that it was in Tulsa in the early '60s and definitely in a Pizza Hut.  This would figure since the chain was begun in 1958 by a couple of students at Wichita University--something like 130 miles north of Tulsa.

Pizza Hut was a reasonable beginning and it wasn't until 1968 that matters got serious when I moved from Los Angeles to Chicago to work for Playboy Enterprises.  L.A. was essentially pizza-deprived back then although Sam and Joe Martorano had established Casa Bianca at 1955 Colorado Blvd., a couple of field goals from the Rose Bowl.  The Martoranos had worked at Tony's Pizza in the Windy City but their approach bore little resemblance to the deep dish Chicago product; the crust, I'm told, was light and the toppings slight by comparison.  The California approach to cooking was underway and the pizza obsessive under-served.

I don't recall any L.A. pizza places largely because my dining was pretty much limited to West Hollywood and environs running to the ocean.  With an office at 9255 Sunset Blvd, my favorite places tended to be within walking distance and included: the Cock & Bull across the street; Hamburger Hamlet, eventually a chain created by the still with us Harry and Marilyn Lewis who started at the corner of Sunset & Hilldale; and Frascati, a casual yet classy place with outdoor dining at the rear.  Oh, yes, there was Musso & Frank Grill, still there since 1919.

My discovery of Chicago pizza was made possible by a convention at The Drake Hotel that forced me to stay at the St. Clair on Ohio Street.  The Drake, immediately across the street from the Playboy Building, was the logical place for me but timing, as always, was everything and I was told I could move to The Drake when the convention was over.  We know the importance of timing when we reflect upon Turner Classic Movie's decision to play next Tuesday's (May 29) Irving Thalberg tribute show at 6 a.m. EST.

I didn't need The Drake.  I had settled in at the St. Clair, a place complete with a large contingent of raffish folks from the entertainment industry.  On the top floor was the Chicago Press Club and down the street Ike Sewell's uncommnly popular restaurants, Pizzeria Uno and Due.  I soon found myself eating a fair amount of deep dish that contrasted enormously with prior culinary adventures of the Italian genre.

Sewell, having served in Italy during World War II, had become a regional vice president of Fleishmann's Distilling Corp. and wanted something more exciting.  He found it when he teamed up with pal Ricc Riccardo, an established restaurateur who in in 1935 had turned a former speakeasy into Riccardo Restaurant and Gallery.  A Texan, Sewell wanted to specialize in Mexican food but fate, in the form of a very bad enchilada in a test dinner played a significant role in cuisine history.  Riccardo became so sick that Mexican food was out of the question so he suggested pizza.  Like Sewell, Riccardo had encountered the food while serving in Italy; both were of a mind that the real thing was little more than an appetizer, and they set about inventing something more substantial.  What evolved was a meal-sized pizza with a thick crust and lots of cheese. 

Business did not flourish immediately at the corner of Ohio and Wabash and Sewell soon gave orders to his bartenders to provide free sample slices to customers.  Fortunately for Sewell (Riccardo by then was concentrating on his own restaurant up the street at Rush and Hubbard Streets), Pizzaria Uno's clientele were heavy drinkers and the pizza eventually caught on.  More about the remarkable Riccardo and son Ric, Jr. at a later date.

I lived at the St. Clair for a month, then moved into an apartment on Division Street between State St. and Lake Michigan.  As things turned out, Betty and the kids did not join me in Chicago until August of that year.  It wasn't all bad since Hugh Hefner's home was two blocks away and I had an open invitation to parties that, seemingly, had no end.

The true origins of pizza are difficult to pin down.  People inclined toward conspiracy theories tend to believe that Marco Polo brought back more than spaghetti when he returned from China although such claims are tenuous at best.  We are told the Greeks had a vegetable pizza in ancient times and the Italians improved the product with a variety of fillings before baking.  We do know that Virgil, who lived in the lst Century BC, had the good sense to write a pizza recipe for posterity.

It is generally conceded that the first pizzeria in this country was opened in New York City in 1905 thus planting the city's incestuous family tree.  Like Sewell's experience 50 years later, it was slow to catch on.  It took World War II and a taste acquired by GIs to create a fondness for the food.  Today there are more than 70,000 pizzerias in this country producing an average of 46 slices or 23 lbs. a year for every man, woman and child.  Deep dish pizza, still served at Uno and Due, has run afoul of criticism during recent years for a calorie count of 2,310.  Pizza Hut is out of contention in that league with a modest 9-inch Triple Meat Heliano of 1,280 calories.  And you wonder how this nation got to be one of big butts?

Not credited with a national sense of humor, South Korea spoofed itself when the country's artery-clogged Mr. Pizza unit produced a YouTube pizza story suggesting that Marco Polo stole the pizza recipe not from China but from Korea.  The send up was produced by Gumshoe Pictures and is worth viewing.

In 1990, wife Jan and I moved to the Pacific Northwest and San Juan Island's Friday Harbor where nary a pizza could be found until an expanded gas station started cranking out product geared for those of decidedly limited dining experience.  Even the availability of the mainland 60 minutes away by ferry was of pizza disappointment.  Alas, the exquisite pizza and the magnificent hamburger are rarities of the Pacific Northwest.  We eventually discovered, thanks to then banker Brian Brown, an approximation of hamburger heaven on Commercial Avenue in Anacortes.  The Brown Lantern is a burger discovery that resurrected fond memories of Charlie Beinlich's in Northbrook north of Chicago.  Mainland mainstay Bob's (nine locations--three in Bellingham) knows what to put in a bun; by all means, hit the bar in the Barkley Village location for a genuine pub feeling.

Each of us has had memorable dining experiences.  One of mine occurred in 1992 when Jan and I were guests in Barcelona of Antonio Susquellas Escala, whose employment as presidente of EniChem Iberica, S.A. put him in the midst of the Olympic Games.  Tony had been an exchange student in Thousand Oaks, California living with Jan and her family.  Our six weeks with Tony was his "thank you" and included a highly impressive number of event tickets including opening and closing ceremonies.

It was while strolling down Barcelona's impressive La Ramblas that Jan and I, accompanied by my brother John and his wife, Terry, decided to have lunch at the Hotel Royal's Cafeteria La Poma.  Curious about whatever Barcelona's approach to the pizza might be, I ordered a thin-crusted beauty whose intriguing ingredients included walnuts and blue cheese positioned in the pie's center--about a four-inch circle.  Outside of a delicate winner consumed at, of all places, a short-lived Two Illinois Center restaurant developed by Arnold Morton (he built steak house giant Morton's), my experience with the light version had been limited.

The Barcelona product was remarkably good and here I am, 20 years later, recalling its virtues.  I was so caught up in the pizza that I paid little attention to Magic Johnson, a member of the U.S.A. Dream Team, unquestionably the greatest basketball squad ever.  Magic was seated nearby dining while a circus-like scene developed outside in front of a huge hotel window where a human pyramid of kids had materialized.  Mesmerized, the kids were shouting "Ma-jeek, Ma-jeek."  Completing his meal, the basketball star vanished out a back door and the kids disassembled.  Pronounced evidence of the departed youngsters was left behind on the window; the glass was heavily befogged by human vapors.

Pizza satisfaction is a personal thing and my problem with the Fourth Corner version can be summed up in one word: pepperoni.  Enthusiasts of the pepperoni experience are inclined to believe that pepperoni pizza is to the Pacific Northwest what the Packers are to Green Bay.  A current television commercial extolling the glories of Pizza Hut is, I find, a stomach churner of prodigious success.  While an imaginatively constructed pizza heavy on vegetables can mirror the exultant beauty of a Joan Miro work, the Pizza Hut TV effort features a very large pie whose disgusting topping consists of nothing but a slathering of pepperoni that appears to have been sitting for a week under a scorching Arizona desert sun.  It is beyond ugly made even more so by bread sticks of almost equal repulsion.

Reaching pizza nirvana is not easy although there is a greater variety available today than, say, 30 years ago.  Now a $38 billion industry, pizza is available in chains dominated by Pizza Hut, Dominos, and Papa John who claim 21% of the pizzeria total.  With hard times upon us, pizzeria prices have come down--partly because of the frozen variety competition whose costs are appealing.  Papa Murphy's, whose come-on is take-and-bake, is a highly interesting game plan.  A warning: do not deviate fromn Papa's instructions.  Among other things, bake within a hour of pickup and make sure you don't get a product that's been sitting around.

Store-bought frozen product is challenging with Freschetta, Red Baron, DeGiorno, Paul Newman, California and the rest battling it out to see who has the least amount of cardboard taste.  The boredom of pepperoni pizza has dominated Fourth Corner freezers and I had all but given up until three weeks ago when I encountered what I immediately determined as homage to Chicago: sausage and mushroom pizza.  It was at Fred Meyer and, indeed, produced by Kroger, owner of FM.  Further, a rather stunning picture of the pizza was on the black oblong box and within an hour I had achieved a blessedness never imagined from a frozen product.  The crust was thin and flaky but not overly so and the toppings more substantial and decidedly tastier than all others experienced.  At present, there are four Private Selection pizzas (11-14 oz.) that sell for $4.50 each.  The mushrooms used are portobella and shitake and the sausage Italian.  There's some jive on the box about the baking having been done on a marble hearth.

This column, always inclined to recognize superior marketing, believes Private Selection deserves recognition for realizing all frozen pizza boxes are the same shape.  Simply by creating an oblong pizza has the firm given the product recognition in a highly competitive environment.

And, frankly, I don't care if Private Selection pizza is baked on Aunt Tilly's breakfast table.  Now, go get yourself some sausage and mushroom pizza and think Cubs; that is, if you can stand the thought.

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Fourth Corner Mayberry....by Bob Sanders

Readers of this space know of my intense perturbation regarding the media's "selling" of Bellingham, the Fourth Corner community I call home.  The remarkable amount of publicity suggesting people move here has become a very real problem.

My thinking is not original.  I first heard such observations from a San Juan Island neighbor, author Ernie Gann, who refused to tell the media where he lived.  The adventure novelist (The High and the Mighty among his triumphs) was convinced the less the rest of the world knew about the island, the better off islanders would be.

It was nearly three years ago that I began undertaking efforts to debunk Bellingham utilizing a campaign that would paint for public consumption a joyless picture of the city.  In my role as the Picasso of PR, that pursuance has included changing our current unofficial motto, "City of Subdued Excitement," to something a bit more pretentious like "City of Sublimely Subdued Subjective Excitement," or even "Tony Soprano's Kinda Town."

Just why 'hamsters are lethargic, indifferent and depressed was examined a couple of years ago by way of an interview with Dr. I.B. Spacey.  It was Spacey, Bellingham's world-renowned master of medical world stuff and all-around smart ass, who targeted vitamin D deficiency as the community's dirty little secret.  Spacey's pioneering efforts produced the intriguing information that more than 90 percent of blood tests here reveal deplorable vitamin D deficiencies.  Interestingly enough, the vitamin D story is now on the back burner because of superior opportunities to inform about the real Bellingham.

Chances are pretty good you don't know that whooping cough in Whatcom County has reached epidemic proportions and is on pace to soon number 3,000 cases.  The county ranks fifth in the state and is first among the 10 largest with populations of more than 150,000.  The reason for Whatcom/Bellingham's record is the increased rejection of the pertussis vaccine.  The past 12 years have seen the rejection figure double so spread the word that there are an awful lot of stupid 'hamsters you wouldn't want living next door to you should a move here be considered.

The challenges of life in Bellingham in addition to the major vitamin deficiency and whooping cough, have been reduced in priority by the Hammer the 'hamsters Committee devoted to reducing our population.  The HHC has chosen to inundate the world's media with information about the community's immature leadership during recent years.  In the committee's sights are: the firing of the city's parks & recreation director for failure to properly reconfigure a golf course pond; the sliding past an asleep-at-the-switch City Council of a hidden camera scheme that led to the mayor's re-election defeat; and the thoroughly bizarre story of two Port Commissioners (there are three) who forced the resignation of the Executive Director in what recalled the Machiavellian maneuvers intrinsic to many of the plot twists of television's "Mayberry RFD."

The firing late in 2010 of veteran and highly-regarded Parks & Recreation Director Paul Leuthold had unusual beginnings.  Upkeep of Padden Lake Golf Course is the city's responsibility and it was mayor Dan Pike who, while checking out the course, made a critical comment to Leuthold about a pond located between the 13th and 15th fairways.  It needed work alternately described as silt removal or drainage and Leuthold, aware of the importance of cost-saving, put friend/city engineer Mark Handzlik to work.  Handzlik, a golfer, was "paid" with free golf.  It was win win for the city.  According to Handzlik, both his boss and the city manager knew of the arrangement.

Suddenly, everything went Mayberry and got either Gooberized or Gomerized to death depending upon one's point of view.  Charges of conflict of interest, violating policies on moonlighting, using city computers, and being on the city's clock while working on the project were bruited about.  The mayor, normally placid (some say right out of "Murder She Wrote") turned nasty levying a sentence that hardly fit the "crime." Result: Leuthold and Handzlik were fired.  As things turned out, the firings were a factor leading to Pike's re-election failure last November.

Another factor was the hidden cameras fiasco, additional proof that you simply stay away from Bellingham unless you want to experience fools gladly as they attempt to myopically claim Subdued City as the Santa Barbara of the North.

It was mayor Pike who signed a contract with something called ATS that would have placed red-light cameras at four intersections in addition to speed snappers in two school zones.  The signing followed a Council closed-to-the-public 6-1 vote that approved the deal.  Earlier, the Council had voted unanimously to encourage public expression.  Subdued City rose up in a wrath most righteous, got an initiative on last November's ballot and there went the traffic cameras.  Pike was defeated, but wait a minute.  The state Supreme Court ruled the initiative against the cameras was invalid.

There was, of course, money involved and Bellingham's plan was to write at least two traffic tickets per location per day to equal a yearly cost of  $28,500 per camera.  Those tickets were to cost $124 at the intersections and $250 at the school zones.  This was in stark contrast to Mukilteo's approach to matters.  Mukilteo, for the geographically-deprived, is halfway to Seattle and set costs at $20 while enabling the public to vote.

The slumbering City Council in March of this year voted to pay ATS $100,000 by June 1 to end all the foolishness.  There is a chilling history of money spent here on surveys, advanced planning documents and architectural renderings plus the disheartening waste of time offered in the name of public good by committees and public commentary.

Another story to pass along to friends and relatives considering a move to Subdued City is a real classic involving the Port of Bellingham whose inability to get things done is legendary.  Turf warfare is what a lot of it is all about and savage infighting has characterized the Port Commission's inability to work with the City Council whose shortcomings are hardly breaking news.

For something like 18 months, Charlie Sheldon worked effectively as Port of Bellingham Executive Director having been hired by Commissioners who couldn't come up with a choice during a first round of interviews.  Sheldon, with an excellent record in a similar position in Seattle, eventually was chosen and did work that pleased everyone including Commissioner Scott Walker who eventually changed his mind.  Meanwhile, former Commissioners, ex-mayors and others of political bent came to believe Sheldon was the real deal.  That is everyone but Walker.

On March 30, the three port commissioners held an executive meeting.  It was closed to the public with only invited staff and counsel also in attendance to discuss "personnel."  The discussion was about Sheldon with Walker unable to convince fellow commissioner Jim Jorgensen to ask for Sheldon's resignation.  According to witnesses, Walker would not elaborate on his disappointment with Sheldon.

It was at this point that an illegal weekend meeting between Walker and Jorgensen was held.  Jorgensen eventually caved and Sheldon was forced to resign.  Walker and Jorgensen had engaged in a "serial meeting" in which two commissioners talked through an intermediary from the Port staff.  It was a violation of the Open Meetings Act of Washington State.

In one of those journalistic embarrassments underlining the Bellingham Herald's lack of responsibility to its readers, the reporter who normally covers the Port for the paper was out of town.  No one stepped in for him and the paper was beaten for two days by John Servais who publishes the on-line Northwest Citizen.  Originally from Green Bay, Wisconsin, Servais was the principal force behind The Independent, now defunct.  Servais, highly sensitive about such matters as inept leadership and lazy journalism, has called for a public response.  One option is to recall Walker and elect a replacement this fall.  The other is to expand the commission to five members, a move that would produce better Port decisions and lessen the possibility of further outrages.  An open to the public Port meeting, at which a problem-solving expansion can be accomplished, will be held Monday (May 14).  No one is holding their breath.

One month after Sheldon left office, Walker's indignation was finally explained by something called the Pacific Maritime Online.  Sheldon had taken a busines trip to the Caribbean and Walker was miffed for his not informing the board.  According to many, Walker's idea of travel exotica might involve a visit to nearby Marietta whose resemblance to Dismal Seepage of "Vic & Sade" is striking.

At this writing, 'hamsters can affix their names to a petition calling for an expansion of Port commissioners from three to five.  Needed are 6,915 valid signatures, a number that amounts to 10 percent of last November's voters.

No way do you want to move to Bellingham.  No way, that is, unless you yearn for a real life version of "Mayberry RFD."

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Petitions....by Bob Sanders

 

With the world going broke and Dwight Eisenhower's warning about the military-industrial complex giving us further pause, one has to wonder about the lack of outrage being registered concerning the frightening number of problems facing this country.

The anger simply isn't there although the concept of paper petitioning democratic governments, as old as the Magna Carta, remains in place while not in vogue.  Petitioning doesn't appear to be the serious process it once was; perhaps it's a matter of having given up on our Washington politicians, a suggestion of obvious merit judging from those single digit approval ratings.  Maybe we have backed away from the out-of-touchers and have turned to the internet to register what, unfortunately, is often trivial whining.  Fortunately, we remain inclined to petition on a local level and it was a Bellingham, WA story that whirled my mind toward the electronic petition gaining in popularity as our favored method of registering complaint.

The Bellingham tale is about the Executive Director of the Port Commission who was fired by two of three Commissioners, the second of whom required a decidedly illegal weekend shoring up by the originator of the scheme.  Without going into great detail, one of the Commissioners didn't like the Executive Director, a hire out of Seattle where he was highly regarded.  According to those who know about such things, his Bellingham work was exemplary.  A petition to save the Executive Director's job was enjoined by a less effective paper version.  Close to 1,000 signatures and an April 17 heavily-attended and vocal Port meeting failed to impress the two Commissioners and the Executive Director's job was not saved.  Other than learning of some Machiavellian involvement by a few Port staffers, the public still doesn't have any details of the firing.  Petitioners will now attempt to increase the number of Port Commissioners to five.

Known as the City of Subdued Excitement, Bellingham achieves minor titillation most often when someone screws up at City Hall or at the Whatcom County level.  It's the kind of place where an ex-mayor (he lost in November) succeeded in sliding a street-based camera security system past the City Council, then lost the election in all likelihood because his maneuver was recalled by an aroused citizenry that first produced a petition with enough signatures.  The Council settled with the camera people for $100,000 later breathing great sighs of relief that the city had gotten off so cheaply.  We put up with a lot of shit in Bellingham.  Largely inured to such foolishness, we've become subdued although occasionally capable of retort.

It was a petition that started the camera folly rolling in another direction and 'hamsters became aware of the Port story when it was revealed by John Servais who publishes online the NorthwestCitizen.  More down the road about Servais whose story beat the Bellingham Herald's version by two days.  There are times when 'hamsters feel they are living in Mayberry and the Herald accounts for a lot of those times.

Curious about internet petitions and whether or not the American public has turned to them to express anger, I began searching the internet discovering a plethora.  One is in behalf of an actor, Patrick Murphy, who plays Dr. Derek Sheppard on "Grey's Anatomy."  Aware that the medical world provides fabulous fodder for fixated followers fascinated by favorite TV doctors from Ben Casey to House, I was not surprised to find petitioners desperately wanting Murphy to play Dr. Stephen Vincent Strange for Marvel Comics' upcoming "Doctor Strange."

It's good to know the Druids are not being ignored thanks largely to right-wing columnist Melanie Phillips who got on a tear back in October when she took exception to the British government's determination that the Druids have an official religion that enables them charitable status.  Phillips writes for the Mail and it wasn't long before King Arthur Pondragon, a Druid activist, showed up at the Mail with an online petition of more than 4,000 signatures.  Do not show pictures of Druids to Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton.  Druid apparel is heavy on white sheets.

Half-time at the Super Bowl, like the Academy Awards, gets a lot of yawns and this year's use of Madonna got very mixed reviews.  Hard to believe, but there's a hue and possibly even a cry from fans of Weird Al Yankovic (I'd call him Weird but we have yet to reach a first name basis) has "unparalleled showmanship," fans extol his "wide-swath of musical styles ranging from grunge parody to rap parody," and, least we forget, "geek appeal" that would translate into "killer ratings."  By all means, let's never lose sight of geek appeal.

Decidedly on the serious side are a couple of petitions that recently forced a reaction by the White House and may have struck a blow to millions of conspiracy theorists.  The petitions, containing 17,000 signatures, called on the government to disclose knowledge of extraterrestrial beings and contact with them.  As a result, the White House has started a new andd highly original initiative called "We the People" that encourages petitions while denying there is any "credible evidence of extraterrestrial presence here on earth."

To pierce or not to pierce appears to be the question following tattoo adornment.  Just as marijuana is the gateway drug, it appears that's the case with tattoos although Elke of the UK doesn't make a reference to any tats in her petition located on the Bureau of Petitions website.  "I really want to get my nose pierced," she writes, "but mum won't let me...I think she will if I get enough signatures, I am 16, so I think I am old enough to make my own decisions...please sign!!!  Thus far Elke has pleaded her way to 100 signatures.

Another slant on piercing is offered on the Care2Petitionsite where an attention-getting headline, Outlaw the Piercing Gun NOW!!! leads the reader into claims that the instrument is unhygienic, inaccurate and dangereous.  With a goal of 1,000 signatures, 613 have signed up so far.  No word yet about reaction from the National Rifle Association.

Holly's petition is to own a cat and may be found on Petition buzz whose website is, indeed, impressive.  There are 10 categories, enough to satisfy the biggest complainers among us.  Entertainment & Media, for example, has 886 offerings while the sports world has 277.  Civil and Human Rights presently includes 664.  A hot whine these days is a 20% VAT charge on sports nutrition drinks in Britain that will go into effect October 12 unless enough squawks materialize.  The complaints, now numbering 22,413, are being sent to Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne.  One of the fascinating aspects of Petition buzz is its thoroughness including tips on the use of Paypal to collect donations.  

Tattoos for cats seem a bit obscure but the Russians are stirring things up as they occasionally do.  Thus far, 24,322 cat lovers have expressed outrage at Russian tattooist Timur Rimit whose artistry is now being worn by his hairless sphinx.  Another tat catastrophe is Mickey whose chest is now emblazoned with a likeness of King Tut.  Both Mickey's owner, Oskana Popova, and Timur did make certain that three hours of sedation accompanied the procedure.  Thus far 646,120 facebookers have made clear their removed disenchantment by registering a thumbs down.

Any sprawling topic like petitioning has to include the Japanese and it was U.N. Donne, head of Japanese Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London, who knows just how weird are the Japanese and you thought their Hello Kitty assault rifle and the square watermelon were something along with penis ice cream and the breast grabber amusement arcade prize game?  A thousand people recently signed a petition demanding that the government legalize marriage to cartoon characters.  The petition does not make clear whether sexual identity is of any consequence in cartoon nuptials.

And, finally, it's good to know a sense of humor is possible in Pakistan.  The humorist is a judge who recently heard a petitioner, one Atiqur Rehman, who claimed to be Meera's husband.  Meera, for the uninformed, is a Bollywood babe who will do anything for publicity--most notably calling off engagements and weddings.  One of her biggest scores was achieved starring in a movie featuring a kissing scene deemed "immoral" by Pakistanis not fond of her making films in India.

Rehman's request was pretty unique: he wanted to have a test conducted to determine the actress's virginity.  The judge thought for a moment, then declined the request suggesting such an examination would open a Pandora's box.

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Bear Keane....by Bob Sanders

 

The postcard received two weeks after Christmas displayed a lonely Santa Claus wearily walking along a mist-shrouded deck.  Slung Sinatra-like over his right shoulder was the jacket to his Santa attire.

Brief and touching copy accompanied the card:

Bear was Santa for 35 years,

Lots of joy--lots of tears.

His Santa days are over and gone,

But his Santa heart beats on and on.

 

I met Thomas "Bear" at the San Juan Island Jazz Festival in 1990, 11 years after a group of island Dixie lovers decided to honor the music while doing local merchants a favor.  The population then was around 5,000 and isn't much more now.  My volunteered first assignment was to co-manage the venue by the ferry dock.  Bear was my co-manager and we liked each other immediately in spite of our differing attitudes toward the music; Bear was ardent about Dixie while my tastes were and are more progressive.  As a newly-arrived resident, I soon became a member of the Festival board and was instrumental in bringing a Chicago group, the Ellington Dynasty, to the event.  Bear, who lived hard by the ferry dock in Mukilteo, volunteered for every fest, originally billed as the San Juan Island Traditional Jazz Festival.

Running four days most of its existence, the event was always held the fourth weekend of July, a wise scheduling based upon knowledge gleaned by one of the original board members who determined that the July dates were the most rain-less in what has become known as "the banana belt."  But one day in close to 80 was rained out.  Among the features of the event were: a Jumping the Gun Thursday night opening; a Friday afternoon promenade of bands down Spring Street (The Rainbow Lady always led the Parasol Ladies accompanied by jazzers dressed in 1920s fashion); a Saturday morning show for children plus a Sunday morning gospel service.

The Jazz Fest survived but never prospered as Bear and I partnered from 1990 until 2002 when the board decided to end the event.  It was a strange decision partly arrived at because but two of 12 board members had any knowledge of or interest in jazz.  I was one of the two and a lone voice in keeping the project alive.  The Board President, former County Commissioneer and Friday Harbor Mayor Bill LaPorte, wanted to sell off Festival holdings that included a storage home worth about $150,000.  The money was used to create scholarships for Friday Harbor high school graduates, certainly a noble cause.

Bear and I ate a lot of hotdogs and drank a bunch of beer as we worked the various venues that for a couple of years included Roche Harbor, like Friday Harbor a postcard pretty place.  The bands came from all over and included: the regional Updown Lowdown Jazz Band; Rosie O'Grady's Good Time Jazz Band from Orlando, Florida; and the Palm Springs Yacht Club headed by Conrad Janis, a trombone player whose earlier acting careers were in radio, stage and film.  

Bear Keane, whose quick wit suggested he had kissed the Blarney Stone on more than one occasion, often acted as venue emcee.  He knew a great deal about the event's regular musicians who more and more tended to come from the Pacific Northwest.  Bear and wife Char were inveterate attendees of jazz fests with Jan and I once meeting them in nearby Victoria, B.C. for a few sessions.

During those Festival days inn Friday Harbor an understandable cloud hung over the event and it was early recognition that created name changes.  The audience was graying and our T- shirts (each volunteer received one plus free admission to events) began reflecting our consternation.  We switched back and forth from calling the music "classic" to the old standy "Dixieland."  Meanwhile, according to Dixie fanatics, there occurred far too many "intrusions" of groups who played musical sins including swing.  One of the outstanding jazz singers who played the gig was Rebecca Kilgore who came up from Portland leaving musical partner Dave ("Van Lingle Mungo") Frishberg behind.  I think that was in 1993 and Kilgore, an enormously appealing singer, has a career in full flight today while appearing at such august watering holdes as Feinstein's in New York.

The Sanders worked out an arrangement with Bear and Char for them to house sitduring trips to such places as Italy, the UK, Spain and Thailand.  "The Bears," as we came to call them, loved San Juan Island and we were delighted to have a former member of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms keep a professional eye on the place.

Health problems forced the Sanders to leave Friday Harbor for Bellingham in 2004 but we remained in touch with The Bears who would meet us at various restaurants halfway between Mukilteo and Subdued City.  There was always at least one meeting with Bear giving hirsute evidence around August that the Christmas season would agin find him playing Santa Claus.  No one played Santa better than Bear, a large man with a perfect demeanor for the role.  His belief in the role was just a snowball's circumference this side of Edmund Gwenn's deep conviction in "Miracle on 34th Street."

The Bears began going to Palm Springs for a chunk of winter about 20 years ago and it was that way this year until we received the card displaying a dejected Santa of dispirited gait.  It was difficult to believe a Santa of 35 years was no more.  I failed to reach Char because of a disconnected phone, then could not connect by e-mail.  I turned to the internet, but a search for Mukilteo and Palm Springs obituaries produced nothing.  Bear was gone.

But wait, as they say in the infomercial biz.  The phone rang the other day and Caller I.D. indicated it was from Thomas Keane.  My first thought was that Char would have to change that I.D.  I answered and couldn't believe the voice at the other end.  It was a boisterous Bear and my thoughts ran to Mark Twain's line about words of his death being highly exaggerated.

Bear's reaction to an obvious question  was that "like at least nine others," neither Jan nor I hadd read the Santa card correctly.  "His Santa days now over and gone, but his Santa heart beats on and on."  Santa's are much better at ho-ho-hoing rather than rhyme-rhyme-rhyming.

The Sanders and at least nine others had been had by a waggish Santa.  We'll meet soon at, maybe, Burlington Bob's and rejoice midst some understandable snickering by The Bears.  Perhaps Bear, who has lost a lot of weight the past couple of years and appears rather svelte-like, later this year will return in a reincarnation of sorts: Peter Pan

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Last Laughs....by Bob Sanders

 

I see my regular physician something like four times a year.  The other day, I got the good news that, in his opinion, there are no apparent reasons why my life span should not run another five years.  His words were entirely volunteered and not the result of any prompting on my part.  Assuming he's correct, I will make it at least into my 90s.

His words prompted my thinking about the enormously serendipitous aspects of living a life that appreciates improvisation in a world decidedly inclined to schedule just about everything.  I got to thinking about some of the delightful surprises I've experienced  over the years; with such thoughts come hope there are more down the road.

 

It was early on while working for TV Guide magazine that I found myself in Oklahoma City on the way to the airport to pick up Barbara Nichols, an actress whose charms produced deep conviction by some that she made Marilyn Monroe look by comparison like a boy.  Nichols, who made it into many dignified forms of show business by way of men's magazines, had flown in to bring some added attention to the new Oklahoma Edition of the publication.  It was while driving her to the Skirvin Hotel that I learned she was hungry.

We stopped at a very nice Italian restaurant where the food was good and the conversation sprightly.  Quite suddenly, the actress exclaimed: "Oh, my goodness, there I am," and pointed to a brick wall with an oddly mottled look.  With that, she pulled me out of my chair for a closer inspection.  Our examination revealed a great variety of the more interesting pieces of female anatomy that had been cut from magazines, pasted on the wall, then shellacked.

"Look, there's one of my boobs," she exclaimed, her voice trumpeting a manic sense of pride.  Who would know other than the possessor of it or them or, maybe, Hugh Hefner with magnifying glass in hand?  Later on, she found her derriere although she didn't call it that.

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The Chase-Park Plaza Hotel in St. Louis probably is still going strong and I suspect that public relations there continue to be done by a Mary Chase.  Just as there has been over the course of nearly a century something like 18 Rin Rin Tins, so it has been with the hotel and the myriad Mary Chases.

I met the very attractive Mary in 1956 at a party honoring Nat "King" Cole, the jazz great who had shucked his trio, become a pop singer, and had just acquired a TV show that would be rejected by a number of southern stations because he touched singer Peggy Lee.  More about that one at some future date.  

During a john break at the party, I chatted with pal/disc jockey/newsman Bruce Hayward who informed me that Mary, whom I had promised a resumption of our conversation, was very interested in me.  Married for seven years and alert to the "itch factor," I fled the hotel.  A TV Guide transfer to Atlanta occurred a week later.

During the next three years, I was moved four times eventually landing in Kansas City where my responsibilities included St. Louis.  One evening, I entered the Chase Hotel and there, standing precisely and impressively where I had left her, was Mary Chase whom I had stood up three years earlier.  

"What took you so long?" she asked.

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Tom O'Brien, a retired broadcaster who used t live on Orcas Island, left the party a couple of years ago and I recall his good cheer if only because of a story about musician Boyd Raeburn.

Tom was doing dance band remotes back in the early 40s from such places as the Glen Island Casino and Frank Daley's Meadowbrook.  One evening, O'Brien, then making $25.50 a week, was scheduled to do a remote at Ben Marden's Riviera.  It involved the Boyd Raeburn Orchestra, so progressive it made most other big bands sound funky.

O'Brien was approached immediately before airtime by Raeburn whose name was often mangled by announcers.  "Son, don't mess my name up.  It's Raeburn, Boyd Raeburn, Boyd Raeburn.  That's Boyd Raeburn."

"Yes, sir," replied O'Brien.

The engineer then threw the signal, the trumpet section sounded, O'Brien cupped an ear and intoned: "From coast-to-coast on NBC, it's Roy Boidbrain and his orchestra."

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It was on a lengthy tour of Spain and nearby countries that wife Jan and I checked into The Bajandillo in Torremolinas.  Not far from Gibralter, we quickly gave the hotel the not terribly sober sobriquet: The Banjo Dildo.  The hotel's architecture, U-Shaped, provides water views from all rooms and our second floor location was above a central lobby with the hotel wings angled from us.

Halfway into our 10-day stay, we discovered a laundry problem on a Saturday--bad timing in most countries.  Since our room had a balcony, we washed some clothes and hung them out to dry before setting out for a late lunch.

Returning, we noticed that most of our clothes had fallen to the lobby roof so we put retrieval procedures into motion.  To a wire coat hanger's shoulder was attached a clothesline which I lowered to a position above some underwear, then hooked a pair of shorts.  After a few feet of success, the underwear fell off and I resumed fishing for laundry.  This time I extended the middle of the hanger's base to form a V above the hook.  Although I had never attended an engineering school (a thoroughly laughable notion), I figured an engineer would improve the balance of the coat hanger by doing what I did.  Jan, of course, spelled me during what probably was 20 minutes of mostly frustration.  We finally hauled up the last of the laundry.

It was at that moment that a startling burst of rather deafening applause greeted us from the adjoining wings of The Banjo Dildo.  People, gathered on a great many of the hotel's balconies, either were demonstrating their appreciation of American ingenuity or recognizing our Chaplinesque low comedy.  We treated it as a La Scala moment and bowed graciously from our stage.

During the rest of our stay in Torremolinas, the guests of The Banjo Dildo greeted us with applause and more than one drink was sent our way.  The moral of the story is that loopdy Americans are much more appreciated on foreign shores than ugly ones.

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Living 14 years in Friday Harbor, Washington included a number of reminders that made it clear I was living in a small town.

One of them occurred when Lloyd Benedict and I met over lunch at Fords, a Bar & Grill.  Benedict, a retired insurance executive, had been given the assignment of talking me into becoming president of the San Juan Community Theatre's board of trustees.  We began lunch with straight up Beefeater martinis, then settled back to talk about rutabagas and kings, then matters theatrical.  With drinks reduced to the width of one's small finger, we ordered another round after which our waitress did a silent, awkward, table-side hover.

"Is there anything wrong?" asked Lloyd.

"Well, sir," she responded.  "Those are our only straight-up martini glasses and I guess I'll have to wait for you to finish your first drinks."

The story doesn't end there.  About a year after turning Lloyd down (he took on the trustee presidency himself much as Dick Cheney the George W. Bush administration's vice-presidency), we met once more at Fords where we again ordered martinis and laughed about our prior experience there.  A different waitress this time but the result the same: there were still just two straight-ups in the bar.

Figuring a third questioning would surely be the charm to produce proof of more glasses, I asked the obvious of a co-owner of the re-named Fords--still called Haley's Bait Shop.  A diligent search followed amid much laughter.  That was in 2002, eight years after the first incident.  Four months later, I was assured "we now have six or eight more" although no physical proof was offered.  I think it's time for another martini in Friday Harbor.

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Harry Chan was one of my favorite people and remains so because of memories.  A six-foot third-generation Chinese, he fathered film actresses Meg and Jennifer Tilly while married to a Caucasion.  Harry and I became related by marriage when, after a 15-year courtship, he married my second wife's sister, Susan Christenson.

The marriage took place during a very hot summer in Grand Island, Nebraska and was followed by a reception at a country club.  During the celebration, a quite puzzled little old lady toddled over to Harry.  Commenting about what a good time she was having, the quite elderly woman conveyed her puzzlement.

"Mr. Chan," she began, "I have noticed the mosquitoes are out in full force and they are biting everyone but you.  I don't understand."

"Well, mam," replied Harry.  "Those mosquitoes know that if they bite Harry Chan, they are going to be hungry in 20 minutes."

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Island Life....by Bob Sanders

 

Neither Jan nor I had ever lived in a small town before so I guess the odds were against us when we moved triday Harbor, Washington.  That was in January, 1990 and whatever odds were in play must have been elevated by our having moved from Chicago.

Our discovery of Friday Harbor was one of those fluky things that can work dramatic effect upon lives.  Retired and on a rather lengthy tour of this country's national parks, we had taken a Vancouver Island detour, spent a couple of days in Victoria, then set out for Orcas Island, one of 172 archipelagos that are the San Juan Islands.  Stopping off for lunch at Friday Harbor's picture perfect waterfront, we fell in love with the place, never continued on to Orcas Island, and wound up buying a home some five miles from town.

We quickly learned that not everyone is capable of getting attuned to island life.  Many of the problems can involve attitudinal baggage newcomers might bring with them.;  In settling into a San Juan Island lifestyle, big city types often exhibit an inclination to want things done in, say, a New York way.  Apparently aware of the challenges involved in such situations, New Yorkers pretty much stayed away with the few attempting a rural life achieving collective batting averages not sufficient to play for the Yankees.

The relative isolation achieved by island life was both a blessing and an eventual curse.  As we learned, a limited clinic, while sufficient for mundane medical matters, was not enough for serious situations.  In the general scheme of things, it's one thing to be treated for lower back pain, another for serious gotchas.

Washington State Ferries, the major connector to the San Juans, offered reasonably good service to the island from Anacortes although ferry schedules remain lesser during winter months.  Although it was quite clear to islanders that the ferry system includes a logical extension of highway 20, the state government in Olympia still refuses to buy into the philosophy.  That old debil clout and what doesn't happen when you don't have it is what it's all about.  By the time we left the island more than 14 years later, I think there was an understandable sense of resignation about all matters ferry.

In our early 60s, we determined to embrace island life and quickly became involved in such entities as the San Juan Community Theater, Lions, Whale Museum, the County Fair and Pig War Barbeque.  The latter was started by the wife of the editor/publisher of the Journal of the San Juans.  Memory is a bit murky, but I seem to recall a phone call from her as a result of a feature about me in her husband's newspaper.  Included was mention of public relations triumphs in Chicago and she figured I might be of help in getting the first annual bbq event off to a reasonable start.

The Pig War is about the only war reasonable thinking persons might applaud.  It started in 1859 and lasted 12 bloodless years if you forget about the plugged pig owned by a Brit who lived on San Juan Island.  The shooter, an American, also lived on the island and refused to pay $100 costs demanded by the Brit whose pig had intruded upon the American's potato patch.  Armies faced off on the island where the Brits, with 2,140 soldiers, held a roughly 5-1 advantage.  The sides got along marvelously and the few problems were prompted by the island's enormous stock of liquor.  It was truly a tight little island with Gilbert & Sullivan operettas based upon lesser inspiration.

Jan decided our honoring of the Pig War should involve some kind of Chicago connection--perhaps a team of grill masters whose superiority would recall the notoriety of such Windy City institutions as councilmen, criminals, mayors, precinct captains and the Chicago Cubs.  Recalling Chicago's rich and sometimes inglorious history, we found ourselves confronting an island artist of our choosing who indicated she could create a sign of reasonable significance that would bring attention to our team's name: Pig Al's Trickynoses.  A bit on the serious side (we were never sure the wordplay registered), the artist questioned just what it was we had in mind.

"We'd like a personality logo.  Think of a Chicago gangster wearing a derby.  He has a very tough look and is drawn as a pig.  He's Pig Al, a take-off on Big Al Capone."  Suddenly, the woman's face lit up like the Chicago Theater's marquee.  "Got it," she said, we added a few copy lines and a week later saw proof of her creativity.  The sign was perfect.

The event attracted 22 teams that competed for awards including best ribs (it was an all-pork competition) and best sauce.  Pig Al's Trickynosis (a press release, available at the team's stall, extolled the team's virtues) were aided and abetted by the Hooker Cookers and acappella renditions of songs associated with Chicago.  Many attendees joined in while providing booze of greater intensity than beer and wine to the Hooker Cookers.  The highly attractive HCers were dressed in Chicago 20s style and a couple got more than a little tipsy during the festivities.

Communications on the island were highly interesting.  Islanders but a couple of weeks, we soon found rumor center, a mostly breakfast place called The Donut Shop.  Located on Spring Street next door to Friday Harbor's only cinema, The Donut Shop's apparent rationale for being beyond food was as a starting point for stories of heightened titillation.  Island rumors, their care and feeding, gave evidence of being in the hands of an islander of long duration who claimed he had conducted tests on the spreading of rumors.  A favorite methodology consisted of telling a soon-to-depart for Roche Harbor fellow breakfaster a flawed whopper of incomplete detail.  The amateur sociologist was a firm believer in man's ability to extemporize story components that needed bolstering and whose final form could very well impact the very substance of the original falsehood.  His "studies" often utilized a traveresing of the road from Friday Harbor to Roche Harbor (a community 12 miles away), and the story's return to The Donut Shop brought with it versions of remarkable change.  While not accomplished at a rate as fast as a speeding bullet, the tales of complex altered versions containing such diversities as a town councilman, King's groceries and a bag of cement required as few as 90 minutes to return to its place of origin.

Now living two hours from Friday Harbor, I'm certain the community's direction remains in the hands of five councilpersons and a mayor who guide the citizenry through such challenges as whether or not to post stop signs at intersections ever mindful that the island prides itself on not having a single stop light.  The petunia planters were an entirely different matter.

As we know, capricious government is everywhere and further proven by the Strange Case of The Petunia Planters.  It happened in Friday Harbor and was island comedy relief of 1995-96 while totally devoid of graft--the principal difference between Chicago government and the island.  It was the owners of the Front Street Ale House who wanted to build a deck extension hard by Spring Street, the major connecter from the ferry.  Al fresco dining was the objective but the owners were thwarted twice by councilmanic vote.  During more than two years, the deck, tables, chairs, and petunia planters were in place awaiting the gastronomically-inclined.  The town council believed the deck would force people off the sidewalk into vehicular traffic.

The Ale House appeared to finally win when a teetotaler councilman, having voted twice for the project, suddenly realized the restaurant served booze, then abstained (an interesting word under the circumstances) thus enabling the mayor to break a 2-2 tie coming down solidly on the side of petunia planters.  The mayor's role in the decision was not of great surprise since the mayor had, once again, predictably done the bidding of one of the Ale House owners.

Public outcry ensued and the council went into a monumental dither followed by something of a fulsome funk succeeded by a decision to reverse itself.  The petunias, seemingly ensconced on the deck, were doomed and I wrote a dream sequence column in the Islands Sounder featuring Mayor LaTrivia and council members Bumble, Grumble, Humble, Stumble, and Crumble.

Working with some fellow pranksters and the Ale House people, we organized services plus a petunia procssion similar to a joyous and jazzy New Orleans parade.  Extended life for the petunias was realized when the parade was concluded at a restaurant entrance on Second St. 

A suggestion to the Ale House was irresistible.  Suddenly table-less, chair-less and planter-less, why not initiate a new culinary experience: Japanese dining on floor mats and called Sushi Deck-O-Rama?

That never happened. I do recall that two of the Council members back then consistently referred to those who live in Japan as "Japs."

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Bonhomie Bob Cromie....by Bob Sanders

It was while taking the #15 WTA bus to downtown Bellingham the other day that I began thinking about my good fortune to have known Bob Cromie.  Perhaps it was the book I was reading during the ride that reminded me of him.  A classic among journalists, Robert J. Casey's Such  Interesting People is a highly perceptive look at Chicago reporters, writers and editors who, among other things, inspired Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur to write The Front Page.

Cromie, who left us at 90 with six months and change left before the Millennium, was a carry-over from Casey's era.  His book, published in 1943, did not goose me into the field of journalism; rather, it was reportorial efforts on The Heun Gazette, a for-laughs-only publication passed around study halls by restless students at Lakewood High School located in a suburb immediately west of Cleveland, Ohio.  More later about The Gazette, editor Dick Heun and our decidedly bizarre approach to journalism as we created our versions of the first pages of history.

Cromie may be recalled as the host of a nationally syndicated radio show about books plus two TV programs, "Cromie Circle" on Chicago's WGN and "Book Beat," home based at WTTW, the city's public TV channel that fed the shows to PBS stations.  His broadcast triumphs were an adjunct to four decades of reportorial excellence.  He loved words and the people who used them--particularly those who called attention to social injustice, an attitude that characterized every aspect of his work and life.

Successful journalists owe their reputations to many things.  Some dig deeper for stories than their counterparts.  Others, not as persevering, may place greater emphasis on originality while some make effective use of contacts calling upon rolodexes both real and of the mind.  Cromie is the only journalist I ever met who was thoroughly noble and it showed in the way people responded to him.  I never heard him swear and that includes time on the golf course where people are very inclined to do so.

In a business where excessive drinking, more than any other shortcoming, has probably ended more careers, Cromie (to my knowledge) never took a drink.  Whether this was a lifelong consistency or a resolve preceded by a battle with demon rum I know not.  He often sat at John Fischetti's First Amendment celebratory table at Riccardo, joining in and providing hilarity while not imbibing.  Fischetti, a Pulitzer winner for editorial cartooning, was my best friend first at the  Chicago Daily News, then at Sun-Times after the Daily News was folded by Marshall Field V.

Like many outstanding journalists, Cromie was a messy desk person although he was on the neat side compared to sports writer/columnist Bill Gleason of the Sun-Times.  I once made reference to something he had written nine years earlier prompting Gleason to dive into a filing system everyone called Mt. Gleason.  Groping for a moment or two with Herman Cain-like proficiency, he extracted a published piece plus paper-clipped notes and proclaimed: "You mean this?"   

The messy desk possibly continues to be a matter of pride to some contemporary journalists.  I once took wife Janet on a tour of the Chicago Tribune editorial floor during which she met such print paragons as columnist Eric Zorn, critic Gene Siskal (then thumbs-upping it at the movies with TV co-host Roger Ebert) and cartoonist Jeff MacNelly, a three-time Pulitzer winner.  It was in the newsroom that we came upon a remarkable example of clutter whose magnitude suggested it had to have been detritus of an Oklahoma tornado decidedly off course.

"Whose office is this?" asked Jan.

"It's Casey Bukro's,"  I replied knowing what was coming next.

"What does he do?" was the anticipated question.

"Why, he's the Environmental Editor" I giggled in return.  Bukro, responsible for environmental entries, nearly won a Pulitzer for his "Save Our Lake" series.

Born in Detroit and educated at Oberlin College, Cromie joined the Tribunein 1936 and was the newspaper's war correspondent for four years.  Wherever World War II battles raged, whether in Europe or the Pacific, Cromie was there to report--often with a local angle.  His modus operandi nearly always was kicked off by asking if there were any soldiers or Marines from Chicago or Illinois.  Tribune readers had the war "personalized" for them and Cromie was masterful.

Cromie was with the Marines when Guadalcanal was invaded and he put in a lot of miles traveling with Gen. George Patten including coverage of the Battle of the Bulge.  Like Ernie Pyle, he wrote stories about average guys turned into everyday heroes.  Typical of his work was an October 12, 1943 report telling of a raid on Rabaul located, as the dateline proclaimed, SOMEWHERE IN NEW GUINEA.  The writing is rich, spare and aimed at a readership whose heightened interest in the war is in direct contrast to today's indifference.

"As we taxied on the runway," continued Cromie, "I moved into the bomb bay and stood between rows of 1,000 pound bombs.  We had plenty of respect for the 1,000 pounders--Staff Sgt. Fred C. Whitney, 22, Independence, Mo., Staff Sgt. John G. Shaffer of Logan, W. VA, and I.  We didn't return to our comfortable posts in the waist until Bond (Lt. John E. Bond 24 of Scarsdale, N.Y.) had plenty of time to get his plane on an even keel.  Other heavy bombers were all around us.  I could count more than 50 at one time.  We gradually got into formation and headed for Rabaul, soon running into heavy fog which hid the wingtips and sent tiny drops of water running on the windows.  Then into the sun once more.  The morning was all blue and gold and blinding white.  I went forward and stood behind the pilot's seat.  Tech Sgt. H. V. Milarski of 3800 Diversey boulevard, Chicago, was working on the radio.  As he smoked a cigarette he looked as bored as if riding down State street in a street car.  Tech Sgt. Joseph A. Gosseaux, 23, of Grindstone, Pa., the engineer, was busy writing down the names of the personnel.  He did this with ease from long practice, even to putting down each man's serial number from memory--some numbers containing eight digits." 

Cromie's war journalism is something we don't get today because of the military's control explicit in embedding reporters resulting in spoon fed versions far short of what we should be getting.  For that we can thank President George H.W. Bush, Dick Cheney (then Defense Secretary) and other members of the administration who conducted an assault on constitutional freedoms during Operation Desert Storm.  Without question, a strangely passive press also was at fault.

I have two particularly fond memories of Cromie.  One involved attending services for Fischetti who died two weeks after I left Field Enterprises (owner of the Sun-Times).  There were people critical of my leaving for the Tribune but Fischetti was highly supportive during two months of my maneuverings with the marketing and editorial departments of the Boul Mich monolith.

Cromie's eulogy for Fischetti was perfect.  In the company of all who loved the guy, Cromie offered a parting line that recalled a legion of mid-day fun: "I think it's entirely possible that John Fischetti invented the long lunch."

My other indelible memory of the journalist was the result of a question I asked him following a taping of "The Cromie Circle" at WGN.  Of all the authors he had interviewed, with which one would he prefer to spend a lot of time?  Cromie mentioned several but the stickout he decided was Ernest K. Gann.  Gann's many lives were spent as a theatrical manager, film director, painter, writer, pilot and seaman.  Both he and Cromie were man's men for whom laughter was an important ingredient of living.  "He is truly one hell of a guy," was the way he put it.

"'ll tell you something interesting about Gann," observed Cromie.  "His was the only interview I ever conducted in which the subject would not tell me where he lived.  I asked him why and Gann replied: "If I tell you, you'll ask me what it's like and I'll tell you how wonderful it is.  Members of your audience will then get interested in the place and they'll buy property and build homes and the place won't be the same.  That's why."

Our conversation took place in 1985 shortly before Cromie retired.  When more than four years later Jan and I moved to San Juan Island in the Pacific Northwest, we discovered that one of its better-know residents was Gann, author of 25 novels about aviation and the sea.  Among the best known: Fate is the Hunter, The High and the Mighty and Blaze of Noon. 

We met Ernie and spunky wife Dodie (an inductee into the National Ski Hall of Fame, she captained the 1948 Olympics team) at a party a couple of weeks after our January, 1990 arrival in Friday Harbor.  He recalled the conversation with Cromie and thought our meeting indicative of pronounced prescience on Cromie's part.  Among the many joys of our island life were the sensational views offered from our home including the Olympic and Cascade Mountains, the waters of Puget Sound, the Strait of Juan de Fuca and much of Ernie and Dodie's 760-acre Red Mill Farm in the San Juan Valley below.

The farm and its assured future gave further evidence of Ganns' staunch attitude regarding the heaven on earth he had referenced in his conversation with Cromie.  Shortly after donating a conservation easement to the San Juan Preservation Trust thus denying development, Gann told me: "We have to do something to save this land, not only for our children but for ourselves.  People need to stop thinking of money all the time, or the land won't be here." 

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Breaks of the Game....by Bob Sanders

 

In writing recently about some strange adventures involved in a Chicago Tribune public relations program suddenly dumped in my lap as the 1980s were winding down, I promised additional commentary about the guy who played dumper to my dumpee.

Dickey was one of three executives brought to theTribune in 1984 from the Orlando Sentinel, a sister publication where highly favorable marketing conditions made it almost impossible to do anything other than succeed.  Suddenly, publisher Charles Brumbach, editor-in-chief Jim Squires and Dickey were calling the shots.

It was shortly after my wife, Mickey, began chemotherapy treatments that I became aware my employment at the Trib was on shaky ground.  In retrospect, it still seems bizarre that my bosses could criticize my not coming to work for three days after Mickey's funeral services.  True, I had achieved bad paper status by leaving work at 2 p.m. each Thursday to take her home following treatments.  On the other hand, I always made up the time.  My work at the Trib was probably the best of my career and I won a number of major national awards including one for the White Sox send-up detailed earlier in "Pale Hose Humbuggery."

Because of my editorial background and news sense, I enjoyed excellent working relations with reporters and editors.  They trusted me thanks to word first put out by managing editor Bill Jones and others.  I doubt that any marketing employee at a major newspaper in this country at that time had my accessibility.  It was highly unusual and, in truth, I took a great deal of pride in being more a part of the editorial department than marketing.  Such a setup can invite problems.

A clue to my uneasy employment occurred about the time I won a national award from the American Newspaper Marketing Association for effectively positioning the Tribune in the White Sox craziness that included a threatened team move to Tampa-St. Petersburg.  I bailed Dickey out of a mess by giving focus and structure to his germ of a badly mounted idea.  Ironically, the project was deemed good enough for second prize in a monthly Tribune marketing department competition run by Dickey.  I had just turned 62, an event that prompted the usual birthday cake and singing of "Happy Birthday" followed by Dickey's comment that I was the oldest person in the department and almost 20 years senior to his marketing eminence.  His comment was a textbook lesson in how not to handle what might be proved as age discrimination.

In all honesty, I probably committed one of the biggest no no's of the workplace: killing the job.  Brought aboard to, among other things, give prominence to Tribune reporters and editors, I had booked a total of 1,500 broadcast appearances the first year eventually hitting 5,000 the last years of a highly effective run.  Obviously, I didn't have time to make all those bookings; rather, a snowball effect evolved with the paper gaining a tremendous lead over the Sun-Times whose circulation was concentrated in the city.  The Trib had become an even more significant regional newspaper with stories and editorial personnel appearing on those radio and TV stations whose signals helped enlarge the paper's circulation area.  Bureaus were created in the hinterlands, a sharp contrast to today's continuing pullback.  Like my work at Playboy whose circulation peaked during my tenure, so it was at theTribune during, as today's developments suggest, what was arguably the last golden yeaers of print journalism.   

Giving a lot of thought to hiring a lawyer and suing the paper for age discrimination, I decided I didn't want to go through 10 or 15 years of legal hell that dominates such pursuit, then took retirement in January, 1989.  Having married elegant and fun-loving Jan Quinn the prior year, we had discovered the San Juan Islands during a four-week look at some of this country's national parks.  The Pacific Northwest move would not have been possible had I been working for the Tribune.  Jan and I took up residence on the island in Washington State where we moved in January, 1990 having bought a home in a very elevated spot with glorious views of water plus the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges.  Being corporate toast, however, rankled.  Something very wrong had happened and I knew a second shoe had to drop; when it did, I was astonished at what a thud it made in addition to a lot of sense.

Six months after moving to the island, the mail started bringing us clippings about Dickey.  The stories told of his being charged with bilking the Tribune out of about $890,000 over the course of three years.  Early published pieces, obviously controlled by the Tribune, about the executive's scam were somewhat lacking in detail although one report did mention his having been arrested in 1986 for stealing fishing lures from a shop in suburban Skokie.  Dickey pleaded he was a kleptomaniac, a problem described by his attorney as "diminished mental capacity."  One theory about the fishing lure theft suggested he had created an excuse in the event he was caught at his much grander larceny.  Cooperating with the newspaper, Dickey made restitution of $720,000--some of it realized from the sale of a home in swanky Kenilworth.   

In its June 22, 1991 issue, Advertising Age reported Dickey's biggest misappropriation was a false billing for a total of $748,352 in American Eagle gold coins.  Federal prosecutors said Dickey altered several of the invoices for the coins so that the "AE" appearing on the bill from a "Waukegan, Illlinois coin dealer suggested references to a Tribune employee rewards program know as "Advertising Excellence."  Dickey later sold the coins for cash and there is no record of any marketing department staffers (or anyone else, for that matter) winning the gold.  Perhaps one of those coins was "earmarked" for your faithful scribe's contest excellence although my second place finish probably wouldn't have qualified me.

Those American Eagle coins, hawked enthusiastically on Fox News and Fox Financial Channels, must remind Dickey of what might have been--particularly considering the price of gold ($1,765.50) as this is written.  Averaging around $400 an ounce during those halcyon years of thievery, Dickey's take would now be worth more than $3 million.  Had he not been caught, Dickey would likely be a fervent follower of Glenn Beck whose messages of fear helped drive the price of gold up to a record $1,917.90 early in August.  

During Dickey's profligate pilfering, he had the authority to approve payment of any promotional expense up to $50,000, according to charges.  About $140,000 in fraudulent goods and services invoices enabled him to convert to his personal use.  Included was $31,493 for landscaping, $7,844 for carpentry work and $2,071 for painting at his home.  Hey, living the good life isn't cheap.  Another payment went to a furniture business indicating the purchases would be used on the USS Chicago anchored at Navy Pier.

Whatever budgetary linkage there was between the purchase of coins and the costs of my work, salary and expenses (a yearly total of around $225,000 including staff appearances at $35 a pop) is anyone's guess.  I was not replaced.  Ah, irreplaceable me.

A rather odd series of visits to San Juan Island by Tribune staffers occurred during those early years of my retirement.  Two were by editorial department personnel and one from marketing.  Only one of the three, foreign news editor Michael McGuire, was anyone I had spent any time with while the other two hardly qualified as pals with the marketing department emloyee someone I had spoken to less than a half dozen times during about five years of her employment.  I'm certain all three took back stories that I was happy in my retirement and fully aware of how the Dickey drama had played out.  

The greatest satirical writers could not possibly come up with what happened to Tribune Company during the past four years.  The highly toxic Zell, who bought the firm in 2007, has done what corporate monsters do so effectively: mess up a good thing by not understanding, in this case the communications industry, and by making stupid decisions.  Among them: turning the firm over to Randy Michaels, a former shock jock (think Howard Stern) whose only media experience was with radio giant Clear Channel Communications.  Possessing no knowledge of print journalism, he was in vivid contrast to Col. Robert R. McCormick, the highly conservative and controversial editor/publisher who ran his fiefdom (1910-1955) much as an army battalion.  In a very short time, Michaels turned Tribune Tower into what one observer called a "sexist frat house atmosphere" where sexual behavior after hours became commonplace.  Some of the shenanigans took place in McCormick's old office.  In a deep financial hole, Michaels and his playmates managed to give themselves $57.3 million in bonuses while slashing 4,200 jobs in a wicked display of American greed.

Tribune Company is so screwed up that a guy I knew when he was working on the Trib's sports desk, Owen Youngman, is being sued for $328,049.  The money, received in the form of a check, was stock-based compensation he had accululated during 37 years at the newspapee.  Now a professor at Northwest University's Medill School of Journalism, he is one of 200 former excutives who find themselves targets of legal action in a Delaware bankruptcy court dealing with the company' s disastrous leveraged buyout.  Youngman didn't even work directly for Tribune Company.  All his 37 years were with Chicago Tribune, a fact being dismissed by a committee of unsecured creditors who want to claw back about $180 million in compensation.

I took a satisfactory chunk of money with me upon retirement in 1989 thanks to the then soaring value of company stock I accumulated and matched by the  newspaper.  My selling of the stock couldn't have been better timed.

Sometimes, while meandering down life's not always merry yellow brick road, we incur problems suggesting unfortunate consequences.  Thoes situations often turn out to be lucky breaks, but we don't know it at the time.  Every once in a while, Jan and I hoist a toast to Bob Dickey, 44, at the time of his arrest and a year older when releasd from prison.  We never would have wound up in the Fourth Corner for what has been nearly 22 terrific years had it not been for the thievery of Bob Dickey.

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Barking Dogs....by Bob Sanders

 

Like most municipalities, Bellingham has a barking dog ordinance that ranks right up there as conversational material along with some of the more exciting aspects of life here including discussions about anticipated rain, great gully washers of the past, debates about how to watch moss grow plus taking photographs of significant rainbows claimed by far too many to shame anything Kansans have ever crowed about.

Crowing is a timely word at this junction of today's report offered in response to the Bellingham Herald's story the other day about word that roosters, turkeys and peacocks are likely to wedge their way into recognition by those who enforce the barking dog ordinance.  It appears animal control officers are receiving an increasing number of complaints concerning boisterous feathered friends.

The situation is now on the docket of the City Council and, as we head into the home stretch of November elections, there is little doubt that council members and Mayor Dan Pike (he's up for re-election along with four councilmen) will be either for or against the birds.  Pike, at times a canny politician, likely will not come down on the side of winged creatures knowing that a Pike for the Birds headline might be a bit too accurate in a close City of Subdued Excitement election.  Regardless of the tacks to be taken by politicians, all will be mindful of Sarah Palin's insensitivity toward turkeys during one of those strange aint-Alaska-a-really-you-betcha'-kind-of-place-to-live moments three years ago.

We may have thought we've heard all there is to hear about New Jersey lifestyles but such is not the case in Hopeful Township, an unlikely place for roosters to be unhppy.  Their rural displeasure is due to chicken legislation enacted this past April with the announcement that all the township's roosters will be limited to 10 days worth of conjugal visits each year.  The dramatic council contemplation took three years to bring to fruition and was full of commands to randy roosters including a restriction limiting "purposes of fertilization" to no more than five days in a row.  A headline in The Times of Trenton, a newspaper much more inclined to carry news about the Real Housewives of New Jersey, positive aspects of Gov. Chris Christie's obesity and denials that Frank Sinatra was ever mob-connected, used the word poppycock, not bad for the Garden State.

Dogs that bark is a much more complex matter that not even Palin's wisdom could be of much help although she undoubtedly has thoughts probably connected in some dithering way to woofing Russian wolfhounds owned by neighbors known to fly overhead.

Perhaps some highly random dog data is worth mention.  The U.S., with over 52 million, has the highest dog population in the world; 87% of dogs curl up beside or at the feet of TV viewing owners; the all-time top grossing film ($142,992,475) is Marley and Me (2008); 15 people die each year from dog bites; and more than one million dogs thus far in this country have been primary benefactors in wills made by their owners.  Britain now has its first mobile pet blood bank.

In further examination of the barking dog, there is increasing evidence that dogs and other animals can sense and predict earthquakes and other natural disasters.  While there is no conclusive scientific evidence that a dog can sense and predict earthquakes, animal owners tell us otherwise.  The Web is loaded with stories including one from Alex who writes: "Dogs can definitely sense earthquakes that are about to occur--or feel the vibrations under the earth hours before earthquakes surface.  We have 2 earthquakes in the last 6 months where I live, and on both occasions the next door neighbors dogs and other dogs from further away were howling non-stop like crazy--they sounded like wolves that were howling all through the night and in the morning.  I thought it was freaky but didn't have a clue what was wrong with them, and then there was an earthquake, this happened once in August and once in February.  It is not a coincidence--as I have been living next to them for 3 years and they have never howled before--only those two times before the earthquakes happened.  Just before a storm hits they start running around and crying and barking--so dogs sense these things for sure."

An old journalistic saw suggests that while dog bites man is not a story, the opposite is decidedly newsworthy.  Something of a first cousin slant on things occurred not long ago in Mason, Ohio.  Police in the Cincinnati suburb charged a man with a misdemeanor for barking at a police dog.

According to Officer Bradley Walker, he heard his dog barking uncontrollably inside his patrol car while investigating a car crash outside a pub.  Making barking and hissing noises was a 25-year-old, described as appearing to be "highly intoxicated."  One wonders if the Man Barks Dog guy was doing something highly original or if he first practiced using Partners in Rhyme's one-hour classic CD, "Dogs Barking."  Originally created to provide background ambiance for radio plays, the CD ($14.95 plus $4.95 for shipping & handling) also can be used by the mean spirited to get even with neighbors without going to the trouble of buying a barking dog.

Another step backwards for canines is a recent Barking Dog Hotline that grew out of Phoenix (Arizona) City Ordinance 8-2 which classifies excessive bow-wowing as a Class One misdemeanor.

In spite of the vast number of dogs in the U.S. alone, there are very few studies on vocal communications.  Before Sophia Yin entered the barking dog scene, there were but two papers, published more than 40 years ago, plus a popular press article in the early 1990s.  It is Yin's contention, following study of her digital recordings of 4,672 barks covering three situation tests, that owners should be able to recognize the barks their dogs make in specific contexts.  I guess that's the kind of break-through conclusion that comes with 4,672 barks ringing in your ears.  It wasn't easy for Yin who converted her barks to visual displays called spectrograms, then took 60 sequential frequency (pitch) measurements and 60 sequential amplitude measurements along the length of each bark and then recorded values (still with me?) such as minimum, maximum, mean frequency, start slop, finish slope, frequency range, amplitude range, bark duration and interbark intervals for each bark.  Yin, unfortunately, does not provide a time frame for the interbark intervals but, then, nobody's perfect.   

We're so crazy about dogs in this country that there's a Dog Bark Park Inn in Cottonwood, Idaho.  The whimsical bed & breakfast features two connected rooms in a huge wooden dog.  One of the features is a toilet disguised as a fire hydrant, an accoutrement that must be confusing for visiting Fidos.

Then there's Lele of Chengdu City, China who puts his owner's money where his mouth is.  When hungry, Lele barks, then puts one yuan in his mouth and heads for neighboring shops where sausage awaits at a number of possible stops.  Lele will not let go of the money until given the sausage.

Leana Beasley owes her life to Faith, her Rottweiler with a talented nose.  When Beasley went down for what would have been the count, Faith raced to the phone, pressed speed dial and barked.  The operator understood what was going on and Beasley is with us today.

Sometimes dogs don't have to bark to save a life.  Take Buddy, an Alsatian, whose owner was susceptible to seizures because of a brain injury suffered while in the U.S. Army.  Joe Stalnaker is his name.  Joe programmed the buttons of a cell phone so that Buddy could pick up the phone with his mouth thus activating a 911 call.  It worked and Joe's life was significantly extended.

While we tend to connect dogs and Paris with what they leave behind on sidewalks, it took an American to create a Bakery for Dogs and who says we're losing our entrepreneurial spirit?  Harriett Sternstein, an award-winning pastry chef who makes very special bacon biscuits for Sophie-Marie, decided to create them for other Parisian pooches; a typical day finds her making about 300 biscuits in the shape of cats and dog bones.

Those of us whose ownership of a barker puts us in bad paper with a barkee can go in a number of directions.  First step could very well be Bark Busters which operates world-wide out of Sydney, Australia.  Managed by Sylvia Wilson and husband Danny, a Bark Busters franchise costs $71,000 if you want to get into the world of canine behavior modification ("Prince, sit up") and behavioral psychology ("dogs love their friends and bite their enemies").  The Wilson claim 500,000 woofs of approval.

Other possible solutions include dog collars that vibrate plus a spraying contrivance which, when filled with citronella, is activated by (guess what?) barking.  Any old bark will do whether it originates in the throat of a Chihuahua or a Great Dane.  Speaking of throats, there is a procedure called chordectamy which is a last ditch effort whose ballpark cost is $2,500.

I owe thanks to a gentleman named George Hammond for a charming Website story about a tired and elderly dog who would show up nearly every day around mid-afternoon.  Upon admission to Hammond's home, the dog would flop on what became his favorite spot on a hallway where he took a nap of about one hour, then left.  One day, Hammond wrote the following and affixed it to the dog's collar: "I would like to find out who the owner of this wonderful sweet dog is and ask if you are aware that almost every afternoon your dog comes to my house for a nap?"

The dog returned the next day with a different note attached to his collar.  "We live in a home with 6 children, 2 under the age of three and he's trying to catch up on his sleep.  Can I come with him tomorrow?"

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Pushing the Sweepstakes Envelope...by Bob Sanders

 

With dire predictions about the future of the U.S. Postal Service rampant, it seems a bit odd that solicitations by mail appear to be both more numerous and of greater weight as we approach the holiday season.  Further, there seems to be something of a shrill quality to requests for monetary funds.  The economy is probably to blame but it's as if the old standby mail service is being used in more aggressive ways by many non-profits in what may be a kind of farewell salute.  As a great philosopher once suggested, "Get it now."

Offhand, I'd say I've received at least twice my normal mail during the past six weeks and it's not just attributable to the buying of public office.  At the risk of being called a roadshow Andy Rooney, I'm certain some of these annual appeals arrive at least four times a year.  A new wrinkle is the holiday gift including such items as tote bags, jackets, blankets, note pads and more return address labels than I could possibly use in 10 decades.  Boys Town, American Heart Association and the Paralyzed Veterans of America have told me to look inside for my present.  Easter Seals has announced on the envelope that I've been a supporter since 2011 and that there's important information inside regarding my 2012 membership.  Wonder what it might be?

I can't recall who it was but I've received two checks for $2.50.  Implicit in the pitch was the suggestion that I, the original nice guy, wouldn't cash the check but would add to it.  My guess is that the most difficult aspect of being a legitimate non-profit is media coverage.  Hardly a week goes by without a story about either a mail scam or the sky-high overhead of yet another do good organization.  Yes, let's blame the media, today's All-American whipping boy, if you discount President Obama.

In a country whee greed is hardly limited to Wall Street, many of us buy lottery tickets as a solution to money shorts.  While I'm sure that the people at Publishers Clearing House think otherwise, a sweepstakes is a sweepstakes is a sweepstakes.  How unfortunate was Gertrude Stein not to have lived long enough to experience the Clearing House Follies.  What a musical that will make some day with an Ed McMahon-like character making house calls while proving what he was: Max Bialystock with carny blarney.

Publishers Clearing House caught up with me the other day and my reaction was one of wellwhadyaknow? things much like running into a friend of a largely forgotten ex-wife.  Curious, I opened the PCH envelope to a WARNING indicating that the Executive Offices at 101 Winners Circle in Port Washington, NY were letting me know about my ignoring prior notices.  The WARNING was further identified as a WAIVER that could very well be activated if I followed directions.   

The WARNING (capital letters, often in boldface type, are PCH stock in trade) became detailed indicating that a failure to return my official entry validation & order form would (a) automatically waive my ownership of Mega Prize Number 391112404319, (b) automatically waive my number's permanent admission onto the Final Winner Selection List for the November 30th Mega Prize and (c) automatically waive my opportunity to win Millions of Dollars from this Notice.  Fortifying these threats was a hand-written note: "Don't let this happen to you.  Respond today, before it's too late."  In the word of Jack Benny: "Well!"

As if to sound a note of reason, there was a five paragraph raison d'etre from Dave Sayer, Prize Patrol Executive Director.  I wonder what it's like running a prize patrol?  Probably full of logistics and, if you're a veteran of the biz, likely to harbor feelings of good fortune that you never had affable Ed McMahon on your team although, come to think of it, McMahon's efforts as spokesman for rival American Family Publishing, no longer in business, were often mistaken as being for PCH.  Confusion often is a word used in conjunction with the sweepstakes since the direct mail scheme, deftly promoted, was started in 1963.  Confusion may have peaked with McMahon's death when a great many articles and obituaries credited McMahon's efforts as being for PCH, a firm for which he never worked.

We have Reader's Digest partly to blame for PCH's sweepstakes.  It was in 1963 that the Digest, now the world's most read monthly magazine with a circulation of 17 million and 70 million readers, came up with a highly successful sweepstakes that inspired PCH to develop its own version four years later as a means of drawing attention to magazines.  Who can forget a greatly enhanced version in the late 1980s and those live recorded moments featuring the Prize Patrol, lurking on American streets, and not conclude the towering excitement was an early version of reality television?  All those balloons, flowers, champagne, and big checks are impressions not easily diminished by time.

Sayer's reassuring note largely concentrates on why PCH is so happy to give away so much money.  It probably comes with the territory that any Prize Patrol Executive Director would become excessively inclusive and it took Dave but five paragraphs to declare palship by signing his first name to a communique with two references to my full name while interjecting seven yous, one you'll, plus a your in addition to making it clear I don't have to buy anything to win.  It was a promise later fort of rescinded.

Deception, no doubt accompanied by an awareness that a large percentage of this country's citizens continues to be victimized by a lengthy and severe dumbing down, has alway been part of Publishers Clearing House's sales ethics.  Something of a breakthrough occurred in 2000 when, without admitting any wrongdoing, the firm settled with 23 states for $18 million.  Key to the settlement was a forced inclusion of a "Sweepstakes Facts Box" and disclaimers thast tell participants "Buying Won't Help You Win" and "You Have Not Yet Won."  The firm also was ordered to maintain a Do Not Contact list for those wanting nothing to do with PCH.  Things got a touch more expensive the next year when it took $34 million to settle with 25 states and, for the first time, acknowledged "harm done in the past by deceptive practices."  Settlement agreements during the next 11 months were reached with 40 states.

State settlements appear to be a sweepstakes minor irritant to PCH.  In September of last year, contempt charges of violating the 2001 Agreement were reached with 33 for a paltry $3.5 million, a sum likely found encouraging by PCH.  Each settlement has produced more ground rules seemingly still trespassed judging from what arrived in my mail.  Certainly, the spirit of ground rules corrections has been violated; one wonders if PCH has the kind of corporate sense of humor capable of giving rise to a yearly internal sweepstakes game within the game enabling home office types to buy in-house chances on the number of state settlements to be made plus the dwindling chump change fines since the new century began.  Corporations, as we've been told by George Romney, are people and there are something like 400 employees headquartered in Port Washington, NY.  Conspiracy theorists are probably wondering if there is any connection between a doubling of lobbyists during the glorious George W. Bush years and greatly reduced PCH fines meted out for obvious obfuscation and whose murkiness remains a hallmark of written chicanerey.

I couldn't help but notice an enclosed Official Entry Validation & Order Form.  Implicit is the declaration that my current PROVISIONAL ONLY status will remain just that unless I affix my Mega Prize 10-diget number contained on the FINAL WINNER SELECTION LIST ADMISSION NOTICE.  If my submission arrives by November 14, I make it to the final round should my number be selected.  It used to be simple before this winnowing process was deemed necessary.  The odds of winning as much as a mega prize of $1 million plus $5,000 a week for life are something like 1 in 1.75 billion, an increase of 23% from a year ago.  The odds have always been contention's bone with the 2007 chances, announced by PCH, as "1 in 333 million."

I kind of like the free postage envelope enclosed.  I don't recall such assistance before but, the passage of time and the fecklessness of my past responses may be to blame.  With the government critical of the continuing word games played by PCH, there is possible blatancy in a suggestion on the envelop0e that it be used to "enclose your official entry validation & order form and mail."  Critics wise to the ways of nuanced literature will deplore an ampersand certain to put lawyers to work.  

I do miss all those magazines that Publishers Clearing House sold in the early days.  What came in the mail the other day makes one wonder why the word "Publishers" remains in the firm's name.  It's one thing to flog a classy publication like The New Yorker, it's another to shill for such products as an NFL Football Monkey complete with your choice of team logos; a heart-shaped birthstone pendant with two pairs of pierced earrings, an irresistible 32-melody wireless digital doorbell (tunes include "The Yellow Rose of Texas, batteries not included) and three sets of glittery Santa window sticker that come with three snowmen stickers if four payments of $2.99 are made.  I counted 83 advertisers participating in what normally is associated with cheesy local mailings heavy on pizza parlors, automotive specials and sex shops.

It wasn't long before I learned these people never give up.  Deep within the PCH envelope contents was a "Fast Cash" bingo card adjacent to eight sticker chips that, somehow, gave me a matching row of numbers and the opportunity to slap the card on the back of my Official Entry Validation & Order Form and make me a $50 Fast Cash Winner.

I also stumbled upon an even greater opportunity that might win $100.  It seems that Bellingham resident Robert Sanders is on the LOCAL PRIZE WINNER SELECTION LIST, provisionally (there's that word, again) eligible to win the SEATTLE-TACOMA TV area major prize of $1,000.  TV stations KOMO-TV, KING-TV and KIRO-TV are guaranteed to be alerted to my windfall.  Of course, the entry must be validated by 11/14/11 or the provisional eligibility will be REVOKED.

It's tempting to inform PCH that Bellingham, located 100 miles north of Seattle, is not part of the Seattle-Tacoma area.  Also, I don't believe either KOMO-TV or KIRO-TV will be interested in me and my $1,000 prize.  That's particularly so should they learn Brian Williams will announce the name of the mega prze winner on the NBC-TV nightly news of November 30.

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