—– LET’S HONOR MICKEY MANTLE —– By Never Wearing # 7 Again

When I was 6 years old, my dad bought me my second baseball glove, a Rawlings “Mickey Mantle” signature model.  It was a little too big for my hand, but I thought it was just perfect.  Dad said that the first thing that I needed to do was to break it in.  I didn’t exactly understand what that meant because the glove seemed ready to go as far as I was concerned.    Anyway,  off we went to Ed Hermann’s store to get some Neat’s F0ot Oil – had to be Neat’s foot.  I was disappointed to see the oil discolor the rich, new leather of my glove, but if that’s what had to be done, then so be it.   I assumed that spoiling the beauty of a new glove happened to all real ball players, so I just resigned myself to the thing.

It wasn’t by chance that my glove was a “Mickey Mantle” model.  I was a Yankee fan and Mickey Mantle was my hero from the beginning.  Why I attached myself to Mickey at such an early age, I don’t remember.  I do recall that my mom liked Mickey, and that she used to play Teresa Brewer’s popular record, I Love Mickey (listen –  Mickey’s voice is on the record, too) and played it quite often – especially when I asked her.  In my hometown, I felt like I was unique in my admiration for Mickey.  I lived in central Illinois and I didn’t know anyone else who was a Yankee fan.  In fact, I never met another Yankee fan until I was in high school.  I guess I should have been born in New York, , , like Billy Crystal or Bob Costas.

Billy Crystal was born March 14, 1948 in Long Island, New York.  Bob Costas was born March 12, 1952 in Queens New York.  I split the difference being born April 20, 1950, but was not the recipient of the lucky Yankee location lottery – being born in Peoria, Illinois.  Billy Crystal was also fortunate to see Mickey Mantle hit a home run in Yankee Stadium in 1956 and get his program autographed that day.  Many years later, he was even luckier to meet Mickey on the Dinah Shore program, where he brought his program and had Mickey sign it again.  They became lifelong friends after that episode.  Bob Costas, after becoming well-known, famously revealed that he had always carried a 1958 Topps baseball card of his hero in his billfold as good luck charm.  Costas was eventually rewarded with the honor of being asked by the Mantle family to give the eulogy at Mickey’s funeral.  I recommend that you read it.  It is a fine summary of the feelings that so many of us have had over the years.  His eulogy was a perfect tribute, and Mickey deserved every bit of it. 

 In my young life,  I only got to see the Yankees play a total of 3 times. The first time I saw the Yankees in person was at a Sunday doubleheader in Chicago’s old Comisky Park.  We sat in the right field seats behind a Puerto Rican family that brought their own food to the ballpark.  That was the first time that I saw ketchup used on baloney sandwiches (I tried it later – not too bad).  I remember Art Ditmar and Early Wynn pitching, and I remember Elston Howard hitting a towering home run into the upper left field deck.  Mickey didn’t do much that day.  I also remember that between games, my parents and I strolled around  in the public walkway behind dead center field.  Out of nowhere walked a big, tall Yankee who began a conversation with someone who he seemed to know.  I was starstruck and moved in for a closer look.  I recognized the player as Gil McDougald.  He was a big guy for a second baseman (I think about 6’4″); he looked like an other-world giant to me.  I mustered up the courage to ask him for his autograph.  It was my first try, and I couldn’t wait to have a real Yankee sign my program.  He damaged me for life when he looked down and said, “Sorry, son.  It’s against the rules for us to sign between games.”  I was crushed.  I remember thinking, “Mickey would have never said that to me.”

If you were a baseball fan in my hometown, you either rooted for the Cubs or the Cardinals.  For some odd reason, it was pure National League.  There was the rare fan of the Chicago south-siders but, for the most part, it was Cubs and Cards – particularly Cubs vs. Cards.  I always felt that there were no real rivals for my Yankees.  No one ever cared whether the Yankees won or lost where I lived.  My dad sensed how I felt, and decided that I would have a rival for my team – him.  He made sure to root against the Yankees and, conversely, I returned the favor my rooting against his Cardinals.  Our personal rivalry was usually light-hearted, but sometimes it cut a little too close to the nerve.  Noting that Mickey tended to miss some games now and then because of injury, my dad started calling him, “sicky Mickey.”   It wasn’t too long though before dad inadvertently gave me an opening to rib him when I heard him exclaim during a Cardinal radio broadcast, “Oh, don’t pop up now, Stan.”  From then, I referred to dad’s favorite St. Louis Cardinal as “pop-up-Stan.”  He didn’t like it one bit.

In the fall of 1968 I left home to attend Boston University.  The first couple of weeks in Boston were a rough adjustment for me.  My roommate was an upperclassman, who always went home on the weekends to see his girlfriend.  The  few friends that I did acquire during those first weeks were, unfortunately for me, commuters.   On Saturday, September 28, 1968 (which was about my 4th Saturday in Boston, I read in the morning newspaper that the Yankees were going to play the Red Sox that day and this might be the last game that Mickey Mantle would play in Boston.  Not really having anyone to go to the game with me, I decided to go by myself.  I hopped the MTA to Kenmore and walked to Fenway.  I stood in line near center field and purchased a right field seat for $ 1.00.  I bought a program for a quarter and sat back to enjoy the game.  I don’t remember how many people were at the game, but I remember that there weren’t many sitting near me.  I kicked back and put my feet on the seat in front of me and relaxed for a great day at the old ball park. 

Mickey popped up to Rico Petrocelli in the first inning, headed to the dugout, and did not return to the field.  He was replaced by Andy Kosco at first base.  In the lingo of the time, I thought, “What a bummer!”  I was ticked.  Nevertheless, I bought a couple of hot dogs and decided to stay for the entire game.  I scored my program, got some sun, had a little relaxation, and headed back to the dorm.  Years later, I read in Mickey’s autobiography that after leaving the game, he went straight to Logan Airport, caught a plane back to Dallas, and may have made it home before the end of the game.   As it turned out, that was the last game that Mickey Mantle ever played.  He went to spring training in 1969, but retired before the season started.  His body was worn out.

As a postscript, I still have my original Mickey Mantle glove.  A few years ago, I took it to a professional glove restorer to have it spruced up a bit.  He gave me the sad news that he couldn’t do anything with it. “Just leave it alone and look at it once in a while.” he advised me.  That’s what I do.  As for the last-game program – I sold it during the early years of eBay for $ 535.00.  It still had the mustard stains on it, and I thought at the time that I should pass it on.  I’ve probably sold 4,000 – 5,000 items on eBay over the years without regret – that is, except for that program.

Billy . . . Bob . . .  thanks for rekindling  memories of Mickey from time to time.  All of them are special.  I’m sorry that neither of you were lucky enough to see the Mick’s last game.  I think we all wish he could have gone out with more fanfare, but it just didn’t happen.

Mickey . . . you were the best.  I’m not up for any debates, but you were heads above every baseball player of your era.  And we all know that, along with your great sense of humor, you had more guts than any athlete of your era.  If there was ever a hero for kids like me, it was you. 

There has only been one great baseball player to wear the number 7.  Mickey Mantle will be forever associated with that number.  It is my hope, that in his honor, no player ever chooses to wear that number again.  I know that it will never officially happen, but I do hope that it can be an unwritten, even unspoken, rule.  I know that there are other great uniform numbers in baseball – 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 32, and 44 – but to name a few.  I don’t have any squabble with moth-balling those numbers either.  But, for me and my era, 7 is the big one.  Let’s put it away forever.

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One of my late father’s recurring clichés was that “everything runs in cycles.”   From the time I was in about the 5th or 6th grade, he and I would have various debates about the cyclical nature of things and events.  Most of the time our discussions were jovial and agreeable;  other times, a little more contentious.

I recall that many of our more humorous debates over the years centered around clothing style and fashion.   As most young kids do, I always wanted to be wearing the latest – meaning, what all of my most popular classmates were  wearing.  This developed into a mini-obsession that included only wearing particular brands.  I didn’t want to necessarily wear this stuff to be cool, I just wanted to be free from any ridicule.  Typical peer pressure.

 In high school  (the late ’60’s) the rage for guys was “Florsheim” wing-tips , H.I.S. shirts (with little loops on the back, called fruit loops), V-neck sweaters (alpaca, if available), and so on.  My father graciously went along with a lot of this but, being a child of the Depression, he had his limits.   He permitted me to buy, within reason, most of the clothing that I wanted, but there was a rule:  nothing was to be thrown away.  He was of the strong opinion that if you wait, it will come back into fashion.   I really didn’t have a problem with this rule since I knew that by the time it returned to favor, if it ever did, I would be long gone.  As it turned out, and time wore on over the years, I learned that my mother quietly donated most of these clothes-in-waiting to the Salvation Army.  What she didn’t give away disappeared in other mysterious ways to which only she was privy.

There were two items of clothing in our life-long running fashion debate, however,  that lasted far longer than any of the others.  One of the items was a shirt and the other was a coat.  They both provided fodder for endless teasing, ridicule, laughter, criticism, and entertainment for not only the two of us, but for others for whom we would occasionally put on a  performance.

The Tom Jones Shirt

In 1969, while a sophomore at Boston University, I made a date with a girl introduced to me by my roommate’s girlfriend.  I decided that I wanted to impress her, so I made reservations for one of the most exclusive French restaurants in the city.  I had a problem though in that I did not have anything sufficiently new or nice to wear to such a fine eatery.  I decided that I needed to do some quick shopping.  I remember finding a small shop in downtown Boston that had been in business for many years.  Their specialty was hand-made custom shirts.   I discovered from them that they would be delighted to make any shirt, in any style, and with any material that I so desired.  I still don’t know what possessed me at the time (maybe Jimi Hendrix and “Are You Experienced?”), but I requested a Tom Jones style shirt with massively puffed and pleated sleeves, french cuffs, pearl studs and cufflinks, made from an aqua-colored Irish linen with tiny embossed white decorative swirly designs.  It was a strange variation of a tuxedo shirt (think of a Pirate shirt), but without the ruffled front.  I went the whole 9 yards and had it monogrammed, too. The shirt was outrageously expensive for my circumstance  at $ 75.00 ($ 5.00 would last me a week as walking-around money), but I wanted to look good and impress.  So I ordered it up and was properly fitted.

The shirt maker did an express job for me, and I picked it up the next day.  Saturday night could not come too soon, or so I thought.  I tried it on when I got back to the dorm and decided to get reassurance from some of the guys on my floor.  The first guy I saw asked me, “Why didn’t you get the matching Harlequin hat?”  The opinions were unanimous.  I was in trouble, and still needed a new shirt for the date.   I ended up wearing an older sport coat and pants with white shirt, and striped tie.  I wasn’t able to impress my date at the restaurant either.  Everything on the menu was, naturally, in French.  All I could read was English and Latin.

I never wore the shirt.  A year or two later I divulged my idiocy to my parents.  My dad surprisingly perked up and asked if I would send the shirt to him.  He said that he could use a shirt like that.  I told him that I would more than oblige him.  Later, I heard from my mother that the debut of the shirt never occurred.  Although dad had planned the perfect occasion for his and the shirt’s joint appearance – just a regular night out with friends for dinner and dancing – she laughed so hard before they got out of the house that the shirt’s inaugural was immediately cancelled.  The shirt continued to stay on the rack.   He continued to threaten to wear it, but I suspected that he knew all along that it was an eternal lost cause.

In later years, long after I had my home and family, I would occasionally ask dad if the old Tom Jones shirt was back in style yet.  “You wait, it will be soon enough, and I’ll be ready,”  he would say.  I recall once hearing him say that maybe it was acquiring collector’s value.  It was a running joke between us off and on for about 20 years    Probably the only reason that the joke didn’t continue was, in the interim, another item superseded it.

The Brown Plaid Coat

In 1978, as a first-time homeowner, I discovered that one of my new duties was to shovel snow from my sidewalks and driveway.  While I had a nice winter dress coat  and a fairly sporty winter coat for leisure, I really didn’t have anything suitable or warm-enough for long periods outdoors.  I decided to do something about buying an everyday work coat.

It must have been buyer’s impulse, or the allure of the soft sheepskin lining , but I decided upon what could best be called a brown plaid woolen car coat.  It didn’t have a hood, but it had a luxurious large roll-up collar and a button-down front.  I didn’t like zippered coats then for some reason.  It’s outstanding feature, however, was its striking plaid.  We’re talking Scottish plaid, but not in Tartan colors, but soft-tones of baby-poop brown.   The coat had to have been unique.  I know that I never have, and hopefully never will, see another one like it.  It was an immediate success functionally.  I was toasty warm, and I didn’t seem to excessively perspire while shoveling or working.  But the coat did have immediate problems.  It got the occasional odd look from people.  I felt that some people who took special notice were thinking, “Who or what  vomited on that guy?”

Since I only wore the coat on ruggedly winter days, primarily in my yard, the coat worked just fine.  After a few years though, I just couldn’t take it anymore.  It went to the closet for good, or so I thought.  Eventually though my father noticed somehow that my colorful coat had disappeared.   I was now wearing a new, trendy, goose down, ski jacket with a detachable hood – nice!  When I told him that the old coat would soon be on its way to the Salvation Army, he decided to intercept it.  I reluctantly agreed but warned him that if he didn’t wear it, I was going to repossess it and donate it as I had originally intended.

Over the next several years, I actually inquired of my mother about the use and/or disposition of the coat.  “Oh, dad wears it all the time.  He loves it,” she would confide to me.   I was pleased and, eventually just let the subject pass. 

During the intervening years, some things had changed in my life and I had moved several times.  Finally, I settled into a new home and again found myself without a work coat.  I think that you have probably figured out by now that I wear a suit to work and, consequently the bulk of my clothing budget is encumbered for dress clothes.  In short, I needed another snow-shoveling coat.

My mistake was that I mentioned this to my dad.  He said, “Why spend the money on another coat now when I could return your brown coat?  It’s still in great shape.”  I now know why I accepted his offer.  Sometimes, I am just plain cheap.  Plus, I really wasn’t inclined to be in the market for  a work coat.  I had other places to spend my money at the time.

So, there I was –  just like old times.  And, good old trusty took me through several more  blustery winters in fine stead.  It was still a nice, serviceable coat – still doing its duty.

But, as before, I eventually tired of it again.  I was starting to feel like an anachronistic, grumpy old man wearing the thing.  So, off it went to the Salvation Army.  In its honor I gave it a rather generous valuation for tax deduction purposes.  It deserved it.

But that’s not the end of the  story.

Two years later, while driving to a work appointment on a very cold, dark, gray day, I noticed something out the driver’s side of my car.  I immediately slowed to take a closer look.  Walking quite briskly with his head down was a man wearing THAT BROWN PLAID COAT.   I hit the brakes to take a closer look without trying to be too obvious.  At that point, he took notice and looked up.  I smiled and waved back at my old friend.  It had been a long friendship.  If the new owner only knew.

Oh, yeah.  I told dad.  He was pleased.

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Published in: on April 23, 2010 at 11:03 am  Leave a Comment  
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Several weeks ago, my wife and I were invited to see a little baby, who had recently become a new member of our family.  When we arrived, several people at the baby-gathering were huddled in animated conversation.  I barely had my coat off  when I overhead the name, “Howard Zinn.”   I was instantly dumbfounded that a discussion about Howard Zinn was taking place – in a modest home in a small community in the middle of central Illinois.  Yes, he had just recently died, but I did not think that anyone from my neck of the woods would take note of that sad event, nor did I believe that he would inspire any discussion.  What was going on here?  Apparently, an amazing book of his was being discussed

I perked up and stopped the conversation a little cold when I interrupted to say that I had known Howard Zinn.  Actually, I was stretching it a bit.   I met Howard Zinn a long time ago, only had a few conversations with him, usually in the company of Professor Robert McShea. my mentor.   Nevertheless,  I felt that I had developed a kinship with him.   Over the past several years I had rediscovered and had come to fully appreciate, indeed revere, Howard Zinn.  However, that had not always been so.

When I arrived at Boston University as a freshman in the fall of 1968,  it was the largest private university in the United States.   It was a long way from my home  of Tremont, Illinois, and it felt eerie at first.   I had never before visited Boston, yet it was to be my home for the next 4 years.  I didn’t know anyone there and felt like I had been spun out of a bottle.  I was somewhat frightened by the dramatic change of environment in my life, but I relished the opportunity to see where I fit in.  What better place to be than in the Athens of America with such a diverse and enlivening atmosphere.   The Boston area boasted a whopping 250,000 college students, and I was one of them!

Shortly before my arrival at BU, I decided that I would  declare a major in “political science.”  I had more than a passing  interest in politics and law, and hoped to eventually establish a career in one or the other.   That would be a long way off though.  My immediate task at hand was to plan my course schedule.   I enjoyed spending day after day browsing through the college catalog, mapping out all the different possibilities.  I had plenty of time to do so.  Freshmen were required to arrive one week ahead of the rest of the student body for orientation purposes.     It was a long week.  Classes, though, did eventually began, and I thought I was ready.  The first course of my college career was to be a political science requisite entitled, Government 101.

As I quickly discovered, Gov 101 was the most popular course at BU.  When I walked into class for the first time, I was shocked to see a mass of students in the largest lecture hall at the school.  As I plopped into my seat near the back of the auditorium, I asked a nearby student how many students were in this course.  He replied, “1,200 – and that’s just this section!”  There were 1,050 people in my hometown. 

The big question that Gov 101 students asked each other was, “Did you get Levin or Zinn?”  The course  was taught in two separate sections by two professors, Murray Levin and Howard Zinn.  Murray Levin was the most popular.  He was a cigar-chomping, rotund, balding entertainer, who loved an audience, any audience.    Levin had a particular interest in Massachusetts politics, and required reading for his course included, The Compleat Politician: Political strategy in Massachusetts, which he published in the early 1960’s.   Howard Zinn was also very popular, known to be a fierce advocate for students but, more intriguing, renowned as a firebrand radical.   He presented as a gangly, long-striding, frenetic sort —  always on-the-move.  By reputation, he never hesitated to immediately get actively involved if he thought the issue was important.   Nonetheless, in 1968, I don’t think that many students on campus were aware that in 1965 he had organized the first public anti-Vietnam War rally in the United States.   There were only about 100 people on the Boston Common during that first rally, and Zinn was in later years fond of noting  that  important events in history usually start quite small.  Things happened quickly after that first rally,  however. In 1969, Zinn and Dr. Daniel Ellsberg led an anti-war protest of over 100,000 people on the Boston Common.  Both Zinn and Ellsberg were singled out as leaders, badly beaten, and arrested.  By then, everyone in Boston knew who Zinn was.

But back to the fall of 1968.   It was pure chance that I was placed in Levin’s rather than Zinn’s section.  Students were allowed to transfer between the sections at first if they had a preference, and many did.   I was happy to be in the comfort of good-ole Murray.  An additional plus was that his graduate assistants were known to be fairly forgiving graders.  Zinn’s reputation as a radical, on the other hand,  put me on edge from the beginning, and I was happy that I could keep my distance from him.  He was not just an academic, he was a political activist, who was not afraid of the streets.  Not only was I afraid of the streets, I was afraid of the sidewalks.  In fact, I was afraid that I would get lost on the MBTA.  Zinn just didn’t seem to be my kind of guy. 

At the end of my first semester, I ended Murray Levin’s course with an uninspired B.  Maybe I didn’t like Massachusetts politics.  Maybe I just didn’t know what I was doing. Maybe I should have gone for Zinn’s section from the beginning.  Maybe I should have switched majors.  Actually, I did switch majors, but just slightly.  Four years later in 1972, I graduated with a major in “Political Science and Philosophy.”  

30-something years later. . .  while browsing at a local bookstore, I saw a book entitled, “A People’s History of the United States,” by Howard Zinn.  Somewhat stunned, I wondered if the Howard Zinn that I knew had a son by the same name.  No, I looked at the bio blurb, and it was the Howard Zinn of old.  After thinking about it for quite a while, I broke down and bought the book, read it, and was astonished to have discovered a masterpiece .  This book was an unprecedented look at history from a completely different perspective — from the view of the average person, the underdog, and from the people who were on the receiving end of the bully stick.  After reading the book I was saddened that I had not gotten to better know this man when I had the chance.

Howard Zinn lived a courageous life, and  feared no one in the arena  of advocacy for the betterment of all the people.   He was fearless in debate and fearless in action.  I cannot begin to memorialize his life here.  I just never got to know him well enough to do that effort justice.  However, I do want to say that he was a very good man who, at 87, died too young.   He sparkled until the end.  You may want to take some time to see and hear the great man give an interview on April 20, 2001 at the University of California at Berkeley.  I recommend it:


Professor Zinn, I wish that I would have had the other section of Gov 101.  I am certain that it would have vastly enriched my life.

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They Paved Paradise and Put Up a Parking Lot

As Joni Mitchell has told it, late one evening she flew into Hawaii where she was to perform in an upcoming concert.  When her plane landed at the airport, a taxi took her directly to her ocean side hotel where she immediately went to sleep for the night.  When she woke up the next day and drew back the curtains to take in her view of the ocean, she was startled by an immense parking lot between her hotel and the water.  Her reaction was the same as yours or mine probably would have been, namely, “Why on earth did somebody decide to do this?”  The next thing she did though was something that you and I would not have done or, rather, could not have done.  She immediately sat down in her hotel room and wrote a song.  It was called, “Big Yellow Taxi,” and the first verse is:

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
and a swinging hot spot
Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got
Till it’s gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

 One of my clients and I used to love to talk golf rather than business.  He was a world traveler and played the great game everywhere he went.  His favorite golfing spots were in Scotland.  He convinced me that I should go with his group on the next trip.  He told me  how I would love Turnberry, Gleneagles, Carnoustie, and the Old Course at St. Andrews.  He said, “Mike, you’ve just got to see Scotland – they never tear anything down!”  Unfortunately, his health deteriorated rather suddenly, and we never made the trip.  However, I often think about the  trip that would-have-been — and imagine playing those old golf Scottish golf courses and seeing all of those old, old buildings that they never tore down.

Back in December of 1969, I remember 2 of my fellow college dorm mates returning from a concert.  They were quite excited  to say the least.  They had been to a Joni Mitchell concert at Symphony Hall in Boston.  This was quite an achievement for one of the guys, George, since he rarely left his room, even to attend class.  But he had an exuberant smile  that night, and something closely clutched under his arm.  The two guys quickly gushed that they were lucky enough to persist in meeting Joni and that the experience was indescribable – at least they were having difficulty in describing it.  However, George was able to entangle himself from his own arms and show me his prized possession, a signed album from Joni.  I don’t remember now whether the album was personally inscribed to George, but I have never forgotten what that signature looked like.  It was a very feminine, graceful autograph and it had a sweet touch that I hadn’t seen for a long time.  She had dotted the “i” in Joni with a little circle, the kind of dotted “i” that I hadn’t seen since second grade.  Right away, I  thought Joni Mitchell’s music might be something that I might want try a little more.  I thought maybe I was a little late to the Joni Mitchell parade.  She was already playing Symphony Hall, and I was just discovering her?  Where had I been?   The guys told me that she going to play at some nearby colleges within the next couple of days, namely:  MIT, Brandeis, and maybe Holy Cross.  I really wanted to see her perform but I didn’t seem to have the time.  Maybe later.  I would be content for now listening to an album.

Regrettably, many years later, I have still not seen Joni Mitchell perform, nor have I been to Scotland.  I guess I have been a little too sedentary.  Maybe it’s just been circumstance.  But lately, I’ve started to think about Joni and Scotland a lot more.  You see, since, “Big Yellow Taxi” was written, they’ve torn down a lot of paradise and put up more than a few parking lots.  I have lived in Springfield, Illinois for the past 35 years and they have paved a considerable amount of paradise since I’ve arrived.  Cornfields, chunks of old neighborhoods, historic mansions , you name it – Springfield has done its share of demolishing paradise.  It also has had a inclination to put up paved lots subsequent to the demolitions.

Springfield, being the State capital, has a requisite number of buildings for conducting official government business.  The State, being the largest employer in Springfield, also has a requirement for parking spaces for its employees.  For reasons too involved and too complex to be discussed here (read entrenched political stuff), parking lots having developed as a big business here.  As a result, the ugly things are all over the place.  Parking lots are not monopolized by governmental employment needs alone, however.  Ubiquitous sitings dot the entire landscape of our community here.  For example, just down the street from my home sits a very large neighborhood movie theater that razed several blocks to build a massive asphalt parking lot.  The problem is that this eyesore has been abandoned for I’m guessing over 10 years, and there sits adjacent to this horrendous vacant shoe-box theater complex, an unused desert of obtrusive, asphalt nothingness.  Not to dwell on just my neighborhood, this sort of urban blight exists all over the city, and the people aren’t quite sure what to do about it.  I know I’m not.

I would like to find some answers though.  I’d like to know where all the urban planners, zoning officials, municipal leaders , planning commissions,  developers, outside corporate interests, and other miscellaneous idiotic bureaucrats are, who planned this urban morass, with which we are now stuck.  I suspect that they are either retired in Gstaad, Palm Springs or, more likely, comatose in Branson.  Wherever they are, no one every seems to step up as accountable.   At this point, I doubt that any of them could care a whit about the mess that we’ve inherited from these community muddleheads.  They got the money, and we got the asphalt.  And in the process, we’ve  lost at a piece of paradise, and we’ve got what we’ve got. 

Totally frustrated, I am going to do what I can.  I am pledging to do what I wanted to do years and years ago.  First, I’m going to Great Britain.  I do not intend to play golf, but I do plan to take in a lot of those old, old buildings.  In fact, I plan to stay for most of my 3 week trip in a university building built around 1265.  I understand that it is a very nice building, continuously occupied now for almost 750 years.  Instead of tearing it down, I understand they intend to keep it up-to-date in perpetuity.  No need to worry, I’ll have a high-speed ethernet connection in my room, although I’m not sure if I’ll have a rainhead shower nozzle or warming bar for my towels.  I’m guessing I will, though.  By the way, almost no parking lots are allowed anywhere near the central part of my destination GB city, which has a population of over 150,000 (larger than Springfield, IL).

Oh yeah, and when I get back home from my trip, I’m going to check out Joni Mitchell.  I don’t think she sings much, if at all, anymore, but I hear she paints.  Maybe I’ll buy a picture of paradise.

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