Dan Valentine – “Call me anti-American”

June 7, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Dear Hattip:

Call me anti-American.

When I was in high school, I entered an essay contest, sponsored by the Veterans of Foreign Wars, called Voice of Democracy.  I wrote about socialism, communism, and capitalism, and how all three were good systems.  With a hundred-or-so people!  Add five or ten more folks to the mix and all three tend to get corrupted.  All three have little or nothing to do with democracy.  I was awarded a prize.

Call me anti-American.

I joined the Navy to avoid going to Vietnam.  My three good friends at the time joined the Army.  They were sent to New Jersey.  The Almighty, She’s got a sense of humor.  I was sent to ‘Nam.

After boot camp, I caught a flight to Guam to catch my assigned ship, the USS Tanner, a survey ship.  It was at sea at the time, steaming from Pearl Harbor.  I caught pneumonia, killing time, in a sudden downpour on Gab-Gab Beach waiting for it.  Sent to the Naval Hospital to recoup.  The wards were filled with Marines, soldiers, sailors, and the like, with major combat wounds.  Some missing an arm; others, a leg.  Pneumonia or not, I was well enough to swing a mop.  So I was given the duty to sweep, swab, and buff the corridors and rooms.  The least I could do.

Call me anti-American.

I recovered, caught my ship.  To Vietnam.  Assigned to deck force.  Hell on earth, in small quarters.  If there’s a Devil, he or she taught boatswain mates all he or she knows.  And then some.

“Just out of boot camp?”  There were a handful of us.  “Welcome to the fleet!”  Initiation time.  One seaman apprentice, while chipping, sanding, and painting the side of the ship, was repeatedly lowered by chortling boatswain mates, down and up, down and up, repeatedly, into the water below, swarming with barracudas.  From that day forward, he was called Screamin’ Wiley.  Another was stripped naked and smeared with butter all over his exposed body, private parts included.  He was forever-after called Butterball.

I was assigned to stand mid-watch in the crow’s nest.  In a wind-storm.  I’m afraid of heights.  How did they know?  Their kind always knows.  Clouds fast-approaching were grumbling, lightning streaks flashing.  I was scared to death.  When the winds got to be too much, they brought me down.  I planted my feet firmly on the deck, smiling, happy as hell.  From then on, I was known as Smiley Face.  When I was first learning to man the helm (it was part of our duties, among others), a boatswain mate would stand nearby and kick me in the butt with his boot–wham!–whenever I went off course the slightest.  “Keep it on course, Smiley Face.”  Wham!  You soon learn to keep on course.

Call me anti-American.

I served two tours in Vietnam.  I was there the night the Tet Offensive began.  Tracer rounds flying.  One night I was standing the starboard or port watch when I thought I saw a swimmer in the water getting closer and closer to the ship.  With explosives?  General quarters!  Boats were lowered and percussion bombs were tossed all night long.  They never found a body.  If there was a swimmer, I like to think he or she is escorting American tourists around, telling them war stories, just as Americans in his or her shoes would.

Call me anti-American.

Another time I was on day-watch when a Vietnamese junk approached.  The Officer of the Deck, bullhorn in hand, warned those on aboard the junk to turn away.  I was told, if need be, to shoot the fellow at the helm, dead, on command.  The junk turned around.  To this day, I don’t know if I could have carried out the order.

Call me anti-American.

In Vietnam I wrote a book of short essays in my off-hours called Military Moods.  (Moments of Truth; Ports of Call; Christmas:  The Loneliest Day of the Year; etc.  One was:  Love Letter to a Country.)

Call me anti-American.

When the Tanner was decommissioned–my book of essays my ticket “outta here!”–I got assigned to the USS Canopus, a submarine tender, which supplied nuclear attack submarines with nuclear missiles to attack with.

I met the ship in Bremerton, WA, and we sailed to GITMO for a month-long series of sea exercises, preparing for future possible attacks, both chemical and nuclear.  As the ship’s journalist, with no duties other than to put out the ship’s newspaper, cruise book, and hometown news releases, I was assigned to save the Old Glory from radiation or chemical exposure.  Officers timed us with a clock-watch.  Drill after drill, I was killed, and I told myself if there ever was an attack, I was not going to die retrieving a piece of cloth.  But, being young at the time, I probably would have.  That’s why they draft nineteen-year olds.  When there is a draft.

Call me anti-American.

In the 80s, I worked for Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah), in Washington, D.C., for half a decade.  Whenever there was a speech to be written “from the heart” (Flag Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Veterans Day, both Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays, I was the one called upon to write it.

When a Senate colleague died, Republican or Democrat, I was the one called upon to write the floor statement “from the heart”.  The New York Times picked up one and reprinted parts of it, saying, “Such eloquence is seldom heard on the Chamber floor.”

Call me anti-American.

In the 90s, when my dad died and, later, when my mom died, I had their sealed-ashes placed in Arlington National Cemetery.  My dad–he was wounded on Guadalcanal–would have liked that.

Call me anti-American.

I was in Salt Lake when 9/11 happened.  I had canceled my flight back to New York to see a touring musical at the Capitol Theatre, or I would have been there when it happened.  When I did return, a week later, it just so happened to be the first day the subways were running again.  I caught one into town from the airport.  Dead silence all the way.  No one spoke a word.  Everyone was stunned.

I had moved up to the Upper West Side, two blocks from Lincoln Center, a couple of blocks to Central Park.  My New York ID, though, still listed my first home address there.  On Duane Street in Tribeca, only a stone’s throw away from the Towers.

I showed an armed National Guardsman my ID and walked to where the Towers once stood.  On the way, I stopped to take a look at my former residence.  There was a National Guardsman standing close by the entrance, armed and ready.

Across the street was a firehouse.  The firefighters there were the first to be called to the scene after the first plane hit the first building.  They were lucky.  They didn’t lose a single man or woman.

Further down the street, by Ground Zero, women were having their photos taken, hugging firemen, the nation’s new heroes.

The next day, I seriously thought about going to see an eye doctor.  I could barely see.  It was due to the debris in the air.

One day, shortly after, I paused on a street corner before crossing and motioned for a cabbie, speeding to catch the light before it turned, to continue on by.  He put his foot on the brake and motioned for me to cross.  I motioned for him to drive by.  He motioned for me cross.  Etc.  He was mid-eastern.

Call me anti-American.

Such courtesy between strangers and nationalities lasted, I’d say, less than a week.

Later on, one evening, I stopped for a drink at the Russian Tea Room.  Took a seat at the bar by a couple, sitting speechless and stunned, as everyone in town was.  The two paid their tab and left.  The bartender said, “That was Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft.”  Elbow to elbow and I hadn’t even noticed.

Now paying some attention, I glanced around to see two older ladies at the end of the bar, enjoying themselves, laughing, drinking champagne.  They looked rather bedraggled.  But lots of folks did that first week or so.  That, and you never know who’s got money and who doesn’t in New York.  They could very well have been ga-zillionaires.

They weren’t.

They didn’t have a dime on ’em.  When they began to depart, without paying, a cocktail waitress blocked their path.  The bartender called the cops.  Two were there just like that!  There was a battle of wills.  Both women started kicking and scratching.  One of the cops had to physically throw one to the floor, cuffing her hands behind her.  He came over to me and asked if he could have my drink.  Sure!  He poured the contents on the scratches on his arm.

Call me anti-American.

March or April, 2010.  In Houston at an ATM drive-thru.  My dearest friend and I.  Waiting behind a souped-up pick-up with dark tinted windows.  On the back bumper, a sticker that read:  f-Obama.

I told my friend, Quick, get a pic of it, along with the license plate, on her cell camera, so we could call some city or county or state or federal agency.  But the vehicle zoomed off.  Scary stuff.  I fear for Obama’s life.

Call me anti-American.

Call me a little twerp, too.  Childish, self-hating, revolting, juvenile, and beyond shame.

I’ve been called worse.  When my son was four or so, he called me a bastard.  Out of the blue.  He’d heard it from his mother’s mum.  A truer statement has probably never been said about me.  I’ve done some terrible things in my life, looking back.  One or two beyond shame.  A good many of us, by the time we reach our 60s, have.

My dearest friend’s step-dad once called me “the stupidest person” he had “ever known” in his “entire life”, glaring at me with pure hatred from across a table at an International Pancake House one morning near NASA.  He was so mad I could see he wanted to take me by the neck and strangle me to death right then and there.  If Bin Laden had been eating pancakes in the booth next to us, her step-dead would have killed me first.  We were talking politics.  He’s a Republican.

But enough already.

Hattip, I wish you well.

Call me anti-American.

[Editor’s note:  View Hattip’s comment here.]

2 Comments | Dan Valentine, History, Life, Patriotism | Tagged: , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – Romans in ballcaps

June 5, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Ensenada Backpacker. “The hostel of the city.”

Two Italian women – mid-twenties, thereabouts; both beautiful; full of life; educated – walk out of the women’s dorm room, after a night’s sleep.

They’ve been here a couple of days.

One blond, one dark-haired. They both speak several languages. Italian, German, English, Spanish. Fluently. Of course! (It’s a European thing.)

In the United States, we’re lucky to learn English.

“Where are you going today?” I asked. No need for an answer, really. It was early morning. I was making coffee.

“We don’t know yet,” said one. “It’s our last night.”

“Where are you going from here?” I asked. Just making conversation.

“South,” she said.

“Less Americans,” I quipped.

“That’s good!” she said, and meant it.

“I agree,” I said.

And they both laughed. No explanation needed. Humor is identification. And Italians, faster than others, should/can/do connect the dots.

In the eyes of the world, both north and south of the border, across the seven seas, in and around and in between, and to a growing number of citizens born and bred in the United States, we are looked upon as:

Romans in ballcaps!

Chain-store togas (“You’re gonna like what you wear”), Nike clogs.

A nation fast-galloping into its Ben-Hur phase …

Christians and others fed to the lions on “Dancing With the Stars”. Credit card money-lenders …

If Christ were to return any day soon, where do you think He’d end up?

Gitmo is a good guess. No nails but lots of water. If I remember right, Charlton Heston gave Him a much needed sip on His way to, well, you-know-where.

I, myself, think He’d be picked up as a babbling vagrant on the streets of a southern town, locked up in a prison cell at night, tending some rich cattleman’s herd during the day, a short ways from the facility, and after some twenty years – after a lawyer has proven Him innocent of all charges and collected a large fee – let go. Then, looking up to the heavens, I think He would say, “They do not know what they do. Get me the hell outta here.”

In short, deja vu all over again.

Romans in ballcaps.

4 Comments | Education, Foreign Language, Language, Travel | Tagged: , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine: Perfect Day

June 2, 2010

By Dan Valentine

I had a “Perfect Day” while in Nashville.

When you’re penniless even a fairly good day is near-impossible to imagine. Even with lots of money in your pocket, you’re lucky to have five or six “perfect days” in a lifetime.

It happened just a few days after having a perfect-storm of a night in and around Vanderbilt Hospital.

It began at the Music City Hostel with a freshly-brewed cup of coffee and a stack of free waffles, spread with Nutella.

Tracee, the owner’s wife, came in shortly afterward, with her French bull-terrier in arm: Google! Jumping up and down on me, tail wagging, paws forcefully tumbling me to the floor onto my back, licking my eyes and nose and ears, in a non-stop frenzy, as if they were covered with Nutella. Pure ecstasy! But, then: I love dogs!

Start of a Perfect Day.

I helped Tracee with some daily chores, folding bedsheets and pillow cases, etc., and was free to go enjoy myself, which for me (and for most everyone else at that hostel) is to write and finish a song. Most in Nashville work it out sitting, strumming chords on a guitar.

I walk, and work it out in my head.

This particular morning, I strolled down the street to Loews Vanderbilt Hotel. Picked up a free Wall Street Journal at the desk. Put it under arm. I love a newspaper! Better than a newspaper is a free newspaper. Better than a free newspaper are two or three free newspapers. And a cup of coffee. And a cigarette!

I strolled over to the Embassy Suites Hotel. Picked up a USA Today, poured myself a complimentary cup of coffee.

I strolled up to the Marriott. Picked up a New York Times left by a guest. Sat down on a lush couch in the lobby and flipped through the pages, in between finger-dipping between the cushions for change. Found 36 cents (two nickles, a quarter, and a penny.)

A Perfect Morning!

Now, for a cigarette. A cigarette would be nice!

I walked outside just as a beautiful woman lit up. Her cab came before she could have one puff. She placed the cigarette gently on the outside-entrance ashtray, still lit but now with an oh-so slight smear of lipstick on the filter. I picked it up. She got in her cab. I inhaled. She drove off. I exhaled. All as if it had been choreographed by Bob Fosse.

Perfect Morning. One cigarette, one sweet kiss.

In my head, I was working on a song called “Three Friends.” It was printed here on this site a couple of days ago.

I still had some minutes on my Net 10 throwaway phone. I called my dear friend in Houston. She was doing well, so were the dogs. Perfect Morning. I read what I had so far of the lyric:

“Three fam’lies together,
Fathers, mothers, daughters, sons and friends and wives …
Three fam’lies together,
Hearts in a near-crazed frenzy till their dear one arrives …”

She said, “It’s sexist! Mothers, daughters, wives. Why do they have to have a sex at all?”

Good point. Perfect Morning.

I strolled up the street to Borders bookstore (mumbling to myself, alphabetically, “dives, hives, knives, lives–LIVES!), and on the way, spotted a quarter and a penny on the curb by a parking meter. Total (so far): 82 cents!

By the time, I got to Borders I had rewritten the lyric to:

“Three fam’lies together,
Bonded by a war and intertwining lives …”

Perfect Morning.

Inside, I browsed the bookshelves, picking up a book here and there, thumbing through the pages, putting it back on the shelf. I was just about to go when I happened upon Walter Kirn’s novel, “Up in the Air.” I flipped through the pages, reading a sentence or two, and then: “That’s it!” A phrase on the page caught my eye: “deplaning now.”

In the the lyric in my head, I had: “Three friends disembarking.” Disembarking! It fit the meter, though I knew, deep down in, disembarking ship term. Not a plane.

Hence,

“Three friends now deplaning”!

Perfect Morning. Now, for lunch.

I walked across the bridge to downtown Nashville and the Renaissance Nashville Hotel. Took the escalator up to the second floor, on my way to the Bistro on the third floor. Many homeless people go to their local library for internet use. I prefer to use the complimentary internet stations in deluxe hotels.

But I never got to my destination.

There was a business luncheon in the meeting room directly at the top of the first escalator. I walked over to take a peek in the open doors and a fellow came over, hand extended, and welcomed me.

Looking around, as if searching for my associates, I said, “Dan Valentine. Imperial Corps.”

He introduced himself. We shook hands, and he said, “Come join us.” He didn’t say “Howdy,” but he must have been from Texas. No one is this friendly unless they’re from Texas. He led me to his table, introduced me to his fellow execs (“Dan Valentne. Imperial Corps.,” and, well …

A Perfect Afternoon.

My brother, Jimmy, had a similar experience when he was homeless. In Amsterdam. With nowhere to sleep, he went to the Marriott there, to the second floor, and slept underneath a banquet table, covered with a large tablecloth. He awoke the next morning to the clatter of dishes and the chatter of people talking business. He crawled out from underneath and found a full breakfast buffet awaiting him atop the tab.

A perfect morning.

After lunch, I strolled across the bridge, finding a nickel in a parking lot here, a dime by Coke machine here.

On my way back to the hostel, I stopped by the Hampton Inn. Filled an inside coat pocket with a bagel or two, filled my outer coat pockets with little packets of cream-cheese spread. Just in case of a midnight-snack attack.

But, anyway, by now I’m just about strolled out.

I’m a block and so away from the hostel, standing on the street corner, waiting for the light to change across the way from a mom-and-pop shop, owned-and-run by a Pakistani family.

I see a straggly-haired, gray-bearded man in a wheelchair come wheeling furiously out of the store with a bottle of wine on his lap. The proprietor of the store comes chasing out after him. (The old man had grabbed it off the shelf and simply raced out with it.) I could see a third man standing in the dark just a few steps from the stops’ entrance, with a 2×4 held firmly in his hand, ready to club the proprietor over the head, if need be.

I shouted, “Hey!” One word.

The proprietor stopped in his tracks and looked behind him, as the old man disappeared down the street. The man, on his blindside, dropped his weapon and ran off.

The proprietor shook his head, without a thank you, and walked back inside his store.

The light changed. I continued my stroll back to the hostel.

The end of Perfect Day. With a movie ending.

I helped an old man getaway with his much needed bottle of wine; saved another man, perhaps, from being arrested for assault or murder; saved a man’s life, maybe.

What more can you ask for on a stroll through a city?

I followed him inside for my pack of cigarettes.

1 Comment | Dan Valentine, Homelessness, Travel | Tagged: , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine: Memorial Day, Part II

June 1, 2010

Memorial Day. Pt. 2.

[See Part I, here]

By Dan Valentine

The greatest anti-war/peace song ever written is “What a Wonderful World.” Just one man’s opinion.

Wikipedia: Clear Channel included it on its list of songs that might be inappropriate for airplay in the period after the September 11 attack.

The Louis Armstrong version was used ironically in “Dr. Strangelove” over a montage of bombings.

Satchmo’s version was again used ironically in “Good Morning, Vietnam.”

It was used again by Michael Moore’s film “Bowling for Columbine,” “where it accompanies scenes of violence about U.S. intervention in international affairs.”

It has been used many times since. It’ll be used many times more. The song says it all.

Tho’ many don’t get the gist.

AND SATCHMO SINGS
(c) 2010 Daniel Valentine

VERSE
Stand awhile on hallowed ground
Where heroes sleep and look around.
Here and there a flag adorns a grave,
And there are fresh-cut flowers for the brave.

Walk along the rows and rows
And read what’s there inscribed on those
Graves on which the flowers lie across.
The stones have little room to note the loss.

REFRAIN
Here rests a boy, eighteen-years young.
Forever lost: songs never sung.
His dream was to be a songwriter-singer.
He died when a trigger was squeezed by a finger,
All his hopes dashed while one wisp of rising smoke curled.

Here seated are a dad and mom,
Their son killed by a roadside bomb.
Their dream for their boy was a long and good life,
A career that he loved, lots of kids, a good wife.
Choking back tears, they’re handed a flag smartly furled.

And Taps is played,
Wreaths and flowers are laid,
And down the road by the White House lawn,
A staffer jogs with his headphones on,
AND SATCHMO SINGS,
“What a wonderful world …”

Here rests a woman, thirty-four.
She had a child and dreamed of more.
She grew up in Raleigh, North Carolina.
Her father was killed in far-flung Indochina.
Both of them died while overhead chopper blades twirled.

Here rests one more among the dead,
El Paso, Texas, born and bred.
His dream was to help the children, those dying.
He died kicking down a door, tracer rounds flying–
Boom!–when a bomb exploded and shrapnel was hurled.

And Taps is played,
One or two speeches made,
And driving by in an SUV,
A pundit hums to a worn CD,
AND SATCHMO SINGS,
“What a wonderful world …”

Here comes another clean-cut kid,
A flag draped on his coffin lid.
His dream was to be a major-league catcher.
He died crying out for his mom on a stretcher,
Coughing up blood while all around desert sand swirled.

And Taps is played,
Last respects duly paid,
And fat-cat oil execs, checkbooks drawn,
Turn up the sound when their song comes on,
AND SATCHMO SINGS,
“What a wonderful world …”

3 Comments | Lessons of history, Music, Poetry, veterans, War | Tagged: , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine: Memorial Day, Part I

May 31, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Memorial Day.

War is about death. Plain and simple. It’s been said before. In the past. Many times. It will be said again. In the future. Many times.

After 9/11 I wrote a lot of anti-war songs. There wasn’t a market for them then. There isn’t much of a market for them now.

THREE FRIENDS
(c) 2010 Daniel Valentine

THREE FRIENDS on an airplane,
Passing over streets and squares in their hometown …
THREE FRIENDS on an airplane,
Two looking what’s below them just before touching down …

One says, “Look, there’s the shopping mall.”
One points out the new town hall.
One says not a word at all.

Three fam’lies together,
Bonded by a war and intertwining lives …
Three fam’lies together,
Hearts in a near-crazed frenzy till their dear one arrives …

One thanks God for a son’s safe trip.
One’s with child with babe on hip.
One fights tears and bites a lip.

On the jet’s PA
A flight attendant says,
“Please return your tray …
Put all electronic devices away.
We’ll be landing soon.
Hope you have a nice day.”

THREE FRIENDS now deplaning,
Two of whom are cheered, embraced, and kissed heartfelt.
THREE FRIENDS now deplaning,
One in a flag-draped coffin on a conveyor belt …

One’s come home on a two-week leave.
One has got a pinned-up sleeve.
One was killed on Christmas Eve.

THREE FRIENDS on an airplane …

LONELY ROOM
(c) 2010 Daniel Valentine

There’s a LONELY ROOM on the second floor
Where a mother cries when she shuts the door,
Where she dries her eyes and then weeps some more,
Hurting, her heart broke in two.

There’s an empty bed where the mother read
To a little boy, where his prayers were said,
Where she tucked him in and then kissed his head,
Lovingly like mothers do.

There’s a closet where gremlins used to hide.
By a window, there is a tree outside
With a bright yellow ribbon around it tied
With a perfect bow, tho’ the boy he died.

And three Marines,
Standing tall–
One a chaplain–
Grand and all,
Brought the tragic news.

In the LONELY ROOM is an empty chair
Where the boy would chat on his cell and share
Secrets with his girl and at times just stare,
Dreaming of all he would do.

There are bedside books and a glove and ball;
Fam’ly photos, framed; posters on the wall:
One of George and Ringo and John and Paul
And one of Spider Man 2.

All is in its place, all is like it was
When he left to do what a soldier does.
Only now it is lonely and sad because
Wednesday last his mom heard the doorbell buzz.

And three Marines,
Taut and tall–
One a chaplain–
Caught her fall
When she heard the news.

[Memorial Day, Part II, here]

Graves at DFW National Cemetery, photo by Ed Darrell - IMGP4180

Graves at DFW National Cemetery, May 30, 2010 - photo by Ed Darrell (you may use with attribution)

4 Comments | Dan Valentine, Lessons of history, Lessons of Vietnam, Music, Peace, Poetry, veterans, War | Tagged: , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine: Economic recovery? Check the cigarette butts and panty hose

May 30, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Good news! “The economy is growing again!” So said President Obama, just the other day.

Of course, his opponents would have you believe otherwise. But there are certain solid economic indicators that prove him right.

Like, for instance, cigarette butts.

That’s the word from a little-known tobacco expert who calls himself West Virginia Slim. When the economy went bust, he took time off from his job to tour North America–by thumb–after he found a pink slip on the desk of his corner office overlooking Broad & Wall.

I ran into him outside of Hussong’s Cantina here in Ensenada, said to be the oldest bar in the west. He was smoking a Cuban cigar.

And he says he has definite proof that the U.S. economy is, in the words of the President, “picking up considerable speed”. He can tell by the half-smoked cigarette butts strewn across the land.

“After the bust,” he told me during an exclusive interview, ‘cigarette butts flicked on the side of the nation’s streets were short. People took more puffs and got the most out of each cigarette before tossing it.”

But ever since Obama took office, he has noticed that the cigarette butts are getting, slowly but surely, longer. “People are throwing ‘em away, half-smoked,” he says.

30-foot cigarette butt in London - National Geographic photo

30-foot cigarette butt in London, England. Is this an indicator that England is undergoing a huge recovery? National Geographic photo

And this, he assures me, is definite proof, regardless of what the naysayers say, that good times are upon us.

Slim isn’t the only economic wizard who says so. A woman by the name of Gertrude, who made jillions in the stock market before she lost jillions in the market, can prove without a doubt that the country is, in Obama’s words, “beginning to turn the corner.”

Gertrude, who now makes a living as a waitress–she was here to buy duty-free Tequila to take back over the border–uses the “Parsley Principle” to judge prosperity, or the lack of it.

“During the last few months of Bush’s presidency,” says Gertrude, “customers ate the funny little green garnishes that chefs like to place on the sides of dishes as tho’ they were going out of style. Fact is, we couldn’t keep enough parsley in stock during the last days of the Bush Administration.”

But now, in Obama’s second year, very few people, if any, eat the tiny, little parsley garnishes. And this, she says, is a sure-sign that, in Obama’s words: ‘the worst of the storm is over.’”

Another economist, who uses a somewhat different barometer, says times are getting “much” better.

Her name is Olive. She spends a good part of her day going through suit pockets. She works in a dry cleaning establishment in L.A. It’s her job to empty the pockets of the suits before they are dry cleaned.

Says this full-time pocket-picker: “When times are good, people leave all sorts of coins in their pockets. But during bad times, practically no money can be found at all.”

Since the stimulus package was passed, says Olive, “the pocket-picking has been mighty good.” So good that she could afford a 3-day cruise from San Diego to Ensenada on the “Fun Ship”!

Interior of Hussong's Cantina, Ensenada, Mexico

Economics seminar at Hussong's Cantina, Ensenada, Mexico

Another little-known economic expert, a cop from Chicago, told me that he can measure the economic atmosphere of the nation by pantyhose.

He told me this over several rounds of Margaritas. (Some people drive hundreds of miles to visit the birthplace of Abe Lincoln. He flew hundreds of miles, here to Ensenada, to visit the birthplace of the Margarita. But, anyway …

Said this Chicago cop, after years on the force, “When times are good, bank robbers tend to wear expensive, luxury pantyhose over their heads to cover up their mugs. They like the confident, silky-soft feel that expensive pantyhose give them during a hold-up.”

But when times are bad bank robbers tend to buy generic or no-brand pantyhose for a bank job.

“I remember one time,” he told me, “during the last days of the Bush years, we arrested this bank robber at the scene of the crime and he had several runs in the pair of pantyhose pulled over his face. I really felt embarrassed for the fella.”

But the cop added: “Right now, since Obama took over, you hardly ever see a bank robber with runs.”

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3 Comments | Dan Valentine, Economics, History | Tagged: , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – Moses parts the Red Sea, in Nashville

May 29, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Back to Nashville again and my one-night stand. (Never been fond of one-night stands. Who can stand that long?)

The doors of Operation Stand Down opened up. I had an MCI calling card on me with a few remaining minutes on it, in case an emergency should arise. Standing at a pay phone, I called my sister, Valerie, in France. Told her my predicament.

“Broke!!! Danny, how can you be broke?”

“I only have a few minutes on my card, Val.”

“Homeless! Danny, how did you become homeless!”

“Val, you’re using up my few remaining minutes.”

“Nashville! What are you doing in Nashville?”

(To be fair to my sister, I had said almost the very same things to my brother, Jimmy, when he was in need. If you’ve never been homeless, you don’t have a clue.)

“Money?!” she said. “I don’t have any.”

That was news to me. Last I heard she was a millionaire. Just like I once was. Well, stuff happens, as they say.

“Just $600! For the hostel here. For a month’s stay.”

Well, to make a long, minute-munching call short, she said she’d see what she could do.

Tossing my card in the nearest trash–no remaining minutes left–I made my way to the hostel where I had stayed for a month before going bust. I told Ron, the owner, my plight. Told him my sister was sending money. He offered me board and breakfast in exchange for helping out at the hostel.

That morning I had waffles with Nutella. Most enjoyable, to say the least.

I had a Net 10 cell phone, with minutes on it. Not usable for calls overseas. I phoned an old friend from my New York days. Don’t ask me why.

“Danny!!!” She was happy to hear from me. She is a composer. Very talented. She’s a graduate from the Manhattan School of Music. We were teamed together at the BMI Musical Workshop. We collaborated on what I think are some very good songs. Only one prob: She’s a multiple. Besides her wonderful, talented self, she has some six different, distinct personalities. Each with her/his own, individual name. Of course!

And only one writes music!

One personality acts as protector, one is an elderly woman, one is a little boy, one manages all the others. The last, a very important role–time-consuming!

Not to disturb anyone, I walked from the hostel, cell in hand, to the end of the block, telling her my plight of the last few nights, when suddenly a “crazy black man”, brandishing a baseball bat in his fist, came storming out of the bushes, screaming obscenities and more at me. My talking must have disturbed his sleep–what little sleep a homeless person gets. I could sympathize.

He was in attack mode. I backed away, told my former New York partner what was happening. She could hear him screaming at me. “Gotta go,” I said. “Call you right back.”

He chased me to the edge of the hostel grounds. Like a fool, I screamed, “Help, police! Someone call the police!”

A couple came out of one of the dorms. Saw me. Saw him. Stepped back inside.

Lesson learned: Never shout Police! Shout Fire!

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the enraged man shouted one or two more remaining things on his mind and walked down the street, out of view, with his bat.

Whew! Close call! I phoned my friend back. And she (the protector, the manager, pick one from a hat) said, “I’m sorry, Danny, but I can’t take the stress!”

She can’t take the stress?!!

“I’m at a very sensitive time in my life.”

So is I!!, to coin a phrase.

“I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t call. Take care, Danny.” Don’t take any wooden nickels.

Click.

A couple of days later I’m walking down a busy street in Nashville, close by Vanderbilt University, when I hear a booming voice in back of me. “Mutherf**kers, clear the way. I’m comin’ through.”

I recognized the voice immediately. It was him! Baseball bat in hand.

He walked by, not knowing me from Adam. Just another white man in a sea of white faces. The enemy. All of us, a major threat. One call on a cell and he could be arrested. For what? Pick a charge out of a white cop’s helmet. Whites are given warnings. I was. Black men are rounded up, locked up, and the key thrown away. It happens! That little bit of knowledge alone can make you crazy.

I watched him walk down the street, head held high, shoulders back, baseball bat in hand. Proud. Bottom of the ninth. Team down four-zip. Bases loaded. Two outs.

Without hesitation, all along the boulevard, couples window-shopping; coeds on their way to class (on their cells, tweeting, of course); businessmen and women scurrying to luncheons; camera-toting tourists, with sites to pose in front; they all cleared a wide, wide path for him.

Moses, baseball bat in hand, parting the Red Sea.

And I like to think: It gave him great joy!

2 Comments | Dan Valentine, Family, History, Homelessness, Travel | Tagged: , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – From the files

May 27, 2010

By Dan Valentine

I had to toss most of my writing when I become homeless again, box after box, file after file, each filled to capacity with hand-scribbled note upon note on menus, cocktail napkins, matchbook covers, etc.

I was hoping I had transcribed much of it onto my laptop. Not to be. Tho’ I did find file upon file with other notes. Files tagged D.C., Dad, Driving, Mom, Vietnam, 1950s, Hatch, NYC, so on and so on.

(My friend swims. I take notes.)

From the Friendswood, TX. file: “Goodbye, Motel 6! It’s been real!! My bestest friend to the dogs: ‘Girls, we’re moving.’ Excited. “Yes, we’re moving.”

From the Friendswood file: “3 bed, 2 bath, heated in ground pool, ceramic tile throughout, granite counter tops, 2 car detached garage, covered porch, 14,4050 sq. ft. treed lot, formal living room, formal dining room; refrigerator, washer, and dryer, 2,111 sq. ft, built in 1969, in the Wedgewood neighborhood.”

From the file: “Woke up to hear a woodpecker pecking in the backyard, the sound leaf-blowers in front …”

From the file: “Watched (my friend) swim: one arm floating out of the water, the other following. The dogs barking and chasing after her on the side of the pool. A Rockwell painting.

From the file: “Vote for Delay signs are popping up all over our neighborhood. Delay!! He’s our representative.

From the file: “Not a place where you take a stroll. Had a beer can thrown at my head from a passing car. Couple of weeks ago, a firecracker.”

I had forgotten about that. That’s why I take notes.

From the file: “I-Hop. Dinner. Gay waiter took our order. Black, with two earrings. Name tag: Peaches. Wife to her husband in next booth: ‘And they let him have his name on his name tag? I mean, this is a family restaurant, for f**k sake!’ Idea for sit-com: Peaches in Pearland. Black Will and Grace, Texas-style.”

From the file: Texan complaining in the supermarket check-out line about how much it had cost him to fill up his SUV. Gas was getting so expensive that he’d given up driving his truck at night and was using his motorcycle instead.”

From the file: “Line for future song: Clearing brush gives Texans a rush”

From the file:

“Sign: Moving boxes. (I picture people inside chasing after them.)

“Sign on back of school bus: Watch for Children. (As if they may harm you.)

“Sign in window: Office space available. Welcome to month-to-month! Says it all about the present times. You know it! We know it! Let’s not play games! Your business is going to fail!)”

From the file: “Mosquitoes out in force.”

From the file: “For sure, Texans are friendly. I’m standing at the urinal in the Men’s room at the Olive Garden when a jovial Texan bursts through the door. ‘Howdy!–as if he were greeting a buddy at a rodeo.’”

From the file: “Idea for the perfect Texas business: Bar-B-Que Motors.”

From the file: “Mosquitoes everywhere.”

From the file: “Just returned from Veterans Hospital. Took me 40 buses. Houston. No decent transit system. And proud of it!”

From the file: “Bumper sticker seen on back of car: Vote against Metro-rail! Stop the homeless before they get to our neighborhoods.”

And so on and so on …

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Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – He makes me laugh

May 26, 2010

By Dan Valentine

My dad was a big man. Six-two, some two-hundred-and-thirty pounds. He was two-eighty or so at one time.

Once, he went on a public diet, along with other hefty local celebs–a radio deejay or two; a politician or three; John Mooney, the Trib’s sports’ columnist. I think Herman Franks, manager of the old Salt Lake Bees and former New York Giant catcher was one. All wanted to thin down. They called themselves the “Blubber Brigade”. Once a week my dad would report to the reading public their weekly success or failure.

When my mom first fell in love with my dad, friends would say, “But he’s fat.” My mom would answer, “But he makes me laugh.”

HE MAKES ME LAUGH
(c) 2010 by Daniel Valentine

There are men of worldly means,
Earthly goods, and riches,
Who’d have set me up in suites,
Each with household staff.

But my love I chose because
He keeps me in stitches.
He is not a man of wealth,
But HE MAKES ME LAUGH.

There are men of world renown,
Household names with money,
Who’d have handed me blank checks
With their autograph.

But my love I chose because
He’s bust-a-gut funny.
He is not a man of fame,
But HE MAKES ME LAUGH.

Friends wonder why
I’m no taken with the guy.
He’s not much to look at.
Not by half.
Some would even say he’s fat
And ask themselves, “What’s with that?”
Well, HE MAKES ME LAUGH.

There are notables I know
Who are sitting pretty.
Each of whom I said no to.
All must think me daff’.

But my love I chose because
He’s side-splitting witty.
He is far from well-to-do,
But HE MAKES ME LAUGH–
My, how that man can make me laugh!–
And he thinks I’m funny too.

YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME
(c) 2010 by Daniel Valentine

If you can make a woman laugh
In this world of ours gone daff’,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

If you can roll her in the aisle,
Turn concern into a smile,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

Sure, you’d love to wine-and-dine ‘er,
Buy her clothes by some designer,
Send her flowers, bring her candy.
All of which is fine and dandy.
But you’re broke! Not to choke.
Make her laugh. Tell a joke.

If you can make her slap her knee,
Grab her sides, go tee-hee-hee,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

If you can bring tears to her eyes,
Make her laugh until she cries,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

So you’ve none of earthly riches–
Pal, just keep your gal in stitches.
You don’t need a lotta money.
All you gotta be is funny.
Never mind that you’re broke.
Make her laugh. Tell a joke.

If you can make her spill her beer
While she’s grinning ear-to-ear,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

If you can make her roll about,
On the verge of passing out,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

Fill her heart and home with laughter,
Head to toe, floorboard to rafter.
Let the others buy her toddies,
Spend their dough as though their Saudis.
So you’re broke! Not to choke.
Perfect time for a joke.

If you can make her stamp her feet,
‘Fraid ‘a falling off her seat,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

No need to buy a long-stemmed rose.
No box of chocks, no card with poem.
Just make her snort milk from her nose.
Make her laugh
And YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME
To happily-ever-af’.

2 Comments | Dan Valentine, Family, Journalism, Utah | Tagged: , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – Victor Buono gets into the act

May 25, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Victor Buono and my dad were friends. Drinking buddies, on at least one occasion. He was in Salt Lake, appearing as Falstaff in “Henry IV” at the University of Utah. The year was 1964.

One evening after a performance, they painted the town, as they say. Upon leaving a private club, Buono stepped to the curb for a cab. Upon seeing one, he turned to my dad and said, “What sneaking fellow comes yonder?”

He stepped into the street to flag it down. “Hark! Do you not hear the people cry?”

The cab stopped and he turned to my dad, opening the back passenger door for him. “Enter Troilus.”

A year later he appeared as “Captain Hook” at the Music Valley Music Hall in Bountiful. Believe me, when I say, there has never been a better Captain Hook. Ruta Lee was Peter Pan. He got me an autographed picture of her in her costume. It’s somewhere in a dump in Houston, pigeons pecking away at it. Just one of the many things I had to trash when I became homeless again.

Victor Buono, 1953

Victor Buono, 1953

On the day my sister Valerie started school, late fifties, somewhere thereabouts–she was born in 1955–my dad wrote a column, his best, a “newspaper classic”, to the world.

“World, I bequeath to you today one little girl in a crispy dress with two blue eyes … and a happy laugh that ripples all day long, a batch of light blonde hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs. I trust you’ll treat her well …”

I Googled it. The results: hit after hit, if that’s the right word. Many minus my dad’s by-line. Some have changed “two blue eyes” to “two brown eyes.”

Many have Victor Buono as the author. He first read the piece on The Joey Bishop Show. When he read it one night as a guest on the The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson–I think the year was 1967–the result was countless letters from viewers pleading for a copy.

Buono called my dad. He wanted to make a 45 of it. My dad gave his okay.

It had been read many times on television in the past. Tennessee Ernie Ford read it on his show, Art Linkletter on his, Garry Moore on his.

There is a picture of the 45 on a site called “Victor Buono Fan Page.” No date.

Not much came of it. I don’t even think it got as far as the distribution part.

A copy could very well be in a Houston dump. When I was tossing box after box, I couldn’t look at the contents. It was too painful. There may be a copy in the BYU Achives. That’d be nice.

Victor Buono came to town and visited my dad several times. At the time, we were living up by the University of Utah. Butler Avenue. My folks had bought a sorority house. I’m not kidding. Can’t remember the name of the sorority. They got kicked off campus. The reason: the sorority members couldn’t keep their grades up or the birth control pills down. That was the often-told joke. For months after my folks bought it, frats would walk into the house without ringing, look around disappointed and say, “Where’d all the girls go?”

Three stories, a trillion rooms, one bathroom with rows of stall showers and toilets; a huge dormitory. My folks put a pool in the basement. My dad’s mom lived with us in the Sorority Mother’s quarters (living room, bedroom, kitchen.)

I loved my grandmother. I called her “Mom Mom.” She was my second mother. Her name was Marie. And she was a piece of work. Was she ever! She’d been a Roaring 20s flapper. She loved to party. I mean, she LOVED a party.

Picture Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard and that’s my dad’s mother. She wore a turban like Norma Desmond. She sported a long, long cigarette holder like Norma Desmond. She wore dark sunglasses like Norma Desmond When she drank, she WAS Norma Desmond.

I’ll never forget the last time Victor Buono visited. He and my dad and mom would be talking and my grandmother, after a few martinis–no, a lot of martinis–would do her best to change the conversation. “Victor, don’t you think I still look young-young-young?” “Victor, don’t you think I’m beautiful?” Funny/sad. Very embarrassing.

Can’t remember him stopping by after that.

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Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – Muggy

May 24, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) likes a staffer around when he speaks, so he can get some immediate feedback afterward, and one night the task fell upon me, his speechwriter at the time, because Paul Smith, his press secretary, who usually accompanies him, was off on vacation.

Afterward I walked him to his car, telling him along the way basically three words. “You were great!”

“What did you think?”

“Senator, you were great.”

“Think it went well?”

“You were great.”

He had strayed from the prepared remarks and rambled all over the place, going on a tangent about a recent Supreme Court decision. (“I just want to say one thing … I just want to add one thing … And let me just say …”) But that’s his speaking style.

As the Senator got into his car, he said, “I’d like to see more like it.”

I closed the door behind him. He unrolled the window. “I need a speech on drugs. Can you write me one?”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. For or against?” I had lots of confidence back in those days.

He looked at me, shook his head. I watched him drive off. Then, briefcase in hand, I thought to myself: Okay, now for that drink!

I hailed a cab and said, getting in, “A little muggy.”

It was mid-August. D.C. was built on a swamp and even at night the heat is stifling.

The cabbie looked up at me in the rearview mirror. “What’s the–?”

“Muggy?” How to explain? “You know. Hot. Sticky.” I loosened my tie. “Makes you want to take off all your clothes.” I unbuttoned my top shirt button.

“Hot? Sticky? You like–?”

“Muggy? I can take it or leave it.”

He asked: “You police?”

I shook my head.

“Just checking.” He hit the meter. “In my country of Bangladesh, muggi is word for–how do you say?–hooker.” He pulled into traffic. “Redhead, you like that? You want blonde? Two blondes?”

“Just a minute,” I said.

“Short one, tall one? Yes? No? Just let me know. I know big, big blonde.” He took his hands off the wheel to form imaginary large breasts in the air–

“Hey! Look out!”

–and almost ran into an on-coming car. “Very nice. She does everything.”

“Listen–”

“I think you like her.”

“Will you listen?”

“Yes?” he said.

“I think we have a little misunderstanding here.”

“No muggi?” He was very disappointed.

“No muggi!”

“All right, all right. Relax, my friend. No need to get excited. Where do you want to go”

A few blocks later the taxi pulled to a stop in front of my destination. I paid the fare and got out.

“How about twins?”

“No!” I slammed the door. “No muggi.”

1 Comment | Dan Valentine, History, Humor, Linguistics, U.S. Senate | Tagged: , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – Zehr gut!

May 22, 2010

By Dan Valentine

I checked my e-mail this morning. There was a message from my bestest friend, regarding a piece I had written. Two words. “Zehr gut!” Her dad was German, died when she was three. She has one remaining photo of him.

“Zehr gut”. I had to Google it. Wikipedia: “Germany has a 6-point grading scale to evaluate the performance of school children.”

“Zehr gut!” “Best possible grade!”

Thanks, Professor. I needed that.

We communicate by e-mail. My cell minutes ran out months ago. Back in mid-December, in fact.

A “good” friend of mine in Salt Lake used up much of them.

When I was in Nashville, he’d call on a regular basis. Usually from a bar. We’d been friends for quite some time. Going on 30 years. Ever since I first took over my dad’s column.

He’d call and ask, “How are you doing?” Then he’d shout (to whomever was in the bar.) “It’s Dan Valentine Jr. Got him on the phone.” As if anybody in the bar knew who in hell Dan Valentine Jr. was. Or cared. It had been some thirty years since my last column.

I’d say, “I’m homeless. In Nashville. I need a place to stay. Till I get on my feet. Can you take me in?”

When I had the column, and afterward, when I was living in D.C. and New York, I was welcome to stay at his place whenever I was in town. Once, I got in a cab at the airport, gave my friend’s address, and the cabby said, “Oh, you’re going to Valentine’s place.” Funny.

When you’re famous/rich, friends “want” you to stay with them. Oscar Levant, the great musician/wit/brains behind “An American in Paris,” sold his home and stayed with different friends the rest of his later life. Christopher (“The Sound of Music”) Plummer sold his home long ago and just stays the night/week with assorted friend. It helps to be famous/rich.

But, anyway, my friend would call. I’d tell him I was homeless. I need a place to stay. (He’s the proprietor of a very successful shop downtown.) It was Christmastime. He’d say, “This is our busy season.” Then, “We’ve got our house up for sale.” Oh, if he was calling from the shop: “Here, talk to the wife. But don’t tell her your homeless. It would upset her.”

Wouldn’t want to do that!!!

One night he calls while I’m tramping through sleet and snow. “How are you doing!”

“I’m doing fine, blah, blah. I’m going to make it here in Nashville if it kills me, blah, blah, blah.”

I soon came to the realization, it could very well kill me.

He calls another day. I plead with him to take me in. He’d been drinking. He’s a happy fellow when he drinks. Aren’t we all! He says, “Sure. I’ll tell the wife.”

I call him the next day to make arrangements. He’s sober. “It’s our busy season,” he says. “We’ll going to Vegas at the end of the month,” he says. “But,” he says. “Sure,” he says. “Uh,” he says. “You’re welcome to stay with us. You can get a job somewhere.”

Needless to say, I didn’t go there. Had a change of heart. Thanks but no thanks. He used up my last minutes leaving messages on my cell. Going, going, gone.

But just before they ran out, with just one or three minutes remaining, I got a call from my bestest friend. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days. Why haven’t you been answering the phone?” Then: “Come home. I bought a house. With a pool.” (She swims.)

Nicer words I’ve never heard. Except for maybe the two words: “Zehr gut!”

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Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – “I miss my Dad”

May 22, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Yesterday I wrote: “Everybody in Texas drives. They’d drive to the bathroom if the stall doors were wide enough.”

I borrowed that line from the script of Bob Fosse’s “All That Jazz” (1979): “I got a friend who bought a Mercedes just to get to the bathroom.” He lifted it (perhaps, perhaps not) from my dad’s “The Wit & Wisdom of Dan Valentine” (1974). Can’t remember off hand how my dad phrased it. There’s a copy of the book, along with all his columns, in the BYU Achieves. I’m in Ensenada.

I googled “drive to the bathroom” and came up with:

“If we Indians could drive to the bathroom, then we would do that.” (TIME Asia, Bryan Walsh, Hong Kong.

“We are a ‘car’ people and we would like to drive everywhere. We’d drive to the bathroom if we could.” (M. Timothy ‘O Keefe. “Guide to the Caribbean Vacation”.)

“The urban population, they are driving in cars everywhere. If they could drive to the bathroom, they would.” (David Kohn. “Getting to the Heart of the Matter in India.)

I like to think that my dad came up with the line first. But probably not.

The Salt Lake Tribune didn’t pay my dad much, tho’ for many in Utah it was the reason they subscribed to the paper. So he free-lanced to make ends meet. Sold a story here, sold a story there, sold a story to Esquire.

He wrote a pamphlet called “Pioneer Pete’s Utah Scrapbook,” off-beat tales of Utah history, geared to tourists and distributed at truck/tourist stops. It shot off the shelves. So he wrote “Pioneer Pete’s Idaho Scrapbook, Wyoming Scrapbook, Divorcee Scrapbook, Nevada Scrapbook, Hunter’s Scrapbook, Fisherman’s Scrapbook, the list goes on and on.

He published a soft-back collection of his newspaper columns, displayed and distributed in these same truck/tourist stops. One the columns was called “Dear World,” his thoughts and wish for me, watching his first-born traipse off to his first day of school.

“Dear World: My young son starts to school today. It’s going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently …” It’s been called a “newspaper classic”.

In 1969, Jerry Herman (Hello, Dolly/Mame) wrote a musical, starring Angela Lansbury, called “Dear World.”

A few years ago, I met Jerry Herman at the ASCAP Musical Theatre workshop. We had quite a long chat. Wonderful guy! Half-kidding, I told him that he had stolen my dad’s title. He didn’t deny it. He smiled and said, “Nice title.” I picture him in a restaurant, picking up one of my dad’s American Essay books, and getting the germ of an idea for a musical.

When my sister was born, in 1955, my dad wrote a column called “Hello, Little Girl.” He later included it in a book, sold in restaurants. I googled “Hello, Little Girl” earlier this morning. I knew what would come up. Wikipedia: “The title is reference to the Stephen Sondheim song ‘Hello Little Girl’ for the musical ‘Into the Woods.”

I like to think that Sondheim was thumbing through a restaurant table-copy somewhere and the title stayed in the back of his mind.

The first song John Lennon ever wrote was called “Hello Little Girl.”  I like to think – nah, impossible. But, then again …

The book, displayed at truck/tourist stops, sold so well that he wrote and published a series of booklets called the American Essay series, each geared to those on the road, eating at truck/tourist stops along the highway:

“What is a trucker driver?” He’s a big guy. He’s a small guy. He comes in all sizes and shapes. Short, tall, skinny, fat. Laughing, serious.”

“What is a veteran? He’s a man who looks the world in the eye. He’s a big man, he’s a small man, he’s a short man, he’s a tall man.” On and on. Corny stuff. But they sold and sold. So much so that he wrote “What is a father/mother/teacher/secretary/nurse/ minister/rancher/farmer/rancher’s wife/farmer’s wife/truck driver’s wife. He even wrote “What is a mortician,” for morticians to hand out to customers.

He once said, later in life, that he had ruined what little talent he had writing them.

He sold hundreds of thousands of them. “Sentimental classics designed to make the heart sing”.

In 2003, the 75th Annual Academy Awards were hosted by Steve Martin. He began his introduction: “What is a movie star?” Tremendous laughter. Immediate recognition. “A movie star is many things.” More laughter. “They can be tall, short, thin, or skinny.” More laughter, stars falling off their seats, as they say. It’s on YouTube. My dad would have loved it!!!

Most humor is identification, and most everyone in the audience, it seems, had stopped to dine in their travels and read one or two of my dad’s sentimental essays sold at truck/tourist stops throughout the west.

At Carnegie Hall, Andy Kaufman read my dad’s essay “This is a wife” to the audience and brought down the house. “A sigh in the night … A smile across a room of strangers … A tug at a sleeve in the middle of a sad movie.” People were falling off their seats. It’s on YouTube.

As Tony Cliff, Kaufman read “This is a wife” on David Letterman, bringing the house down once again. It’s on YouTube. It’s also reprinted in a book of best written humor ever with Kaufman’s by-line. My dad wouldn’t have been too keen about that.

During the Red Scare, in 1950, my dad hosted a local radio show in Salt Lake. One of his guests was Sen. Joe McCarthy who was traveling the country, spreading the word to one and all who would listen that there were “Commies” in our State Department. Heaven forbid! God save us all! One day the number of “Commies” was 205; another day, 4; next day it would be 81.

It was on my dad’s radio show that McCarthy first came up with the exact number of “actual card-carrying Communists in the State Department.”

57!

My Dad: In other words, Senator, if Secretary of State Dean Acheson would call you at the Hotel Utah tonight in Salt Lake City–”
Sen. McCarthy: That’s right.
My Dad: –you could give him 57 names of actual card-carrying Communists in the State Department of the United States–actual card-carrying Communists?
Sen. McCarthy: Not only can, Dan. but I will.

Flip the calendar pages to 1962 and “The Manchurian Candidate”, starring Frank Sinatra and Angela Lansbury, based on the Red Scare and Joe McCarthy.

Mrs. Iselin (at meal time): I’m sorry, hon’. Would it really make it easier for you if we settled on just one number?
Sen. John Yerkers Iselin: Yeah. Just one, real, simple number that’d be easy for me to remember.
(Mrs. Iselin watches her husband thump a bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup onto the his plate)
Sen. John Yerkers Iselin (addressing the Senate): There are exactly 57 card-carrying members of the Communist Party in the Department of defense at this time.

I miss my Dad.

3 Comments | Communism, Dan Valentine, History, Red Scare | Tagged: , , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – “Born and bred in Texas”

May 21, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Last night, in the wee hours, I sat bolt upright in bed and shouted, “Texas! He must have been born and bred in Texas!” Melody’s brigadier dad, the guy who thought I was gay because I didn’t drive.

I resided in southeast Texas – Friendswood, Galveston, Houston, Jamaica Beach, Clear Lake, etc. – for some five years without a car. Most times I was the only pedestrian within a five-mile radius. Everyone in Texas drives. They’d drive to the bathroom if the stall doors were wide enough. Many, many times I’d be strolling along, in my own mind, when a car full of kids would swing over, the windows rolled down, and scream, “Faggott!” and race off down the street, gleefully giggling to themselves Or, they would slow down and honk their horn suddenly, scaring the hell out of me, then speed off.

Dan Valentine in storm-ravaged Texas

Dan Valentine, in Texas

My friend’s grandfather lived with us when we resided in Friendswood. One time I came home and was flipping through the mail in the kitchen, when I heard him speaking on the phone, talking to his sister. “I don’t know what he does.” I opened up a bill. “He put a small down payment on the house.” I opened up another bill. “He doesn’t drive.”

Her grandfather – his first name was – was born in Georgia. He’d been a carpenter. He was going on 80. He was suffering from CPOD, Chronic Destructive Pulmonary Disease. A grand ol’ man. The best of years of my best friend’s life were spent living with him and her grandmother in Florida.

He once gave me the greatest compliment I’ve ever been given. Sometimes, not often, at night after writing all day, I would buy a pint of rum/gin/scotch/vodka/whiskey–whatever was cheapest; there was a liquor store down the block–and I would enjoy a drink or ten, standing by the kitchen counter, and talk about his granddaughter. Stories, experiences we’d had together, etc.

Before he died, he told his granddaughter (this, she told me later): “Y’know, Dan really, really loves you.” A truer and nicer thing anyone could have said about me.

I don’t drive. My brother never drove. My sister didn’t learn how to drive until late in life. My dad discouraged it, to say the least. He had covered too many traffic deaths as a young reporter.

But back to Texas. Hurricane Rita! Late September, 2005.

Some 3 million people were evacuated within a 500-mile radius–the largest evacuation in American history. Wikipedia. After the tragedy of Katrina and New Orleans, authorities were taking no chances.

My friend’s mom and step-dad–they had moved to Houston to be with their daughter–packed some things, stopped by to pick up Guy and his much needed supplemental oxygen canister, and sped off for Oklahoma.

My friend has a yellow Jeep. She’d always wanted one. It’s easy to pick out on the highway. She still has an Obama sticker on the back, next to a “I Like To Swim” sticker, below a “Democracy Now” sticker, by a sticker from “The Bulldog”, a coffee shop in Amsterdam. We love bulldogs!!!

Everything is about the dogs in my friend’s life. They come first and foremost. At one time she/we had five! At the time of Rita, she had three–Daisy (a veteran from D.C. and Manhattan), Bogie, and Rosie.

We packed their things–food, water, toys, blankets. The TV was on in the living room. as background music, with tales of chaos.

Texans were driving in multi-car caravans, causing grid-lock. What’s a car caravan? It’s a Texas thing. During a hurricane. When there is little time. You grab your most prized possessions. And make a run for it.

In Texas, the most prized possession is–you guessed it–a car. No, two cars (a car for work, a car for play). No, three cars (two-doors, four-doors, no-doors). Plus a pick-up or two and an SUV for dumping one’s trash in a river or lake.

So you’ve got family after family in lots of cars, traveling, oh, so slowly, bumper to bumper, not wanting to get separated from each other. It can cause a problem. One car runs out of gas, all the cars in the family stop. They’re not leaving one of their babies behind.

Back to the chaos. A bus, with elderly evacuees, caught on fire, killing 24, their oxygen tanks exploded. Cars were running out of gas. Gas pumps were empty.

Ten thousand homeless were left to fend for themselves.

My friend, with me in the front passenger seat, a dog in my arms and lap, two dogs in the back, are just about to leave when we get a call from her step-dad. He had pulled off the road for a doughnut, maybe it was flapjacks–and God bless him for it–and had learned that the Hilton was open and was accepting guests. And their dogs! The mayor had a suite, had set up headquarters there They’d rented a room for themselves, rented a room for us and the dogs.

The bar was open, the restaurant was open, dogs everywhere. In the lobby, in the elevators. A dog lover’s dream.

Lesson learned: Follow the mayor. If he ain’t leaving …

Rita made landfall on Saturday, September 24, a category three. It missed Houston.

Hurricane Ike, on the other hand, that was another story. But I’ll leave that for later.

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Posted by Ed Darrell

Dan Valentine – Parsley and Melody

May 21, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Spent last night working on a funny song about homelessness. Tentative title/hook: “Parsley Is For Eating.” My dad once said, “Humor is looking at the world upside down.” When you’re homeless, you’ve got a ringside seat.

My dad found himself homeless as a kid. During the depression, in Columbus, Ohio, he came home from school one day to find the family’s belongings on the front walk. His dad couldn’t come up with the rent.

My brother was homeless for a time. In Amsterdam. He hid what little he had behind some bushes in a park. Some nights later he went to a homeless shelter for a meal and stood behind a fellow in line wearing his clothes.

I’ve been homeless before. Years ago. For three days. In D.C. When I first joined Hatch’s staff. I had all but forgotten. You’ve time to reminisce when you’re broke.

I was staying at a very nice deluxe motel in Virginia. Pool, sauna, tennis courts, etc., till I found an apartment.

I don’t drive, never have. So, I would take a bus each morning to the nearest Metro stop, then on to the Russell Senate Building in D.C., where Hatch’s offices were.

(Lots of people have never driven. Tony Bennett has never driven, Barbara Walters has never learned to drive. Abraham Lincoln never drove. Bonnie and Clyde drove and look what happened to them. In my youth, when I asked a woman out, my line was, “You bring the wheels. I’ll furnish the entertain. But don’t honk when you pick me up. You’ll disturb the neighbors!”)

After work one night I met a young woman. Can’t remember where. Probably at a bar on the Hill. Her father was a brigadier general, head of supplies for something or other. After a short time, she invited me to move in with her. Split the rent. She had a studio apartment. Sounded good to me.

Her folks invited us to dinner. Her dad wanted to meet me. They lived in Virginia somewhere. Her car just happened to have been towed away that day at an expired meter so we rented one.

We drove to Virginia, had dinner, cocktails. A nice time. Afterward, he followed us outside to the rented car. She got behind the wheel. And he waved us goodbye.

The next day, after work, she told me her dad thought I was gay.

Gay?! “How come?”

“You don’t drive.” Funny. Strange.

A couple of nights later, in her apartment, we’re awakened by fierce pounding on the front door. Bang, bang, bang. “Melody! Melody!” That was her name. “Let me in. I know you’re in there with someone.” Bang, bang, bang.

She whispered, “Don’t say a word. It’s my ex.”

“Come on, Melody, open up.” Bang, bang, bang.

“He said he’d kill any man who even looked at me.”

That’s nice to know.

He banged and banged! Finally, after a long time, he stopped.

I went to work the next day, came home afterward, put the key in the lock, opened the door, and there he was–his name was Rodney–in bed with Melody! I backed out the door, went outside, walked down the block, smoked half a pack of cigarettes. For such times, cigarettes were created.

When I returned, Rodney was gone. And Melody said, “Rodney wants you outta here. Pronto.” She may not have said pronto.

I said, “Fine with me,” and went to pack my things. And she said, “Oh, no! Not until you pay your half the rent.” Huh? No way. I went to pack my things–I had a couple of suitcases in the closet–and she grabbed a large butcher knife from the kitchen and blocked my path, waving the blade.

I said, “Okay, calm down. You’ve got my things. You’ve got my things!” For the time being. And I went on my way. Homeless.

I walked up to the Russell Senate Office Building and slept on a couch in the conference room. Three nights I slept there. One morning, early, Hatch opened the door, saw me half asleep on the couch, and softly closed the door. He must have thought I’d been up all night working on an upcoming speech.

Finally, after three days, in the same suit, I told Paul Smith, my good friend to this day and Hatch’s press secretary at the time, my plight. He called Tom Perry, can’t remember his title. But Hatch’s second or third man. I recently heard he had died. He was young. The best die young, as as they.

I told him my story and he said. “We can get her arrested for attempted assault with a deadly weapon. Her father’s a brigadier general? We can put pressure on her dad. Have you any papers of the Senator’s in your bag?”

“Maybe a notebook, with an idea or two for a speech.”

He said, “We’ll send federal marshals to get your things.”

I told him, “Let me try on my own one more time.”

I called Melody and told her about the federal marshals, and she said, “Come pick up your things. They’ll be in the hallway.”

Paul gave me a ride. We picked up my stuff, and he took me in for a week or so till I got my own place. A studio apartment in D.C.

Funny/sad, I ran into Melody a few weeks or months later in a bar. On M Street. I just happened to sit down on a bar stool a couple of seats down from where she was sitting, alone, having a drink.

We didn’t speak. I had one drink, knocked it back, and paid my tab with a newly acquired Gold American Express Card.

As I was leaving, she said, “My new boyfriend has a Platinum Card.”

Melody. Nice name.

Leave a Comment » | Dan Valentine, History, Homelessness, Journalism | Tagged: , , , | Permalink
Posted by Ed Darrell

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