Hey, I’m Talkin’ Baloney and “Monk”-y Business Here

August 25, 2023May 19, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (August, 2023)

Writer’s Opening Note:
The following wordstorm is the combined result of the joy of overdosing on “Monk” episodes, inadvertently being exposed to 20 minutes of the Cable Guy on a SiriusXM comedy channel while going for groceries, and trying to carry on a freewheeling conversation with myself using an accent – all in a 36-hour period. Mix in a lack of sleep and a sugar high, and this is the codswallop you get. The story, the wide swath of phonetic spelling, and the photos/tags are meant to be all in good fun.

A Note of Caution: There are snippets of “spicy,” “crude,” and “irreverent” material in the mix, but very little of a nature that wasn’t heard on Seinfeld or Friends on network television in the ’90’s, or Two and a Half Men in more recent years. At no point does it cross into the “yikes!” territory of the South Park experience. Be mindful that it was written as a parody of standup comedy club fare; that is, crafted to be heard, rather than read. The written word being absent the ability to employ facial expressions, hand gestures, body movements, volume fluctuations, etc., the exaggerated phonetic spellings used arbitrarily here are critical to project a “Larry Live” effect. Trust me, it’s so much easier to just “talk good” and spell words correctly! Deliberate misspellings create a “Where do I draw the line” dilemma. I wrote it like I imagined he, and those of a similar brand, would say it and, because it’s a one-off for me, I winged it. This should not be interpreted as an endorsement of the man’s style or content. It is not. Hatefulness is not my thing. Nor is it meant to mock the countless good folks who do struggle mightily with the written word, while standing tall in other endeavors. Stereotyping for laughs, behind the shield of “anything goes, it’s just jokes,” seems to go hand-in-hand with many comedy club performers of all social and political leanings, and is, in one form or another, just part of their schtick. No classes or groups seem to be immune or out of bounds these days, whether on the giving or receiving end, and depending on which XM comedy station one tunes into. (One features performer after performer doing routines that relentlessly use the F-word to a point of numbing the brain, from beginning to end.) Larry’s number, and style, came to mind simply because of the aforementioned, timely radio exposure, and the “earworm” it left in my head. I managed to avoid using “Git ‘er done” while getting this done!

It should be noted that no animals, except maybe a chicken, were harmed during this process. Because supposedly every possible joke has “been done” a dozen times already in the internet age, I swear on Nancy Sinatra’s walkin’ boots that I’ve neither borrowed nor stolen any of the following material from anyone, including Larry (or Moe, or Curly.) I actually baked this pie from scratch, and will let the chips, be they Ruffles or Ridgies, fall where they may.

7:16 PM
Stummick’s growlin’. Guess I gotta eat. Don’t need to. I just ate last night, what’s the deal? I’m old, and food has lost its appeal. Except for this banana. It has a peel.

I gave up fast food, cuz I swallow too slow.

Gave up cookin’ when I burnt that chicken two wintas ago. Little clucka sure did make a rackit. No wonda that guy in the green pick-up sold him (coulda been a her, I didn’t check real close cuz it didn’t seem kosha) so cheap-like. Bless his/her heart. The chicken, I mean, not the dick in the truck. (I knew he was a Dick because his license plate said “RICHERD”. But the joke’s on him, cuz he done spelt Ritchurd rong.)

Where’s my slippas at?

7:31 PM
My ~~refrigaraider’s~~ coolin’ box has ice cream in the top part, and proteen shakes, root beer, and Docta Peppa down below. And a jug of that fancy-pantsy allmin milk they show on the TV. (Are the people who milk them allmins trained right? Do they wear gloves? Is Peter Paul their boss man?) I keep it just in case the tall lady across the hall drops by. She’s very “a-vaunt-guard” as they say in Paris, Loozy-anna, and Whales. Wears Goo-chee, probably eats soo-shee. She’s lived there eva since that skinny, nekkid woman stopped cummin’ over here to borrow some sugar. When I ran out, she ran out, and kept on runnin’ like that Forest Gumper guy. Then this here tall lady moved inta the skinny woman’s spot, but she ain’t never knocked on my door for my sugar, or anythin’ else, so I figger she’s wayyy overdue. Maybe next week. Oh, and there’s some butta in there. Well, marge-a-reen, to be honist. The guy at the food store said he can’t believe its snot butta. After tastin’ it, you betcharass I can!

7:40 PM
There’s chew-up food in there too. Whippee pies with extra cream, cheesy fingers, about a pound of Mr. Mayer’s baloney slices, and a jar of sour dills that I opened the day I first watched that Buffy girl put a beet down on them neck-bitin’ dead people with the long teeth. I assed a guy at the VFW what happens if my pickles get too old and he chukkled on it a bit (funny old fella) and said, “Well, buddy, based on them face-rinkles ya got showin’, they’re probly gittin’ more sour by the hour.” How great is that? If I hadn’t assed him, I might have messed up and tossed my pickles at the same time I was tossin’ my cookies. The more ya know . . .

My former co-workers was SO snooty. They used that hi-brow talk when makin’ fun of my sandwitches. “Marvin, your bo-low-nyuh is turnin’ green.” “No, its snot. This here’s real ‘Murican baa-lo-nee, it don’t never rot nor turn colors, and my first name is Melvin. My baa-lo-nee has a first name too, just like your Charlie tuna there, only betta.” Stanley, meenwile, nibbled on “toe food,” yuck, whatever that is. Brad, the foreman, wolfed down Waldorf’s salad one day while Waldorf was smokin’ in the can. Don’t smoke, kids, you could lose your lunch.

Where’s the dang remote at?

7:48 PM
Only 12 minnits till the next Season 5 “Monk” eppy-sode is on this newfangled TV plan I’m payin’ a leg and an arm for. “Screamin’ programmin’,” they calls it. I don’t mind that it’s screamin’ cuz I can use my remote, if I can find it, to skweeze the loudniss button to where the TV box ain’t really screamin’ at all. Still, I tried to get the non-screamin’ verzhin, figurin’ it would be cheapa. When I called, an ottomaticated voice said, “You are color numba 14,” so I put the phone peece down and assed that Siri gal what was up with that. (Gus says her real name is Siri S. Lee. Oh, please, Gus, seriously? Now, he might be fibbin’ at me, or tryna butta my beans just fer chits n jiggles, but it makes all kinds a sense in my head.) Ennyways, she said color numba 14 was “grewsome gray.” Wow, she’s good. I was lookin’ at my mug in the bathroom mirror just last night, after my monthly bodywashin’, and sure enough, I had grew some gray hairs that was stickin’ strait out my earholes. It looked all gee-narly ‘n nasty. My mug, I mean, not them hairs. I mean, at my age, a man likes him some brissles on his brush, some pie on his plate, and some gas in his tank (instead of his gut.)

Time was whizzin’ by, so I hung up the phone peece and went to eat some homemade Bikkardi & buttabean ice cream I made in my blenda. Yeah, I made sure the beans got buttid (thanks, Gus) before I shook ’em up, I ain’t stoopid stewpid dumm. Good stuff. Yummy in the tummy and rummy in the dummy.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. TV. My VA doc says I got the OCD thing bad, but I’m guessin’ he ain’t never watchd Adrian Monk for 44 minnits at a time. I like the guy cuz he makes me feel all normal and reglar. Monk, I mean, not the doc. Okay, yeah, alright, I’ll fess up – and cuz I got a geezer crush on his helpa lady, Natalie. Monk’s helpa, not the docta’s. Keep up. But, I digress. (That means I’m ramblin’ sideways with a hat on.)

7:56 PM
Got even more grub in the pantree over there. It’s supposed to be a linnin closet, but I been usin’ it for food cuz I don’t wear linnins no more, not since they re-tired me early for missin’ work too much. (I says” I only missed 4 days” and they says “In one week” and I says “That stuff happins” and they said “17 weeks in a row?” and I says “Oh, ya got me there. Can I keep the shirts?”) Hope the landlord man don’t find out, like he did bout the nekkid sugar woman, because of the smell and all. (Hmm. maybe I might best re-frase that.) The cans and boxed stuff sit there fine, but those taters and tamaters git grewsome gray (ha, ha) in the summertime! Stink City, man. Pee-yew! Skunks and manoor would be gangrene with envy. Speakin’ of which, the stentch cleans out my nose conjestchun better than those aim-n-squeeze drops from the dolla store. And that there’s my Docta Doogy Howza health tip of the day. (Best doc I ever had, even though he was younga then a goalfish. His nurse reminded me of Wunda Woman, so I payed dubble without him even askin’.)

8:00 PM
Monk’s on. Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:01 PM
First Cumershill’s on. Boo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:06 PM
Adrian and Natalie look tired already. I’m kinda draggin’ butt, myself. Could be a long show for all three of us.

What am I gonna eat?

Looky here. Five cans a chili, four packs a crackas, three cans a pee soup, two jars a peanit butta, and a partri . . . never mind. I’d go with the chili, but I took an ex-lax bout an hour ago by mistake. Not chittin’ ya. Thawt it tastid funny for a Her-she’s square. My bad. My gut’s startin’ to rumble like that Mount Vez Soovy Iss over yonder in Italy town. Hear that? I ain’t heard sounds like that from my belly hole since I guzzled a whole glass of proon jooce my first mornin’ in basic trainin’, thinkin’ it was grape jooce. Yeah, I ten to screw up like that, bein’ humane and all. But no one’s perfict, well, cept maybe that Gennyfur Anustan woman who’s always braggin’ about havin’ so many friends in New Yawk City. And yes, Miss Genny, Raychell and that Ross feller WERE on a brake!

We had hand-to-hand fightin’ trainin’ a couple hours after that proon jooce made me loose, and my own private (I kin spell private cuz I was an army one at the time, ya see) Vez Soovy Iss started eruptin’ just as I was fallin’ on some guy’s head. They took him to the infirmry place to try to wash the stank off. We didn’t see him for three days. The other guys all liked me after that cuz the guy was not only another Ritchurd the Dick, but he was the badassy drill Sgt. teachin’ the class! He was givin’ me a bunch of baa-lo-nee as he was slappin’ me around like a marshamellow, so I used my kneebones and kept wackin’ him hard just below his willypickle (seemed like it might be one of those nobby, minny-jerkins I seen at the Walmart) till he moned and groned and turned as green as month-old, importid bo-low-nyuh. Then he flopped over backwids like a French pengwin in heat while he was still pinchin’ on my neckskin with his fat fingas, and that’s how I landed face down on top of the ~~dood’s~~ man’s nose canal. I just laid on top there watchin, like a Sleepin’ Tom, till he started chokin’ on my fewms of doom. In a flash, I’m tellin’ ya, he was out cold as a witch’s boobies. (They won’t let me say tiddies when I talk in writin’ like this. It’s OK. Goggle makes the rules and I follow rules so I won’t write tiddies again, accept when I have to explain why I wrote boobies instead of tiddies.) In the end, the Sarge was agassed at my gas, ya see.

I bet you thawt the title line at the top of this crock of shiitakis was about food and my dinna tonight! You never stooped to think there might be willypickles and baloney slaps at Fort Dicks, didya? Well, sir, you know what they say about assumin’. It makes rear ends outta both of us, just ass anyone that’s got good skoolin’. O yeah, and its just one of them co-winsidences about Fort Dicks name and all. Nuthin’ to do with the Ritchurd stuff I been talkin’ on. This here’s real Dicks at the Jerzey army camp, just look at that Webkwest map they show for free right cheer on the webby. Oops, looks like they spelt it rong, just like that guy in the truck. The map people wrote “Dix,” probly cuz Goggle got a rule agin it , like with the two witches things I just went on about. They sayin’ some rich fella killed some blue bird and now he gits a dolla every time Goggle shows an “x” cuz he just bought the letter for hisself from the alfabet gooroos. Nuff a that. But I was there at the fort place in live person and I can sware it on a bible (or on that Sinatra gal’s walkin’ boots. Didja see what I just did there? I stole that line from the very top, up there ↑⇑, from that guy whooze lookin’ ova my shoulder blades while I’m busy free-writin’ here, like a honist man in his undaware. Me, not him.)

The drill sarges kept yellin “I want all you swingin’ dicks to git lined up right cheer.” That’s why a long time ago it was named “Fort Swingin’ Dicks” cuz a that, but some of the traynees couldn’t spell swingin’ when writin’ lettas home to their girly frends to watch out for Jody the Molesta, so the army dropped that swingin’ part in what’s called an act of mercee. And that’s the true, facshewil story on how the place got its name. I don’t fib (ha-ha.)

Well, enough of that gossipin’ down mammary lane for now, but if this belly don’t stop gurglin’ soon I may have to consult Docta Peppa over there in the ~~refrigaraider’s~~ coolin’ box ’bout drinkin’ some fizzy and gettin’ busy, if ya catch my wind. It’ll probly be blowin’ in soon, comin’ north, from south of my Waste line, so might wanna grab a nosepin, which is like a closepin, but for the nawstrils. Breathin’ bad air ain’t good for your Atoms apple, unless you’re a lady person, and then it don’t matter none cuz Eve gave hers to a snake, or somethin’ like that. Neva mind.

8:23 PM

Gotta deside soon about suppa, so my food can settle before I hit the hay. (I wunda, when a farma tells his wife he’s gonna hit the hay, does she give him the key to the barn?) I know – yack, yack, yack. Some of us old foegeese who live alone can flap our gums till the cows come home (and maybe bring us some of that udder kind of milk.) Sometimes, we hum to ourselves in strange voices and diffrint acksents, just to have some cumpanee. I studied Rose Etta Stone (that’s Harry Stone’s wife, but he don’t care. The price was only $19.99 for a whole week, and Harry paid me all of it before he dropt her off.) She’s all old and rubbery-skinned and wears a pirate patch like that Lizzi woman ova east in them New Hampcheer woods. I read about it on some dweeb’s story-writin’ place on my desk-sittin’ computa. He’s not two good at it. He should let me write some of this stuff and pay me $19.99, like Harry did, and then pretend its his writin’. I won’t tell.

Movin’ on, Now I can chew the fat in all 7 romantical langwidges: jabberwocky, jibber-jabber, hogwash, hooey, malarkey, poppycock, and the one I took to the best, bullchit. Pretty impressive, ness pa? (That’s Porchageez for “ain’t it, sucka?”)

Still, even after gittin’ smart, I don’t ~~smell~~ spell good. Life is hard. Talk is cheap. Rent is high. Sun is down. Time is up. Up is down. See what’n I just did there? 23 straight words with only one sillabill. Thelma Stoopins said she read on FacesBook that the reckerd is 22 and that if I could make 23, she’d make me a duzzen choklit cupcakes tomorra in exchainge for me fixing her pipes. So I guess the frostin’s gonna be flyin up in 36B. I don’t know how to fix pipes, but I’ll look at hers while I’m eatin’ on those treats cuz I’m a good ol’ guy deep down undaneeth my funnymakin’ outsides. Thelma lost her husbind about two years ago now. Wasn’t sad. He didn’t go belly up or nothin’ badlike. She just lost him in a poker game at that same VFW where I got the sour pickle tip. That’s better’n one of those devorces them cowboy musick singas are always belchin’ about. They’ll hook up agin someday at the ol’ buryin’ ground, or so she says. When they do, she should bring cupcakes as kind of a sorry-Clem-bout-going-all-in-with-just -a-pair- of-4’s kinda apologee. I’ll coach ‘er up on pokerin’ smarts if’n I need more cupcakes after her pipes are workin’ gooder than new.

8:31 PM
Monk’s back, but where’s my Natalie? She best not be messin’ round with that musselbound Albright fella or I’ll have to write another letta to the show’s editor to ass ~~him~~ ~~her~~ the persin to fire that guy, toot sweet.

8:37 PM
I already solved who killed the sailsman, so I got time to yammer at you guys a bit more. I think the woman in the pink hat with the orindge feathas . . . oh, crap, the ex-lax is kickin’ in hard, gonna have to eat and run. Eat and run. No? Neva mind, agin.

Time out. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. (That’s army talk from the olden days.)

8:50 PM
Monk’s about to do his “Here’s what happined . . . “ thingy, so I gotta haul my ass-(Oops, just farted. I hope.)-ets out of the fridge and pick my poysin, pronto. There was a mustid cumershill earlier that showed three mo-rons slatherin’ it on hot dogs and they smiled a lot. I wanna smile a lot, but I’m stuck without a weener. Or mustid. Or soshill skillz.

Anyway, hoss-puckery aside, I’m just hunkerin’ down now for the home stretchy with Adrian and Natalie. (She’s baaaaack, and I’m smilin’ like the mustid mo-rons.)

Guess I’ll unlawk the barn and hit the hay now and dream about the tall lady droppin’ by my place and doin’ the hoo-chee coo-chee in a red rubba ranecoat. That fantasee usually puts me in snewzville real quick-like, if you catch my driff. (I winked, iffen ya can’t see me.)

Nytol.

P.S. Looks like my new spellchecka was worth the five bucks, even though the instruckshuns are confusin’. Sumtimes, ya gotta stop bein’ cheep and role out the cash, dontcha know.

Writer’s Middle Note:
Had I been binge-watching earlier seasons of “Monk” at the time I wrote this, and had I been exposed to 20 minutes of the likes of Bob Newhart, Trevor Noah, Chelsea Handler, Tina Fey or either of the Amys (Poehler, Schumer), before tackling this task – well, the content and tone of the delivery would have been light years different, and my geezer-crush would have smoothly transferred over to Sharona, Monk’s first “sidekick.”

Natalie and Sharona were opposites in just about every way imaginable – background, physical appearance, demeanor, temperament, hand gestures, etc. Over time, both developed a deep understanding of, and an amazing tolerance for, Monk’s many unconventional quirks, his phobias, and his OCD-related idiosyncracies; each of which, all of which, would have tested the patience of Job. Tony Shalhoub’s title character, a sympathetic figure who was oftentimes endearing, also struggled with a distinct lack of empathy and compassion that could sometimes be trying, even for the most circumspect viewer. Nonetheless, each episode was a satisfying slice of chocolate silk pie in a television wasteland with too many moldy muffins.

Thus, the purpose of this note is to provide some introductory context, insight, and background, for readers not familiar with the show, as they transition into the metaphorical allegory (or is it an allegorical metaphor?) that is the Writer’s Closing Note below. But first, take in the photos, clear your mind, and have some ice cream.

“Okay, here’s what happened . . . You see, . . . Wait, you there, yeah, you in the back, can you hold it down? We’re solving a crime here.” (Natalie’s flashing that “Melvin, I only have eyes for you” look.)

Scene: A 25-ish wiseacre and potential witness offers to disclose evidence if Monk and Sharona can chug two pitchers of beer faster than he and his buddy. Sharona accepts.
Monk: “But Sharona, I don’t drink.” Sharona: ” Don’t worry about it – I do!”
She outdrinks both guys, one turns over a key, and Monk stares at Sharona in disbelief. She looks at him and says, “Four years of Catholic high school.”

This YouTube link fully captures the range of emotions when Sharona and Natalie meet for the first, and only, time. It takes place in the show’s final season, five years after Sharona went back home to New Jersey. Worth a watch (4 minutes) leading into the Writer’s Closing Note.

Tall lady probably wears Goo-chee . . .

This is toe food, if you ain’t never seen it before. Looks like fried Spam squares, spiced up with green wormlets on top. Stanley’s was squares too, but his was white and looked kinda half-pastyish and half-squishy. I’ve always known about finga food and it’s called that because you eat it with your fingas. So you see the problem, right? Notice there’s 10 pieces here ? Lots of us got 10 toes. Co-wincidence? I think not. Ennyway, takes all kinds, I guess.

And this is the result of Mr. Toe Food and Ms. Soo-shee gittin’ all boozed up ‘n throwin’ good cents out the winda. Twins. Both came in at 2 pounds, 2 ownces.

OK, I didn’t menshin I had about five of these with the pickle and baa-lo-nee,
but I figgered you’d just a-soom that I did, based on gawsip ‘n stuff like that.

Peter Paul, Boss Man of the allmin milkers, bringing clusters of joy to the health nuts in New Yawk..

Well, ~~shit~~ crap.

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The crude caveman scrawling the offensive and suggestive language above has finally left the room. He has a big day on tap for tomorrow in 36B. I, on the other hand, have no plans, as usual.
With that in mind, l’m going to get my feet wet in the social commentary pool. It’s a wading pool, so I won’t be diving in headfirst. Just want to see what it feels like. If it bombs, it bombs. Life goes on.

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Writer’s Closing Note:
Monk ran strong for 8 seasons and 125 episodes from 2002 through 2009. During that time, he had two “caretaker/assistants.” The first was Sharona Fleming, played by Bitty Schram, and the second was Natalie Teeger, played by Traylor Howard. Sharona, a single mother, was a brash Jersey transplant with a young son. A registered nurse, she went to work for Adrian Monk after he struggled for a long time following his wife Trudy’s untimely death in a car bombing. Street-smart and outspoken, she also assisted him as he worked his way through his crime solving. When Bitty Schram left the show suddenly in Season 3, after 36 episodes, she was replaced by Natalie, a widow with a very cool, adolescent daughter who was able to connect with Monk in a way that Sharona’s young son had not. Natalie left her bartending job under duress and, though not a nurse, she accepted Monk’s offer to be his caretaker/assistant , soon becoming a very doting and caring force in his life, while assisting him with his investigations, just as Sharona had done.

Sharona called him “Adrian,” while Natalie always addressed him as “Mr. Monk,” even 5 years and 87 episodes into her tenure. Natalie tended to be more touchy-feely with him than Sharona was, not in a sexual way, of course, but in a comforting way. He was, by nature, a guy who very much did not like being touched, not only because he was a germaphobe, but because he needed his space in a world without his wife. Natalie was also far more of a gentle spirit than spitfire Sharona. In times past, one might have joked that Natalie was the girl you took home to your parents, and Sharona was simply the girl you took home. Both women were a blessing to Adrian Monk, who said of Sharona, “When she found me, I was drowning. She saved my life.” In Season 5, he told an interim therapist that Natalie was “very much like Trudy,” a compliment of the highest order. In that same season’s finale, Natalie literally saves his life by pinching off an IV tube a few seconds before a drug, which he is severely allergic, to would have entered his body and killed him. Angels both, each in their own way, they were valued genuinely and immensely by the man who relied so heavily on them to get through each day in the “jungle out there.”

It was a television show, and a very good one at that.

However, over time, it became the source of a destabilizing distraction to the masses, jeopardizing friendships, splitting families, inevitably leading to a bitter divide that unnerved the nation. It became all about blind loyalties and taking sides. All or nothing. No middle ground. A three-lane highway with no one in the middle lane. The same middle lane that used to be so crowded. Eventually, the powers that be simply closed it down. So what happened then? Now overcrowded, the people in the remaining outside lanes began to lean on their horns and cuss out and flip off their fellow travelers, at first over minor things, but then with increased intensity and rancor. The more reasonable ones had enough of the infighting and longed for the return of the middle lane. But by then, it’s surface had become cracked and overgrown with weeds, and besides, it was closed off. Without that option, most double-downed on their initial choice of sides , not because it was the logical thing to do, but because the only option remaining was to move over to the other outside lane and look weak and compromised. A proposal was made to not only refurbish and open the middle lane, but to widen it significantly, in effect, resulting in two interior lanes. The two exterior lanes would be moved further apart as a result, but they too would be given an upgrade. Four lanes. The folks in the middle two could choose which exterior lane they felt most comfortable being closest to, having access to, if a situation called for temporarily moving over for one reason or another. A vote on the proposal is coming soon. But how did things get to this point? Who was in those two outside lanes? What was the driving force?

Again, it was a television show, and a very good one at that.

Wherever human beings have gathered in the years since Monk ended, The Great Debate , i.e., “Sharona or Natalie?”, has eventually surfaced and intensified, with the two sides engaging in verbal and emotional warfare. Long friendships have ended over such disagreements. People have adopted colors for their favorite – jade green for Sharona and emerald green for Natalie. In sunlight, it’s easy to tell the two groups apart, even from a distance. But under the streetlights, they blend into one. Who goes there? Friend or foe? Why didn’t one go for yellow and the other brown? Why are the chosen colors different, yet so similar? Perhaps it is because, deep down, most (not all, admittedly) have the same aspirations and share one commonality; they are, first and foremost, fans of the show. Before Sharona left and Natalie arrived, they were all on the same team, because there was only one team. By the time the final episode ended, the fissure had reached an unnerving width and depth. Arguments got downright nasty and personal as good sense got tossed out the window. I recall one guy defending Bitty Schram, saying if he were younger, that would be his lady of choice. The guy arguing with him asked what would happen when she is no longer young. “I’ll tell you what will happen (not even waiting for an answer), she will be just another OLD BITTY !” “That’s BIDDY, bub, with two d’s, not two t’s.” And that’s when the fight started.

During the show’s final season, the Sharona character returned to San Francisco, and the show, for one episode. Sharona and Natalie met for the first time, each having heard a lot about the other via a variety of sources. After a momentary stumble out of the gate, upon first being introduced, they were cordial, even friendly, toward each other, but soon the two found themselves competing to show which one knew Adrian Monk best and was the most attentive to him in the role of his assistant. Eventually, they sat down together and talked it out, each praising and acknowledging respect for the other for their work with him. Their joint knowledge about the guy led to them finding the missing Monk at his wife’s gravesite. By the time Sharona is saying goodbye and leaving to return to New Jersey, we see that the two women recognize and appreciate the unique bond they share, and we see them part ways with a warm hug. There was the lesson for the masses, that respect and understanding leads to empathy, sympathy, and the willingness and ability to work together when the storm hits. We’ve traveled that road before, and not really that many years ago. It felt good. There were no colors, no teams. The ability to argue without animosity, to debate without discord, to stand on principle without judging others who do the same, all tend to make us stronger, individually and collectively. Not always. Not nearly always. But often enough to sustain a working peace – a working peace that provides a framework for better communication and eventually . . . the re-opening of those middle lanes, while still maintaining access for all to the exterior lanes on opposite sides of the highway.

With Monk episodes running up to three hours a day on some cable networks, there are no signs that peace on our part of the planet will emerge anytime soon. Sharona backers and Natalie supporters are constantly at each other’s throats and the vitriol is real. Up until now, like many Americans, I have remained above the fray because who needs added confrontation in their lives. But after 4 or 5 whoopie pies, a man gets to thinking. The healing cannot commence until heartfelt communication begins again across the divide. So, with this addition to the website, I have obviously and openly acknowledged my preference for Natalie – not to bait the Sharona side, but rather to open up a dialogue with them, and that begins with honesty, and not name-calling. Unlike many, I could have, just as contentedly, gone the other way. Because both groups, back before Monk came onto the scene, understood the concept of agreeing to disagree about this or that and moving on, without animosity. There. Natalie, with a side of Sharona? Great. Sharona, with a side of Natalie? Works for me. If I have a Celine Dion or “The Notebook” kind of Sunday, Natalie has the edge, the “it” factor. If I’m listening to the Stones and streaming “Breaking Bad” reruns on a Saturday night, Sharona completes me. I choose to see the good in both characters, which is plentiful, and don’t search for, or focus on, their faults. Why? (1) Because that’s where I failed in my personal relationships, and (2) because both women equally bring comfort and a sense of safety to Adrian Monk, and that’s what sustains him, that’s what gives him strength to face the world each day without Trudy.

(When I write “to face the world,” I mean it literally. The Natalie-Sharona conflict has extended to many other countries. Italy, Brazil and Hungary come to mind, places where Monk viewership is high, and the arguments are heated.)

I can’t stress enough that the Sharona group and the Natalie group don’t have to compromise their principles, their beliefs, their morals, or their integrity, to be able to exchange warm greetings, to offer an appropriate version of a “Monk wipe” to someone in need, someone under duress, or to simply be civil with one another. One may be no more likely to switch from Natalie to Sharona than the next person is to switch from Sharona to Natalie, no matter how effectively either states their case, because the chasm may now be too wide, and everything is presented in absolutes. X can care about you, and you about X, even if either, or both, of you are knee-deep in your chosen side’s’ stream, because, in time, this crap will end and most will take a breath and understand, and agree, that it is in all of our best interests to lower the temperature, while recognizing the truism that we look at things from each our own vantage point and life experiences, and sometimes, oftentimes, see different things, but that we can feel the same sense of basic decency, humanity, and camaraderie that we did not all that long ago. Someone has to be the first to put the saber down. The yelling is ineffective, it is just off-putting and fans the flames even more. The Natalie faction and the Sharona faction can co-exist if both sides will ignore the extremist fringes that distort their own side, the voices that stir the pot for sinister and self-serving reasons, the ones that thrive on conflict and chaos. The Natalie-Sharona clash will, hopefully, taper down to simple, agree-to-disagree, honest differences here and there, so that cooler heads can prevail and the shades of green merge into one. And then, just maybe, with a nod to Ms. Natalie and Ms. Sharona, the two sides will be able to close the deal with a handshake or a hug.

Let’s hope that the damage left behind will not be irreparable, that the wounds will heal, and that the scars will serve as reminders not to go down this road again.

Ever.

Late Add-on Note:
If you, the reader, reacted to the lengthy “Closing Note,” by thinking to yourself, “What a Bunch of Baloney,” trust me, I get it. Not my usual fare. But now that I’ve already served it up, all I can do is put some “mustid” on this here bah-lo-nee, smile, hit the hay, and wait for the tall lady in the red raincoat to join me in my dreams.

“Butta bing, butta boom, don’t mess with Buffy, save the whales, look both ways, eat slow, and don’t drink the prune juice.” – Siri S. Lee

Goodnight to the Fine Nine Jennifers, and goodbye to that 5 dollars currently en route to the Spellchecka people so I can finally learn to do the 2-step and keep up with Laura Bell Bundy and her buds :

And on that note, on those notes . . .
goodnight, Natalie, wherever you are.

♦♥♦

Their Youngest Kid

August 18, 2023December 12, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart (August, 2023)

Their youngest kid, fifteen and fickle, wanted a drum for Christmas in 1963, a drum that they knew would make them edgy, drive them crazy. He said any kind would do and promised he would learn how to play. The old man heard that Ted Herbert’s Music Mart, down Manchester way, was the go-to place for any and all music-related items. He decided, with only two weeks left to get it done, that he, his wife, and the boy would make the trip down from Laconia after work that Friday.

Their youngest kid didn’t NEED a drum. He’d never played, he just wanted one to score points with Cyndy, literally the girl next door. The two of them couldn’t get enough of Sandy Nelson’s drum records like “Teen Beat” and “Let There Be Drums,” as well as the foot-stompin’ rhythm of other beat-heavy, instrumentals groups like Duane Eddy & the Rebels, The Ventures, and Johnny & the Hurricanes. Cyndy tapped on anything and everything, and wished the two of them had a drum and four sticks so they could “tear it up” together. The old man and his wife knew this was likely just a crush-based, passing fancy, yet were willing to set aside their better judgment and stretch their funds tight just this one time, in the spirit of the holiday season, as parents often do.

Their youngest kid made sandwiches after school on Friday, while they were still at work, so they could leave without delay, but he scored no points with his old man, who preferred a hot meal and not feeling rushed. As they left the driveway in the black Mercury Monterey that he would wreck eighteen months later, hitting the gas instead of the brake, just a week after he got his license, the old man looked back and gave him a quick nod and a reminder; “Long drive, drummer boy. Let’s hope we don’t come home empty-handed.”

Their youngest kid had ample time, as the miles passed in the darkness, to stretch out across the back seat and reflect on the moment. The two people in the front were simple, blue collar, right-minded folks, beyond weary after yet another taxing week of manual labor. Still, they mutually agreed to bust the budget because they didn’t know how else to show love to the teenager behind them, and they badly wanted to find a way to make up for that.

Their youngest kid hit the ground running at the store, erratically banging away on toms and snares and bass, because he couldn’t play. The frazzled salesman flinched, and rolled his eyes at the raucous racket, while his old man winced, and rolled HIS eyes at the price tags. The two men deliberated, discussing affordable alternatives, leading to a negotiated proposal that was laid on the table, and the weight of the world landed fast and heavy on the boy. He had to make a decision.

Their youngest kid assessed his unexpected options – a so-so set of boring bongos, or a humdrum, “headed” tambourine (kinda like a hands-on mini-drum with jingles, was how the kid saw it.) Each cost considerably less than any of the drums. The salesman pointed out that he could carry either one around with him, just about anywhere. Acutely aware that several waiting customers were growing restless, he summarily asked, “So, which will it be?” Though the boy understood his parents’ plight, he could muster only an indifferent shrug in response. His mother took note of his disappointment, and waved the salesman off.

Their youngest kid, sensing he had stepped in it, told his mother it was alright, he didn’t NEED a drum. He asked her to make the choice for him, but she was having none of it. She shook her head and glared at his old man, who took the cue and proclaimed to the salesman, “No deal tonight,” adding, “Maybe we’ll come back another time.” The long ride home dragged on forever in empty-handed silence, as the befuddled boy tried to understand what had just happened. He wondered what he should have said, what he could have done, to please them.

Their youngest kid maturely moved on in the days that followed, shaking it off, and putting it behind him. He woke on Christmas morning to the usual socks and underwear, a sweater, a few records (including the new hit 45, soon to become an iconic, though controversial, rock era heavyweight, “Louie Louie” by The Kingsmen – in retrospect, how sweet was THAT?), a couple of games, and some brownies. Overall, not a bad haul. When the old man sent him down to the cellar to get boxes for the discarded wrapping papers, he didn’t hesitate, He opened the door, and before he could take the first step down, he froze. Well, damn. On a stool at the bottom of the stairs rested a dazzling-blue snare drum, the one that he had liked most at the store. On top of the drum lay four wooden sticks.

Their youngest kid’s lips started to quiver with emotion as he bounded down the stairs, but he quickly suppressed that momentary breach of manhood by gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw along the way. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked back. His sneaky old man and his mother and his older brother – and Cyndy from next door – all smiled down at him from the top of the staircase, and clapped and cheered as he stood tall and proud by that stool and started to bang away, though he still couldn’t play. They had persevered and found a way, and that kid, six decades later, has never forgotten that day.

Eight months passed. He never learned to play. The drum had long since gone silent, relegated to a dark corner of the cellar, so he sold it, in pristine condition, to a guy from Belmont. He kept two of the drumsticks and gave one to Cyndy. Then he went to Greenlaw’s Music Store in downtown Laconia, where he scored a great deal on, what else – a killer set of bongos and a Ludwig tambourine. He even had a few dollars left over, so he brought milkshakes and cheeseburgers home for his mom and his dad, who laughingly, joyously, watched and listened as Cyndy Bongos and Mr. Tambourine Man teamed up to entertain them, at long last “tearing it up” together.

The father and mother knew he had learned lifelong lessons about recognizing the difference between wants and needs, about the importance of carefully weighing options and choices, and about the merits of making responsible decisions. Their efforts and their generosity had not gone for naught. They felt no betrayal in his sale of the drum – it’s pulsating thunder, though short-lived, had indeed driven them crazy, and they were pretty sure they could live with the less-resonant thumps and jangles of his new prizes. The exhilaration, inspiration, and positive energy in that room endured through the ensuing years. All in all, good on him, and good on them.

Their youngest kid knows, to this day, that THEY never forgot THAT day.

“They had persevered and found a way, and that kid, six decades later, has never forgotten that day.”
(Taken in Winter Haven, FL, 1989 – just a few months before the “old man” smiled his last smile, way too early. RIP, Dad, and thanks for always finding a way. And Ma, there was a reason we had “Wind Beneath My Wings” played at your funeral service – “while you were the one with all the strength.”
Maybe on some quiet night, while watching the stars from a pastoral field of green and gold, I’ll hear the two of you on high, one on the bongos, and one on the tambourine, just tearing it up together, at the Top of the Stairs.)

———————————————————————————–
Ladies and gentlemen, the great Sandy Nelson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uy_t4nQ9xMo

I think I’ve been on this road . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE5PcKFHw-M

TWO drummers !!! If only their youngest kid and Cyndy had YouTube back then!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjiOtouyBOg

Man, did I luck out finding this 2017 video of Johnny & The Hurricanes’ original version of “Red River Rock” integrated into Mamie Van Doren’s 1957 film, “Untamed Youth.” Though she co-starred in the movie, and is in this entire scene, we first really notice her at the 00:38 mark. I suspect that a lot of Gen Z’ers can’t envision their grandparents making these moves back in the day. The elderly drummer who appears in the superimposed setting is Don Staczek, the second drummer of the group. If the reader has not read the previous entry on this site about Ms. Van Doren, those lips were just 10 inches, 10 inches away from mine and closing in at a steady pace while singing, “My Way,” but she probably heard from the distant fringe of the universe about me pouting at the music store years before, and decided, perhaps rightfully so, that I wasn’t worthy, and instead turned and rested them softly upon those of a stereotypical tall guy from California – dadgummit and goshdarnit, grrr! If so inclined, you can tap this link to read about it and understand why I smiled big-time upon stumbling across this unexpected union of the song and the lady.
https://thewordsyoucantouch.wordpress.com/2023/08/05/adorin-van-doren/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbt5uP9HkiM

Since I cheated a little just above, placing Mamie’s interest over the band, here’s another shot at one of their other big hits, Reveille Rock, performed in Belgium in 1997, with a mix of old and new members of the group. This one features more of the dauntless drumbeats that Cyndy and that damn kid liked. so much.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abG6viPwI70

Got lucky (REAL lucky) on finding this one too, just before adding this story to the website. Most of the story took place between mid-December and Christmas Day of 1963, the latter being the day the kid got the record. This American Bandstand clip is from January 18, 1964, just 3+ weeks later. Though it made #1 on Dick Clark’s Top 10, it “only” reached #2 on Billboard’s Top 100. Which artist stood in their way? Well, considering the notoriety achieved by “Louie Louie,” for less than heavenly reasons, it seems only fitting that it was The Singing Nun (“Dominique”) who blocked its path. Anyway, once I stumbled into this clip, I knew it was time to “go to press.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pbWj152MQU

Writer’s Note/Afterthought:

My dad played acoustic guitar and sang during his Navy days and continued to do so for a number of years after coming home from WW2. Sometimes, on a whim, he would play and sing for the family, but there was one “Western” song he would direct toward my mother. I can still hear it. The song was “Red River Valley.” Yes, “same-same” (as the Vietnamese ladies would say) song as “Reveille Rock,” just above. When I had him listen to the Johnny & the Hurricanes version back in the day, hardly the cowboy love song from long ago that he knew so well, I expected him to shake his head and express disapproval. Nope. “Guess I’m gonna have to learn to sing a lot faster.” I suspect he’s still singing it to her today – Gene Autry style, like the good old days.

Lizzi, With an Eye

August 11, 2023April 18, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (May, 2023)

“FORE”

Three men walked into a Barlow’s hardware store, bought survival knives, a compass, and a first aid kit, then drove north toward the White Mountains of New Hampshire on a raw, misty October morning. Their plan for the day was to breathe a lot of clean, country air, explore nature amid colorful, leaf-shedding trees, and keep those aging legs moving. Perhaps an idyllic back road would lure them into the obscure beyond, where bears and wolves might pick up their scent and challenge their manhood. “Bring ‘em on!” Brave men, indeed!

Each had his own small apartment in a sprawling retirement complex southeast of Boston. They had become close friends over a period of three years, often referring to themselves as Tom, Dick and Harry – inseparable, spirited geriatrics who walked their talk. They took kidding and kudos in stride, savoring attention in all of its flavors.

Curtis “Sonny” Logan, 71, was a retired Realtor with a “Cher” tattoo, long hair and an intimidating beard. Quipster extraordinaire.

Doug Wilkes, 72, was Kojak bald and John Wick bold. He was a career Marine with gout and a gut.

Both men were widowers and grandfathers, tall, and profusely opinionated.

Toby Jensen, 67, was the runt of the litter at only 5’6″, but lean and fit. Boyish smile. Belonged to something called Mensa, which impressed no one except Mona Lott, who liked anything that included “Men.” Spent years as a fraud investigator, and bragged that he could “smell a scam in the blink of an eye.” Favored dark chocolate, light poetry, hard puzzles and soft ice cream. Never married, but had a thing for women with big, beautiful, breathtaking… blue eyes, even more so when the bearer flashed and flaunted them, freely and frequently. Tried to avoid standing between his towering allies because they got off on patting him on the head like a puppy, to the delight of the ladies in the rec room.

Turning off I-93 at Exit 38, their stomachs growling under a clearing sky, they stopped to gas up, chow down, and ask for directions to winding back roads, preferably unpaved, with easy, accessible walking trails. While surveying packaged sandwiches and an array of snacks at Big Buck’s Bodega, Toby flirted a little with the 40-ish lady behind the counter while Sonny and Doug sniffed pine-scented souvenirs and contentiously debated Cheetos vs Doritos, and Snickers vs Kit Kat.

Toby told her they were looking for a secluded spot where they could traipse around a bit in the woods, pretend they’re serious hikers, and bring home exaggerated tales of derring-do to impress the women of Weymouth. “I can still knock out five miles in my sleep, but these other guys are kinda old and out-of-shape, as you can see, and I don’t want ’em to keel over and check out under one of Frost’s beloved birches.” Sweet-giggling like a schoolgirl, she displayed a stunning sparkle in her left eye that he found instantly intriguing.

Her right eye was covered by a black leather patch. She didn’t seem self-conscious about it until she noticed him focusing on that sparkle and mistakenly assumed he was staring at “it.” She called up her husky voice: “Ya like me eye patch, there, matey? Put it on for Talk Like a Pirate Day last month, ‘cuz me wooden leg was in the repair shop and I needed a prop. Got lots of raves from the knaves and scoundrels, I did. Went over so well, I just keep wearin’ it, sometimes even forget I got it on.”

She smiled at him, suppressing a sudden impulse to reach across the counter and pat him on the head. Toby smiled back but he wasn’t buying it and felt like he had inadvertently backed the poor soul into a corner. “Probably lost that eye in a car accident, or fighting off an angry customer or some other deranged assailant,” he surmised. That short, but tall, tale was apparently her go-to cover story for visitors passing through, like him, to make them feel more at ease around her. Brave woman, indeed!

When only the three friends remained in the store, the lady made Toby an offer. “Tell ya what. I’m outta here at noon, got nothin’ planned, can take you guys to a pull-off next to a short loop trail, maybe half a mile beginning to end, and you finish where you started. How’s that sound?” Then that tantalizing twinkle flared anew, and she fluttered her lashes (well, half of them) at him as the two too-talls joined them – Sonny chomping on Cheetos, and Doug unwrapping a candy bar. Toby shook his head at Sonny in mock disgust. “Those things will turn your skin orange for two or three days, man, hope you realize that.” “No, they won’t.” “Yes, they will. Maybe longer. Mona will razz your azz.” “No, she won’t.” The lady rolled her eye and wondered who Mona was.

Toby announced to his cohorts that the sweet-smiling, sweet-smelling attendant was going to be their guide in about an hour. The two men exchanged raised eyebrows and both nodded approvingly. “You fellas got names?” Shunning their “Tom, Dick ‘n Harry” shtick, Toby introduced Sonny and Doug, then himself. “Toby, with a y. And you, ma’am?”

“Lizzi, with an i. Lynne, with an e. Lizzi Lynne.”

“With an i” was all Doug and Sonny heard as they pondered her patch (the leather one.) Doug stifled a snicker while almost choking on a Snickers. Sonny smirked sideways.

A composed Toby focused on that sparkle. “Is it Mrs. Lynne or Miss Lynne, if I may ask?”

“It’s Miss Flynn. Lizzi Lynne Flynn, Texas-born and bred.”

Sonny swiftly went back to sniffing pine sachets in a far corner of the store, out of sight. Doug swallowed hard and haltingly sought a clarification. “Lizzi actually has two i’s. right?” “Um, yes, one near the front and one at the back.”

Doug mumbled, “I see,” before quickly escaping to the rest room to exhale and relieve himself, executing the classic flee-and-pee maneuver flawlessly. She gave him the eye and shook her head as he retreated. “Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”

Sonny and Doug returned to the front just as a teenager, wearing a ring in her nose and sporting blue streaks in her hair, slithered into the store. Lizzi whispered, “light-fingered,” to the men. Doug began to offer a heartfelt mea culpa for his insensitivity, but she quickly cut him off. “Hey, zip it, Ziggy.” He was taken aback and abruptly stopped talking, then looked confused as she stared at his private area. “Ohhh, ZIP it! Sorry ’bout that.” “No problem, Snickers, I tend to notice every little thing.” Ouch! “Gotta watch that kid now. Come back at noontime and you can follow me out there.”

The men drove to a nearby ice cream shop, where Sonny and Doug licked two-scoop cones like they were twelve again. Toby abstained because they didn’t sell soft-serve. Doug asked him about the black patch and Toby said it was likely a traumatic story and not to go there. “If she starts talking like a pirate, hold your tongue. No one-eyed bandit jokes.” (Sonny thought he said “parrot” and mumbled “WTF,” the familiar internet acronym for “Women Talk Funny.”)

Lizzi Lynne Flynn occupied each man’s mind as they watched the clock on the wall. Mighty trusting of her to head to the wild with three male strangers. Sonny speculated she might have some sleazeballs lying in wait to bushwhack them. Doug scoffed. “It would take a whole lot of goons to walk away with THIS Marine’s wallet. Bring ‘em on!” Toby chose to believe she was simply being neighborly and nice, maybe wanting someone to talk to after her shift, a sad, lonely spinster with no one to go home to. Doug stood up and checked his fly, still smarting from her “little thing” jab and wondering if everything really was bigger in Texas. Sonny crammed the last of his cone down his piehole and headed for the door. “It’s go time.”

“AFT”

When they arrived at Buck’s, she was nowhere to be seen. The store was eerily quiet. No customers. No one at the counter. At noontime, with all those sandwiches. Odd. Doug’s thunderous, “Anyone here? Oorah!”, shattered the silence and ricocheted off the walls. “I’m comin’, hold on fer chrissake.” Out from the back came a burly, barrel-chested bloke wearing a freakin’ black leather eye patch!

“Buck? Big Buck?”

“There ain’t no Big Buck or no Little Buck, mister. It’s just a name. You the fellas supposed to scoop up Lizzi?” Doug heard “two-scoop” and he smirked and snorted thinking about the ice cream, but no words came out. He simply nodded. The man growled, “Ain’t anyone gonna ask me about this patch?” It was clearly time for Toby to take the reins.

“Of course, please pardon the flippant attitude of the a-hole to my left. We are trustworthy gentlemen on a day trip and Miss Flynn is going to take us to a quiet place where we can walk a bit and take in the essence of these rural surroundings. No harm, no foul, I trust.” The guy studied Toby’s face. “You talk kinda uppity for a half-grown man. I knew he was just funnin’ around with me, don’t matter how or why. I ain’t no uncultured, slow-thinkin’, dimwitted bozo, ya know. Got a TV set and a VCR back there, like other people. So no harm, and the only thing foul around here is your prissy speechifyin’.”

With that, Toby stepped back, and Sonny took over. “Namaste. dude. I can tell you’re an okay guy. So, what’s with the patch?” No-name told them he owned the place, which was struggling financially. He paid minimum wage and Lizzi was the only one who would work for him “because people say I can be a chippy SOB sometimes. She’s hard-workin’ and loyal. When that awful eye thing happened to her, she hardly missed a day of work, if you can believe that. What a trooper she was. Still is. I started wearing the same kind of patch over the same eye to make it seem like the store had taken on a pirate theme, if ya know what I’m sayin’ here. She felt more normal right away.”

The owner went on. “Gonna be straight up with you guys. Lizzi’s mouth churns faster than her thinkin’ sometimes. When I got here, she was sobbin’ a tad ‘cuz she made a promise to you that she can’t keep. She’s already at one of her other jobs, cleanin’ rooms and scrubbin’ toilets over at the fancy motel. That eye thing cost her a ton of dough and she’s way behind in her bills. I used to help her out a little but now I’m behind the eight-ball myself. The whole situation is a cryin’ shame, as my sweet momma used to say.” A crying shame, indeed!

The visitors huddled up just as Ms. blue streaks/light fingers returned. Doug led off. “I’m embarrassed, man. I misjudged both Lizzi and this guy. Let’s ditch the fresh air and the bear stories, give them something, then head home.” Sonny was not feeling sunny either. “I’m with you. That poor woman. He even said ‘one of her other jobs,’ with an s. We gotta take action. Right here. Right now.” And then Toby. “First, I’m neither uppity nor prissy. That said, we can help both these folks. Check your cash.” Credit card reliant, they only came up with $94 and decided to spend it all at the store, to help the guy who had been helping Lizzi, then send her a $750 check. Sonny: “$250 apiece? We can do better. I’ll go $400 if you guys will.” Both agreed.

After nose ring girl left, empty-handed, the guys approached the counter with armfuls of crap they didn’t need. It totaled $88 and they tipped him the other $6. They told him their plan and he gave them the store’s mailing address, said “make the check out to Elizabeth Flynn, with a y,” and thanked them on her behalf, seemingly holding back tears. He shook their hands and wished them a safe trip back to … “hey, where you fellas from?”

“Weymouth. Down in Massachusetts.” Off they went, southbound and down. He locked the door behind them. “Massholes, figured as much.”

His voice boomed, “Ahoy, lassie, the landlubbers have abandoned ship and the loot’s secured.” Out from the back came a beaming Lizzi, dancing around and waving her patch (the leather one) high in the air, her two big, blue eyes blazing like supernovas. Twirling his own patch, he asked if she heard everything. “Bits and pieces, Bart baby, tell me.” “Well, I sold them rovers a bunch of crap for 94 greenbacks. And blimey, me hornswagglin’ wench, we have twelve hundred more comin’ by courier. Not a bad day on the quarterdeck of the good ship Con-Heir.” “Blimey, indeed! That’s some major booty, and I didn’t even have to shake mine, nor shiver me timbers, much less (she took a breathy, Scarlett O’Hara pause) blow the man down, like I did with grinnin’ Jack from Nantucket last month.” (!!!!!)

Oops. A faux pas?

Had she spilled the beans, tipped her hand, dropped the ball, pulled a boner? Or … was she just yanking his chain?

Bart suddenly looked gassed and aghast, as a tense and awkward hush set in. He glared at Lizzi. She glared back. His face got real red, real fast. She waited. His nostrils flared. She waited. His forehead popped a vein. Whoa, timeout, she hadn’t seen that before! “Just joshin’ with ya, amigo. Now give me a hug.” Greatly relieved, he smiled and gave her a big one. “Ya had my belly in a blender for a minute there, little lady.” Together, they reveled and roared like rogues on rum, then Texas two-stepped toward the back room where her blue-streaked, “light-fingered” daughter, Lynne (with an e), was making tacos. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Life was good at Big Buck’s Bodega on Exit 38.

Toby, Sonny and Doug were almost home, proud of themselves for stepping up and doing the right thing. The generosity and graciousness of these judicious gents won the day and deserved a proper toast. Chivalry, indeed!

They pulled the SUV over in Boston, and tapped an ATM. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Then, triumphantly, the…

three men walked into a bar.

“Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”

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“Three men walked into a Bar ___________________________ low’s hardware store . . .”
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 🙂

Adorin’ Van Doren

August 5, 2023May 19, 2024 / Wayne Michael DeHart / 5 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart (June, 2021)

Two heads are better than one, it is often said. But over the years, I have noticed that it’s usually the second head on the scene who sings that tune. And more often than not, that tune is an overly-loud, off-key, in-your-face, rendition of “My Way.” Which reminds me of . . .

the night Mamie Van Doren, leaning forward on bended knee, sang that very song on what was reputedly her 40th birthday, her face hovering just 10 inches above mine, looking straight into my eyes. Then, as she crooned the final note, she suddenly swerved her head sharply to her left and kissed the guy who was right next to me smack dab on the lips, to a rowdy ovation from the tanked-up troops in the small club. Now, a cynic might say he got the kiss because Ms. Van Doren had determined, from 10 inches away, that I had been battered by the notorious Ugly Stick and so veered abruptly away and planted one on the snockered buck sergeant who himself was no Bo Belinsky, if you know what I mean. Regardless of the ignominy I suffered being suddenly shut out like that, she left quite an impression on me (had she gotten any closer, that impression would have been two big indentations on my forehead!), and so when I got back home and bought my first car, a yellow Mustang, I got a NH vanity plate that read – what else? – “MYWAY”.

To come full circle, that night just proved that two heads were NOT better than one for me, because had that guy’s head not been damn near ear-to-ear with mine while we both admired and practically inhaled the grandeur of the Twin Peaks, I would have been the victor and enjoyed the spoils. That would lend credence to my point that the second head in is part of the problem, and not the solution, though I expect that kiss thief would beg to differ. These many years later, I remain certain there have been nights where a distraught Mamie couldn’t sleep and walked the floor back home in California, sadly regretting that on a night long ago and far away, she chose to kiss that frog, rather than this frog. She recently turned 92, and when she plopped down to a piece of birthday cake, maybe, just maybe, she remembered that fleeting interaction more than 50 years earlier in a distant land, when she bit enticingly into a 40-candle cake in the midst of a boisterous bevy of admiring men. Perhaps she hummed a few notes of “My Way,” and wondered if I am still out there, somewhere, over the rainbow. And in my dreams, indeed I AM somewhere in a distant land – in Africa, with a different Toto, blessing the rains on the Serengeti, clicking my heels, and repeating to myself, “there’s no place like 10 inches from Mamie Van Doren’s . . . lips.” Then I wake up, shake it off, savor the sweetness of an inviting piece of airy angel cake, a tribute of sorts to the heavenly Ms. VanD, and then go about my day, my way.

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Writer’s Notes:

(1) From what I have been able to determine in the years that followed, Ms. Van Doren apparently celebrated her birthday milestone at most of the stops she made on her three-month, sickness-curtailed second tour in Vietnam. I now know that her 40th birthday was actually February 6th of that year, which would seem to have preceded the very beginning of her tour, which research indicates ended in late May or early June. The experience described above took place on a night in late April, so I suspect she had regularly crooned “My Way” as a routine part of her in-country performances before that magical moment when she looked through my eyes into my very soul. (I tend to think she wanted the guys at each stop to know she looked THAT good at age 40 living her life her way and enjoyed the erotic imagery of blowing out the candles on the makeshift cakes that were presented to her onstage.)

And finally, I suspect there were more than a few of us who came under her spell from 10 inches away before she returned home after falling ill. But on the night of this encounter, we two enamored frogs both felt like princes in our respective ways. Here’s hoping my kiss-winning compatriot has not yet “croaked” and has, like me, been forever grateful for that light in the forest, that rainbow in the dark, that escape to remember.

(2) The Bo Belinsky reference is to Ms. Van Doren’s flamboyant fiance’ from the early 60’s, as featured with Mamie in one of the photos below. The late Mr. Belinsky, at that time a pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels, gained instant notoriety for a number of both on-the-field and off-the-field reasons, some good, some bad. The guy was scandalously charming and bigger than life, and was said to have Hollywood starlets for breakfast. No frog, that fellow.

(3) In my newly-assigned role as a DaNang-based classified courier, who always traveled alone in-country, I found myself bunked down at a MACV transient dive, near a barebones Saigon EM club, awaiting my itinerary for some up-country assignments. My one and only visit to that humble establishment followed a fortunate stumble upon its setting. I walked past the place in the early afternoon and saw a handwritten poster hyping Mamie Van Doren, who would be performing there that very night, about six hours later. Couldn’t believe it, coming out of left field like that. (Bo would have liked that baseball reference, I think.) I went in, and noticed there were only a half-dozen guys in the place. There was a slightly elevated wooden stage, some bar stools, and quite a few square tables, most with four chairs. A few of the tables were really close to the stage and were vacant. Since I was just killing time anyway, I decided to park my butt in the closest chair to the stage and wait it out. I mean, geez, this woman had been, along with Monroe and Mansfield, one of the celebrated “3M’s” – three renowned Hollywood blonde bombshells of the ’50’s and ’60’s. Six hours was nothing.

I got a Coke from the bar and plunked myself back down. Thought of home. Thought of the one that got away. Thought of Mamie Van Doren’s pair of golden globes. (The kind she kept front and center every day, not the film awards kind, though she was a presenter in 1954 and handed one to Foreign Press Association of Hollywood President Jose Haas. Handed him a Golden Globe, that is. Write that down. Might be a Jeopardy question someday.) I nursed that Coke for an hour or so. Still hardly anyone there, so I went back to the bar, risking my seat, to get another.

At some point, guys started to come in, and a surly NCO came over and told me if I wanted to keep that seat, I would have to order some food, or move to the bar. So I slowly sipped more Cokes and ate snacks and fries for the next four hours, until the place was full and the show began. Small-talked with the other three guys who landed at my table. They immediately began to swill down the beers and become boisterous, drawing glares from the guys running the place. (In that smoke-filled arena, an overt air of bravado and swagger overrode the mindless chatter that rolled from the tongues of these restless rogues and renegades. I smelled a lot of bullshit in that very same air.)

I found myself in the awkward position of trying to disassociate myself from them, lest they be thrown out before the show even started, and me along with them, via perceived guilt by association. I couldn’t distance myself physically from them because I wasn’t about to give up that damn seat, so I had to play it smart. The tables were all diagonal to the stage, thus two of the chairs could be strategically slid, from adjacent sides, to that point where a corner of the table abutted the stage. My slide into one of the two prime positions was a fait accompli even before the three stooges parked their noisy butts down. They survived the potential purge and the show started with all four of us still manning our positions front and center at that table. Eventually, and amazingly, the dazzling dame parked herself directly in front of my stage-touching chair after she blew out the birthday candles and announced the Anka/Sinatra song about folks always doing things their way.

She started singing on both feet, then dropped down to one non-knobby knee about halfway through the song. Then down she came onto the second knee, before gradually leaning in closer, to the aforementioned 10 inches from this New Hampshire guy’s face. There was cleavage aplenty spilling out my way (pun intended) and I think I had one eye on her eyes, and the other on the prize. She was so close, I was grasping for breast, er, I mean, gasping for breath. I was riding high and fast, approaching Boner City at a heart-racing pace. Just as she completed the last note of the song, she leaned in even closer to me, placed her right hand on my shoulder to steady herself (here it comes!), and then suddenly slid her head smoothly to her left, taking those lingering lips away, and planting them on the mouthy (pun intended again) invader from California (and there it goes!) He had managed to maneuver his head uncomfortably close to my own sometime during the song, into her peripheral vision, and thus reaped the rewards from the combination of her surprising swivel and his self-serving, sinister act of invasion of another man’s hard-earned, staked-out head space. The scoundrel stood and looked around, took a bow, then smirked at me as he plopped back down onto his seat.

“Smug bastard,” I thought. Six hours I had invested in that spot, hoping for some kind of souvenir moment, and all I got was a great view of the parting of the C’s (okay, D’s), the good vibe from her right hand gripping my semi-muscular shoulder (truth be told, it was a great right hand, many say the best right hand) and this sad story to bring home. But, as she seductively strutted her own butt back to the center of the stage after lighting him up, I quickly realized just how fortunate I was to have come that close to striking gold. I tried to joke good-naturedly with the A-hole, telling him that it must have been because I was too short for her pouty-mouth (not to be confused with potty-mouth) to reach mine. He stood about 6’2″-ish, making his equally fugly face more accessible to her at that moment in time. Simple. Logical. Makes sense, right? Then I added that I was thankful that she had been so concerned about me that she didn’t want to risk smothering me in her moon pies. I explained to him that she must have felt herself falling forward, and was actually just looking out for my safety and well-being, as well as her own, by balancing herself on me while making that sudden pivot to her left, where he and his beer mug just happened to be loitering. I said, “Imagine looking like that and being considerate as well.” His eyes glazed over. I think I lost him at “moon pies” because California and all. He stumbled away with his buddies.

Missed kiss aside, Mamie Van Doren, ladies and gentlemen, what a peach! What a pair! The lady of the night made my day – and did it her way.

P.S. Re: the photo at the top: At the moment she made that turn to her left, I felt like that punching bag she manhandled, my ego beaten down and at risk of being deflated. If only I were taller . . .
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Mamie is the one in white shorts.