Jim Six - Just Like The Number

2008-05-18T15:36:00.001-04:00

Well, it's been quite a while since I've posted here. That's mainly because I have devoted so much time to my own Web site — — and my MySpace page .

But I realize now I should maintain this blog, as well.

So I will be adding new posts and materials here in the near future — please stay tuned.

2007-01-19T20:07:00.000-05:00

Brand spankin' new Web site!

I finally pulled the trigger and got my own domain and Web site.

I'd like you to visit me here. Please bookmark the site, because I'll be keeping it updated with songs, photos, news and my gig schedule. It has just about everything, so I'll be using this spot less and less for music and more for other things, the newspaper column, whatever.

When you get over to the new site, please sign my Guest Book, let me know you visited, and sign up for the mailing list to get regular updates.

2007-01-07T14:40:00.000-05:00

Heeeeeeere's the band!

The very talented folks pictured below will be backing me up at EmJay's Café this Friday, Jan. 12 from 7 to 9 p.m.

You won't want to miss this special performance!

Eileen Cain and Rich Snyder

2007-01-07T14:38:00.001-05:00

Ed McCaffrey and Greg Potter

2007-01-07T14:38:00.000-05:00

2006-12-26T17:15:00.000-05:00

Here comes 2007!

I'll be starting off the new year with a Jan. 12 performance at EmJay's Café.

Hopefully, we'll kick off the music at 7 p.m. I'm going to do a solo set, then some friends will be joining me behind the microphones — on guitars, bass and drums. These players are really good, so the music could sound really good — even if we don't really know what the hell we're doing!

I will be back at EmJay's on Friday, Feb. 2.

Welcome to The Roadkill Café

Wrote a new song just before Christmas that ought to be a big hit at the East Coast Vulture Festival in March. It's called "Welcome to The Roadkill Café." (You can get a preview on Jan. 12 at EmJay's.)

What some critics have said...

Back in the old days, I worked with performers such as Tammy Wynette, Mel Tillis, The Oak Ridge Boys, Tom Rush, David Amram, Eric Anderson, Livingston Taylor, John Denver, Emmy Lou Harris, Bonnie Raitt, Asleep At The Wheel, Penn & Teller and Patti Smith.

Here's what some music writers had to say:

"Soon to be big Jim's folk abilities are far superior to anything going down in the area."

"The show was opened by one of the few Philly performers talented enough to open for Asleep At The Wheel."

"Jim's poignant tunes and incredible deliveries make you smile and tap your toes like no other performer..."

"Jim Six specializes in sardonic lyrics, gutsy vocalizing and witty, relaxing stage patter..."

"Jim Six is destined to make it big. He makes manifest a songwriting ability that's right up there with Willie Nelson and John Prine."

The owner of a major venue in Georgia said "Jim Six is one of the five best singer/writers in country music."

2006-12-10T12:41:00.000-05:00

Well, that's it for this year!

Well, the last gig of the year at EmJay's has come and gone. It was a small but most loyal crowd and I got to try out a new song I've written and two new cover songs I'd been working on.

Stay tuned for a new date at EmJay's in January and don't forget the East Coast Vulture Festival on March 3 in Wenonah.

Get your tickets now!

2006-12-03T15:43:00.000-05:00

The East Coast Vulture Festival

2006-11-24T21:19:00.000-05:00

Going back to EmJay's

I'll be returning to EmJay's in Mullica Hill on Saturday, Dec. 9, 7 to 9 p.m. The usual fun will be had.

The East Coast Vulture Festival

Advance notice: I will be performing at The East Coast Vulture Festival on March 3, 2007.

"What festival where when?" you're asking?

Well, the Gloucester County Vulture Festival was such a success last March that the second annual has actually been moved to a larger venue and renamed. It will be the East Coast Vulture Festival and it will be 7 p.m. Saturday, March 3, 2007.

Yes, I know that's a long way off, but the tickets orders started coming in before the tickets were printed, so it's apparently NOT too soon to talk about it.

Last year, I was invited to be last event of the evening and I did an hour-or-so concert.

This year, the nice folks have invited me to once again be the main entertainment of the evening, following all sorts of vulture-related events, snacks, serious presentations and silliness at the festival, which will be held at the Wenonah, NJ Elementary School. I gladly accepted -- get this, buckaroos and buckarettes! I told them I will do my best to bring a band with me this time.

and, another reminder...

So, come out to EmJay's on Dec. 9, get in a little entertainment before the holidays are fully upon you.

And if you need to buy tickets for the vulture festival, send an e-mail to tickets@eastcoastvulturefestival.org

2006-10-17T21:35:00.000-04:00

EmJay's — Nov. 18 — Be there!

7 to 9 p.m.

Toys for Tots benefit!

Cover charge for this show: $5 and a new, still-wrapped toy. The toy and the cover go to the Gloucester County Toys for Tots program, run by the Semper Fidelis Detachment of the Marine Corps League.

Good cause, good coffee, good company and good music.

That's all for now.

2006-10-08T17:41:00.000-04:00

Birthday Bash a big success!

Thanks to all those who came out to EmJay's to help me celebrate my 60th birthday on Saturday night! The audience got to hear songs by Caitlin Rose, Greg Potter, Wanda Cogan, Bo Borland, Greg Jones and me.

Greg Potter, from the Beatles' cover band, AlmostFAB!, accompanied me on guitar. Pete Cogan played harmonica. Bo Borland played dobro for me and Greg Jones — we were pretty much blown away by how incredible Bo's dobro sounded when Greg Jones did "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," which is already one of our favorites.

We're working on a new performance date for me at EmJay's, so stay tuned here and to your e-mail in box. If you aren't getting e-mails about performances, contact jimsixmusic@comcast.net to be included.

A Birthday Bash!

2006-09-24T15:26:00.000-04:00

I can't believe it, but I am turning 60.

Dylan Thomas said, "Do not go gentle into that good night," talking about aging. I agree, so I'm hoping some good friends will join me for a kind of poor-man's birthday bash at EmJay's on Saturday, Oct. 7. You get in without having to cough up a cover charge, but you still have to buy your own coffee and treats.

Hopefully, you'll come, enjoy the music or make some yourself, and help me celebrate this quite monumental milestone in my crazy life.

Let's get together at 7 p.m. and we'll have a fine time.

60. Sheesh! That really can't be right. Somebody calculated wrong. I demand a recount!

Upcoming Gig at EmJay's

2006-09-16T19:38:00.000-04:00

EmJay's Cafe

2 S. Main St.
Mullica Hill, NJ
(856) 223-5137
$5 at the door!

I thought I was starting at 8 — the EmJay's Web site says 7. Split the difference and show up around 7:30 and we'll all be happy.

Full Circle

2006-08-13T20:45:00.000-04:00

I bought myself a new guitar in 1970, a Martin D-35. Over the years I played professionally, other D-35 owners who heard mine often asked if they could play it and, when they did, their eyes widened -- they admitted they had never heard a D-35 as nice as mine.

Sadly, I let that guitar go in 1983 or 1984 -- one tends to blur the memory when recalling stupid, bone-headed moves.

After all these years, I have replaced it. I've played so much this weekend, my arms are tired. (My fingertips are way beyond pain.) I even took it to EmJay's Saturday afternoon to hear what it sounds like plugged in!

The guitar is a beauty, it feels like an old friend and it sings like an angel.

It's like I've come full circle.

One guitar player said he figured it "feels like an old, but not forgotten, lover walked into the room and put her arms around you and whispered in your ear."

Well, he said it, I didn't.

2006-07-27T21:13:00.000-04:00

New performance date

I'll be back at EmJay's Cafe on Friday, Aug. 25 at 7 p.m. Cover will be the usual 5 bucks.

There were some new faces last time and folks seemed to enjoy the show. Now if we can just get those new faces together with some of the old faces, we'd have a real crowd.

No, I haven't checked the weather forecast for Aug. 25 yet. Why bother?

--

2006-07-27T21:08:00.000-04:00

Look Alive!

I've had a request for a recording of "Look Alive!" the song I wrote about buzzards for the first ever Wenonah, NJ Vulture Fest, which was held back in March.

I guess there probably aren't a lot of songs about buzzards. Catchy ones, anyway.

(After clicking on the link, click "lo fi" or "Hi fi" to listen. Click "Download MP3" only if you mean to download the song.)

2006-07-05T16:06:00.000-04:00

To Web site or not to Web site, that is the question

I've been thinking about creating a professional Web site, but I'm not sure I have the technical savvy to do it without it becoming a chore — and if it's a chore, I won't be wanting to bother with it.

So I thought I would attempt a small experiment.

I have a small Web presence, but it's pretty limited.

Here, however, on the blog, I can post photos and links and — well, pretty much anything I'd want to do on another Web site.

So I thought I'd post links to a couple of my songs to start things off. We'll see how well this works.

This first one is called The Man in The Moon and it's my most recent song, and probably my favorite. (Although I wonder if the latest song I've written doesn't always become my favorite.)

This song, What Would I Do Without You is also a pretty recent composition. I like it a lot, too.

While I've got your attention, I just wanted to remind you that I will be appearing at EmJay's Cafe again on Friday, July 21 at 7 p.m. There will be a $5 cover.

Oh, by the way, thanks to a suggestion by humorist Bob Holt, here's a way to keep track of the weather forecast for Mullica Hill!

Weather Alert!

2006-06-30T20:52:00.000-04:00

Friday. July 21. 7 p.m. EmJay's Cafe.

'Nuff said.

Official Sweat Head Gear!

2006-06-25T17:16:00.000-04:00

Well, as usual, the weather sucked Saturday when I played at EmJay's Cafe in Mullica Hill, NJ. That makes six months in a row. Cafe owner Greg Jones suggested my future appearances be sponsored by Totes or London Fog. Someone else asked me where I'd parked the tour ark.

Still, it didn't matter. There was a nice, attentive crowd there, some old faces and some new faces.

Last month, Josh, a friend of Greg's, was at the show and heard me talking about how Paul Blackstock has decided that, if Grateful Dead fans are Dead Heads and Jimmy Buffet fans are Parrot Heads, Jim Six fans should be czalled Sweat Heads.

Josh, who makes the official EmJay's T-shirts, took it upon himself to whip up several Official Jim Six Sweat Heads bandanas as a most appreciated gift. They're great, as you can see by this photo of one lying on my guitar. Wow! Official Sweat Head Gear! Thanks, Josh!

So, Greg says I'll be back at EmJay's in July. Stay tuned for the date and time.

2006-06-22T10:15:00.000-04:00

Weather update

Same old, same old, I'm afraid. See the weather forecast below:

Saturday
Mostly cloudy with scattered showers and thunderstorms. Highs in the lower 80s. South winds 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 50 percent.

Saturday Night
Mostly cloudy with a chance of showers and thunderstorms. Lows in the mid 60s. Chance of rain 50 percent.

Nevertheless, the music and the coffee will flow abundantly downstairs in EmJay's Cafe at 7 p.m. Saturday.

2006-06-18T20:30:00.000-04:00

Uptown Saturday Night

Or downtown, depending on which way you're headed.

Either way, I'll be at EmJay's Cafe again Saturday night, June 24.

This will be the first Saturday after the Summer Solstice.

Come celebrate the official beginning of Summer 2006 with some good music, great coffee and nice people, including Official Jim Six Sweat Heads and occasional fans.

(If The Grateful Dead can have its Dead Heads and Jimmy Buffet has his Parrot Heads, it stands to reason that I should have Sweat Heads.)

Yeah, I know. The weather always seems to be, well, inclement when I play at Emjay's.

Here's the long-range weather forecast for Saturday, June, 24:

Partly cloudy with a chance of showers and thunderstorms. Highs in the mid 80s. Chance of rain 30 percent.

No surprise there, right?

What this means is that, while there is a chance that the music will be outside on EmJay's patio, there's a better than average chance it will be downstairs in the cafe.

Show starts 7 p.m. There's a $5 cover.

Some of you who haven't come out for a while should try to make this performance. You know who you are.

2006-06-03T14:44:00.000-04:00

The weather is BOUND to get better!

Well, the law of averages says the weather has got to get better sooner or later.

Maybe it will be nice weather when I play at EmJay's Cafe again on Saturday, June 24.

Or maybe not.

It really doesn't matter. We'll have a good time either way.

So you should really make every effort to be there this time.

Show should start around 8. Cover is only $5.

2006-05-31T07:32:00.000-04:00

A very cool evening

Well, the weather was crappy Friday afternoon, so we decided not to chance playing out on the patio at EmJay's. As it turned out, we might have gotten away with it, but when it comes to lugging heavy sound equipment up and down stairs, better safe than sorry.

Only a small crowd turned out, but they were treated to some really good music.

Greg Jones was running EmJay's solo, thanks to Wendy's injured ankle, so he didn't open the night after all.

I started singing, then he later performed for about a half hour. He's terrific and the people who were there, who hadn't heard him before, were blown away.

Then, surprise! My friend, Don Cogan, was able to make it and he got up and sang songs for a while. He surprised me most by singing songs he and I had written together years ago — I'd forgotten a couple of them even existed!

Then I finished the evening, having to beg off at about 10 to 10, since Greg had to close the place!

Small crowd, but receptive, for sure.

So, we'll be doing it again in June. Date to follow, of course.

You really have to try to make it this time.

Playing on EmJay's Patio on May 26

2006-05-14T13:45:00.000-04:00

Here's where I'll be playing Friday, May 26 at 7 p.m. — weather permitting.

Will the weather curse continue and force me, and EmJay's owner, Greg Jones, to play downstairs in EmJay's subterranean coffee house? Or will the weather curse be broken, allowing us to play outside that evening?

Come find out...

2006-05-10T20:47:00.000-04:00

Kick off the summer with an outdoor show!

I'll be at EmJay's on Friday, May 26 and we're going to start the summer season with something a little different.

Weather permitting, I'm going to play out on the patio and EmJay's owner Greg Jones, who's a really good singer, songwriter and guitar player — he plays an old guitar that uses a tennis shoe lace as a strap — plans to open for me.

Greg and I are hoping for the best, considering the weather curse — each of the four times I've been there so far this year, the weather has been just awful. The way Greg figures it, if the weather's nice, you've just GOT to come to see the curse broken — and if the weather's lousy, well, you won't be going down the shore anyway, so stop by. It's a win-win situation.

EmJay's is at 2 South Main Street in Mullica Hill, New Jersey. The phone number is 856-223-5137.

Music should start at 7 p.m.

Hope to see you there!

2006-04-23T19:22:00.000-04:00

The Jim Six Curse!

Well, for the what? — fourth month in a row? — the weather was terrible the night I played at EmJay's Cafe in Mullica Hill.

Let's see, so far, there was a horrendous storm and power outage in January, bitter, colder-than-usual Saturday nights in February and March and April — torrential downpours!

When I walked downstairs into EmJay's April 22, owner Greg Jones was standing there laughing.

He said he thought about putting out a sign that said something to the effect of "The weather sucks, and Jim Six is here!"

Next month I should be there during Memorial Day weekend. My buddy, humorist Bob Holt, said maybe my being scheduled to play that Saturday night will mean it's going to rain and people who can't go away will come to EmJay's instead.

That will be a holiday weekend, though, so I'm hoping the Jim Six Curse doesn't apply!

2006-04-15T14:20:00.000-04:00

Back at EmJay's!

I'll be playing at EmJay's on Saturday, April 22. Cover is $5 at the door and the show starts at 8 p.m. Stick around for the second set, too.

Hoping to see some old friends and new faces at this show!

EmJay's is at 2 S. Main St., Mullica Hill, NJ.
(856) 223-5137 for information or directions.

2006-03-17T22:34:00.000-05:00

Under The Sycamore

Here are some shots from last year's gala music bash.

2006-02-26T10:06:00.000-05:00

The Man in the Moon

Here's my latest song. Please let me know what you think of it.

It's called The Man in the Moon.

2006-02-10T18:31:00.000-05:00

What's Up!

Don't forget, my upcoming performances.

I'll be appearing regularly at EmJay's through July. Stay tuned for the dates.

2006-01-15T11:57:00.000-05:00

Another fine show

The show at EmJay's on Jan. 14 went well. Folks seemed to have a terrific time. Unfortunately, inclement weather kept some people away — but that's show business, I guess.

I had the chance to dig up some songs I haven't done for many years — including an old version of the Beatles' "In My Life," several John Prine songs, including "Hello In There" and "Spanish Pipedream," and even a couple of my songs, especially "The Diner Song."

I had a great time.

The way I figure it — I write songs, play and sing them and have a great time. If the audience likes it, that makes it perfect!

I'll be at EmJay's again Feb. 18 for a Presidents' Weekend show with The Essentials.

Look for details soon for a benefit coming up in Wenonah the first Saturday in March. I'll keep you posted.

2006-01-06T08:04:00.000-05:00

Psst! wanna hear some music?

If you'd like to hear some of my songs, go here and you'll find links to four of them, including my newest song, "What Would I Do Without You?"

Don't forget: 8 p.m., Saturday, Jan. 14 at EmJay's Coffeehouse in Mullica Hill. $5 cover charge at the door.

Enjoy!

2005-12-22T17:02:00.000-05:00

Performance Calendar

I've got performances lined up for Jan. 14 and Feb. 18 at EmJay's. You can check on where I'll be playing next right here!
--

Ho Ho Ho!

2005-12-21T21:56:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you!

2005-12-15T12:47:00.000-05:00

Another Show — Save The Date!

It looks like I might be appearing at Emjay's in Mullica Hill again on Saturday, Feb. 18. Mark it down in your brand, spankin' new 2006 calendar/datebook/Day Planner/PDA and plan to be there!

This one won't be a big-ticket show, just a modest cover at the door.

Look for more details as soon as I get them.

2005-12-14T10:21:00.000-05:00

Sold Out!

The Dec,. 10 EmJay's show was a sell out! It was standing room only for owner Greg Jones' delicious food and espresso and music by me and The Essentials.

We also collected 157 toys for Toys for Tots!

I'd forgotten what a drug performing is. It has been a long time.

It's perhaps the most addictive thing I've ever encountered. The anticipation of building up to this show, preparing a set list, learning some new songs and even writing a new song the week before the gig all led up to an incredible high performing to a crowded room, peope who really seemed to immensely enjoy my music.

Then it's over. In the old days, it was over at 3 in the and we'd wind down slowly until 6 a.m. These days, that's way past my bed time.

Still, the day after was almost a downer — all I could think about was where and how soon I could play next!

I guess I'm addicted again!

I'm now looking for another gig, another venue, whatever. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I just found this review of my Oct. 1 show at EmJay's. Not real favorable to the other acts, but I came out OK.

2005-11-29T21:04:00.000-05:00

Get your tickets now!

Time is running out. If you wait to buy tickets at the door of Emjay's on Dec. 10, they're going to cost you $19!

Get tickets now from me for $15.

The special Christmas show needs your support. If this works, we'll do more at Emjay's, so get tickets now!

See below for details!

A Christmas Performance

2005-10-21T23:40:00.000-04:00

Sat., Dec. 10, 7 p.m.

Jim Six

The Essentials

Emjay's Coffeehouse,

2 S. Main St.,

Mullica Hill, NJ

(856-223-5137)

Relax before the holidays get here!

Tickets $15 in advance, $19 at the door -- buffet, open espresso bar

(b.y.o. wine)

WE WILL BE COLLECTING NEW, UN-GIFT-WRAPPED TOYS FOR "TOYS FOR TOTS" AT THE SHOW.

KIDS under 10 admitted free!

Good food, good coffee, good music!

Tickets now available!

e-mail me for details: jim@six.org

2005-10-02T11:20:00.000-04:00

Benefit was a huge success!

The benefit Saturday, Oct. 1 for homeless veterans went well!

Emjay's Coffeehouse in Mullica Hill was standing room only and we raised $250 for the cause.

All the music was good — Downcaste was on before me and our hosts, The Essentials, finished up the evening.

Word is, I will be playing at Emjay's again in the future. I'll keep you all informed about that.

Jim Six's Back!

2005-09-15T21:22:00.000-04:00

It was the 28th Anniversary Jim Six & City Limits World Tour Family Reunion on Sept. 11, 2005. We had another go at making some terrific music. Lots of good friends, fans and family showed up to share the beautiful weather and my beautiful back yard!

Play on!

2005-09-15T21:15:00.000-04:00

2005-09-15T21:00:00.000-04:00

Good music for a good cause

Well, the band reunion is over and it's back to being just me and my guitar.

For those of you in the South Jersey area, I'll be appearing with some other local players at a coffee place in Mullica Hill, right on Route 45 (Main Street) to raise some money for the local veterans' advisory committee to help when homeless veterans need it.

Oct. 1, 2005
6 to 9 p.m.

Figure we'll each play about 40 minutes or so, with 15-20 minute breaks.

Downcaste is scheduled to play first, then me, then a duo named The Essentials, who arranged the gig.

Please stop out that night at Emjay's, 2 S. Main St., Mullica Hill, NJ (856-223-5137)

This is a coffeehouse, not a bar, by the way.

Cover is $5 at the door, with all proceeds going to the Gloucester County Veterans Advisory Committee for homeless veterans.

C'mon out!

— If you can't make it and would like to help anyway, you can make checks payable to the Gloucester County Veterans Advisory Committee or GCVAC, mark "for homeless veterans" in the memo space on your check, and send it to
GCVAC
PO Box 337
Woodbury, NJ 08096

Jim Six & City Limits

2005-07-26T21:20:00.000-04:00

This is the logo on band memorabilia merchandise now available here!

Get some right away!!!

2005-07-26T00:01:00.000-04:00

Selling out!

I've decided to enter the marketplace with merchandise bearing a logo designed by my friend, Kathy Patterson. Check out what's for sale!

I'm also selling stuff bearing the logo of my old band, Jim Six & City Limits. You can find that here.

The music goes on!

2005-05-22T12:38:00.000-04:00

My friend, Don Cogan, turned 65 a few days ago and his wife, Sharon, threw him a big party on May 21. There was a lot of music. Don and I go back about 30 years. They used to call us the "Starsky and Hutch of country music," as someone reminded us at the party. We never knew or cared which one of us was Starsky and which one as Hutch. It didn't matter.

We've made a lot of music over the years. I sang a song I wrote recently and Don sang one he wrote not long ago.

The music — and the friendship — goes on!

Live at Swedes Cafe

2005-05-08T12:06:00.000-04:00

My first public performance in more than 20 years, March 26, 2005, at Swedes Cafe in Swedesboro, NJ. It's all coming back to me now!

World Tour 2004

2005-05-08T12:03:00.000-04:00

Jim Six & City Limits performs at Vulture Gulch in September, 2004. It sparked a renewed interest in playing music for me.

2004-09-28T16:07:00.000-04:00

A little black book of value

There is often a mighty contest between a writer and his strongest opponent, the blank page.

Laptop computers, digital tape recorders and cameras, pocket digital whatevers, they all offer to help us tame that wild and wily beast, the empty page that dares us to proceed, to show our mettle, to endeavor to fill the page with something worthwhile.

I am a notebook lover. I revere them. The blank pages no longer frighten me. They beckon me, enticing me, promising me that this time what I write will be important.
Right now, on my person or in my bag, I have two pocket-sized reporters’ notebooks, a steno-sized pad in a zippered case, a Miquelrius notebook made in Spain and a Moleskine notebook.

Moleskines are my all-time favorites. They’re made in Italy and the name is pronounced “mol-a-skeen-a.” The little pocket-sized notebook is covered in black oilskin, has a ribbon bookmark, a little pocket in the back to hold snippets of paper and an elastic band to hold it all together. The manufacturer claims the books were favored by the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Henry Matisse, Vincent van Gogh, André Breton, Pablo Picasso and travel writer Bruce Chatwin.

Indiana Jones carried a little book like this with a rubber band around it and, in one of his movies, a similar journal was filled with notes about the search for the Holy Grail.

I don’t care if any of it is true. I just like the Moleskine notebooks. The paper is cool — acid-free, whatever that means — the books feel and look classy and, most importantly, I really like writing in them. We have had this discussion before, I think, about how much I am in love with writing, by keyboard, but even more in longhand.

I discovered these pricey little books about 11 volumes ago. I jot down all sorts of things — some paranoid colleagues wonder if I am writing stuff about them and, of course, I don’t show them.

It took me a while to be able to write in my first Moleskine notebook. Often I jottle — that’s a word I made up to describe the kind of doodling I do, a sort of stream-of-consciousness doodling with words instead of images. At first, I thought perhaps the Moleskine was just too good for jottling. Now, I am able to scribble away without reserve.

I am never without at least a reporters’ notebook and often have my current Moleskine journal with me, as well. Most of what’s in it, I acknowledge, is drivel. But it allows me to trap that one important thought or an idea for a column before it slips my mind. It’s there to be used. I have always been convinced that just the physical act of writing is important. It keeps me writing, using the tools I have and practicing the craft in which I labor. It keeps my hands and my mind limber, ready to go to work.

All that jottling could be called practicing, I suppose.

Practice makes it easier for me, for any writer, to not be afraid of the blank page, to not be intimidated by its often unfulfilled promises. The blank page is there to be filled by a writer. It’s just waiting for me, or you, to step up and take the challenge.

-30-
© 2004 Jim Six

2004-08-18T19:34:00.000-04:00

Olympics may have run course

So, what do you think of the Olympics so far? Yeah, me too.

Let me prove that I am not a sports fan by asking: When did they stop sending amateur athletes to the Olympics? I mean, in the old days these dedicated if a bit obsessive young people trained 23 hours a day, seven days a week just to jump hurdles or pole vault or run around a track or do painful-looking things on bars, rings, and wooden horses.

They were subsidized by someone, I guess. I could never figure out who paid for all that training and for Bela what's-his-name to leave his native Transylvania and come to this country to guide 10-year-old girls on their paths to worldwide gymnastic fame and glory and possibly a guest appearance on "The Love Boat" or "Love: American Style."

It was just a fact: Olympians and those who aspired to Olympianism were not paid for their efforts.

I don't know where the money came from for skintight swim suits, special volleyball uniforms, full-body waxes, and steroid shots.

It all sounded so pure and innocent, these non-paid athletic experts competing for gold medals in foreign lands. It was always especially sweet when American Olympians were able to beat the Speedos of competitors from Iron Curtain countries. Who says politics isn't an official Olympic event?

But now, professionals abound! Allen Iverson, Kerri Walsh, one of the Williams sisters.

I haven't watched much Olympics coverage, except a little bit of the somewhat cool opening ceremony and some women's beach volleyball. Oh, and synchronized diving. That apparently involves two people diving at the same time. Wow! This opens up all sorts of future Olympics possibilities, doesn't it? Synchronized golf, synchronized tennis, synchronized fencing.

The opening ceremony was very artsy, very avant garde. Statues came to life.

Guys floated through the air. Some of it looked really cool. Parts of it were kind of creepy. Most viewers did not notice that one of the very first statues to walk by -- a woman portraying the goddess of fertility, I think -- was actually topless, with her red-and-white shirt merely painted on her body. I was able to spot this, of course, thanks to my trained newsman's eye.

As it turns out, professional athletes have been playing in the Olympics since 1992. Shows you how much attention I've been paying to all this.

I'm not sure what year politics was introduced to the games, but it was at least 1936 when Hitler used portions of the games in Berlin to further Nazi propaganda. Now we have Middle Eastern athletes refusing to wrestle with athletes from Israel.

Perhaps the whole concept of the Olympic Games is a notion that has run its course. If the participants can't be trusted to be the best and brightest and compete without the use of drugs, if they can't put politics and prejudices aside for two weeks every four years, why bother at all?

Besides, the games are really fouling up the prime time TV schedule.

-30-

2004-08-18T19:33:00.000-04:00

Go and live the wildlife

I was out riding around with Franklin Township Police Chief Mike DiGiorgio the other day. We were looking for black bears and coyotes.

There have been some sightings of bears in the Piney Hollow Road area of Monroe Township and in the adjoining area of his town. There have also been some bears spotted 10 or 15 miles away on Garrison Road in Franklin Township -- far enough that Mike reckons it might not be the same bear.

Both areas have active farm fields, a great source of food for black bears. Mike said the state game people have confirmed at least one sighting in Monroe, but so far, the other sightings are still just unconfirmed reports.

South Jersey is a great wildlife area.

There are foxes and bald eagles, red-tailed hawk families living up near the Deptford Mall, all sorts of hawks living in the trees along Route 55, thousands of turkey vultures roosting in the county, and now, maybe, black bears and coyotes.

Sgt. Ken Siderio and another cop have spotted coyotes, some at the Sahara Sand operation on Coles Mill Road, where the police department does some training with its dirt bikes.

Mike and I didn't see any signs of black bears or coyotes the other day, no big paw prints or, what do trackers call it? Bear spoor? We did see four or five turkeys strolling down the middle of the road.

There are rumors of feral pigs in portions of South Jersey, the descendants of swine liberated from farms eons ago, although I have never personally encountered such a thing. I wonder what wild pigs look like.

I have, however, had personal experience with feral chickens, and know what they look like, thanks to the Great Deptford Township Chicken Roundup.

It was in the late 1980s, I think. Neighbors in the area off Pennsylvania Avenue, on the east side of Route 41, had complained for some time about the wild chickens there creating a nuisance. Township officials -- hey, it might even have been an election year, I can't recall! -- decided to do something about this wildlife nuisance, the cackling, the crowing, the bird droppings, the chickens in the trees.

It was just before dusk when we gathered. Township council members, cops, administrators, a township animal control person and the late Aggie Abruzzo, who sometimes seemed to single-handedly run the Gloucester County SPCA.

This paltry band of poultry hunters was armed with an array of cages and nets as it hit the streets.

It was quite a sight: People running after fleeing fowl, feathers flying, hens screeching, roosters crowing, chickens even taking flight to escape.

One cop, as I remember, even took a spectacular header over a tree root.

As the birds were netted, they were placed in cages for relocation.

I foolishly looked up at one chicken that went flying over my head and -- well, suffice it to say, it's a good thing I was wearing glasses!

And then there was the hunt for the Mantua monkey -- but that's another story!

2004-08-14T12:23:00.000-04:00

Explaining the Internet

I keep hearing people talk about their confusion over certain computer terms. One colleague the other day asked me about browsers and search engines and the Internet. Why, she wanted to know, would people ask her what browser she had or which search engine she uses, when what they really mean is, “Do you have the Internet on your computer?”

Well, I tried to explain in my typical patient and nurturing way, those terms are not interchangeable. I wanted to explain about whatchamacallits, browsers, search engines and waddahooeys, but remembered at the last minute that I couldn’t.

Waddahooeys is a proprietary software program being developed under tight security by Microsoft and I don’t want to mess with the all-powerful and richer-than-Croesus Bill Gates.

Whatchamacallits, however, is what is known in the computer world as Freeware, meaning it’s software that someone developed and decided to just give away, free, for no money. Freeware and pirated software are probably the two main reasons that computer geniuses and software developers are paupers — oh, wait! They’re not paupers! What the heck was I thinking?

Anyway, I DO know something about browsers and search engines.

A browser allows you to browse, or surf, the Internet. I suppose they could have been called surfers just as easily as browsers and, honestly, I don’t know why they aren’t called that. I absolutely never hear people say they’re going to browse the Internet.

Browsers are things like Internet Explorer, Netscape Navigator, Safari, Opera, stuff like that. It’s where you can save favorite Universal Resource Locators, or URLs, which are nothing more than World Wide Web addresses. Why we don’t call them World Wide Web addresses also escapes me, but URLs, or “earls” or “yurals” is how most of us know them.

So, search engines are software programs, like Google and Yahoo and Lycos and Hot Bot, that find things. Thus, search engine. Sounds simple, but believe me, HOW they work is a closely guarded secret that only people with white-plastic pocket protectors are cleared to know.

Most importantly, you have to understand you do not actually HAVE the Internet on your computer. You have a portal, a way of accessing the Internet, on your computer.

In fact, I have no blooming idea WHERE the Internet is, although I sometimes believe we have outsourced it and it is actually in a rented storage facility in Burkina Faso or a cave in Kyrgyzstan.

The Internet was developed initially as a way for the U.S. military to maintain command and control over its missiles and bombers after a nuclear attack, and started back in the early 1960s.

That makes it all the more amazing, then, that today we can bid on knick knacks, exchange video mail and play combat games with other players using software that probably is more sophisticated than the systems that would have launched our missiles and bombers back in 1962!

-30-

2004-08-14T12:18:00.000-04:00

A day in the life...

If you ever wonder what our elected officials actually do, I can tell you, not much.

No, I’m only kidding. I’m sure they do quite a lot. Just ask them.

I covered municipal government for a long time. I don’t care for politics and politicians, and I used to laugh when borough councils and township committees would adopt resolutions supporting state legislation, national activities, international events — things over which they had absolutely no say and no control.

What a waste of time! I often thought it was terribly amateurish for these local politicians to foolishly address these much larger or marginally important issues.

The other day, though, I came across a record of what the U.S. House of Representatives did on its last session day, July 22. These are the pros, remember. I’d bet none of them waste our money passing silly resolutions, or even serious resolutions, that accomplished nothing.

The legislators did start their day at 10 a.m. and work until 11:57 p.m., I will give them that. I think it was because their summer break started the next day.

The congress members discussed the United States-Morocco Free Trade Agreement, although there didn’t seem to be any mention of how many terrorists seem to be coming from Morocco these days. The representatives did, on the other hand, discuss a resolution that expressed a sense of the House that terrorist activity will never result in the postponement of a
Presidential election.

They talked about the establishment of programs to deal with the threat to commercial aviation from man-portable, surface-to-air weapons.

The lawmakers urged the government of Belarus to ensure a democratic, transparent and fair election in the fall, although they did not appear to urge the government of the United States to do likewise.

They passed a resolution celebrating 10 years of majority rule in the Republic of South Africa. They resolved to recognize the importance of the 150th anniversary of the establishment of diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Japan. The congress people also condemned the attack on a Jewish community center in Buenos Aires, Argentina in 1994. They also passed a resolution declaring genocide had been committed in Darfur, Sudan.

Of course, it wasn’t all so marginal. The august members amended the Internal Revenue Code to end certain abusive tax practices and extended transportation grants that provide funding for highway projects around the country.

Oh, and at about 7 p.m., there was a bill appropriating something like $1.3 billion for the Department of Defense. I think it was billions — I had trouble counting all the zeroes.

What amazes me is how these politicians are able to switch seamlessly from the inane to the important, the silly to the serious, without missing a step.

Hmmm. Kind of like newspaper people, when you come to think of it.

-30-

2004-07-24T23:37:00.000-04:00

You can go home again

It's all about memories. I drove out to the 4-H Fairgrounds Wednesday to talk to 4-H Agent Linda Strieter about preparations for the fair and, since I was a minute or two early, I drove on into Elk Township, just to drive past my mother's old place in Ferrell. She and I moved there in 1981 from Philadelphia. I left there in 1985, but she was there until 1999 or so, when she got sick and all our lives went spiraling out of control. After that, nothing was ever the same. She died three years later.

It was just a mobile home she'd bought and put on a rented lot, but Wednesday something just made me drive by to see the once-familiar street and the once-familiar number on the end of the trailer. When I got there, I didn't stop. I didn't even slow down. I didn't want to spook the people who live there or look suspicious, not in the kind of world we live in these days.

It just felt like something I needed to do, a momentary impulse, an express train ride through memory lane.

It's all about memories. It's such a shame to let them slip through our fingers. I've mentioned before that I let a lot of my father's memories die with him back in 1979. Oh, how I wish I could have been smart enough to ask him more questions.

A friend of ours borrowed a small tape recorder the other day so she can start trying to capture her father's memories about his family.

It's one thing to know where the will is kept and where the money is. It's much more important in the long run to know about your family's history, to know the answers to questions you were too busy to ask before it got to be too late.

I got an e-mail the other day from a woman in Franklinville, Peg Herrschaft, who turns out to be a cousin of mine. Her grandmother, Henrietta Six, was married to Jim McFeeley of Westville Grove. It seems Henrietta was Martin Six's sister, and he was my father's father. These Sixes were certainly prolific in those days. My grandfather had six sons and a daughter. Peg's grandparents had eight children, one of whom, John McFeeley, was her father. Peg's a couple years older than me and remembers my grandparents, Marty and Sally, visiting her grandmother.

It's such a shame that, when I was growing up, I never once heard about my Great Aunt Henrietta. Never knew she existed.

And now it's 25 years too late to ask my old man about her and a couple years too late to ask my mother anything at all.

Now there are only memories and thank God for them. Thank God I can still remember my dad taking me to a Cub Scout Jamboree and teaching me how to fish and making me a wooden sword after I saw "Prince Valiant" or "King Arthur" at the Benn Theatre in Philadelphia. What a cool sword it was, too.

Thank God I can still remember my mother teaching me to read and turning my hair white for Halloween and showing me how to tie a tie.

Funny. I don't miss them all that often anymore.

But the other day, well -- it's all about memories, I guess.

-30-

2004-07-24T23:35:00.000-04:00

Martha is Mandela like I'm Socrates

Have you noticed that the news lately can be pretty amusing?

I was watching the news the other day when Martha Stewart was sentenced to serve five months in prison. Everyone was making jokes about her decorating her cell. Here in the newsroom, we wondered whether she'd come out of the Big House with a tear tattooed under one eye and "Neat" and "Tidy" etched in blue on her knuckles.

So I nearly laughed myself silly when I heard Martha would be taking arts and crafts classes in the hoosegow.

Then she did an interview with Barbara Walters and insisted she was innocent, not because she didn't do it, but because she didn't hurt any of the "little people."

Prison won't be a hardship for her, though.

"I'm a really good camper. I can sleep on the ground," Martha said, looking stoic and just a bit put out at this five-month speed bump in her life.

"There's many other people that have gone to prison," she said. "Look at Nelson Mandela."

That's right. The Maven of Kitsch compares herself to one of the heroic leaders of the contemporary world, Nelson Mandela.

That someone like Martha could invent this kind of connection between her and Mandela shouldn't be all that surprising, considering she's famous for manufacturing things out of nothing.

Heck, even those considered our most important thinkers manufacture stuff out of nothing.

I used to watch all those educational programs on TV, stuff about dinosaurs and cavemen, until I finally realized all the so-called experts were just guessing about how the dinosaurs looked, whether they were purple or green, whether they slithered on their bellies or walked upright and whether cavewomen were blondes or brunettes.

So it's not a shock to learn other kinds of scientists are also making it up as they go along.

Stephen Hawking for years has insisted that black holes in outer space swallow everything that falls into them -- sort of like my office at home, according to my Closest Companion, although she thinks it's more like the Black Hole of Calcutta rather than a black hole in outer space. Same basic concept, though.

Now the famous astrophysicist, after nearly 30 years, says he was wrong all along.

Stuff that falls into a black hole might come out after all, he said in a recent article in The Straits Times of Singapore.

He said he's been thinking about this for 30 years and now realizes black holes can help tell us about our past and predict the future. Since none of the rest of us knows anything at all about astrophysics, Hawking could have said pigs fly on the planet Porcinus and we'd all think he was a genius.

I know the black hole of my office could tell you a lot about my past, but I doubt it would hold any predictions for the future.

Give me a couple, three decades to think about it, though, and I'll try to understand it all -- especially the part where Martha Stewart, with a straight face, compares herself to Nelson Mandela.

-30-

2004-07-24T23:33:00.000-04:00

A promise to make no promise he can't keep

All right, that's it. I've put this off for as long as possible, but it's clear I have absolutely no choice.

I'm running for president. Again.

I can't help it. I wanted to avoid it, but my country needs me.

How can I not run?

The Bush administration is considering plans to postpone the presidential election if we have a terrorist attack, and the opposition candidates just don't have a clue.

Larry King asked John Kerry last week what he thought of the latest announcement by Homeland Security Secretary Tom Ridge that al Qaida might be planning to disrupt the November elections. Was it a political ploy, Larry wanted to know.

Kerry admitted he hadn't been briefed. Oh, the government had offered to provide him with a national security briefing, but John was too busy. "I just haven't had the time," he said.

Then he left the Larry King show and went to a celebrity fund raiser, rubbing shoulders with movie stars and playing guitar with rock stars. Priorities, huh? When Kerry named John Edwards as his running mate, for two days people were discussing who had better hair, Bush, Cheney, Kerry or Edwards.

There were also learned discussions about all the hugging going on between Kerry and Edwards. Are you serious? Are they serious? Are they all crazy?

I scratched my fashionably shaved head and made the decision to once again jump into the fray. So I hereby announce my entry into the 2004 presidential race, just because you deserve a choice with some sense. Jim Six for President. How much worse can it be? I promise to have some common sense. I promise to make no promises I can't keep.

Cut your taxes? I'll try. Defend the country? To the best of my ability. End illiteracy? Nope, but I'll put people to work on that and feeding hungry people, too. In fact, if I'd been your president, I'd have had some "throw down" weapons of mass destruction -- a spare suitcase nuke or something -- to "find" in Iraq, just to make us look better to the rest of the world.

I'm no big fan of Dubbya -- I've always felt that he's a bumpkin just a little bit out of his element -- and Cheney has all the charisma of a rutabaga, but I am not sure how much of Kerry and Edwards I'm going to be able to take. I haven't seen that many teeth since Jimmy Carter. They're all just rich guys stripping down to their shirtsleeves to pretend they're like us. Horsefeathers! Balderdash!

I realize that by running as a write-in candidate for president in Gloucester County, I actually might influence one or two people to vote for me. Perhaps you think that would be a waste of your vote. But, when you consider all the idio- er, the good citizens who will vote for Ralph "Unsafe on Any Ticket" Nader or Lyndon "This Guy Scares the Heck Out of Me" LaRouche -- well, then, what's a couple wasted votes between friends, right?

I'm Jim Six and I authorized this message.

-30-

2004-07-24T23:31:00.000-04:00

Trademark trumps his claim to Six name

I have always felt somewhat uncomfortable when people call me Mr. Six.

I think I even remember the shock I felt the first time -- I suppose I was 21 or so -- that a kid in the neighborhood called me Mr. Six. It felt really weird.

I don't even like checking Mr., Mrs. or Miss on printed forms, because I don't really identify with those titles.

I have never felt that Mister is part of my name. I deal with cops and teachers and military people and bureaucrats who often apparently feel more comfortable with their distinguishing title than with their first names.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Mr. Smith," they'll say. Or Officer Flingendurdle. Or Mrs. Huffy -- and she usually IS.

"But what's your first name?" I'll ask.

"Mister," they say. Oh, well.

I guess I have always been the kind of guy you should call Jim, even when I was James D. Six Jr. I'm just not your Mister type. Never was, not even when I wore a suit.

Wait! Did I ever wear a suit? No, come to think of it, I don't think I ever actually had a job where I needed to wear a suit. A tie, maybe, but not an actual suit.

So, not being a Mr. Six type turns out to be pretty good, considering this latest development.

You know that whacky old guy in the Six Flags-Great Adventure commercials, the little old guy in the tuxedo? He has a shaved head and thick black glasses and dances like nobody's business?

Six Flags has trademarked the character's name. It's Mr. Six -- with those little "TM" letters after it.

At first, of course, I thought it was pretty funny. For years, my friend John Barna and I have been collecting "Six" headlines: "Six blamed for Chernobyl," "Six hanged in Sri Lanka," "Six killed in bus plunge."

So I thought this was hilarious. Then it hit me.

Ohmigosh, they've trademarked my name! I panicked. What happens when someone DOES call me Mr. -- well, Mr. You-Know-What? Will I be billed by Great Adventure? How much? Will they sue me if I don't pay? Oh, man, this could be bad!

Then I took several deep breaths and realized it was no big deal, since nobody calls me Mr. -- well, Mr. You-Know-What -- anyway.

Times photog Chris Rossi took a picture of me and put my head on the Six Flags character.

That was pretty funny, but imagine the trademark issues that could raise.

I suppose I should be taking steps to trademark my name now, while I still can.

Sure, I had the name first, and my dad had it starting in 1917 and there are lots of other Jim Sixes around the country, including a guy from Ohio who is downright famous in model railroad circles, and all of the Jim Sixes in the world could be in a real pickle and you can never be too careful, if you ask me.

So, for now, let the old man dance.

You can call me Jim and you can call me Jim Six, but whatever you do, don't call me Mr. -- well, Mr. You-Know-What.

-30-

2004-06-16T20:47:00.000-04:00

Things to think about ... quickly

This week, we salute overthought, obsessive compulsiveness and criminal ingenuity.

Overthought is the term I have given to the annoying practice of giving too much thought to the simple things in life.

In Singapore, for instance, you can once again buy chewing gum.

They banned chewing gum there 12 years ago because some idiot stuck a wad of it in the door of a high-speed computer train and caused the train -- Horrors! -- to be late.

Now, however, chewing gum has been re-legalized, but it's being sold only for medicinal purposes and you can buy it only from pharmacists and dentists.

This is the same country that has huge fines for spitting in public and, get this, failing to flush the toilet. Personally, I didn't realize unflushed toilets was a problem anywhere.

Back in the United States, an elementary school in Duxbury, Mass. has decided to watch the waistlines of its students by banning birthday goodies.

The school has lots of birthdays during the year, sometimes several a week, and mothers generally bring in enough cupcakes to feed the entire class. This is worrying school officials and the parent-teacher group, so they instituted the cupcake ban.

The school now will offer a "birthday package" as an alternative. The birthday kid gets a special cover slipped over the back of his chair. Little Fauntleroy can wear a special birthday sash if he wants, although the story I read didn't mention what would be written on it. The kid also gets a special pencil -- are you excited about all this yet? -- and a sticker with a picture of the school mascot on it. If Fauntleroy is in preschool or kindergarten, he can wear a special birthday crown, as well. Hooray!

But, no cake. Not even a cupcake. No place to stick a candle -- and what is a birthday party without candles?

Last Wednesday night, while thousands of people were lining up to see the body of Ronald Reagan as it lie in state in the Rotunda of the U.S. Capitol, a guy walked into an Econo Lodge in Gibsonia, Pa. wearing a Ronald Reagan mask. The desk clerk did not find this the least bit amusing and said to the guy, "That's not right, that's a sick joke."

It was at that point that the man in the mask produced a long-barreled handgun and pointed it at the clerk. The Reagan Robber got away with less than 90 bucks in cash.

Disguise and diversion are important parts of criminal ingenuity.

In California, old women are being victimized by callers who pretend to be their grandchildren.

They get the women on the line and say, "Hello, Grandma, this is your grandson." Many of the women reply by saying the name of a grandchild. "Is that you, Timmy?"

The caller then asks her to wire him a few hundred bucks to help pay his bail for an auto accident or something like that. What a devious ploy!

We obviously need a little less thought in the world.

Who dreams this stuff up? If only all this overthought and ingenuity could used for good instead of -- well, for not good.

-30-

2004-06-11T18:57:00.000-04:00

Every veteran is a hero

Why do they seem to be larger-than-life heroes, these rapidly diminishing old men?

I met Brig. Gen. Paul Tibbets the other day, the pilot of the Enola Gay, who dropped the world's first atomic bomb on Aug. 6, 1945. It killed thousands, but many believe it saved thousands more by bringing the Japanese to the surrender table.

Today,the general is 89. No offense, but he's a frail old man who uses an elaborate hearing device to talk with people and travels with a nurse.

I'm getting ready to meet with Wild Bill Guarnere and Babe Heffron, two members of the "Band of Brothers" lionized by Stephen Ambrose and HBO. Both these war heroes are old men now.

My father, if he was still alive, would be 87. He was a belly gunner in a B-24 Liberator. My Closest Companion's father, if he were still around, would be 83. He was a Marine who fought at Guadalcanal.

I believe many of the World War II troops were heroes. I imagine the incredible hardships they endured, as did their families, to make sure the world stayed somewhat free.

That generation came through the Great Depression feeling strong, if you ask me. Good thing, because the war years, even here in America, were not comfortable. Women who didn't go to war were required to do men's jobs for the first time. Food, fuel, all sorts of things, were rationed as part of the war effort.

There was no certainty that the Germans or the Japanese wouldn't actually show up on our shores.

I look at the history and am inclined to think they went through a worse time then than we are experiencing now. Is that true? I'm not sure. Gasoline may cost $2 a gallon, but it's not being rationed.

On the other hand, the enemy has already encroached upon our borders in this war and can almost certainly be expected to do so again.

During World War II, we stepped all over the civil rights of some Japanese and German Americans. This time, we all seem to be suspects as our rights are eroded by portions of the Patriot Act.

Unthinkable numbers of people were killed during World War II. In hindsight, we are grateful to those who preserved freedom. In hindsight, we seem to believe no one opposed the war back then.

Today, we bicker over just about every detail of the war, from the reason we're in it to how to end it.

So, was the world in greater danger then, or now?

Are the veterans of World War II, my father, your grandfather, are they greater heroes than the kids who are fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan?

Who are these people, these men and women under arms who allow us to sleep safely in our beds because they stand ready to do violence against those who would do us harm?

They're your grandfathers, of course, but also you brothers, sisters, sons and daughters.

In the end, honoring our heroes shouldn't require a lot of analysis. If they serve us honorably, they deserve to be honored as our heroes.

-30-

2004-06-02T13:13:00.000-04:00

Wanted!

The federal government released wanted posters the other day for seven people suspected of being terrorists. They want us to keep our eyes open for these people. Their photos are posted in airports and bus stations and maybe even post offices. So far, they haven’t put them on “America’s Most Wanted,” but I suspect that may happen any day now.

Attorney General John Ashcroft went on national TV to tell us about the possibility that America could be attacked from within by terrorists in the biggest attack since 9-11. Scared the heck out of everybody again, as usual.

Trouble is, according to some accounts I have read, the Homeland Security people and some other federal officials found out about the press conference when the rest of us did. Didn’t we just go through 9-11 Commission hearings to find out why federal agencies weren’t sharing intelligence about terrorist attacks before Sept. 11, 2001? Didn’t everyone promise to do better next time? Could this be next time? Did we expect anything to change?

Is anyone else suspicious about the real intent of the announcements? Could this be a ploy to help George Bush get re-elected?

Yes, of course I’m a cynic. That’s my job. I look at federal pronouncements at a time like this — just months before a presidential election — and I see politics, not public safety.

Why, if these so-called threats of terrorist activity are so credible, haven’t we upped the threat level to orange or tangerine or whatever the level for “Terrified” is?

Of course, we want Americans to be forewarned of a potential attack. But by not raising the threat level, perhaps we prevented the tourist industry from taking an economic header over the Memorial Day weekend.

Over in Iraq, coalition negotiators have told the militant Islamic cleric Muqtada al-Sadr, who controls the Mehdi Army militia, that we’ve changed our minds, we no longer want to arrest or shoot him, thank you, now that he has agreed to stop shooting at us. Cease fires are nice, I suppose, but it always seems weird when we make deals with the devil we were hell-bent on destroying just moments before.

A reader called me the other day with a plan to catch these seven terrorists. He thinks we ought to publish posters with their pictures and then ask all our readers to post the pictures everywhere — stores, restaurants, gas stations, you name it — literally everywhere. His idea is that, if these pictures are everywhere, these seven suspected terrorists couldn’t buy toilet paper or breakfast cereal without getting caught.

He called the FBI to tell them about it and was put on hold — then disconnected. I told him I’d let people know about his idea.

Would it work? Well, yeah, if we could all get together on it, but when’s the last time that ever happened in America? Try never. We are a country of rogues, rebels and malcontents, remember. Agreeing to disagree is what we do. It keeps us free, in the end.

Besides, these are seven people. The government says there may be 18,000 terrorists in the country. We don’t have pictures of the other 17,993.

-30-

2004-05-27T19:46:00.000-04:00

Now you can add your own comments!

Starting now, you have an option to leave your own comments beneath each post on "Jim Six — Just Like The Number."
Just click on "Comments" and say what's on your mind. It's as simple as that.

Let's hear what you have to say!

2004-05-27T19:40:00.000-04:00

Good news and unanswered questionsl

Not long ago, the Gloucester County Times published a "Letter from Iraq" from Lt. Col. Hal Creel who's working as the deputy district commander of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Mosul, Iraq.

The 1980 Gateway Regional High School grad grew up in Woodbury Heights, NJ, but now lives — when he1s not in Iraq — in Fairfax, Va. He works for the Pentagon Renovation Office and serves in the Army Reserves with the Corps of Engineers Contingency Response Unit.

Hal knows folks here at home hear mostly the horror stories from this war.

More than 700 Americans dead. Thousands wounded. Scandals involving prisoner mistreatment at the hands of American military personnel. Atrocities committed against Americans. Roadside bombs. Ambushes. Election-year accusations.

Hal thought we ought to know some of the other news from Iraq, so he sent me a copy of "talking points" put together by the Department of Defense.

"Here's some good info that does not get the press it deserves," Hal wrote in an e-mail he sent Wednesday morning from Mosul.

Unemployment in Iraq has fallen by nearly half in the past year. Inflation is a quarter of what it was before the war. The Coalition Provisional Authority has created more than 395,000 jobs for Iraqis. Twenty-two universities and 43 technical institutes and colleges are open. Almost 2,500 schools have been rehabilitated, 32,000 secondary school teachers and administrative personnel have been trained and nearly nine million textbooks have been printed and handed out.

Health care spending is 30 times greater than before the war. More than 1,200 clinics and 240 hospitals are open. More than five million kids have been immunized against measles, mumps and rubella.

Electricity generation is at levels higher than before the war. The number of telephone users is a third higher than before the war and crude oil export revenue for this year is estimated at more than $5.6 billion.

The Transitional Administrative Law, signed by all members of the Iraqi Governing Council, is what will govern the country starting June 30. It guarantees freedom of religion, freedom of expression, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, equal rights and equal justice.

I think all this is terrific news and I thank Hal and all our troops for their good work on our behalf.

I wish there was a way to prevent these talking points from being appropriated, co-opted, twisted and spun by the presidential candidates in coming months until we can no longer tell ruse from reality.

Does all this good stuff balance out the bad? Do these talking points make it easier for mothers to bury their sons and daughters killed in Iraq?

I don't know.

How can I understand who our enemies really are? Where can we find them? Why do they hate us so much? How can we destroy them and triumph in this global struggle?

Maybe you have answers. I don't.

-30-

2004-05-25T19:57:00.000-04:00

Marines unite to celebrate life of comrade

His long journey home is finally over. After three long decades, the body of a brave Marine has come home to be buried in U.S. soil, next to the graves of his mother and father.

It has been a long and tortuous journey from the jungles of Vietnam, fraught with heart-wrenching emotion for those who care about him -- and there are many.

Dennis W. Hammond was captured by the Viet Cong on Feb. 8, 1968. He was shot trying to escape. He was tortured, punished, beaten and starved by his captors. He died, emaciated, on March 7, 1970, uttering with his last breath an oath of allegiance to his country.

One of the other POWs who helped bury Dennis back then didn't want Hammond to simply slip into oblivion. Jim Pfister carved the Marine's name into a nearby tree, with an arrow pointing to the grave.

It turned out the government had recovered Dennis' remains in the 1980s. They were able to identify them, finally, thanks to DNA.

Pfister drove from southern Illinois to Bremond, Texas, to see his friend buried again the other day.

Mike "Tiny" Readinger made a similar drive, from Terre Haute, Ind. Tiny -- he's a huge guy, of course -- was Hammond's best friend in the Marine CAP unit, a squad that lived in a Vietnamese village.

Pfister and Readinger sat together in the small funeral home Saturday. When pictures of Dennis Hammond as a child were projected on the wall above the flag-draped coffin, a high keening sound came from Hammond's sister, Carlene Tackitt. Moments later, when photos of the handsome young Marine in Vietnam were projected, the same kind of sound came from where Readinger and Pfister sat.

Marines of all sorts attended this hero's funeral. Active duty, veterans from the Marine Corps League, kids in the Young Marine program, a group of Marines on motorcycles who call themselves the Leathernecks, Marines who didn't know Dennis but felt compelled to come, to honor the return of their fallen comrade-in-arms.

Vietnam vet Jasper Garrison, whose friendship with Dennis started in kindergarten and continued through high school, came all the way from Detroit.

Hammond came into my life by way of a corroded dog tag purchased from a vendor in Vietnam. I was able to give that dog tag to his sister in 2001. He's been a part of my life since then.

Now his family is family. They welcome me into their homes and, more importantly, into their hearts.

Gene Lillie is part of that. The Deptford tax accountant has been involved with Dennis Hammond for as long as I have, working with me to get the dog tag to Carlene Tackitt, working to make sure Marine veterans in Texas knew of the plans for the funeral, working to make sure this hero got the honor he deserved when he came home to be buried near his mother and father.

Gene, who wore a Marine Corps dress blue uniform, complete with saber, for the funeral, took his sons, Sam, 11, and Tim, 6, along. It was an emotional occasion for Gene. It was a real-life history lesson for his kids.

Carlene said the return of her brother brings closure for her and her other brother, Willie -- who always believed his brother would return. She's just sorry her mother, Opal, who died in 1981, and her father, Ernest, who died in 1994, couldn't see Dennis' return.

So Dennis Hammond's long journey is over. But the story continues.

Readinger and Pfister -- they'd never met face-to-face before -- now plan to get together as often as possible to continue the brotherhood they share.

They and Gene Lillie and I would like to be able to return to Bremond next year -- a memorial stone will have been put in place by then on Dennis' grave -- and there is talk of trying to honor Hammond's memory with some kind of charitable fund.

In the end, there's nothing I can write that can convey to you the emotion I felt at that funeral in Texas. The words won't come. I'll simply say this:

Welcome home, brother.

-30-

2004-05-20T10:28:00.000-04:00

Dennis Hammond finally coming home

It was one last thing he had to do before leaving for the funeral.

"It occurred to me that nobody in that family from Texas was ever going to get to Washington to see Dennis' name on the Wall," he said.

That's why we made the road trip to D.C. Wednesday, tax accountant Gene Lillie, Kelly Henry and Tina Hagan from his office and I, to make a rubbing of Hammond's name off the Wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

The Wall is very impressive, but we weren't there to sightsee. We were on a mission.

Wednesday seemed to be a pretty slow day at the Wall, which was good for us. It gave us time to look at the name of the Marine POW who was captured in 1968 at the height of the Tet Offensive and who died in a prison camp two years later. After 34 years, his body has been identified and will be coming home for burial.

Dennis is on Panel 38E, Line 29.

A small, red carnation lay at the base of the panel. Rain drops splattered the reflective black granite.

Jet planes passed noisily overhead. The sound of traffic and the squealing of bus brakes screeched over the grassy mounds behind the granite Wall from the nearby street. Horns beeped. You could see the Washington Monument rising skyward nearby, but from this distance, you can't see the post-9-11 security fences around the base of the obelisk.

But here, at the Wall, people whispered almost reverently. It's a holy place. The shoes of visitors squeaked on the gray slate walkways in the May afternoon drizzle. People searched for names and, finding them, touched them with an outstretched finger, then stood silently -- memories of loved ones or fallen comrades, private unspoken thoughts, running through their minds. Despite the overcast skies, some tough-looking, graying men wore sunglasses to mask tears in their eyes.

Lenny E. Hale. Anthony W. Handley. These two names flank Dennis Hammond's on the granite. I don't know anything about them, but Dennis is finally coming home after 34 years -- a lifetime for some, more than a lifetime for a Marine who died in a Southeast Asian jungle when he was only 24 years old.

Wearing camo pants and an olive drab T-shirt with Marine Corps sergeant's stripes in gold, a guy I'm proud to call my friend put a piece of white paper against the granite, over the chiseled name of Dennis Hammond, and rubbed a pencil over it. What results is a tracing of the name. He made several rubbings, the most important one for Dennis' sister, Carlene Tackitt, who lives in Mexia, Texas. The other, for Dennis' brother, Willie, who lives near Detroit.

Gene and I leave tomorrow for Texas. There, in Bremond on Saturday, Dennis Hammond will be buried next to his parents, Ernest and Opal, who both died knowing their youngest child had died, but never knowing what had become of his body.

It's been a long journey, but Dennis Hammond is almost home.

-30-

2004-05-13T20:44:00.000-04:00

Common decency among soldiers?

We now have a perfect illustration of the difference between mistreatment and atrocity.

I have to admit, I don't have a problem with a certain amount of psychological effort when it comes to interrogating prisoners who may have information we need to know during a war. Not torture, but things such as disorientation, sleep deprivation, even some perceived humiliation, might be OK.

That picture of the Iraqi standing on the box with the hood on his head and wires connected to his outstretched hands? Well, that kind of fake-out, getting him to believe he was about to be electrocuted, might work if he was being interrogated. Doing something like that just for grins and giggles, though, that's mistreatment.

I said mistreatment. That's what some of these soldiers allegedly practiced.

Atrocity, on the other hand, is what seems to have happened to Nicholas Berg the other day, crudely hacked to death on videotape for the gory edification of cowards cowering behind head scarves and ski masks

At least the GIs acting like idiots in the pictures I've seen showed their faces.

I was observing that we seem to be able to trust our troops with billions of dollars worth of equipment, but not with something as innocuous as digital cameras, when one of my young colleagues attempted to explain why such things could happen.

"It's the 'Jackass' factor," he said, referring to the MTV program in which young people performed moronic stunts. "Twenty-one-year-olds, that's what they do, film each other breaking stuff."

Maybe that explains why it seemed perfectly OK for them to allow themselves to be photographed doing shameful things to people.

My colleague thinks the mistreatment of prisoners in Iraq occurred because the young soldiers at Abu Ghraib prison "were never told they couldn't do this."

What? Nobody ever told me I couldn't throw pies at my publisher, but common sense would cause me to hesitate before taking such a course of action.

Nobody ever told me I couldn't build a campfire in the middle of the newsroom, or wear SCUBA gear to a wedding, or slap the snot out of people who irritate me, but the notion to do these things -- well, two out of three, anyway -- has never crossed my mind.

It may be deplorable, but we are at war and people die in wars. I don't have a problem with soldiers killing people in combat. If you press me, I might even be willing to accept a certain amount of collateral damage.

But there are rules of common decency no one should have to be taught. Once you capture the enemy, you become responsible for him, for his well-being, for his life.

It was a handful of blithering idiots that mistreated prisoners and photographed it. It was a handful of thoroughly despicable subhuman scum that hacked off a man's head on camera.

Mistreatment. Atrocity.

Please don't confuse the two.

-30-

2004-05-11T08:15:00.000-04:00

With digital, no one sees bad prints

I am rediscovering the joys of shooting.

I bought a pretty good Nikon camera back in the 1980s. I carried it everywhere for awhile, shooting rolls and rolls of film. People got fed up with me poking my zoom lens in their faces, shooting up-close candid portrait shots that caught their expressions pretty well. I carried a khaki camera bag on my shoulder to all sorts of places and fired the shutter like a crazy man, viewing what was going on around me through the tunnel of the single-lens reflex viewfinder.

As a result, I got some pretty decent pictures.

The trouble was, photography was a fairly expensive hobby. Sure, a couple of real photographers offered to tutor me in the fine art of processing and developing my own photographs, but, hey! I flunked chemistry in my junior year of high school and even though I think it was the teacher's fault and I aced summer school, the thought of playing with chemicals in a dark room illuminated only by a red lightbulb was not as inviting as just pressing the button and snapping the pictures.

I shot hundreds of photos when my Closest Companion and I went to Casablanca, Marrakech and Tangier. Something as mundane as an afternoon at the beach could result in me shooting something like 12 rolls of film.

So I wound up with a nice, small portfolio of photographs, hundreds of unprinted negatives and many rolls of unprocessed film. It was just too darned costly.

Now, it's a whole new world of photographic joy for me, thanks to my new, way-cool digital camera.

Zoom magnification has always been important to me. When I bought my Nikon, I wasn't satisfied with a lens that zoomed to 150mm. I went out and bought an even bigger lens that zoomed to 300mm.

Well, my new digital has a zoom that extends to the equivalent of 380mm and also takes cool up-close macro pictures.

I'm once again shooting photos like crazy, poking my lens in people's faces. This little digital, though, is lighter than my old Nikon, smaller and less obtrusive than my old Nikon and actually fits in a big pocket on a vest or a pair of cargo pants.

I'm boring the heck out of people, insisting they look at my latest photos.

I'm shooting my Closest Companion, our nephews, my spacious front yard, the blazingly lovely azaleas around our house, a short-lived day lily out back, bumble bees in flight, shadow patterns on the wall of my office at home, you name it.

The beauty of the digital is that I can immediately download the photos onto my computer and look at them in all their colorful glory.

I can immediately eliminate the clunkers -- no one ever has to see the bad ones.

I can make pretty good color prints on my home printer and send pictures to others by e-mail.

One of my shots, not a great photo, I admit, even made the newspaper the other day.

You might be able to tell that I am pretty excited to have once again discovered the joy of being a shooter. Say cheese!

-30-

2004-05-10T20:43:00.000-04:00

Now you can add your own comments!

Starting now, you have an option to leave your own comments beneath each post on "Jim Six — Just Like The Number."

Just click on "Comments" and say what's on your mind. It's as simple as that.

Let's hear what you have to say!

2004-05-10T19:27:00.000-04:00

Duh. Double Duh.

Just when you are ready to give credit to fine, upstanding people for being clever, honest and just plain good, along comes this particular bunch of goofy folks.

A California guy was caught after flashing his private portions to people of the female persuasion at least 16 times. The guy told police he was just trying to meet women. He said he didn’t think anyone would be offended and even thought the women might enjoy it.

“I was only hoping to get lucky, but I went about it the wrong way.” Duh.

Another Left Coast guy held up a bank, walked across the parking lot, went into a tavern and ordered a beer. He sat there and started to count the stolen money. Cops walked in and busted him in mid count. The bank got all its money — less the price of the brew. Duh again.

In Bridgeton, NJ, a man filled out a job application at one of those dollar stores — put down his real name and address, of course — then shoplifted two bags of stuff before leaving. Cops had no trouble tracking the guy. Double duh.

A 17-year-old boy and a 32-year-old preoperative transsexual got naked and climbed a tree in New York City’s Central Park the other day. They created quite a stir for several hours before coming down and being taken directly for a psychiatric evaluation. This happened a day after two Canadian woman took a swim, fully clothed, in the Central Park
reservoir. Visitors passed up a trip to the Statue of Liberty to watch the fun. No wonder New York is a top tourist attraction, huh?

If you want to see skin, don’t bother going to Louisiana. A state legislator wants to make it illegal to wear low-rider pants. He’s tired of seeing boxer shorts and thongs, but his law would also make criminals of plumbers, I think. It’s a goofy idea.

In Berlin, Germany, a man took his neighbor to court because she laughs loudly. He filed the disturbance of the peace complaint after she allegedly kept him awake with eight hours of laughter one night as she entertained friends in the apartment above his. A judge threw the case out.

Speaking of Germany, the German sauerkraut council thinks it has an image problem, so its trying to do something about it. They’re suggesting people start using the pickled cabbage product as a topping for pizza, something to put in sushi. spring rolls, lasagna, stuffed peppers, cakes and even peppermint sauerkraut in sorbet? Oh, please.

The funny thing is, this “sour cabbage” so closely associated with Germany that it has engendered a national nickname was really brought to Europe from China by Mongol leader Genghis Khan in the 13th century. Christopher Columbus fed it to his crew to help stave off scurvy.

Remember when we started calling French fries “liberty fries” last year to show our displeasure with France? Nothing new there. During a previous world war, we called sauerkraut “liberty cabbage.”

Maybe they ought to start marketing it as a brain food. They could feed it to goofy people and smarten them up some.

Or not.

-30-

2004-05-07T20:59:00.000-04:00

The U.S. should be gracious in battle

I'm as incensed as anyone about the photos of the U.S. soldiers mistreating Iraqi prisoners. We need to keep what's happening over there in some kind of sane perspective, if you can ever use the word "sane" when talking about war.

Did the abuse happen because the soldiers are reservists who didn't get enough training? Well, the government obviously thinks they were trained enough to go fight a war for us, so you'd think they'd have had the proper training for whatever they faced. You'd be wrong, probably. I've heard from some other reservists that the pre-deployment training they received was a bit less comprehensive than they'd expected.

It's one thing to be a convenience store clerk one day and a machine-gunner the next, but that excuse doesn't hold water in this instance. One of the guys reportedly was a prison guard in real life. He says he didn't get the proper training. What? Being a jailer for Americans is different than being a jailer for Iraqis? Hogwash!

What got me hot the other day was the notion that by doing this, these idiots have caused Muslims to want to exact revenge, that they would hate us even more, attack us even more, hurt us even more.

Wait. How could the people we are fighting possibly hate us more? Didn't some of them already fly airplanes into our buildings, killing thousands? Aren't they planting bombs along the roads and killing coalition military forces in Iraq every chance they get?

Sure it's unacceptable to mistreat prisoners like that, but who are these people we are so afraid of making mad? The people in Fallujah, perhaps, who not long ago -- please do not allow yourself to forget this -- killed, burned, kicked, stamped on, dismembered and hanged four people in pieces from a bridge? Are they the ones we don't want mad at us?

Or the people who are blowing up Army and civilian trucks? Are they the ones we don't want to offend?

If we don't torture people, it should be because we are bigger than that, not because we fear ticking off someone. The United States of America, as the leader of the free world, is bigger than all that.

When terrorists kill at will, at random, with no regard for whether their victims are combatants, Boy Scouts, soccer moms or a little girl who would have grown up to be President, we don't go after similar victims, because we are bigger than that.

When bombers who wear vests packed with plastic explosives walk into buses and cafes and busy town squares and blow themselves and everyone around them to smithereens because, they say, they believe they are becoming martyrs and will go to heaven for their actions, we don't send our own clerics out to level their villages or kill their families, because we are bigger than that.

Sometimes it gets to be a bit trying. It's not easy, being bigger than that.

In the end, though, we shouldn't be worrying about what anyone thinks of us.

We don't torture people for one simple reason: It's wrong.

-30-

2004-05-07T20:55:00.000-04:00

A nation founded by malcontents, rogues and rebels

A recent column I wrote about a former Marine finding American flags in a cemetery Dumpster seems to have been the opening salvo in an ongoing firestorm. The Marine found the flags, shot some photos, then went back and took the flags because he didn’t want them lying in the trash. I believe he eventually stuck them all in the dirt in his backyard so some guys from the VFW could take pictures.

The manager of the cemetery remains suspicious. She says she doesn’t know whether she suspects the former Marine or a guy she had to fire some time ago, but she believes somebody set her up, planting the flags in her trash for the negative publicity value.

I’ve talked to people who believe either the cemetery lady or the former Marine, not both, as if they need to choose sides in this story or something.

This all has me steamed, not just because I hate being used. I’m angry because the very bottom line is, these flags were trashed while American men and women are dying in foreign hellholes.

Another guy called me Monday morning wanted to talk about flags. He described himself as an old-timer and it bothers him to see torn and tattered flags flying above businesses and government buildings. He recited a litany of places he said are flying flags that ought to be replaced. A post office. A bank. A senior citizens center. Two at one municipal building. A diner. A fast-food joint.

He goes in and complains about the disrespect he feels is being shown to his flag and insists it be replaced. People tell him they don’t have time, that it’s too expensive. The guy then threatens to have them picketed by the VFW the next day. In all the years I’ve been around, I don’t recall ever seeing an actual picket line of angry veterans, so perhaps his guerrilla-style threats DO work in the end.

Maybe, the old-timer said, people should think twice about flying the flag. If they can’t take proper care of it, show it the respect it’s due, maybe they should just forget about it. A lot of people started flying Old Glory in some fashion after 9-11. Their hearts are in the right place, even if
they don’t know the rules. So maybe now’s the time to replace your tattered American flag, whether it’s the little one on your car antenna or the big one outside on the flagpole. If your company says it can’t afford a replacement, take up a collection.

You may have noticed that Americans are divided about whether we should be fighting in Iraq and other hot spots. That’s fine. We steadfastly support the troops, just as we steadfastly support the right to be unsure about the war. I spoke to some Vietnam vets the other day who think we ought to get the heck out of Iraq pronto. It’s the American Way to question the American Way. Always has been. We are a nation founded by malcontents, rogues and rebels. I embrace that part of my history and am proud to be able to carry on in that tradition.

Just remember that we are Americans and our flag represents all the things that make us — and this country — free. Freedom is fragile, though. You have to treat it with care, respect and honor.

-30-

2004-04-21T19:23:00.000-04:00

Marine's charisma touching many

How does a Marine who died in Vietnam more than 34 years ago wind up affecting the lives of so many people, many of whom never knew him in life?

It's a mystery, so far.

On Saturday, May 22, I'll be attending the funeral of Dennis W. Hammond, a Texas boy by way of Detroit who joined the Marines, served two tours in Vietnam, was captured by the Vietcong in 1968 and died in a POW camp in 1970.

I got drawn into his life, and death, when I was able to present one of his dog tags to his sister, Carlene Tackitt, in Mexia, Texas in 2001. Dennis' parents, Ernest and Opal, are buried nearby in Bremond, Texas.

After all these years, Dennis is coming home. His remains -- possibly found in the mid to late 1980s but only recently identified thanks to DNA testing -- will be returned to Texas.

Mike "Tiny" Readinger served with Dennis in 1968 in a Combined Action Program unit that lived and worked among the Vietnamese. Dennis was ending his second tour in the country, had just a couple weeks left until he'd go home.

Dennis went out with a hastily assembled rescue team to help an ambushed unit. They were overrun by something like 300 Vietcong fighters. Most were killed, only one or two escaped and a couple, including Dennis, were captured.

Dennis tried to escape, got shot, was beaten and nearly starved by his captors. In March 1970, he died, weighing something like 89 pounds, They say he was reciting the military oath of allegiance, more probably the military Code of Conduct, when he died.

Mike found out about Dennis' recovery only a few days ago. His voice cracks when he tells about starting to read the e-mail. He had to get up and go out into his backyard for a while before getting his wife to read the rest of the message. He read it several times after that.

Andy Anderson is a school teacher in Fort Worth who "adopted" Dennis Hammond after getting a POW bracelet bearing his name. Anderson is so involved with Dennis, he has had his students write about the POW every year on Feb. 8. Anderson usually felt quite depressed on Feb. 8 each year. This year, he didn't and, in retrospect, wonders whether he subconsciously knew Dennis Hammond had been found and was on his way home.

Marty Eddy spent 17 years heading the Michigan POW/MIA Committee and, because Dennis had enlisted in Detroit, has followed his amazing story. She never met Dennis, but has a friend who went through boot camp with Hammond.

Now comes the funeral. We'll all meet -- his sister from Texas, his brother from Detroit, the comrade-in-arms from Indiana, the teacher from Fort Worth, the woman and boot camp pal from Michigan, the journalist from Gloucester County.

Maybe then I'll find a clue to this incredible mystery, to the charisma of this remarkable hero who died never knowing how much he'd affect lives of family, friends and complete strangers.

-30-

2004-04-15T20:46:00.000-04:00

Marine to be buried with full honors in Texas May 22

The latest news on Dennis W. Hammond: His sister called me April 15 to let me know that Dennis' funeral will be 2 p.m., Saturday, May 22, 2004 at the Bremond Funeral Home in Bremond, Texas.

I'll be going and will finally get to write the final chapter in the story of this brave Marine, whose dog tag I got to give to his sister in 2001.

Dennis was captured by the Viet Cong in February 1968. He died in a POW camp in March, 1970.

His sister was notified early this year that his remains had been recovered — as it turned out, they probably have been in US hands since 1985. Thanks to modern technology and DNA, a match was finally made.

The remains of this brave young man will finally be buried in the same cemetery as his parents.

I'll keep you posted.

(You can check out "The Dog Tag Project" link at top right for the whole story and more.)

2004-04-07T10:01:00.000-04:00

A Marine's Long Journey Nears Its End

The U.S. contacted Carlene Tackitt earlier this year to tell her they finally had her brother’s remains. Marine Corps Staff Sgt. Dennis W. Hammond was captured by the Viet Cong on Feb. 8, 1968 and died in a prisoner of war camp in March, 1970.

I’ve been anxiously awaiting news of how they finally found Denny’s remains.

As it turns out, the U.S. may have had Denny’s remains for almost 20 years. A team went to Carlene’s house in Mexia, Texas Saturday — a full-dress Marine, a DNA expert, someone from mortuary services. Carlene chose to bury her brother in Bremond, Texas rather than Arlington, because Bremond is where his parents, Opal and Ernest, are buried.

Having given Carlene what we think was her brother’s dog tag
in January, 2001, it was pretty exciting news when I got word on Feb. 1 that they’d identified Denny’s body. I thought he might have been one of four GIs whose remains had been found in north central Vietnam in mid-January.

It seems I was wrong about that.

“Daddy was probably right,” Carlene said when she called me Monday. Back in 1985, the government believed they had found Denny’s body. Somebody changed their mind, though, and announced they remains they had found were really too small to be those of a Caucasian and were probably those of a Montagnard tribesman.

Carlene’s father didn’t quite buy that story and thought those remains probably really were his son’s.

Finally, modern technology caught up with Dennis Hammond. Carlene gave the government a DNA sample two years ago. Recently, they told her Saturday, they started rechecking more than 860 boxes of remains from Vietnam. They showed her a picture of bones they believe are her brother’s. They made a DNA match through a tooth.

Carlene signed a paper Saturday saying she accepts the proof and believes these particular remains are those of her brother, Dennis.

When I wrote about this in February, several people contacted me immediately to offer to pay my way to the funeral. Others, when it appeared Carlene might be responsible for some costs of a funeral in Texas, agreed to make up any difference. I’ll let you know later who those folks are. She’s asking
the government to pay for an airplane ticket so her other brother, Willie, can make it out to Bremond from Detroit for the funeral. Carlene’s the oldest. Willie is next. Denny was the baby — he was only 23 when he died in the jungles of Vietnam.

When she sets the date, a Marine will be assigned to guard Dennis Hammond’s casket 24 hours a day as it travels from Hawaii to Bremond, Texas. There will be a full-tilt military funeral, complete with 21-gun salute.

My pal, Gene Lillie, himself a Marine Corps Vietnam veteran, has already mailed Carlene his POW bracelet that bears Denny’s name. I’m still wearing mine. I figure I’ll give it to Carlene in person — at the funeral.

I plan to be there when Dennis Hammond’s long journey home finally ends.

-30-

2004-04-02T21:44:00.000-05:00

How do we know our enemy?

I guess it just depends on where you are, or maybe your vantage point.

I have interviewed several military people who have served in the Persian Gulf. Some of those who have spent time in Iraq have described it as hot, brown and dirty.

Others tell me it’s a beautiful place. Some think the people of Iraq are lovely, glad for us to be there, glad for the fact that the U.S. toppled the regime of Saddam Hussein and is attempting to help launch a new government there.

They describe encounters with local politicians eager to get electricity and water and school kids who are happy to have pencils and notebooks and people who are grateful to have been released from Saddam’s yoke of tyranny.

These people gave me hope for the future, just listening to them.

Then, on Wednesday, I looked at some photographs from the Reuters news service. Four civilian contractors, maybe three of them Americans, were killed in Iraq. Their charred bodies were mutilated. A mob of Iraqis danced around, smashing the bodies with shovels, kicking them. They dragged the bodies behind cars. They hanged at least one of the burned bodies so that it dangled upside down from a bridge, alongside a piece of another victim’s body, which had been tied to a brick and hurled over a wire — the way neighborhood kids do with old sneakers.

According to a Reuters story, a 12-year-old kid said, “I am happy to see this.”

None of the military people I’ve interviewed had much to say about this segment of Iraqi society, although some have dealt with them in one way or another — being shot at, watching comrades suffer and die.

As the victims died the other day, the mob of about 150 chanted “God is greatest!” and flashed victory signs, according to Reuters.

It still creeps me out that people do these kinds of things in the name of God. Christians. Muslims. Black men. White men. Whatever. I suppose it’s part of history.

In this war, we seem to be fighting an invisible enemy. There are no front lines, no well-defined battlefields, no marked campaigns or easily recognized objectives. But we’re fighting for our lives more than ever before.

It’s not Muslims, we keep telling ourselves, who are the enemy. Islam, we are told over and over, does not preach killing infidels or destroying America. Islam, we are continually reminded, is a peaceful religion.

This would be easier to believe and easier to remember if the people who are orchestrating terrorist attacks, who killed 3,000 people in America in one day, who drag burning bodies through the streets and hang them from wires, were Presbyterians from Pittsburgh or Catholics from California.

But they’re not.

They’re Muslims, mostly from Middle Eastern or Southwest Asian countries.

Evil comes in all flavors, all denominations, I know that. I’m trying to understand, I really am.

But how DO we know our enemy?

-30-

2004-03-12T12:40:00.000-05:00

Could you put that in writing?

Here we are, early in the 21st century. All around, people are talking on cell phones, tapping information into PDAs, typing data onto laptop computers and snapping photos with digital cameras.

While I use a different kind of mobile word processor, writing longhand in a notebook.

Don't get me wrong. I use a computer a lot. Make calls on my cell phone. Am contemplating the purchase of a digital camera.

I am a gizmoid, a gadget freak, no doubt about it.

There's just something about writing longhand that I love. I write my stories and columns on a computer, although sometimes, when I am away from my desk, I do start writing columns the old-fashioned way, scribbling the words in a notebook I always have with me, getting a feel for the words I want to use, scratching out words and phrases I change my mind about, drawing lines and arrows to indicate paragraphs that should be moved up or down in the final version.

I am in love with the physical act of writing. Often when I am writing, whether it's something reflective or something on which I am hastily taking notes for an assignment, I suddenly become meditative. I become focused on the point of my pen or pencil as it glides across the paper and it fills me with awe and reverence for the human ability to think of something and record it in this manner, to create or recreate thoughts and feelings and atmosphere, to set scenes, describe actions, supply accurate quotes and to filter all that through the tiny point of a pen to place it on a page in handwriting that is quite uniquely our own.

I know this must sound pretty strange, but it's the writer in me.

The trouble is, after more than 20 years of scribbling notes for a living, my handwriting has become atrocious. The sad part is that I once had pretty nice penmanship skills.

I stopped writing letters and notes, perhaps because of the advent of computers. It's just so easy to send e-mails and Instant Messages. No one writes letters.

Well, almost no one.

I found, ironically enough, a Web site called By Return Post. If you go there and fill out a little form, a nice guy named Craig Miles will write a personal letter and send it to you. It's on expensive stationery, written in Craig's fine handwriting and mailed the old-fashioned way.

I was so intrigued I wrote back to Craig to ask him about why he's doing this.

He enjoys writing letters, that's why. He pays for the project himself and has written about 30 letters in the last six months. It's a way to see "an idea put into action."

He's not selling anything, despite a mention on the Web site about a special blend of ink. He just wants us all to write more letters and has the time to do this. He carries paper with him, he says, and can write a letter anywhere -- even places where there's no Internet connection.

So, if you like getting or sending handwritten letters, get in touch with Craig. Tell him I sent you.

2004-03-12T12:37:00.000-05:00

Whose line is it anyway?

In the beginning, it wasn't that big a deal, trying to meet and impress the living heck out of members of the opposite sex. I mean, it was just Adam, right? He didn't have to worry about anything. He strolled around naked, didn't clean the bathroom, left dirty dishes piled alongside the stream, scratched and belched when he felt like it.

Then, one day, wham! There was Eve. He wasn't sure why, but he was extremely interested in this creature who sort of looked like him, only better.

She wasn't all that interested in him, though. He belched loud, scratched proudly, even grunted and growled for her, but none of those things seemed to impress her.

He finally asked Eve if she would like to take a walk through the garden with him. She told him, no, not if he was the last man on earth, which technically, as the first and only man on earth, he would most certainly be if they did not get together.

Obviously, Adam needed a surefire pickup line or, as they are called in these politically correct times, ice-breaker lines.

There's a new book out that purports to supply appropriate ice-breaker lines for modern men and women. It's chock full of examples we've been howling at here in the newsroom for about a week.

History does not record what line finally worked for Adam, but I sincerely believe that if he had used one of the lines from this book, none of us would be here today. The world would be a bigger void than the shelves at the Anna Nicole Smith Library.

"Your eyes are beautiful. Are they real?" is my favorite line from the book. We really laughed at that one, especially because the book includes the instructions that it should be said "with obvious humor."

When the book gets really specific -- In a park, say "I'm the best mosquito repellent around" -- it gets really lame. If you need to be told to say something like, "Have you been waiting here long?" in a doctor's waiting room, you obviously need a book.

I asked some of the staffers in the newsroom about their favorite lines.

A woman who regularly works out said she might be receptive if someone asked about her fitness routine or, as she put it, "noticed this incredibly ripped body."

Another guy, who's getting married this summer, offered, "Your father must be a thief because he stole the stars from the skies and put them in your eyes."

Many of the others, including some I could barely remember from my single days, I can't repeat here.

Personally, I think it was Eve who came up with a line that worked: "Hey, bub, can you reach me that apple?"

2004-03-12T12:30:00.000-05:00

Baring it all about nudity

The guy who recently announced he wanted to open a topless coffee bar in Madison, Maine, was surprised when the notion didn't get a warm reception by officials and residents.

Apparently, this guy does not read national news or watch TV. Otherwise, he would have known about the humongous stink caused by the baring of Janet Jackson's right breast in a stupid half-time stunt at the Super Bowl.

You might think Jackson had done something awful. I saw more skin in a Victoria's Secret commercial the other week, and heard more than I ever wanted to know about how men should seek emergency medical treatment if the invigorating effect of their prescription Cialis pills lasts more than three hours.

That stuff seems to be allowed, though. It's breasts and bad words that America is rising up against. We seem to be mobilizing to outlaw the kind of things high school boys like.

This new righteous rectitude is centered around our new Morality Master, Federal Communications Commission Chairman Michael Powell, who has turned Jackson's idiotic titillation into, well, a federal case.

So, in the midst of this renewed morality mania, this guy in Maine thinks it's the perfect time to have topless waitresses dealing hot coffee and bagels. Timing is everything. Besides offending the resurgent virtuousness of the nation, wouldn't that be potentially hazardous for the waitresses?

Nudity, it seems, offends our goodness.

In South Carolina, a college professor wanted to illustrate cultural differences and show that public nudity is frowned upon in American society. He might just have played tapes of Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl and discussed the resulting brouhaha to show his students how uptight America could become almost overnight, but he didn't do that. Instead, he offered an A in sociology to students who took their clothes off. The professor didn't think anyone would do it, but one student took him up on his offer and doffed his or her duds.

The professor has, of course, resigned. Mars Hill College, connected to the Baptist Church, said the student wouldn't get in trouble, but also did not divulge whether the student got that A. As a matter of honor, the A should be on his or her record.

While we may be experiencing a renewed focus on morality as it regards nudity and bad words uttered by disc jockeys, honor doesn't seem to be making a big comeback.

In Philadelphia, when the Phillie Phanatic's head was pinched, disc jockeys and others started offering rewards for its return -- no questions asked.

So a guy brought the head back to claim his reward. And was arrested. Well, of course he probably stole the head, but they did say "no questions asked" and arresting him is not "no questions asked" where I come from. Are they planning to give him time off for good behavior because he came clean?

Honor has always seemed more important to me than just about anything else.

Honor and honesty are more important than whether someone is naked or uses colorful language.

And that's the naked truth.

2004-02-03T20:37:00.000-05:00

Marine's lengthy journey nears end

They found him! After 36 years, U.S. Marine Sgt. Dennis Wayne Hammond is on his way home from Vietnam.

You may remember a story I wrote back in 2001. I have more than 400 dog tags that I gave a friend a hundred bucks to buy from a street vender in Vietnam in 1993. The dog tags may or may not have belonged to American servicemen. The jury is still out on that.

But one of the dog tags matched a real person.

Denny Hammond was captured by the Viet Cong on Feb. 8, 1968, almost exactly 36 years ago. He was shot trying to escape and never quite recovered. By March 1970, the once-strapping Marine weighed about 89 pounds. He died, some say, while reciting the military oath of allegiance.

Previous efforts by the U.S. government to find Denny's body had been unsuccessful. In 1995, a former POW who had helped bury Denny was able to lead searchers to the grave, but it was empty.

On Jan. 20, 2001, in Mexia, Texas, I handed Carlene Tackitt a dog tag bearing the name of her brother, Denny Hammond. Carlene's mother, Opal, had died in 1981, out of her mind with grief for the son who had been captured in the jungles of Vietnam.

Before Carlene's dad died, he said it was probably the not knowing that had killed Opal, the not knowing where her boy was.

My visit to Mexia was brief, just long enough to be the recipient of Carlene's Texas hospitality and to hand her a donated jewelry box containing that old dog tag.

She clasped that little piece of metal tightly, not wanting to let go of something that might have been her brother's.

"Keep that next to me...I ain't never giving that up," Carlene said back then. "You don't know how much we appreciate this. You have no idea."

The story about the dog tag and the man it might have belonged to was probably one of the most important things I have written.

Denny Hammond, for some reason, became part of my life.

I have a POW bracelet with his name on it. His high school graduation picture is somewhere on my desk at home.

I have an ancient arrowhead Denny's nephew gave me.

I think about Denny Hammond a lot.

Last week, Carlene Tackitt was notified by the government that her brother's remains had been located and were now in Hawaii.

I got the news Sunday in an e-mail from Carlene's daughter-in-law.

"We wanted you to know this because you had played a part in finding a piece of him and thought you might want to know how his story ends finally...his family has gotten the peace we need."

When I got the news, I cried, then wanted to smoke a cigar, drink some champagne, dance, sing.

I hope to talk to Carlene soon. Dennis Wayne Hammond's long journey is almost at an end.

He will be buried — maybe in Texas, next to his mother and father, maybe in Arlington National Cemetery — sometime in March.

Boy, I'd like to be there for that.

-30-

2004-02-01T18:51:00.000-05:00

Incredible News!

You may remember I wrote a story called "A Long Journey" back in 2001, about returning to a lady named Carlene Tackitt a dog tag that appeared to have belonged to her baby brother, USMC Sgt. Dennis Wayne Hammond.

Denny was captured by the Viet Cong in 1968 and died in a POW camp in March, 1970. His body was never found and his sister was quite happy to have the dog tag.

It was one of the most important stories I have ever written.

I am happy to report that this past week, the United States has notified Mrs. Tackitt that they have recovered remains that have been identified as those of Dennis Wayne Hammond. They are currently in Hawaii and will be returned to the mainland. Denny will be buried next to his mother and father in Texas in March — 34 years after his death.

I just wanted to share the news.

I'll be writing something about it and will post here when I do.

2004-01-22T08:50:00.000-05:00

It is proper to question our leaders

"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." -- Benjamin Franklin

I believe in that statement as strongly as anything I have ever heard or read. It is not in our best interests as a free people to give up any of our rights, our liberty, for any reason, including and especially for a false sense of security.

We can't keep nodding blithely with glassy eyed agreement when the federal government tells us it is eroding a little more of our freedom, just a smidgen of our blood-won rights, to protect us from terrorism. If you don't agree, you support terrorism or are an evil person and a bad American.

We are engaged in a period of high-level patriotism, when support for our country and our military is at a peak. So much so that some people who have doubts about why we are in Iraq are reluctant to speak their minds. We need to make this clear: If you question the mission, it doesn't mean you don't support the people carrying out the mission.

Robert Wells, of Mullica Hill, NJ, is a sergeant major in the Army Reserve now serving in Kuwait. His story was recently featured in the Gloucester County Times' "Letter from Iraq" series. His response to e-mailed questions was perhaps the longest we have yet received. Some of it didn't make it into the paper. Part of what got cut, though, deserves to be read.

Wells wonders whether "America did the right thing here. Pre-emptive war is a radical doctrine. We have not settled matters here by any stretch ... it gnaws at me to wonder whether there really were weapons of mass destruction, whether there were true links between Saddam and al Qaida ... and whether the U.S. or anyone can actually encourage democracy and free-market systems in this part of the world.

"In the end, are we safer than we were a year ago? Hard to say. We probably won't know for a couple of years if this adventure is a success," he said.

Wells is worried about what he calls the Vietnam syndrome, the notion that any criticism of what the U.S. is doing in Iraq is translated -- erroneously -- into non-support of the troops.

"People are reluctant to ask why the troops are here, risking life and limb daily. I believe people ought to be asking some hard questions now. Why has this occupation been so difficult? What is the real cost in blood and treasure? Do we have a bona fide exit strategy? Will the new government we usher in have staying power or will Iraq descend into civil war as soon as we leave?" he asked.

Coalition forces have only until the summer, Wells noted, to prove we are liberators, not occupiers.

"It is time for Americans, through the media, to be more vigilant of what this mission is or is not accomplishing in Iraq," said Wells.

What, then, can we do? Support our troops without faltering. They are our sons and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. The rest is politics. Ask questions. Challenge everything.

-30-

2004-01-22T08:48:00.000-05:00

And so it begins!

I do not fully understand the caucus procedure in Iowa. A caucus strikes me as being a coffee klatch on steroids.

My mother was involved in politics for awhile and we used to have coffee klatches at our house for candidates running for state office. My father used to be a committeeman for his political party. I never understood exactly what that meant, except that when someone’s son got arrested for something minor, they’d call my dad in the middle of the night and he’d do what he could to straighten things out. It’s not like my father had any political power. I think anyone could have gotten the kid released, eventually.

I dabbled in politics myself, a couple times. When I was a kid, we were taken to a trailer park near Philadelphia International Airport to pass out campaign literature. Things went fine, until a huge man with a handlebar mustache and earrings answered the door. This was 1960, so earrings on a big man with a handlebar mustache were quite unusual. Even more unusual was that he was growling and waving a very big butcher knife at me.

I screamed in terror to rally my teen-age colleagues and ran, with the big man in lumbering pursuit. The adult who’d delivered us to the trailer park revved up his station wagon and we dove in through the open tailgate. The wagon kicked up dust as we left the trailer park and the man behind.

I gave up politics then, at least until I ran some county wide campaigns in Pennsylvania more than a decade later. I did three campaigns. Lost two. I wasn’t a political advisor, I was the press guy. I wrote a couple press releases a day and most of them actually made it into the newspapers. I wrote speeches for my candidate and we held frequent news conferences and the reporters always came. The other party always copied the radio commercials I did for one election in the next election.

That time, I got caught up in the excitement of the campaigns and almost decided to run for city council in Philadelphia. Then I came to my senses for good.

Since then, I have come to hold politics in disdain. Sometimes, I hold politicians in disdain, too, but I try to remember that, once in a while, the person under the politics is a nice person. I actually know some politicians personally and like them, until they start talking politics.

Groucho Marx once joked that he didn’t want to belong to any club that would have someone like him as a member.

That’s kind of the way I feel about politics. Why would we want to vote for someone who’s actually crazy enough to want to be President? There MUST be something wrong with him!

I wish I knew a foolproof method for choosing a President. I know the system we have now sure seems flawed. It starts with coffee klatches in Iowa, for Pete’s sake!

On second thought, these Iowans may actually have more say in their caucuses than the rest of us have in the more-traditional primary elections.

Maybe that’s exactly where this process SHOULD begin — in living rooms all over the country.

-30-

2004-01-06T08:04:00.000-05:00

The world's most dangerous books

Whatever you do, if you need to know who the 14th vice president of the United States was or who the mayor of Cleveland is, don't look it up in an almanac. At least, not in public. You might be fingered as a terrorist.

On Christmas eve, the FBI warned 18,000 police agencies that people carrying fat, fact-filled almanacs might be terrorists trying to select targets or plan operations. During traffic stops and other searches and investigations, cops were urged to look especially for dog-eared or heavily annotated almanacs.

Of course, the FBI noted, almanac users just might be innocent folks engaged in legitimate recreational or harmless commercial activities. It's hard to tell the difference, I suppose, between a tourist seeing the sights and a terrorist conducting surveillance.

I got a copy of the Old Farmer's Almanac for Christmas. Now, just because my mother-in-law thought I might be interested in weather predictions, planting schedules and folklore, I am probably on suspect lists being maintained by Homeland Security, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA and the DSA.

I am doomed. I love almanacs and maps. I have several atlases and maps of the world, trying --unsuccessfully -- to keep up with the changing names of emerging nations. What DID Chad used to be called, anyway?

My favorite fat book of facts is Robert Young Pelton's "The World's Most Dangerous Places," but since it covers places like Chechnya, Colombia and Liberia, this probably doesn't raise any homeland security eyebrows.

How ridiculous is all this, anyway? I'm looking at the index of the Time Almanac for 2002 -- a little behind the times, but it's all I have right now -- and it includes the names and addresses of foreign embassies and ambassadors in the United States, a list of the world's tallest buildings, information about the United Nations, the Olympics, the Grammys, the Pulitzers, the Emmys, temperatures, colleges -- there are even guides to writing style, grammar and crossword puzzles. Come on!

Here's some almanac-style information for you.

According to the Census Bureau, the population of the United States as of Jan. 1 is 292,287,454 -- an increase of 2.8 million in the past year. That means there's a birth every eight seconds, a death every 13 seconds and a new immigrant every 25 seconds -- for a net increase of one new person every 12 seconds.

Many of them will use almanacs. Maybe a few will turn out to be terrorists.

I wonder how many innocent almanac users have been hassled by cops since the FBI bulletin was issued. If we keep bugging people thumbing through the almanacs, and keep making innocent people take their shoes off at airports and continue to have "no-fly" lists with common names on them, making it difficult for those people to get on airplanes, and continue to put up barriers so that it becomes a major deal just to visit the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and the Statue of Liberty, how free will those 292 million Americans really be, after all?

2003-12-02T21:08:00.000-05:00

Music's global impact affirmed

Hah! I knew it all along! Rock and roll destroyed communism.

Well, it at least helped bring down the communist state in Hungary, according to Hungary's ambassador to the United States.

Andras Simonyi admitted, in front of a crowd at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, that he was a fan of the Beatles, Cream, Traffic and Jimi Hendrix even when their records were not allowed in Hungary. Records and tapes were smuggled in and bootlegged back then.

Hungary became a democracy in 1990, after more than 40 years of communism.

According to an Associated Press story, Simonyi believes rock and roll gave his countrymen the resolve to bring down communism in Hungary.

It's nice to see people are finally understanding the incredible impact music can have on the world.

I remember watching Redbone play in Fairmount Park in Philadelphia on the very first Earth Day, way back in 1970. Their music was certainly a major force in helping us become aware of how we were capable of destroying our own planet if we didn't start caring for our environment. The music was almost hypnotic. I remember realizing that someone could have made suggestions to the throngs of enraptured people listening that day and that some of those mesmerized in the crowd would have followed the suggestions, good or bad.

Music has long stirred the political potpourri. John Phillip Sousa marches still make you feel patriotic and Phil Ochs' "I Ain't Marchin' Anymore" can make you want to go out and explain how futile war is in the long run.

Rock and roll has always been the stone in the shoe of proper society -- even now, when some of those from the original rock and roll generation have joined AARP and are receiving Social Security checks.

Rock and roll was always destined to be the scourge of the establishment. Sounds and images that upset parents, politicians, teachers and clergy. Music and lyrics that challenge the status quo, that upset the ruling class, that contain secrets meant only for the hip. (Including the biggest secret of all: Why is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland and not Philadelphia? Even I'm not hip enough to understand that piece of rock and roll esoterica!)

Want proof that rock and roll is supposed to be annoying? Ask people my age what they think of Staind or Linkin Park or 50 Cent or some other popular band or performer. We'll tell you they stink, they make no sense, they're too violent, they're too sexy, they're -- well, we'll tell you just what our parents told us about Bill Haley and the Comets, Eddie Cochran, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and Jefferson Airplane.

I'd like to think, having been around for the birth of rock and roll, that I keep a more open mind than those who went before me when it comes to new sounds, new directions for rock and roll. I'd like to think so. The truth is, I'm probably as intolerant as they were.

Rock and roll was born a rebel and a rebel it shall remain.

Rock on.

-30-

2003-11-27T15:12:00.000-05:00

A child's magical holiday memory

I miss the old Thanksgivings. I used to get up and watch the Philadelphia Thanksgiving parade on television. The parade in those days was staged by Gimbel's department store and, at the end, Santa Claus would climb out of his sleigh and climb a ladder, using a window to go directly into Gimbel's Uncle Wip's Toyland, where he would then take his place on a magnificent chair and talk with little boys and girls right up until Christmas eve. What a sight to see Jolly Old St. Nick scramble up that ladder!

Philadelphia was a magical place at Christmas. Gimbel's, Lit's and Strawbridge's were all near each other and their display windows were incredible. Figures that moved, Christmas music piped out onto the chilly Market Street sidewalks. Parents would take their kids downtown on trolleys and buses just to see the window displays. You'd stand in lines, moving past the windows, going from one fantastic scene to another and from store to store. One store even had live monkeys in the window!

Kids were bundled up warmly and the cold winter air was filled with the rich aroma of roasting chestnuts for sale from street vendors and, just outside the circle of recorded Christmas carols would be a Salvation Army band -- no matter how few instruments they had, there was always a guy with a tuba -- playing the same carols live, hoping you'd drop a few coins into their collection bucket.

Watching the parade on TV was important for kids because of the commercials: They were all for new toys, toys you'd never seen before that morning, toys you could drool over in the toy catalogs between Thanksgiving and Christmas, toys you just had to have.

The morning part of Thanksgiving was about Christmas shopping. You didn't get to the serious part until dinner.

Dinner was pretty traditional -- turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce. I remember we'd sit around the table in our dining room, quite formal, and even break out what must have been a rather stale bottle of grape-flavored Mogen David wine that had been in the house for years. None of us liked it, but it seemed appropriate to share a taste of wine with the rest of the family as we gave thanks for the good things in our lives.

This year's not all that different. Sure, my Closest Companion and I will have our new traditional Thanksgiving meal of Tony Paco's chili dogs (we may even splurge and have hot dog rolls with them, despite our Atkins diet) and maybe potato chips and pumpkin pie, but it's still Thanksgiving.

For me, lately, every day is Thanksgiving. As a kid who grew up in a row house, I look out my window now and see land and trees in every direction and marvel that it belongs to me. I look in one direction and see the house where my nephews live, right next door. What a joy!

I am healthy. I have loyal readers, outstanding friends, an incredible wife, an incredible life.

Wow! I can't think of much more I really need, at least nothing that's really important. Now, if only I could find a bottle of grape-flavored Mogen David!

-30-

2003-11-25T11:09:00.000-05:00

Offbeat draws public's attention

OK, I want to know: How do you feel about Michael Jackson and the charges against Michael Jackson and the media coverage of the charges against Michael Jackson?

As I worked in the newsroom last week, I glanced up at the TV screen occasionally and saw what looked like the infamous O.J. Simpson slow-speed police chase being played out again. Apparently, what I was seeing were pictures of a motorcade supposedly carrying Michael Jackson to an airplane in Las Vegas, then pictures of his chartered jet slowly taxiing into a hangar, then pictures of his motorcade on its way to police headquarters.

The juxtaposition of these images and 40-year-old images of the TV coverage of the assassination of John F. Kennedy was interesting. The older images, displayed during the weekend, showed TV newsgathering coming of age, although many of the things reported by on-the-air correspondents in 1963 turned out to be completely wrong.

The Michael Jackson coverage showed that TV newsgathering still suffers from the very thing that makes it so attractive, it's immediacy. This coverage contained many things that might yet turn out to be wrong.

Important things were happening around the world when Michael Jackson was being arrested and in the days that followed.

More GIs were being killed and their bodies defiled in Iraq. Terrorist attacks and suicide bombings were taking place. The Georgian government was being peacefully overthrown; one of the leaders of the movement actually carried a rose as they took over the nation and forced the president to resign and flee.

Still, we seem to be hungering for more coverage of Michael Jackson. Famous friends are lining up to defend him, others vilify him and we seem tickled by reports that maybe Michael Jackson is broke.

I believe there are more people with opinions about whether Michael Jackson is guilty or innocent than there are with opinions about who should be the next president.

We're spending billions in Iraq, billions around the world to fight hunger and disease, billions to find cures for cancer, AIDS, SARS, diabetes and heart disease -- Why do we always gather a comparatively paltry amount of canned goods and giveaway turkeys to feed the poor here at home? -- and what we really want to know about is Michael Jackson's sexual assault charge, Paris Hilton's sex tape and whether Britney and Madonna have more going on than meets the eye.

I don't know whether to blame the news media or not for all this. If you didn't want to know about it, the media wouldn't be providing it. That's a fact. It's a question of which came first, the coverage or the people who want the coverage. I really believe one doesn't happen, though, without the other.

The truth is, we want off-beat stuff with our news. We want to know about the people with mice in their cheeseburgers and peeping toms in their schools and troubles besetting our musical superstars.

It makes US feel normal.

-30-

2003-11-20T14:32:00.000-05:00

Beware of those bearing praise

This losing weight thing has opened up new ways for me to get my fragile feelings hurt.

I guess I should explain.

When I played music for a living, I wrote most of the songs I played. Performers crave compliments, of course, but are often quite insecure when it comes to accepting them gracefully.

I used to know a guy who wasn't all that good a singer. When he'd ask me how he'd done on stage, I couldn't bring myself to tell him he sounded awful. Instead, I'd always say with a big smile, "You should have been out front!"

He always took that to mean it was so good, he should have been in the audience to enjoy it. What it really meant was that he was so bad, he should have been in the audience instead of up on stage.

Someone would say to me, "You sang that nice," and I'd be thrilled. Then, a couple seconds later, paranoia would creep in and I'd wonder why they liked my singing but didn't like the song I'd written.

"What a great song!" someone else would tell me and I'd say, "Thank you," just before getting a panic attack as I wondered what was wrong with my singing.

Well, this is only a little like that.

Now that I've lost 55 pounds, it does my heart good when someone tells me I look good, great or even terrific. Especially when a young woman compliments me. I start feeling like the dashing young cowboy or the swashbuckling writer I once envisioned myself to be.

It's right about there, though, that the attractive young woman who just complimented me usually adds something like, "When my fat Uncle Fred got his stomach super-glued shut, he lost 100 pounds and couldn't eat anything but Extra Spicy Beef Jerky," or "My grandfather -- he's about your age -- he lost 50 pounds, just like you. He looks downright thin now, over at the old folks' home."

What a cruel blow!

It's pretty funny, how we choose to see ourselves, how we can forget things like age differences.

Not that I am on the prowl, mind you. I love my Closest Companion beyond words, but isn't it every 58-year-old, slimming-down fat man's dream to hear a young woman say, "Wow! You look great! If you weren't married, I'd date you in a New York minute!"

And no one would laugh in that dream.

The other night, my friends and I were at a watering hole and were discussing in a quite catty manner this one woman who seemed to be there with a date who looked young enough to be her son. My Closest Companion, who is infinitely more charitable that me, said, "More power to her" and correctly pointed out that if the age difference had been reversed, no one would have found it unusual.

I, of course, know what the real deal was all along. He WAS her age, actually. He had just lost about 70 pounds, though, and that's why he looked so much younger!

Thank goodness my Closest Companion is on this diet with me. If I look good, man, you ought to see her!

-30-

2003-11-06T13:32:00.000-05:00

What is right & what is wrong?

Has it really gotten so hard to tell the difference between right and wrong?

In New Mexico, a 12-year-old kid who got two sodas for the price of one from a vending machine in school was called a thief and given a two-day in-house suspension. It sounds like that's because it wasn't just a one-time thing. He went back for more two-for-one deals and told all his friends about the defective vending machine.

In addition to the suspension, the kid was written up and, yes, you guessed it -- the incident will appear on his permanent school record.

(I often wonder if you could stroll into St. Barnabas Elementary School in Philadelphia and find, on my permanent record, some mention of me being caught with a copy of Mad Magazine disguised to look like a marble-covered composition book in third-grade, or that small unpleasantness that resulted when Bing Brown and I were caught with tiny vials of aptly named Skunk Perfume. I wonder if the Times requested copies of my permanent record in 1984 and hired me in spite of these peccadilloes.)

The boy said he was very upset that his permanent record would brand him a thief. The soda company said the boy couldn't actually manipulate the machine, that the extra sodas were probably a computer programming glitch. The kid and his father want the school to apologize.

At no time did the kid deny taking the extra soda.

I suppose a computer programming glitch that spews forth an extra can of soda can be compared to a faulty armored car door lock that pops open and allows bags of hundreds to fall into the street. If the kid in the school wasn't stealing to take that extra can of soda, that I wouldn't be stealing if I picked up those bags of cash, right?

We're a society with illegal cable boxes, devices that allow us to copy videotapes and DVDs we rent. We make cassette and now CD copies of albums we like and give them to friends. What's stealing and what's not?

Is it stealing to download songs for free from the Internet? The artists get paid royalties from the sales of their music, as do the companies that produce them. If you take it for free, is that stealing or not?

How about computer software? People who wouldn't think of stealing often freely trade copied software with friends.

One day, I needed two newspapers and there were none in the newsroom. I went out front to the Times vending machine, put 35 cents in, got a paper, shut the box, inserted another 35 cents and got the second paper.

Sure, I get papers for free here, but I drew the line at the box out front. They were papers for sale, so I bought them. Some people laughed at me for that.

Is it the way we're raised? Do we form our own moral codes as we mature? Some things are OK, some things aren't. Perhaps each of us has different lists.

Soda machines? The machine here has stolen many dollars from me in the past, so I'm not going to worry if I get an extra soda. I've already paid.

-30-

2003-11-04T13:20:00.000-05:00

Pitman theater needs sequel

The lights dimmed and the throbbing tones of the big Kimball organ vibrated throughout the entire theater, even up into the middle of the balcony, where we were sitting.

The velvet curtains parted slowly and the screen went black, was covered with white, scratchy lines. This movie was history, "The Phantom of the Opera," starring the Man of 1,000 Faces, Lon Chaney, made in 1925.

My Closest Companion was transfixed by several things, as was I. We were in the Broadway Theatre in Pitman, NJ Friday night for this South Jersey Theatre Organ Society's special Halloween night screening of "Phantom."

This is where my Closest Companion went to the movies as a child. Just being in the old movie house, which was built in 1926, transported her back to another time. Sadly, it was only in her memory. The once grand Broadway is a ghost of its former self.

The 3/8 Kimball Theatre Pipe Organ is still being restored, yet sounds magnificent. The theater, though, has broken seats and no carpet in the balcony, where pieces of the ceiling are missing. There's duct tape holding pieces of the place together in some spots.

What a waste of living history. This place opened in 1926, so people probably saw "The Phantom" when it was relatively new here.

There's a famous scene where the opera singer unmasks her malevolent benefactor, Erik, the phantom, in the bowels of the Paris Opera House. Friday night, the audience made not a sound, but I've read that when the film first opened, audience members screamed upon seeing the spectral sight of Chaney's face, painfully distorted with fish hooks in his nostrils and poker chips in his cheeks.

You may be a big fan of the Broadway version of "The Phantom of the Opera," but, man, you should have heard the music during this silent version the other night.

Jeff Barker sat down behind the Kimball and played non-stop until the movie had ended about an hour and a half later.

And here's yet more astonishment -- Barker did NOT use sheet music. Deftly changing mood from light-hearted during performances on the stage of the Paris Opera House to foreboding in the cellars and dungeons beneath the opera house, Barker's accompaniment never faltered, never hesitated and he never hit a sour note.

It's such a shame the Broadway is languishing. Pitman is next door to a college town, Glassboro, home of Rowan University. Why are there no film festivals being held there? Sundance, Colo. was nowhere until Robert Redford started his film festival there. Why isn't someone trying to put on even more live shows in the Broadway? There must be someone with the money to restore this place.

My editor mentioned it might be prime for something like regular showings of the goofy cult film, "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," where people come in costume. There's a similar version of "The Sound of Music," now, I understand.

Imagine the Broadway coming alive with the sound of music, or the sound of film festivals and revivals, in downtown Pitman on a regular basis. That would sound nice.

-30-

2003-10-30T20:35:00.000-05:00

What's Halloween without the scary?

I've said it before and I'll say it again. This is one scary time of year!

There are the ghoulies and goblins of Halloween on the one hand and, on the other, the politicians counting down to election day. The sheer terror engendered by these unnatural forces rivals anything the tormented minds of Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King could concoct.

Halloween has even become politically correct. While every third house you pass has tombstones in the front yard and zombie-like creatures with either their upper torsos or lower extremities sticking out of the ground, some haunted houses around the country are offering non-scary Halloween diversions for younger kids. Non-scary? What the heck is the point, then?

At home, I am banned from being scary on Halloween. My Closest Companion lights some candles and plays a tape of spooky music during the hours of Trick-or-Treating, but no longer am I allowed to wear that black hood with the black cloth insert that makes it look as if I am headless -- or at least, faceless. I used to sit behind the door, awaiting unwary Trick-or-Treaters. When they rang the bell, I would swing open the door and utter a maniacal laugh. It scared the kids. Heck, it scared their parents, too.

My Closest Companion forbid me from scaring the mommies, so I have packed the hood away.

Costume stores sell masks and makeup to transform us into tortured beings with full-frontal blood and gore, in Technicolor detail that would make a medical examiner pale.

When I was a teen-ager, I had a great Dracula mask that looked exactly like Bela Lugosi. It creeped everyone out when I walked down the street with it in, wearing a long, black coat with the collar turned up. Very scary, especially when I did that in February.

These days, Halloween seems to be ambivalent. At one extreme, it's a holiday for Freddie Krueger, Killer Clowns, Jason and maniacs with chainsaws carrying pillowcases for their Trick-or-Treat plunder. At the other end of the spectrum, it's a holiday for SpongeBob SquarePants, Tigger, the Teletubbies and kids in pumpkin costumes with flashlights, glow-in-the-dark stripes and cute candy collection bags with smiling ghosts and black cats on them.

When we were kids, one of our neighbors had his own haunted house going. One year he'd have a vampire in a real coffin in his living room, the next he'd have monsters in his basement. When I was 14, we staged our own very cool haunted thing in a buddy's basement, complete with a vampire, mad scientist, Frankenstein's monster and mummy. I remember it as being pretty cool, but maybe that's just because it seemed to scare -- and impress -- the girls. Hey, we were 14!

The thing that really scares me is the notion that one Halloween night, the inevitable will happen. The real monsters will start showing up at our doors, twisted souls who prowl the world unhindered by goodness and truth, not seeking candy, but wanting something even more awesome -- our votes! Be afraid. Be very afraid.

-30-

2003-10-26T19:26:00.000-05:00

Now where DID I put that disposable camera? "Really, ladies, I'm an artist. It's all for art!"

2003-10-26T19:19:00.000-05:00

Ink runs through my body

I love the newspaper business. I have loved the newspaper business since I was a teen-ager.

When I was in high school, a friend and I shared a common goal: To write the Great American Novel. We craftily decided, though, that since publishing Great American Novels was such a dicey business, we should study journalism so we had something to fall back on. Imagine our naiveté, thinking journalism was a solid way to make a good living.

What makes me think about those old days is a book I picked up the other night, "City Room," by Arthur Gelb. Gelb went to work at the New York Times in 1944 as a copy boy, the lowest of the low in those days, and 45 years later retired as the paper's managing editor.

"City Room" is a hefty tome. It's filled with colorful descriptions of how newsrooms used to be. I started my newspaper career much later than Gelb, of course, but under similar circumstances. In fact, I started as a tour guide at the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, working for Reggie Beauchamp, an incredible newspaper marketing genius.

I did a lot of fun things working for Reggie, but after two weeks as a full-time tour guide in August 1964, I told him, "Boss, you know I'd really rather be working in the newsroom."

Two days later, I was the Bulletin's newest copy boy.

Man, what heady days they were! Row upon row of big, metal desks with noisy typewriters and clunky dial telephones with clumsy headsets. The newsroom even had its own switchboard, presided over by the newsroom mother, a lovely woman named Edie.

There was the mammoth copy desk, a huge horseshoe that filled a quarter of the room, with its central conveyor belt system that took copy down to the third-floor composing room, where Linotype operators turned it into lead type.

There were banks of teletype machines and the telex machines, on which even lowly copy boys, when assigned to do so, could communicate almost magically with Bulletin correspondents in places like London and Berlin.

I write on deadline now every day. Back then, reporters and rewrite people wrote on several deadlines -- the Bulletin's first edition hit the streets at about 10 a.m. and the last one came out around 6 p.m., something like 10 different editions a day (it was the seventh edition that was delivered to your house.)

Man, there is nothing like pinning down a hard-to-get story to meet a deadline.

I moved up in the newsroom quickly, filling in for the guy who was the city desk clerk now and then, manning the two-way radios at lunch time, working as the features department clerk for awhile and eventually becoming something new, an editorial assistant on the suburban desk. Not long ago, I found a galley proof of my first byline, a story about kids holding a neighborhood carnival to raise money for charity, "by James D. Six Jr., of the Bulletin staff." What a thrill that was!

You know what? I still get a thrill when I see my byline in the Times all these years later. I love this business!

-30-

2003-10-21T16:21:00.000-04:00

Forget 50 Cent, meet Four bits

I’m thinking about getting back into the music biz, but I want my pal and fellow Gloucester County Times columnist, Bob Shryock, to join me. I think we would be great as the world’s first geezer rappers. But this is something we have to do quickly, so if Bob’s not ready to take the plunge, I am ready to launch this entirely new music genre.

You may or may not have heard of the somewhat well-known rapper named 50 Cent, pronounced, I believe, as ‘fitty sent.”

I’m calling myself, or the duo of me and Bob if he signs on, Four Bits. For non-geezer readers, I should explain that, for longer than I have been alive, two bits is a way of saying 25 cents. Remember, that little tune, “shave and a haircut, two bits”? Well, then, four bits is, of course, 50 cents. It’s a little play on words.

Even before I started working on songs, or raps, or whatever they’re called, I came up with a title for the first CD. I’m calling it “AARP RAPP.” Cool, huh?

Four Bits will have an ultra-cool image, complete with dark shades. At first, I was just going to wear my very cool mirrored clip-on shades, but then decided the image would be even cooler if I wear a pair of those huge, weird-looking sunglasses that older folks wear over their regular glasses.

There’s the Sosh Rap for people older than myself, those who have retired. “I’m waiting for my Social Security check, to buy some food to eat. Buy goodies for my grandkids, Hallmarks for my friends, Dr. Scholl’s for my achin’ feet.”

Then there’s the Health Care Rap: “Gimme pills, lots of pills, lots of multi-colored pills, for my back and my heart and assorted funky ills. If I feel all right, I’ll go out tonight, but if I’m short of breath, gimme pills to make it right.”

You retired folks will groove to this one, as well: “Senior lunches, oh, so sweet. Lots of really good food to eat. Sweet’n Low is free, of course; put the turkey in your purse. That biscuit will taste better later, so will all those mashed potatoes.”

Here’s the Casino Rap: “Atlantic City, here I come, gonna play the slots. Give those machines every quarter I got. Gonna breathe all that salt sea air, wear a babushka on my permed blue hair.”

Right now I’m recruiting for a DJ to scratch records for Four Bits. I think we’ll call him — or her — DJ MediCare.

Everybody get ready to shake your booty. Just don’t let go of the handgrips on your walkers.
--
So, have you seen the new $20 bills yet? Better yet, have you seen the TV commercials for the new $20 bill yet? They’re big-budget, professionally produced commercials in prime time, explaining the new features and colors in the bill. What a complete waste of my tax money!

My Closest Companion, who is always more deft when it comes to perception than I am — Does this mean she has deft perception? — observed that even those of us who are resistant to change have no choice but to accept the new colorful bills. What are we going to do if we don’t like it? Hoard the old-fashioned bills? Use only tens or fifties? It’s not like we can use some other company’s money, after all.

-30-

2003-10-11T13:59:00.000-04:00

2003-09-11T19:40:00.000-04:00

Hijack map: Was county target?

Two years later, the haunting question lingers: Were the Sept. 11 hijackers planning a different kind of terrorist attack, one that might have involved Gloucester County (NJ)?

When Mohammed Atta ensured his place in infamy by turning a commercial airliner into a weapon, he left behind, in luggage that didn't make the flight, a handheld flight computer, flight simulation manuals, a slide-rule flight calculator, a handwritten will and a copy of the Koran.

One of the things that went largely unmentioned is something the FBI found in Atta's rented car, something that connected him with Gloucester County and, some speculate, a different sort of plot.

On Sept. 11, 2001, Mohammed Atta parked a blue 2001 Nissan Altima on the first level of the parking garage at the Portland Jetport airport in Maine. He raced into the airport at about 5:45 a.m., just barely catching a shuttle flight to Boston.

At Boston's Logan Airport, again with only minutes to spare, Atta boarded American Airlines Flight 11. The plane took off at 8 a.m., with 92 people aboard, bound for Los Angeles.

At 8:46 a.m., the plane crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center.

Later that day, federal agents located the Nissan. Inside they found a Boston city map on the back seat, a car rental company map on the floor behind the driver's seat, a map located between the driver's seat and the center console, documents in the driver's door pocket, a tissue, a parking receipt in the center console, a toothpick and an empty "Chips Ahoy!" cookie package.

When the FBI examined the maps more closely, according to more than one source, they found the Gloucester County connection. On one map, a circle had been drawn around the Williamstown area.

There are chicken plants in that area, places where viruses and bacteria are often injected into poultry embryos for research purposes -- an environment, perhaps, for the incubation of toxins.

But sources said that's not why Williamstown was circled.

Inside the circle is the regionally well-known Cross Keys Airport, where manager Hank Ostrosky said no one ever told him about any circle on a map. Investigators had asked whether anyone suspicious had ever come around, but had never mentioned Atta or any of the other hijackers.

"There were some rumors, stuff like that, but never anything definite," said Ostrosky.

The terrorist's interest in the area was none of these places, sources say. It was, instead, a small airfield just three and a half miles down Tuckahoe Road from Cross Keys, a place known as Webb's Field. It serves as a home base for the kind of planes in which Mohammed Atta had shown a lot of interest in the months before 9/11: crop dusters.

The Grumman Ag-Cat planes that take off from Webb's Field are homely, high-performance aircraft that can pack a 2,600-pound payload of pesticide -- or something more sinister, like powdered anthrax.

"What's the range of a crop duster?" wondered U.S. Rep. Robert Andrews recently. "These men wanted to attack symbols of Western might -- the Pentagon, the U.S. Capitol, the World Trade Center."

Maybe the terrorists asked themselves if they could reach Washington, D.C. in one of the planes, spray anthrax and kill 10,000 or 15,000 people, said Andrews, the 1st District congressman from Haddon Heights.

The District of Columbia and New York City are easily within the flying range of a crop duster taking off from Williamstown.

"It's very obscure. Police probably wouldn't get in the way" at a place like Webb's Field, said Andrews, who is a member of the House Select Committee on Homeland Security.

That certainly wouldn't be the case now. Although no law enforcement sources would speak on the record, it's clear places like Webb's Field now are on the national security radar.

Andrews pointed out that Belle Glade, Fla., where Atta at least twice had asked about how to fly crop dusters, is only 40 miles from Boca Raton. It was there that a letter laced with anthrax was received at American Media Inc., publisher of The National Enquirer and The Star, eight days after the terrorist attacks. An AMI employee later died of anthrax.

It's the same area where one of the terrorists who died on Flight 93, which crashed in Shanksville, Pa. on Sept. 11, had gotten medical treatment in June 2001 for a lesion that, after the fact, was diagnosed as possibly being cutaneous anthrax.

Atta also went to a drug store in Delray Beach, Fla. seeking an over-the-counter treatment for what looked like chemical burns on his hands.

"All domestic leads in the anthrax attacks have dried up," Andrews said. "I wonder if the alternative to the hijacking was spraying anthrax from crop dusters?"

Ed Carter, the taciturn, no-nonsense owner of Webb's Field and Carter Aviation, takes security seriously. He won't go into detail, but all the planes are locked up tight and he lives right at the airfield, with a clear view of the aircraft.

"Everybody was here, the FBI, the state police, the local police, the (state) bureau of aeronautics, the FAA," said Carter.

The agents who visited him never got into specifics and asked more questions than they answered, but Carter firmly believes they were at the very least telling him "we were targets" of the terrorists.

"They never said anything about a circle on a map, though," he said.

Carter's not sure a plot to commit a terrorist act with one of the heavy, dual-wing Ag-Cats would work.

"I doubt like hell they'd be able to fly it," he said, not just because of the added weight of a chemical load in the hopper, but because the powerful plane is what's known as a "tail dragger." That means it doesn't have its third wheel under the nose, like most small private planes, but under the tail. An inexperienced pilot might find himself losing control of the heavy plane even before it got off the runway, Carter said.

Of course, with the proper training, they might have been able to handle a crop duster and actually "get the job done," said Carter. "There are places you can rent the airplanes."

Webb's Field isn't one of them, though.

It's possible the hijackers realized they might not have been able to pull off a plot to use the crop dusters, maybe because they couldn't lay their hands on enough weapons-grade anthrax, maybe because they realized how difficult the planes are to fly.

And maybe because they couldn't have hijacked a crop duster.

"You couldn't hold a gun to a pilot's head and tell him to fly you somewhere," Carter pointed out. "These are one-seaters."

-30-

2003-08-28T19:27:00.000-04:00

There are lots of stories in the Naked City!

There must be something in the atmosphere that’s making people take their clothes off. If this happens to you — maybe it’s because Mars is so close to Earth these days — please be advised is sure seems somewhat dangerous.

A 34-year-old Pennsylvania woman faces criminal charges for treating her son and three of his pals, all under 16, to a birthday party they’ll probably never forget. Plans to take them go-carting fell through, so mom, who was taking prescription medication AND drinking, rented a hotel room, gave the boys beer, told them she wanted to be a stripper and gave them dollar bills, asking them to tuck them in her underwear. She got naked, yelled a lot and trashed the hotel room before eventually driving the boys home at speeds close to 100 mph.

In Monroe, Wash., a man caught smoking dope while running a game at a fair was fired. He returned wearing only his tank top and started harassing women at the fair. He even — gasp! — streaked through the arts and crafts section of the fair before trying to get away from police. He tried to jump a passing train going at about 45 mph, but bounced off the side of the moving train. He is in critical condition.

If that’s not enough to make you eschew being naked in public, there’s the case of the male stripper.

In Illinois, an agency failed to send the requested stripper for a bachelorette party. The women were disappointed, they thought this guy ended his dance too early and didn’t pay enough attention to the bride and, when he tried to collect his fee and leave, he got attacked. He suffered head injuries, bruises and scratches from being punched, kicked and head on the head with a bottle.

The bride’s 52-year-old mother pleaded guilty to battery. She has to serve 30 days of court supervision and pay the guy $2,500.

In Indiana, a woman doing her dishes looked out her window and saw what appeared to be a guy in light-colored clothing walking by, as casual as you please. Then she realized the guy was naked, wearing only light-colored socks and tennis shoes.

She called police, but then started following the man (she said she wanted to protect kids if they were waiting at the bus stop.) Cops finally tracked the guy down, with the woman still right on his — er, heels.

Police, who arrested the man on charges of public indecency and public intoxication, never learned why the man was naked in the first place. You have to wonder if the woman will show up at his hearing.

It seems, then, that running around in public naked may not be such a great idea.

But don’t worry. If you suddenly find yourself naked in public, maybe you can grab a towel to cover yourself. Maybe even a towel you’ve pinched from a hotel. Don’t worry, they hotel won’t be mad. Today is Holiday Inn’s first-ever Towel Amnesty Day. I’m not sure they really want their towels back, though.

Besides, who takes towels these days when there’s all that great shampoo and body conditioner? You’ve got to keep that body in good condition, just in case.

-30-

2003-08-28T19:23:00.000-04:00

Sooner...or never

Sooner than we’d like, the haunting memories will come flowing back, in print, on television, in our minds.

Sooner than we’d like, we’ll once again be reminded that our lives, our society, our world can be changed by one indescribably violent act.

Sooner than we’d like, we’ll be remembering a day we’d rather forget.

Sooner than we’d like, we’ll be observing the second anniversary of the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.

For each of us, there have been different degrees of change.

The supposedly beefed-up security at airports, I believe, is all misguided smoke and mirrors, confiscating nail clippers but powerless to stop a serious assault. I loudly declare I have no intention of flying, not because of terrorists but because of airport security — but I didn’t fly much before 9/11, so, besides giving me something to rant about, it didn’t change my
flying habits much.

The Patriot Act scares the heck out of me. Once we start allowing our government to erode away even small bits and pieces of our Constitutional rights, we will be hard-pressed to get them back. Remember what it took to get them in the first place.

Our death toll has risen since 9/11. We have lost people in our effort to root out terrorism around the world, in Afghanistan and, somewhat, in Iraq.

We will lose more. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But we WILL lose more.

Preventing terrorism is kind of like being a bodyguard for someone. You can take all the precautions you can imagine, but as long as your principal goes out into the real world, you can’t protect him completely, and especially not against someone who is willing to die getting to him. We can only be as aware as possible.

We can’t get so protective we don’t go out and enjoy our lives. If we do that, they have won and we are doomed.

There are always new things to learn about the attacks. Of the 2,792 people killed in the attacks on the World Trade Center, 1,300 have not been identified. The forensics experts have pretty much exhausted modern technology in trying to identify the remains, which will eventually be put
into a memorial that will be built at the site. The remains can be removed in the future, when newer DNA processes are developed.

In Pennsylvania, survivors of those killed on Flight 93, which crashed into an empty area near Shanksville, are planning a private ceremony this year. They’re thinking about trying to get the area around a planned memorial declared a national park, so future development doesn’t crowd the monument.

Sooner than we’d like, it will be upon us.

Sooner than we’d like, we’ll be bombarded by reruns of the horrific images on TV.

Sooner than we’d like, we’ll be reminded of the nightmares, the loss of loved ones, the heart-wrenching stories.

Sooner than we’d like, we will cry those all-too-familiar tears again.

It may be sooner than we’d like, but we must never forget. Never.

-30-

2003-08-21T20:50:00.000-04:00

No more separation

By now, I’m sure you have run across the news that New York City is planning to open a public high school for gay, bi-sexual and transgender kids.

This is a public high school, one paid for by taxpayers.

According to what I have read, Mayor Michael Bloomberg thinks it’s a good idea because “some of the kids who are gays and lesbians have been constantly harassed and beaten in other schools...It lets them get an education without having to worry.”

The new school will take over where a two-classroom program, at first managed and financed by a gay-rights youth advocacy program, the Hetrick-Martin Institute, began in 1984. That group’s Web site, according to an Associated Press article, states that the school will give its students “an opportunity to obtain a secondary education in a safe and supportive environment. ... We believe that success requires the ability to respect and value the diverse human community.”

I’m sorry, but this just stinks. I know, it’s not MY tax dollars, but it stinks.

If gays need a school of their own to feel safe, maybe nerdy computer wizards need a school where jocks won’t make fun of them. Maybe fat kids who are tired of the cruel jibes of their slimmer classmates need a high school of their own where size won’t be a social stigma.

What about kids who are extremely religious? Should a school district offer them a place where they can pray as much as they want without being hassled?

Ah, but then maybe we’d have to make schools just for Jews and other schools just for Muslims and Catholics and Methodists and Presbyterians and Zoroastrians and Jehovah’s Witnesses and Druids and Baptists and — oops, we’d better have a place for atheists or there will be hell to pay.

While we’re at it, let’s have schools where people speak only Chinese, Punjabi, Japanese, Spanish, Farsi or Russian. We wouldn’t want anyone to feel different, would we?

School administrators will have to make special accommodations for handicapped children. Let’s put them all together, so the other kids don’t have the opportunity to make fun of them — or learn from them, either.

We’ll have to change our views of mentally retarded children, of course. No more mainstreaming them. Let’s put them all in some kind of school together so they won’t feel so different. So what if the new school resembles the asylum-like human warehouses of the 1960s, places where society parked people they didn’t want and didn’t know what to do with?

And just maybe, there are black kids in a mostly white school who are tired of being pick on by the white kids, or white kids in a predominantly black school who want a change. Why not build an all-white school and an all-black school for them?

Why?

Because in my lifetime people fought and died in a long, drawn-out and sometimes bloody battle for civil rights, to end segregation and separatism once and for all.

For all.

-30-

2003-08-21T20:35:00.001-04:00

At a loss for words

If I had a dollar for every time someone has told me I ought to write a book, well, I’d have quite a few dollars.

Believe me, I’m trying.

I have three novels “in progress,” if “in progress” really means “mired down in so much muck it’s never going to get past page 22.”

I started my first mystery novel, “The City Council Murders,” in 1986. The darned thing went like gangbusters, words flying out of my head and onto paper like you wouldn’t believe. People who have read parts of it rave about how good it is. Unfortunately, the words stopped flowing at about Chapter Six way back in, well, in 1986.

Despite several attempts to resuscitate the story, it remains as dead as one of the victims in the story line.

A friend of mine who is a novelist urged me to outline my books. He says it makes filling in the blanks easier. I tried that with “Terrorist” and “Canal Zone,” my other two novels, to no avail.

Recently, I read two crime novels by newspaper guys. One is “Four To Midnight” by Philadelphia Daily News writer Scott Flander. The other is “Picasso Was A Punk” by Walt Herring, a Southwest Philly native — we went to grade school together, in fact — who spent a brief period as editor of the Gloucester County Times.

I liked both books. Both are filled with well-written suspense and police procedure. The stories were well-crafted. The characters are believable. Flander’s is a bit more mainstream, Walt’s is a bit stylistic, more like a cult film. So I wondered: How do these guys manage to write — and finish —
books?

Scott said he chooses to work nights at the paper so he can write as much as possible in the mornings. Sure, real life and other distractions can get in the way, but “I just remind myself I have so little time, I just have to take advantage of every minute,” he said.

The thing that keeps him going is the story. “If there’s a story you really have to tell, that’s the engine that drives you,” he said.

I was going to call Walt, but he lives in the Caribbean now and not only didn’t I want pay for the long-distance call, I didn’t want to shatter his island reveries and maybe make him spill a drink with a little umbrella in it when he answered the phone.

I know it takes a certain discipline to write. I normally have that discipline. It’s called a deadline and I have a new one every day. Writing is hard work, but when I’m excited about it, I get in the zone when I write.

At home, though, all that seems to fall apart. Maybe my office is filled with too many tempting distractions — the Internet, e-mail, telephone, television, books.

People tell me my story ideas are terrific. People tell me they’re waiting to read the finished novels. Yet, I remain at a loss for words to put on paper.

Maybe the kind of zone I really need to be in to write is an empty room with no phone, no Internet access, no distractions of any kind. They say J.D. Salinger wrote that way, in an isolated room.

Where DID I put those earplugs?

-30-

2003-07-30T18:25:00.000-04:00

Praying for Peace

I understand the Pope will be holding a special prayer service for nuclear disarmament this Sunday.

It will be called the Mass of Weapons Destruction.

-30-

2003-07-30T18:19:00.000-04:00

The running of the bullsh-- !

I missed it again!

The Hemingway Look-Alike Contest, I mean. It caps the Hemingway Days festival that ended Sunday, July 20, although there were still some festivities going on Monday, which marked the 104th anniversary of the birth of author Ernest Hemingway.

I have long been a Hemingway fan. I like his writing. I appreciate his adventurous lifestyle —deep-sea fishing off Key West and in the Caribbean, running with the bulls in Pamplona, on safari in Africa, writing in Paris.

Papa was a man’s man back then, which means he was a hairy chested, two-fisted brawler and drinker who fished, hunted, chased women, wore manly clothes like khaki bush jackets and big, thick white turtleneck sweaters and even won a Pulitzer Prize.

Who couldn’t like this guy?

I swear, Hemingway must have loved the camera. Hem never took a bad photo, unless you count that one where he seems to have a terrible comb-over and a couple where he’s obviously past his physical prime but still trying to look muscular.

Hemingway’s writing wasn’t something I set out to like. When I first took an interest in becoming a writer, Hemingway was not one of my heroes. I liked J.D. Salinger and grudgingly, John Steinbeck. Hemingway, I thought when I was a callow youth, was merely a skilled technician.

The reason I loved Salinger, it turned out, was Holden Caulfield (read the first page of “The Catcher in the Rye” and you’ll see where I learned to write) and Seymour Glass. Once Salinger started getting harder and harder to read and decipher, my tastes matured.

When I got to Hemingway, it felt like coming home. Good, clear, clean, crisp, to the point — all of these things describe Hemingway’s style, I think. I do not like things that are vague. Speak plainly, write plainly and you have my attention.

Hemingway lived in Key West in the 1930s. I checked and, during that period, he was only in his 30s, himself, not yet graying, not yet looking like the guys who enter the look-like contest every year. But that’s a small detail.

The white-beard look is probably the one most people remember the most and it is pretty much the trademark look for the author.

I’ve seen the photos of the winner of the Hemingway Look-Alike Contest, as well as pictures of some past winners and contestants, and it’s not all that far-fetched that I could win this contest. It’s held in Sloppy Joe’s, the Key West bar that, legend has it, had its name suggested by Hemingway himself.
This year, Mike Stack of Eastchester. N.Y. won after five previous attempts.

He beat 153 other Papa hopefuls. From what I have read, contestants flock to Sloppy Joe’s as much for the camaraderie of being among scores of aging, bearded, khaki fanatics as for the competition and the chance of being selected the winner.

Overweight? Check. Gray/white beard? Check. Khaki shorts? Check. Khaki shirt? Check. Khaki vest? Check. Khaki fishing cap? Check. Middle-aged? Check.

I could win this!

-30-

2003-07-19T14:15:00.000-04:00

Foodstuffs of Mass Destruction

IS THERE A BOMB IN THAT HOAGIE?

If you're planning to tailgate before Eagles games this year, you might want to stuff yourself in the parking lot. But don't worry, it's for a good cause.

You won't be able to take any food into the new Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia. I know that sounds extreme, but you'll just have to suck up the disappointment, the inconvenience and the price of food and drink you'll have to buy from vendors inside the stadium -- because it's a matter of National Security.
Try Our Classifieds

That's right, sports fans. No hoagies or ham sandwiches or leftover burritos, no spinach salads or deviled eggs, no chicken liver on a bed of rice, no Four Seasons chocolate brownies, no cold London broil or duck paté, no thermos bottles filled with vichyssoise or gazpacho, not even TastyKakes in your parka or pocketbook.

This is NOT a ploy to increase the sales of vendor food inside the stadium, said Eagles president Joe Banner in published and broadcast accounts. "It is patently irresponsible in this day and age to question the motives behind a policy driven by and recommended by security experts," he said in a radio interview I heard Wednesday morning.

You'll notice he has taken the offensive here. If you dare question the food ban, you are "patently irresponsible" and, by extension, probably support terrorists who, what? -- would bring dangerous weapons into the stadium in the guise of foodstuffs? This is reminiscent of Attorney General John Ashcroft declaring that if you weren't in favor of having some of your liberty taken away by supporting the Patriot Act, you were supporting terrorism. Hogwash! Balderdash!

If this was about security and nothing else, every fan going to see the Eagles would have to pass through a metal detector and intense scrutiny for nail clippers and nail files, the same terrorist weapons now being kept off airplanes.

If this was about security, all the food vendors who will work at the new football field would have to have security clearances and all the food they bring in for each game would have to be inspected thoroughly, to make sure they weren't secret al-Qaida members plotting to -- well, to do whatever it is the Eagles will be preventing by banning the influx of personal food items.

Perhaps management will consider putting face recognition devices and x-ray machines in all the entrances to the stadium so that, while fans are being scanned by metal detectors for dangerous weapons and manicure tools, they can be checked for hidden weapons and their faces could be compared to a database of known terrorists. No, that wouldn't work. Those guys with green-and-white paint on their faces would throw it all off.

I realized recently that my years in the news business have equipped me to be a threat assessment expert. I can easily spot the holes in the security at a business or government agency. These days, that's a valuable talent.

The trouble is, when non-experts do it, they find it difficult to draw the fine line between vigilance and paranoia.

And who's going to clear the cheerleaders through security?

—

Jim Six can be reached be e-mail at jimsix@sjnewsco.com