Born in the USA/American Horror Story

Yes, boys and girls, another grisly, nightmarish tale of witches, warlocks, death and dismemberment or as I call it, vacationing with the family.  So sit back, relax, pour yourself a drink, pop some corn or clip your toenails (but not at the same time) and revel in the tale I call:

American Horror Story:  The Griswolds return to Salem

September 2014

The GOOD:  Unlike driving through apocalyptic storms we faced in the past, this trip had perfect weather both ways.  The wedding was a class event with great food/drink/celebration.  They even gave the kids in attendance  those little battery operated glow sticks that flash different colors  And best of ALL, I got to spend a lot of time with my two princesses, Di and Ri-Ri.

The BAD:  We all face bad drivers every day. There are people who drive with their heads so far up their ass, they look like they are wearing a brown turtleneck.  The ones in New York were horrible, in Mass even worse.  That includes the one with the license plate “Silver Fox”.  This spawn of Nosferatu and a Q-tip couldn’t make her mind up if she should merge into 70MPH traffic or just sit motionless in the right lane like she was waiting for a second helping of jello.

It is un-Christian and bad karma to wish any serious harm on bad drivers.  But wishing them a quick episode of explosive diarrhea while wearing something white or khaki would certainly scratch my itch.

While attempting to negotiate a treacherous stretch of road from Boston into Salem, I received a call from a woman confirming my reservations and to tell me that, due to construction, there is virtually no place to park.  My car is not only loaded down with Joanne and my stuff, but a lot of things for Mandy/Sean/Shannon and the kids.  I’m tired, cranky, stressed out from driving (thank you Silver Fox et al) and in dire need of a drink.  I snapped at the woman, “where the hell am I going to unload all my stuff?”…A silence and in a very sweet voice she said, “how much stuff do you need to unload to EAT DINNER?”….Whoops!, dinner confirmation, not hotel.  

The UGLY:  We finally arrive at the Hawthorne Hotel in Salem.  I immediately see a “Sasquatch-type” young man dressed in all black skulking around the arriving guests “tip-grubbing”.  A tip grubber is someone who acts like they are helping you with luggage but really are not, yet stand around for that awkward moment with their hand out.  I obliged him two bright shiny quarters and in his eyes I could see that explosive diarrhea was in my future.  Note to self:  wear nothing white or khaki.   Should have given him some Jack-O-Links jerky.

The hotel is old, kitchy and historical along with the requisite, haunted.  This means an old building that charges you a lot for everything (example: mixed well drink at bar cost: $8-$10). We get into our room and I must say, the bed was large and looked comfortable (it was), there was a sofa couch, several end tables and a large desk and armoire with a flat screen.  All very nice.   Two walk-in closets only added to my pleasant satisfaction.  A lot of driving with minimal stops had my bladder on the verge of bursting and I opened the bathroom door.

In a perverse way, I had always wondered what Bilbo and Frodo’s bathroom looked like in their home in the Shire.  And now, here it was in front of me.  There was a separate toilet, sink and shower but due to the Liliputian size of the room, it seemed like all three were morphed together into some type of hybrid bathroom appliance.  With supreme effort, I could contort my body into fitting on the crapper, only to crack my coconut on the wall moulding as I attempted to stand.  I know, I know, “petite” is never a word anyone would used to describe me, but the concept of “shit, shower and shave” took on a whole new meaning.  All I had to do was change the angle of my ass to accomplish all three.  The hobbit toilet looked like it might be industrial strength but alas, it could not handle the waste deposits of normal size folk with a single flush.

What vacation would be complete without the required “Bataan death marches”.  This time, Salem style, pushing my princesses in strollers up and down the hills of witch/ghosts/monster attractions that make up the landscape of Salem.   I also saw the ubiquitous “Sasquatch-valet” from the hotel.  He was apparently moonlighting by pimping some of these other tourist attraction tours and no doubt, tip grubbing.  I had to turn the other way when I felt a gas build up in my stomach.  I am now convinced that this guy is a community “familiar” for the coven of witches in the town.

Crazy note:  The community has been upset for a few years over a statue that was erected of Elizabeth Montgomery,she of the “Bewitched” fame.  The TV show, not the grotesque movie abomination starring Will Ferell and Nicole Kidman.  The town felt that the statue made light of the history of Salem.  I get it.  The last thing I would want to do is insult the millions and millions of dollars this town made in tourism based on the murder of 18(?) people including an innocent man, and innocent women and children.  Witch Darren is witch?

I chose to watch the kids as opposed to participating in the wedding reception.  This allowed mom, dad and grandma to enjoy themselves some.  My youngest, Shannon, helped due to her not feeling well.  Upon going to bed that night, I was somewhat surprised as to the lack of “spooky or supernatural” occurrences at the hotel.  I drifted off to sleep and was immediately awoken by an ethereal, ghostly light right above my bed.  It seem to pulsate and change color.  I was so startled; I immediately awoke Joanne and Shannon (who had claimed dibs on the sofa bed).  They both witnessed this phenomenon and were visibly shaken. It then appeared that the source of this was coming from the floor behind our bed.  Both Shannon and I tried in vain to reach behind the anchored hotel bed, but like the bathroom, my somewhat “gator-like arms” were too short to reach.  I kept trying and trying to reach, squeezing as tight as I could, huffing and puffing to a crescendo to reach this mysterious light source.  I could feel tremendous pressure building in my stomach as I kept trying to reach and then FINALLY, arm got stuck, stomach pressure released and redirected toflatulence with fluid drive.  Thank God I wasn’t wearing white or khaki.  By the way, the mysterious light source:  the flashing light stick one of the kids left behind.   

Damn witches……………………..

 

The “Oils my Gears and Grinds my Gears Blog”

(With apologies to the “Family Guy”)

I have been overwhelmed with requests for a new blog.  So for you two folks who asked, here it is:

 

“Oils my Gears”-my new granddaughter, Riley.  She is the most perfect little sister for our Delaney.  And God keeps cranking out blessings and answering prayers every day for this ol’ sinner.  Speaking of God, my dad would have thought it blasphemous, but I can’t help but like that new country song “If I could have a beer with Jesus”.  Plain words and plain everyman thoughts.

“Grinds my Gears”-Aaron Hernandez was arrested today for murder and the Pats released him faster than goose turds through a tin horn.  Browns (oops, ex-Browns) rookie, Ausar Walcott was arrested on attempted murder charges.  Wow, shades of Simpson, Carruth and Lewis.  What the hell is it with these current and former football players?  Can anyone name a sport where more former and current players have been involved in such heinous crimes.  The ironic thing is that the Browns/NFL is currently hosting the NFL Rookies Symposium in Aurora (?).  This is sometimes a fruitless effort to help keep young football players on the straight and narrow.  Unfortunately for some, their talent and their inflated bank accounts cannot make up for their lack of upbringing, proper parenting or mentoring.  Yet they do seem to have that ENTITLEMENT thing pretty well down. 

 

“Grinds my Gears”-Paula Deen.  How dare you have said the n-word. I don’t think we have vilified this southern born and bred woman enough.  Let’s destroy her family, her means of income, her reputation and her business dealings.  The clock is now running to see if America will forgive her as fast as they forgave a fan-favorite football player involved in the murder of two people and will undoubtedly be a first ballot Hall of Famer along with a lucrative announcing contract. 

“Grinds my Gears Part Dos”- The n-word is only allowed to be said by a certain ethnicity towards or about someone in that same ethnicity.  Yet it is the same word that is proliferated in 78% of a certain genre of music that is sold to ANYONE and EVERYONE regardless of ethnicity.  You can play it, watch it, hum it, or even sing it.  If you are of one ethnicity, you can blast it as loud as you want it.  But if you are of any other another ethnicity you must keep it silent and under-wraps like an old skin magazine of the 1950’s arriving in a brown paper wrapper. (wrapper, get it?)  The word “nigger” is a vile, disgusting, abhorrent, despicable and contemptible word.  But I think its unfair that Black America wants to keep that word for themselves. For our current world is made up of way too many people who commit atrocious acts of violence and mayhem against their fellow man. Acts that are disgusting, abhorrent and despicable.  The word nigger should describe the interior blackness in a man’s heart and soul, not the color of his skin. 

 

“Oils my Gears”-Two months ago, I lost another partner, employer and most of all, friend.  One of the smartest men I ever knew.  His death left a void in many peoples’ lives and the imprint he will leave in the Law Enforcement, Private Security and business world will be felt for decades.  Go Rest High on that Mountain, Jim Riddell and we will meet again someday.   

I have no answers and I will do no preaching…….

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

NOTE:     Anyone who has children, grandchildren, nieces or nephews and for that matter, anyone with a soul shuddered when we heard the tragic news that came out of Chardon.  Sometimes thoughts and prayers are the best we can do.  Make sure to hug somone you love today. 

On June 26, 1970, my father died in my arms in our driveway in Euclid, Ohio.  I had just turned 14.  For the next 44 years, there was a void in my life that at times was as big and loud as a train tunnel and other times a memory fade in bits and pieces. 

Not having grandparents, I had brothers and a sister, but because I was an “oops” baby, they were much older, distant and disconnected from my life.  (I re-established with two brothers later in life and wished I hadn’t wasted those earlier years).  My mother was a loving mother but became very sick as I got older.  I was a 14 year old boy smack dab in the headlights of puberty and I couldn’t help growing up and living my life with a bit of a “chip on my shoulder”.  In reality, I was jealous of my friends (and some extended family) who had paternal support system to ask for help in time of need and other times, just to be a friend. 

I remembered once as a kid, I was playing football in the front yard of Upson Elementary (soon to be demolished/replaced).  As a kid of 12 or 13, I was no different than the other kids.  I thought it was cool to cuss and use those words that today, are all too familiar.  I remember that after an especially hard tackle (yeah, we did that with no equipment), I jumped up and let loose a vile and profane Quentin-Tarantino type barrage of curse words (none of which I had EVER heard my parents say).  Suddenly, I had that feeling of being watched (not unlike what I was warned about in Sunday school) and I looked across the street and saw my Dad in the parking lot of the delicatessen, watching me with this crestfallen look on his face.  I couldn’t have slapped him harder in the face.  We never talked about it.  I never wanted to disappoint him again.  My dad had never watched me play ANY kind of sports prior to that day, nor any after, up to that summer June morning. 

In those 44 years since, I made some extraordinarily good life decisions.  The best of those good decisions was getting married and staying married to the same wonderful woman for the last (almost) 35 years.  Another was the 3 marvelous children my wife (yes, my wife) raised with only cursory input from me.  I spent way too much time away from home to have been a significant, positive influence in their life.

But I have also made some monumentally bad decisions and they are the ones that haunt me and occasionally wake me up in the middle of the night.    Why I made them and how I survived the outcome of most of them, I don’t know.   I want to tell you about the Grace of God, but I promised I wouldn’t preach.  However, I learned to accept the consequences that come along with making bad decisions.   And every step of the way, I felt my dad watching from across the street.  I’d get a “thumbs up” on the good decisions and the crestfallen look on the bad ones.   Unfortunately, it didn’t stop me from making those bad decisions, but it vividly reminded me of the responsibility and accountability I had to accept and the consequences of those actions. 

How does this connect in any way, shape or form to the tragedy in Chardon?...I don’t know…If there is ever a final analysis to this horrendous event, I can assure it won’t be one simple explanation.  What we will here is:

• He had a troubled up bringing
• His parents had issues
• Bullying played a part in his school experience
• Warning signs (i.e. cries for help) were ignored
• Possible abuse of alcohol/drugs

I must be brutally honest.  Growing up, I knew many kids, present company included, with some of the above issues (and sometimes many more), yet they turned out relatively respectable.  Well, at least they didn’t go on a killing rampage.

We live in a desensitized society where we deify criminally and morally flawed athletes and entertainers because they excel at a sport or they produce beautiful music yet are bankrupt of integrity and personal control.

Where is our moral compass? There are those that believe people are basically good and will tell you that this is an aberration.  And then again, there are people who believe that man is basically evil and he is just doing what he does best

 Did the Chardon gunman have anyone standing across the street watching him, forcing him to be accountable for his upcoming actions?  We want so badly to identify the cause (s) in hopes of preventing it from happening again.  But maybe we can’t.

I don’t know, I don’t have the answers…………….By the way, to this day, my dad  is NEVER standing alone to watch me, but then again, I said I wasn’t going to preach…………..

 

I have no answers and I will do no preaching…….

NOTE:     Anyone who has children, grandchildren, nieces or nephews and for that matter, anyone with a soul shuddered when we heard the tragic news that came out of Chardon.  Sometimes thoughts and prayers are the best we can do.  Make sure to hug somone you love today. 

On June 26, 1970, my father died in my arms in our driveway in Euclid, Ohio.  I had just turned 14.  For the next 44 years, there was a void in my life that at times was as big and loud as a train tunnel and other times a memory fade in bits and pieces. 

Not having grandparents, I had brothers and a sister, but because I was an “oops” baby, they were much older, distant and disconnected from my life.  (I re-established with two brothers later in life and wished I hadn’t wasted those earlier years).  My mother was a loving mother but became very sick as I got older.  I was a 14 year old boy smack dab in the headlights of puberty and I couldn’t help growing up and living my life with a bit of a “chip on my shoulder”.  In reality, I was jealous of my friends (and some extended family) who had paternal support system to ask for help in time of need and other times, just to be a friend. 

I remembered once as a kid, I was playing football in the front yard of Upson Elementary (soon to be demolished/replaced).  As a kid of 12 or 13, I was no different than the other kids.  I thought it was cool to cuss and use those words that today, are all too familiar.  I remember that after an especially hard tackle (yeah, we did that with no equipment), I jumped up and let loose a vile and profane Quentin-Tarantino type barrage of curse words (none of which I had EVER heard my parents say).  Suddenly, I had that feeling of being watched (not unlike what I was warned about in Sunday school) and I looked across the street and saw my Dad in the parking lot of the delicatessen, watching me with this crestfallen look on his face.  I couldn’t have slapped him harder in the face.  We never talked about it.  I never wanted to disappoint him again.  My dad had never watched me play ANY kind of sports prior to that day, nor any after, up to that summer June morning. 

In those 44 years since, I made some extraordinarily good life decisions.  The best of those good decisions was getting married and staying married to the same wonderful woman for the last (almost) 35 years.  Another was the 3 marvelous children my wife (yes, my wife) raised with only cursory input from me.  I spent way too much time away from home to have been a significant, positive influence in their life.

But I have also made some monumentally bad decisions and they are the ones that haunt me and occasionally wake me up in the middle of the night.    Why I made them and how I survived the outcome of most of them, I don’t know.   I want to tell you about the Grace of God, but I promised I wouldn’t preach.  However, I learned to accept the consequences that come along with making bad decisions.   And every step of the way, I felt my dad watching from across the street.  I’d get a “thumbs up” on the good decisions and the crestfallen look on the bad ones.   Unfortunately, it didn’t stop me from making those bad decisions, but it vividly reminded me of the responsibility and accountability I had to accept and the consequences of those actions. 

How does this connect in any way, shape or form to the tragedy in Chardon?...I don’t know…If there is ever a final analysis to this horrendous event, I can assure it won’t be one simple explanation.  What we will here is:

• He had a troubled up bringing
• His parents had issues
• Bullying played a part in his school experience
• Warning signs (i.e. cries for help) were ignored
• Possible abuse of alcohol/drugs

I must be brutally honest.  Growing up, I knew many kids, present company included, with some of the above issues (and sometimes many more), yet they turned out relatively respectable.  Well, at least they didn’t go on a killing rampage.

We live in a desensitized society where we deify criminally and morally flawed athletes and entertainers because they excel at a sport or they produce beautiful music yet are bankrupt of integrity and personal control.

Where is our moral compass? There are those that believe people are basically good and will tell you that this is an aberration.  And then again, there are people who believe that man is basically evil and he is just doing what he does best

 Did the Chardon gunman have anyone standing across the street watching him, forcing him to be accountable for his upcoming actions?  We want so badly to identify the cause (s) in hopes of preventing it from happening again.  But maybe we can’t.

I don’t know, I don’t have the answers…………….By the way, to this day, my dad  is NEVER standing alone to watch me, but then again, I said I wasn’t going to preach…………..

 

BORN in the USA

I continue to bask in the glow of my first grandchild (Delaney Joanne McCullough) born on January 16, 2012. But this blog has been welling up inside me and it’s time to give birth to my insights on babies, hospitals, deliveries and even a little about grandparents.

When Delaney is old enough, she will know that waiting for her to arrive (in the Waiting Room) were BOTH sets of grandparents, her aunts and her second cousin, who will probably be referred to as an "aunt" to avoid lengthy family tree explanations. My family is notorious for calling friends and close acquaintances as "Aunt" or "Uncle". Apparently, we don’t want to confuse the little ones by introducing non-blood folk as "Hey Delaney, this is the dude that was doing body shots off your aunt last week in a bar", or "Delaney, I want you to meet Sabrina. Your uncle un-stuck her from a pole at the Executives Den a few months ago". Delaney won’t care as long as there’s a little something in the envelope or presents under the tree from these folks.

Miracle of BIRTH? Yes.The VISUAL of BIRTH, No!......I mentioned in a FaceBook posting that Delaney entered our world through God’s doorway. I meant every sentimental word of it. But now let’s get to reality. My wife gave birth to three wonderful girls. I was there for all three. I witnessed their ACTUAL entry into the world ZERO TIMES!..Being in Law Enforcement for over 30 years, I witnessed the birth of 2 babies unexpectedly. Now I gotta tell ya, I am a BIG fan of the mature adult female form. But any man who tells you that witnessing the VISUAL of birth doesn’t remind him of (pick any) ALIEN movies, well that just means he never saw those classics.

The two times I was an unwilling observer as a cop, I expected to see Sigourney Weaver as Ripley hanging around. Regardless, there is always some family member or actual participant that feels the need to capture this on film for some sort of perverse posterity. No question the baby being born certainly is God’s gift. However, the accompanying bouillabaisse of "YEECH" and "BLEECH" that are discarded may well be the wrapping and bows.

No Lie…..While in the waiting room, a "clan" of maybe 9 people came in that I swear to God all looked like Cletus from the Simpsons cartoon. The apparent matriarch of the clan was so Uber-Pregnant that she looked like a Rocky Mountain tick ready to bust. She went to the intercom (where you have to be buzzed into the delivery area) and she said, "Yeah, I’m here for my 11:30 caesarian". She appeared in a hurry and I couldn’t help but think she had to get back to K-Mart because she only had an hour for lunch.

A note to my wonderful son-in-law, Sean……….Upon changing my oldest daughter for the first few times (who also happens to be Sean’s wife), I was very nervous and scared. Changing a little baby girl’s diapers for the first 100 times can be somewhat intimidating. If they deposited a "veggie burger like pattie", it was quite an easy clean up. However, whenever the formula changed or the diet changed or their poor little tummies were upset, then that could mean a crap-grenade of epic proportion. The first few times I had to clean this haz-mat area up, my wife became extremely impatient at my very delicate, unsure and un-intrusive way of wiping. After her repeated verbal drilling of "front to back", it was now just a matter of getting a disinfectant wipe into the "nooks and crannies" just like an English Muffin. In having to do this, I was praying that I would not scar my baby for life or that she would bring up some repressed memory of this to a shrink or, God forbid, she join Sabrina up on stage. From that day forward, I would NEVER be a fan of the Brazilian wax thing.

………..To my Mandy, who had the best example in the world to be a fantastic mommy..why does 80% of the hundreds of photos we have already of Delaney show her naked? Please refer to the above paragraph.

What’s in a name?..........I have been kidding my beautiful bride and newly ordained grandma, Joanne about her nickname. She hopes Delaney will call her Granma JoJo. I had to explain to her that a JOJO is a "seasoned French fry". And besides, she said, "What’s in a name?"……..We both laughed til I remembered about 15 years ago when my nephew told me about how he and a couple of college roommates were playing corn-hole. I still haven’t recovered from that…………………

...and they loaded up the truck and the moved to Beverly

“……and they loaded up the truck and they moved to Beverly”

Before I start, let me be very clear.  My father and his (my) “kin” are “Shanty Irish” from Wellsville, Ohio.  This is a black land river bottom country that lost everything when the Pottery Mills collapsed.  Shock to the McPeek clan of 2011: as of 1985 there were still McPeek kin living in “hollars” and dirt floor hovels. Crapping in tree stumps and precarious use of corn cobs were the status quo.  So, shoutin’ out hillbillies (as opposed to Mountain William folk) is allowed coming from me.

This sojourn had myself and my bride heading to Centerville, Tennessee, which is just one hour southwest of Nashville, and 21 miles east of Buck Snort (no friggin lie), Tenn.  We were there to move one of my daughters back home

As oppose to a long story with an expected (and possibly, unfunny) punchline, here are observations and musings……………

YES, YES, YES…..there is actually an area outside of Covington, Kentucky called Big Bone Lick.  At this point, I’ve got a hundred one-liners, but suffice to say as we passed the sign, I pointed it out to my wife of nearly 35 years and she stated, “in your dreams on all counts”, and “you really are an old pervert”.  So much for any shot at a Penthouse Forum submission.

Dyslexic 18-wheel truck drivers figured that 70mph was only good in the right lane.  They would continually move to left lane and drop down to 07mph UP an incline.  My wife said that someone should get on the CB and tell “Pig Pen”, this here’s “Rubber Duck”….”move it over, asshole!”…Not very lyrical, but potentially effective.

We needed to make contact with some folk who lived in the Styx (improper spelling intended) and when talking to them on the phone, they said “u just put this address in your GPS and our trailer is two drives beyond that with an 18-wheeler in the front yard”  The route the GPS took us made the Bataan Death March look like a Rodeo Drive cruise.  We traveled over a fresh cut logging road through swails, washouts and switchbacks.  There was no sign of life on this 3 mile excursion except for some dilapidated barns perilously close to an already narrow road.  Cue the banjo scene from Deliverance (you just knew this reference was coming at some point). 

  

Upon finally making it to our destination, the nice guy we met said, “well, just go up the road here past two stop signs and you’re back on the freeway. You can’t trust them GPS.”   AY CARUMBA!   

We found ourselves at a Super Wal Mart for some medicine.  I am not going to berate those robust folk you see on the Internet at Wal-Mart and their remarkable clothing ensembles, but they were in attendance here.  No, I am going to comment on a product I noticed on the shelf in the First-Aid aisle.  The product was called “Tatoo Fade”.  This was apparently some topical application attempting to cover up some past indiscretion or bad decision resulting in an “I did what??!!” moment.  This was very apparent when………..

Our final stop was the 16^th Circuit Court of Hickman County, Tennessee in the county seat of Centerville.  We needed to clear up a traffic ticket with my daughter.  We were seated at 9am and the presiding judge was the Honorable Samuel H. Smith III.  The THIRD!?.......I think ole Sammy was around and helped write the Law Of Hammurabi in Babylon.  But it was the audience in the courtroom that forced me to read Darwin’s “Origin of Species”. I saw enough muffin-tops, tramp stamps and butt-cracks to populate a Plumbers Union soiree (in a few cases, it seems that the Charmin supply truck bypassed the area).  And then there were the women.  Some of the fonts used in scripting the tattoos was interesting.  They must use the same artist who did Charlie Manson’s swatiska on his five-head. But seriously, for some of these folk, it appeared that the hardest decision of the day was to decide what t-shirt and jeans had the least amount of crankcase oil and Skoal rings on it and wear that to court.  Also, Monday in court must be “Family Mullet” day.  If everyone sports a mullet, you get a free conjugal visit with the inmate of your choice.  And then to end it all, an infrequent silence in the courtroom was perforated by someone on the far side breaking wind.  Its staccato pitch indicated the immediate need for a wet-nap clean up. 

Upon a 10-hour ride home, I was actually glad to be back in EucHood.

…………”Hills, that is..Swimming pools, movie stars”

   

Through the Portal of Hell and Back Again

Through The Portal of Hell and Back Again

Or

My Wife’s birthday trip to Charleston, S.C.

On her 50^th birthday, I made the grievous error of organizing a surprise birthday for my wife, Joanne,  with ALL her family and friends.  She swore that if I ever did that again, I would be castrated with a butter knife.  Since then, we have traveled every year for her birthday.  This year, we paid the Ferryman to take us across the river Styx to Hades.  Some may also refer to it as Dante’s Fifth Circle, and still others call it Charleston, SC.

After 11 hours of reasonably drama-free driving, the other shoe fell and I had to drive through not one, but three apocalyptic rain storms.  I mean these were Old Testament, grab some gopher wood, gully washers the like I have never seen.   Certainly, the molasses-throated South Carolinians (first of two “Office” references) would have thought this rain nothing more than a carriage-horse pissing on a flat rock.  And so, my sojourn begins.

Now I am by no means a person of perfect height-weight ratio.  Matter of fact, I passed Kevin James on the backstretch a few thousand chicken wings ago.  I know that and I expect as a “portly fellow” sweating is not only a result but an expectation.  However, sweating more than the rainstorms I endured to get here was not in the bargain. 

My nephew said that Charleston was hot and humid but there was an ocean breeze.  Well, when  you blow hot, fetid air through a furnace, it becomes a friggin BLAST furnace.  No romantic, Corona beer commercial dancing winds, but a stifling convex oven capable of deep frying turkeys on the ”low” settings.   Add to this the permeating odor of old, decaying seafood and freshly produced horse shit (courtesy of the Carriage Tour battalions) and you have the makings of a new BIzarro Calvin Klein fragrance commercial.

Did I mention it was hot?.......I am firmly convinced that South Carolinians have been selectively bred without benefit of sweat glands.  These stout folk travel around town in three piece suits (probably made of wool), long sleeve shirts and ties without nary a trickle to be seen.  I walked outside of my (thank God!) air-conditioned hotel at 9am, picked up a dropped coin off the ground and launched a geyser of sweat down to my ass crack. 

The next three days we endured a Bataan Death March smorgasbord of museums, boat trips, board walks, ghost walks (at dusk when the temperature was a brisk 93 degrees) and the culmination of it all, the trip to Drayton Hall.

Drayton Hall is another plantation type estate which boasts the fact that the interior/exterior has been left “untouched” since the 18^th Century.  Yeah, that’s right, NO AIR CONDITIONING.  Matter of fact, for some unknown reason they didn’t even have the windows open.  Note to Historical Society:  try spending a little of the 18 bucks/per head you charge to escort folks through a Revolutionary microwave on some electric fans.  Yeah, I know it’s not 18^th Century realism, BUT this ain’t the friggin 18^th Century.  Hell, even today’s last pioneers, the Amish, use cell phones today and their cousins, the Menonites (or Amish-Lite as I call them) have been using electricity forever.

I must digress here to speak (very UN-politically correct) about white man guilt.  I had always been resistant to call Blacks African-Americans partly because I don’t refer to myself as “shanty-Irish American hillbilly” and in speaking with some Black friends found that they really have no connection to Africa.  But here is South Carolina, specifically an area called Sullivan’s Island, it is referred to as the gateway from where MOST of the slaves uprooted in Africa ended up coming into the colonies.   I think the real African American slaves had been given the fuzzy end of the social lollypop.  Occasionally you will hear of a benevolent slave owner who treated his minions well, but a lot of Blacks were mistreated, tortured, hardly fed, and in some cases forced to propagate with afore-mentioned white owners who lacked sweat glands.  Certainly no bargain there….But much like the maligned and royally screwed Native American Indians, the African American descendents of slaves are extracting their own kind of revenge on the white man. Two-hundred and some years later, Native Americans have modernized the “fire ant torture” and call it MAXIMUM PAYOUTS on the slot machines at their Casinos and African Americans have cornered the market on “sweet grass and palmetto” baskets.  These are allegedly hand made wares that they sock the ignorant tourist upwards of $75-$150/per and I think to some degree the white tourist pay these abysmal prices feeling that this is their reparation penance.  First of all, I think this is a conspiracy.  I believe there is a clandestine group of African American slave descendents who force otherwise handsome, matronly black women to dress like VooDoo Mama JuJu (second “Office” ref), grab some sweetgrass leaves and twiddle the strands through their fingers as they sit out in makeshift  sauna-like stalls at the street markets  plying these goods.  But I have it on good authority, these fraud merchants are seen late at night in Charleston back alley “sweat shops” forcing Asian children to actually make these wicker wonders.     

Back to Drayton Hall a minute.  I witnessed a phenomenon that I believed was physically impossible.  It was so hot and humid during this tour, that I actually began sweating out of my fingertips.  That’s right, sweat drops coming out of the tips of my fingers like I was giving blood drops to that carnivorous plant in “Little Shop of Horrors”.   The culmination of the tour finally involved jamming 20 tour goers into a room the size of an outhouse (which this might have been), and there we were able to share our “swamp ass” and “monkey butt” with complete strangers.  Ahhhh yes, mint juleps and “swamp ass”!……

By the way, the title of this trip is a reference made by our Ghost Tour guide on Tuesday night.  She had said that there was a significant supernatural presence in Charleston and even alluded that black magic, architecture and even Masonic rituals were all intermingled in the Charleston mythos.  Two Early American authors opined that the intersection of King and Broad streets were so heavily drenched with supernatural electromagnetic forces that they could have very well been the “portal to hell”. 

Did I mention it was hot?!......................