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My wife Babs heard about a history professor who crafted wine cabinets, and thought it would be the perfect birthday present for me. We saw him one evening to pick the style, wood, and finish. A month later we brought the finished cabinet home in the back seat of the car. We were so impressed we decided to have a dinner party for it. Babs invited the professor, her shrink Paul Arnold, and his wife June. I brought the menu to Haskell's, a fashionable wine dealer, and came away with nine bottles and precisely when to drink them during the meal. The christening came on a warmish evening, beginning with #1, Weingut Muller Privat Rheinriesling Spatlese.  #3, Chateau Thivin Cote de Brouilly, was uncorked when Paul and Babs went to the kitchen. The professor sampled the rogue bleu while he stared at the Girl with Red Chair, Brick Wall, hanging over the fireplace: “She has a beautiful little body, hasn’t she?” June leaned in, wearing a clingy red jersey knit. “You should see mine.” “Can th

I don’t even think they know where they’re goin’.  What are they tryin’ to prove, anyway? —The Wild Ones (1953) You know how every neighborhood has an eccentric? When I slipped my Harley up Richie’s drive on a wonderfully hot Saturday afternoon, he was sitting on his bed surrounded by clothes and boxes. It was one of those wacky Saturdays where the sight of Richie sleeping in would cause his father Ollie to turn purple and thrust a finger in Richie’s face: “Goddammit Richard, you'll be out of my house by six o’clock tonight, I GAR-UN-TEE!” and dump the contents of Richie’s bedroom into the drive. “Where’s the Olds?” I asked. Richie sighed, “They’re at the Hub.” We got it back into his room—the heat didn’t help—and cracked open a couple of Ollie’s cold ones. We’d been in crises since Kardis frosted us with the Angels: “Totally unreliable.” “I like his sister.” “Yeah, fourteen.” Richie opened his little black book. “The prom queens. They put out.” “Remember what happened last time?”

What happened to the girl I used to know? You let your mind out somewhere down the road, Don't bring me down, down, down, down, down No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no —from Lynne, Jeff. (1979). Don't Bring Me Down [lyrics] The army? It’s bullshit, really. Two years amid spells of senseless madness, where life can be short. I took off my uniform and notified Peavey Company. I soon began handling all things computer at the new Tech Center, back working days and schooling nights, busy with responsibilities. Since returning I had been on the lookout for enemies, strange sights, sounds and smells. Diesel churned my stomach. I looked up every time I heard a helicopter. The 4th of July was tense. Fireworks and the lingering smell of sulfur—incoming or outgoing? At first I slept well, but then I would wake up suddenly in a cold sweat not knowing where I was and had to change my t-shirt. The doctors suggested hypnosis. I demurred—who knows what that might bring. * “I don’t know you a

Last week I got carried away with a squirrel. He was pillaging the bird feeder in broad daylight. I burst out of the screen door, got him with the first shot from my water gun and chased him up the oak tree. My heart was pounding. It was too much for a guy on the heavy end of the scale. I dragged myself inside, short of breath. A couple Xanax later, I had recovered. From now on, the birds would fight their own battles. A walk later that day set off another heartbeat of well over a 100. It’s a great system, tachycardia. The brain sees unusual heartbeats and says “Hey, you’re under stress,” which adds more stress and more beats. I turned around after a block. “You have an appointment with your internist on Friday,” my wife reminded me. “Butterfield? I was there last year.” “Butterfield has your number,” Nancy replied. “He’s keeping you alive so you can make the house payment.” “How come your heart rate is so great?” She answered, “I smoke.” I called my friend Steve and canceled our p

Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.—King James Bible, 1611, Matthew, 5:15.   Inasmuch as the recent events surrounding the Lady Arlene (if that indeed is her real name) are not widely known, I have attempted a rude and hasty account from marginal notes, eyewitness accounts and a late edition of the Creve Coeur Crier. The first indication of something amiss was a no-show for a four o'clock showing of The Favourite, a film illuminated by candles, for it seems that on the previous night, she had been resting under a canopy in her handsome, four poster bed after the day’s entertainments. The Crier did not state if she had drawn unknown persons to her baits or excited any passions, but as of late, she had been much taken by a new cleansing ritual, touted by a talk show host with Axis pretensions, utilizing a regimen of pulverized kale enemas (not recommended). When she wasn’t running to the b

I usually ignore my answering machine for hours, sometimes days, but when I heard, “It’s urgent,” I thought better. After all, it was kind of urgent the day she mentioned that her boyfriend of seven years had shot himself in the head.  This time it was two tickets at the Fox.  “Don’t you want to see Johnny Mathis?”  “No thanks.” “Come on,” she said. “I’m not in the mood.” “Please?” “Why did you wait to the last minute?” “Well . . . nobody else could go.” She needed someone to go with her since her brand-new car is, and always will be, asking for someone else to drive it. Of course, she’s blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other, especially when drinking. “Don’t you want to see Johnny again?” she said in her plaintive tone. “He is 80. I guess maybe I should before he doesn’t come back. I’ll drive.” “Do you have something really cute? A girl can never tell who she might run into when she’s downtown.” “Mm-hmm. Yeah, actually.” “We need to hurry. Be over at my house by

The brass came by, proclaiming their message of war. “When the NVA pounces, we’ll dump air and arty on him and wipe him out.”  Lt. Martinez, a veteran presence with four years in-country, didn’t share the line. Martinez was of a mind that you had to be a little smarter than to raise a baiting operation in the Dog’s Head. He spoke with amused vehemence as if he understood everything from the beginning. “Firebases are not a good place. No real cover, no room to maneuver, no chance to flank the other side.”  I didn’t think much of it at the time; my fear was an attack before Jay was hardened. After the last-light patrol sallied forth, it was time to wrap. Col. Hannas, who was not above taking point, was there to check the night readiness of the men. He eyed Thumper (my M79 grenade launcher): “Are you ready to go, son?” “Yes, sir.” “It’s damn hot.” “Yes, sir.” “Do you need anything?” “No, sir.” “Notice anything in the bush?” “No, sir.” “I like your attitude. Show me what you can do.” He p

“The great question is: How can we win America's peace?”—Richard Nixon, Address to the Nation on the War (November 3, 1969) J. R. and I hopped on the world stage when we walked down the steps of a Flying Tiger 707 at Cam Ranh Bay, a humongous seaside base, 180 miles NE of Saigon. No flowers or open arms, just “You are now in the Republic of Viet Nam.” Commies weren't coming for us, we were coming for them. Neither poets nor conquerors, we were gonna make a statement, even a bad one. Funny people, strange smells, nothing I could have invented. The weather was nice. A jeep drove us to a two-story barracks. We shared a blank room on a floor with fifty other guys, picked out beds from scattered empties, and lived out of duffel bags. Each morning after chow, the guys in the barracks lined up outside in roll call formation. A bitch box (bullhorn) called out names. Done for the day, if yours didn't come up. Night-time, we climbed a fifty-foot tower to pull guard with no ammo! They