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All the News About Hal that Hal Deems Fit to Print
=====================================================================
AUG/SEPT. 1994 ~ Ite in Orcum Directe ~ Volume 3, Issue 5
_____________________________________________________________________
The Best Non-cooking, Non-Gardening, Self-Published Newsletter
in New England - Some Guy at the Boston Globe
Publisher: Harold Gardner Phillips, III
Editor-in-Chief: Hal Phillips
Virtual Editor: Dr. David M. Rose, Ph.D.
Managing Editor: Formletter McKinley
Living/Arts Editor: Alex Beam
Dead/Government Editor: Vincent Foster
Production Manager: Quinn Martin
Circulation Manager: Dr. Margaret Bean-Bayog
Weapons Consultant: General Raoul Cedras
Spiritual Consultant: Rev. Jean Bertrand Aristide
Editorial Offices: The Harold Herald
30 Deering St.
Portland, ME 04101
Satellite Office: c/o Golf Course News
38 Lafayette St.
P.O. Box 997
Yarmouth, ME 04096
ARCHIVE SITES:
fir.cic.net (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
etext.archive.umich.edu (pub/Zines/Harold.Herald)
Subscription requests to drose@fas.harvard.edu
Submissions welcome
THIS ISSUE: Sell your Philip Morris Stock: Phillips kicks the Habit
Ken Burns Declines to Comment
The Thing That Ate Baltimore: A New Phillips Comes Forth
Thugs and Savages, Friends and Neighbors
Culinary Wonders of the British Isles
Minor Leagues, Major Concessions
Toying with the Dead and the Undead
And, of course, your letters....
/-/ \-\
HAROLD NOTEBOOK
By HAL PHILLIPS
PORTLAND, Maine - A decade of inveterate smoking came to an end (in
theory) on Sept. 12, my 30th birthday. I didn't want to quit, so my
plan was to tell everyone I knew about my proposed secession, thereby
making it impossible to weasel out.
The first week went very well, while the second - which included a
wedding (see below) - set me back a few steps. The bottom line is
this: When sober, I show amazing resilience. When buzzed, especially
via the demon weed, I have more trouble.
I have, however, made significant progress. As the Herald went to
press, I have smoked six cigarettes in two weeks - none in my car,
none on the golf course, none after dinner, none in the morning with
coffee.
Health Care Addendum: Why is that Americans squeal like stuck pigs
when they're wronged by some government agency but shrug their
shoulders when they're debauched by all manner of private-sector
entities? Why do we decry government-run health care bureaucracy and
accept an insurance bureaucracy that couldn't be slower, couldn't be
less responsive, and couldn't be more expensive.?
Is there such a thing as too much faith in the free market?
(Is there a rule about consecutive interrogative sentences? Oops, I've
done it again!)
And what about fucking Phil Gramm (Dink-Texas), who doesn't understand
that he hasn't a the slightest chance at the GOP nomination. I heard
him on C-Span the other day, railing about government intervention
with regard to health care.
"My mother, back in Texas, doesn't want the government messing with
her health care," drawled the balding, hypocritical toady. "She want's
government out of her life!"
Thanks to the New York Times, I learned that Phil omitted an important
aspect of his argument - namely, the Medicare payments his mother
receives each month.
Living/Arts Editor Alex Beam, who writes a column for the Globe in his
spare time, has asked for some assistance from Herald readers. Seems
Beam is planning a column on "cars that look like suppositories." Beam
can be reached at the Big House on Morrissey Boulevard, 617-929-2800.
I've been to three weddings since publication of the last Herald: Tim
Dibble and the former Maureen Holland in Hingham, Mass.; David Kett
and Beth Jordan in St. Paul, Minn.; and Jim O'Reilly and the former
Kris Kelleher in Harvard, Mass. All three women, to their credit, said
"I do" or the like without any prompting or prodding.
All three were very enjoyable affairs. But when it came to pure
decadence, all paled in comparison to their respective bachelor
parties. Dibble's shindig has already been documented in this space
(August '94), but Kettle's and O'Reilly's both deserve mention.
Kett's bachelor party involved a trip to a St. Paul Saints baseball
game (see related story), followed by a trip to "The Saloon," a gay
disco bar where we met up with the simultaneously partying
bachelorettes. Somewhere in between the ballgame and gay bar, the
groom - a long-time friend from Wellesley, Mass. - was hijacked and
taken to a strip bar that looked like a diner.
O'Reilly's bash was a two-day affair that began with a pub crawl in
Billerica, Mass. and ended with a Winnebago trip to the Foxwoods
Casino in Ledyard, Conn. So bored was Jim by the goings-on at Max II's
(a strip bar known in newspapers circles as the Billerica Performing
Arts Center), he slept - arms folded, chin on chest - throughout our
two-hour stay. Jim's high moral character, personified by his sleepy
indifference, was aided by double-digit drink totals, among other
vices.
We're Famous, Part II: I received a curious spate of subscription
requests early in September. We had not published since mid-August
nor, to my knowledge, had we received any press coverage. Turns out
the New England Newspaper Association (NENA) Bulletin mentioned the
Herald in its September issue.
This may not seem like much to you, gentle reader. But NENA is big-
time! Papers like the Marlboro Enterprise and Town Crier (where I
toiled) belonged to the piddling New England Press Association, while
the Boston Globe, Hartford Courant and, apparently, the Portland
Press-Herald belong to NENA.
The NENA Bulletin basically ran a brief on the Herald, lifting a few
sentences from Ray Routhier's Press-Herald feature. Did they get your
permission, Ray?
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'd like to do a few impressions
for you tonight. Are you ready... Who am I now?
"I remember that... I remember that... I remember that... I remember
that..."
I'm a Baby Boomer watching "Forrest Gump."
/-/ \-\
KEN BURNS:NO BALLS, BUT NO STRIKES
By HAL PHILLIPS
We can't let Ken Burns scurry off to his next film project without
comment on his celebrated, nine-inning series, "Baseball," which just
concluded on Public Broadcasting.
Anyone familiar with Burns' documentary work - "The Brooklyn Bridge",
"The Civil War" - has come to realize two things: He's got really bad
hair sense and an obsession with exploring the American sense of self
via historical circumstance.
After plowing through the country's Civil War years, Burns'
concentration on the game of baseball may seem an inconsequential
choice. But with his latest documentary, the filmmaker painstakingly
depicts the Grand Ol' Game as a full-length mirror to American
culture. Certainly, the question of race in this country is well
reflected by baseball's 19th-century experimentation with integration
and eventual regression into complete segregation.
But did Jackie Robinson's Major League emergence in 1947 somehow
reflect America's pangs of conscience? Did he pave the way for Brown
vs. Board of Education and the impending Civil Rights movement?
Ken Burns would answer these queries thusly: "Those are interesting,
crucial questions with which Americans continue to struggle..."
And when does this reflection go too far? Did baseball in the 1920s -
with its unprecedented emphasis on the home run - mirror an America
hell bent on self-indulgence and immediate gratification.?
I say, that's a stretch. But you'll never get an answer from Burns.
I admire and enjoy Mr. Burns' work more than any documentarian on
earth, but his scholarship is very safe. I've seen him speak several
times and he pointedly refuses to offer his own opinions on subjects
in which he is fantastically versed.
Let me be clear: In his documentary work, Burns is fanatically
scrupulous when it comes to spelling out both sides of an argument.
However, when pressed for an opinion, he damn near refuses to come
down on either side. And who better to offer an informed opinion than
someone so objective?
"Mr. Burns, do you think it fair that Abraham Lincoln be so closely
associated with the freeing of slaves when he favored the post-war
black colonization of Africa and resisted emancipation for as long as
it remained politically practical?"
Burns would answer, "We, as a country, are still struggling with this
troubling dual image of Lincoln as emancipator and political
opportunist. Somewhere on the fault line lies the truth..."
"Mr. Burns, do you think Major League Baseball deserves its anti-trust
exemption?"
"Well, as a nation, we continue to struggle with this question,
pulled, as we are, in two directions: Toward the sanctity of
tradition. and fairness in the marketplace. Somewhere in the grey area
lies the answer.."
And so it goes.
There is no denying that 20th-century baseball also mirrors the
country's on-going labor struggles. And though Burns would never say
so in public, I will: The anti-trust exemption for Major League
Baseball is a disgrace. The 1994 strike is merely the most recent
example.
Unfortunately, while now would be the ideal time to challenge the
exemption in court (which Major League Baseball Players Association
Executive Director Don Fehr has said he would do), Fehr is not the man
to do it.
Anyone who would dare challenge the national pasttime must be
extremely clever, media savvy and, most important, likeable. The
potential fallout from removing the exemption is enormous. An entire
nation would require soothing reassurance that baseball would not
disintegrate and reform as something altogether alien. Fehr - an icy,
humorless attorney - could never provide that type of security.
Marvin Miller, Fehr's mentor and predecessor, was perfectly suited to
this task. But it appears Miller was born too early.
Getting back to the baseball documentary: I enjoyed it, but not nearly
so much as Burns' Civil War series. Both are stylish and hugely
informative, but for me, 95 percent of "Baseball" was rehash whereas
"The Civil War" was chock full of fascinating minutiae.
To be fair, this is more a commentary on me than Burns. Fact is, I
know more about the history of baseball than my country's seminal
civil disturbance.
Most people do, I'm afraid. Right or wrong, there are more baseball
stat freaks than Civil War scholars.
/-/ \-\
MARKING THE BIRTH OF A NATHAN
By HAL PHILLIPS
TOWSON, Md. - Nathan Phillip Kahla, my first nephew, was born Aug. 28,
to sister Janet and her husband, Paul Kahla.
The dark-haired boy weighed in at a whopping 9 lbs. 13 oz., and
measured 22 inches. Anyone who's met my sister can appreciate the
dimensions at play here. Janet is 5'1" and wears a size 4... no
cesarean required. What a trooper!
Both mother and son came through famously and, at four weeks, Nathan
was sleeping virtually through the night. Indeed, the awards continue
to roll in. At a recent reunion of the Kahlas' birthing class, our boy
captured first prize for biggest and newest baby!
During a recent phone interview with Janet, Nathan woke up and started
to wail.
"He cries a lot," the new mother explained. "But I guess babies do
that. That's what they tell me, anyway."
It was discovered that our boy had a wet bum, so his mom - who can
change a car's oil without removing the portable phone from her
shoulder - proceeded to service young Nathan. Suddenly, she burst out
laughing.
"Oh wow, Nathan just had a bowel movement!" she howled. "We always
take off his socks because he always puts his feet right into the
dirty part of the diaper."
"Did you ever think you'd laugh so hard at defecation?" I asked my
sister.
"No, I didn't," she said. "Oh, he did it again! He also has little
erections. Little baby erections. They're so cute!"
Reports out of Towson indicate Nathan to be the cutest freakin' baby
on Earth. Paul insists the baby is "extra cute."
Consistent with his Phillipsian stature, particularly at birth, Nathan
has also displayed signs of the family appetite. He eats a good deal
of the time.
However, when my parents (Gramma and Grampa Phillips) were in town for
a visit, Nathan was sucking away on his bottle, only to stop and
breath before resuming.
"Well, I guess he likes to breath between bites," Gramps observed off-
handedly.
"Well, I guess he doesn't have the Phillips appetite," Janet observed.
The lovely Sharon Vandermay and I plan to visit the newest family
edition the weekend of Oct. 8 and 9. I'm excited but Sharon is beside
herself with gleeful anticipation.
Until then, we have to rely on observations from Nathan's mom, who has
taken this motherhood thing in stride.
"His crying, I thought, would really get on my nerves," she explained.
"But that doesn't seem to be the case. I'm much more patient than I
thought I would be.
"You can see him changing every day. We have this developmentally
correct poster, all black and white, near his crib. For the first
three weeks or so, he had no interest in it whatsoever. Now he stares
intently at it, constantly. Once he started showing an interest in
that, I started with the rattle. No interest. But yesterday, I brought
it back out and he follows it all around. He'll hear the rattly sound
and look around for it.
"They say that kids can recognize faces immediately. They love to look
at mirrors. They probably don't realize it's them, but I have two
mirrors in his crib: A three-way and convex. He likes the three-way
mirror. It has red, black and white borders. Red is the first color
they see. Then they move on to cool colors.
"They practice facial expressions, but he doesn't really know what it
means. He'll grin as he falls off to sleep. It's the cutest thing
you've ever seen."
/-/ \-\
MEETING RAOUL
By Dr. DAVID ROSE
It was Friday morning, around 4 a.m. or thereabouts when the phone
rang. I had just completed some very satisfactory Rapid Eye Movement
and was settling into a dream in which I was appearing as a special
guest on the Lawrence Welk Show. Normally, I would have unplugged the
phone and rolled over for several hundred additional winks, but I was
groggy and was momentarily confused by the simultaneous disappearance
of Myron Floren and Arthur Duncan. In my compromised state, and
against my better judgment, I picked it up.
It was him again, I should have figured. Whenever he gives a big
speech he gets all keyed up and can't sleep. Then he lies in bed,
staring at the ceiling and turning things over in his mind until he
gets so confused and worked up that he has to call me. It wasn't the
first time, and it wouldn't be the last. My wife Pen was still
sleeping, so I slipped out of bed and took it on the extension in the
kitchen.
"Bill, what the hell? It's four o'clock, I've got work tomorrow..."
"Ah know, Dave, Ah feel your pain. But Ah need your help; it's the
Haiti thing. Things aren't working out like we planned."
"WE? What's this we shit? Don't try to pin this on me. Gays in the
Military, okay, that was my baby. But I tried to tell you from the
start that Haiti was a mistake. And no offense, Bill, but the speech
was weak. What did I tell you? Sincerity and resolve, sincerity and
resolve, we went over it about 50 times! You couldn't even look into
the camera."
"Well, Ah thought it went pretty well.
Your.....time.....is.....Up; I counted 'Mississippi' just like we
practiced. And Ah didn't do that Mike-Dukakis-bent-finger thing once.
Ah used graphic descriptions of the brutal human rights abuses
committed by the Haitian military to appeal to America's innate sense
of justice, thus focusing the country's attention like a laser beam on
the suffering of their brothers to the South and a little bit to the
East, or, in the case of the New England states, their brothers just
to the South... and in some cases actually a little bit to the West."
"Uh, very stirring. But you've got to remember, Bill, the Haitians are
three time losers as far as Middle America is concerned: They're
black, they're poor, and, as if that wasn't enough, they speak French
for Christ's sake.
"Actually, most speak Creole..."
"Great, when the campaign bus is swinging through Idaho next year
start speaking Creole out on the hustings and watch how it whips Ma
and Pa Kettle into a frenzy. People couldn't care less, the fucking
Simpson trial is coming up. "
"Did you know we don't have Court TV in the White House? Ah know the
trial falls under the purview of the judicial branch, but as Chief
Executive Ah feel a need to keep informed..."
"Bill, let's stick to the business at hand, shall we? Look, a Haiti
invasion is a no-win situation. If things go smoothly, a lot of people
will die and you'll achieve a military objective that no one cares
about. If things don't go so well, more people will die and you might
achieve nothing. Either way, Bob Dole's got your balls in a sack."
"Ah know, Ah know. That's why I'm calling. Is there a way out, any way
to get through to the military leaders?"
"Let's face it. The Cuban Missile Crisis approach isn't working; you
gave it a shot, but you're no Jack Kennedy. Cedras thinks you're
bluffing, and even if you weren't, he doesn't think you can get an
invasion past Congress. I think it's time for some Good Cop/Bad Cop;
you've done the bad cop part, now send in some good cops to tell
Cedras that you're just crazy enough to do it - unless he makes nice."
"But who? Ah suppose we could send Dole or Gingrich* in to say that
Congress won't stand in my way..."
"No, too dangerous; Dole or Gingrich would use it against you later.
But I must admit that I like the idea of sending a bitter enemy, a
right-wing ideologue whose neo-fascist views are so diametrically
opposed to yours that Cedras will have to view him as I free agent...
I know: Sam Nunn.
"Perfect! Now, we should also have someone who the coup leaders can
identify with, someone with similar attributes and interests, who can
win them over to our way of thinking. Hmmm....."
"Well, Colin Powell isn't poor, but he's black and he knows a lot
about how to kill and dismember people; we'll give him some Berlitz
tapes and he can learn Creole on the flight down."
"Brilliant! It's all coming together! Now, Ah know Ah can't go along,
but Ah feel that Ah should send a sort of surrogate, someone who will
represent me. Ah want the coup leaders to see first hand the type of
man they're dealing with."
"Hmm. It's a thought, I suppose. He should be a man of humble origins
who, by struggling, has vastly improved his station in life. A sober
and earnest man who nonetheless possesses a certain Southern charm. A
Democrat, of course, and a man who has used his innate gifts of
intelligence, industry, and devotion to public service to become a
well-meaning and likable but maddeningly ineffectual president. Hmm,
that's going to be a little tougher, but we'll think of someone.
Anyway, Bill, I'm beat. Give me a call early tomorrow and we'll work
out the details. And you get some sleep, you've got a big day ahead."
I hung up the phone and slipped back into bed. As I drifted off, I
remembered that I had meant to tell Bill to instruct his negotiators
not to piss away their advantage in negotiations and make unreasonable
concessions to the Haitian military, resulting in an agreement which
achieved few of his original objectives, forced him into an uneasy and
unseemly alliance with the men he had just characterized in a national
address as thugs and savages, and launched a military operation with
questionable goals and ill-defined rules of engagement that could turn
into a quagmire that would make Somalia look like a day at the beach.
Sure, it seemed obvious, but you can't leave anything to chance with
this guy.
No matter, I thought; I could still tell him in the morning... as long
as I didn't oversleep.
(* When the sirname "Gingrich" is run through the spell-check, its
nearest relative is, appropriately, "jingoish." While the sirname Dole
is a legitimate word and shouldn't be checked, my spell-checker stops
on it and suggests "fucking obstructionist prick". - Ed.)
/-/ \-\
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
Dear Harold:
Thank you (I think) for assigning me to cover the story of your
demise, which I'm sure will be untimely and regretted by all. At the
risk of sounding morbid, I would like to start preparing the shell of
your obituary now.
I'm toying with the following lead: "What can you say about a
X-year-old boy who died? That he loved beer and debauchery? That he
once loved a vacuum cleaner?"
As you can see, it is a little thin. You could help me out by
requesting fond memories, quips, and other personal anecdotes from
your subscriber list, many of whom purport to be your friends.
Thank you for your help. I look forward to editing your sordid
past.
Cordially,
Alison Harris
Cumberland, Maine
Ed. - My admirers are legion and easily accessible. However, for an
alternative view, might I suggest Jim Magonigle, a fellow Wesleyan
grad hell-bent on beating me to a pulp. Seems I insulted his
fraternity house, Chi Psi, sometime during my junior year. This got
back to him and he took it personally - very personally. Every time I
run into him, he's drunk, has a crazed look in his eye and threatens
my well-being. Also, you may want to contact my ex-fiancee Stephanie,
who has a pathological aversion to unpleasantness. So while she
probably has plenty of nasty things to say, Stephanie has by now
blotted them fro her memory or attributed them to my drug use. Either
way, if pressed, she'd probably fabricate something nice to avoid the
slightest hint of negativity.
Dear Hal,
Your Aunt Anne and I were some excited to hear you was going to spoken
of on the front page of the newspaper. I had lots of folks promise to
save their copies. We was then real disappointed to buy the paper that
week and you wasn't in it, not just not on the front page but
nowheres!
When we spoke to you about it you said you had meant you was going to
be in one of them Boston or Portland papers! Course that don't count
for much around here. If it's not in the Ellsworth-American it hasn't
really happened. I was in some pickle with all them folks that bought
extry Ellsworth-Americans and was out two dollar and fifteen cent
compensating them.
I showed them your newsletter to better explain the situation. But I
don't know but what that didn't make it worse! Effie Beals said if you
got such a swelled head from being in one of them Boston papers no-
one's every heard of she'd hate to think how big an ego you'd have if
you had been in the Ellsworth American!
And Clyde Oldstrop said mebbe you was turning out like the Newman boy,
Paul I think his name was, who left here to got to California and be
an actor, or some such foolishness. Last we heard he was trying to
sell salad dressing! Now if he'd a stayed here and worked for his
Uncle Jarvis in the family boatyard down to Southwest Harbor he could
of been somebody!
Well, Hal, I hope you'll take a lesson from this sorry episode and
settle down. I sure could use some help getting in the rutabagas this
fall. Looks like a bumper crop in spite of all the dry weather we've
had. I'm sure folks'ud forget about all this foolishness of yours in a
few years. Your Aunt Anne says to tell you she still loves you
regardless.
Uncle Chauncey [Bancroft]
Ellsworth, Maine
Ed. - Don't worry, Chauncey. I's still the same ol' humble cuss
y'always knowd. Give my love back to Aunt Anne, and tell ol' Mrs.
Beals she wouldn't know a swelled head if it poked her ample behind.
Probably been 30, 40 years since she's seen one anyways.
Dear Hal:
As this letter concerns you, I assume that you will print it, if not
in its original form. With the new-found popularity of your periodic
tribute to self involvement, I'm compelled to share one of my father's
favorite expressions.
Fool's names, like their faces
often appear in public places.
This ditty was most often recited about the graffiti found in public
restrooms. Although your newsletter offers more clever turn-of-phrase
than most restroom graffiti, I think it applies quite nicely to the
recent spill of exposure we've seen for you and the Herald.
My father is a wise man. Never famous, but wise.
Sincerely,
Chris Crocker,
Yarmouth, Maine
Ed. - Your father was, I'm sure, a very wise man; certainly too wise
to misplace the possessive apostrophe in the ditty's first line. I'll
assume that was your error and, because you're a publisher type, I'll
let it go. But while we're on the subject of your parentage, I'm
curious as to what your father thinks of that stud in your left ear.
Dear Hal,
Since I let my subscription to the Portland Press-Herald lapse, I have
felt so out of touch. If I had read the article ["Personal journalist
writes about what he knows - himself," Aug. 2), I would have sent
roses and a bottle of Dom. Now that all the accolades have been
pouring in and the ego tracking system has been recalibrated, my
little trifles wouldn't be noticed. So I'll save the cash.
I'm sorry I haven't written sooner, but eight years in Hollywood and I
can no longer than put original thoughts on the printed page... I am,
however, a great fan and look forward to your fine journalism.
Now, down to business. I hope the motion picture/television rights to
your amazing life story and publication are still available. I know
the weenie-boys from Hollywood must be swarming. But seeing as we are
old friends, I assume I first dibs. As, I am leaving next week to
produce the "New Adventures of Flipper" in Florida, I will be unable
to come out and make the bid personally. But, I will have my business
affairs guy call your agent and see if they can hammer out the broad
points of a deal. Creatively I see a newspaper in the great outdoors,
a "Murphy Brown/Northern Exposure" thing happening here. Five years on
the nets and then straight to syndication. I know you've been thinking
HBO, but trust me, the money's in the four networks. By the year 2000,
you'll be able to buy that Winnebago they've been eyeing. The new one.
When I get back from Florida, I'll send out the Goldwyn jet to pick
you up. We'll do lunch, then take a meeting and get your creative
thoughts. I hope you don't mind if we change the name of the paper.
Please call if you are making your calls personally these days. I just
hate it when your secretary calls with the "I have Hal Phillips on the
line... Oh, I'm sorry. He picked up another call... could you hold,
it'll just be a minute."
Best wishes,
Dan Smith
Beverly Hills, Calif.
Ed. - The Goldwyn jet? Yes! I hope it has cable...
Some may wonder if the "Flipper" reference is on the level. I assure
you, it is. Smith made good use of his Wharton degree by further
matriculating to Hollywood, where he toils as a real, live TV-movie
producer. The above letter fell into the Herald letter bin following a
fax cover bearing the show's befinned logo. It's nice to see Mr.
Smith, having eschewed Washington for Beverly Hills, hasn't
compromised his artistic integrity. Dan, don't go changin'.
Dear Hal (Resident Stud),
The August Harold Herald had very little mention of Maine in its
pages. More space is devoted to Massachusetts (yech) than our own
beautiful state.
Your are missing our on some important territory here, for I find the
native Mainers to be friendly, generous and witty to boot. I was in
Blue Hill last weekend and overheard the following conversation
between two Mainers. They were discussing a canoeing trip one was
planning to take down the St. Croix River.
"In my AMC guidebook," one of them explained, "it says the river is
loaded with class III and IV rapids."
Translation: Its is a difficult river with numerous strong rapids
navigable only by experts.
"Ah no," said the other. "Girl Scouts go down it sideways."
Translation: It's a piece of cake.
The full impact of this story is missed unless you know what the
second guy looked like. He was fortyish, long-haired and bearded with
buck teeth wearing a wet suit unzipped almost down to his waist,
thereby displaying a full mane of chest hair.
Get off your pompous soapbox, go out and talk to some real people.
Sincerely,
Paul Louis
Portland, Maine
Ed. - Indeed, the Herald pages are filled with references to the Bay
State, while Maine receives little mention. This is consistent,
however, with an editorial focus that concentrates on interesting
things as opposed to piddling, irrelevant things; witty, urbane,
studly Greater Bostonians rather than poorly groomed Mainers with
prominent incisors and an obsession for young girls in green cotton
dresses. It should be said this particular wet-suited pedophile shows
a refreshing orthodoxy that stands in stark contrast to the amorous
tendencies displayed by all too many of his fellow Pine Tree Staters.
/-/ \-\
THOSE BRITS SURE HAVE A WAY WITH CONGEALED FLESH
By TIM MONAGHAN
Cuisine and Religious Affairs Editor Pro Tem
Now that Hal has survived to the grand old age of 30, given up smoking
and miraculously matured into a well-rounded human being overnight, I
feel comfortable contributing to his award-winning gospel, safe in the
knowledge that it must necessarily cease to be a rag and will now
aspire to lofty heights of journalism, proselytizing or at least self-
aggrandizement.
Hal's nativity is a matter for worldwide celebration. Even as I write,
primitive Viking descendents in the farthest isles north of Scotland
are scratching runic figures on ancient burial mounds to celebrate his
invention of the modern sport of golf. In Singapore, a caning stroke
has been named after his sand wedge swing to mark the day he strode
from a 747 and told the natives: "Build golf courses and I will come."
In Yucatan, scholars are only now linking the ruins at Chichen Itza
and elaborate Aztec rituals with worship of Hal's ego, which stretches
beyond his 20th-century existence to encompass all of space and time.
As the only former altar boy in the Western Hemisphere not sodomized
by a priest, I too feel compelled to make some kind of burnt offering.
But like the little drummer boy in that charming epic of popular
music, I have nothing to offer save my limited skills. As I play
Falstaff to King Hal, it is obvious my contribution should be of a
gustatory nature. Therefore, I off the fabled Recipe for Hal's
Birthday Brick, a rough, well seasoned pate I have adapted from
European recipes for the rough, well seasoned Great Golf God. I am
fond of this pate because it reminds me of the texture of Hal's brain.
It tastes great and is simpler to create than an infant.
1 lb. lean ground beef
2 lb. bacon (use smoked for a stronger flavor)
8 oz. calf liver
2-4 cloves garlic, to taste
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 fl. oz. brandy
10 juniper berries (if you can't get hold of juniper berries, replace
the brandy with gin)
15 black peppercorns
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. ground mace or nutmeg
1. Buy a food processor. I recommend Cuisinart, the best on the
market. Unfortunately, they are also the most expensive. Okay, get a
cheap knock-off, but by the largest capacity you can.
2. If you don't have a processor that can hold at least eight cups,
divide the ingredients in half (or thirds if you've been really cheap
and bought small) and repeat the following steps for each batch,
thoroughly mixing them together at the end of the food processor
section.
3. Using the metal chopping blade, grind the bacon and liver together
until well mixed.
4. Crush the peppercorns and juniper berries and add them together
with the rest of the ingredients. Grind until nearly smooth. (If you
prefer a really chunky pate, leave the ground beef to last and process
just enough to evenly distribute it through the mix. If you prefer
your pate smooth, grind away.)
5. Decorate the inside of a 2-3 pound loaf tin by smearing the bottom
with butter and pressing down a few whole bay leaves and juniper
berries in a floral pattern. fill with the pate mix, dropping it down
carefully at first so as not to disturb the decoration, then prodding
it down with a spatula to expel air bubbles and ensure it reaches the
corners of the loaf tin. Smooth the top and cover with aluminum foil.
Refrigerate for at least a couple of hours for the flavors to develop;
overnight is best.
6. Arrange a shelf at the lowest point of the oven and preheat to 350
degrees. Boil a kettle of water. Place the loaf tin in a larger baking
tin with high sides and fill with boiling water halfway up the sides
of the loaf tin. Place on the lowest shelf and cook for 30 minutes,
then turn down the heat to 300 degrees and cook for another 90
minutes.
7. Remove from oven, leaving pate covered and in the baking tin of
water. Allow to cool for about 30 minutes then remove from the water
(which will be oil, as fat will have exuded from the loaf tin), place
on paper towels and evenly weight the top with 4-5 pounds - Use a
small board, thick cardboard or a book you don't care about on the
aluminum foil, making sure it fits inside the loaf tin sides. Weight
with large cans or a pile of books. This stage isn't essential, but it
makes the pate less crumbly and easier to slice.
8. When the pate has cooled almost completely - 2 to 3 hours - remove
the weights and foil. You will notice the pate has shrunk back from
the sides of the tin and is surrounded by liquid. This is good. When
chilled, the juices and fat will solidify, creating a protective layer
around the pate. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least
overnight for the flavors to develop further. Pate is best eaten two
days to a week after it is cooked.
9. To serve, carefully remove the plastic wrap - it will have
condensed water hanging from it - and rest the loaf tin in warm water
for 30 seconds or so to loosen the protective fat layer surrounding
the pate. Put a serving plate upside down over the tin and turn them
both right side up. The pate should drop neatly onto the plate. If it
doesn't, a light shake should dislodge it. If it remains obstinate,
warm the loaf tin some more. Either leave the fat covering the pate or
gently prize it off, as is your wont. Slice thinly and serve with
crusty French bread, toast points or crisp crackers. Wine is an almost
obligatory accompaniment. Serve either red or white; this pate doesn't
care. I recommend a medium- to full-bodied wine that can stand up to
the pate's strong flavor but not overpower it.
10. Accept the humble and awed compliments of your guests who never
dreamed they'd taste anything like this outside a classy restaurant.
Cuisine and Religious Affairs Editor Pro Tem Tim Monaghan is a
recovering Catholic working his way through Purgatory as a hack. He's
also English, which makes his knowledge of tasty comestibles all the
more shocking. He livers in Berlin, Mass. (Get it? Livers?) with his
wife, Lynn Hatch.
/-/ \-\
THE MINOR LEAGUES: WHAT BASEBALL'S REALLY ALL ABOUT
By HAL PHILLIPS
It seems every time there's a work stoppage in the major leagues,
"purists" begin singing the praises of minor league baseball. As they
extol the minor leagues' refreshing, nay, cleansing qualities, these
dogmatic traditionalists usually throw their heads back in fits of
Dionysian pleasure.
It just so happened the 1994 baseball strike coincided with the
Portland Sea Dogs inaugural season, so the reaction was two-fold in
Maine's largest city. Aside from setting the minor league attendance
record, just about everyone in the Greater Portland area - all 46 of
us - own at least one piece of Sea Dogs paraphernalia, testimony to
the team's ability to promote itself.
[All this despite a viral "family atmosphere" that infects Portland's
Hadlock Field: No smoking, single-payer beer system, lots of fun
sideshows for the kiddies.]
I've been to several Sea Dogs game and enjoyed them. But no baseball
organization in America promotes itself better than the St. Paul
Saints, an independent Double-A team co-owned by Bill Murray, who
shows up periodically in the Twin Cities to coach first base. I took
in a Saints game here during the August nuptials of David Kett and
Beth Jordan. Here's a sampling of what goes on during the average
Saints tilt:
- First of all, let's note what goes on beforehand - tailgating. The
parking lot opens three hours before the first pitch. Genius!
- Each main concourse, separating the box seats from general
admission, features a special sideshow. On the first-base side, a
barber named Ralph gives haircuts. On the third-base line, a nun named
Sister Rosalyn gives massages. I can testify as to the quality of
Rosalyn's work - she and God are clearly on the same team.
- When the umpire asks for new baseballs, a unescorted pig delivers
them to home plate.
- The Saints PA announcer brings to baseball what public address has
been missing for 150 years: sarcasm. Before every announcement, he
would intone, "Your attention please; your attention please..." There
was no organ, so the PA guy would hum the Addams Family theme and "da-
da-da-da" song a cappella.
At one point, with St. Paul trailing 5-1 in the fourth inning, the
Saints third baseman lashed a line drive to dead center, where the
fielder misplayed it into a triple. As the Saint pulled up at third
the crowd booed, disappointed he didn't go for an inside-the-park
homer. With the fans still moaning, the PA guy interrupted: "Hey! Hey,
hey... Not down four runs in the fourth, ladies and gentlemen. C'mon
now." The ignorant masses hushed right up.
However, whenever he would say something really funny, locals felt
compelled to qualify his humor. "He's from New York, you know," they
would explain. What with that? Is it code language?
- The Saints' best promotion is "The Futon Gallery." Rising on stilts
over the right field wall, "The Futon Gallery" is basically a platform
adorned with plants, coffee table, lamps and a futon couch -
presumably provided by a local futon purveyor. One lucky fan, selected
at random from the audience, sits in the Gallery all night, eating
free brats and beers.
- Another good stunt is "Old Mr. Johnson's Window," sponsored by some
local window purveyor. This involves a lucky fan, selected at random
from the audience, who goes to center field where an ordinary
household window sits atop the fence. The fan has three chances to
smash the window with a baseball. If he does, Old Mr. Johnson emerges
from a door in the centerfield fence and chases some kid across the
outfield, with the PA guy providing voice-over: "I'll get you this
time, you little whipper-snapper!"
- At one point during my Saints experience, the PA guy called the
crowd's attention to a small bleacher way out in left field.
"That's our Family Section," he explained. "We in the Saints
organization try to foster a family atmosphere here. So in the Family
Section, there's no smoking, no drinking and, basically, no fun at
all."
/-/ \-\
NIGHMARE ON DEERING ST.
By HAL PHILLIPS
PORTLAND, Maine - The plan was hatched in Billerica on the occasion of
Jim O'Reilly's bachelor gala, the theme for which borrowed greatly
from New Hampshire's alpine slogan, "Ski 93". That's Interstate 93, of
course. We were bar-hopping in Billerica, however, and modified this
catch phrase to "Drink 3A".
In any case, whilst throwing back beers & shots at Billerica's finest
road house, Ma Newman's, Mark Sullivan - being responsible for
promulgating the notion that former House Speaker Thomas Brackett Reed
haunted my apartment - suggested we contact the long-dead Mainer by
conducting a seance (see related story).
We had every intention of doing this properly, i.e. through a medium
with identifiable cosmic credentials... But you'd be surprised how
difficult finding a psychic can be; especially one who makes house
calls.
Sullivan made the first attempt at securing a paranormal tour guide,
making contact with a woman named Linda Saurenman of Concord, Mass., a
psychic who (not surprisingly) specializes in ferreting out
Revolutionary War-era spirits. Having sized him up on the telephone
for five minutes, Saurenman told Mark she could identify - through him
- a female spirit in my apartment. This distaff apparition was wearing
a long dress, explained Saurenman, who had no interest in traveling to
Maine for the seance. But she did provide Mark with a contact.
Richard McKenzie is a dowser living in Falmouth, Maine. After tersely
informing me that dowsers identify water sources or folks lost in the
deep woods - not lingering souls from the Other Side - McKenzie asked
me for details on why I needed a medium. After I gave him the whole
Thomas Brackett Reed spiel (he lived in my house, which is named for
him...), McKenzie switched gears, his interest piqued. He launched
into a 20-minute soliloquy on the dynamics of auras, explaining that
those individuals who die unexpected or violent deaths don't go where
they're supposed to go, as it were. Unprepared for death, their auras
linger in a limbo stage. Talented media, he said, can assist these
spirits in moving on to the proper stage.
On McKenzie's advice I contacted Carole Curran, a parapsychologist I
found in the Yellow Pages. She was very defensive, insisting her work
provided "no entertainment value. This is for real!" However, after I
invited her to visit my apartment for the seance, Curran explained she
didn't make house calls. Instead, she invited me to visit her Portland
office.
"Don't you need to be near the spirit to contact him?" I asked.
"Not necessary," she answered sternly. "I can do it through you, right
here in my office. Just like turning on an FM radio."
Undaunted, I called a local New Age crystal shop, where I learned the
house psychic reader, Patricia, was booked for the weekend. From
there, I attempted to contact one Sharon Elaina, an Indian faith
healer recommended by a co-worker. The Scarborough, Maine-based Elaina
specializes in Indian Heart Circles similar to the one depicted in
"Gray's Anatomy," by monologist Spalding Gray. Unfortunately, I traded
phone messages but never spoke with Elaina, who said she very
interested by my "case".
Come Labor Day weekend, with the big night was fast approaching and no
psychic to be had, those slated for the seance - the lovely Sharon
Vandermay, Sullivan, O'Reilly & then-fiancee Kris Kelleher - set out
in search of a Ouija board. We visited the New Age crystal shop, where
the woman behind the counter remembered my earlier call and took an
interest.
"Do you have any sea salt?" she queried.
"What for?" I answered.
"You'll need it to sprinkle in each corner of the room, to ward off
unfriendly spirits."
"How about kosher salt," I asked.
"That should be fine."
The woman was clearly worried we novices were biting off more of the
spiritual world than could be safely chewed. She urged us to respect
the process, or we would find ourselves in deep, paranormal trouble.
"You should invoke your highest guides before the seance," she warned.
"Highest guides?" I was confused. "What do you mean by highest
guides?"
"I mean your strongest, most personal, spiritual guides," she said.
"You should have them there to protect you."
"Well, we have two Catholics in the group. We should be okay."
She laughed: "I don't think they're going to help."
/-/ \-\
WHITHER FETSET?
By MARK SULLIVAN
PORTLAND, Maine - Well might we ask along with the lager-soaked,
Buffett-crooning Jim O'Reilly: "Whash da ghost's name? Whash da name
of the ghost?"
Who or what was behind the mysterious word etched on Hal Phillips'
Ouija board this past Labor Day weekend, in the most cryptic message
since a tree-carving Crotoan marked the vanishing of the Lost Colony
of Roanoke?
Who is, what is, and whither "Fetset"?
Research into possible etymological roots of the term "Fetset" turned
up several intriguing - if questionably plausible - possibilities. Two
themes repeatedly surfaced: the warding-off of demons and drunken
revelry.
This seems remarkably appropriate given the more than slightly sozzled
tenor of our Labor Day weekend inquiries into the Other Side.
At a New Age store in Portland that sold crystals, Tarot cards, Indian
fertility idols and how-to books on conversing telepathically with
caribou, we were cautioned against making careless use of the Ouija
board. Those who cavalierly treat the board as a party game, we were
warned, run the risk of summoning no-account wandering spirits who
might latch onto unwitting board players, or who, if poltergeists,
might move into the house and start smashing china.
The warning was not lost on us. Advised to sprinkle sea salt in the
corners of the room as a precaution against evil spirits, Hal Shook
Morton's table salt about with a gusto not seen since Mr. Fuji and
Toru Tanaka purified the wrestling ring at Madison Square Garden.
Admittedly, by the time we got around to mentally placing protective
white lights around ourselves, most of us were well-lit already. Given
this context, some possible roots of "Fetset" present themselves:
- The Fete Des Fous of medieval France was a festival of promiscuity
similar to the Bacchic celebrations of Greece and the Saturnalia of
Rome.
- The Fescennine verses and songs of ancient Rome were recited or sung
at rustic merrymakings and harvest festivals. They were named after a
popular festival site, Fescennia in southern Etruria, and for a god,
Fascinus, to whom the verses were offered as a precaution against
sorcery. An early Latin divinity, Fascinus was worshipped as a
protector from evil demons and witchcraft, and was often represented
in the form of a phallus, a symbol believed most efficient in averting
evil influences.
- The -et suffix of "Fetset" might suggest a tie to ancient Egypt, the
lost civilization revered by New Age adherents of pyramid power. Cats
were worshipped in ancient Egypt as they are in Hal's apartment.
Indeed, it has been remarked that Hal's voluptuous cat Zelda bears a
striking resemblance about the eyes to British starlet, Patsy Kensit,
whose name bears a remarkably homonymous relation to "Fetset." The
Egyptians had a minor goddess named Khenset, or Khensit, but she
tended to be depicted as a cow.
Kenset was the wife of Sopd, "lord of the East, the one who smites the
Asiatics," a deity sometimes pictured a winged bes - an ugly, serpent-
strangling dwarf with a cat's ears, mane and tail, whose image placed
over a door or headstand was believed to keep away noxious animals and
evil spirits. A joyous deity, the bes was fond of drinking and was
often represented sucking beer from a large jar.
Might "Fetset" be some sort of astral signature or trademark? The
Latin term fecit, literally "he or she made it," was an artist's way
of signing a work.
- From the Portuguese word Feitico, for "fabricated," came the term
"fetishism," the worship of idols or other objects as having magic
power.
- Meantime, the acronym FET stands for a Spanish falangist party, and
set is the Portuguese abbreviation for September. Might the end-of-
summer weekend have found an Iberian fascist flitting about in Hal's
apartment. Is Francisco Franco still dead?
Hal might want to keep a few extra salt shakers about the place, just
in case.
Paranormal Editor Mark Sullivan lives in Winchester, Mass., where he
freelances on more down-to-earth subjects for The Boston Globe. The
above-mentioned seance was his idea, as was the notion that Thomas
Brackett Reed - former Speaker of the U.S. House - haunted the
Portland, Maine apartment where Herald editor Hal Phillips now
resides.
copyright 1994 the harold herald all rights reserved for what it's
worth