The Circus

A Sebastian Collins Christmas Adventure

France 1917

Major Sebastian Collins yawned as he sauntered out of his tent in the early morning. He noticed his breathe as he exhaled. It was never cold like this when I was in India, he thought, but it was certainly colder in the Yukon territories of upper Canada. Collins thought of his stint with the Northwest Mounted Police and smiled.

The sun was just peaking over the horizon. Collins had on his boots that went up nearly to his knees, his jodhpurs, his suspenders hung down from his waist and had an undershirt on. The chill on his skin made him feel alive but he really detested having cold feet, physically and metaphorically.

"So this is Christmas," Collins said solemnly to himself, "another year over and a new one to begin."

There was a mist over the field of tents around the aerodrome. Collins gave an involuntary shudder. He thought about that incident on the front just over a year ago. He and a group of Canadian commandoes raided a German trench and found a horrible new weapon. There, Collins and his team met a nemesis from Collins' past. His name was De Klerk, a South African mercenary who delighted in finding ingenious and depraved ways of killing all living things. Collins and his commandoes found a way to destroy the weapon De Klerk invented and the bloody springbok with it. Thankfully, the gas weapon they saw then was never spotted again; at least not in the Allied trenches as far as Collins had understood. Collins looked at his shoulder that had been grazed in the incident. The scar healed quite well there was a faint trace of the bullet's path on his exterior. After that raid, Collins requested a transfer to the Flying Corps because he has his fill of blood, mud, gas and rats.

He had got the hang of it all in a few short months and proved a very apt flyer. Not much too them, Collins first thought from the inside of an aeroplane cockpit, just balsa wood, canvas and wire. Collins was not quite an ace yet, one short but he would get there. Mercifully, planes were fitted with an interrupter mechanism that allowed them to shoot their front mounted Vickers machine guns without blowing off their own propeller. Collins saw other aeroplanes in the corps with machine guns still mounted on the wings.

Collins had originally trained on the Sopwith Pup and had flown in a few engagements with it. He really enjoyed the aircraft but his new ride was quite the beast.

The Sopwith Camel was manufactured by Sopwith Aviation Company. It had a combination of a short-coupled fuselage, heavy, powerful rotary engine and concentrated fire from the aforementioned machine guns. Collins noted that the biplane design was more evolutionary than revolutionary, featuring a box-like fuselage structure, an aluminium engine cowling, plywood-covered panels around the cockpit, and fabric-covered fuselage, wings and tail. A metal fairing over the gun breeches created a "hump" that led to the 'Camel' nickname. The bottom wing had dihedral but not the top, so that the gap between the wings was less at the tips than at the roots.

Sadly, the Camel had gained an unfortunate reputation with other student pilots. The Camel owed both its extreme maneuverability and its difficult handling characteristics to the placement of the engine, pilot, guns and fuel tank, which accounted for almost, if not more than 90 percent of the weight of the craft; all within the front seven feet of the aircraft and coupled with the strong gyroscopic effect of the rotary engine. The Clerget engine was particularly sensitive to fuel mixture control, and incorrect settings often caused the engine to choke and cut out during takeoff. Many trainees crashed due to mishandling on takeoff when a full fuel tank affected the center of gravity.

In level flight, Collins found the Camel was markedly tail-heavy. Unlike the earlier Sopwiths, the Camel lacked a variable incidence tail plane, so that the pilot had to apply constant forward pressure on the control stick to maintain a level attitude at low altitude. However, Collins found that the machine could also be rigged in such a way that at higher altitudes it could be flown "hands off"; but a stall immediately resulted in a spin.

But Collins had had some experience; he felt the controls were light and sensitive. He did think that the Camel turned rather slowly to the left, and resulted in a nose up attitude due to the torque of the rotary engine. But the engine torque also resulted in the ability to turn to the right in half the time of other fighters, although that resulted in more of a tendency towards a nose down attitude from the turn. Because of the faster turning capability to the right, to change heading 90 degrees to the left, Collins saw many pilots preferred to do it by turning 270 degrees to the right.

So it was slightly harder than a horse, but it still scared the schnitzel out of a lot of Huns, thought Collins.

Collins had just barely survived what the papers called "Bloody April" earlier year when the RFC suffered particularly severe losses - about three times as many as the Luftstreitkräfte, the Imperial German Army Air Service, over the same period - but continued its primary role in support of the ground offensive. A new war fought by old soldiers, thought Collins, bloody typical.

Collins did meet the Canadian commander, Arthur Currie. Collins was impressed with the regard Gen. Currie had for their welfare. Collins flew sorties helping to cover scout aircraft from German counterattack before the Battle of Arras. Collins had a particular hairy time over Vimy Ridge. The Royal Flying Corps launched a determined effort to gain air superiority over the battlefield in support of the spring offensive. 'Determined effort' usually meant flinging everything the Allies had at the Central Powers and hoping spunk and luck would follow.

The Canadians considered activities such as artillery spotting, and photography of opposing trench systems, troop movements and gun emplacements essential to continue their offensive. The Royal Flying Corps deployed 25 squadrons totaling 365 aircraft along the Arras sector, outnumbering the Imperial German Army Air Service by 2-to-1.

Aerial reconnaissance was often a hazardous task because of a requirement to fly at slow speeds and at low altitudes. The task was made all the more dangerous with the arrival of additional German flying squadrons, including Baron Manfred von Richthofen's highly experienced and well equipped Jasta 11, which led to sharp increase in Royal Flying Corps casualties. Although significantly outnumbering the Germans, the Royal Flying Corps lost 131 aircraft during the first week of April alone.

Despite the losses suffered at the hands of the 'Bloody Red Baron", Collins and the Royal Flying Corps carried out its prime objective, supplying the army throughout the Arras Offensive with up-to-date aerial photographs and reconnaissance information. He was glad to hear that the Canadians held tenaciously to their hard-won ground, especially Vimy.

The morning guns firing at the German lines broke Collins from his reverie. He looked down at his wristwatch. It read quarter to seven. It felt later to Collins. He looked at his device. He bought it in Paris when he was last on leave. He saw it in a little shop. An old lady with a soldering iron was welding bizarre things together. But that’s a story for another time. This new watch was much easier to get at when he was up in the air chasing the albatrosses.

Collins walked back into his tent, it was only slightly warmer than the outside air. Collins grabbed his tunic from the chair. It was different that than his last one. This one was double breasted with a stand-up collar. He didn’t have to wear a tie. On his left breast were his pilot wings. On his dress uniform his award ribbons would be located beneath it. Of course, Collins could have just put the wings on the left breast of his old uniform but that would put his tailor out of work.

His rank insignia, a single brass crown, was found on each shoulder strap. Like his old army uniform, he also had the regulation Sam Browne belt. On his belt around his waist was his trusty Webley service revolver. After finishing putting on his uniform, he sat down in his chair and grabbed his meerschaum pipe. He filled the bowl with black Cavendish tobacco from a jar by his desk. He lit his pipe with a single match and inhaled deeply the sweet smoke. Collins was at his most relaxed. It would still be a few minutes until breakfast would be available in the officer’s mess.

"Merry Christmas to all," Collins muttered. Collins heard the drone of an engine. He assumed that it was an Allied craft because it sounded so close by. He looked up at the ceiling of his tent anyway.

"Go get them boys. Give the Boche a Christmas to remember," said Collins."Not like we did in 1914."

Then he heard a high-pitched whistle, it shrieked above him and then there was an explosion. Collins felt the concussion as he the flaps of his tent blew open revealing a small explosion in a field directly in front of him.

“Another drill,” Collins said out loud. “With live…experimental munitions?”

Collins could hear the rata-tat-tat of machine gun fire and ground shaking thumps of anti-aircraft fire. There was another whistle and Collins saw a fast streak of black make a beeline to the Officer’s mess. It blew up spectacularly as if it were made with match sticks. That was certainly what was left of the wooden structure. There were airmen in various states of undress running all about. Collins spotted a young junior lieutenant, Hawke, Collins believed he was called. It was an apt name for a flyboy. The young man looked dazed and ran headlong toward Collins. Collins grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

“Hawke, get this fire under control,” said Collins, pointing to the remnants of the mess hall.

The boy stood. Collins slapped him once across the face, soon Hawke eyes became clear and he recognized Collins.

“Hawke, fire control, at the double,” repeated Collins.

“Right, Major,” Hawke said, saluted, turned around and started barking orders to anyone nearby.

Collins turned and ran to the aircraft hangar. He was glad that he left his flight jacket and helmet in the cockpit. A few of the other officers had the same idea and were running to their planes as well. Collins quickly suited up and jumped into the cockpit. His leg touched one of two mills bombs strapped to the inside of his cockpit; little gifts he tossed to enemy trenches. Two of the air crew were pushing his plane out to the open field. Collins heard another shrieking whistle but didn’t look to see where it at landed.

“Contact,” said Collins, his engine beginning to roar to life. One of the air crew pulled down the propeller and soon his machine was roaring into the sky.

The sensation of rising up into the sky always made Collins’ heart sinking down into his boots. He thought it may have had something to do with that commando. He had to blow up an ammo dump, the resulting explosion blew him clear into No Man’s Land and he cracked a couple of ribs.

Collins saw the air field fall below him. On his right there was another explosion. He looked left and saw an Albatross D. III starting to make a climb. He remembered them well from Bloody April. Collins quickly noted that this type had tubes on the tips of its wings. In two of the tubes, there were what seemed to be to him oversized Chinese firecrackers.

“So that’s what their firing, bloody rockets,” Collins shouted, but he words were lost to the air rushing past him.

He pushed his control stick to follow. Still being this close to the ground the controls were a bit sluggish but Collins willed them to move. Soon he saw his prey above him, and then he noted a speck on his peripheral and saw another plane diving toward the aerodrome. Collins focused back on his target. Let the other pilots deal with him. Closing in, he looked through his sights slowly the enemy Albatross drifted between the crosshairs.

Collins calmly squeezed the trigger on his control stick. His machine guns rattled off a belt of ammunition. Collins noticed the pilot try to look back at him. Collins looked through his crosshairs and fired again. This time he saw smoke rise out of the engine and the plane began to dive sharply. The area they were over was an empty field dotted by trees; ahead of them laid the front lines and No Man’s Land. The German aircraft screaming noise as it plunged back to earth falling at the speed of gravity. Collins could see the fuselage and the start of the wings catch fire. The burning aircraft hit the earth at some speed and skidded along and ground to a halt. A few seconds later, there were was a double explosion. Collins banked away and rose again to the slightly clouded sky. He saw in the distance a dogfight; one of the other Royal Flying Corps Pilots tangles with the other German plane.

Collins moved his control stick to join the fight even though they were still a good distance. He saw the planes flay toward each other in a game of aerial chicken. Knights of the Air, the Flying Corps was considered in the press. Now Collins and another pilot were jousting with the enemy. The only thing that had changed was the technology. The final result was still the same; people died.

Just then Collins noticed something flash past from behind him. It then exploded brightly in front of him. Collins then realized it was a rocket.

“Son of a Kitchen Dutch wench,” Collins exclaimed. They would prove prophetic words for Collins

He missed the clues of a third aircraft. Now, it was behind him. Collins turned right relying on the speed and maneuverability of his aircraft. He looked up and spotted his pursuer. It was another Albatross, it had the wing markings of the Imperial German Air Service but its markings and color scheme were not one he was familiar with. The plane was painted hunter green with a yellow stripe around the center of the fuselage. On the side, in place of the roundel, there was painted an animal in mid-leap. The animal gripped a death's-head flag in its mouth. He had seen this animal before; it was a Springbok, national symbol of South Africa.

“De Klerk,” Collins hissed.

So it seemed that his old South African enemy had apparently survived their last encounter just as Collins' had. Now he was following him into the skies. De Klerk followed his prey closely. Collins heard ricochet off his one of his struts then faintly heard the sounds of machine gun fire. Collins opened the throttle all the way and gained more speed over his opponent. He also swerved left then quickly right.

Both turns came not a moment too soon when he saw a black streak past right then left. He dodged the aftermath of both explosions and broke off left and down. The enemy followed. Collins then noted that an object was following him. It collided with this left side struts and bounced a bit. Its propellant putted out and the object fell behind him and exploded. Collins felt the concussion pass through the plane and his own body and stick became harder to control. His cockpit grew a bit colder despite the lamb’s wool lined leather trench coat he had on. It was also breezier, especially the wind rushing between his knees. Collins glanced back. The rocket had torn a hole in his fuselage.

Great, he thought. De Klerk’s finally got me. Well, I’m not going down without taking him with me.

The controls were stiff but he pulled up and performed a circle maneuver getting behind De Klerk’s aircraft. Collins looked into his sight. It was dead on target. Collins pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pulled it again. Nothing. Gun jam, in Collins’ greatest moment of need, his often dependable twin machine guns had failed him. Collins screamed into the air. Collins noticed their little run had brought them over No Man’s Land. This brought a new series of dangers; such as German soldiers taking pot shots at him from their trenches. He looked down into his cockpit and got an idea.

He moved his craft alongside his enemy. The Albatross eased off its speed. The pilot looked over his would have been executioner. It was surely De Klerk. He looked over and smiled smugly at Collins. The South African native wiggled his finger at Collins like he was a naughty child. Collins smiled. He then pulled out his revolver and fired it at his nemesis. Collins struck his opponent. De Klerk veered right Collins followed alongside. The bullet hit De Klerk but not in the head or neck. Collins saw a hole in the side of the fuselage where his enemy’s legs should be located. Collins saw the man wince in pain. He grabbed a grenade with his hand pulled the pin with his teeth and lobbed it at the plane opposite.

It missed; falling well short. Collins steadied the controls again. He grabbed the other Mills bomb; he pulled the pin again and threw it harder. Collins agonized over the second it took before he saw the pineapple looking metal ovoid land squarely inside the cockpit of the Albatross. Collins saw De Klerk’s mouth open in a scream before he saw the aircraft fall toward the ground, spinning like a falling leaf. A few hundred feet before hitting the ground there was an small explosion and the plane landed in ground in two pieces between the Allied and German front trenches.

The world then exploded around Collins so he didn't notice if De Klerk was alive or dead. Collins' now worried for his own survival. Little black clouds bloomed in front of Collins; the Germans were pouring the anti-aircraft fire on him. To pilots, it was informally called The Hate. It could tear a man into Swiss chard if he was not careful. The controls though stiff turned right. Collins also saw holes begin to appear on his wings. Then there was a loud crack and his engine sputtered. Smoke trailed out and his propeller stopped rotating.

All this hate in the air and I get hit with some private’s pea shooter, bloody typical, thought Collins. There was only the sound of rushing air as Collins glided his plane down toward his own lines. As he fell, he heard a crack and a tearing sound. There was a jolt, and then the stick became loose. He turned and saw his tail had fallen off. The plane began to fall sharply into a nose dive. Collins turned and stood up in his cockpit. He leaned over his broken fuselage in a desperate attempt to level his aircraft. It barely worked. The aircraft hit the ground levelly but skidded over the earth toward the lines. It struck a crater and bounced over the first line of trenches. It tossed Collins a few feet into the air. The aircraft ground to a halt as Collins landed into a trench on his back.

When Collins opened his eyes again, there was a soldier pointing his rifle at him. The man’s uniform was olive drab with a stand up collar. There was a badge it had two letters, “U.S.”, inside a circle. Collins then noticed others. These were American soldiers.

“Who are you, mister,” asked a voice behind him.

Collins slowly sat up and turned to the soldier. He had three chevrons pointing upward and a diamond beneath.

“Major Sebastian Collins, Royal Flying Corps, 16th Squadron,” said Collins.

“Were you involved in that dogfight overhead just now,” asked the Sergeant.

“Yes, sergeant. I was,” said Collins.

Soon a young private came running down the trench.

“First Sergeant Myers, that aircraft debris had Limey markings all over it,” said the private.

The first sergeant nodded. The private with the rifle pointed at him quickly pointed it away. Sgt. Myers smiled.

“You Brits certainly know how to make an entrance. You normally fall out of the sky like that,” asked Myers.

“It has been known to happen to me occasionally but I try not to make a habit of it,” said Collins.

Myers and the other Yank soldiers laughed. Collins took off his goggles and helmet and stuck then in one of his pockets. In another he reached for a briar pipe he kept there. As he felt for it, he frowned. He pulled out two pieces.

“I didn’t realize you flyboys got dirty up there in the sky too,” said a soldier.

“War is always dirty business,” said Collins.

“Truer words were never spoken,” said Myers. “Something wrong with your pipe?”

“Yeah, looks like I’ll have to get a new one,” said Collins. He was about to throw it at the other side of the trench when Myers grabbed his hand. He gently unclenched Collins’ fist and took the pieces from him. Myers examined the pieces then called over his shoulder.

“O’Leary,” barked Myers.

“Yes, Sarge,” said a private a few men away.

“I got a repair job for you. A pipe; show our ally here what the Irish solider, Peterson, taught you.

Myers handed the pipe to O’Leary. O’Leary looked at it carefully then took out a jackknife. He picked out a broken part of the stem out of the shank of the brier. He folded the jackknife and put it back in his pocket. He took out his bayonet and starting to whittle the shank; tapering it slightly. When O’Leary was pleased with his work, he put his bayonet into the soil. The American reached into his tunic breast pocket and pulled out to spent shell casings. There were holes punched in the bottom of each cartridge. O’Leary placed the larger cartridge over the tapered shank. O’Leary tapped down the larger cartridge with the butt of his bayonet. The smaller cartridge over what was left of the stem. Both now fit snuggly. O’Leary jammed the cartridges into each other. O’Leary put the bit of the pipe in his mouth and blew. He handed the repaired pipe back to Collins.

“There. Good as new with the added bonus that you can now detach stem and bowl from each other or worry about breakage again,” said O’Leary.

“O’Leary, you’re a wonder,” said Collins. Collins reached into his pocket and grabbed some bank notes and held them out. Both Sgt. Myers and Pvt. O'Leary waved him off. "But you should be repayed somehow."

"Merry Christmas, from one ally to another," said O'Leary, before adding, "Sir."

“Would you like some wooder,” asked Myers.

“Pardon men, some...what,” asked Collins.

“Wooder,” said Myers, offering a canteen.

“Oh, water,” said Collins.

“That’s what I said, wooder,” said Myers.

“Sorry, you have a distinctive accent. What part of the States are you boys from,” asked Collins.

“Philadelphia, in general but most of us are from Manayunk or Roxborough,” said Myers.

“Ah. I was there once. Lots of farm land. Tell me, is the Wood’s Barn still standing,” asked Collins.

The boys laughed. Myers looked at him slightly quizzically.

“How long ago were in Roxborough,” asked Myers.

“It’s been long time,” said Collins, which was partially correct.

“Well, as a member of Grace Lutheran Chruch, I can tell you that the Wood’s Barn hasn’t stood in decades, possibly a century or more,” said Myers

Realizing his mistake, Collins evaded, “Sorry, I must have been mistaken. I toured the States when I was little. My father pointed to a place on the Ridge Road and said, that’s Wood’s Barn. My ancestors were said to have participated in that skirmish.”

“Yeah, at Leverington Cemetery, on Ridge Avenue, we got a memorial to those Virginia soldiers in a cemetery nearby,” said Myers.

“I should like to see it and more of your area whenever this damn war is over,” said Collins.

“We would be delighted to have you as our guest,” said Myers.

Everyone smiled. Collins found his tobacco pouch and light up his pipe. There was a high-pitched screaming whistle overhead.

“Incoming,” yelled a soldier.

There was a thud then the ground shook; there were screams and some dirt, debris and body parts fell into the trench. A playing card blew toward him landing face up. It was the Ace of Spades.

“God damn this war,” said Collins.

A tale of two holiday parties...and more.

Well, to be honest, I have attended more than two holiday parties so far before the big day of joyous gifting giving. (Thank you to Adam & Courtney Najarian, Ann Tetreault and her husband, Adam. I had a very good time at your annual shindigs and hope to attend many more to come.) But I was invited to two parties by another husband and wife team to both of their establishments.
I've known Scott and Erin Wallace since the first ever Philly Beer Week kickoff in East Falls some years back. In fact, I began frequenting their first establishment, The Old Eagle Tavern, on the recommendation of Don Russell aka Joe Sixpack.
So yesterday, I decided to make a day of it in downtown Philly since a friend of mine was performing at Plays and Players. Don, who was plugging his latest book "What The Hell Am I Drinking?', was going to be at Devil's Den for their Happy Christanukkah event, which also featured Jeremy Cowah, founder/owner of Shmaltz Brewing Company, makers of He'Brew: The Chosen Beer & Coney Island Craft Lagers.
There were plenty of Christmas and He'Brew beers on special. In fact, there were special flights for both Christians and Jews but I felt that there was a missed opportunity as there was a third flight selection which I felt should have been called 'Flight of the Non-Believer' just for the heck of it.
I hadn't been to Devil's Den since the Doughnuts and Beer fundraiser in October. So it was only my second time in the establishment; but it was a blast. There were plenty of Christian and Jewish food delicacies on special but the bacon wrapped open-faced meatloaf sandwich was definitely worth having.
The Den is a nice establishment that has a very local clientele but definitely feels like a step up from the Eagle. There is more of a restaurant feel to the place. In fact, that Sunday seemed to have a fairly decent dinner crowd well after the Christanukkah event. While at the Den, Erin invited me to this evening's Festivus party at the Eagle.
The Eagle is a friendly neighborhood establishment that also offers a great beer selection. Like I said earlier, I've been a regular here for some time that even other regular patrons know me by my first name.
This party while not packed to the rafters was a heartfelt event, complete with Aluminum Pole. We chatted about last evening, especially which He'Brew that we enjoyed the most. We talked films...and the Bon Jovi death hoax.
And while there Erin invited me back to the Den on Wednesday for their 'Darkest Night' event which features rare and first-time beers in PA from Bell's Brewing. If you are a beer fan, this is a must attend event.
Sadly, I declined. It conflicted with my monthly meeting of the Christopher Morley Pipe Club of Philadelphia. Time to pull out the briar, it's cold outside.

I will never forget you

Facing Death is never easy. Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of it. I've faced death in many of it's faces. I've seen quite violent death, that often could have been avoided if one had taken care. In my late teens, I often casually worked for a local funeral home whose owners my family have been friendly with for years. This funeral home buried my oft lamented grandfather. Facing death is never, ever easy but over time one does become numb...until the wound cuts too deep.
By the new year, the world will have lost another two human beings who were loved every well. One is older lady who spoiled me as a child and was a dear friend of my mother; the other certainly will be taken before his time.
'Auntie' Shirley Van Tankeren grew up with my mum from the time they were youngsters. Shirley helped my mum when she was going through her rough patch. They corresponded often. My family and I often visited Shirley, her husband and children when we went to Britain on holiday. It was accepted custom. During my childhood and teen years, Shirley would spoil us something rotten and we loved her for it. I loved hearing her reminisce with my folks about their time in Britain before I was born. Then Shirley's son, Leo, known to us affectionately as 'Archer', informed my mum that her best friend was not long for this world. Mum was torn; visiting her would be a financial strain, especially before Christmas. Mum asked my opinion which I said: "If you believe for a second that you would regret NOT going, pack your bags and go." So she went and they had a blast. Mum brought her a ray of joy that went unmatched.
Like my mum, I also refuse to be defeated by circumstance. During my mother's visit to Britain to say goodbye to her friend, I received news that a friend that knew for only a few years had given up his fight with cancer. Given my own health scare and my parent's own fight with cancer; this news stunned and depressed me but I refused to give up hope. Like Admiral Kirk, I do not believe in the 'No-Win' scenario. I expressed my grief and shock on Christopher Schenk's Facebook page; many of our mutual friends 'liked' my heartfelt comments.
I've only known Chris for a few years but I knew I would eventually warm up to him. We met at Old Academy Players in East Falls. I first thought him a bit to nerdy at first (and I admit that I was slightly jealous of his choice of girlfriend at the time) but I quickly appreciated his organizational skills, his humor, his wit and above all, his patience. We have done quite a few shows together and had lots of fun both on and off-stage. Chris has seen parts of me, few will ever see...depending on how much I am drinking at the time. He even directed me during the inaugural One-Act Festival, an event Chris created. (and whether he likes it or not, will probably be named in his honor.)
When the opportunity came to visit him before it was too late, I grabbed it with both hands. One of the Old Academy directors offered to drive out to visit Chris. She also intimated that she needed her moral support from somebody. That somebody turned out to be me.
I didn't know what to expect when I saw Chris but from reading his recent Facebook posts I knew there would be a man using a serious amount of inner strength. I was certainly surprised by how Chris looked but I was certainly struck by his own fortitude. Here was a man who was only interested in hearing the good and happy memories and faced down his own formidable father when plans seemed to become too grandiose.
I shall miss both when they are gone but like my grandfather and other departed friends, they will never, ever be forgotten.

A good day after all

Those who know about my recent trials and tribulations, will appreciate that I scored a minor victory over governmental bureaucracy today. Those who haven't heard, please stayed tuned as I will be providing a full report soon (tentatively titled, "Adventures in Well-Fair").
So after trudging on my way home this morning I received a reply email from Alan Tu, the editor who covers the Mt. Airy/Chestnut Hill section of Newsworks. I received a commission to do a business analysis piece which I immediately began work on. To celebrate these minor victories, I decided to also headed to downtown Philadelphia to another tobacconist that I frequent, Holt's.
I knew Holt's would be hosting Rocky & Nish Patel and Nimish Desai of Rocky Patel Cigars as they featured some of their newly released products. Many will know I am a BIG fan of Rocky Patel cigars, I even had the chance to visit his factory in Honduras.
So I indulged myself with a few selections while attempting to keep within a modest budget. I also completed a trifecta. Knowing that Rocky is a fan of Cricket, I presented the trio with a season ball for them to sign. All three fellows were quite impressed.
While at Holt's I was informed that one of my pipes, that I had sent away to be repaired, had finally arrived. There went my modest budget, but sometimes you got to splurge a little. I believe the ladies call this, Retail Therapy; apparently you can never put a price tag on happiness.
I am a huge fan of Rocky's Olde World Reserve in a Corojo wrapper. In fact, I got my father off of the Lord Beaconsfield Rounds that my grandfather smoked with the OWR-C. Admittedly, the Beaconsfield Rounds in a Double Claro wrapper are a sentimental favorite because of the dear departed 'Captain'. (Full disclosure: the first cigar that ever made me feel ill was The Edge Maduro by Rocky Patel, a potent stick especially on an empty stomach.) But for this lunch break, I tried the Vintage 2003 Cameroon, it wasn't too bad actually. I have never been a fan of Cameroon wrappers, I find them too fragile but this held up well and was decently flavorful.
If you've ever met Rocky and the boys, you'll be pleasant shocked by how easygoing and down-to-earth these guys are. They enjoy hearing from their clients and how they can make their product better.
But the greater treasure was still to come; as I quietly enjoyed my cigar debating & planning my next moves, generally enjoying the flow of conversation around plus a few nibbles, I saw a oddly familiar older gentleman some in and talk to Rocky. It was Bernie Parent.
Those unfamiliar with professional hockey should know that Mr. Parent is a Hall of Famer and something of a sports legend, a practical god in the city of Philadelphia. In fact, no one in the Flyers can wear is number 1 jersey because it is retired with the team. Parent played Goaltender for the Philadelphia Flyers during their earlier glory days and is quite respected by almost everyone in his sport. As the saying goes, 'Only the Lord Saves more than Bernie Parent.'
I immediately texted some friends of mine who are hockey fans. Both were suitably impressed. My best friend who played Hockey during our high school years declared his jealousy of my situation.
I am not unfamiliar with meeting well known celebrities. Like Rocky, Parent is another very friendly, humble gentleman. It was a pleasure to speak and share some time smoking a cigar with him. I understand why the Flyers organization named Parent as their 'Ambassador of Hockey'. Just so you know I am not BS-ing you, one of Parent's co-authors of "Journey Through Risk and Fear", Dean Smith, took a photo of me with Mr. Parent that you see above.
So not a bad little day after all.

Why I like small businesses...

Naturally, there are plenty of answers to this question. Many like this are just sound bites. For me, it is the human connection that really puts in all into perspective. Sure, the people who work at the big box stores deserve my cash now and then...and they sometimes get it. I sympathize with those in the corporate rat race, I was there once.
But take for example the latest offering at my local bookshop (seen here at left), The Spiral Bookcase; according to proprietor Ann Tetreault, in response to Amazon's latest Price Check policy, local author Andrew Ervin will pay $5 to ANYONE who buys his book, "Extraordinary Renditions" at her shop from now until Dec. 24...and that's one of many treasures to be had in this special store.
But that is not all that we find, sometimes a little stop can lead to a general improvement in well-being. On Dec. 7, I stopped in one of my favorite little gastronomic hideaways (some of the selection seen at right), the Chestnut Hill Cheese Shop. No, it's nothing like this Cheese Shop. I stopped in during a pretty dreary day. One of the employees was sharpening a knife, looking how I felt. I asked how he was and received the response of 'Fair to moderate'. In my experience, this sort of answer meant that it was indeed not such a good day after all...I told him so. After a few minutes of commiserating, both of our demeanors improved significantly.
Another reason I enjoy this shop, besides the wide selection of everything, is this policy that is posted at the cash register. This policy can be seen here in this photo. They WILL NOT SERVE you if you are gabbing on a cell phone. I certainly respect them for their principled stance on good manners.
Which leads me to my next business, BnB International Cigars, is another one of those places that serves to rejuvenate my well-being. (Yes, I am aware of the dangers of smoking. Let's move on.) I arrived here after stopping at the cheese shop and few other places. Happily, the shop was hosting an event featuring cigars from La Flor Dominicana. I have known their very able, hard-working and personable sales representative, Jon, for some time. (Both he and some of his LFD product can be found at bottom right.)
I admit that LFD is not my favorite cigar. That is not to say that their product is no good. It is very consistent, quality made and very, very affordable. But much of their product, I often find to be too full or too bold for my personal tastes. I was pleasantly surprised by their Cameroon selections but that is review for another time.
BnB is definitely a home away from home for almost anyone within reason. Conversation flows forth from a variety of experiences and spectrum. Following the unspoken rules of respecting others' opinions and never, EVER over-inflate your own importance and you'll be fine whether to sit in the front of the house or in their sizable rear lounge. If you can't fit in here, you can't fit anywhere.
In the end, what I really want from a store is the human touch, an attention to detail and human nature that is rapidly disappearing from the general landscape. That is why I like small businesses.

Happy Hangover

Yesterday, I celebrated my 30th Birthday or as my mother likes to remind me, the day that I ruined her girlish figure. But in all honesty, I know some people wouldn't consider me 'old' just yet but it has been granted that I have reached a significant milestone. It is an age I quite frankly never thought I would make it to, but that's a discussion for another time.
I am thankful to my friends and family for a great day and for being there throughout the year, especially when I needed them most.
Pursuant to promises made on my historic marker, I'll be bringing you more news, humor and other tidbits for hopefully decades to come.

Bring on the Holiday Battle

I've noticed that the more consumer-friendly a holiday is; the catchier the songs are celebrating it. I do not like them overlapping too much either. I once snapped at a co-worker for playing Christmas music BEFORE Halloween.
With the biggest consumer holiday upon us, I spent Thanksgiving dinner explaining the joys of Radio Hanukkah to my family. They are all Irish Catholic; I was raised in that faith as well but I am a fan of music in general and always curious about other cultures. I even found a CD of Hanukkah music. My family were shocked by my purchase. After cracking a joke about the CD only being $2, they relented.
It was this conversation that began this thought process. Irish get their culture out in public in March. Any love song will do in February. Patriotism runs rampant in the summer time.
But I'm surprised there are no college sports-style fight songs leading up to Black Friday or perhaps some thrash metal as the shoppers scramble for the $2 waffle iron they do not know how to use. It would seem only right considering the ridiculous tactics people used to get the gift of the moment which they will forget come New Year's Day, if that long. Nothing says 'Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Men' like getting pepper sprayed while holiday shopping for your family.

The end of an American Royal and strange parallels

It is often the brightest places that cast the darkest shadows...I have just read the Grand Jury Report on the Jerry Sandusky Scandal at my Alma Mater, The Pennsylvania State University,. I have not felt this perfect storm of violent emotion since the early days of my journalism career when I covered the Catholic Abuse Scandal more than six years ago. I am also struck by the parallels between the two events and how faintly I am involved or connected to them.
Much has already been said by the talking heads (No, not those Talking Heads, they haven’t been relevant since the 1980s.) Some of the observation as been scathing; some of it has been heartfelt. Now people have been asking me for my two cents about the issue. In fact, I spoke with a reporter at the Philadelphia Inquirer for a story coming out in the Sunday edition. ( I’ll add the link when it arrives.)

The question that the reporter asked was “did I feel ‘betrayed’” by the situation or anyone involved. The answer was “No.” The only way I would feel betrayed is if I were a victim that spoke up and found nothing being done. I would describe my feeling as ‘profound disappointment’. After reading the report, I would add ‘Righteous Indignation’. By page 6, I found myself wishing Sandusky tortured in ways that would make the Spanish Inquisition blush.

This is not my first time as a spectator at the sexual abuse scandal rodeo…perhaps a poor choice of words but you get the picture, if you don’t, read this report. In my short career, I’ve covered some tragic stories like this and some great heartwarming pieces like this. Despite my emotionally calloused exterior, child abuse/sex scandals never EVER get any easier and are the only reason I still support the death penalty.

As a young boy, I was taught to respect and listen to my elders. As I was educated in Catholic institutions, this included those in Holy Orders. It was also my elders (grandfather, uncles, cousins, father, etc.) who introduced me to College Football, specifically Penn State. Coach Joe Paterno was, like in many homes, a revered figure. I wouldn’t necessarily describe him, as others have, as a god per se. But I will admit that Paterno is the closest thing to royalty in America. Much like our parish priest was the embodiment of Christian behavior; JoePa was the physical embodiment of integrity, leadership, respect.

It was later on in life that I would discover that both are merely human. I survived a near-miss, almost being a part of the Catholic Abuse Scandal, after an incident that could be seen as an innocent gesture made me feel very uncomfortable. It was right before a Mass that I was serving; my friend and fellow altar server that day informed me of certain rumors concerning the priest celebrating the Mass that day. At first, I shrugged off the warning as ludicrous but this priest put me and my friend side by side, patting our faces; I saw something in his own facial expression that cause to decide never to serve the altar at Mass ever again. I would later find out this particular priest was named in the Philadelphia Grand Jury report.

I met JoePa once during my time at the Main Campus at Penn State. I was working at McClanahan’s. It was just after the end of Football Season but not quite the end of the school year. I saw Paterno enter in the side entrance, to the Penn State Room, of the building. I was busy cleaning arranging shelves. While I still respected and was a little in awe of the man, I had a job to do so I continued doing it. I noticed that when students saw JoePa they would hide from him but the locals would go up and chat with him. He would chat with them. (I wonder how they treat him now.) I realized then that he was just as much a ‘townie’ as they were. As I continued on with my work, Paterno walked up to me.
“Hey kid, where you hiding the papers,” he asked me.
“They are up front Mr. Paterno,” I replied, pointing the way out to him.
“Thanks,” he said and walked off. That was that.
(For the record, in addition to the New York Times, he purchased a half-gallon of V-8 juice. While in the checkout line he signed two autographs as well; one for the checkout girl, the other for the bag boy. He was quite gracious and didn’t seem annoyed by the request.)

What’s the point in my telling you these stories? Well, I feel the focus of this scandal has been shifted to the most likely scapegoat and not the actual guilty party as this piece points out.
Another who should be also in the spotlight (and also recently lost his job because of the Sandusky Scandal) has been rather absent of the discussion.

It took some time but I learned that former PSU President Graham Spanier is a schmuck. Like my earlier naivete about my parish priest, it was a friend (and later roommate) who warned me not to trust the Chief Executive of the University.
“Why do you hate Spanier so much?” I asked Ben Bullock as we walked to the gym for our daily workout session.
“He’s an idiot,” Ben replied.
“In what way,” I asked.
“Well, every year, he always says that he will reduce the influence of Greek Life on Campus Culture. Do you see any reduction of influence?” Ben replied.
As we walked past some fraternity houses and dorm rooms with sorority letters in the window, I came to realize that Ben was right. “And besides,” Ben continued. “Spanier’s own daughter is pledging to become a sorostitute.” (Sorostitute is, of course, being the derogatory term for Sorority members.)

In the final analysis, I hope Sandusky, Curley and Schultz go to prison for their part in this scandal and cover-up. Spanier’s dismissal is also a fitting punishment because as the head of the school, the buck ultimately stopped with him. How McQueary still has a job is beyond me. At 6’4” and 28 years of age, McQueary was more than a match for the older Sandusky, no matter how fit he was. This incident that he witnessed happened while I was still a student there. McQueary’s decision to run way will probably continue to haunt him. I don't care how much I respect someone; if I caught them diddling a child, asses will be kicked and police will be called that I guarantee.

But the question of everyone’s lips, “What About JoePa?”. I do not condone the student rioting (with or without the media’s help) that occurred this week; although I do understand it. I no longer wonder why he never named Sandusky as his successor. After reading the report, JoePa did nothing LEGALLY wrong. He’s morally culpable as all hell; Paterno publicly admitted that he ‘should have done more’ but should that make him a demon in the eyes of man? For some yes, for me, no. While I do not agree with his actions, if I were to see him in public, I’d still offer to buy him a drink or even shake his hand.

I agree with my former ethics professor, Russell Frank. Despite everything that is currently happening, I am still proud to be an alumnus of Penn State University. It was the faculty and my friends there, not the athletic department, which helped mold me into the gentleman that I am today. My former co-worker and fellow Alum, Joe Turkos agrees, “We should be proud of our school. As graduates, we need to advocate the purging of the university of those who allowed this to happen, while not forgetting the real victims.”

I’ve met abuse victims; they and their stories are not easy to forget.

The unsung heroes of Election Day

“Is this where I come to vote?”

This was the most common question asked by voters as they arrived to Bethany Lutheran Church on Martin and Pechin Sts. Many polling places were suddenly changed which may cause a low turn-out election year to sink even lower. My own polling place, where I had been going since I was 18, had been moved one block away.

The City Commissioners in their ‘infinite wisdom’(and are up for re-election) said the changes were due in large part to accommodate handicapped voters under the Americans with Disability Acts regulations, but were only announced two weeks ago without much publicity. I had seen signs in my neighborhood but I was too busy to really pay attention. I never really thought about it until a friend informed me that his polling place had changed. That same day I received a letter in the mail informing me of the change.

In the 21st Ward, where I lived, the local community weekly blamed the Democratic Ward Leader for the fiasco. The man in question, Lou Agre, was stung by the accusation.

“I tried telling them that this decision had nothing to do with me but they wouldn’t listen,” said Agre, who I randomly ran into while on my way to vote. He was checking on campaign and poll workers.

The second most common action taken by campaign workers posted at Bethany Lutheran was directing voters to the correct door to enter to the polls. Many tried to climb stairs that would have lead into the church instead of the basement.

“We should have put an arrow pointing the correct route,” said Paul Kerstetter. “Does anyone have a piece of chalk or something?”

Sadly, no one had a piece but with the lack of turnout; it seemed hardly necessary. Kerstetter was out stumping for the Green Party Candidate of Sheriff, the only non-major party candidate on the ballot. Kerstetter was joined by Bill Morris, who stumped for the Democratic Party, and others.

Despite the diversity of party and viewpoints, there was camaraderie among these people. All were from the neighborhood or near enough. To while away the long hours, since polls opened at 7 a.m. and closed at 8 p.m. , these workers talked amongst themselves discussing candidates in the current race. It was generally agreed that a certain Republican Candidate for City Council At-Large did himself no favors on the way he handled the story of his military service.

But the conversation wasn’t all just politics, sports gave way to general news. It was also generally agreed that the entire administration and athletic staff at Pennsylvania State University should be replaced. (At some point, I’ll speak more on this issue later.)

The English writer Warren Ellis sums up Election Day for me; it makes me “madder than a bastard on Father’s Day.” In all honesty, it was a lot of fun hanging out with these workers today; just regular folks hoping to get the vote out. They were certainly lucky receiving some fine weather…but the only thing would have made it better was a more positive attitude.

“Don’t want your propaganda,” said a moody voter, rushing past the workers.

All you really had to say was, ‘no, thank you.’

For the latest election results, click here

Doughnuts and Beer...a fratboy's dream

It takes heart to put your money where your mouth is; but a fundraiser this tasty makes it so much easier. Down at the Devil’s Den, in South Philadelphia, a doughnuts and local beer pairing raised money for the Philadelphia Animal Welfare Society (PAWS). Patrons received three tasty doughnuts from Krispy Kreme and a flight of three beers all for $10. (PAWS received $4 of every sale.)

Autumn was the theme which included Krispy Kreme’s signature Original Glazed along with their Cinnamon Bun and Pumpkin Spice Cake doughnuts. To compliment these gooey, sugary snacks; the beers were of a spicy complexity that included Yard’s Thomas Jefferson Ale, Weyerbacher Verboten and Philadelphia Brewing Company’s Joe Porter.

According to its web site, PAWS is a non-profit organization dedicated to saving Philadelphia’s homeless, abandoned, and unwanted animals. PAWS is Philadelphia's largest rescue organization and only no-kill shelter, and is working to make Philadelphia a city in which every healthy and treatable pet is guaranteed a home. Through its adoption locations, special events, and foster care network, PAWS finds loving homes for thousands of animals each year.

This is not the first time that Devil’s Den owners Erin and Scott Wallace, who also operate the Old Eagle Tavern in Manayunk have raised money for PAWS. A PAWS fundraiser was held at the Old Eagle and Devil’s Den when Scott’s White German Shepherd, Loki, passed away. Loki was well-liked by patrons for his friendly, easy going manner.

At the Devil’s Den, a steady trickle of locals and even two beer sales representatives dove into this deal albeit begrudgingly. The beer reps had recently went on a diet and the sight of the calorie killing doughnuts was enough to induce the mouth to water.

“But I only wanted to donate to the cause,” said the one rep. “That’s ok, we’ll share it,” said the other.

So how did it taste? The doughnuts were very good but I think we all knew that to begin with, really. The beers were certainly paired with the right doughnuts but I felt like mixing and matching. Here are some highlights; with all three doughnuts, the coffee notes of PBC's Joe Porter really come out with a wallop. The Original Glazed was like adding the creamer to Joe Porter's coffee, it worked very well. The Cinnamon Bun brought out more spiciness from Yard's Thomas Jefferson Ale and cut the spiciness of the Weyerbacher Verboten.

In the grand scheme of things, it was a visit that was long overdue on my part to the Devil's Den. I am glad I finally made it to this establishment but since I have my Old Eagle within walking distance I knew what I was getting into. I'll be sure to stop by sometime in the future.

On the shelf

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dreadfully Ever After by Steve Hockensmith

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


I won this book from the giveaway section of GoodReads. Naturally, before I read this, I borrowed it's progenitor from a friend. I enjoyed that as well but I found the mash-up not as enchanting as I first hoped. It was, of course, obvious why PPZ should be a NYT Best Seller.
"PPZ:Dreadfully Ever After" picks up about four years after the events of PPZ. It is a brisk adventure full of plenty of thrills, chills and spills. It is excellent mindless entertainment. (No Pun Indented.) It is easier to read that "PPZ" because it makes no attempt at imitating the language of Jane Austen and gets right into business. Thankfully, one does not need to read the Prequel, "PPZ:Dawn of the Dreadfuls", to know certain new characters and their back story. The book while fun also misses the boat because it could have gone farther in developing character arcs, plot developments and other opportunities. The beginning feels fine but toward the center, the plot feels rushed and thins were wrapped up too quickly. The final chapter definitely reads that it was tacked on needlessly and very preachy. While the writer and/or editors at Quirk Books were able to keep the London locale terminology consistent, it would have been nice to have a map of the areas in question and compare them to our own world.
Big fans of PPZ will enjoy this but the causal fan can figure out what happens.



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