The Polka Fight

The scene was unpretentious: the Holiday Inn, Bethlehem, PA. Specifically, the bar. Caz, Flyjuice and I were off on a drum corps weekend in Allentown. The Eastern Regionals. Yes, it's a very big deal to fans of this sport.

Germane? Fer sure. On the Friday afternoon before lid-lifter of a two-night gala, corps fans filled the bar, getting in a little pre-game to prep for the alcohol-free competition to follow. Shop talk ruled. As a writer for Drum Corps World, I was approached by various alumni and faithful, all wanting to know my take on the current season. In my role, I was supposed to be objective. Flyjuice held forth to a clot of faithful. He knew little about drum corps, but with some key phrases (supplied by me), he bullshat his way fluently. Then again, Juice could have broken Fedders sales records in Sitka—he was that artful in building edifices out of pure fiction.

Behind the bar, an earnest, youngish man was on the stick. It was evident that he was not accustomed to a full house on an weekday in midafternoon. Nonetheless, he tried, sliding massive cocktails between benign debaters.

A newcomer wedged himself into the conversation. He identified himself as Frank. Short, fortyish, a bit hydrant-y, with muttonchop sideburns and a hint of pompadour.

"Hey, you guys talkin' about drumming? I'm a drummer," said Frank. "I play with the Stash Yankoski Polkabration." Caveat lector: No, I can't remember the exact name of the band, but this is fairly close.

Most of the faithful turned away to hide giggles. People edged away. I felt sorry for the guy.

I explained, "Well, this kind of drumming is quite a bit different than what you're used to." The others returned to a polemic over whether the Chicago Cavaliers would beat Phantom Regiment that evening.

Frank looked puzzled. "How so?"

I said, "These corps are like high-end marching bands. Drum sections can be thirty strong, with snares, multi-toms, tympani, marimbas ..." I trailed off as Frank's brow terraced.

"Do they ever play polkas?"

"Never."

"Oh."

Frank asked, "Do you play drums? Gotta trap set?"

Trap set. Oh boy. Why didn't he ask if I drove a Studebaker? Trust me: polka is the slug of the evolutionary drumming-chain. Give me an afternoon, and I can make a polka drummer out of you.

I tried to divert the topic. Nope. Frank held forth on the groupies he had picked up over the years. Mental images of this induced shudders.

Then, he started in on his own band. As luck would have it, the bartender hovered nearby.

Frank orated, "Stash Yankoski is one of the best. Tellya what, HE HAS THE BEST POLKA BAND EAST A YOUNGSTOWN!"

WHACK!

That sound came from the bartender. In actuality, his bar mop being thwacked, with not insubstantial vigor, on the Formica. All conversation stopped.

The kid's eyes turned to evil slits. His look was feral. And the voice that uttered the next six words was a piercing, malevolent hiss: "He ain't no Jolly Joe Timmer."

The Man

Whoa. The silence was thunderous.

The assailants leaned forward, noses scant inches apart. The barkeep parried: "Jolly Joe has his own grove."

I couldn't exactly fathom what freight this last statement carried, but it caused Frank to back down. Head drooping, he shuffled off sulkily.

As a sigh of relief escaped, we wisely decided, in concert, not to laugh. The bartender went about his business, muttering to himself. The corps chat returned, ramping back to its former level in a gradual crescendo.

Flyjuice couldn't resist. "So Jolly Joe is the man?" he asked the barkeep.

"Yes he is. He's got his own radio station, plus a TV show. My folks were on it." His voice was almost pleading. Juice and I nodded in agreement, which seemed to mollify our server a tad.

Eddie Blazonczyk

He went on. "The Chicago bands are good. You got your Eddie Blazonczyk and the Versatones. They're great. But east of Youngstown? Stash Yankoski? No way. Stanky and the Coal Miners? Not bad. That guy better'd not show his face in here again. Stash Yankoski indeed." He spit out the last words as if they were curses.

In early evening, as we left for the show, we spotted Frank and his bandmates loading up for their gig. A station wagon towed a gaudy trailer. The group wore matching, sad, aquamarine tuxedos the color of a tinkle-infested pool. Cufflinks the size of golf balls. And shirts with enough ruffles to give Jerry Lewis pause. Droopy velour bowties were concealed by hefty jowls.

Frank looked at us furtively. Caz, Juice and I ignored him. "He dissed Jolly Joe," said Flyjuice. We stayed the weekend, never seeing the nervy drummer again.

Jolly Joe Timmer, aged 85, died two weeks ago. But his legend lives on.

I Am a Nazi

"I should of went there alone."

"I could care less."

"I feel nauseous."

"Between you and I, I ain't never eating at Burger Schlock again."

Statements such as these make me cringe. They hurt my ears. Nails on a blackboard; cowbells (especially wielded by female singers, but that is another blog); Helen Reddy.

Yes, according to many, I am a Grammar Nazi. What a terrible appellation. But, since Jerry Seinfeld okayed this n-word, dealing with a portrayal of a nasty Irani soupmaker in Gotham, we take a word from one of the darkest eras of modern history and canonize it.

Fret not, readers. All dozen of you. I will not bring up the myriad errors I hear and read every day. And how to correct them. It's the prevailing attitude toward acceptable English (in America) that irks me.

A real conversation:

Fan: I hear youse guys is making your final debut.
Bandmate: 'Final debut' makes no sense.
Fan: I didn't know we was being so proper.

Language manglers often say, "Well, you know what I mean."

No. I don't know what you mean.

Imagine if we treated other spheres of our lives with such disregard.

Cashier: Lemme see. That's $6.15. Out of ten? Your change is three-somethin'.

Car dealer: That model's gonna run you about 23 grand.

State cop: Lessee, you were doin' around 56 in a 55 zone.

Farmer: That corn? We picked it a couple, two, tree days ago.

Grocer: That mayo's good for a few weeks yet.

Sports: It's second down and four or five yards.

I can tell you firsthand that in Germany, people at the lowest economic stratum speak perfect Deutsch. It is an unpardonable gaffe to err, language-wise. They passed a law (Rechtschreibreform) in 1996 to deal with language inconsistencies.

In France, you've got the Académie française, established in 1635, no less. Ooh, that's right, everything French is wrong (don't get me started on this!). The Real Academia Española governs twenty-one different countries. And don't you dare mess with the Office québécois de la langue française. Those folks are fighting for not just proper language ... but for its preservation.

I recently watched a television program dealing with hobbyists in England. Curious kids flocked to see model trains at an exhibition. Many were interviewed. All of the youngsters had holes in their clothing. They needed grooming, perhaps a good bath. Every one of them spoke exemplary English, with an advanced vocabulary—by American standards, anyway. So there.

No, I don't know how to fix this. I think Trump might opt for a mullet before we start speaking and writing better.

Call me a Nazi if you must. I prefer Language Prescriptor.

That's all's I know.

Sometimes I Don't Know What to Feel

Sometimes I don't know what to feel.
Last night I saw a car crush a little dog under its wheel.
It did not even stop;
It just sped off and out of sight.

-Todd Rundgren

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Yes, I copped some Todd lyrics for today's rant. They are from his remarkable album, A Wizard, A True Star. To which I still listen. Which record (did I say that?) is 42 years old. And why Mr. Rundgren isn't in the Rock Hall is beyond me ... never mind; I digress.

But sometimes I don't know what to feel.

I know I'm lousy at shared grief. Especially when a celebrity dies. My sole exception is the late Phil Hartman. But he was my friend.

A race-car driver in a fiery demise. A guy on a snowmobile, doing something snowmobiles weren't meant to do. A rock star OD's. Yes, I feel a little down if I liked the music. But, in general, I can't get worked up.

Pets die. Pet owners are devastated. Especially women who own cats. I once had cats. I am not averse to any pet ownership. But when one dies, what? I can express my condolences but little else. Once, I made the mistake of saying to a quasi-girlfriend, "If you were half as nice to me as you are to your dog, I'd be happy." That got me excommunicated.

I don't want or need to own a gun. Most of my friends here in Pennsy have firearms. I don't think they should have to give up their weapons. But when some get offended about any talk of gun control, I stop listening. This doesn't make me dislike them. Now, I once a heard a guy (a non-friend) remark, "President Osama [that's what he said] is coming to take away my guns." I wasn't offended. It just convinced me that the speaker was a mouth-breathing douchebag,

Sometimes I don't know what to feel.

I feel for people who think the singers on American Got Idol Talent are tremendous. I feel for contestants on cooking contests who have to make a meal out of pomegranates, lovage, suet and Reese's Pieces. And I feel nothing but odium for the smug celebrity judges who make said cooks feel like dog-do.

When Ted Cruz, a candidate to run this country, said, "The problem with climate change is there's never been a day in the history of the world in which the climate is not changing," I didn't know what to feel.

When people nowadays say, "I love you," it carries tissue-thin meaning. The phrase is bandied about so much, it has lost its depth.

I know how I feel when I'm drumming. I feel marvelous. There's that.

I don't know I feel about America. I don't think we are necessarily the best country in the world. I realize this is an unpopular statement. But when people say, "You don't like it here? Move somewhere else," that is just moronic.

Then again, if Ted Cruz gets elected ...

The Edge

Dear Dozen Readers: I am going to try to post every day I have my son with me. He arrived on Saturday, and we are once again bonded. To celebrate, pithy scribblings every day for the ensuing three weeks. Please check back daily and feel free to chastise me if I err or otherwise offend.

I've been noticing it more often these days. People with The Edge. Self-celebrators, chest thumpers, posters of awards, trophies and gewgaws.

I wish they'd get over it.

It's that too-firm handshake, that self-absorbed grin, that tight look. They say: I'm someone special and you should be glad to bask in my glow.

I encountered this, in memorable fashion, at a drum corps event. It's a very specific sport--an art form really. Sorta like marching bands on steroids. They compete on a football field. I sat near a guy who looked a little bewildered, possibly a first-timer. I politely asked if I could help him, and he posed some cogent questions.

Then I dared posit, "What brought you to drum corps?"

Then he said it. Four simple words. Syllables that carried massive gravitas. Rife with The Edge.

"I work for Disney."

As in: "I work for Disney. And you do not, you limp excuse for a human. You are an inbred, mouth-breathing commoner, unfit to share my planet. Kiss my ring. Now.

I moved my seat before I said, "Whuppty-do, you douchenozzle."

Okay, your kid's an honor student. She made the travel soccer team (don't even get me going on that). Your pets are adorable. I'm glad you clipped your nails. Oh, you're a veteran--swell. Lost eight pounds? You still weigh close to three spins.

It's one thing to say: "I had a great time at Joe's picnic." But, adding The Edge, it comes out more like, "I made the best ribs in the world for Joe's picnic."

People with The Edge are also easily annoyed. They view life as through a backwards telescope. Everything revolves around them, for they are entombed in the rosy amber of their own narrow worldview. The phrase "the common good" is an empty, wan concept.

These are the antithesis of then Nike slogan. They  just don't do it. But they talk about it. Ad nauseam.

Their jobs are Very Important. I knew one such Edgy asshat who thought that his executive-type job was akin to that of an omnipotent despot. He once told me how he wished he had a bedchamber at work so that he didn't have to leave. He droned. He had the personality of a toaster. When he finally married, I was astonished. A few months later, I asked him about potential wedded bliss. He said, curtly, "We're focused and motivated."

Whither humility, graciousness, authenticity?

I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I continue pushing that rock up the hill. It takes The Edges off.

Bus Stop

I was thankful that the air conditioning on the coach was functioning in grand fashion as I escaped the wet, weighty heat of Tulsa. The bus had a cranky suspension; its seats were covered in faded blue cloth hopscotched with a jumble of rectangles. But the mechanical plant seemed staunch as we tumbled past Okie City and into the Texas panhandle.

The chill air carried a faint, sweet-sour scent as it bullied its way through the vehicle. There were precious few passengers. I stretched out, read Rand and contemplated the virtue of selfishness. I was at that age.

Our driver was a talky, mustachioed fellow, his uniform very kempt, his hat at a jaunty angle. He would chat with whatever riders would sit near the front. These people seemed to change in shifts: first a shaven serviceman, then a woman in a loud, plaid dress who snorted when she laughed. I couldn't hear any of the conversations, only an occasional "heh, heh" from our pilot, who seemed easily amused.

Most noticeable was the large woman who took frequent trips to the tiny convenience at the rear. Her girth prevented her from walking straight up the aisle; she had to sidle. This provided an unusual view, since she had oddly placed bulges that fought with her Spandex below her waist. These sacs gave her an odd symmetry; she seemed to have four buttocks. She wore a worried face and a mohair sweater. I made sure to give her plenty of room, moving my camp to the window as she jounced past me. She smelled like the vents.

We pressed on. The flat, vapid vastness of New Mexico made me wonder how hot it was outside. Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, Puerta de Luna. The afternoon baked on. I closed my eyes for a time.

Finally a stop. The driver stood up and announced, "Clines Corners, folks. Here's where I get off, heh, heh. Farty-five minute layover." I felt the need to give him a crisp salute, which he returned with a wink.

We alit at a small strip mall. The early-evening heat was tolerable. A Subway store beckoned, but did not appeal to me. There was a dry cleaner next to a store that—oddly—sold "Lady's Foundations," Sturdy undergarments on translucent torsos peeked at me bravely behind crackled, yellow plastic sheeting in the windows. A cafe proclaiming "Best Corn Dogs in New Mexico" shooed me away with greasy self-importance.

Somewhere, I could hear kids playing. I hooked behind the stores to see a clutter of adobe homes. Small, barefoot, brown children were kicking a soccer ball down a dusty alley. At its end, one house sported a hesitant neon sign on its lintel. "COMIDA." Sold.

I walked into a home kitchen. Behind a makeshift counter stood a Kenmore fridge and Hotpoint stove. The sink looked like the one in my folks' basement, next to the washer. A small, electric griddle stood on a Formica counter. A smiling Mexican, eager to display her goldish canine, beckoned me to sit.

"You eat," she said, holding up three fingers. "Tree dollah." There was no menu.

There were four small tables behind me. I took a stool, and a sweaty glass of ice water appeared. A lonely fan sat in a corner, its blades indifferently batting at the heat.

First came a sort of chicken soup, with torn tortillas adrift. Then more comida. My hostess hummed a vivid, sprightly tune as she worked. She proudly heralded each small dish with its name as she set it before me, punctuated with a glimmery smile.

"Caldo."

"Flautas."

"Albondigas."

Flavors jostled in my maw. Spice. Meat. Corn. Mystery.

One of the street kids burst in. The proprietress tried to shoo him away. He smiled at me. "You like the food? Aunt Rosa makes the best in town. None of the bus people ever stop here."

I said, "This may be the best meal I've had in months. Tell your aunt that my mouth is in heaven."

The boy laughed as he told Rosa, "Su boca está en el cielo." She joined in the laughter as she plated my dessert, an impossibly sweet cake.

Reluctant to leave, I laid ten dollars on the counter. Rosa pinched my cheek as I told her to keep the change. The kids were still playing soccer. I kicked an errant ball back to them. With my toe, like a true gringo.

The twilight was a terrific blue. Jubilant. It smiled on me as I boarded the bus.

The new driver was a silent, balding man. Confusing hair tried to cover a furrowed nape. He was pudgy and hatless.

Right before we left, a stout man hopped on. With plenty of seats open, he chose one right across the aisle from me. And started talking.

"Boy, lemme tell ya, almost didn't make it. Know what I mean?"

I stared straight ahead. My new companion wore beef-roll penny loafers, dun, wooly socks, cuffed jeans and Old Spice. I tired of him almost immediately.

The man launched into a series of monologues. Patty Hearst; The Towering Inferno; the newly minted President Ford; turkey bologna.

I nodded a few times and considered feigning slumber. Finally he said, "And how about those Limplesander horses in Germany? Ain't they somethin'! Know what I mean?"

I finally said, "No."

The man's jaw dropped. "What?"

"I don't know what you mean. I have never heard of such horses, so I don't know what you mean. Now, if you were talking about the LIPIZZANER stallions in VIENNA, AUSTRIA, that's different. Know what I mean?"

His face reddened. He looked ashamed. I kept staring at him until he moved his seat. As I drifted off, I could hear Beefy serenading another busmate. "Now, there's a certain way to train a Weimareinger ..."

I slept through Arizona.

We hit Needles, California at two in the morning. The clock in front of Denny's flashed to the temp. 98. I spotted Beefy, suitcase in hand, walking away. He gave me one last, furtive glance. Still reveling in Rosa's cooking, I opted for Fritos and a Mountain Dew from the 7-Eleven.

Quite a few folks boarded here. A wrinkled whore from Natchitoches, Louisiana took the seat next to me. She imparted her information freely. I found her fascinating off the bat. Then my intrigue waxed. She wrote the name of her hometown on a wrinkled Arby's napkin. I wondered how she got Naggadish out of that.

She wore a leather jacket with withering fringes of varying length. Threadbare jeans. Scuffed cowboy boots. Too-blonde, frayed hair. She shared Chiclets with me.

I heard about her work. The Calgary Stampede. A barmaid in Casper, Wyoming. A failed marriage to a used-car dealer from Oxnard, California, which courtship began in a brothel in Juarez. Pleasuring The Big Bopper backstage just a month before the plane crash. "And he war BIG, too," she added.

Her dozy drawl soothed me. I told her of my destination and plans; she wished me luck. She said she was headed for San Berdoo ("Truckers is good bidness."). Then, somehow we managed to spoon sleepily as our silver stallion hurried through the steamy night.

We had a short layover in San Bernardino. She offered me her favors in the bus-stop restroom, free of charge. I politely declined. She kissed me meekly as we parted. I saw a tear in her eye. Or was it mine?

Her name was Dorlene.

I drifted off again as we shifted off I-40, down 15 and to the ten.

The stop jarred me awake. "Last stop," said the driver. His first words. "Los Angeles." He used a hard g in the name.

As I slung my backpack over my shoulder, I could smell cumin on my hands. In the pack were drumsticks, traveler's checks and Canoe. Retrieving my duffel bag, I thought of Dorlene, carne asada, and the twice-assed lady.

I was ready for America.

Life without Tupperware

Yes, I was excited about this. My mom was having a party. On a Tuesday, no less. I didn't know what a Tupperware was, but this would be the theme. "It's plastic bowls 'n stuff, and the ladies sit around and talk and buy things," said Mary Beth Pfister in a confidential playground confab. Could this make me miss "Dobie Gillis"?

My Deep Bowl source added, "When the lady demonstrates the lid, she closes it, then she 'burps' it." What gravitas could this carry? Then again, Mary Beth Pfister's word was gold. She once told me that Pauline Giambalvo liked me, and, true enough, Pauline, a comely Italianate with corrected dentition, had let me hold her hand for a good fifteen seconds in the mummy room at the Peabody Museum. This was the extent of my intergender touching in grade six at St. Dymphna's.

The gals go uber-Tupper

I helped Mom put out pastries and other toothsome dainties for the gals. She said I could sit in on the party. I was gripped by anticipation. Even Aunt Hazel's (who seemingly liked nothing) appearance could do nothing to numb my excitement.

The gals began to arrive. My mom's pinochle pals; some neighbors; a few others. They had dresses on. Heels. Nylons scritched noisily as thighs rubbed. Even Mrs. Tichey from across the street got dolled up. I noted, with dismay, her sausage-colored hose rolled up beneath her knees. My Sin and White Shoulders assailed my nostrils.

The Tupperware Lady herself had me swooning upon exiting her vehicle. The beauteous, busty redhead allowed me to cart boxes in from her Nova (a convertible, no less!). They weighed practically nothing, as was the air I walked on. She wore a clingy emerald shift, sans sleeves. Her arms were not the fleshy, beached-whale, elbow-indented sides of meat like Mrs. Lutz had. Jangly, dangly earrings. When she walked, her hindquarters swayed in a luxuriant ... oh, never mind. I was twelve.

She started placing objets de Tupper on a folding table. A brigade of pastel bowls, containers and other impedimenta soon took over the room. I couldn't take my eyes off the Tupper Queen, even though I had no idea why her wares were so special. As she started her presentation, I noticed two tiny dark crescents limning the armholes of her dress. This deterred me not. She was my auburn paradigm of perfection.

"Now ladies," she said. "Here's what makes Tupperware so special. You just don't close the lid ..." Which she did pertly, with a little flourish of a slender, braceleted wrist. "Then, guess what happens?"

I seized the moment. "YOU BURP IT!" I blurted. Heads spun. My mother's eyes drilled me with palpable heat. Miz Tupper turned abruptly. And beamed at me. American-LaFrance-crimson lips parted, showing pearly whites that no Viceroy had ever sullied.

"THAT'S RIGHT!" she said. "Looks like I have a smart little boyfriend here!" She patted my cheek, which I immediately resolved not to wash. Forever. I conveniently deleted her middle adjective, dwelling on smart and boyfriend. Even Pauline Giambalvo had not let that appellation spring.

Our leader then demonstrated the technique I would perfect over the years. The tiny hiss of escaping effluvia meant that the T-ware's contents were sealed tighter than Sister Hilda's lips when she was ticked off.

The party turned out to be a huge hit. I wasn't even disappointed when I learned that no one would be receiving anything Tupper that evening, that the ladies would order through my mom, who would distribute the plastic pelf.

The Tupper Goddess gave me a little hug as I helped her reload her car. I went back inside, already dreading my next Sacrament of Penance with Father Bundock.

Of course, Aunt Hazel had already convened a chorale of gossipeuse. I heard her whisper, "That lady wasn't clean ..." Someone else said, " ... there was an odor." Fiddlesticks. No odor could dim my ardor.

Tons of boxes arrived in a fortnight. My father turned a blind eye to the fact that my mom used her commission to buy even more T-stuff. I marveled at the Wonderlier bowls and their offspring. Even salt-and-pepper shakers. I lidded, snapped and burped to my heart's content.

My reverie was short-lived. I asked Mom when she was having another party, keeping my motives tacet.

"Oh, we'll have more," she announced. "But I'll be the hostess. I'm a Certified Tupperware Ambassador now. People will buy from me."

Wait. No fair!

And so we became a Tupperware family. Mom trotted them out with reckless abandon. I would still help her put food away, fondling the bowls as if they were ... oh, never mind again.

The Magic Mac Bowl

The piece that stayed with me was the sturdy white mixing bowl. It was made of extra-heavy goods, with a reinforced snapping rim on the bottom. Over the years, my grandmother used it solely for her exotic, exclusive, extra-eggy macaroni salad, which was a huge hit whenever she made it.

As time wore on, the bowl did not wear out. It did turn a wan, nicotine color after repeated lardings of said salad, which tradition my mother continued. And folks continued to lap up the wonderful contents. "The flavor's in the bowl," I bragged.

One fateful day, I blandished Mom to make up a batch for a feed at the Sons of Sweden. I put it out on the buffet. Then the seniors attacked like locusts. The bowl, in its dun, maize wonderfulness, was soon deforested. I washed it it, and, making sure I had marked its bottom with our surname Sharpied on masking tape, hid it in the kitchen and repaired to the bar.

After a few conversations with a bottle of B&B, I headed home. Bowl-less. I awoke in a fog the next day and realized my gaffe. I waited at the club for the doors to open and raced to the kitchen. No bowl. I recruited a forensic team of afternoon quaffers to seek and find, to no avail. Everyone sympathized with me, since they were huge fans of the Magic Mac.

That night, I visited Mom and mumbled the news, accompanied by an apology. She shrugged it off, "Oh, that old thing," she said. "Lord, it's no big loss."

But she never made macaroni salad again. I even noted said dish in her obituary.

In the years that followed, I have tried to recreate the culinary nirvana of the two women I loved the most. The results have improved, and, while edible, are a faint tracing of The Real Deal.

Worst of all, try as I may to evoke the recipe, I have nothing in which to put it.

T-Bone and Jilly

I am turning over this space to one Timothy "T-Bone" Stone.He is my go-to man on the 88s. He can make a Hammond B-3 beg for mercy ... and he tells some great war stories. Sure, all musicians have them. But this is one of my all-time favorites. Here we go, gang.

Late 80s... Atlantic City Trump Plaza... The Lounge Therein...

As the Jay Stollman Orchestra wound up their set in the lounge, a rather burly but well dressed gent approached the stage, adjusted his tie and cleared his throat, then announced brusquely "Mr Jilly Rizzo has invited Jay and his band to Memories in Margate directly following their performance at Trump Lounge for drinks and bracciole."

Puzzled looks ricocheted off the band members faces: Who in hell was Jilly Rizzo? And was Luca Brasi inviting us to dine or die? This was Jersey after all. Little Nicky Scarfa, bodies in Brigantine, the real deal!! Jay filled us in with the vital 411: He got the casino gig thru an AC cop who did security for Ol Blue Eyes when he rolled thru town. And Jilly was Franks valet/go-to guy for a gazillion years. If the Old Man wanted Eggs Benny at 4:30 in the morning in Duluth, Jilly made it so. Guessing Jilly was lonely that night, heard about the band thru the cop, and needed a party, hence the invite.

So off we go to Memories in Margate. We arrive to see a replica of the 2001 Odyssey from Saturday Night Fever and a line of perfectly coiffed and garbed Tonys and Darlenes wrapping around the block like a polyester python. Remember this was the LATE 80s; these kids obviously hadn't heard...

Now by this time the band had reverted to their street dress after the gig: jeans, tees, etc. which drew jeers and withering Mansonesque stares from those awaiting entrance. A particularly ominous character sporting a lime green rayon jumpsuit and Big Boy Burger hair jabbed me on the arm and growled: "Backadaline, Jerry!" As in Garcia. Hoots and cackling ensued from his equally synthetic posse.

But wait: a massive arm shot out from behind the velvet rope, jabbed Lime Green in the sternum and a stern warning rolled over the crowd: "Shut yer pie hole, Gino, dissis Mr Rizzos party!" The velvet rope goes up and in we go, waved in by the same arm that shut Gino's pie hole. How exciting!! Much grumbling from the line, but hey, we're in with the Jillster. You folks will just have to wait your turn... It's out to the VIP pergola for Jay and the boys!

So here is our host dressed more like us than "them": blue satin Frank jacket with Jilly stitched on left breast, Yankees cap, black v-neck tee, sensible khakis and red Nikes, a cigar larger than his head wedged comfortably in his jaw. Big smiles, hugs to Jay, pats on shoulders to the band, sit, eat, drink!! Gotta admit Jilly was a gracious and generous host, to a bunch of Connecticut hairbillies he never met before. The Blue Label flowed like Toms River, and although the bracciole got stuck in traffic, a grand time was had by all.

Best moment: Mr Rizzo pulls me aside (he spoke to every single band member in turn) and regales me with some saucy road tales, Ratpack and Vegas, showgirls et al. Suddenly, his face veiled in melancholy, the man turns to me and speaks softly...

"Y'know sumpin, T-Bird (he never once got my nickname right).... Nobody swings anymore..."

The words hung on the summer night air like the industrial discharge emanating from the business end of his Macanudo, and a little tear creeped out of the corner of his eye. I don't think truer words had ever been offered before or since.

RIP Jilly. Thanks for a great night! It was a privilege and an honor to hang with you and hear the tales of the elders. An era died when you and Frank passed on... You were right; NOBODY swings anymore...