Friday, July 25, 2008


Oh yeah, now that's what I call dressed to the nines.

My uncle just sent this to me, had to share. You just can't keep shit like this to yourself. or fool? Can I be both?

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

This might soil our rep, but...

For me, it's always a blast to be "found" by someone from our shared youth at West Point no matter whether they were inner circle to our gang or not. Technology has lived up to all the hype to become the great reconnector of our age to be sure.

Some of you guys have commented to me at various times, "How do you remember all this shit?" Truth be told, while my recollection of events can be a bit uncanny at times, there are many stories that have been told to me by others from that age that I have no recollection of at all (not just the potentially criminal stuff either).

Having said that, I think you'd be surprised how many times folks who shared the bus, classroom, teen club, etc... with us have recalled to me a story completely contrary to our exalted reputation. Much like Bill's story in an earlier post of me "saving" him from getting pounded by some Garrison thug his sophomore year.

Last week Danny Wattendorf, who lived next door to us after we moved to Wilson Rd., befriended me on Facebook. My sister might have steered him my way. He was a young kid then, much younger than I, but I do remember him and his family being very nice folks, always kind and pleasant to me. Back then, you’d come to notice things like a Colonel in uniform giving you a cheerful “Hey, how’s it going Pat?” after years of adults looking the other way when you pass them on the sidewalk and not returning your “Hello”.

Danny had this for me:

“Subject: Loooong time ago


Funny what my childhood memories are: In 1979 My family moved to Lee Rd from Ca. and one of my first memories is some scary skate dudes with crankin' long hair hangin' out at the bridge on Lee Rd. I couldn't quite figure out how you got to grow your hair that long given my parents tight control over me at the time. My buddy, Doug Asiello, had nothing to do so we used to dumpster dive behind the PX. We actually once found a wooden mannequin (but, that is another story). Anyway, we used to hang out at a vending machine room they had on the corner of the PX on breaks from our dumpster diving. One day the skate board dudes came in and I remember discussing with Doug whether we should leave given our latent fear, but one of you came over and a bought us one those Hostess pink snowballs (the ones you can peel the pink marshmallow layer off)...."

Thought you all might find this interesting…

Monday, July 14, 2008


Why does doing damage to property figure so largely in the development of the American male? Do French kids fuck shit up for shits and giggles? Are the Greek teenage boys defacing their surroundings on hot summer nights?

Running along the Hudson River from West Point's North Dock to South Dock winds a well worn path through the woods named Flirtation Walk by ancient Cadets for obvious reasons. By 1984, however, Cadets and their significant others were thin on the ground at night on Flirtation Walk. The advent of the automobile, and the sensibilities of the sexual revolution had taken their respective tolls on it, and after dark it was largely deserted, which made it an attractive destination for our little gang.

Also by 1984, our little gang had ceased to invite chase from the Military Police; we pretty much just wanted to be left alone to drink, get high, and score with the ladies if at all possible. Sometimes, however, circumstances demand drastic measures, and one night in the spring of 1984, such measures became necessary.

A small group had assembled at the little lighthouse at the western point in the curve of the river that gives West Point it's name. The lighthouse was maybe fifty feet high, at the top of which was a wrought iron catwalk that ran the perimeter, inside of which was the bright green light that flashed for the benefit of passing boats. We'd always climb the little rungs jutting out of the cylindrical base up to the top; climbing things was what we did.

This particular night, however, we weren't interested in the climb. A number of us were under the influence of psychedelic drugs; we just wanted to chill out, listen to the water lapping on the rocks, and otherwise hallucinate and giggle. The problem was, our ability to do so was being seriously hampered by The Thing That Goes Bing.

The Thing That Goes Bing was a small device the size and shape of a beer keg located at the base of the lighthouse facing the river. Every minute or so, it emitted a fairly loud 'bing'. I suppose the sound did the job of the flashing light when the weather went foul. Well, as important of a job as that was, The Thing That Goes Bing was driving us batty. For some unknown reason, leaving for a more peaceful locale never came up as an option.

Suddenly, through the trees appeared two or three figures that turned out to be a few senior members of the notorious baby eating Skateboard Gang, friends of ours as it were.

In due course, we related our dilemma to the new arrivals. We figured that since they weren't tripping, they would come up with a reasonable solution to our problem.

And so they did.

That night, The Thing That Goes Bing became The Thing That Used To Go Bing.

As I recall, it took three or four of us, with our backs to the tower and our feet pressed against the offending device to dislodge it from it's well secured, bolted down presence on the shore, and urge it on its way into the Hudson.

That incident was the most shameful act of irresponsible behaviour that I was a party to. I can't recall who the actual dislodgers of The Thing That Goes Bing were, and I have purposefully kept any names out of this post, but as I was certainly the weakest physically of the assembled miscreants, I'm fairly positive I was simply an onlooker during the task, but I was absolutely encouraging.

Today there is no 'bing' going thing. They never replaced it, and since that time have torn down the lighthouse and in it's place resides a sinister looking metal box about three foot square with a flashing light seriously secured to the rock it sits upon.

Wisely, it makes no sound.