We have "Old Glory" waving high (20 feet) at the house with a kit I bought at Menard's for $37.00.This week I decided I was going to put two flags up in the rock flower beds on either side of the office driveway so back to Menard's I went, seeking two more flag pole kits. Holy Guacamole! Kits are now $80 a piece!
That being way too rich for my blood, Kim and I were on our way back to the car when it hit me: "Hey! Menard's has galvanized 1-1/4 10 ft pipe! I bet with a little Yankee ingenuity I could make my own!"
So we went back and in and I came home with two 10 foot "flag" poles, "C" clamps to hold the pulleys, some backyard laundry cord, some electrical tape (just in case) and two small bags of sack crete to pour footings.
I got the Packer flag up yesterday and this morning I installed the Irish flag -- two more beautiful flags in the whole
world there are not!
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Last night I was reminising about the old days when I was the kingpin of comedy at O'leary's Pub at the then Howard Johnson motel on Clairemont Avenue.
For years I had done a routine based around that oldie but goodie "Please Mr. Custer" which then transitioned into an adapted piece from Jonathan Winters. The upshot is, the piece was not "politically correct" and as the years went on and things began to heat up between the Ojibwa and the whites dealing with spearfishing, I dropped the routine from my show.
The bar manager at the time, Pete Simonson, was always kind of a smart ass in my estimation, and would look to screw my show up anytime he could.
At the time, the physical layout of O'Leary's was different than it is now. From the stage you could not see who was on the other side of the bar as you were blocked by shelves contaning the liquor inventory,
So one night, smart ass Pete starts yelling at me from his position at the bar: "Do Mr. Custer!" I tell him no, that I don't do that piece anymore, but he harrasses me throughout the set calling "Do Mr. Custer!" again and again. Finally, as I near the end of my set I agree to do it just to get him to shut the hell up.
I finish the routine and walk over to the bar. Simonson is beside himself with glee. He tells me that there are a couple of guys on the other side of the bar that want to meet me.
As I reach the other side of the bar, it becomes clear that I have been had. There sit two Ojibwa in their mid 30's, motioning for me to join them.
As I approach them I say: "I suppose you guys aren't too happy that that last routine I just did. I want you to know" -- but they cut me off before I get further into explanations or apologies. I can hear Asshole Simonson chortling in the corner.
One says: "Oh, we didn't mind. It's pretty funny. Sit down."
I sit.
"We just think we should warn you that there are some young native Americans at the University who will cut your balls off if they hear you doing that."
"Point taken", I reply and get up to go to the bath room so that I can make a surreptitious exit out the back to my car as this had been my final set.
"Where are you going?"
"I thought I would go to the bath room."
"No, you're not. We want to buy you a drink. What are you drinking?"
Wanting to escape quickly, I say: "a shot of schnapps."
The schnapps is delivered and I quaff it down, stand to leave.
"Where are you going? You're not leaving."
"I'm not?"
"No. we are buying you another drink."
"Okay --"
I begin to understand that it is "get the little rascist white boy drunk night".
After shooting down five, they give up. Or they are broke.
"You can go now. Hope you have a good night."
I restrain myself from saying: "So ya bastards thought ya could git a little Irishman droonk, da ya? T'aint the Irish that can't hold their fire water, ya know."
Instead I just say thanks and head for home.
And Simonson? -- you can kiss my ass!
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