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