Me and Mickey

I found this photo when I was digging through some old envelopes in the garage a couple days ago. There's a story behind this, one I haven't told many people and certainly one I had almost forgotten. Until now. 

The car is my 1956 Chevy Bel Air convertible. It was my first car. I was stationed in Pittsburgh at the time, a Special Services Officer, which meant I was in charge of getting teams together for tournaments, along with distributing ping pong balls we received from the Salvation Army, maintaining athletic facilities at the HQ as well as on the Nike missile sites. If our nation were ever attacked and the enemy descended on Pittsburgh, we could beat them in a ping-pong tournament for sure. Unless they were Chinese. A second lieutenant with a paddle in his hand, backed up by rugged men with wooden softball bats, badminton birdies, sharpened darts, and free passes for old movies was a deterrent not to be messed with. The word had evidently gotten out. We were never attacked.

Back to the car. On one particular winter weekend in 1958, the volleyball team and I travelled to Ft. Meade, Maryland for an important Army regional tournament. Major Theobald, our CO, had high hopes for us. We were big, we were fast, we were smart. I wore my dress greens, and kept my winter overcoat in the back "well," beneath the rear plastic window. I took three guys with me. The only one I remember is PFC Norm Mitchell, a scrawny guy from Tennessee who spit a lot, had a wicked laugh, used words and expressions I had never heard before, held military life in low esteem. Everyone called him Mitch, one of those naturally likeable guys. At the time I thought, someday I want to write a story or book about him. This is the closest I've ever come.

The other guy on the team I remember clearly was a big, black private whose name might have been James. Well over six feet, at least 200 pounds, not flabby. He was a natural born leader, but seemed interested only in leading others to the dark side. I followed him on that trip, to my embarrassment. Someday I'll remember his last name, then maybe I'll befriend him on Facebook. If he's still alive. Or not in solitary.

We got to Ft. Meade with no problem. We made it through the first three rounds looking sharp. The semi-finals were our next challenge. We won the first game easily, 21 to something in the low teens. Then the spirit left us. I don't know if we ran out of gas or got cocky or decided to screw Major Theobald, who nobody liked. The streak just ended. We lost the next two games.

"I know a good club," said James. "I know this town, got some friends there." 'This town' was Baltimore. We ended up in what I only remember as a street with lots of bars, broken sidewalks, dark alleys, shimmering neons with missing letters, and lots of people around. All ten of us - the entire team - followed James into a large bar with a juke box playing. This was 1958, remember, so it might have been some Wilson Pickett or Chuck Berry or "Rock Around the Clock," which had been out about 5 or 6 years. It sure wasn't Perry Como or Theresa Brewer. 

Our fearless leader was greeted like a returning hero, even though he had missed three spikes in that second game, which of course none of the folks at the bar knew or cared about. I remember sitting at the bar, being introduced to some of his friends, including the very pretty black lady tending bar. I was the fresh-face white second Looie in the very soul of Baltimore's night life district. I don't even remember asking for a drink. If I did, it would have been scotch, my choice of alcohol at the time. I've since developed a strong dislike for it, along with gin. The lovely barkeep with the emerging breasts and sparkling eyes set a drink in front of me. "You'll like this, honey." Most of the other guys had boiler makers: a shot of whiskey or vodka and a bottle of beer. We clicked glasses. "Here's to next year," someone said. "I hope not," I thought. I knew I'd be out in less than a year. I finished my drink while the bluesy guitar sunk into my head. And that's the last I remember.

I awoke - or came to - the next morning. Three of the guys from the team were there. I was in a bed. A strange bed, in a strange house or apartment. James was there, big, satisfied smile, as was Mitch, looking slightly hung over. "You feelin' better?" said Norm. "He needs coffee, and some flapjacks," said someone. A woman handed me a cup of coffee. The last time I had seen her she had handed me that magic drink. "Here you go, hon." I didn't touch the coffee.

So they made a fuss over me, making sure "the lieutenant feels okay" after eating something bad and getting sick and passing out. All I had was that drink and I knew how that went down. I washed up and said it was time to head back to Pittsburgh. Somehow my car had turned up outside the house. The weather was freezing, the smell of snow in the air. I hurried out to the car and saw the back window had been slashed. I opened the door. My overcoat was gone. Nobody knew anything. 

It was a long drive back to Pittsburgh. And it was my last volleyball tournament in uniform.

About two weeks later, Mitch came up to me outside the radar van on the Nike site. He had this small grin on his face, tempered with his attempt at apology. He threw me a casual salute. "Lieutenant, I feel bad about what happened over there. I'd like to help pay for the window." He tried to hand me some folded up greenbacks. I told him I didn't want his money, just an answer. "It was a mickey in my drink, right?" He nodded. "James set it up?" He looked down at his feet. "I don't really know, sir. He likes you a lot. Me? I think he did. But I don't know for sure. He didn't say nothing to any of us. Swear to God."

Like I said, I liked Mitch. I believed him. I didn't mind losing the overcoat. It was just an overcoat. But it sure hurt to see my Chevy cut like that. Happy ending: the insurance company paid for the whole thing, no deductible. A favor to a man in uniform.

                          Here's how the car looked on a better day.

"Stranger in a Stranger Land"

That’s the title of a famous Robert Heinlein science-fiction book. It’s also the way I feel as I get ready to watch the Grammy’s tonight. I won’t actually watch it all, start to finish. I’m going to DVR it. That’ll save me a lot of time and irritation. But I would like to know something about the State of Music these days.

When I was Creative Director on Budweiser, we did a lot of radio spots using recognized artists. Trouble was, I didn’t recognize half of them. And this was back in the mid-80’s. For instance, in 1988 we did Bud spots with The Nylons, Squeeze, Beat Farmers, Dave Edmunds, Ricky Van Shelton, Outloud, Jamaica Boys, Wilson Pickett. And a few others. I knew Dave and Wilson. Fortunately I had young guys in my group who knew what was going on. 

I looked at the list of nominees for this year’s Grammy’s. “Who are these people?” I wondered. Here’s an example. Fun. is one of them. No, that period isn’t a typo. It’s “Fun” with a “.” at the end. Must mean something, I’m sure. Then there’s Mumford and Sons. Very big, I know. But I have no idea what they sound like. Or how many sons there are. Or who or what Mumford is. To me it sounds like a spin-off of an old Red Foxx TV show. 

Then there are the nominees for “Best New Artist.” They are The Alabama Shakes, Fun., Hunter Hayes, The Lumineers, and Frank Ocean. I never heard any of them sing or play or shake or whatever they do. There are, however, some names I’ll know. Taylor Swift, Bruce Springstseen, Adele, Rihanna, Beyonce. Which makes me wonder: What is it with these one-named people? I don’t know when that all began. Maybe with Prince? Or maybe with Liberace. Now there was a musician for you, white piano and all. 

Other single-name nominees are Miguel, Usher, Estelle, Tamia, and Nas. I assume these are people, not groups, but who knows? I will, after tonight. I know the name Megadeth but the concept creeps me out. I also know Tom Waits and used to like him, don’t know what he’s doing now. I’m sure his voice hasn’t smoothed out.

Tell you the truth, the only category I’m comfortable with is Jazz. Those are real people, first and last names. Chick Corea, Gary Burton, Ahmad Jamal (yes, he’s still alive and recording, obviously), Pat Metheny, Bob Mintzer, Arturo Sandoval, Lluciana Souza, Bobby Sanabria (good latin big band jazz), Brad Mehldau. We’re well past the time of Monk, Prez, Bird, Miles, Duke. But they all had two names. These were nicknames.

I like what Lou Reed said about jazz. “If it has more than three chords, it’s jazz.” Also like Miles’ comment: “Do not fear mistakes. There are none.”

I’m sure jazz won’t get much air time tonight. The name of the game is ratings. Still, I’ll be watching and listening, remote in hand, thumb on the “fast forward” button, trying to soak up as much of today’s musical culture as possible, before moving on to “Downton Abbey” and “Justified.” 

Here’s a link to the Grammy nominations. Be careful, though. You might just end up a “Stranger in a Strange Land.”  But that’s cool. 2013 Grammy Nominations

A Wondrous Time for Baseball

Frequently what is passed off as a coincidence may have deeper roots than that. Believe it or not, I started writing this post last week. Then on Saturday night, as my son and I ate dinner at the Corner Pub and Grill, he looked at his smartphone and said casually, "Stan Musial died." And so another one of our heroes is gone, and a chapter in my life is complete. 

But this is not a memorial for Stan I write. It is a look back to 1949, because I happened to come across an old Life Magazine while looking for an article on Charlie Chaplin and saw this.

The pennant race between the Cards and the Dodgers was in the home stretch. For the very young, a pennant race was just that, two teams battling it out to see who plays in the World Series. "Play-offs" and "Wild Cards" were as yet undreamed of. And in this year, 4 years following the end of World War II (good guys and bad guys clearly defined),  Life Magazine ran a story on that: "Yanks or Red Sox? Cards or Dodgers?" 

This pictures the two best second basemen in the game: Jackie Robinson and Red Schoendienst. Unfortunately Red fell down while trying to catch a wild throw from the catcher and Jackie went to third. It would be several years before the Cardinals put a black man on their roster.

But the line I like best is "Can Stan the Man Beat the Brooklyns?"
The article says, "The principal reason the Dodgers are worried about the Cardinals is Stan the Man Musial. Although Musial has been having only a fair season (for him), Dodger pitchers cannot seem to get him out." 

I love this photo of Stan because he is not up at bat in that familiar stance. He's sliding. The caption reads, "Cardinals hope for the pennant, Outfielder Stan Musial is safe at third after tripling against Chicago. Despite a poor start Musial, 1948 batting champion, was hitting .319 last week." Yep, Stan had turned a double into a triple with his customary hustle.

Since his passing, the newspapers and the networks and the blogs and the columnists have just about used up all the appropriate adjectives and phrases that describe Stan's achievements, his life, his demeanor, his selflessness. I have memories of Stan, as we all do. Not just at Sportsman's Park, but a night I spent with him and Henry Ruggieri and Joe Gargiola in San Francisco in 1960, when I lived there and they were in S.F. for the opening of Candlestick Park. I have an autographed baseball, an autographed book, a menu from Musial and Biggies. I used to have a Bowman's black and white baseball card of Stan, but my mother threw them away when I was in the Army and they moved. (Get over it, Gerry) Those, along with my EC Comics (seriously, get over it). 

Sometimes I think I'd like to be 25 or 30 years old again, be around for whatever tomorrow brings. But I'm not so sure these days. And I sure am happy I didn't miss the pure excitement of watching the Cardinals take the field, with number 6 in the lineup, and anticipate what he might do that day. He and Slaughter and Schoendienst and Kurowski and Breechen and the others.

I followed the standings, watched Stan's batting average climb up through the 300's, his home run totals move to the top of the list, loved his easy way of coming through in the clutch to win a game with a long ball and watch his easy stride around the bases. No big deal, no fists pumped in the air. It was just his job, to play the best he could. And he always did. I didn't know it at the time, but when the Cards finally got around to adding black players to the roster, Stan was the one who welcomed them, in a city that had more trouble adjusting to the new reality. 

I'll always carry those thrilling memories of Stan the Man. He was a part of my life and love of baseball. As long as there is someone to announce, "Play ball," Stan will be out there, a singular example of what a ballplayer, an athlete and a man should be.

My Next "Big Thing"

Esteemed author, philosopher and literary outlaw Dennis Fleming (see photo) invited me to join in on this remarkable concept for authors. If you want to see how he writes, what he writes, you can find out
here. http://www.dpressingnews.blogspot.com/

Enough backstory. Here's what I have been writing or at least trying to.

First, I have a new play that opens on Friday, Jan. 11, and runs for 2 weekends. It's produced by First Run Theatre. Performances are Fridays 1/11 and 1/18 at 8 pm; Saturdays 1/12 and 1/19 at 8 pm; and Sundays 1/13 and 1/20 at 2 pm. It's a one-act, and I am blown away by what the director Donna Nelson and the cast have brought to my words. The title is "Open Sundays, All Makes Repaired," and it's paired with another one-act, "The Predicament." The theater is at DeSmet High School on Ballas Road.  Here's a link: First Run Theatre

Second, my novel, which was published two years ago, still finds readers and has introduced me to a legion of Charlie Chaplin fans. The title is "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin," and it takes place in Hollywood, today and during the 1930's. And, yes, Charlie is in it. I have been fascinated by his life and films for many years, so writing the novel was really an act of passion. But then I guess all writing is based on that, isn't it? Here's a link to that. 

For Kindle edition of my novel

Onward to the 10 Questions:

1) What is the title of your new book?

The working title is "The Eulogy Club." It may well be the final title, because I like that combination of words and the curiosity it creates.

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

A combination of two events: 1) I attended a memorial service for a friend; 

2) I had lunch with three long-time friends a week later. At lunch we talked about the same stuff we've talked about for years: politics, food, travel, health, movies. After lunch I decided to drive through Forest Park, it being a soft, magical spring day. I stopped by one of the fountains, got out and began to wander around. My friend who had died loved to bike ride in the park. I thought about him, and the feelings that were expressed at his service, words he never heard. I thought about my lunch, about feelings that were never expressed. That's when the idea hit me. Not as a book at first, but as something to do with my friends. A get-together where we would tell each other what usually is said only after death. That quickly morphed into an idea for a novel. The title was right in front of me. "The Eulogy Club." I started making notes that night.

3) What genre does the book fall under?

I've never been much good at genres. Probably nothing more than a novel. Dramatic. Touching. Humorous. Tragic? I don't know yet. Instructive? I don't know yet. Let's just say Fiction for Adults (but not Adult Fiction, because that sounds like one step removed from Porno.)

4) Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

It's too soon to say. The characters have not been fully fleshed out yet. If I want the movie to be a big hit, I'd cast George Clooney, Russell Crowe, Sean Penn and Christopher Walken. The characters are in their early 60's, which seems a good time to speak of death and treasure friendship. So a quick pick would include DeNiro, Walken, Jeff Bridges, Dustin Hoffman. 

5) What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Sometimes the things we think we should say to someone while they're still around shouldn't be said at all.

6) Is your book self-published or represented by an agency?

Of course I'd rather have an agency involved, but that takes such a long time and so much work, and I don't have enough time or energy to wait around for that. So probably self-publish. But that's a long way away. First I have to write it. 

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft?

No comment. I'm planning by the end of 2013. My novel, "Shadow and Substance," took three years to write the first draft. I was working full time in the creative department of an ad agency and struggled to find the time and energy to keep writing on the novel. It actually spent more time on the shelf than in creation. 

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

No titles come to mind. Any novel that explores friendship in all its permutations, the sense of time running out, the fear of being vulnerable, the advantages and drawbacks of honesty. Sounds like a Russian novel to me.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

 Early on, I bounced the idea off a couple of literary friends. Their reactions were identical: "Wow." Then I read 3 or 4 pages, possibly the opening of the novel, at a St. Louis Writers Guild open mic night last year. Highly positive reaction. Further inspiration comes from a small business I have. It's called The Life Preserver. I make video biographies of people, usually for their kids or grandkids. It's a legacy kind of thing. Older people have this need to say things that they omitted in previous years. Important things that usually fall into the category of "they already know how I feel about them." Which is why I frequently ask, "Did you ever tell your kids you love them?" And the final statement: "What else would you like to say?" 

10) What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

I've thought about an Author's Note to the effect - How to say the things you should say to a friend and still keep them as a friend. Something like that. But I don't see the book being a "how to" book. It's just possible that things will go awry in the novel, friendships will be damaged, perhaps beyond repair. Maybe I'll write a blog about Friendship and Eulogies and Memorial Services for the Living. Or maybe I'll have a priest, a minister and a rabbi write testimonials. Which leads to, "A priest, a minister and a rabbi walk into a bar. The bartender says 'What's that book you have there.?' The priest says, 'It will introduce you to Jesus.' The minister says, 'It will give you eternal peace.' The rabbi says, 'It costs only seven dollars, plus shipping.'" Something like that.

Now about the 5 Writers I'm Tagging:

1) Jean Whatley. Remarkable with words, powerful means of expression, highly personal observations, a delight to read. She has just had her first book published, a memoir of the road. It's called "Off the Leash." Here's a link to her blog: http://jeanellenwhatley.com/blog/

2) Peter Green. Knowledgeable author about World War II, crime, and other compelling subjects. http://www.peterhgreen.com/

3) T.W.Fendley. Award-winning sci-fi author who specializes historical fantasy. Here's her intriguing website. http://twfendley.com/

4) Linda O'Connell. She must be published in just every publication out there, has won numerous awards, has a lock on human-interest stories, and a marvelous sense of humor. http://lindaoconnell.blogspot.com/

5) Dwight Bitikofer. A highly original poet who works well in a jazz environment. Winner of awards; several summers at U. of Iowa. Here's his Facebook page. Dwight the Poet

There was this auto repair place on I-55...

For two weekends in January, 2013,  First Run Theatre will stage my play. It's a one-act called "Open Sundays, All Makes Repaired." The dates are Friday thru Sunday, Jan. 11, 12, 13 and 18, 19, 20. The story involves two strangers with conflicting agendas who meet in a seedy garage on I-55.

The real story, however, began back in the summer of 1991. My son, Gregg, and I had driven to Memphis, where he took SAT tests to be admitted to the U. of Memphis. It was a hot weekend in Memphis, laced with thunderstorms and high humidity. He took the exams, I walked around the campus in the city, then we went to a movie. Big mistake. Kevin Costner as "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves." Actually Kevin Costner as Kevin Costner, dressed in his cute outfit. The movie was saved by Alan Rickman who, I later learned, had some of his best scenes edited out because Kevin was afraid Alan was going to steal the movie. It should have been stolen and dumped into the Mississippi.

But I digress. That was a Saturday. We headed back to St. Louis on Sunday. We were in my 1988 Mazda RX-7 convertible. One of the reasons I bought it was that it reminded me of the 1960 Corvette I once owned. Anyway,  Gregg was driving. We hadn't been out of Memphis more than an hour, tooling north on I-55, when the engine let loose with an awful noise and the temperature gauge shot up a few seconds later. We pulled over. I'm not very capable when it comes to automobiles. I know how to open the hood. Which I did and saw smoke. At least I thought it was smoke, realized it was steam, then saw that one of the hoses had broken loose.

We hitch-hiked to a garage not far up the highway. Looking around the garage, while waiting for someone to take us to the car, I wondered: "What if...." From there it was, "What if two guys meet... one headed south, one headed north, both of them on an urgent mission, and they both need their cars repaired 'right now.'"

That became "Open Sundays, All Makes Repaired." It's been through a couple of severe rewrites since I first wrote it a few years ago. First Run Theatre chose it as one of the plays for their new season. My play appears on the same bill with another one-act, "The Predicament" by Patrick Conley, a very funny comedy about the Irish, the IRA, and a group of men who take matters into their own hands.

I am fortunate to have a strong cast, and an excellent director in Donna Nelson. Her list of credentials is very impressive and she has effectively brought my play to life. The productions take place in the theater at DeSmet High School on North Ballas Road. I hope you make the time to see both of these plays, and support local theatre. You can click on this link for more information.      About performances and tickets

That Night, Again

Jesse shoved his dead beagle out of the way with his bare foot and set another log on the fire, watched the smoke curl around it for a second, then leaned back in his cracked red leather easy chair.  “Okey-dokey,” he said.  His favorite word.  He reached for the cup of hot cocoa on the tv tray, let the sweet steam waft up into his nostrils, and smiled.  He took a small sip.  A bit of melted marshmallow clung to his upper lip.  He felt it sitting there, wiped it off with the back of his hand.
“Bet you would’ve liked some hot cocoa, Samson,” he said to the immobile dog.  Samson had been dead four days now, but he was the only company Jesse had.  Better a dead dog than no one.  Even if Samson had still been breathing, Jesse wouldn’t have given him any cocoa.  He knew that chocolate was bad for a dog, something about their digestive system not being able to handle it.  And he sure wouldn’t have done it with just one more day til Christmas.  Ain’t no way to find a decent vet on Christmas day, he knew.  All the good ones are at home with family or on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, he figured. 
Outside, a soft snow began spreading its stark winter blanket across the neighborhood.  The first snow of the year, and what better time than on the night before Christmas.  He looked out the window.  “Okey-dokey.”
Jesse thought about the dogs of his life.  His best friends.  Dogs that died before they left puppyhood, dogs that trembled and slept into old-age.  Samson was one of his favorite dogs, probably the last one he’d ever have.  “Got you the year after Emma passed,” said Jesse.  He remembered other Christmas eves, when Emma would hang the stockings on the mantle, wrap last minute presents, slide chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.  Forty-six years of chocolate chip cookies must be some kind of record, both for baking and eating, he thought.  He wondered how many chips of chocolate had melted down on their behalf.
Emma had gone off her meds before she passed, twelve years ago.  Except she didn’t know she had.  She had become impossible to live with, drove Jesse up one wall and down another with her incessant complaining and whining, her mind melting down like those chocolate chips.  So he dumped her meds, all seven bottles of them, down the toilet, replaced them with placeboes.  He liked that word “placebo.”   It took a couple of weeks, but eventually Emma passed in her sleep.  “A peaceful placebo departure,” said Jesse at his most poetic.
He lifted Samson by his tail, half off the floor, to reveal the tattered book under his rump.  He picked it up and turned to the first page.  He always felt a thrill when he read aloud the very first line.  “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house...”  What magic, what power, what craftsmanship.  Not “It was the night before,” but “Twas.”  Not “Christmas Eve,” but “the night before Christmas.”  Jesse stretched his legs out to let the fire warm his bare toes.  Samson slid across the hearth to the edge of the fire.  Outside the snow thickened, swirled, piled along the curbs and bushes.  The street lay silent, no headlights, no crunch of tires.
Jesse continued his annual ritual aloud, to deaf, floppy ears.  “Not a creature was stirring...” He stopped on that line and laughed.  “You can say that again” and looked at Samson.  “...not even a mouse,  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.”  Jesse looked at the mantle.  Yep, the stockings were still there.  He had never gotten around to taking them down from last  year, although Emma had complained about that until midsummer.
Jesse got as far as “... had just settled down for a long winter’s nap” when he smelled the burning, an acrid smell that was neither oak nor hickory.  He looked down at the fireplace.  Samson was smoking.  Or at least the fur on his backside was, turning the dull brown fur into stringy black ash.   “Move away, dog,” he said, and reached over and scooted Samson to the side.  Luckily the dog had not burst into flame yet, and as the smoke subsided, Jesse approached the conclusion of the poem.  He stopped before the last page.  “Not so fast, not so fast,” he thought.  “Gotta let the magic last a little longer.”  He drained the cup, scooped the remaining marshmallow with his finger and licked it clean.  “Okey......”  He felt his eyes getting heavy.  The fire, the cocoa, the snow, his dog.  “How lucky I am,” he said aloud.  His eyes started to close.  But he had to get to the part about “But he heard him exclaim as he rose out of sight ...” and the rest of it.  His head nodded and his chin dropped to his chest.
The peace was shattered by a loud rap-rapping at his door.  Jesse lifted his head.  “Who could that be, Samson?”  He struggled out of his chair, shuffled to the door.  Another series of rap-rap-rapping, this time louder.  “Keep your shirt on, I’m coming, fast as I can,” said Jesse.  He opened the door.  And what to his wondering eyes should appear, but Santa Claus standing there, with no shirt on.
“Sorry  couldn’t keep my shirt on,” said Santa.  “Are you named Jesse?”
Jesse nodded.  This was wonderful beyond belief.
“Then let’s go for a ride,” said Santa with a hearty laugh, making his stomach shake like a bowl full of jelly.  He slipped on his red coat.
“I’ll get my coat,” said Jesse.
“No need to.  I’ve got a propane heater in my sleigh.  I just wear this because it’s expected.”  He laughed again.   “Here we go.”
Jesse and Santa walked out to the sleigh and climbed in behind the eight reindeer.  “Good looking reindeer,” said Jesse.
“I take good care of ‘em.  Thanks for noticing.”
“Bet you never give ‘em any chocolate.”
Santa smiled.  “You sure know your reindeer.”  He grabbed the reins and gave them a shake.  “Hold on, Jesse.”
As they rose above the house, the neighborhood, the town, Jesse heard Santa shout, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”
“Okey-dokey,” shouted Jesse.

                     

Archie's BBQ Pit - "We're smokin' for you."

According to the latest issue of The National Barbecue Journal, a new BBQ joint is scheduled to open in St. Louis on Delmar Boulevard, just a few blocks east of the famous Loop district. The name is Archie’s BBQ Pit, and the head pitmaster is Bob Archibald, aka Smokin’ Archie. “Wait until you get a taste of our special sauce,” said Archibald. “It’s a secret recipe that’s been in my family since the War Between the States.” This could be the beginning of the War Between the Sauces.

Until recently, Mr. Archibald was president of the Missouri History Museum, a respected institution on the edge of Forest Park in St. Louis. His new restaurant is located in a building formerly owned by the ex-mayor of St. Louis, Freeman Bosley, Jr. Better known as “Juice Junior,” he helped steer Archibald to this distinctive location. Bosley will be featured with his blues band on weekends to provide entertainment. His recent album, “Bone Suckin’ Blues,” has enjoyed enthusiastic reception and he promises to play several tunes from it, including the hit “Don’t Dig Too Deep.”

Smokin’ Archie is proud of the unique taste he brings to the St. Louis barbecue scene. “We found some interesting ingredients in the ground around and underneath the building,” he said in an interview with this correspondent. “There are things in the soil you just don’t find anywhere else in this area. Once we put them through our exclusive filtering process to remove the glow, we add some chili powder, fresh garlic, and... but if I told you any more, it wouldn’t be a secret now, would it?” He laughed his jolly laugh. No more secrets coming from Archie.

The oversized menu at Archie’s BBQ Pit was designed by David Hoffmann, who also helped design the real estate transaction. What’s unique about the menu is that there are actually two menus. One has a price, the other one doesn’t. Which puts the burden on the customer. According to Mr. Hoffmann, “You can’t let price come between you and enjoyment. If you have to ask what the price is, maybe you shouldn’t be eating here.” Hoffmann was paid $10,000 for the design.

Customers will be greeted at the front door by John “Jackie D” Danforth, former attorney and senator, now turning his talents to a new line of work. Jackie was not available for comment, but a spokesperson said, “You can come here with no reservations. Also, we are not accountable for indigestion, inflated bowels or blood disorders caused by our sauce.” The spokesperson intimated that all customers will be asked to sign a release before ordering. “It’s the way of the world,” she said. Prior to joining the Archibald venture, Danforth had plans to open a restaurant in the Loop, to be called Bryan’s Cave. In a statement released last month, Danforth said, “It was to be a Thai BBQ establishment, but when I heard about Smoking Archie’s plans, I backed off to avoid a conflict of interest.” Rumors have circulated, however, that Jackie D. is still linked to the Thai Q spot.

The one-acre lot upon which Archie’s BBQ sits cost around a million dollars, which included a hefty back-tax that Juice Junior had neglected to pay. The land is currently valued at $232,000, a drop of more than 70%. The article didn’t state how much Smokin’ Archie paid for it, but word on the street has it that he could have paid for it with accumulated vacation pay. “I don’t discuss money,” Archie said, “but I’ll talk ribs with you anytime.” 

For more information on the restaurant, visit their website, www.archiesbbq.org. The restaurant is scheduled to open between Thanksgiving and Christmas, depending on whether Mr. Archibald is out of town researching and writing new, secret recipes.