The College Graduation Party

College Graduation Party, St Augustine Beach, 1984 (photo by M.E.)

From Left: Teen, Kennedy, Tintin, Troyer, Dr. Van Lueven,  Ledbetter and "Man wants a case of beer" Harvey

A Stirring Story

Crate&Barrel Martini Pitcher

My mother hired me to tend bar for a party in her home the Summer between my leaving the Army and starting college.  It was mostly opening beer bottles, pouring white wine and sloshing together the occasional G&T or V&T.

A neighbor, who had flown B-17s in WWII, dated Suzanne Pleshette and wrote for Esquire in the late '50s, approached my bar in the kitchen, flashed his brilliant smile and asked for a gin martini. For years, I had made martinis for the Old Man. That  consisted of taking a bottle of Beefeater and a martini glass out of the freezer, filling the glass with syrupy chilled gin and adding a couple olives. It was how the old man liked it -- It was how I liked it.

I explain to Bernie there's no gin in the freezer and he scoffs, "You don't make martinis with frozen gin." I'm guessing Bernie was in his early sixties then. "Got a pitcher?" We find the appropriate mid 20th century Danish glass vessel and set to work. Bernie pours eight ounces of gin, adds a teaspoon of dry Vermouth and throws in a couple handfuls of ice.

Etsy Italian Martini Pitcher

I volunteer my unsolicited wisdom of 22 years, "Stirred, not shaken? I never understood that. Doesn't get cold enough. I'd rather just have it out of the freezer." Bernie stir's the pitcher with a glass rod, "The gin needs the dilution from the ice," Bernie says while the ice sounds like the high keys of a piano. I shake my head, "Bernie, this could take years." Bernie looks surprised, "You have someplace to go?" "No," I admit, "Not at ten bucks an hour." Bernie asks if I've decided my major. "English," I say proudly.

The glass rod continues counter clockwise. Bernie stares into the pitcher, smiles and looks up at me, "I was an English major." Bernie pauses and stirs...I'll tell you a story every English major should know. Sadly, most don't. Lost to time, I guess." "Sure," I say and wonder if this is when Bernie'll tell me how he planked Suzanne Pleshette.

"So," Bernie stirs, "Oscar Wilde was released from a prison in Reading after serving a couple years for sodomy. Everyone knew it was with Alfred Douglas, the son of the Marquess of Queensberry." "The boxing Queensberry?" I ask. Bernie stirs and nods, "Mmmm, Alfred was known among his friends as Bosie. His father, the Marquess, had it in for Wilde. Set Wilde up - although in the trial it was Wilde who put himself in jail." "Really?" I say, lost in the pentameter of the glass rod.

Slope Martini Pitcher

"It's true," Bernie says. "Wilde's released in the late afternoon and since London's almost a day away by coach, he looked for a hotel room in town.  Everywhere he went, once he signed the register, he was told to leave. He drags himself into a tiny inn and explains to the innkeeper, "Look, I'm Oscar Wilde. I have served two years hard labor for my crime, I've learned my lesson and have turned over a new leaf. I've been turned away from every inn and am desperate for a room. Would you help me, sir?" The pitcher frosts with the chill of ice as Bernie maintains his stirring cadence."

"So what did the innkeeper do?" I ask. Bernie smiles, "What could he do? He rings for a page and instructs the young man to carry Wilde's bags to his room. Wilde thanks the innkeeper and follows the young man up the stairs. Five minutes go by and no page.  Then 10, 15. Finally, a half hour later the page still hasn't returned. The innkeeper trudges up the stairs and knocks on Wilde's door. No answer." Juniper wafts around our heads and it whets my appetite like garlic hitting hot olive oil.

Orrefors Martini Pitcher

"You do have olives?" Bernie asks. "Sure," I grab a Manzanilla bottle from the fridge. Bernie hums to himself while I open the olive jar and ask, "So, no answer at the door?" I bring Bernie back from some place far away. I'm guessing he's with Suzanne Pleshette. I know I'd be. "No answer at the door. So the innkeeper pulls out a key, opens the door and there's Wilde, stark naked in bed with the page, also naked. The innkeeper, shocked, says, 'Mr Wilde! You assured me you had turned over a new leaf!' Wilde looks up at the innkeeper and says, 'And I promise I will, sir - - Just as soon as I get to the bottom of this page.'"

You probably had to have been an English major to appreciate this -- but every man should have his own martini pitcher and stirring story. 

Princeton Class of '61 25th Reunion

Twenty-Fifth Reunion Yearbook

Drew: Fucked Without a Kiss

Andrew Dillon, Photo courtesy of Flagler College Alumni Association

We called him Drew-- but only behind his back.  My English professor had an insane cackling laugh.  Uncontrolled, but bright and honest.  People who laugh with restraint are not to be trusted.  He was a poet, mostly.  Volkswagen Breakdown and other Poems.

Had a tiny Olivetti on his desk when he talked me out of taking grammar and explained the etymology of 'fuck' when I used it in his presence. "It means to beat or wail upon," he said. "Old German. Walked by a man painting the Markland house - Suppose he screwed up - He  leaned back from his work and said, 'Fucked without a kiss.'

A Manhattan physician's son,  born and raised on Park Avenue,  he lived the good life. He passed around a first folio of Shakespeare to my class and made sure we held the pages up to the light to see the watermarks.  He was tall, thin and ass-less with Waspy good looks and a bearing that bordered on queer to cultural morons.  Christ, I adored the motherfucker.

But he didn't adore me.  He didn't even remember me at a 10 year re-union until he connected me to my sister and said, "She was an amazing writer. (Snapping his finger) Now I remember!  You were in the Army!  Yes?  I remember you.Your writing was covered in camouflage." 

"Peace, perturbed spirit!"

He did tell me I didn't need to know grammar to write and those who did know grammar couldn't write.  He was my guide through: Survey of English Lit I & II, Milton,  Chaucer and Shakespeare. He'd laugh with that ribald cackle, "Horns! Horns! He was a cuckold..." Then he explained what a cuckold was. He explained what Richard III was.  He explained what the Carpenter's Wife in Canterbury Tales was.  He explained why Hamlet was driving me crazy while  my parent's divorced.

Rumpled corduroy shirt and white wine swilling,

 "Fuck you, (hope I got the grammar right)  Drew..."  

You don't remember who I am,

 but how will I ever forget you?

Back to School

Flagler College, Lobby East, January 1981

Trad GB

Fred Perry Classic White Shirt, BC (Before China)

It's great to see GB running third in medals. God love 'em. I always have. In college, I had this obsession for Fred Perry(BC). Mostly 'cause it was so hard to get. I considered myself lucky to have a couple Fred Perry wood racquets and a pair of wreath embossed tennis shoes. But shirts were expensive and hard to find in the states while the Fred Perry (BC) Holy Grail, a V neck sweater, was non-existent. A college friend lived in a suburb of London close to a Perry outlet. She'd take orders during Christmas and Summer breaks but I guess my Fiat was in the shop.

The wreath logo comes from the All England Club. Fred wanted a tobacco pipe but a wreath was suggested by his partner since he didn't think a pipe would be too popular with the ladies. Good call, that. You can read more at the Heritage section of the Perry site here.

My personal heritage with Perry goes back to 1980 when I first heard The Specials. "More Specials" was an album that seemed to come from outer space as much as the UK. Everything U.S. grown that year seemed so, Daryl Hall, John Oats, Billy Joel, Eddie Money...Not just white but Ohio white.





Not white, say like a Fred Perry shirt. Or better, that V neck sweater. As I sit here in my wheel chair, with a Hudson Bay blanket on my lap, dictating this to my Summer intern, I remember a college dorm room with Fred, The Specials and Rhoda Dakar. I'll cue the Thoren's turntable, crank up, 'I Can't Stand It' and blow off my Survey of English Lit class as I crawl back into bed. And this time, I won't have any guilt.

You Do What You Have To Do...

John Mason Brown, 1952

"Remember, you have been spared the unintentional cruelty of that kind of Progressive education which misleads the young into believing that they will be free to do what they want to do, at the moment and in the way they want to do it. The reality of life is quite different. Most people spend most of their days doing what they do not want to do in order to earn the right, at times, to do what they may desire. . .


John Mason Brown, Esquire, 1960

Testing has been the eternal challenge. To live, men have had to live with this challenge through the ages but undaunted by it, even as they have had to live with the knowledge that death is the ultimate challenge of life. . .


John Mason Brown, Obituary, 1969

To say that the world at present stinks is to understate its fragrance. To say that it must stink forever is a lie. . . I trust that you and your contemporaries will earn the right to be known as the unbeatable generation."

John Mason Brown, Graduation Address, Groton School, 1958

White Bucks - Black Robes

Flagler College, St Augustine, FL - 1981

I was a work grant student in the college PR department. Freshman year I photographed the graduation ceremony above. I graduated in 1984 but no one took a picture of me. I always thought it had to do with my white bucks.

Shortly before graduation, a memo was sent to seniors with instructions for what to wear with black robes. For men, it was dark colored pants and dark or black shoes. I wore white trousers and white bucks.

I remember thinking, "What are they gonna do? Take the dashes out of my social security number. Happy graduation. Special dispensation for white buck wearing prior to Memorial Day.

"Join the fun as the gang tears loose..."

On TCM 4/16/2012

Alive with Pleasure: Spring Break 1982

In 1982, GM was a word. "Geeyem." Like someone from Georgia says, "Jim." This one was a Buick deuce and a quarter. A white hunk of fat Detroit steel that made a trip one Spring Break from St Augustine to Daytona Beach with four friends.

Troyer drove the chariot. Golden haired and Aryan, none of us in the car that night knew he was gay. Some of us still don't. A cold case of canned Schaffer shared the back seat with Fusco and Beaudoin. None of us knew Fusco would wind up a screenwriter and producer -- although none of us would've bet against him. Movie star looks but amazingly cheap...he was pre-ordained for Hollywood success.

Beaudoin sat next to Fusco chasing raisins from a generic one pound box with beer. Brillo headed and bearded, the war in El Salvador was excuse for six hours of his indignant Boston accented argument that the Monroe Doctrine was the ultimate evil.

I'm riding shotgun and have to take a leak. Troyer offers to pull over on a stretch of darker-than-the-inside-of-a-goat, I-95. "No need." I say. Wise old man of the car, I explain how I pissed in cans during Army convoys while, "you fuckers were starting ninth grade." I open a beer can with a P38 on my key chain and pull down the fly on 30/30 khakis. I stick my dick in the can careful to avoid the sharp edges.

Success as I fill the can but seconds later feel warm pee covering my khakis. "No problem unless you piss more than 12 ounces," I say and fling the can out the window not knowing the back window is down. Not remembering all the windows are down in the white Detroit slab-o-steel Troyer's mom should be driving.

"Fuck, Tinseth!" Fusco screams as my nephron unit (thanks, Dr. Lardner) formation strikes him head and chest. Beaudoin, slow to catch on, thinks its raining for at least five seconds before a handful of piss-misted raisins are digested. Troyer, of course, laughs.

I spend the rest of the trip holding khakis out the car window at 70mph in an attempt to dry the large stain on my crotch. My friends. And they have remained friends... are tolerant. Like friends who get pissed on always are.

A Haircut & Change 1980-1984

Can you see change when there is change? I think I've changed recently but I doubt it can be seen. My college IDs record a 22 year old freshman who weeks earlier was a sergeant in the Army. By senior year my plans to return to the Army were permanently put aside... I had changed and I could see it. I also needed a haircut.

'Oh god this reminds me of how my girlfriend would blast this song in her Fiarro while driving on california highways at night, and I was high as hell. Jesus someone make a time machine already. IndicaEuphora

The Bachelor Party

(L to R) Wild East, Foosko & Sgt Nick Penis - Deer Path Inn 30 June 1988

23 years ago tonight some old friends, relatives and in-laws gathered at the Lantern in Lake Forest for my low key bachelor party. The image above is of the 'After Party' complete with Pabst Blue Ribbon. Amazing how hip we were and didn't even know it.

One of my friends asked my father that night what his experience in Vietnam was like. Dad shrugged and said there wasn't much to tell. Everyone nodded and the conversation moved
quickly to the Cubs and the merits of Old Style. The night winds down as in-laws leave but old friends wanna go all night.

Wild East and Foosko. decide to reenact Lobby East dorm life with a purchase of the cheapest beer available. Army buddy and Chicago local, SgtNick Penis comes along for the ride. Sadly, Red, White and Blue is not available so two sick packs of PBR go from the Lantern to the Deer Path Inn only four blocks and a low crawl away.

A month or so later the old man is visting D.C. and offers dinner at his favorite French restaurant in Old Town Alexandria. My bride asks Dad, in a break after escargot en croute but before steak au poivre, what it was exactly he did in Vietnam. Dad sips his Beefeater martini and tells my wife it was just like the mafia. "They'd come down to the village. Kill some locals. We'd go up the mountain and kill some of them."

While the rules of time, place and occasion are invaluable for apparel -- there is some wisdom in applying the rule to story telling. You don't wear a white dinner jacket to a bachelor party nor should fatigues be worn in French restaurants.

The Class of 1984

College Graduation Party- St Augustine, FL May 1984

"...because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young." Baz Luhrmann

Happy Easter

St Augustine Beach, Easter 1984

Surf Club - 1982

Flagler College Gargoyle

I have no idea when

The poster

LL Bean Catalog Summer 1983 (click on images to enlarge)

My 15 minutes of fame came sometime in 1982 when this story ran in my college newspaper. I admired the surfers in college and was struck by the individual spirit of surfing. My father had told me team players were assholes. It stuck. There was nothing about team here.

The morning I was introduced to surfing I wore those Royal Stewart trunks. The next time I went on 'Dawn Patrol' I brought a thermos of Bloody Marys. It seemed to make up for my trunks. I didn't stick with surfing. The nipple pain.

Hugh Shaw (on the right in the Poster pic) was killed in an auto accident the following year. Tall and quiet, he had a Gary Cooper quality. And he loved long boards.

Back To School: September 1980

President of the Student Government Association

Very important business

Student government at work

Making sausage

Future leaders

SGA Officers - The big four

President second from left

I ask her out...

...or did I ask her out here?

My first assignment as photographer for the college paper my freshman year was to cover the SGA and the installation of new officers. The new president impressed me with her Kate Hepburn looks, a wonderfully naughty laugh and a smile to go with it.

Those first shots were during an SGA meeting. Later I did group shots and finished up with the four officers. I have no idea why I still have these negatives. Back then I liked to talk to people while I photographed them. While photographing the officers I asked the SGA president out. I think you can see it. I know I can. Everyone laughed but I was serious.

She told me she was already dating. 'Pat' was his name. I suggested a dinner just as friends. No strings. I offered up a little northern Italian restaurant. She said yes but added Pat got off his bartending job at 11 and she'd have to meet him. I told her it wouldn't be a problem. I was pretty sure a couple hours of conversation gently paired with a slow dinner and plenty of wine would erase Pat from her mind. It would also erase a significant portion of my GI Bill that month but, "All the world loves a lover - whatever the price."

We had martinis before dinner. Then scallops and grilled fish. We drank white wine that came in a fish bottle which she asked to keep as a souvenir. I was ready to order another souvenir when, at 10:50, she asked that I take her to Dan Jans where 'Pat' was getting off at 11. Out of luck and $150, I drove her to the bartender.

We dated one summer a couple years later. During the Lebanon war we argued politics and cooked steamed broccoli for dinner. She loved the Republican Party, Dr. Pepper, Bozz Scaggs and Richard Nixon. There were heated arguments but we bonded over the movie Cat People and played the David Bowie - Giorgio Moroder soundtrack non stop.

Some more years later we traveled to meet at a wedding. Or a lighthouse. Or dinner. Intimacy had turned into friendship and I looked forward to her letters in smeared fountain pen and our long cocktail hour phone calls. More years passed and I married while she devoted herself to the federal government. 14 years after the SGA meeting, at an alumni event, I saw her across a crowded room where she was holding a Nantucket basket and a conversation with the college president. Both flawlessly.

Later that night we were with a couple who had dated all through college and had married. The four of us stood close together telling stories and sipping our drinks when Pat interrupted with a Long Island yell that made the night somehow seem dirty. I turned to look for his Trans Am but only saw a man who was gaining weight as fast as he was losing hair.

He kissed the SGA president on the cheek, greeted the other couple and nodded at me. He talked about his success and the SGA president slid her arm through mine. Pat yelled to another group and ambled off. I watched him walk away, turned to her and asked, "What time do you want me to drop you off at Dan Jans?"

1983 Dorm Room

Today's Commentators ME & DB pictured above

That's A Turn Table - - It Played Records

Dorm With A View

Jack Kramer in the Corner

What an antique store. I've had these negatives for years but never printed them. Scanners are slow but they sure as hell beat dektol, stop bath and fixer.

I returned to this college one Summer and since my old room was on the ground floor and just off the courtyard - - I swung by for a look. The window was open and I pressed my face against the screen. My room had changed very little. But what took me back - -what threw me back to 1983 - - was the smell. It's an old building with a distinct scent. Like the giant boxwood hedge at my great grandmother's house in NC. I wish I could bottle it.

Ten minutes of smelling my old room and I moved on. Stopped by a history professor's office during his black beans and rice lunch. He offered me a chair and we chatted but he didn't remember me. He did give me an odd look. Same thing with a popular English professor. Didn't know me from Adam but he cocked his head at an angle and squinted at me while I talked.

I moved on to a popular tavern and had a beer at the bar. I mentioned to the bartender I had gone to the college 15 years ago and was doing the memory tour. I asked her who owned the bar nowadays. She said she didn't know and ran off. That was odd. The place wasn't crowded at all. In fact, it was dead.

Walking back to the car I couldn't help but think it was a strange day. Thomas Wolfe was right about going back. I sat in the car, adjusted the rear view mirror and saw perfect little squares of black dirt over my entire face from my old window screen. As I wiped it off ... I wondered why no one said anything. Today, the administration likes to ask alumni what attracted them to the college. I always say the look of it hooked me. The faculty kept me. But the smell and the dirt keep me coming back.