Confessions of a Bellman - The Doctor is In...sane

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Dr. Vegas was a short-lived TV series that aired in 2004. The show was loosely based on Dr. F, the resident doctor at the hotel where I work. He's worked at the hotel for over 30 years and has had the same secretary for 20 of those years. Doctor F has treated Tony Bennett's sniffles and Frank Sinatra's sore throat, not to mention thousands of hotel guests. Of course in the series, the doctor was played by a handsome and young Rob Lowe—not to say Dr. F isn't handsome—he's just getting old and perhaps a little loose in the head—or perhaps not.

About 7 years ago, while at work, I noticed a rash on the inside of my arm, between my wrist and elbow. In a matter of hours it inflamed to a bright red color and was actually hot to the touch. My bell captain suggested I go up to the third-floor and pay Dr. F a visit, which I did.

Dr. F took one look at it and said, "You've got a hot infection! See that little scratch right there? That's what's causing all your trouble. Let me get you on some penicillin."

The doctor reached behind him and grabbed a large bottle off the shelf. He poured a handful of tablets in his palm and slid them into a smaller bottle. He didn't count how many pills he gave me, nor did he make any record of my visit or treatment. I thought the whole old-school, no-prescription-needed thing was kinda cool.

"Take two pills three times a day and you'll be fine."

"How much do I owe you Doc?"

"Oh, just get outta here and back to work. How's that?"

"Thank-you, Doc."

"Forget about it."

Three years later the infection returned. Same spot, same color, same skin burning with heat. I was most likely to blame for this because I may not have fully abstained from drinking alcohol while on the penicillin before. I returned to Dr. F and reminded him of my previous visit three years earlier. Although he didn't seem to remember, he did study the infection more closely this time.

"You've got a hot infection! We need to slit that open and let it drain before your arm needs to be amputated!"

"Whoa Doc! Amputated? Last time you just gave me a handful of penicillin!"

"I did?"

"YES!"

"Well then," he said while reaching for the bottle on his shelf, "I'm going to give you some more."

"Um, thanks?"

Doctor F continued with his instructions, basically saying the same thing he did three years earlier, but only different.

"Take three pills, twice a day, and you'll be fine. If there's no improvement by the time you finish the pills, come back and we'll drain that sucker."

"Thanks again Doc. Do I owe you anything?"

"Just an arm, no leg," he said with some seriousness in his voice.

Part of me likes to think the good doctor was messing with my head, a form of humor he doesn't normally get to play on his regular hotel patients. I'll probably never know for sure.

Needless to say, I was stone-cold sober for the next two weeks... and I still have my arm.

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FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - His Holiness Walter Payton

 

During his recent visit to the States, the Dalai Lama said he had no idea who Tiger Woods is. 

Thank-you Mr. Lama, I think you're awesome. I'd like to have seen Tiger's face when told that his holiness had no idea who Tiger was. Sir Lama, as you must know by now, Tiger claims to be a Buddhist... but gone astray.

Other than being male and living on Earth, I think the only thing I have in common with His Holiness is that I too, have no idea who many legendary athletes are.

In early 1998, while still a rookie bellman at the hotel, I checked-in legendary football player, Walter Payton. I knew Walter Payton played football but that's all I knew. I had no idea what team he played for (his whole NFL career was with the Chicago Bears) and I had no idea what his jersey number was (34). At the time, I really didn't even know what he looked like. My bell captain was shocked at this but thankfully, he told me the license plate number of Mr. Payton's limousine so I wouldn't look like an idiot while waiting at the front door of the hotel.

The limo pulled-up, the trunk popped open, and I grabbed the luggage. Mr. Payton and his wife exited the car. After a few minutes of watching the two shake hands with the execs, I walked them, with luggage in tow, to their room. It was a busy Friday night in the casino and as we made our way to the elevators, people would see Mr. Payton and yell, "Sweetness! Hey Sweetness! It's Sweetness!" Mr. Payton's nickname was "Sweetness." Not only did the word describe his dexterity on the field, but it also described him as a man off the turf. Years later, the nickname would be voted the #1 Gridiron nickname by ESPN.

He smiled and waved to anyone who recognized him. He stopped along the way for a few photos to be taken... and he was gracious. After showing Mr. Payton and his wife to the room, and making sure all was well, Mr. Payton shook my hand and gave me a great tip... and then I left. He was a nice man with a great smile and I remember thinking what a great couple he and his wife made. They were happy.

What really impressed me though, happend a few hours later. I was walking another guest to the elevators when I passed Mr. Payton heading to the casino. Mr. Payton looked at me, pointed, and said with a smile, "There he is! Tyge my man!"

The guest I was walking with turned to me and said, "You know Walter Payton?"

I smiled and said, "Is that who that was?"

Less than two years later, Walter Payton died of a rare disease. A few years after his demise, I walked (then retired) Chicago Bears head coach, Mike Ditka, out of the hotel. Ditka once said of Payton, "He's the greatest football player I've ever seen—and an even greater man." When I mentioned to Mr. Ditka how I had met Mr. Payton a few years prior, Ditka simply said, "I sure miss that guy."

Walter Payton's life, although cut-short, was exemplary. There were no scandals of womanizing, gambling, steroids, or other things that are all-to familiar with today's athletes. I'm almost thankful Walter didn't live to see the day when guns would find their way into locker rooms and the blood of dead pit bulls would be on the hands of players.

Although this isn't very Dalai Lama-like, I say fuck you to Tiger Woods and to all the other sport-icons gone awry. You know who you are. To the media, for giving these athletic heathens too much wasted air-time, fuck you, too. Athletes are role models, and they should start acting like role models. They've been blessed with a talent to play sports professionally and if they screw it up, they should be out of the game—and the spotlight. Just ask Pete Rose. As far as the media goes, it's their job to report the news, not glamorize it.

The Dalai Lama may know the secret to life and happiness, but nothing about Tiger Woods or Walter Payton, and that's fine, but because of this, I feel like I have an ever-so-slight edge over His Holiness.

Unlike the Buddhist Tiger Woods, Walter Payton also knew the secret to life and happiness.

I'm sure of it.

FiN.

Jimmy Bedford, Master of My Whiskey

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Note from Tyge: I was dismayed to recently open a letter from my mother only to find a newspaper clipping of Jimmy Bedford's obituary. For over twenty years, Jimmy Bedford was Jack Daniel's Master Distiller. He was virtually Jack Daniel himself, incarnate. He was a kind man, down-to-earth and full of that hospitality the south is famous for. Mr. Bedford died of a heart attack on August 7th while working on his farm in Lynchburg, Tennessee.

I was fortunate enough to get to know Mr. Bedford on a few occasions. Here's a brief account (with pictures!) of one of the best vacations I ever took and how I came to know the man behind the bottle. Enjoy.

In the spring of 2001 I bought a motorcycle. I purchased it from a woman who got it in a divorce settlement. She was selling it super-cheap and I gladly took it off her hands.

Although a great deal, the bike was boring to look at. I decided to customize it with a Jack Daniel's theme because, well, I love Jack Daniels. I replaced the fenders, threw on some whitewall tires, added some lights and made the side-saddles out of wooden barrels. I shaped the sissy-bar into a Jack Daniel's bottle, complete with the JD label. A friend of mine customizes cars and he sprayed the bike with a faux-wood grain and added some Jack Daniels' emblems. It turned out quite handsome and it also turned a lot of heads wherever I rode it.

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And ride it I did, all the way to Sturgis, South Dakota for Bike Week in 2001. It was there I met Jimmy Bedford for the first time. I told him about touring the Distillery with my parents when I was ten years old. Jimmy smiled and said "Well, it must have made an impression, being that you customized your motorcycle so nicely."

Jimmy autographed one of my barrels with a sharpie and posed for photos with the rest of the JD crew:

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You look at your photographer, I'll look at mine.

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A few months after Sturgis I received an email from a Jack Daniel's representative in South Dakota. He told me of a contest on the JD website and said I should enter my motorcycle through the use of photographs and commentary. The theme of the contest was "How Does Jack Live in YourLife?" I entered the contest and was one of the ten chosen winners. The nice people at JD flew the winners (plus one guest each) to Nashville (they even flew me in a few days early so I could spend time with my family) where we stayed at the Opryland Hotel and drank a lot of Jack Daniel's at the hotel's Jack Daniel's Bar. The next day we took a bus to Lynchburg and toured the Distillery. Here's a picture of all of us. Mr. Bedford and myself are the bookends.

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After Lynchburg we went to Atlanta and toured the CNN studios and the Coca-Cola museum. I took a photo of Jimmy standing in front of some whales. We then flew to London, England and spent three days there. We saw Big Ben, Parliament, Westminster Abbey, among other things. We also drank a lot of Jack Daniel's.

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Jimmy and the famous flying whales of Atlanta.

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Leaving London, we flew to Prague, Czech Republic to celebrate Jack Daniel's 152nd birthday. The Czechs know how to throw a party! The occasion was held in an old three-story building with a bar on each floor. We saw a great band named Divorkej Billperform but because they sang in Czech, we couldn't understand a word they said. As you can tell by the photo, JD was the only beverage served at the party... and we drank a lot of it.

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I'll have a bottle please.

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"Screw the band, I want a picture with the cake!"

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"Pssst, I filled one shot glass with my urine!"

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I wish I knew how to speak Czech.

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The day after the Czech Republic party, Brown Foreman's (JD's parent-company) stock rose 12% and my triglyceride level rose 300%. Did I mention we drank a lot of Jack Daniel's?

In the years following the trip, Jimmy Bedford would come to Las Vegas every fall for the PBR Rodeo. A few times I went to the JD promotions tent and said hello to him. Although he didn't always remember my name, he would remember my motorcycle. He'd tell his cohorts about how we met and our trip to Europe.

Things have changed. I sold my motorcycle last summer on ebay. Considering the price I got for it and the good times and places it took me, I came out so much more than even. I also don't drink Jack Daniel's like I use to. Basically, I save the tasty libation for special occasions.

I've always wanted to write a post about my Jack Daniel's themed motorcycle and my subsequent trip to Europe. I never thought it would be Jimmy Bedford's obituary that would make me actually do it.

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I think this qualifies as a special occasion. I'm heading to the liquor store right now and buying one of those little bottles of Jack Daniel's. I'll pour it in the shot-glass that I bought in Praha and raise it to Jimmy and drink it while listening to my Divorkej Bill CD.

As Jimmy told me on that night in Prague, you don't always have to know the language to understand the music.

Well said Jimmy.

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FiN.

Play Misty For Me

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Other than some Rocky movies and The Right Stuff, I'm fairly certain the only movies I saw in the theater with my Dad were Clint Eastwood flicks. Dad loved Clint Eastwood.

I remember as a kid sitting in the den with Dad and watching Bronco Billy, The Gauntlet, Dirty Harry and numerous Eastwood westerns. When I was old enough, we'd go to the theater whenever a Clint Eastwood movie debuted. We saw Tightrope, Sudden Impact, The Dead Pool, and Heartbreak Ridge together in the theater. I can still remember certain scenes when Dad laughed. The last movie we saw in the theater was Unforgiven. It was by-far Dad's favorite Eastwood movie because it made fun of Clint getting old and really, Dad was getting old with him.

I remember watching the end of In the Line of Fire (on VHS) when Eastwood and Rene Russo were sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Dad blurted, "You see that? You can't do that... sit on those steps. The security guards will make you get up."

"But Dad, they're (Eastwood & Russo) Secret Service agents."

"I'm telling you, they wouldn't let the Pope sit on those steps if he wanted to."

"But Dad, it's a movie."

"Yea... and wow, he (Eastwood) really gave it to that bastard (Malkovich) at the end, didn't he?"

"He sure did!"

And we'd laugh.

Dad died two years ago today. Last night as I got ready for bed I flipped through the TV channels and at the stroke of midnight, Unforgiven started showing on the History Channel. Why it was on the History Channel, I'm not sure, but I stayed up and watched the whole movie. I found myself laughing at the same parts Dad laughed at years ago. I guess I'm getting old, too.

I have yet to see Eastwood in Gran Torino but from what I've heard I'm sure Dad would have really associated with Clint's character in the movie. I'll get around to watching Gran Torino one of these days but right now, for me, watching an Eastwood movie isn't as much fun as it use to be.

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FiN.

The Irony of David Halberstam's Death

Meet Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist David Halberstam. I read all 750 pages of his 1986 book, The Reckoning, and to this day it's still the longest tome I've ever indulged. A high school teacher suggested I read it, and I'm glad I did.

The Reckoning is a book about how the Japanese got a foot-hold on the automotive industry during the 1970's. You see, America was producing gas-guzzling vans, station wagons, and luxury sedans in the middle of an oil crisis. Along came a couple of little Japanese companies called Datsun and Nissan (Our Compact, Fuel-Effecient Cars Will Be The Death Of You™) and well, things snow-balled from there. Halberstam not only wrote about the history of the industry, but also penned dire predictions for the future of America's auto industry, and how it would succumb to the Japanese.

With the recent bankruptcy of GM (Filing For Chapter 11 Isn't As Bad As Chapter 13™) and American car manufacturers being in trouble all-around, The Reckoning has recently been cited by critics as a book that should have been titled The Warning, because nearly everything Halberstam predicted came true.

David Halberstam died in a multiple car collision in Menlo Park on April 23rd, 2007. I was sorry to hear of his death but... curiosity got the best of me, and I just had to find something out. I was actually surprised when I found what I was looking for online:

The three cars involved in the crash that took Halberstam's life?

A late model Infiniti, a Toyota Camry, and a Nissan Coupe. All Japanese cars.

I'm sure Mr. Halberstam is sitting on a cloud somewhere and shaking his finger at America while saying of his death, "Well, at least you can say I kinda saw it coming."

Irony is a funny thing and more often than not makes me smile. Granted, it's an acquired emotion but really folks, a wry smile is better than no smile at all. If you try to find the irony in things, you just might find yourself smiling more often.

Rest in peace Mr. David Halberstam.

FiN.

More irony. Hear what Katie Couric has to say about David Halberstam's death.

Watch CBS Videos Online

Ticket Stubbage

Go ahead, click on the picture of tickets. Really, do it because you'll be able to read them. These aren't all of my tickets because a lot of them have faded and are difficult to read. 

Please note there's two Gordon Lightfoot tickets. I guess I kept my friend's ticket because I've only seen Gordon once. Trust me on that, as I swear on the watery graves of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Near the center you'll see my 1983 Men At Work ticket. That was the first concert I ever saw and it was the band's North American debut. Years later I got Colin Hay to autograph the ticket but the pen ran out of ink so you can't really make out his signature. Next to it is a stub from a Ramones concert. I was in the pit and moshed. I think the whole band is dead now.

You'll also see a "Trilogy of Terror" ticket featuring Nashville bands Dessau and Jet Black Factory. Jet Black Factory didn't actually get to play that show however. The bass player and myself took a little drive thirty minutes before the gig and I plowed into a truck that decided to turn in front of me. The bass player's head shattered my windshield and he had to go to the hospital. I was wearing my seat belt. Boy, how the guys in the band were pissed at me that night!

There's a 1995 ticket from seeing Eddie Rabbitt (yes, two t's) with the Oak Ridge Boys. My friend's dad was Eddie's road manager and played fiddle in the band. I got to meet Eddie and he gave me one of his Ovation guitar picks. Eddie's dead now too.

So is Michael Hutchence. By the date on my INXS ticket I can tell you I saw Michael perform only a few months before he auto-erotically self-asphyxiated.

There's a Steve Earle, Keb Mo, Jackson Browne ticket in there but I only went to see Steve Earle and luckily, he was the show's opener. I ran into him afterwards in the casino and had a nice conversation with him considering he's turned into an asshole. Here's a quick story about Steve:

My friend Mark use to be a bartender at the Gold Rush in Nashville. He would shoot-up heroin with Steve Earle back in the day. One night Mark was at a concert at The Cannery and he ran into Steve.

"Good to see you Steve," Mark said, "I notice you're wearing the same clothes you had on last night."

"I was in fucking New York City last night Mark, how the hell do you know what I was wearing?"

"Dude," Mark said, "You performed on 'Late Night With David Letterman.'"

True story.

The best (large venue) shows I've seen were The Chemical Brothers, Midnight Oil, and Rusted Root.

The loudest shows were Oasis, Live and Smashing Pumpkins.

The most fun show was seeing Mojo Nixon with Skid Roper & The Toad Lickers. 

The shows I attended with a twisted arm but turned out surprisingly great were AC/DC, Duran Duran, and Morrissey. If you look at my Morrissey ticket (bottom center) you'll see Ticketmaster misspelled his name.

The show I'm most ashamed of is Super Diamond. They're a not-so-great Neil Diamond tribute band. Neil Diamond's ticket stub is somewhere in there too.

I'm glad I've saved my ticket stubs. Without them I wouldn't be able to tell you I've seen U2 three times (I've killed a lot of brain cells with copious amounts of alcohol).

When I flip through my stack of tickets, I get all nostalgic and whatnot. It's like looking at a photo album but with the images in your head. The best part, the part that makes me smile, is knowing my collection of ticket stubs will always be growing and will never be complete.

FiN.

The Cavanaughs - Part V - Easter

Note: This is the fifth post in an ongoing fictional series about the holidays and The Cavanaugh Family.

Pa was always a quiet man but he became even more so during the holiday of Easter. It wasn't until the spring of 1906, when I was eighteen, that I learned why.

Pa had told me my Grandpa had been a miner in Pennsylvania and had died from the black lung. That was nearly all I knew about Grandpa, except that he was also a Molly Maguire. Pa kept no photograph of him and rarely talked about what kind of man he was. Really though, Grandpa died long before I was born and if I ever did think about anyone in the hereafter, Ma was the only one in my thoughts.

It was this particular Easter that Pa, Gracie and myself took a trip to the city of Muskegon. A friend of Pa's lived there and Muskegon was known to have the best Easter parade west of Saginaw. We caught the 2:15 from Ludington and headed south. It was the first time Gracie and I had been on a train and we stared out the window, occasionally catching a glimpse of Lake Michigan, it's grey water full of chop.

An hour later Gracie slept to the rhythm of the rail as Pa pulled out his pipe and fired up. Pa always mused deep things when smoking his pipe and this time was no exception. I prepared myself by getting comfortable in my seat.

"Boy, being that you never care to ask about your grandfather, I'm going to tell you something about him."

"It's not that I ain't curious Pa, it just seems you prefer not to talk about him," I said.

"True," answered Pa, "but you should know what I'm about to tell you, and you should have known it long before now. I was going to tell you years ago, but with your Ma dying and all, I figured it best to wait."

I raised my eyebrows in curiosity.

"It was on Good Friday in 1865. Your grandpa was mining anthracite coal outside of Somerset, Pennsylvania. At the age of forty-two, he was considered an old-man at the trade but he was planning to retire soon—before the black lung caught up with him. Myself, being all of twelve years old, was looking forward to seeing more of him—and without all that black dust covering every inch of his body. Your grandfather was a hard worker, he was indeed that."

I nodded.

"An immigrant who faked his understanding of the English language—so he could work—misunderstood orders and mined the wrong vein. The mine flooded-out with water and caught Grandpa and six others in the chute. The men were trapped and no one could get to them, although it wasn't due to lack of effort. The whole damn town, including your grandma and myself, waited at the mouth of the mine for three days. Three days they tried to dig them out. On Easter Sunday they finally broke through and found your grandpa and the six others, but it was far too late. From the writing on the wall of the cave, we knew they had lived until late Saturday night. The messages they wrote, as you can imagine, were of desperation and repentance."

"Pa, I'm sorry. I had no idea," I said.

"Tis' okay my boy. Your Grandma decided she would be damned if she raised her only son to become a miner and suffer a similar fate, so we moved here to Michigan and started over. It was the best decision she ever made."

"So we both lost a parent at a young age," I said.

Pa nodded as he turned and gazed out the window. Our conversation was over as quickly as it had started. Shortly thereafter, I also succumbed to the rhythm of the train and woke much later to a whistle that announced our arrival into Muskegon Depot.

Saturday was very exciting, especially for Gracie. I sat with her on a curb at Main Street and watched as the parade passed us by. We both managed to catch some genuine salt-water taffy thrown from the Mayor's wagon. We laughed as the clowns brought up the rear of the parade, carrying shovels, their task being to collect the horses' manure.

On Sunday we all dressed in our best clothes and went to church. I really didn't want to go and was sure Pa didn't either. I hadn't been to a church since Ma died but Pa's friend, being the god-fearing man he was, insisted we go. Being guests in his home, it was the only natural and obliging thing to do. Of course the sermon was about Easter and the resurrection of Christ. I had heard the story when I was younger but had failed to grasp it as I do now, my mind being more mature.

As we turned a page in the good book, I looked over at Pa. He was in a far away place, his eyes distant and his mind turning. I can only speculate what he was thinking but it was probably about his Pa and the other six miners and how through the eyes of an onlooking twelve year old, their salvation out of that mine on Easter Sunday should have been as simple as rolling away a stone and seeing them emerge into the light.

FiN.