Why I Write

The obvious  smart aleck answer is simply:"somebody has to do it"

I consider myself a writer of sorts as I have had a fair amount of success writing various articles and blogs on a variety of topics for clients on  the Internet. My expertise encompasses a relatively new writing niche known as "Content Provider." I am paid for my efforts which meets the definition of professional.

I am also often considered an expert if I  spent five minutes or so gathering background information on a subject, any subject. If you regard the things you read on a website, blog or product review article as being the absolute gospel truth, the faith you have in your fellow man (me) could easily be shaken, even destroyed by what you read here

Before you sell the ranch and put your money on something you've read online, remember this: I may have written that piece. You might assume that the originator of the concept, product, data, information or anything on that web site to be completely accurate. The truth is, I may have written it based on my limited research, hearsay, speculation or outright half-truths.

You might be amazed to find that so much of the authoritive pieces you read online that are represented as being studied and correct and written by actual authorities are actually written by ghostwriters like myself who spring from the bottomless, pool of anonymous content writers who tunneled their way from obscurity to positions that pay the astonishing sum of one to ten cents a word for our efforts. 

 Many of these published articles are actually quite good. As a result, those who paid for my articles get full credit and are recognized as the authors.  They are often paid a handsome sum for submitting my work. 

While I may have earned $5 for the 500 word article, the writer who submitted it earned three to five times more. But that's the world of Internet writing. That's why some writers drive a Mercedes while many others go for Ford pick up trucks. 

They have paid the price with years of experience and exposure, building their reputations to the point where they can now benefit from the sweat of others like myself and other writers who have not yet clawed our way out of the pit. So why in the world would anyone want to write for these authors? There are a few good reasons why. 

We may love the craft and the idea of being a writer, but in truth most of us are nothing but hacks who have difficulty stringing 3 or 4 good sentences together in order to create a readable and entertaining paragraph. So why do we continue on this hopeless journey. That's simple. It's because we believe that with practice our skills will improve enough to bring us to a higher level, or at the very least, a level better than the last chapter we wrote.

 Actually there are other incentives and areas where we can carve out our niche in the literary field. As the Internet continues to grow, so do opportunities for many other new categories within the field. Those of us who stay on and continue to ghost-write, do improve with time and effort. The Articles we are assigned or take out of the everyday pool of articled for hire, are amazingly accurate and well written. 

Our articles are not only believable, they are deserving of a good rating. As we progress along the path, our writer ratings may also improve and serve to provide us content providers, a more meaningful income through the brokers that hire us. 


If we choose to become totally independent authors, we can take on direct accounts for whom we become the primary source for every written word they need to generate. We could  move up to a used Audi or Lexus. The world becomes a better place and you may actually start to believe more of what you read on the Internet, even if I was the person who wrote it.

"Screw the Pain - Save a Soul"

Reflections

Depending on my mood, I can start the day feeling sorry for myself or feeling great. It's thar "Poor Me" syndrome that bothers me. It can come and go without warning, but lately it often comes way too often and stays way too long. 

The medical community calls it depression. I suppose that's what I might have, but fortunately that feeling passes quickly so it doesn't bother me much.  I found that thinking of all the good things I encounter more than makes up for the bad. As a result, I decided to stop being depressed. That was simple enough- when it works.

There's plenty to keep me mentally occupied. It's the lack of physical activity thing that drives me nuts. My wife knows all about how I feel and  goes out of her way to help.  The root of my problem is the constant pain and limited mobility that is the issue


 I recently read a report on suicide which claimed 90% of them are due to serious pain issues. I can believe it. Thank God I am too much of a coward to consider taking my life. I 'd rather suffer.


"Screw the Pain - Save a Soul" is my new motto.

I've decided to take a new tack to deal with my pain. It's actually an old tack that  dates back to my childhood days when I attended a parochial school in Detroit. The nuns taught us that we could do our part to release some poor souls from purgatory by offering our pain and suffering on their behalf. What the hell, it couldn't hurt to give it a try. If it works, I would have a lot of souls beholding to me.

I confess I have lost much of the religious fervor and zeal of my youth, but for some reason the pain for heavenly gain trade-off stuck with me. Consequently, I took the advice of Sister Albertina and dedicate every new and old pre-existing pain to good use by bailing some unsuspecting soul out of their temporary fire and brimstone existence.

I suspect that at this stage of my long running Purgatorial Release Project, I have bailed out hundreds, if not thousands of imperfect Christians from their indefinite period of restitution by fire. I mean, what the hell, we are only human. Let my people's souls go. Maybe someone will do the same for me some day.

Ouch! I just had another sharp pain and there goes another poor soul flittering upward to his reward. 

Don't Believe Everything You Read ..... Especially if You See it On the Internet

Seriously People, Don't Believe Everything You Read on the Internet

 by Itzall B. Esse

The Internet has become the leading source for all manner of information and the first place people head for to discover whatever it is they seek, surpassing  Libraries, Encyclopedias and no doubt any of the remaining oracles and false prophets.

It is where the public and private factors search for everything from knowledge to nonsense. It has even replaced your mother as the "go to source" for everything you would like to know, right now. Best of all, it is the place to go to settle a bet, verify a non-essential bit of information and to show the rest of the un-googled world just how smart you are. 

It makes smart guys out of dolts and dolts look like dolts who have figured out the mysteries of the Internet. But take the advice of a long time Internet information provider, because you find answers on Google. does not necessarily mean they are the right ones.  They may have been concocted by me,sometimes under my pen name Itzall B. Esse, a professional ghost writer and b-esser

Led by Google and other search engines, people now rush online to confirm or deny virtually any subject that comes into question. It’s where the masses go for the truth. I find it absolutely amazing that vast numbers of the populace believe that if you see something on the web, it must be true.  The problem of that assumption is that I, or obe of the thousands o9f freelance writers might have written it. Some of us are reliable and trustworthy; others are not.

Who do you trust?

At one time, before I began my career  freelancing for a vast number of clients, I did have some faith in what I discovered and wrote about on web. I assumed that all the information I ran across in the postings were based on hard facts and were 100% true. While some companies and individuals go out of their way to be honest about their products, information and services, there are plenty of folks out there who are simply out to make a buck at the expense of truth.  They will offer a sliver of truth then garnish it with a pile of good old fashioned horseor bull poop.


I am paid to be an expert. It matters not if I really am. Over the past several years, I found myself thrust into that role about subjects and products I knew nothing about.  The secret is knowing  "how to know" and where to look.  Pretty simple actually.

Examples: I became the expert and the source of information for a variety of topics from plumbing repairs and services to legal matters, boat propellers, women's fashion, annuities, automobile reviews, medical conditions, drugs, hearing aids, locksmiths, New York City apartment rentals, as well as steroids and dozens of other topics for which I must admit, before I began the article, my knowledge ranged from non existent to limited at best. 

Medical procedures, electronic devices and my favorite, waste-water treatment plants were other topics I wrote about posing as an accomplished go-to person for each of those subjects. I actually did do some research so there was often some some truth to what I wrote.  

You name it and chances are I have written about it  - no matter how complex the subject matter. I have become an advanced know it all with a degree in BS and a legend in my own mind. As far as my records show, I wrote somewhere near 4,000 of these articles. If you happened to have read one of my plumbing articles on how to fix a leak in your water line, I apologize for the water damage you suffered when the fix went awry. Actually I am being a bit harsh on myself. Most of my advice actually works out, quite well actually and a lot of my readers thanked me, or  the author I represented.

  FYI - Numerous blogs and informative articles that carry the bylines of so called experts, company founders, officers and technicians are in fact authored by yours truly and other freelancers  like myself. It got so bad that I actually began believing much of what I wrote. At one point I authored a series of articles about scientology and did a series for … uh, never mind, I don’t want to go there.

I have been asked to write favorable positive reviews for products I have never used, let alone heard of. And, I have followed through on company requests to  provide as many as ten positive reviews under ten fictitious names from ten unique locations for new products  by a renowned national company.

 A well known animal supply chain hired me to write a series of articles on  training a dog. I took the assignment then began to write as I sat helplessly observing my untrained dog go through her medley of bad things I supposedly knew how to fix. The articles turned out well and I actually learned how to teach my dog the command: "come". she often disregards my command.

Eventually my conscience got the best of me.  I stopped accepting many of  assignments early on in my career after my nose began taking on a Pinocchio-like proportions.

Now, I sit before you after baring my soul hoping that my transgressions may some day be forgiven and I can once again become an upstanding, scrupulous model citizen and writer.

Keep tuned to my blog and tell me how I'm doing.


It’s amazing what a guy will do for a measly nickel a word, and incidentally, I am still available for hire … truthfully.

Regards, Itzall B. Esse ( not really - trust me.

Drugs, Meds, Illnesses and Rock & Roll

2/16/2015 0 Comments    I 'm a half way decent conversationalist, comfortable discussing

The Black and White of High School Football

Orchard Lake Saint Mary Prep School has had a long proud tradition of academic and athletic excellence going back many decades.The school campus is situated in the lily white Village of Orchard Lake on the shores of that body.

For the greater part of its existence, the was a bastion of first rate education established originally for students of Polish extraction - kids who were students first and athletes second. The High School draws from the cream of Catholic scholastic achievers from across metropolitan Detroit.  Its reputation always stood at the highest level. Graduates went on to many of the top colleges in the country and then on to successful careers.

The school once drew a large number of their student body from the families of the large upper middle class Polish Catholic population in the tri county area of Detroit.The academic curriculum always took precedence over athletics. The Eagle teams were often compared to those from Notre Dame with its traditions and attitudes. They played in the toughest division of the Catholic League and usually fared quite well.

AS competition among rival schools intensifies, OLSM found itself becoming overwhelmed by the competition for talent around the area. As a remotely situated school, powerhouse teams like Brother Rice, Catholic Central and others were attracting players from the huge pool of Detroit athletes.

For the most part these players are primarily African Americans, non Catholic and certainly not Polish. They come to the school without the benefit of strong family backgrounds or a decent educational foundation, but boy, they sure can play football.

Those who would argue that opportunities should be open to all regardless of background or color disregard the truth in those instances. Exposing, then expecting a young man to adapt to an alternative society, where their new classmates are essentially upper middle class whites who by comparison are pampered and mostly genteel, not to mentioned better prepared academically to meet the demands of OLSM.

Grant Mason played football for OLSM and graduated in 2001. He was an all state two way player  who was also named Michigan's top athlete. He went on to play for U of M then made his way to the NFL. Grant was arrested this week for his role in stolen car plot after he was caught trying to sell a stolen Audi on Craigslist for thirty grand.

With his conviction and sentencing, his impossible dream came to an end. With it, hopefully the demise of a system of athlete recruitment that truly fails to fit the standards established a century ago by the school: He could never fit the profile. He was not caucasion, Polish nor Catholic. He had no  strong family background and support system, nor  a propensity for learning and advancement. How he made it through the tough curriculum at the school is a mystery, but not really difficult to figure. He could play football

If the goal of the school is to turn out a well rounded young man, the plan has gone awry.  They won a few games but tarnished their reputation. Step back and take a good look at yourself OLSM. Is It worth  bringing in mercenaries for 3 months of high ratings?

Truthfully, OLSM is  not alone in this folly. Catholic Central, Brother Rice, and the list goes on. U of D, a school that stayed in the D and is surrounded by 700,000 Afr-ams, is at least recruiting local talent from the huge black population that encompasses their campus in Detroit.

If schools are set on bringing in black athletes,why not pay them to entertain the wealthy alumni and boosters from the high class suburbs of the D. Give them some chump change to at least prepare them for what their future will undoubtedly bring after they leave their host schools.

Ask Grant Mason

Old Rock Star Blues Bob Seger

     

Bob Seger is an icon in many parts of the country. That’s especially true in Michigan where he lives and works. So anything he does rarely goes unnoticed near his home in Southeast Michigan. He has sold millions of albums during his long career and probably could have sold even more if he were able to increase his production. His latest album Ride Out took six years to complete. My curiosity got the best of me after hearing about his latest release and especially because he and I operate in the same orbit totally unaware of each other. That’s what possesed me to check out his initial tour stop.

I actually stayed up late last night to watch Bob Seger introduce his new album Ride Out to a large studio audience and a much larger national audience on the Jimmy Kimmel Show.  It was the least I could do for ol’ Bob. After all, he and I are contemporaries. We’re also practically next door neighbors. Well sort of, in that he lives on the lake adjoining the lake that I adjoin. I am within walking distance of the water. Bob is on the water in a home that is somewhat larger than mine by 15,000 square feet give or take an acre.

I can’t say that I am a huge fan of Bob’s. I am no one's fan in particular, but I did love Bob’s Chevy commercial. So where's all this leading?

As I mentioned, Bob was on the Jimmy Kimmel show (I think I have the right JImmy). All those young whippersnappers on late night shows look the same to me. Anyhow, as luck would have it, Seger ‘s segment came up; so at 12:20 AM or thereabouts, this old guy and his unhappy sleep deprived mutt were tuned in to the performance.

Truthfully, I felt sorry for the pink skinned, white haired, chubby old rock singer (sounds like a song title) who was trying his best to capture his long lost youth while imitating the night moves and Jagger gyrations, he had obviously practiced but forgot. I thought that while some old guys actually look pretty good with their greying hair and wrinkles, Bob looks too pink, too chubby to fill the role of a rock and roll legend. Besides, he needs a new hair style to replace the cut that was popular 40 or 50 yrs ago.

On stage, Bob attempted all manner of moves and gyrations that some expensive choreographer put together for the little white haired chub to make himself legend-like: stage gimmicks like microphone twirling and pointing to "in the know" individuals in the front rows, then finally rounding off his performance with suggestive facial expressions, toothy smiles, a 6 foot saxophone solo and band cues for his Silver Bullet posse that were not at all spontaneous or necessary.

Camera angles made it difficult to determine if he was hitting it off with his large audience. His  dance steps were fitting I suppose for an elderly old guy who dared put his bones to the test with every move. At the end he did receive a big hand from the crowd,  but that can be made to happen by flashing cue cards to the audience.

I have to admire his stamina for the last number he did. His voice tended to fade in and out, but when you go live that happens. The local papers here tell about his daily workouts to build strength for the tour. I hope the old guy makes it and his Marlboro lights don’t cause any breakdowns.

But it’s over. Bob set out to do a job and he accomplish his goal. All things considered, he put on a decent show. Good work neighbor, but when this tour is over, it will surely be time for you to Ride Out of Dodge the last time. Write a few more great Chevy commercials but syop your silly stage strutting. You're too damn pink, too chubby and you need a new hair do,

The Lost Art of Haggling

My Dad was an expert at haggling. Even my uncles who were pretty good at it themselves would ask dad to come along when they shopped for cars, furniture or any big ticket item. Much of his best haggling was directed towards the Jewish furniture store owner who prospered in his Lumberg Furniture Store on Michigan Avenue.

Harry Lumberg was a Polish Jew who immigrated here about the time many of the local Poles did sometime in the early 1900s - before things got too heated back in Poland. He spoke Polish and knew the ways of the people. He was my father’s favorite opponent  in the haggling arena where he and my father first met in 1939 when my parents were outfitting their first apartment.

If he or anyone he knew wanted to buy any furniture, my father would say, “"let’s go see the Jew,” as if Harry was the only person of that persuasion in town. Once he set foot in harry's store, dad would gaze around and look at the prices affixed to the stock. It was unthinkable for my father to buy anything at the prices listed on the tags, even if they were marked down. He would look at that tag then turn to Harry and with a dismissive chuckle say: “So what’s my price Harry”?

That’s how the drills began - a flurry of bids and counters, feints and thrusts masterfully served and returned. The men used all the tricks alternately raising and lowering their voices and tempo. Hand signal, finger pointing, arms thrust in the air in exclamatory gestures, it was always entertaining to  watch these two masters have at it.

Just when you thought that someone had won or was about to concede,  someone would try a new tact and change the direction of the negotiations  360 degrees. New pathways would open up only to be tossed aside. Options would be discussed before reverting back to square one."what's my price Harry"? The discussion would get more heated and contentious as the session went on.

Dad knew all the tricks. But Harry knew a few of his own. One of Dad’s favorites was the “walk out “ play. When he didn’t feel he had squeezed enough out of his opponent, he would make a move towards the door while telling Harry that he couldn’t be serious about making the sale if he insisted on those prices.

Often Harry would stop him before he got too far and another round of negotiation would break out. If that didn’t get the results he wanted, dad would simply shake his head in disgust and leave the store again. That was his classic double walk out move. Harry followed close behind shouting  "wait - wait"

To a first time observer, the antics could be embarrassing, but to these two pros it was business. It was a game they played and Harry expected it. The men respected each other. Dad sent many a customer to Harry over the years.

A few years later, when I got married I tried to use Dad’s tactics when I needed furniture.  I had watched the master apply his methods for years. I had it all down. So the day finally came around for me to face Harry at the haggle court. Harry and I took our positions and began the game.        

I was foolish enough to think I had old Harry backed into a corner. I tasted victory after only 10 minutes or so of amateurish haggling. So I allowed Mr. Lumberg to close the deal and hold on to those few pennies I allowed him to earn. I actually felt sorry for the poor disadvantaged Jewish retailer.

Proud of my victory over Harry, I stopped to see my father and of course Dad asked how I did. “Great dad, I replied”. Are you sure, he asked?  Let’s see! He headed off to see Harry. After a half hour, he returned home and handed me  50 or 100 bucks - complements of Harry Lumberg.   

I will never forget “But what’s my price”?  When the day was over Dad would puff his chest and proudly exclaim, “I got that old Jew good today.” while almost 20 miles away, while sitting at his dinner table, Harry was telling his wife about his great day-beating that old Polack at his game.

That's the way business was done back in the day.

Pole1 

Jew 1  

tie game

Years later I ran into Harry long after he closed his store. The first thing he asked was: "How's your dad? I miss him"

My Old Friend-Milan

My oldest friend is a delightful chap by the name of Milan. Some people call him Doobie. I never found out why. It doesn't matter. To me, he will always be Milan. Even though I've only known Milan a tad over ten years, he is still my oldest friend.  You see, my good friend Milan, was 100 yesterday. He called to remind me.

Sharp as a tack and possessed of a wit that is fresh and ageless, Milan decided that he would start watching over me.  After my numerous encounters with medical issues that my many doctors  couldn't handle.  I found myself somewhat home-bound.  It's not as bad as it sounds, mainly because Georgie, my wife takes very good care of me. But, my situation is such that I don't do very well driving and I am not very mobile. Georgie is much better at it. Besides, that walking thing that comes natural to most folks doesn't work too well for me.

Milan decided a couple years ago - when he was 98 that he would visit with me on occasion to buoy up my spirits. As long as he was stopping by, he felt he should bring with him some nourishment to help sustain me.       

Until fairly recently, I could usually expect to get a call from my driveway where his big Buick Electra  had pulled into.  It was Milan making certain I was home before he made the strenuous effort to take his walker out of the trunk then shuffle up the drive, up the steps to my front door. His legs are weak and his body aching, but, with considerable effort, he makes it up the steps, rings my bell and when I open the door, he hands me a loaf of bread. This was pretty much a weekly happening.

It seems that Friday is bridge day at the Senior Center and Milan is the undisputed master. Over the course of the year, he had accumulated over $300 in winnings at a penny a point. As I had mentioned, his mind is sharp as a tack, consequently, he is able to separate many a man from his money.

Getting back to the bread. It seems that one of the well known bakeries around town brings day old  bread to the Center for the benefit of the old folks who gather there. Milan feels entitled, so every week he takes home a loaf for himself and every other oldster he knows. He actually made a list of all his old friends, myself included and developed a route which he follows meticulously every week. I was always the last stop so that he and I could chat for a time. And chat we would. He loves the exchange filled with stories, often  repeated and repeated and, well you get the drift.  Somehow, I enjoyed the experience that was dotted with Milan's dry humor, old lines, corny jokes and just plain fun.

There are things about the man that are unique and just plain fun.  Milan is a dapper old gentleman. He stands all of 5 foot tall in heels. He has a full head of hair that guys half his age would die for. Every day of the week he wears one of his two or three what might be described as "vintage" sport coats, dress pants with a collared shirt and bow tie. The sleeves are a  bit frayed and ingrained with layers of ground in wear marks, representing decades of daily wear and meals, all of which added character.

He can barely reach the pedals on his cavernous full size auto. When he backs out of the drive, neighbors run for shelter and grown men shudder.  Mailboxes and trash cans are in great danger as he roars confidently out of the sub, then turns into the traffic on the main arteries without fear or hesitation. He is what some might say,  somewhat aggressive behind the wheel.

Anyone driving in back of him, if they could keep up, could not see any sign of a human being behind the wheel. The car looked as if the headless horseman was at the wheel. Milan never brakes for squirrels, but if he sees a golf ball fly across the front of his windshield, he will slam on the brakes, pull to the side of the road and retrieve the golf ball. He was not a golfer, but he likes the hunt.

A few of his friends are sure he shouldn't be on the road. When they hint at that, Milan gets defensive about his driving skills. Who could argue. One afternoon while parked at a local senior center, Milan parked in a handicap spot. For some reason, he  left his parking permit at home.  Impossibly, his vehicle was ticketed for parking in that spot. Later that day, while delivering bread to me, he sheepishly admitted that he was ticketed  and was facing a fine of $250.  AS much as hated to admit it, he said - he was guilty and deserved to pay the fine.

After he left, I called over to the police post. I actually got the officer who had written the ticket earlier in the day. I told him about Milan, his age and so forth.  A week or so later when Milan showed up to pay his fine and face the consequences, the charges were dismissed. It made his day.

Almost forgot to mention ... Milan has a wife, to whom he has been married for over 75 years. Mary resides in a center for Alzheimer patients. She often doesn't recognize her devoted husband, but Milan visits her regularly at least twice every week. He knows they will never share their home, but one day they might live together again in her facility.

His car was totaled when as he sees it, a car backed into him at 45 miles per hour. He spent a month in the hospital healing his broken bones.  The first day out he had his driver stop at his mechanic's shop. Milan wants him to locate a good used car, something big and heavy like the 15 year old Buick he loved so much. He's thinking about bustings Mary out of the joint so the two of them can head out to Florida where they spent many a winter before Mary developed her mental issues.  It won't surprise me one bit if he pulls it off.

Dog Days of Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring

Dog Days of Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring

Back in 2007, shortly after a disastrous back surgery, I had a lot of time on my hands. Georgie was working at Bank of America so I was alone for a good part of the day. Unable to walk or do much of anything during the recovery period, she had an idea:
To help relieve my boredom, we decided to buy a dog. That's where Zosia entered the scene. She was a game changer.

Now over nine years later, the little critter has completely taken over our lives and now runs the household. There's not much we can do without passing things by her. She has saved us thousands of dollars in vacation costs to exotic destinations as well as a huge bundle in other entertainment costs. We can't really leave her for over 5 hours and her vet and grooming fees run a few hundred bucks a year. Even when we do steal 3 or 4 days away without her, that's a $25 /day fee. The truth is we don't mind one bit because we are rewarded every day by her constant displays of unquestioned love for us. It is difficult to imagine our lives without her.

That's the danger of owning and loving a dog. 

If that;s the largest danger we will face, it comes at a small price.

Mild mannered? Hardly

Most people who know me would probably agree that 
I am not by definition a mild mannered person. On occasion, I can come across as combative and somewhat aggressive -often because I simply responses defensively and vociferously. Like in: "I am not yelling at you sweetheart, I am  simply speaking louder than you" -

 I often wonder how and why I react that way and why that has become part of my identity. I'm guessing its because I've responded that way too many times over 75  years of my existence.  I have given it a lot of thought and did manage to form a few relative conclusions. Some of these ideas may be a stretch but then again its all I have to go on.

The first reason I respond like I do is simply because like Popeye,  I yam whut I yam. It is a learned response and reaction. We neve spoke in soft tones, we spoke up and then some.

The family name gives some clues. The name derives its meaning from the word for vendor which probably is the profession followed by generations of my Polish family, possibly dating back to the middle ages. Back then it was quite common to take on the name of the family trade.

 My last name was derived from shopkeeper or vendor, a trade that demanded a loud powerful voice to attract customers to your tiny stall in the middle of a larger, louder marketplace. I can't say what they sold, but my father told stories of his grandfather in Poland having been a somewhat successful business owner.

My grandfather, shortly after his arrival in the US,  became a grocery store owner and my father followed in his footsteps. No training, just an unknown unseen inner directive drove them to that profession. As I entered the business world, I too became a vendor of sorts, then a retail shop owner. My two sons and my daughter followed into variants of that career path. They all sell and can be quite loud as well. Chips off the old mouth so to speak. It seems to be in our blood.

Could the choices we made be a result of genetics or happenstance ? Who can say for sure. I ended up as a retail shopkeeper and have always felt comfortable in that line of work.

How does this relate to aggressiveness and competitiveness?. I was raised in an environment that believed that competitors were not friends. The family never socialized with their many competing grocers, including one from across the street or the one down the block. They were the enemy and our job was to beat them at the game. Friendly competition did not exist in our world, nor in mine.

Later on my early jobs were intensely competitive. I worked for the giant  Procter and Gamble Corporation and my responsibilities lay in fiercely competing for shelf space, advertising space in newspapers, flyers and in gaining favor with the store managers. Our competitors  were companies like Colgate, Lever brothers and even against competing units of our own company. Fraternizing with the competition was strictly forbidden. Business was war.

Every subsequent job I held  was intensely competitive which carried on all through my career. There were no Kumbaya moments.

When we started our Nature and wildlife business, we were pioneers in a niche that was in its infancy. We
competed against a national franchise group Wild Birds Unlimited and protected our ideas and our turf as much as possible from infringement from others looking to gain a foothold in the market.

The unique business I founded and began franchising saw numerous parties attemptto copy our ideas and avoid paying me for the rights. I personally escorted numerous "spies" out of our stores and fought for special favors from our suppliers.  

Once again even in this so called "genteel" industry, we were competitive and aggressive unlike the more civilized sorts . From the beginning, our primary goal was  to make money not watch birds and decorate gardens. That part could come later.

Back in my earlier business career as a sales manager, competition between my sales crew and those from competing companies was extremely keen. Ditto the commercial restaurant chinaware industry where I fought tooth and nail for supremacy in the that industry. It was a very tough cutthroat way of doing business. I loved it.

Never during the 40 years or so of my various undertakings was I anything but a hard driving competitor.  Thank goodness we weren't carrying weapons as there might have been many casualties along my path.

I think back to high school and earlier when I began playing sports. We were always out to beat the hell out of competing teams. There was little of the namby pamby handshaking between teams going on. We were not taught to  "like" our opponents as the facebook generation does. We were instead  taught to destroy them. That's where I come from.


Back in my developmental phase,  we protected our street corners, our neighborhoods, the girls from our neighborhood from the onslaught of the Italians, southern whites, mexicans, Protestants and of course the Negroes who threatened all of our institutions. Those parties in turn protected their interests in similar fashion. It was normal and expected, much like the Sharks and the Jets from West Side Story

How could you not become competitive, loud and civilized?

One little two little three little Kramars

I was lucky. All three of my kids were beautiful, each in his or her unique way. I regret that I was so young when they arrived, I was 22 when Steve came along, 24 for Kathy and 27 when Mike arrived on the scene. Too young, too immature and too stupid.







The early day to day details are vague. not at all like their mother's  who remembers the first fart, burb, barf and grunt uttered, as well as the day, year, time and probably the weather for those days.

I remember specifics: Steve's gawd awful diaper mess pile of mashed peas, carrots and dairy in a putrid yelllow green color. Kathy's sweet little barf on my face and, Michael ... ugh it was a gas attack. 

Events and achievements make up most of my other memories. 
 With Steve it was his constant request for one more grounder, one more pop up and one more pitch that sticks with me. He was determined and stubborn as they come and a real whiz on a skateboard, cycle and on the ball diamond where he made me proud every time he played.

Kathy was a born  to attract. When friends came over for a  picnic, it's the picture of Kathy  leading a pack of boys through the neighborhood, totally in control of whatever they were all up to that comes to my mind.

And Mike,  as the youngest, it was often Kathy leading her little brother around, treating him as if he were her private doll to play with, kiss, hug and do whatever else little mothers aged 6 could think of to do with their little live 3 year old dolls. And Mike with his faithful companion Ginger who followed him to school and often waited for him outside the school. he took a lot of teasing and bullying from his older brother and a few of Steve's friends. It wouldn't happen when he got older. Play Hard, hit hard shoot hard 

more .......

HAZ MAT-- WAZ DAT?

Hazadous Smazerous ... I' m certain the term HAZ MAT hadn't even been created back in the '50s. People back then had enough room in their brains to remember whole words, besides it takes too long to recreate what some of the abbreviated terms we use now actually mean. It's much simpler to remember the words. THWA or The hell with acronyms.

 I do remember certain incidents in the past few years when entire schools or workplace had to be evacuated because someone accidently dropped a small container of mercury on the floor.  That called for a mass evacuation of the premises, after which highly trained crews of EMS  and HAZ MAT specialists, clad in special protective gear would enter the building and remove the mercury, and clean and sanitize the entire school building. 

The kids were sent home for two or three days before the all clear was given. During it all, teams of TV reporters and cameramen lined up frantically outside the schools recording the throngs of grieving parents , there demanding the principals be fired head and a full explanation of how and why this horrible tragedy could have happened.

Turn the clock back sixty years, the dark ages I suppose. 7th grader William Fuller brings a house thermometer to school.  He smashes the glass vial holding the mercury and silvery droplets of mercury quiver on the desk top. Willy announces to the boys sitting around him to watch this magical performance he is about to perform. He takes a copper penny and manages to get a drop of mercury on it. Then barehandedly, he rubs the element over the penny until magically the penny turns bright silver. Soon, half the boys in the class are using Willy's mercury to coat their pennies.

The next day, a good percentage of the boys in class have stripped their homes of any mercury thermometers . A three day rampage begins where anything that would accept the mercury would get a treatment, including fingernails and - get this - teeth. Yep it was a sight to behold, a  dozen dopey 6th grade boys, their teeth, fingernails and whatever else was handy all standing in a classroom laughing at each other's silver plating.

The bright finish didn't last very long. Silver turned into an ugly black after several minutes. By the time the nun arrived to begin class, we stood there with a mouthful of black . If anything, we looked toothless. Sister Francis screamed to us to get our faces and mouths washed out quickly. We were given a bar of powerful soap to use , fels naphtha, the strongest, foulest product I had ever smelled. It could take the paint off a brush and the rust off a tarnished piece of steel. Sister was sure it would get rid of any traces of the mercury.

No HazMat, No reporters

Willy is dead, so is Ted. Stan too. 62 years later, I am still kicking ....but -- I do have a wart on my index finger where I rubbed the mercury over the penny. Back then who knew that the cure for mercury poisoning was fels naphtha soap. Damn those nuns were smart.

Killin 'Chickens

I don't often tell this sadistic tale, but it played a roll during the formative period of my life. My family was deeply involved in the slaughter of thousands of innocent chickens. In fact, they were  a very efficient, well oiled killing machine, made up of professionals who struck fear into the heart of every unfortunate chicken they ever encountered. Where my grandma did tread, chickens were dead. She was legend

The art of chicken killing was lead by Busia Kramarczyk, the innocent appearing former nun-candidate. As a young woman, she  left a promising career as a nun, to become one of the most formidable and feared chicken killers on Detroit's tough west side. Clyde's Bonnie had nothing on Grandma who was admired within her circle as both an accomplished killer of chickens and as the top chicken plucker and pin feather singing expert in the neighborhood. 

For the uninformed, singing  means to singe and has no musical implication. It refers to the act of holding a chicken carcass over an open flame to burn off the delicate  feathers left after plucking.
When grandma plucked and singed a chicken, that chicken stayed plucked  and singed for good. He knew his goose was cooked.

This dark event took place every Friday evening behind the shuttered windows and locked doors of Busia's headquarters, in the back rooms of the family grocery on Waldo. The entire neighborhood went into lockdown mode as the knives were lithely sharpened by the lady's skilled hands.

 As the oldest male child in the family, it was expected that I should play a role in the secret doings of the K-Clan. And so it was, one evening shortly after my 10th birthday, I prepared to accept my role.

The macabre scene was set. Grandma K entered the shadowy room with her ritual knife and a sharpening steel in hand. Our clan gathered and soon the first victim was dragged into the room screeching and cackling as it entered. The chicken was bound at the feet with  heavy twine. The creature stared with glazed eyes at the figures  gathered around him in the killing chamber.  We all glared back. There would be no mercy shown- no reprieve - not tonight. 

Say your prayers you fowl creature, uttered Busia, prepare to meet your maker, as we all glared back at Chicken Little.

 It made not a single squawk. He knew his fate was sealed. He had admitted that he was a bad egg. There was no chickening  out on for  this bold feathered prisoner. This bird was definitely not a chickenshit punk. Just before the sharp knife slid across his neck, he looked up and saw the ghostly apparition of his nemesis, the colonel himself, all the way from his home in Kentucky where he made the best fried chicken in the land

Busia took hold of the chicken and softly administered the kiss of death on the chicken's cheek before handing him and her sharpened knife to Uncle John. He sat positioned with his legs on either side of a large bucket. With one quick motion of that gleaming razor-sharp ritual knife, John slit the throat of Mr. Little from ear to ear. Then in one swift motion held the chicken's headless neck over the bucket to catch the drippings. Up until then, I never knew chickens had ears ...  I still wonder if they have lips.

It was my first taste of blood, literally and figuratively. The chicken's blood spurted from the neck wound and splashed across my face. Czarnina I blurted. No son, my dad said, Czarnina is made from duck blood, not chicken blood. I could see that I had a lot to learn.

Suddenly that zombie chicken, headless but somehow energized, was determined to take revenge by attacking my grandmother. I jumped out from the protection of my father's sheltering body and lurched at the crazed fowl.  I almost missed him but somehow managed to grab hold of a leg err.. drumstick, and brought his cold dead body to a dead stop.  "Good work boyczyk", said Busia.

The slaughtering commenced. It was apparent that I was the designated chicken catcher. I had passed the initiation. The dead chicken bodies had been tossed into the bathtub after each assassination where they awaited a their final fate. Huge kettles sat on the antique gas range in the kitchen. The water was boiling over. One by one the decapitated bodies were tossed into the pot for a minute or so then pulled out. The plucking frenzy began.

Feathers flew and the smell of wet chicken feathers permeated the room. After the last body had been plucked, the naked bodies awaited their final assault. One final step awaited them. The kettles came off the stove and the flames were left burning. One by one, busia deftly rotated the bodies over the flame and singed off the light layering of soft feathers that remained on the bare chicken flesh.

 It gave me goose bumps. The smell of burning feathers was horrendous. Each naked chicken body was gently washed, dried then finally wrapped in butcher paper, then neatly stacked where they would lie in state in the big walk-in cooler in the store.

They began arriving early Saturday morning to claim their bodies. The people had no regard for what had transpired the night before. They were concerned only about the dead chicken bodies that awaited them in the walk in. A line formed as each body was weighed then priced, before handing it over to the crazed customers.  On average each brought in less than a dollar and a half. Life is cheap.

When the store closed, I walked over to Busia and quietly asked: "Why do we do this, week after week - slaughtering these innocent creatures. Why? Why? She looked at me, smiled softly and said, "people gotta eat".  Made sense to me. l couldn't wait until next  week. Go wash up boyczyk and I'll fix you a nice chicken sandwich.


But after a few months of this chikenening experience, I realized that I never really enjoyed eating or killin' chickens.  I thought about becoming a vegan but never lost my blood lust. I took to slaughtering beets, which when cut give off a blood red liquid that seems to sooth my need to kill.

The Tragedy Of Being Ernest

Oscar Wilde's play title 'The Importance of Being Earnest" always stuck in my head. It had nothing to do with his play, it was the title that got me going. It must have inspired my parents, my mother I'm sure, to hang that name on me. At least she took the a out of Earnest  when the time came to have me baptized.

I hated, absolutely hated that stupid name -- and still do. What a dirty trick to play on a Polish kid from the west side of Detroit. My friends had names I would have killed for ... John, Mike, Ted, Chet, Jim, Tom, Pat etc. Somehow, Ernest was the wrong name in the wrong place and in the wrong time to work for me, especially when coupled with a ten letter long Polish last name that no one outside our west side ethnic ghetto could pronounce properly .

Hell, my brothers good solid names  like Robert  (Bob, Kenneth and Richard (Rick) names that were solid, relaxed, all American names --not at all like ERNEST. My folks meant well I suppose. They hoped to give me a one or two generation jump on other Polish kids by giving me a name they thought was a completely anglicized name. Instead they gave me a name I resented. It sounded so out of place and so sissified. It was hard to handle, especially when you added the caboose of a last name my family passed on to me. Ernest stunted my development and affected my personality/ It took over 65 years for me to accept it.

But some good came out of my experience with naming people and kids especially. My kids can be thankful that I learned a lesson and gave them names they could live with: Steve, Mike and Kathy.

So Mr Wilde, Ed and Zipper, thanks for nothing. Being Earnest was absolutely not important to me.

Balls said the Queen

When I was a kid, my dream was to catch a a baseball at a Tiger game. It started at old Briggs Stadium on Trumbull and Michigan Avenue sometime around 1946 or '47 when I saw my first game there with my dad. It didn't matter whether it was  a foul ball or a long home run hit anywhere in the park. Admittedly, a home run would have been much more exciting. I thought I might improve my chances if I brought my glove, so I often did when I went to old Tiger stadium back in the 50s.

 Catching an official big league baseball was every kid's dream. It never happened to me. Even when I tired of bringing my mitt in the 60s and through the 70s after I hit my 30s. I held out hope that a miracle would happen and a ball would land at my feet. I guess I did  have a few close calls after that, but they never came to be. That was and still is one of the biggest disappointments in my life. A close second in the disappointment category was to never come home with a puck that my face had stopped at old Olympias Stadium.


I almost forgot this: One sunny afternoon when I had about given up hope, while seated in my handicap scooter in foul territory on the third base side of the field something very strange happened.  My back was to the playing field. The crowd yelled out the traditional foul ball warning cry in my general direction. Heads Up, Heads up.  I covered my head with my left hand, raised my right arm instinctively, then guess what?  the ball landed in my backhand position, without me even taking a peek at it's trajectory. This may have been the best catch of my career. The crowd roared and my catch would have made the featured catch of the day prize on National TV. The only problem was that the catch happened at one of Erik's practice games at a field in Walled Lake.  The worst part of the incident was that I couldn't even keep the baseball.

There was actually an incident in Florida that took place after Georgie and I had left a Spring training game ...  Tampa vs somebody. Anyhow, we left in the bottom of the 8th. As we were walking to our car, someone fouled a ball over the back side of the stadium and we were able to retrieve it.

One day while at Mike and Angie's house, I stopped by Jack and Benny's room. They had a dozen or so major league balls laying all about the room. Balls given to them while they sat in  the prime seats Michael was able to get gratis from a friend. The boys had become so accustomed to primo seats, they didn't love sitting in the seats commoners sat in.

Like people say, old folks live through the accomplishments of our kids and grandkids.  They have assembled many balls that would easily make them better equipped than a queen, at least in the ball department. I am happy and like the queen, jealous of them and their balls.

Furthermore this generation of ball players never learned to tape a ball with white adhesive tape when the cover wore out, nor did they ever learn to repair a baseball bat that had been split by utilizing little nails and tape to hold the bat parts together.( it really didn't work too well).

I'm jealous.

OUSASASA OUSASASA -- HIT 'EM IN THE HEAD WITH A BIG KIELBASA

Vagabonds and Gypsies

 Over my seven plus decades, I and we have live in a whole lot of different places. Most people live in three or four in the course of a lifetime, but not me. Fifteen so far and who knows how many others will follow.  Most of those moves came with Georgie. We both love real estate, change and the chance to improve our living space. Some folks think we're nuts. We know thaat for a fact.  I have a list of every home and place I ever lived in. a total of 15 places in 72 years, with three of that number being childhood homes. I liked every one.

1941-1946
 7303 Waldo
6943 Mercier

1946 -1962
5812 Lonyo.  Det
7303 Waldo 1962 $60 mo

41860 Quince Novi  19,900
 New home Meadowbrook and nine mile 99,000

apartment in Northville on center $275/mo
Apartment st Silver Springs in Northville $400/mo

cottage on Sugden Lake Union Lake 50,000
11221 Sugden Lk Rd Union Lake 88,000
6061 Whispering Meadows White Lake 169,000

Edgewood Park Court Commerce 220,000
Forest Glen  West Bloomfield $60,000
Pine Island Cove $100,000
Rose Garden Villa Cape Coral Condo $107,000

Cars Cars and More Cars

i always loved cars and from the age of 15 I owned quite a few. These are the ones I remember. I got that love from my father.

'53 Ford
55 Ford Convertible
'54 Oldsmobile 98
'59 Chevy Impala convertible
62 Chevy Monza
63 mercury comet
64 Chevy 2
'68 Dodge Charger
70 chevrolet impala
72 Olds Station Wagon
72 Olds Cutlass
80 Cadillac diesel
 82 Pontiac lemans

85 Ford Bronco 2
Ford Taurus
Ford taurus
82 Ford Pick up
85 Ford pick up
GMC Van
GMC Van
2006 Toyota Avalon
2010Chrysler Mini Van

D'Unkals

One thing the family was well endowed with were a great cast of uncles who were all a treat to be around in their time. I was lucky because when I was growing up in post WW2 Detroit, I saw a lot of them. Our family was close so much of our social interaction we enjoyed were inter-family get- togethers. That usually meant at our house. Dad had the basement on Lonyo made into a recreation room. It had knotty pine wall paneling, a tiled floor, finished ceiling and a glass block bar that seated six with a bar sink, refrigerator and a back bar stocked with high end booze and exotic liqueurs that were selected because of their unique bottle shapes and colors. It was as well stocked as any high end joint in town. The glassware was all imprinted and the walls and shelves were adorned with neon beer and liquor signs. The glass walls of the bar were back lit in a rainbow of colorful lights. Real revolving bar stools and an authentic cash register finished the look. If prohibition were to ever be re introduced, the K family was set for business.

It was a perfect place for all my uncles to congregate almost every weekend for  night of pinochle, food and free booze. They each gd their favorite spot at the bar, at which they sat until the card games began. The longer they spent at the bar, the louder the card games got.

the pinochle games were intended in the beginning to be held in turn at all the homes. It ended up that dad hosted the weekend get togethers for a number of years. He had the bar, the space, the store and the money, but the games eventually ended when Ed realized that reciprocity was not a virtue. In fact,  the uncles seemed to believe that it was my father's responsibility to share his good fortune with the family and not expect any reciprocity.   It was fun while it lasted

The cast of uncles, lovable characters all.

John Dziedzic (Deeds)
Uncle John was a good guy. I loved to visit him at his store then later at his little bar and spend time talking to him. He was a very unorthodox binge drinker. He alternated his binges between beer and Pepsi. He could drink a case or more of either almost every evening. His weight would balloon when he binged on either. John was a grocer who collected silver coins (coins were all silver before they were made from alloys) He had amassed a small fortune in silver dimes, half dollars and quarters and made a nice profit when the price of silver rose to many times more than face value.

Johnie Misa 
Dad's partner and best friend. Uncle Johnie married my father's sister, Bernice. He was a very smart and gifted man who made a lot of money in the stock market. He was a favorite of mine. One afternoon during a family picnic, I was disappointed that I couldn't catch a fish. Johnie had caught a dozen or more. When I wsn't looking, he sneaked into the lake and put a fish on my limp line. Then came to shore and laughed as I fought hard to bring the monster fish I had caught to shore. I bought Uncle John the shirt he was buried in, an expensive one, just because he deserved it. I miss him.

Benny Zdyr.
 Uncle Ben woke up every morning and stuck a big wad of Lieberman chewing tobacco in his mouth.  He kept a cheek full there all day, even when he drank his many beers, Uncle Ben was a quiet soul who maintained an even buzz all day. As a young man, he was part of the notorious Mercier Gang, a group of tough Polish kids who protected their turf and the young Polish girls from the advances of the Italians and other non Polish (hillbillies) and pagan hordes who surrounded the neighborhood.

Uncle Ben once came home badly beaten and bloodied-- but he had a smile on his face. He had taken a prize from his opponent-- the guy's upper false teeth. Benny never owned or drove a car until he got to be 30. A year or so after he bought his car a '53 Chevy, he totaled it and almost killed himself and Aunt Irene

Rudy Adams (adamowicz)
Rudy was the playboy. He married my mother's younger sister, Adele, who died suddenly at about age 60. He was a good looking Russian-Ukrainian-Polish guy who was younger than the other uncles by ten years. He and I were good buddies, We still are as Rudy is alive and kicking at the age of 90. He has a occasional live in girl friend and still likes to party.

Make a word from RZDY

Josef Zdyr, patriarch of the Zdyr family, was the man who gave my grandmother, her son and daughters, my cousins, the all consonant, impossible to pronounce last name -- ZDYR. Fortunately a Polish Y can be pronounced as an i, hence the name was pronounced something like Zdere or Zee-der.

As did most Polish men of his era (1890-1948), Joe had a short lifespan. He only lived until age 58. He had a stroke and died on the floor of the Ford Rouge plant in 1948. He was a soft spoken, gentle guy who I was able to enjoy until I reached the age of 7.

My dziadek died of the Irish disease that was known to jump nationalities and afflict a great number of men of the Slavic race. His particular strain of the disease was the Four Roses variety that was particularly deadly when accompanied with a warm 12 oz. wash of the Stroh's strain elixir. 

Nazdrowie, the traditional Polish toast meant, "to your health" It didn't help his. His only form of pleasure after a hard day's work was to stop at the tiny beer garden that stood almost directly across the street of his Mercier Street home. The bar was always full of local men, most of them Ford workers. Women were not welcome. It was a man's domain, until one week day evening, after Grandpa Josef stayed too late, Busia crossed the barrier.

 She walked into the bar, broom in hand and literally swept Josef off his feet with a couple of hard swipes of the broom. He fell to the floor and withstood a barrage of cussing and screaming that would make a Polish sailor blush. It was Busia Z at her ferocious best. 

She chased him back home across the street in full view and hearing of half the block, swinging the broom at him all the way home. Poor Josef. It took a month before she spoke to him again. She was so pissed that she cut his face off the only formal photo they had of each other. The picture is still around somewhere. I think Margo has it. So if you ever see it, you have the rest of the story. I witnessed the event and will never forget it. 

When he died, the custom of the day was to bring the body to the family home, where friends could pay their respects and offer toasts to Josef's memory. He stayed for three days in the small front living room of the home he built in 1914. 

My cousin Butch and I slept in a tiny bedroom just a few feet from the casket.  It was difficult to fall asleep with a dead body sharing our space, especially when we were certain that the whole house was full of ghosts, monsters and other scary creatures that went bump in the night.

As much as we loved our grandfather, we were glad they finally carried him out to the hearse for his ride to the church and finally to the cemetery. As they began to close the open casket, the family filed by and planted a kiss on Jozef's waxy white cheek. When it was my turn, i refused and upset my mother. There was no way I was going to kiss ol dead Joe, even though I loved him. That was too much for a 7 tear oid to bear.