The Polish Blog

I used to be Polish. I grew up Polish. I was 42 years old before I found out that I wasn't Polish. Today, the politically correct term would be Polish/American and would garner some sort of minority affirmative action benefits. But, as it turned out, I would have had to have eventually given back my government pierogi stamps and 'fessed up.

As I was growing up, Polish was the language adults spoke when they didn't want the kids to understand. It was also my grandfather's native tongue and, as an old man, all he wanted to speak. I attended St. Stanislaus, a Polish speaking Catholic Church. All of my neighbors were first or second generation immigrants from Poland. Most of my uncles acted Polish.

My earliest food memories include pierogi, halupki (golumpki), potato pancakes, kotlet shabowy, goulash, barsczc, poppyseed rolls, kieffles, Vodka and beer. And fat aunts carrying trays of food to the tables. To this day, I do not know where all of the food came from - or went.

When I got a little older I was able to sit in my grandfather's (Tata's) living room and mostly understand the adult conversations. It turns out that they were talking about boring adult stuff. Or maybe they knew I was in the room and waited until I left to start talking about the neighbor's wife.

My name is John. My father's name was Frank. My family nick-name while I was growing up was Junco (Young-co) and my father's was Fennie. Our Polish given names would have been Jan (Yawn) and Frannek.

It was not until sixteen years after my father's death that I knew the truth.

My younger brother Edward's first wife's name was Elaine. She decided to do a family tree and celebrate our Polish heritage. It turns out that as an entire extended family of four sons, two daughters and countless grand-children, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews, nobody was smart enough to figure out the family mystery. Or even know there was one.

My grandfather was Russian. As a child his parents moved to Poland. During the First World War my grandfather, Ignatz Bonyich, was a foot soldier in the Russian Cavalry. After the war he emigrated from Poland to America and entered Ellis Island as Ignatz Bonos. But he had grown up speaking Polish and gravitated to a Polish speaking neighborhood when he got here.

Later, in the early 60's, my father, Frank, and his brothers, Eugene, John and Edward, all further Americanized our family name to Bonus. They had two sisters, Nellie and Caroline, who were both married with children by then and the name change was moot for them. I believe the change from Bonos to Bonus was to either stay one step ahead of bill collectors, the law or jealous husbands. It seems more romantic that way.

So, there you have it. I tell people I used to be Polish. And now I am Russian. Does that make me Polussian (pollution)? Or polUSsiAn?

Whatever. All I know is that I was 42 years old before I found out that I wasn't Polish. Which kind of sounds like a Pollock joke in itself. Doesn't it?


The preceding blog was 100% true.

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So This is Love

"So... I think I'm in love."

"That's nice," I replied.

"No, really!" my friend Frankie insisted.

"What's this make? Three times this month?" I asked?

"Well, we are at the end of the month!" she said. "So I am doing pretty good!"

"I'm happy for you." I dead-panned. Frankie has been in love fifteen times this summer. And I don't mean infatuated, or love-struck, or really digs a guy. She has been flat out in love fifteen times since Opening Day here at the resort.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm happy for the girl. And she seems to bounce back pretty fast when things don't go right. But it is difficult to work up any genuine excitement for a routine event that is over before it really gets started.

I should also explain that we aren't talking about spring flings, or summer romances, or fall fu...

(Sorry, I couldn't think of a clean one.)

But you get the idea. She believes she has fallen in love each and every time. Heart and soul.

And the funny thing is, is that I believed her - each and every time. This time, however, I thought I'd dig a little deeper.

"Why do you think you love this particular guy?" I asked.

"Because I think about him all of the time!"

"So far, he sounds like that Dr. Pepper jingle that I couldn't shake in the 70's." I offered. "What else have you got?"

"When he walks into a crowded room it's like he's the only one I see."

"What is he? Six-five? Two-fifty?"

"I get this empty, queasy feeling inside when he isn't around." she tried again.

"You've been on a diet since I've known you!"

"How about people say we look like a great couple?"

"So did Bonnie and Clyde."

"And look how much they loved each other!" Frankie persisted.

"Well, they were kinda dysfunctional, and we don't know if they would have lasted... what with dying in a hail of lead and all." I countered.

"But we have this chemistry."

"So does my hot tub."

"Well, we have so much in common!" she tried again.

"Besides the resort, the dances and the parties - name two."

"Uh... we... uh... we both like pizza! And we... uh... both like motorcycles!" she said proudly.

"Really? Out of all the people in the whole wide world and you two managed to find each other? That's amazing!"

"Shut up, Johnny."

"OK. But I'm not seeing a whole lot here yet."

"How about we don't have any of those awkward silences?"

"Are you saying you never shut up or that he doesn't mind if you do?" I wondered. "OK, let's try a couple of fast ones." I suggested. "What's his favorite color?"

"Blue!" she said quickly. Then her freckled nose screwed up in concentration. "Or maybe it's red."

"Where did he grow up?"

"Somewhere around here... or Pittsburgh. Maybe it was North Carolina... I don't know."

"What's his favorite food?"

"Pizza."

"Oh, yeah... uh... what kind of movies does he like?"

"So far, he like all of the same movies I do."

"Whatta guy!" I commented.

"I only have a couple more," I said because I could see she was getting impatient with me. I was supposed to be excited for her. She brushed the stray strawberry blond hairs from her face and pouted a little.

"I really do love him you know." she insisted again.

"What were the names of your last two boyfriends?" I asked innocently.

"One was... uh... Mark and the other was Jerry."

"Which was which?"

"Mark was... Mark... was... taller!"

"And what's this guy's name?" I figured she wouldn't remember.

"Well, that's what I've been trying to tell you but you've been asking all of these silly questions... It's you!"

Suddenly she seemed like she was the only girl in the room and I felt queasy inside. And as crazy as it sounded - we did make a great looking couple. OK, so maybe I didn't know everything about her (like her last name and stuff) but she does make me smile when she's around. So this is what love feels like...

As I looked up I saw Frankie skipping away, tossing her hair to one side with a quick move of her head and glancing over her shoulder. Laughing. I jumped up and yelled, "Damn it, Frankie. Quit messin' with me!"

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The Great Beard Rebellion

I grew my first beard out of rebellion. I was told by an authority figure that I could not have a beard. So I grew one.

Actually, one of the few genuine talents that I possess is the ability to grow hair. Recently, the amount of facial hair I've had has been directly proportional to the amount of gray I've had. So I went from a full beard in 1993 to a goatee. In 2oo7 I began wearing a droopy sided mustache. They used to be called Fu Manchu's. (Back when people watched black and white movies or actually read books.)

I discovered very early in life that I had this talent for growing facial hair. I wasn't one of those kids that shaved in the 5th grade, or anything. Although, because the school system did not practice social promotion in the early 60's, I was technically old enough to. But I do remember, in high school, having to shave before school every day and again that evening if I had a date.

I never grew a beard or mustache in senior high because our school system still had dress codes and grooming codes when I graduated in 1970. I did, however, have sideburns to the bottom of my earlobes. The longest the code would allow.

When I joined the Air Force after high school, I ended up stationed on a multi service base along the coastline of Turkey. This meant that I worked along side of Army guys, and Marines, and Navy guys. The Navy guys were allowed to have beards. Which I thought was really cool. Unfortunately, the Air Force rules prohibited beards and severely limited the size and shape of any mustaches.

So, the authority figure that was telling me that I could not grow a beard when all the rest of my friends had one, was the United States of America. More specifically, the U.S. Air Force.

When I realized that I would never be permitted to grow a beard I decided to go along with the program and I began shaving five times a day. After about three days of this I had the worst razor rash in the eastern hemisphere. When I went to the base doctor for some cream or ointment, I explained that it was a chronic condition. I left the doctor's office with a tube of ointment and a medical excuse - giving me permission to grow a beard.

I had that beard until I left the military. I shaved it off then mainly because nobody was telling me what to do about it anymore, so the need no longer existed.

I've kind of been like that my whole life.

I would always have just as much facial hair as my employers would tolerate. Don't get me wrong, I was always well groomed. But I did enjoy pushing the envelope.

At one point I had the same beard for decades. One day I decided to shave it off and my kids did not even recognize me. My younger son actually cried. He was 23 at the time.

I can say, however, that the theme of facial hair and rebellion have gone hand in hand throughout my life. I feel like I have established my authority over my own face and I have been kind of enjoying the clean-shaven look recently. I had actually forgotten that I had a cleft in my chin.

Last week, much to the surprise of many people, I began growing a full beard again. When asked about it, I've been giving a variety of reasons. I've said that I am preparing for a covert CIA mission where I have to replace a bearded foreign agent who was captured several weeks ago. I've told people that I had realized how much I looked like my photos in the Post Office and figured it was time to change my appearance again. (I call this one the Richard Kimble gambit.) And I've been reminiscing about my Air Force rebellion days, as well.

So why am I growing a beard? As it turns out, the petite red head thinks that beards are sexy... and who am I to argue with logic like that?

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Perception vs. Reality

When I was in sales, one of the first things I learned is that if a customer perceived they had a problem - I had a problem. It did not matter if my product was the cause of their problem, I needed to help them fix it.

Perception vs. reality is also a recurring theme in a lot of sci-fi and horror fiction. The Nightmare on Elm Street movies and Stephen King and Clive Barker novels are just a few examples. This idea lends itself well because, in this genre, it is easier to take a basic human condition and explore the extreme consequences of it.

An extreme psychological case of perception vs. reality would be found in a paranoid schizophrenic. They have a reality based upon things that are happening purely in their own minds. It is very real to them and every one else's normal actions and reactions are thusly misinterpreted.

A mild case of this condition would be jealousy. Or perhaps a transference of past experiences to present situations. This is always unfair to the recipient of this behavior and usually wrecks havoc with the relationship.

I have been thinking about all of this because I was listening to a newer version of an old song the other day and suddenly the very familiar lyrics smacked me upside the head. Suddenly I began to recognize this pattern of behavior in myself and in dear friends around me. When you finally get it, it tends to make you more considerate of others and less quick to over-react to things yourself.

The song is Norah Jones' version of Hank William's Cold, Cold Heart.

I've tried so hard, my dear, to show that you're my every dream
Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme
A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart?

Another love before my time made your heart sad and blue
And so my heart is payin' for things I didn't do
In anger, unkind words I say that make the teardrops start
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart?

Another love before my time made your heart sad and blue
And now I know your heart is shackled to a memory
The more I learn to care for you, the more we drift apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart?



I would just like to add that we should all view the past as the past and that reality does taste a lot sweeter than perception. And that once you get it, you really, really do get it.

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The Stripper and the Toilet Bowl

Even though The Resort provides most of my basic needs, I do occasionally go off campus. This is the story of one of the silliest reasons to leave a nudist resort.

It was a rainy afternoon, late in May. The temperature was in the upper fifties. Few, if any, people were naked. Note: I did not say nude. If you are outdoors in any temperature under 60 degrees, you are no longer nude. You are naked. That is why most strip clubs advertise LIVE/NUDE/DANCERS. Most of the clubs are air conditioned to around 70 degrees. (Although a lot of those chicks look naked.)

So, my friend Bill and I were sitting on his deck, under the roll down awning, huddled around a couple of warm beers, when he gets the bright idea to go to a local strip club.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You want to leave a nudist resort where we can see naked people for free and go to a club where we have to pay a cover charge to watch some girls slowly take their clothes off, down to a G-string?"

"Yeah," he replied. "and they have 25 cent wings."

The ride over in the car was uneventful.

When we got there the parking lot was 3/4 empty. There was a light drizzle and the temperature had fallen a couple of more degrees. Even cold beer and hot wings could not convince most of the local men to come out to support the LIVE/NUDE/DANCERS. My guess is that, on a day like this, most of the wives knew where their husbands were.

Looking at the sign out front reminded me of the signs outside of a lot of country stores: LIVE BAIT. I always thought it would be funny to add NUDE to the sign so that it would read LIVE/NUDE/BAIT. I mean, it would be technically accurate, might bring in a few looky-loo's, and a lot of fishing is done over 60 degrees.

It was dark inside the club and we had to wait for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. While this process occurred the door-man/bouncer took one of my ten's for a five dollar cover charge. Once I was able to see again, the money was in his pocket and I wasn't sure what had just happened.

There was a long horseshoe bar taking up most of the main room with a raised stage behind the bar. On the far, fourth wall was a mirror and several dancing poles. A Gloria Gaynor song was on the sound system and a long-haired brunette, with snow white skin, a gold G-string and matching f**k-me shoes was just finishing up the set. While I was wondering what they clean that pole with, Bill was looking for the wings.

We sat at a little round table, got a couple of cold ones, a basket of hot wings, a pile of napkins and paid our three drink minimum. It was quiet-ish in the club. Bill and I were part of about ten patrons. The bouncer, the topless bartender, the pale girl in the f**k-me shoes and two other dancers rounded out the group. Eventually the pale girl wandered over to our table.

Most of the girls that work in these places have several jobs. Besides dancing, they would hustle drinks, and look for daddys for their infant to ten year old children. So they would spend most of their non-dancing time stroking male ego's and whatever else they could get away with.

Being a people watcher, I am always amused at the process. At first, she checked us out from a distance. Trying to establish our creepiness factor. When she could not spot our chainsaws or duct-tape she strolled over on her 8 inch spiked heels.

I love high heel shoes on women. They tighten the calf muscle, firm up the ass, show off the toes, give a girl some sexy attitude when she walks and, basically, tells her man that she is trying. (Unlike a lot of the flip-flop queens I know.) But there is, like anything else, a point where you can go too far. A point where balance and moving forward in a straight line may be mutually exclusive ideas. This girl looked like she was dumber than her shoes.

It turns out that she was.

It really is a male ego booster to be eating wings, sipping cold beer, and have a beautiful, nearly naked woman chatting him up. And I'm sure it was hot for her, as well. Two scruffy guys, in jeans, tee shirts and sneakers, our chins and mustaches speckled with bar-b-que sauce, tiny pieces of chicken stuck between our teeth while we leered at her weak attempt at conversation.

"Where are you boys from?" she asked.

"We've escaped from a local nudist resort." I quipped. Trying to make it sound like a joke.

Her face clouded over and her eyes went a little more blank for a few seconds before she decided it was time to laugh. She laughed like a donkey caught in quicksand. It was real attractive. So far were were impressing the hell out of each other.

Bill complimented her on her dancing and asked if he could tuck some money in her G-string. "As long as it ain't change." she replied. I've never known if she was kidding or not. But I figured it was my turn to laugh. When the hilarity of that moment finally died down we all decided to share one of those awkward silences. That gave me time to eat another wing - and do my taxes.

Eventually I tried a different tack. "What's your name, pretty lady?" I asked her.

Suddenly her face lit up and she started talking real fast. "That is so amazing that you would ask that!" she gushed. "I just picked my new name this week! I've only been doin' this job for about six months and I figured I needed a stage name. Kind of a nom-de-plumb. You know?"

"I think I do." I replied truthfully.

"So anyway," she went on, "I wanted to pick something real classy... but pretty, too. I thought of Savannah, and Rochelle, and Sin-amine. But the girls here already had those names. You know?"

"I think I do." I answered again.

Then she just stood there lost in thought. You could see her eyes moving as she was remembering the process she must have followed to arrive at her new name. At one point she smiled. Finally she said, "And that's pretty much how I came up with it."

"With what?" Bill asked.

Her lower lip turned into a pout and her face clouded over again. "Well, my name, silly!"

You didn't tell us what it is, yet." Bill ventured.

"Oh. Well, like I was just sayin', I wanted something real classy, real sexy, and a different name than the other girls here. I just hope if I work somewhere else someone won't have it there. But it'll be mine first, seein's as how I picked it out here and all before I ever even met them. So they can just change their name. You know?"

"From what?" Bill tried again.

She gave him another really annoyed look and turned to see what I thought of her new name. "Say it one more time." I said. "I love the way your lips move when you say it." It was like pushing a chain, I thought.

I could see her rolling the name around in her mouth, pre-thinking how her lips would move when she said it. Finally, she threw her shoulders back, thrusting her perky nipples into our personal space and said with deep pride, "Porcelain!"

I gave Bill a look that said I would take this one.

"That's a coincidence!" I enthused. "My name is John!"

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