BEATING A DEAD HORSE?

To say that Casey Anthony is mentally ill is an understatement. Aren’t we all to some degree; some more than others? Like me, her parents hold no diplomas in psychology and psychiatry, so none of us are able to make any sort of clinical determinations. We are not doctors, and Casey was declared sane enough to stand trial by qualified medical examiners from both camps - the Prosecution and the Defense.

In the interview with Crime Watch Daily host Chris Hansen, Cindy Anthony said that Casey often had seizures and blackouts.

While some may try to substantiate this with testimony from Jesse Grund, her one-time boyfriend, she did have a seizure. In fact, according to his interview transcript with OCSO, he called 911 while she foamed at the mouth and shook uncontrollably. She was transported to a hospital.

Grund insisted she couldn’t have faked it. “The lips turning that slight shade of blue, the foaming at the mouth, the way her body was uncontrollably shaking, the non-responsiveness — I don’t know how she would have been able to fake all of that…”

When the hospital test results came back, Grund was told she didn’t have syphilis, she wasn’t pregnant, and she didn’t have epilepsy.

Grund replied, “She claimed to me that it may have been because she drank too many Red Bulls.”

In fact, Anthony’s lead attorney, Jose Baez, never told jurors that she suffered from seizures. Period.

Source

The Night I Screamed on Halloween

[This is a true story I’ve posted in the past. I think it’s worth repeating every couple of years.]

A number of years ago, I told my mother about the scariest Halloween I ever experienced. I was with a friend from the neighborhood. She questioned whether she would have let me venture out without her at the tender age of six. Oh, I wasn’t alone, I reminded her. Besides, times were different then. We used to leave our windows open all day and night during hot summer months because air conditioning was a luxury. Screen doors were all that separated us from the outside world. Crime wasn’t something that was ever present in our minds. Heck, we left our doors unlocked. It was a different time…

§

It was a chilly autumn night, that Halloween of 1958. It was my first foray out alone. Well, not really alone. I was with Harold, my buddy from school. He met me at my place. We had planned on doing this, by hook or by crook, and no mothers were going to be allowed to come along! We were out to prove we were real men that night, not boys, or so I thought, as we ventured out into the early evening. Be home soon after dark, our mothers instructed.

There were lots of other children running around dressed in all kinds of costumes, stopping at many of the two story homes in our close knit community. The ones that were spookily decorated were the most inviting. Anyone willing to do all that work on their place would surely be the ones handing out the best candy!

I remember watching hand-carved candlelit pumpkins flicker with each eerie twist and turn throughout the neighborhood. Skeletons and ghosts hung from trees and porches, swaying back and forth in the cool, gentle breezes, as red and orange leaves softly fell to the ground. We spoke of ghouls and goblins and stayed away from dark alleys and back yards where we weren’t supposed to go anyway, not to mention houses with no lights, because we knew what THAT meant! The monsters inside would grab us by our arms and take us down into their dank, spider-infested dungeons filled with torture devices, where we’d never, ever be seen again. Or… or… or… maybe, lights out simply meant they weren’t home or didn’t want to be bothered. But we weren’t going to take any chances.

We were on a candy mission. I had a big grocery store shopping bag to fill up. It was brown paper with handles for carrying. There were no ‘plastic or paper?’ options back then. It was paper. Those were the days when milkmen left glass bottles at your doorstep and rabbit ears or rooftop antennas were the best way to watch black & white, round-screen television sets. Color TV? Hahahahaha! We weren’t rich.

For what seemed like hours, we wandered around the neighborhood. People guessed who we were. “Oh, you’re little Dave, Sam & Dottie’s kid.”

Harold wanted to finish the night at his house. It was only fair, since we begain our journey at mine, and I had never been there before. His place was across the street, about five houses up. When you’re only six-years-old, that’s quite a distance, and I wasn’t crazy about venturing too far away from my world; a world that wasn’t very big.

But I was brave and we had candy collection work to do.

Round and round we went. Back and forth, up and down; to the left and to the right, including places we’d never seen. We visited hundreds of homes, or so it seemed. Thousands, maybe! Eventually, we worked our way to his place. It was dark and I remembered what my mother said. We’d been out long enough, we were getting tired, and both of us had plenty of goodies to last a long time. Of utmost importance, Halloween fell on a school night and we needed our sleep.

When we arrived, we walked up the sidewalk and climbed the stairs of his front porch. The porch light was off and it was downright sinister. Pure evil was lurking about. I knew it. I just sensed it…

“Are you sure your mom and dad are home?” I asked. We knocked and, in a snap, the big, dark door swung open. There stood Harold’s father.

“TRICK OR TREAT!” We screamed in unison.

“I want to see a trick,” he responded. A trick? I didn’t know what he was talking about. Saying trick or treat meant that I was going to get candy. That’s all I knew. What was this trick thing about? “When you say trick or treat, I can ask you to do a trick first. Then I give you a treat. Where’s your trick?”

Harold and I gave each other a puzzled look and said, “Huh? Nooooo…???”

“Well, then, I have a trick for you,” and just like that…

His top teeth popped out; far, far out of his mouth and quickly slid back in. WHOA!!!!!!!

I froze dead in my tracks and stared up at him. The glare in his eyes! Then, just like that, he did it again!!!!!!! Those teeth jutted out of his face and wiggled for a second, like they had a mind of their own, before disappearing back inside his mouth.

“AAAAIIIIEEEEE” I let out a blood curdling scream that must have awakened the dead. Today, anyone within hearing range would have called 911 on that house because of the panic in my voice. I turned to run, but, quickly, Harold’s mother appeared from another room. In a snap, she came out to comfort me.

“Did you see what he did? He… he… he…”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, as she wrapped her arms around me. Whatever his name was, she sure did raise her voice at him. She knew exactly what happened. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

Meanwhile, I could see that the guy was rolling on the floor, laughing like crazy. I didn’t know what to do, but I wanted to get away from there fast while she explained what it was. “When people’s teeth go bad, the dentist pulls them out. He gives you new ones so you can chew your food and have a nice smile. They come out of your mouth and you put them back in where your teeth used to be.” 

Huh? I had no concept whatsoever of false teeth.

She turned to him and demanded an apology. I was trying to shake off the fright and sort it all out. Why did a grown not have any real teeth? 

I doubt he ever said I’m sorry. I’m sure he continued to laugh. I’m certain I was still feeling the trauma. She must have known from the look on my face. “I’ll walk you home, Dave.”

There was no way I was going to walk home alone, trembling — not after that! When I got to my door, she explained the horror story to my mother. Maybe I sensed a “Snicker” or two.

§

All my life, I brushed my teeth in the morning and before bed, especially after eating candy bars. I remember telling my mother that I would never set foot in Harold’s house again. As a matter of fact, when I looked up the street toward his place, I shuddered and turned away, yet Harold and I remained friends. He assured me he had no idea.

Before the following Halloween, we moved to another town and that was the unfortunate end of our friendship. When I was old enough to understand what false teeth were all about, I wondered how the father of a six-year-old boy could have lost his teeth so young. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. Just maybe… he ate too much candy when he was young and didn’t brush, brush, brush his teeth.

Me Too?

In late August of 1968, I turned 16. Living in Flemington, NJ, the hottest place around was the Weiner King. I really wanted to get my first job there. No other place was like “The King.” It was the center of the known universe. One Saturday afternoon, a week or so after my birthday - I was “of age” now - my mother drove up to the front, I got out and went inside to ask the owner if he would hire me. He asked a few questions, jotted down my information, and said he’d get back to me if an opening came up. I made sure I was dressed nicely.

Some time the following week, the phone rang and the rest is history. September, 1968. I remember, on my first day, I wore a tie. Jack Little, the owner, chuckled a bit and told me it wasn’t necessary. What I needed was an apron. Angie Rocco was assigned to train me and I’ll never forget that first day, nor will I ever forget many subsequent days at that job. One stands out in particular, and the news of late has brought it back into the forefront of my mind.

The Weiner King went through several transformations over the years. The first one was a little shack. When I went to work, it was a much larger building. The old shack had been tossed in the back of the parking lot. From the highway, the dining room was on the left. The right side was the waiting area, the front counter, and the kitchen. There were two entrances that faced sideways. Jack had lost the key and we had to run a heavy-duty chain between the two doors at night to lock up. There were two rugs on the floor, too, for customers to wipe their feet as they entered. At the end of the night, someone would have to take each rug outside and shake out the dust and dirt. On nights that I worked, that would be me because I was the “junior executive assistant manager trainee” at the time.

As it was with many summer nights, the crew was a core group of three – Jack, Tom Garefino, and me. Tom was a gruff type of guy with a heart of gold. Some people were kind of afraid of him, but I knew better. A retired Army M. Sgt., he was a great man and full of knowledge.

Late one evening, it was coming up on closing time. Jack never refused a customer as long as those grills were on. Besides, we weren’t closed. The front of the restaurant, where the waiting area was, was made up entirely of glass panes. I stood at the front counter when a red Fiat Spider rolled up. (Dang! We’re never going to close, I thought.) The convertible top was down. Two guys came in and I took their order. When they picked up their food, they sat quietly at a front table. I’d say they were in their thirties. Meanwhile, Jack, Tom, and I started the process of cleaning up – getting ready to close.

At some point, I picked up one of the rugs and proceeded to shake it outside one of the doors. It was near the Fiat, but far enough away to not get it dirty. One of the two gentlemen came outside, stood next to me, and began asking questions. How old are you? How often do you work? Is that guy your father? What time do you get off? You know, questions like that. Then, BAM! The proposition…

“I just got out of prison. I’m a professional photographer and I want to take pictures of you. We have a place not too far from here with a studio and small stage. We have lots of wine and we’d like to take nude photographs of you.”

I was uncomfortable right from the start, but this was WAY too much. I kept turning around and looking at Jack and Tom for help. They were leaning on the front counter paying close attention, smiling at me. I needed help! Anyone in their right mind could see the look of panic in my face. Why didn’t they rush out to help me?

“No! No! No! I’m not like that. I like girls. I don’t want my picture taken…” And on it went until… until… until… I turned around and THERE HE WAS, the other guy! Outside the door. It was as if he was reading his friend’s lips.

He knew what had transpired. “Please come with us. We promise we won’t hurt you. We’ll bring you back.”

“Noooooo!” I firmly responded, opening the door and rushing back inside. “Where were you? I needed your help!”

This thin, blond, 16-year-old boy was scared poopless.

There they were, Jack and Tom, getting a big kick out of it. My heart was racing as they snickered away. “Don’t worry, Dave, we were right here. We weren’t going to let those guys do anything to you. We were watching and would have been over this counter and out the door in a flash.”

That was reassuring, but, fortunately, I was smart. I resisted. I had help. What would have happened had I been alone?

You learn a lot when you talk to people

The other day, I stood in line at the Publix deli, waiting to order their special sub of the week. Meatball. Ah, yes, a meatball sub with tomato sauce, spinach, onions, black olives, and melted parmesan and provolone cheeses. (It was delicious!)

A young gentleman was standing to my right, just in front of me. Of course, if you know me, you know I’m very personable, so I struck up a conversation. I’d guess he was in his mid-20s or so. Maybe 30. Strapping and good looking, he was very approachable and friendly. I noticed that, although he spoke perfect English, he had a distinct accent. To me, it sounded German. Instead of saying, “You’re not from around these here parts, are you, punk?” I politely mentioned what I had noticed and asked him if he was German.

“No, I’m from Hungary, but spent five years in Munich. That was a very good guess. I kind of do have a bit of a German accent, so my friends tell me. You’re not really wrong.”

I told him my niece and former sister-in-law live in Berlin. He asked if I’d ever been there. I said no, but I’d love to visit some time. As a matter of fact, I’d enjoy going to Hungary, too. All over Europe. Of course, curiosity took hold, and that included a pinch of my journalistic penchant to ask questions, so one thing led to another. For sure, I tried not to load the questions. I didn’t blurt them out without any semblance of segue. I asked them as part of the natural conversational flow. One thing had to lead to another. Mostly, I didn’t want to push anything.

According to domestic media reports from almost everywhere, I wondered how we’re perceived around the world. “What do you think of America over there? Aren’t we kind of like the laughing-stock of Europe? You know, Trump and all?”

His facial expression suddenly turned from amiable to slightly serious. “No, not at all. America is America and we love it. Everybody loves America. We don’t pay attention to that kind of stuff.”

Please note that I made no attempt to sway his responses in any way. “Even in Germany? I mean, I can understand Hungary. but that’s only one country?”

“No, Germany, too. We have our own problems and America’s problems? It’s not something we care so much about. Life goes on.”

Clearly, I thought, this is not the picture our media are painting.  Granted, he might have been what we would consider “a conservative” in this country. Or, maybe not. I didn’t know. I didn’t address his personal political views at all, and on his own, he brought up something else.

“You know, Hungary built a wall to keep the immigrants out.” I knew which immigrants he meant.

“Do you mean, to keep them from settling in your country?”

“No, they can’t do that. They can’t settle in Hungary. It’s to keep them from passing through our country.” Interesting, because it’s part of the European Union.

“Do you mean, on their way to Germany?”

“Yes.”

I kind of got the impression that there are lots of nationalists in Hungary, because he said that’s precisely what the country wanted to do. They didn’t want trouble following them like other parts of Europe. The problems you and I don’t usually get to read about or watch on the news.

“Germany has a problem with many of those immigrants. A lot of German tourists and tourists from other European countries vacation in Hungary and they thank us profusely because they feel very safe. They don’t have to fear immigrants. It’s a real concern.”

Hmmm… “Do you get many American tourists?”

“Oh, yes, lots of them.”

“Do they ever discuss problems like that?”

“No, not at all. They just come to enjoy themselves.”

“Oh, I’d love to visit. It’s part of ‘Old Europe.’ It’s rich in history.”

“You know, as part of the European Union, we weren’t really allowed to build a wall, but we did it anyway because we are still our own country. Everyone that visits thanks us for doing it because,” and he reiterated, “they feel safe.”

I looked at this as but one man’s position, but I seriously doubted (and still doubt) he’s alone. I had time for one final thought.

“Do you think that Merkel and the other leaders talk about Trump and all, but the people don’t listen to them?”

“Yes, that’s the way it works. They are political. They pontificate. We are simply people.”

And so it went. It was a fascinating conversation that I found to be a bit disturbing. What bothered me most about it was that we’ll never hear this perspective from America’s MSM, our very own mainstream media. If you want to know the truth, you need to talk to people. They really do love America.

ROLLIN' DOWN ROUTE NINETY-ONE

The Las Vegas incident has been eating away at me all week. It affected me tremendously. I’m attached to the reality of it, yet I feel detached from humanity. There’s so much conflict going on in this country and my mind sometimes wants to explode.

§

Some people age gracefully. Others do not. They get plastic surgery, they go on anti-aging diets, or they buy creams and lotions to stay as eternally young as possible. Perhaps, all of the above. I know that I had trouble turning 65 this year. It was as if I lost my youth in one fell swoop and became the old, grandfatherly-type guy that my grandfathers actually were. No longer could I pretend that younger women looked at me as a person of interest and, by that, I mean a man about town. I had to admit that my sporting days were behind me and felt compelled to act the part. What was it about 65? I can’t put my finger on it, really, but it hit me. For certain, I got over it after a month, everything went back to normal, and life continues to go on. Fortunately for me, that proverbial midlife crisis hit early, like in my late thirties, and I must say I’m glad I got over that, too.

Do you remember when you were young and had visions of growing up to be a police officer, a fire fighter or even president? Please take note that I didn’t write policeman or fireman, although I am a MAN. That could be one small, yet significant part of the problem today. Everything has to be packaged just right in the realm of political correctness. DON’T SAY THIS! DON’T SAY THAT! I am a man, yet I cannot publicly call myself one because it could show insensitivity to the remainder of the myriad sexes the world should now recognize. It’s frustrating. Maybe that was part of Stephen Paddock’s problem. He couldn’t handle the world as it rapidly changed all around him… or… maybe it wasn’t morphing fast enough. No one knows what caused him to explode inside and become the American monster madman serial killer of all time. Yes, he was a serial killer, not a domestic terrorist because terrorists always have a motive. In Paddock’s case? All we can do is make assumptions.

That’s what I’m going to do, but I’m going to base it on what little we do know and what I think.

One of the most interesting aspects of public digging is how much the media and public get wrong. A good example of this originated from the release of Paddock’s photo with his eyes closed. A few days later, another one emerged. He was much thinner. The mind plays tricks because a lot of people assumed he lost weight prior to the shooting, raising questions like, why didn’t anyone notice? It should have been a sign that something was wrong. Blame it on those around him. What they didn’t know was that it was simply an older photo of him. A media release timeline does not reflect the true timeline. In fact, his girlfriend, Marilou Danley, stated that he had gained weight of late. This was the sort of thing I saw time and time again during the Casey Anthony case. Assuming this and assuming that without factual information. Speculation, assumption, and confusion.

Paddock was not affiliated with the Republican or Democratic party. He was not a registered voter in his home state of Nevada, nor was he in Florida, when he maintained a home there. Therefore, we can’t really base a motive on anything political. Sadly, many people are under the impression that he shot into that crowd because they were white, conservative, Republican, Trumpians. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is a misconception the media love to jump on. Some even announced their pleasure in it. Had it been a hip hop concert instead, with black, liberal, Democratic, Clintonians – it would have been the same outcome, but pure racism would have been plastered all over the news, everywhere, and that would have been the one-and-only motive. Of course, ISIS is claiming him, too, and I’m not buying into that one, either. I think he chose white people because he didn’t want to spark a national debate about race.

It had to be about him. Mandalay Bay gave him the best vantage point and it was the perfect venue to shoot up.

I’m not a gun owner. Never was, never will be. Some, you don’t know they own one. Others, you can easily tell. Or assume. With Paddock, would anyone have outwardly known? I seriously doubt it. He seemed like a safe, sane bet. Did he act like he had a chip on his shoulder? I doubt that, too, although local detectives and federal agents are interviewing everyone he interacted with from childhood on. Obviously, something literally snapped inside of his mind. When? What began as a small gun collection eventually turned into an arsenal. As for his Filipino girlfriend, they tend to be quite subserviant. It’s their culture. (Please don’t attack me for saying it.) I believe his gun rooms were completely off-limits to her and just about everyone else but his avid gun collecting friends, if he had any friends at all. My guess would be no. He was a sociable enough guy, but not emotionally attached to anyone other than his girlfriend and family. To be honest, I think he looked at his girlfriend as furniture, but he treated her right.

I’m going to make my own guess at what made him do it. Clearly, his mind changed over time, and barring any physical imperfections, like a brain tumor, I think it’s something like this…

No one wants to get old. I know some people handle it better. If something were miserably eating away at me, would I share it with anyone? No. Hell no! One of the major complaints women make about men is that they don’t open up enough. So, here I am, festering away inside, until I can’t handle it any longer. It’s been building and building in the depths of my mind. It’s my problem and has nothing to do with who or what my father was. That’s part of the problem. It doesn’t but it does. I hated my father, yet he’s still a part of me. Most wanted. Post Office posters. Bad man. Screw him. I can do better, and I have. I’ve made it in the world. Wealth. Success. Women. I’ve got it all.

But I don’t. I’m going to be 65 next April and I haven’t been able to do the one thing my father succeeded at. I haven’t made a name for myself.

My father was a gambler down in Georgia
He wound up on the wrong end of a gun
And I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus
Rollin’ down highway forty-one

Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man
Tryin’ to make a livin’ and doin’ the best I can
And when it’s time for leavin’
I hope you’ll understand
That I was born a ramblin’ man

Talk about a major midlife crisis, he was seen in the company of young prostitutes just before his murder spree. How long has that been going on? We don’t know yet, but a midlife crisis, on average, can come any time between the ages of 45-64. It’s a phenomenon brought about by not wanting to accept growing age and mortality. It could be spurred by possible shortcomings of accomplishments. Easily, it could produce feelings of depression and anxiety. It beckons a change in the status quo. He got that.

Undoubtedly, creepy Stephen Craig Paddock wanted to make a name for himself. He would leapfrog his father into infamy. Why he chose to do it that way is beyond comprehension. If this alone explains it, I can understand why he purposely chose not to offer up any clues. It was his own selfish business and no one else’s. He could justify it because his mony was going to go to his victims. After all, he couldn’t take it with him. And as we all know, it sure didn’t buy him happiness.