By Michael Angier
There's an old adage that goes like this: to avoid criticism, say nothing, do nothing, be nothing. If you want to get ahead in the world, you'll have to do all three. So you should expect to be criticized.
The key is to discern what is helpful criticism (most isn't) and what you need to shrug off.
The ability to be unflappable in the face of criticism requires a healthy self esteem, self confidence and a tough outer shell. I call it having a thick skin and a soft heart. The trick is to never mix up the two.
If you're never being criticized, judged or disparaged in any way, you're likely not doing all that much and you probably need to move up a few notches on the "Go-for-it-Scale'.
All criticism should be listened to, but not all of it is valid.
A friend of mine used to say, "If one person calls you a horse, well that's just an opinion. If two people call you a horse, you may want to stop and think about it. If three people call you a horse, you may want to start shopping for a saddle."
Action Point: If you trust the source-or you're getting the same criticism from several people-consider the validity and take corrective action when it's warranted. If it's not, thank the person for sharing, and forget about it.
Recognize that everyone has their opinion and that you don't always have to defend yours. "Let the dogs bark; the caravan moves on."
Michael Angier, founder of SuccessNet.org, recently released the New SuccessNet Resource Book--the Top Must-Have Tools, Products, Services and Resources for Running Your Business Effectively
This $27 eBook can be yours now at no-cost. And most of the over 100 resources are FREE to access and use.
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Article Source: Accepting Criticism
==========
Accepting Criticism and the Law of Attraction
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Big Red Dog that Owned Me
In the mid 1950's, the diocese of Mobile deicded that a new parish was needed in the Warrington, Florida area. It would be located between Barrancas Avenue and Bayshore Drive, just a few blocks west of the old Bayou Chico bridge, which no longer exists.
A small, snuff-taking priest named Father Jules Keating was assigned to the new parish, St. Thomas More, and took up residence in the new rectory. Until its restoration and revival as a rectory, the dilapidated old home had been the neighborhood "haunted house". It took a brave soul to enter within its walls, and we normally contented ourselves with chucking rocks through the few shards of glass which hung stubbornly in the windows.
Outside the back door was a pile of sheetrock which someone had gutted out of the building, and on this pile grew some of the biggest, juiciest blackberries ever shared by man, boy, and bird.
Father Keating had one worldly possession of which he was inordinately fond...a pedigree Irish Setter bitch named Helen, I believe. Shortly after arrival, she gave birth to a litter of little red fur balls. Two died and were given appropriate burials with all rites due the adopted offspring of a Catholic priest of the Irish persuasion.
Father Keating once asked my mother if she wanted one of the puppies, to which she replied in an emphatically negative manner.
"That's funny," he said, "Both your husband and your son told me that your family wanted one!"
In accordance with my mother's wishes, all the puppies were allotted to other members of the parish, much to my chagrin. However, a few months later, Lt. Commander Ken Lake, one of the recipients, got orders transferring him to Norfolk, VA. He had a chance to take a look at the quarters he and his family would be occupying and determined that he w0uld have to find a home for the puppy he had gotten from Father Keating.
The "puppy" was now several months old and was a big, gangly, happy-go-lucky full blooded Irish Setter named, "Sean".
Sean and I grew up together, and, unfortunately, I was in a dormitory at Florida State University when he finally died.
For many years, he and I wandered the beach near to our home. He was curious about everything. He used to wade out into Pensacola Bay and walk around with his head under water. I finally waded out beside him one day and learned that he was following crabs who were quite incensed at this canine intrusion into their environment.
Sean was Irish through and through. He was beautiful, and he made Big Red look like a skinny punk dog. One day when some scenes from "Wings of Eagles", with John Wayne, were being shot down Bayshore Drive. Cary's Lane, where I lived, was the first major road to Bayshore Drive from Barrancas Avenue, and cars came down to the corner where our house stood, and turned onto Bayshore all day long.
One of the cars which stopped at the corner was a big black limo, and a big man rolled the window down and spoke to Sean for a moment. My mother said the man looked a little like John Wayne. Who knows. Everybody seemed to have a moment for Sean.
The night he died, I was in Tallahassee at Florida State University, and my father was in the hospital. My mother called Father Keating to see if he could send the janitor down to help bury Sean where he lay. The janitor was out that day, but Father Keating said he would get it taken care of. My mother had errands to run, and when she returned, Father Keating had dug a hole in the corner of the yard to hold both him and Sean.
They rolled the body into the hole, and Mom asked if the priest was going to say a prayer for the dog. He replied, "No. I'm going to say a prayer for you. You need it more than he does."
A small, snuff-taking priest named Father Jules Keating was assigned to the new parish, St. Thomas More, and took up residence in the new rectory. Until its restoration and revival as a rectory, the dilapidated old home had been the neighborhood "haunted house". It took a brave soul to enter within its walls, and we normally contented ourselves with chucking rocks through the few shards of glass which hung stubbornly in the windows.
Outside the back door was a pile of sheetrock which someone had gutted out of the building, and on this pile grew some of the biggest, juiciest blackberries ever shared by man, boy, and bird.
Father Keating had one worldly possession of which he was inordinately fond...a pedigree Irish Setter bitch named Helen, I believe. Shortly after arrival, she gave birth to a litter of little red fur balls. Two died and were given appropriate burials with all rites due the adopted offspring of a Catholic priest of the Irish persuasion.
Father Keating once asked my mother if she wanted one of the puppies, to which she replied in an emphatically negative manner.
"That's funny," he said, "Both your husband and your son told me that your family wanted one!"
In accordance with my mother's wishes, all the puppies were allotted to other members of the parish, much to my chagrin. However, a few months later, Lt. Commander Ken Lake, one of the recipients, got orders transferring him to Norfolk, VA. He had a chance to take a look at the quarters he and his family would be occupying and determined that he w0uld have to find a home for the puppy he had gotten from Father Keating.
The "puppy" was now several months old and was a big, gangly, happy-go-lucky full blooded Irish Setter named, "Sean".
Sean and I grew up together, and, unfortunately, I was in a dormitory at Florida State University when he finally died.
For many years, he and I wandered the beach near to our home. He was curious about everything. He used to wade out into Pensacola Bay and walk around with his head under water. I finally waded out beside him one day and learned that he was following crabs who were quite incensed at this canine intrusion into their environment.
Sean was Irish through and through. He was beautiful, and he made Big Red look like a skinny punk dog. One day when some scenes from "Wings of Eagles", with John Wayne, were being shot down Bayshore Drive. Cary's Lane, where I lived, was the first major road to Bayshore Drive from Barrancas Avenue, and cars came down to the corner where our house stood, and turned onto Bayshore all day long.
One of the cars which stopped at the corner was a big black limo, and a big man rolled the window down and spoke to Sean for a moment. My mother said the man looked a little like John Wayne. Who knows. Everybody seemed to have a moment for Sean.
The night he died, I was in Tallahassee at Florida State University, and my father was in the hospital. My mother called Father Keating to see if he could send the janitor down to help bury Sean where he lay. The janitor was out that day, but Father Keating said he would get it taken care of. My mother had errands to run, and when she returned, Father Keating had dug a hole in the corner of the yard to hold both him and Sean.
They rolled the body into the hole, and Mom asked if the priest was going to say a prayer for the dog. He replied, "No. I'm going to say a prayer for you. You need it more than he does."
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Beach Bum in Training
I grew up in a house at the corner of Cary's Lane and Bayshore Drive in Warrington, now West Pensacola, Florida. Pensacola Bay was only a couple of hundred yards away.
For all my boyhood years, I had full run of the beach and the adjoining woods. I was Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn all in one. No one lived between me and the water except one man and his wife in one house, and he didn't care.
I had a dozen different ways through the woods and to the water, and I knew a few dozen trails and paths within.
The best and biggest blackberries in Pensacola grew in a huge tangle just a few yards from the water's edge. Mullet jumped and the occasional porpoise rolled. Huge mahogany logs would break free of the rafts of logs being towed from ships at anchor to the lumber company which lay off the Bayou Chico.
My paper route lay by the water, and the last paper I delivered each morning was to the man who tended the drawbridge over the Bayou. The bridge is now gone, as is the railroad bridge which used to allow the train to go out to the Pensacola Naval Air Station once a day.
When last I was in Pensacola, there were wall-to-wall homes on the beach, and the woods were gone. My boyhood home has been remodeled, and a high fence prevents me from even seeing the window of what used to be my bedroom.
All my friends are gone and the beaches all have high-rises on them. I cannot even find the spot at the Santa Rosa Island end of the bridge over the sound where my father hung his cast net on a sunken boat.
Yet, I still long to wander. The army sent me to Europe and across the country. My job as a truck driver allowed me to cross and criss-cross the country many times. For the moment, I am tied to a reality, but someday, I will walk the beach again, if only in my mind, and ride the trees in the eye of the hurricane.
For all my boyhood years, I had full run of the beach and the adjoining woods. I was Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn all in one. No one lived between me and the water except one man and his wife in one house, and he didn't care.
I had a dozen different ways through the woods and to the water, and I knew a few dozen trails and paths within.
The best and biggest blackberries in Pensacola grew in a huge tangle just a few yards from the water's edge. Mullet jumped and the occasional porpoise rolled. Huge mahogany logs would break free of the rafts of logs being towed from ships at anchor to the lumber company which lay off the Bayou Chico.
My paper route lay by the water, and the last paper I delivered each morning was to the man who tended the drawbridge over the Bayou. The bridge is now gone, as is the railroad bridge which used to allow the train to go out to the Pensacola Naval Air Station once a day.
When last I was in Pensacola, there were wall-to-wall homes on the beach, and the woods were gone. My boyhood home has been remodeled, and a high fence prevents me from even seeing the window of what used to be my bedroom.
All my friends are gone and the beaches all have high-rises on them. I cannot even find the spot at the Santa Rosa Island end of the bridge over the sound where my father hung his cast net on a sunken boat.
Yet, I still long to wander. The army sent me to Europe and across the country. My job as a truck driver allowed me to cross and criss-cross the country many times. For the moment, I am tied to a reality, but someday, I will walk the beach again, if only in my mind, and ride the trees in the eye of the hurricane.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
The Self-Made Millionaire
People who "become" millionaires, other than those who win the lottery or have a rich relative die, usually follow some pretty simple models. In Who Makes a Self Made Millionaire, I discuss this subject.
Suggested Reading
The Millionaire Next Door
Rich Dad Poor Dad: What the Rich Teach Their Kids About Money-That the Poor and the Middle Class Do Not!
The Richest Man in Babylon: Now Revised and Updated for the 21st Century
Suggested Reading
The Millionaire Next Door
Rich Dad Poor Dad: What the Rich Teach Their Kids About Money-That the Poor and the Middle Class Do Not!
The Richest Man in Babylon: Now Revised and Updated for the 21st Century
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Andy Griffith Tomorrow
My wife has taped (DVR'd) "No Time for Sergeants
" with Andy Griffith
. I know what I'll be watching tomorrow.
" with Andy Griffith. I know what I'll be watching tomorrow.
Monday, June 21, 2010
My Assault on the British Empire
In the 1980's, I was stationed in Karlsruhe, West Germany. It was an easy drive into France, and my wife of the time and I often dragged the kids over there, usually to see a small town whose main attraction was its pottery.
One day, we realized that it was not that far to drive through France to Calais, and from there to London. I have loved English literature with a passion since high school, and was also a dyed-in-the-wool Sherlock Holmes fan as well.
Having once had the opportunity to attend a presentation by Basil Rathbone had helped cement that link. Someday, I'll comment on that day. It's worth it.
However, back to 1981+/-.
In order to get a longer visit in, we decided to leave on a Friday after I got off work. After all, it was not that far from Karlsruhe to Calais...at least in our minds. Therefore, on Friday evening, we loaded the kids in the little white Opal Kadett and headed out.
The plan was to drive through the night, northwest through the city of Saarbrucken in France and on to Calais. The problem was that I got confused and headed southwest towards Strasbourg instead. The fact that Strasbourg was also in France didn't help much when we finally figured we (I) had been driving the wrong way for several hours.
We picked the fastest route we could find and headed northwest. At first, we made good time on the French version of the Autobahn or our Interstate system. After a while, however, we came to realize that every now and then, the French expected you to pay a toll for using their highways!
We only had a few Francs with us, and these began to rapidly diminish. To make them disappear faster, I had to buy gas at a Shell filling station in the middle of the night. The station was closed, but the owner lived in the building and I was able to awaken him and somehow informed him of my plight, and he sold me some petrol.
I figured out that you could get off the toll road from time to time and drive through small French villages and get back on for long stretches to save money. Going through these villages at night was like going back in time.
We arrived in Calais just barely in time to catch our ferry to Dover.
I had read Caesar's Gallic Commentaries in Latin class in high school, and was historically impressed at the fact that the ferry stopped to turn around in sight of Dover's cliffs. I could believe that I was seeing almost the same sight that Julius Caesar had seen so many centuries before, and from almost the same spot in the English Channel.
The drive on the motorway from Dover to London was relatively uneventful, and I even got used to driving on the left...until we exited into London itself!!!
Every brain cell involved in the left lane vs. right lane problem quit and was not seen again until we were back on the Continent.
We did not know where we were going to stay in London (with three kids), and finances were very limited. After driving around long enough to nearly cause a dozen accidents (sorry...American), I finally parked the car in a garage under Westminster Abbey.
We walked around for a while and saw Big Ben and Trafalgar Square, but we were hungry (I was also exhausted as I had driven all night), and we went into a sandwich shop, possibly on Tothill Street. The proprieter let us know that there was a small tourist hotel run by the Salvation Army a few blocks away which was clean and neat and very reasonable.
The hotel was exactly what we were looking for, and I walked back to Westminster Abbey to claim the car and drive around to the hotel.
Ever driven in London? Forget the left-hand thing. All streets had once been cart tracks or cattle trails, and apparently none of the cows or their drovers had ever been to my hotel. Eventually, I gave up, parked the car back under Westminster Abbey again and carried the 200 lbs of luggage the three-quarters of a mile to the hotel...where I collapsed.
The next morning, after a pretty good English breakfast, included in the price of the room, of course, we gathered our courage about us, walked the mile-and-a-half back to Westminster Abbey, reclaimed the car, and set out to see the city.
After about an hour of driving and with absolutely NO IDEA of where we were on the map...or even how to get back to Westminster Abbey, we asked a London Bobby for assistance.
Really, they out to require that cops speak English in that country!!
We drove on as lost as ever, but eventually ran into a road (and nearly several other drivers) which we recognized. We drove in front of Buckingham Palace and I made a left turn into oncoming traffic...for the fourteenth time.
Once all the shouting and cursing subsided, I carried the car on my back to the parking garage at Westminster Abbey where it stayed until our departure.
We walked along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and walked over to Buckingham Palace where we were ripped off by a con man, and a lovely gentleman he was. We wandered up Baker Street, past 221B, the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes. We visited Madame Tussauds Wax Museum and a department store near Piccadilly Circus.
Finally, the morning of departure came.
Bravely, I walked the two miles back to Westminster Abbey to fetch the car and pick up the luggage and the family at the hotel. You know, I think I actually saw it, the hotel, down a street as I wandered cursing and muttering to myself up and down streets which never reached MY destination.
Finally, in defeat, I parked the brave little Opal Kadett under Westmister Abbey and walked the three miles to the hotel and carried the 400 lbs of luggage back to the car.
We only got lost two or three times and only had one or two near fatal crashes on the way back to Dover. Being once again in France, where I did not speak the language, I felt at home because I could at least drive on the "right" side of the road without endangering life and limb of all concerned.
The trip back to Karlsruhe was uneventful and I am glad that I went. My first trip to London is still one of the high points of my life and my experiences there inspired me to write a poem.
In London a driver,
Must have endurance,
Insanity in his family,
And lots of insurance.
Donovan Baldwin
One day, we realized that it was not that far to drive through France to Calais, and from there to London. I have loved English literature with a passion since high school, and was also a dyed-in-the-wool Sherlock Holmes fan as well.
Having once had the opportunity to attend a presentation by Basil Rathbone had helped cement that link. Someday, I'll comment on that day. It's worth it.
However, back to 1981+/-.
In order to get a longer visit in, we decided to leave on a Friday after I got off work. After all, it was not that far from Karlsruhe to Calais...at least in our minds. Therefore, on Friday evening, we loaded the kids in the little white Opal Kadett and headed out.
The plan was to drive through the night, northwest through the city of Saarbrucken in France and on to Calais. The problem was that I got confused and headed southwest towards Strasbourg instead. The fact that Strasbourg was also in France didn't help much when we finally figured we (I) had been driving the wrong way for several hours.
We picked the fastest route we could find and headed northwest. At first, we made good time on the French version of the Autobahn or our Interstate system. After a while, however, we came to realize that every now and then, the French expected you to pay a toll for using their highways!
We only had a few Francs with us, and these began to rapidly diminish. To make them disappear faster, I had to buy gas at a Shell filling station in the middle of the night. The station was closed, but the owner lived in the building and I was able to awaken him and somehow informed him of my plight, and he sold me some petrol.
I figured out that you could get off the toll road from time to time and drive through small French villages and get back on for long stretches to save money. Going through these villages at night was like going back in time.
We arrived in Calais just barely in time to catch our ferry to Dover.
I had read Caesar's Gallic Commentaries in Latin class in high school, and was historically impressed at the fact that the ferry stopped to turn around in sight of Dover's cliffs. I could believe that I was seeing almost the same sight that Julius Caesar had seen so many centuries before, and from almost the same spot in the English Channel.
The drive on the motorway from Dover to London was relatively uneventful, and I even got used to driving on the left...until we exited into London itself!!!
Every brain cell involved in the left lane vs. right lane problem quit and was not seen again until we were back on the Continent.
We did not know where we were going to stay in London (with three kids), and finances were very limited. After driving around long enough to nearly cause a dozen accidents (sorry...American), I finally parked the car in a garage under Westminster Abbey.
We walked around for a while and saw Big Ben and Trafalgar Square, but we were hungry (I was also exhausted as I had driven all night), and we went into a sandwich shop, possibly on Tothill Street. The proprieter let us know that there was a small tourist hotel run by the Salvation Army a few blocks away which was clean and neat and very reasonable.
The hotel was exactly what we were looking for, and I walked back to Westminster Abbey to claim the car and drive around to the hotel.
Ever driven in London? Forget the left-hand thing. All streets had once been cart tracks or cattle trails, and apparently none of the cows or their drovers had ever been to my hotel. Eventually, I gave up, parked the car back under Westminster Abbey again and carried the 200 lbs of luggage the three-quarters of a mile to the hotel...where I collapsed.
The next morning, after a pretty good English breakfast, included in the price of the room, of course, we gathered our courage about us, walked the mile-and-a-half back to Westminster Abbey, reclaimed the car, and set out to see the city.
After about an hour of driving and with absolutely NO IDEA of where we were on the map...or even how to get back to Westminster Abbey, we asked a London Bobby for assistance.
Really, they out to require that cops speak English in that country!!
We drove on as lost as ever, but eventually ran into a road (and nearly several other drivers) which we recognized. We drove in front of Buckingham Palace and I made a left turn into oncoming traffic...for the fourteenth time.
Once all the shouting and cursing subsided, I carried the car on my back to the parking garage at Westminster Abbey where it stayed until our departure.
We walked along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and walked over to Buckingham Palace where we were ripped off by a con man, and a lovely gentleman he was. We wandered up Baker Street, past 221B, the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes. We visited Madame Tussauds Wax Museum and a department store near Piccadilly Circus.
Finally, the morning of departure came.
Bravely, I walked the two miles back to Westminster Abbey to fetch the car and pick up the luggage and the family at the hotel. You know, I think I actually saw it, the hotel, down a street as I wandered cursing and muttering to myself up and down streets which never reached MY destination.
Finally, in defeat, I parked the brave little Opal Kadett under Westmister Abbey and walked the three miles to the hotel and carried the 400 lbs of luggage back to the car.
We only got lost two or three times and only had one or two near fatal crashes on the way back to Dover. Being once again in France, where I did not speak the language, I felt at home because I could at least drive on the "right" side of the road without endangering life and limb of all concerned.
The trip back to Karlsruhe was uneventful and I am glad that I went. My first trip to London is still one of the high points of my life and my experiences there inspired me to write a poem.
In London a driver,
Must have endurance,
Insanity in his family,
And lots of insurance.
Donovan Baldwin
Monday, June 14, 2010
A Hick in 'Frisco
It was 1966 and, after two months of army basic training at Fort Jackson, SC, I was sent to heaven. Actually, Monterey, California, which remains one of my favorite places on earth to this day.
There I was, a kid from the sticks turned loose in Babylon!
Having read ever issue of the teenage boy's version of Boys Life, i.e. Playboy, I was aware of the existence of a hedonistic, modern version of Sodom and Gommorah a few miles north of where I found myself. Even the words which formed its name conjured up dreams of freedom...which, of course, included free sex!!!
After all, the topless craze, and the hippie craze, was in full bloom right there in San Francisco.
"Are You Goin' to San Francisco", was a popular song. All the big names seemed either to be from there or appeared to consider the city by "the bay" some sort of Mecca for fun, expansion of one's self, and free love.
Sure, there were all kinds of things to see in San Francisco, Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, Chinatown...the list seemed endless. However, for a hormone ridden kid from nowhere, Pensacola, Florida, there was only one place to go...
NORTH BEACH!!!
That's where the topless bars were. That's where the women performed, the women I had already seen bare breasted in the pages of Playboy.
I already knew the names of the clubs; Big Al's, The Condor Club, and Off Broadway. I also knew the names of some of the women who performed there...women who not only had their naked pictures shown in Playboy, but who had been written about in Time, Newsweek, and other, more respectable publications.
Hey! I was a kid whose biggest moments had been shaking hands with Doc and Kitty from Gunsmoke (Milburn Stone and Amanda Blake), and watching live performances by Ace Cannon and the New Christy Mintrels. My sexual experience was a little slap-and-tickle with a couple of girl friends. I had seen New York City, thanks to my sister and brother-in-law, who lived on Long Island, and driven past the hotel in Manhattan where the Beatles were staying.
I was ready for some real life adventure!!!
My mom had sent me some of my clothes, including the ghastly, brown, hick-from-the-sticks, three-piece suit off the rack at Sears on Palafox in Pensacola. Now, thinking back on that suit, I am reminded of Red Skelton's character, Clem Kadiddlehopper.
However, in those days, I thought that suit portrayed a worldly, sophisticated, individual...somewhat like the Simon Templar (The Saint) character I had been reading about for years.
Let's not even mentio the basic training buzz cut which was still growing out when I finally took the Greyhound (got that...sophisticated guy, three piece hick suit, buzz cut, greyhound bus), and headed for San Francisco.
I did get to see the Golden Gate Bridge, and I found a hotel room near Chinatown and took a walk through that famous area, but I was waiting for the night.
That night, wearing my heavy brown wool suit of armor, and carrying a few bucks, which rapidly disappeared as "covers" and "minimums" were met, I made my way through Sodom, excuse me, San Francisco, and turned dreams into reality...which, as usual, did not match the dreams.
Oh, I got to watch Yvonne D'Angers' act (term used loosely) at Off Broadway, and almost tripped over Carol Doda as she came out of The Condor Club pursued by reporters asking questions. I apologized for almost stepping on her, she smiled, but did not reply. I saw various young (again used loosely) ladies (ditto) in various states of undress undulate entertainingly, or not, and even had a topless shoeshine, which I had seen written up in some magazine or another.
I had no real adventures, other than satisfying a young man's lust for the view of acres of female flesh, and, on the bus ride back to Monterey the next day, I decided that I was glad I had gone, but wouldn't do it again.
================
Thinking of traveling to San Francisco? I have started a small travel website. Click here to check it out.
There I was, a kid from the sticks turned loose in Babylon!
Having read ever issue of the teenage boy's version of Boys Life, i.e. Playboy, I was aware of the existence of a hedonistic, modern version of Sodom and Gommorah a few miles north of where I found myself. Even the words which formed its name conjured up dreams of freedom...which, of course, included free sex!!!
After all, the topless craze, and the hippie craze, was in full bloom right there in San Francisco.
"Are You Goin' to San Francisco", was a popular song. All the big names seemed either to be from there or appeared to consider the city by "the bay" some sort of Mecca for fun, expansion of one's self, and free love.
Sure, there were all kinds of things to see in San Francisco, Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, Chinatown...the list seemed endless. However, for a hormone ridden kid from nowhere, Pensacola, Florida, there was only one place to go...
NORTH BEACH!!!
That's where the topless bars were. That's where the women performed, the women I had already seen bare breasted in the pages of Playboy.
I already knew the names of the clubs; Big Al's, The Condor Club, and Off Broadway. I also knew the names of some of the women who performed there...women who not only had their naked pictures shown in Playboy, but who had been written about in Time, Newsweek, and other, more respectable publications.
Hey! I was a kid whose biggest moments had been shaking hands with Doc and Kitty from Gunsmoke (Milburn Stone and Amanda Blake), and watching live performances by Ace Cannon and the New Christy Mintrels. My sexual experience was a little slap-and-tickle with a couple of girl friends. I had seen New York City, thanks to my sister and brother-in-law, who lived on Long Island, and driven past the hotel in Manhattan where the Beatles were staying.
I was ready for some real life adventure!!!
My mom had sent me some of my clothes, including the ghastly, brown, hick-from-the-sticks, three-piece suit off the rack at Sears on Palafox in Pensacola. Now, thinking back on that suit, I am reminded of Red Skelton's character, Clem Kadiddlehopper.
However, in those days, I thought that suit portrayed a worldly, sophisticated, individual...somewhat like the Simon Templar (The Saint) character I had been reading about for years.
Let's not even mentio the basic training buzz cut which was still growing out when I finally took the Greyhound (got that...sophisticated guy, three piece hick suit, buzz cut, greyhound bus), and headed for San Francisco.
I did get to see the Golden Gate Bridge, and I found a hotel room near Chinatown and took a walk through that famous area, but I was waiting for the night.
That night, wearing my heavy brown wool suit of armor, and carrying a few bucks, which rapidly disappeared as "covers" and "minimums" were met, I made my way through Sodom, excuse me, San Francisco, and turned dreams into reality...which, as usual, did not match the dreams.
Oh, I got to watch Yvonne D'Angers' act (term used loosely) at Off Broadway, and almost tripped over Carol Doda as she came out of The Condor Club pursued by reporters asking questions. I apologized for almost stepping on her, she smiled, but did not reply. I saw various young (again used loosely) ladies (ditto) in various states of undress undulate entertainingly, or not, and even had a topless shoeshine, which I had seen written up in some magazine or another.
I had no real adventures, other than satisfying a young man's lust for the view of acres of female flesh, and, on the bus ride back to Monterey the next day, I decided that I was glad I had gone, but wouldn't do it again.
================
Thinking of traveling to San Francisco? I have started a small travel website. Click here to check it out.
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