tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76481319872482888262024-03-05T06:51:04.652-08:00Restaurant BlogDiogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-16492632885839598712021-04-18T21:34:00.001-07:002021-04-18T21:34:54.722-07:00<div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">MYRTLE BEACH <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXT3tLon0Gc_ctrDfQidn-b2Fo8SjWYyJlPdb7fHm8yTseEzU-AQfzc6ZyuZUlqJkBzoS5JSeBUCZnusDa7FsEP474Mi1Xo5d_cjTjrsqjrrDiF1jhBkG54SOhO5TGBc73z2DVwxJPgk/s2048/rail+sittin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1735" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXT3tLon0Gc_ctrDfQidn-b2Fo8SjWYyJlPdb7fHm8yTseEzU-AQfzc6ZyuZUlqJkBzoS5JSeBUCZnusDa7FsEP474Mi1Xo5d_cjTjrsqjrrDiF1jhBkG54SOhO5TGBc73z2DVwxJPgk/s320/rail+sittin.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrY2wPMxRa3nB4KjvRdhFXPiLOgA-lqgOMSaqmxu-CZ_O4w4490-QiW94OmcAG6H-b7EwQjHCq6LZcaNz-z_YwuLY_KWZ3JQV0C3l8nwU1BQJhDKISNwhVfST15CggkwYhtKdTZi5GZA8/s2048/Nicky+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1356" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrY2wPMxRa3nB4KjvRdhFXPiLOgA-lqgOMSaqmxu-CZ_O4w4490-QiW94OmcAG6H-b7EwQjHCq6LZcaNz-z_YwuLY_KWZ3JQV0C3l8nwU1BQJhDKISNwhVfST15CggkwYhtKdTZi5GZA8/s320/Nicky+3.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjPDosw9m7H5E9PY1uUFkIYAzvb5BO4-5FJO8BscEDAVv81AmO4L5-4Xx2TfaaOTGYWj6Y1gjhAErsyQSoTfqd8bqsCCf1xIO_x_HHNdIOCPh3A9tVpzspAGqNYdtYYds68CcDGMKeQQ/s2048/DT+in+jail+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1335" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjPDosw9m7H5E9PY1uUFkIYAzvb5BO4-5FJO8BscEDAVv81AmO4L5-4Xx2TfaaOTGYWj6Y1gjhAErsyQSoTfqd8bqsCCf1xIO_x_HHNdIOCPh3A9tVpzspAGqNYdtYYds68CcDGMKeQQ/s320/DT+in+jail+copy.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRI0JlVi5s0n1dYyePRL-6-8bH9p1QamyqkvtUZFgTyle42IW4J42moiz2-sLhwH7tbAxheFmSnk1Y54_QETGWze75FsIvE2VsyPyYkkLETbPNnXSIXj2NM-1FAU11bje6Le9fDJUZ_Rk/s2048/dancers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1031" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRI0JlVi5s0n1dYyePRL-6-8bH9p1QamyqkvtUZFgTyle42IW4J42moiz2-sLhwH7tbAxheFmSnk1Y54_QETGWze75FsIvE2VsyPyYkkLETbPNnXSIXj2NM-1FAU11bje6Le9fDJUZ_Rk/s320/dancers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKmpU9QvuSqs-lB_1bLjFsq7nitrGxei92jMuusw87NuuZJkzOPtNAgChx-M1iZwmHiCnj_Uz59KThb0j7clcMvJncAJLRX94PYlZYn2w2daEDTs4YxldmsR6LI47SOlWwEok8wNrGa0/s795/+PAVILION+DANCE+AREA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="795" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKmpU9QvuSqs-lB_1bLjFsq7nitrGxei92jMuusw87NuuZJkzOPtNAgChx-M1iZwmHiCnj_Uz59KThb0j7clcMvJncAJLRX94PYlZYn2w2daEDTs4YxldmsR6LI47SOlWwEok8wNrGa0/s320/+PAVILION+DANCE+AREA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />PAVILION MEMORIES</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Music, boogie and the backbeats of beach life jived like popped collars and pegged pants, rental bathing suits and jock itch. Specially if you grew up a slinky flip from the Myrtle Beach Pavilion, a baseball throw from the Hill and a one-hour Schwinn ride from Atlantic Beach. What Einstein did for fission, Edison did for night and Carver did for the peanut… the Pavilion, the Hill and Atlantic Beach did for southern boogie.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">For most kids our PAVILION was the carney magic of pinball, putt-putt, skinny/fat mirrors, the mysterious and babushka’d fortune teller booth, balloon busts with bent darts, a tap-dancin monkey and the endless quest for a Skeeball cupie doll. It was the sensual banzai of squealy screams from Roller Coaster and Round-Up riders, the dangerous clack of meshing gears, the whump of bumper cars and a bouquet of memory stapled smells… Popcorn poppin, cotton candy spun into webs of edible silk, burgers bein spatula’d, butterized corn on the cob, donuts drippin rivulets of hot grease, salty fries bein catsup’d and vinegar’d, the sweet metallic taste of electric in your mouth from the bumper cars and the nasal burn of spent ammo from the .22 </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">rifle booth with the bent sights.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">But the powdered sugar on this giant summer cupcake was always the sacred sticky of Atlantic salt, the hand in hand barefoot beach stroll and oh-so-sweet moonlit first kisses with baby-oiled, big-eyed girls in oh-so-tight britches.</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">And for a cultish few the forbidden race music at the Pavilion with a delicious backbeat and sinful dancin.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">The Pavilion dance area wutn’t zackly Roseland. Just a loafer landing strip of sole-worn concrete pierced with a 60’ flag-flappin flagpole, overlooking the endless Atlantic. Don’t sound like much, but come sundown this ballroom of sun-baked concrete garnished with that 200-Selection Wurlitzer was the Oz of our social universe for 25 years and partner dancing headquarters. It was there that collar-up jitterbug cats from the Carolinas strutted their tailor-made drapes, keychains, pomaded ducktails, pickup lines and mooch riffs. Like poon pirate Roachy once said, “Lazy-eyed or hare-lipped, if you could fast dance, you got the girl.”</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Like seein the ocean for the first time, the allure and magic of the Jitterbug cat oozed jismic mojo.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Most kid’s first sexual stir or dance chubby was oglin wiggly fannies doin the hokey pokey. Mine was down at the Pavilion, ooglin the sexual antics of Jo Jo Putnam who could black it up with the best of em. Or Nicky and his 15-year-old brunette girlfriend (Vanna White’s future mama) in scuffed-up cheerleader shoes sweatin rivulets of baby oil as they ducked into a shorty George then smoothed out of a sugarfoot and grinded into a slow BELLY ROLL that was like switchin on the Krispy Kreme hot sign.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">The business half of Joan’s slender body grindin into Nicky made an impression. Or more like a permanent dent.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">By my 10th year the belly roll had become a sexual fantasy, but I was still too pubeless to attract a willing partner. Back in the 50s when our heroes were Hoppy, Roy and Autry, the belly roll wutn’t just a dance step… it was indecent behavior, a $25 fineable jailable offense. It was vertical sex, dirty shagging. For me, twas a thrill on the hill, when I was finally ballsy enough to ask a big-eyed girl in cheeky short shorts to do the bellyroll. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">By the time I was a regular bellyroller, local law enforcers had de-criminalized the move from criminal to just nasty. Nowadays, long’s we keep our clothes on, it’s just another fly dance step.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">“BOOGIE WALK is a sexy shag and jitterbug dance step. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Some dance cats called it the Shorty George, named after a wild, height-challenged often-airborne Lindy Hopper who first famous’d the move. Also saw a version in a Mills Brothers </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">“(Caravan) video. It’s a tres hip, walk-forward-rolling-on-the-sides-of-your-feet move. Way before girls stopped bleachin their hair and started coifing their cootsies, my jitterbug-champion Uncle Nicky and Red Spears once boogie-walked barefoot in the sand from the Pavilion to 20th Ave… bout a mile.</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Why? Just to impress a couple girls.”</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">For most of the 40s, 50s, early 60s, the MYRTLE BEACH PAVILION was the molten core of the jitterbug universe. That 200-play jukebox located near the giant flagpole was the jitterbug’s Wailing Wall. Nothin on that jukebox was un-boogieable. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Upstairs action was an AYCE buffet of jugglers, acrobats, Irish tenors, magicians, cat boxing, girl rasslin, minstrel shows, swing bands and the occasional big-deal appearance by the Three Stooges, Gorgeous George or Lash Larue, Sun Fun Pageants, and Miss South Carolina beauty contests.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Came time when quarters in the jukebox wutn't enough. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">The Pavilion kahunas wanted to cash in on the rock n roll craze. So they started pulling the plug on the jukebox at 8pm and started charging $2.00 admission to the rock n roll shows upstairs.</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Groups like Bill Deal and the Rhondells, Sugar Creek, the Catalinas and Harry Deal and the Galaxies dominated the boulevard marquee.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">When they handcarted away our squat Wurlitzer for good, we cussed like dogs. (Clovers, Big Joe, Amos Milburn, Clovers, Hank Ballard, Young Jessie, Little Willie John, Sam Cooke, Ivory Joe, Drifters, Ruth Brown, Chuck Berry, Fats, Sticks, Lavern...all taken away. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">That dinosaur’d the Myrtle Beach jitterbug. No more sultry days and sticky nights showboating for a crowd of 2000 tourists. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Some of our local dance joints boogied on. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">We penny-loafered to Barringers built in 1945 by an ex-Army enginer who designed short runways for Jimmy Doolittle to practice aircraft carrier takeoffs. And we kept dancing at the Marine Room, Socks, Sportsman, Army Navy Club, Gaddys, the Rathskeller and the Oasis where shagging and bootleg booze was a backdrop to silicone-titted topless acts and crooked blackjack by slick mechanics dealing seconds with marked decks.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Some of the heavy dance action migrated North to the Beach Club, the Pad, Turks, Sonny’s and the Forks. Skinny belts got wider, peg pants became straight-leg khakis, short shorts were bermuda’d, collars-up became buttoned down, ducktails and Jeris'd pompadours disappeared, and the backbeat slowed. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Times were a changin.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Excerpt From: Dino Thompson. “Boogie Woogie Beats.” iBooks.</div></div>Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-87187042193903268252017-12-28T21:21:00.000-08:002017-12-28T21:21:03.647-08:00The not-so-smart phone.<b>My wife has an iPhone.</b><br />
She noticed some molasses-like responses.<br />
I told her, "Aw you're just probably bein impatient."<br />
<br />
Whoopsy... the iPhone boys fessed up they actually slowed the older phones down because they didn't want the phone to "Just shut down." because of battery issues.<br />
What! Justeffinshutdown!!!<br />
<br />
They geek-addicted half the world and the thing might just stop workin?<br />
<br />
So they apologized. Not personally, just to the media.<br />
They say the Applers are worth bout a gazillion (actually a Trillion) bucks.<br />
That's a 1000 billion!<br />
<br />
I'm in the restaurant biz. If I purposely slow down your cooking time, I don't just apologize. I buy you a drink, buy you an app, a dessert, give you a hug, pat on the back.<br />
<br />
If I'm worth a trillion dollars, I don't apologize in a vanilla-voice press release.<br />
I send everyone who owns an iPhone a $1,000 apology with a smiley face.Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-91148020582616957622016-01-10T13:24:00.000-08:002016-01-11T21:08:32.865-08:00Mister Cliff <br />
<a name='more'></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehZUdZalPq5UaGLOGViJeKg3TKdJOoOqxcI9e6SySIQMNFg2jpOOGeU8tGC6KPF3i0VBSKCqackEMxWn-iO7KAPUEQnvNQId_gpUfBEkSTe2RSYlYvzx3leJpuEdSnf35fXkFZqLd8tY/s1600/100_1064.jpg" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonSnsztbl32uREgYFzQpJCqJaHfU0A2XN-IMgHrC5EOMUl8YdQwkGUcNdR3sRx0QWNkYFTG1SZ4rlU62Bwo_u1reGB0qiWbqrWdD8J6oCeIXmHUl2LAaNVGmmlzNbWocmhGDpfteSgos/s1600/IMG_1244.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonSnsztbl32uREgYFzQpJCqJaHfU0A2XN-IMgHrC5EOMUl8YdQwkGUcNdR3sRx0QWNkYFTG1SZ4rlU62Bwo_u1reGB0qiWbqrWdD8J6oCeIXmHUl2LAaNVGmmlzNbWocmhGDpfteSgos/s320/IMG_1244.jpg" width="240" /></a><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehZUdZalPq5UaGLOGViJeKg3TKdJOoOqxcI9e6SySIQMNFg2jpOOGeU8tGC6KPF3i0VBSKCqackEMxWn-iO7KAPUEQnvNQId_gpUfBEkSTe2RSYlYvzx3leJpuEdSnf35fXkFZqLd8tY/s320/100_1064.jpg" width="319" /><br />
Mister Cliff is what we called him.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">He started at Cagney's as a scrawny, cocky 16-year-old dishwasher. Neat as a Zen monk, he watched and learned as Shorty Harley, then Danny Stauffer, then Donny Lamb poked, turned and grill-marked our steaks. When the time came he became the grillman. Within a year he was "the man". He was so respected by his fellow kitchen staff they honorary-titled him by putting </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mister </i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">in front of his name because they knew he was a mountain they could never climb. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> For the next 36 years Mister Cliff was our grill and broiler magician. Armed with a steel-trap memory you can't teach, his consistent example earned the admiration of all who had the pleasure of working with him. His attention to detail and pride in every order set the standard for excellence. He could see every station and sense every holdup, clear every snafu, calm every weeded server and correct
every misplaced order, while he laughed loud and long and rapped the lyrics of every boombox song. And he did this night after night while the line
pumped out 500 orders. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Every Indie owner of a food joint who was lucky enough to weather the good and times and last a few decades owes much of their success to a Mister Cliff. </span></div>
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Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-59111715132160236652015-03-15T10:02:00.000-07:002015-03-15T10:02:00.517-07:00A Blast from Cagney's PastHere's a blast from Cagney's past.<br />
Sitting in Flamingo Grill for dinner is Mark Karavan, Sally Smith, and Cathy Hendrix.<br />
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40 years ago I was lucky enough to talk these three kids into working at a new Myrtle Beach joint called Cagney's Old Place. Sally served the first customer who ever walked into Cagney's. They all worked through College and a few years after.<br />
They were so damn customer-good I tried to make then restaurant people but they went on to do other stuff. One became a Cardiologist, one is a dedicated teacher and the other is an Attorney. Thanks for the memories.<br />
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<br />Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-18531251919300223202015-02-04T09:18:00.001-08:002015-02-04T09:18:20.402-08:00Boogie Woogie Beats first few pages.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Here's the first few pages of BOOGIE WOOGIE BEATS for a looksee. </div>
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If you're into music and dance history this might be a fun ride.</div>
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Available on NOOK and KINDLE for $8.95</div>
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Printed version available at Flamingo Grill for $20</div>
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<br />Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-40918430589428431632015-01-28T14:28:00.001-08:002015-01-28T14:28:26.118-08:00Comment from Banana Jack Murphey.<b>It's been a couple years now since the last days of Cagney's. Here below is a much appreciated comment from Banana Jack Murphey.</b><br />
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"I'll miss Cagney's because it oozes history. You could write a book filled with stories on the origin and history of all the artifacts in that place. Cagney's to me was a museum with some mighty tasty vittles.For so many patrons it's going to feel like the lost of a loved one". <i>Banana Jack</i>Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-82499383581442778912014-12-05T19:15:00.000-08:002014-12-05T19:22:37.734-08:00BOOGIE WOOGIE BEATS by Dino ThompsonBout every ten years I get a creative attack and either open a restaurant or write a book.<br />
Since our lease wound down on Cagney's and I'm down to one restaurant, the Flamingo Grill... so I decided to write a book about music...BOOGIE WOOGIE BEATS.<br />
<br />
Music? you're yelpin. Whatinhell's that busboy, cook, waiter know about music?<br />
Well back in our long ago, dancin is how you met girls, how you legally got up close.<br />
And you couldn't dance without music. So music and dance became a huge part of life.<br />
<br />
Everybody who grew up spittin distance from the Myrtle Beach Pavilion jukebox will tell you the same thing. Punch up this book on your Kindle or Nook jukebox, give it a look and a listen. If you'd like to buy a printed copy, stop by FLAMINGO GRILL or send me an email at sthompson17@sc.rr.com. (Dino Thompson)<br />
<br />
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Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-22960796301727649992014-10-15T08:16:00.000-07:002014-10-15T09:36:32.758-07:00ODE to HURRICANE HAZEL- OCT 15TH 1954<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">An ode
to HURRICANE HAZEL- OCT 15 1954 BY DINO THOMPSON.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">EXCERPT
From my memoir: <b>GREEK BOY- GROWING UP SOUTHERN.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">COME MID-OCTOBER, Professor Waldo ran up his
squall pennant. Then he ran up the double-squall pennant. Then he ran up the
hurricane pennant, two white pennants with red squares. “Definitely gettin some
rain this time,” the professor assured anybody who cared to listen.<br />
What was comin was more than a ground soaker, more than a gully washer or a
coffin floater. It was a roof-snatchin, tree-flattenin, people-drownin,
ass-kicker of a bitch named Hazel. A name that would forever be a
date-marker...HURRICANE HAZEL. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The very same Hurricane Hazel that had killed
1000 people in Haiti. Radio weather warnings started cracklin right regular.
Late that afternoon Governor James Byrnes<br />
came on the radio.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“This is Governor Byrnes . . . I’m orderin
the immediate evacuation of the first two rows in all the coastal areas north
of Georgetown . . . Designated shelters are bein readied as of this moment . .
. “<br />
Late that night, excited voice on our local radio station is blarin these
words. “Myrtle Beach is directly in the hurricane’s path. It’s comin in right
at us. The Governor has ordered everyone to leave coastal areas and seek safe
shelter inland. Wind gusts of one hundred fifty miles per hour have been
reported by hurricane spotters.”<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Don’t care what they say, weathermen live for
this shit. Hurricanes are a weatherman’s biggest hard- on. Bigger the better.
More damage the better. People dyin even better. People smushin transistor
radios to their ear holes hangin on to every word like it’s barometric gospel.<br />
All sleepless night and into the mornin, sirens wailed and serious voices
boomed from loudspeakers. Vehicles from city and county police, fire department,
Civil Air Patrol and civil defense units goin house to house makin people
evacuate with whatever they could carry. The high school, my grammar school,
city hall and the library were designated shelters for Myrtle Beach. Most
people left willingly. A few old codgers, threatenin to go down with the ship,
had to be peeled off the door jambs of their homes and trailers.<br />
<br />
5AM - THE DAY OF THE STORM.<br />
Nobody slept much that night. We came down from our three-room apartment and
made plans to ride out the storm in the Kozy Korner basement, which far as I
knew was the only beer-joint bomb shelter in town. Dad and his slick black
cook, Marcus Johnson, lay down all the chairs and tables, then X’d up the
windows with tape. Yia Yia, thinkin the X a symbol to fend off evil spirits,
reinforces the windows with holy water. One by one, downtown merchants start
showin up, hopin to huddle with us. Pretty soon we have a herd of about 35
people ready to ride out the storm underneath our restaurant.<br /><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Seven Seas Restaurant owner Charlie Kordas is there with his daughter Vesta.
Papa Chris, his wife and son Docky are there. Professional gambler Cadillac Joe
is there with a grocery sack everybody knows is fulla cash money. Louie
Achilles and John Gravis from the Broadway Restaurant. Future Miss Myrtle Beach
Barbara Hershman with her sister Betty. The two Hershman girls are huddled into
a lump of flannel footy pajamas.Our Syrian neighbor Tony Koury, a restaurateur
and a "collector" who use to pay me to cuss, is there. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">While Tony Koury eats, he lets me play with
his brass-knuckles and sandfilled rubber hose. Miss Lieb, Glamour Shop owner, a
Republican even before Eisenhower, is there with her parakeet. Local bookie
Mister Harach is there sippin his Hadicol. So is ole man Baba Dinash, a Gypsy
who speaks four languages with a palm-reading babushka’d sister. He sells
advice, French ticklers, two-dollar watches, Spanish fly, and palm-size comics
about a Popeye character with a two-foot schlong. Our landlord Mike Hobeika is
there with his very large wife and his pretty stepdaughter Madeline. Eli
Saleeby from the Fleetwood shows up with his entire family and a laundry bag
fulla bootleg half pints. He slips around pattin everybody on the back sayin,
“Here boys,” slippin every man a slider of Lord Calvert. “The ladies’ll help us
get through the day and The LORD’ll help us get through the night.”<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">7AM - WINDS STARTIN TO HOWL.<br />
The entire building is vibratin like a Ford on railroad tracks. Mom and Yia
Yia, who both attributed every natural disaster to God’s wrath, are pacin like
zoo cats at feedin time. Yia Yia, who has made a career outta predictin
disasters, is fingerin her worry beads, recitin scripture. Angie, my mom’s
pacin, clawin her fingers over her ears, tryin to drown out the groanin wind. I
offer her a Necco mint.<br />
“For godsakes Angie, sit still,” Papa Chris yelps while he munches
a Greek meatball chef Marcus has pan-fried for the occasion. Papa Chris passes
me a plate but I'm now in war-mode and refuse to eat on anythin cept my army
mess kit. Mom, a world-class worrier on a good day, is now in her cataclysmic
end-of-the-world mode. In between cleanin and pacing mom's now doin a scripture
duet with Yia Yia. She’s cleanin, pacin, prayin, cleanin, pacin, wantin dad to
show more concern, thinkin maybe she should faint to get dad’s attention.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br />
Right when a ferocious wind growl shakes the building, and says, “I ever tell you boys bout first
time Tony try to go inna beesness for hisself?” Joe didn’t wait for an
answer.<br />
“ . . . Wassa 1932 durin the depression. We were livin in Astoria. Tony boughta
old Ford truck. Once a week he driva upstate to Farmer’s market, buya truckload
tomatoes, bringa them back to the city and sella them to all the Greek
restaurants. One mornin he stops at Charlie’s Diner. Charlie’s upstairs so Tony
double-parks the truck, walks upstairs to ask Charlie how many tomatoes he
needs for the weekend. Two hours later Tony comesa back downstairs, calls a taxi
and goes home. Why you think he callsa taxi?” Joe smiles, waits a couple
seconds for an answer. “Becausa he lost alla his money in the poker game
upstairs. Losta the truck, losta the tomatoes . . . just like that. Boom. Outta
the tomato beesness. Thata Tony . . . whatta beesenessman!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">POWER BEGINNING TO FLICKER ON AND OFF.<br />Ferocious growl shakes the building. People’s faces waddin up with concern. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">Cadillac Joe wipes back his black moustache with both hands. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">Me, I’m in my action-adventure
mode. Togged out in one of my action suits, a yellow rain slicker, sailor suit
underneath. In my pockets is a careful selection of army soldiers, two pocket
knives, plastic hand grenade, decoder ring, skull ring, two packs of grape
Charms, shark tooth, two silver dollars, four Indian head pennies, six Amazing
Spiderman comics. I’m locked, loaded, ready for bear and big wind.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Power keeps flickerin, then fades completely
out when the leany pole behind the restaurant crashes in a tangle of explodin
transformers. Yia Yia, sensin the end is near, lights a candle and volumes up
her bodice-rippin bible voice. In my 8-year-old mind, this whole thing is just
a Cub Scout jamboree with grown- ups. I survey all the blankets, pillows,
candles, flashlights, transistor radios. Some people have canned goods and
water even though we had a whole restaurant fulla stuff upstairs and a 10-foot
buffet spread out on the beer counter downstairs. Reminded me of war footage
I’d seen on Movietone News bout people hidin under the London streets durin the
blitz.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Eli, Papa Chris, Louie Achilles, Cadillac
Joe, Mister Hobeika and my dad have cranked up a candlelight game of partner
pinochle, but decide to put the cards away when my Yia Yia starts hissin like a
possum, shakin her crucifix, swearin it’s sacrilegious to gamble and laugh when
God is angry. The boys decide not to make God any madder than he is. Yia Yia’s
voice now boomin like the chanter at Greek Church. She’s recitin scripture,
slingin holy water in between sips of ouzo. Miss Hobeika is workin on a serious
plate of chicken and meatballs. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">THE STORM IS HERE. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Right when the storm kicks in for real, dad
whispers to mom he’s goin upstairs. My mom jumps straight up, gives dad her craziest Joan Crawford stare. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “Eesai trelos? (You crazy?)
You’re going where?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “Calm down woman. I’m just goin
upstairs for a few minutes to check on the restaurant.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Mom starts crossin herself. Yia Yia
does the same. While they both have their eyes closed prayin for dad’s safe
return, I follow him upstairs. I know he’s goin upstairs to have a smoke and to
get away from Yia Yia’s bible readin. Dad sits on a stool next to the window,
lights up a Player. I climb up into his lap. We both watch in amazement as one
thing after another sails by.<br /><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Gets to be a game tryin to recognize each flying object. Deserted streets have
become a warzone. Growly wind is squirtin through doorjambs and roof vents,
occasionally grabbin the building by the shoulders and shakin it like Bogart shakin Bacall. I watch a poor moth hangin
on to the window get its wings torn off. Dad seems more curious than afraid. He
stubs out his cigarette. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “Buckle up your raincoat son.
We’re going outside.”<br />
Outside?<br /><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Thought he was kiddin til I see him unlockin the front door. He pushes open the
front door and the wind bout rips it off the hinges. Woulda blown completely
off if not for the wall stoppin it. Dad has to use his shoulder and foot to
lock it back. Holdin me by the back of the collar, he leads me around the
corner. Soon’s we turn the corner, a powerful gust whooshes me airborne, blows
my feet straight out. But dad snags my jacket collar, scoops me up into the
front seat of our open Willys jeep. No sooner he plops me in the seat, he’s
wrappin clothesline around me. Probably the first known use of the seatbelt. He
pulls himself in, cranks it up and starts drivin through the howlin winds and
peltin rain.<br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuOOQs7fWyKVeB9dxiYRO7bmnani_UdKp5O6SxF1nSvH29m3P90fu_xwx718XDEBvzOsYMyfvbHpaq9mUMiVgR07FdyRtMNN3YcNV2UB4IKNlXG5fgBIgs0eeqXq61n0ZTk4bloJS_Fc/s1600/74-75-228%25+.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuOOQs7fWyKVeB9dxiYRO7bmnani_UdKp5O6SxF1nSvH29m3P90fu_xwx718XDEBvzOsYMyfvbHpaq9mUMiVgR07FdyRtMNN3YcNV2UB4IKNlXG5fgBIgs0eeqXq61n0ZTk4bloJS_Fc/s1600/74-75-228%25+.tif" height="253" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “Hey dad. We gonna go fight the
hurricane?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “We’re goin to watch the wind
blow. Hold on.” What’s he talkin hold on? I’m tied like laundry to the seat.
Several spooky times durin the four-block trip, wind gusts scoop under the jeep
and spatula one side off the ground. Whoa. We’re gonna fly to Oz to visit
Dorothy. Dad slowly motors us to the West Side of Ocean Boulevard. We park in
about three feet of water on the leeward side of the Nu-way Laundry building,
directly across from the Ocean Plaza Fishing Pier and Seafood House.<br />
Waves breakin clear across Ocean Boulevard. The two-lane street is now a
Level-4 rapids. While I’m marvelin at the number of objects floatin by,
advertisin signs, trash containers, soda pop crates, trees, top of a lifeguard
stand, dad is practically on the floorboard tryin to light a cigarette. Even
recognize a four- foot snowcone replica from a Pavilion concession stand. Like
bathtub toys, the debris bobs its way north. I keep an eye out for floatin
bodies but only see one trembly dog, soggy ears back, somehow keepin his head
above water. I wanna save the dog but dad shakes his head.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“WATCH THE PIER,” is all dad says, still
hunched over fastdrawin safety matches. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Wind strong enough to make the space in my
teeth whistle and my ole man is tryin to light up a cigarette. Ocean has turned
the color of a syrupy Co-cola. Wind snatchin chunks of water off the tops of
the swells and turnin it into jet spray. Every now and again a wave would
engulf the entire end of the pier, crash downward and splatter into a mist all
over the boulevard. Like when a fat man sits in a tub, the ocean has swelled
way high. In between the big rollers, the ocean gets so high it’s rollin up
over the floorboards of the fishin pier. Sometimes it’d suck way back out like
a fighter cockin his right hook and let the pier be tall and important again.
For a moment you could walk on the sand around the end of the pier. Then here’d
come another wall of water.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Water now jettin right through the Seafood
House windows. Huge walls of water climb into big black hands and slap down on
the cedar-shake roof. Didn’t take but maybe ten more minutes of foamy right
hooks to collapse the restaurant section of the pier. Like a drunk on wobbly
legs, the creosote pilings buckle out from under the center section and drop
the restaurant building straight into the ocean. For a moment the entire
restaurant floats in place like a clipper-ship. Then it boils up on the crest
of a humongus wave, higher than it was when it was hooked to the pier. Then
like someone pulled a chair from under it, crashes straight down again. I’m
imaginin real fish and crabs swimmin through the restaurant insteada the dried
ones they had on the wall. Imaginin myself ridin a buckin float through the
dining room around the tables and chairs, torpedoin out the front door.<br />
“Good thing papa Chris ain’t in there, huh dad?” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> He cuts a sorta smile. “Just
watch son. Watch and remember.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Another 35-foot black wall of a wave rears
way up and smacks down on the floatin restaurant. Like a dog crunchin porkchop
bones you could hear beams breakin and bolts tearin loose. In a few minutes it
was like it never existed. Then, like it forgot to say goodbye, a section of
the restaurant’s roof-sign bobs up, then sinks back into the foam. One by one,
like dominos, the rest of the greenish-black pilings tumble into the black
soup. Not til the last plank of the Ocean Plaza Pier floats away does my ole
man crank up the jeep.<br />
“Finito la musica. Show’s over son.”<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">WE START BACK. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">He starts us back toward the
Kozy Korner. Needles of birdshotty rain slashin our faces. Water sloshin over
the rusty floorboards into our boots. Dad’s steerin the jeep like a boat, tryin
to avoid gettin broadsided by a street wave. Winds so strong it’s pullin at our
clothes, flattenin our face. When we get back to our street, dad notices it
first. Motions up with his head.<br />
“Look son . . . sign’s gone.”<br />
I look up and see our 8' Kozy Korner marquee is gone. Torn wires are whippin. Useta hide
behind that fish sign and spit on people, shoot people with waterguns. Figured
it hadda be lyin on the ground somewhere, but not a shred of it in sight.
Figure it to be flyin like a long-tail kite on it’s way to North Carolina.<br />
<br />
For a few minutes dad idles right in the middle of the street, starin. We were
right smack in the core of a five-way intersection. Every street led to more
devastation. Cars floated against buildings or overturned. Esso Station
roofless. Like Godzilla just cartwheeled through, every telephone pole in sight
leanin or snapped in half. Loose wires whippin back and forth like angry
snakes. Right when we pull up to park, a galvanized garbage can explodes
through the restaurant window. While dad is unwrappin me from the seat, a
traffic light tears loose and heads to the south side of town for a new career.
Carryin me under his arm, punchin holes through the spurty wind, dad
Quasimodo’s us toward the front door. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Peekin through my fingers, I’m wonderin . . .<br />
Can seagulls fly in such wind? Won’t their feathers blow off? Can fish swim in
waves that big? Are all the beach houses gonna be big ole fish bowls? What
about Mister Benfield’s gourd bird houses? Did all his purple martins escape?
Wonder if my grammar school is still there? Wonder how the Dime Store and
Broadway theater are holdin up? Where’s all the stray dogs hidin out? Mister
Gus probably has em all in his apartment. Wonder how all my cardboard forts and
toys up on the roof are makin out?<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">BACK TO THE KOZY KORNER. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dad’s strugglin to
unlock the door. I’m squintin into the wind.<br />
Never seen such pure meanness. Not even when I ambushed the two Gatlen boys for
usin baby ducks for battin practice. Not even when Whitey sliced up that
paratrooper or Maurice Treadway whipped up on the two lifeguards. This was even
worse than when Valerie bonked our cook with the big fish platter or when the
gator got one of our pointers at State Park.<br />
“Hey dad . . . I seen enough. The wind is stretchin out my
eyeballs.”<br />
Dad gets the door unlocked and the two of us fall inside soaked to the bone.
Felt good to be inside. I glance at the wall mirror to see if I had holes in my
face. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> I start downstairs but dad
snatches me to a puddly stop. “Son . . . don’t tell your mother we went down to
the pier. She worries. Tell her we came out to check on her car.”<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Mom is at the bottom of the steps, waitin to
pounce. “My God . . . where have you been? Don’t you dare tell me you went
outside.”<br /> Puddle under my feet. “Me and daddy went out to check on the car.” I reach in
my pocket for a Necco mint. Soggy. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “You went outside!
PA-NA-YEEMOU!” Slaps her cheeks. Crosses herself. Busted. After several
rib-smashin hugs and praise-Gods, mom is dryin off my hair and threatenin to
kill me if I go outside again. When she sees drippy dad walk in, she threatens
to kill him for takin me outside. We wait out the rest of the storm by
candlelight. My grandmother, a woman who crosses herself whenever she sees a
church or bible, is ready for the cataclysm. She’s swathed in mourner’s black
from scarf to foot, prayin like Easter mass. I’m huddled in the corner with our
two dogs, Sheba and Turk. Whisperin in their twitchy ears in dog language . . .
“Hey, you ever seen a bird fly backwards?” Their eyes were sayin hell yea.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">IT'S OVER. When it seemed the wind
would never stop, it finally did. One by one, we all leave our bomb shelter and
venture upstairs for a look. Rain still comin down but not sideways. Streets
flooded knee-deep, waist- deep to me. My Yia Yia, Greek bible in one hand,
three-inch crucifix in the other, looks up, sees a patch of blue sky toward the
south, crosses herself, kisses her bible and smiles. She’s a woman who believes
in miracles, believes in the power of prayer. I could tell by the radiant look
on her face she’s confident she has prayed us all alive, prayed the storm to a
standstill. Tony fires up another Player. He puts his arm around my shoulder,
stares out at the damage and<br />
shakes his head. Within a few minutes, the few others who hunkered behind
plywood and tape in their downtown businesses are comin out into the street.
First few minutes everyone is speechless. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Miss Lieb stands there, hand smashed over her
mouth, chokin down the tears.<br />
“Oh my sweet God, look at our little town. It’s ruined.”<br />
Missus Hershman, standin in two feet of water, holdin her dress up, puts her
arm around her. “Now hush that talk. We’ll build it back.”<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Papa Chris nods at my dad, mumbles.
“Hestickame.” Loose translation, “We have shit on ourselves.” My dad nods back.<br />
He spots Mister Jereboam wrapped in a rain slicker, standin out in
the street in front of the drug store. “How’s your shop?”<br />
“Lost my awnings, windows and bout all my inventory.”<br />
Every downtown awnings shredded into flappy pennants. Every window shattered.
Roofs ripped off. Everything that was once vertical is vaporized or flattened.
Every sign and painted window smashed. Every business all along Broadway Street
looks wounded or dead. The Broadway Theater sign is gone. Marquee danglin, few
letters from <i>War of the Worlds</i> somehow stuck. All the gourds around
Mister Benfield’s Esso Station gone. Cars upside down against buildings. Mack’s
5 & 10 has lost their awning, three windows blown out. Toys and housewares
floatin in the aisles. Even the huge pecan tree near the cabstand, the best
climbin tree in town, is uprooted and layin across Broadway Street.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">We’d later learn Hurricane Hazel claimed
almost 1000 lives in Haiti, but only 20 in the Carolinas. Savaged over 20,000
structures, twice that many damaged. Storm surge the meanest in Carolina
history. Came in durin a full moon high tide. Flood waters reached 18 feet.
Steamrolled twenty foot sand dunes. Uncovered a hundred year old shipwreck on
the beach. Chopped barrier islands in half. Rearranged lot lines and topography
forever. Tainted fresh water lakes with brine, crabs and seaweed.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “Ole Professor Waldo had called
it right,” somebody said.<br />
Me, Tony and our two dogs wade out into the intersection. Worried I might step
on a jellyfish or stingray, I’m tiptoein through the deep water. Dad’s wadin
like there ain’t no water. The dogs, who think we’re goin duck huntin, are
waggin their tails. Far as we can see, everything chewed up and spit out. Looks
to me like a foreign country in the Movietone News. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> Dad tells me to hop in the jeep. The dogs
also hop in. He tells mom, “We’re going for a ride.”<br /> Mom’s eyes bug. “Goin for a what? It’s dangerous out there. There’s wires and
sharp things and . . . ” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “We’ll be careful.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “You’re just going to leave me
here?” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> “You’ll be okay. Stay inside. We won’t be gone long.”<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">WE HIT THE BOULEVARD: We drive south on the
flooded, debris-strewn boulevard. Dad cowboy’s through the deep water like he’s
darin the jeep to flood out. Cars flipped on their backs like beached turtles.
Trees uprooted. Roofs Frisbee’d into the next block. Several buildings, even
their concrete foundations, completely washed away. The beach, like somebody
took a giant dragline to it, is carved 15-feet lower, riddled with debris.
Roads and bridges gouged out. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The once squooshy ocean floor now a 50-mile
yardsale of frigerators, stoves, roofs, toilets, concrete and twisted lumber.
Every summer day, for years after Hazel, some swimmer would be rushed to a
local doctor for stitches and a tetanus shot after a run in with a man-eatin
stove or frigerator. Somebody joked they oughta set up a tetanus-shot booth at
the Pavilion. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Buick-size chunks of concrete boardwalk rudely tossed through
beachwear and hotdog shops onto the boulevard. Mister Hobeika had left our
restaurant and walked to his house. His roof is gone. We stop to see if we can
help. He asks if one of us can swim through his livin room to rescue his dog.
Dad gives me the nod. I frogkick through four feet of salt water to rescue a
wet-rat trembly Chihuahua ridin the back of a floral couch. Mister Hobeika tips
me a quarter. Savin Chihuahuas don’t pay much.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">WE KEEP RIDIN SOUTH.<br />
2nd Avenue Pier is vaporized. Spivey’s Beach Pavilion has “poof” disappeared.
So has the duckpin bowling alley. Ride by Professor Waldo’s house. Chunk of his
roof ripped off. His leanin flagpole still standin. His two hurricane pennants
ripped to tatters still flappin. We ride up some side streets. Past Jimmy
Brown’s house whose dad had a bathtub buried in his backyard with a screen door
over it to use for a minnow bucket. A tree has fallen over his bathtub. We stop
to comfort an elderly<br />
lady who’s on her stockin knees weepin for a huge mossy oak leanin on her
house. My dad asks her if she needs help. “My daddy taught me how to swing in
that tree,” she says, rubbin the tree the way a nurse caresses the forehead of
a sick child.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Not too far from the old lady, we spot Miss
Rosie Saleeby, purple scarf fortuned-teller’d around her head, long black dress
tucked in rubber boots. She’s out in the street, slappin her thigh, mumblin,
carryin on somethin terrible. “Oooooh, lookit my house . . . will you lookit my
poor house.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Miss Rosie wassa helluva entrepreneur. she'd
rent out every room in her house durin busy weekends and sleep in her car.
She’d even rent out her rickety porch. She’d even rent tent spaces in her back
yard. Miss Rosie didn’t let a little discomfort stand in the way of a dollar.<br /><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">We dodge debris all the way down past Springmaid Beach to Nash Apartments. Pop
Nash is standin on a mountain of rubble, starin back at his buildin that
somehow survived. My father speaks Lebanese with Mister Nash. We turn round and
head back north. Things look worse as we head north. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">KEEP RIDIN AND GAPIN. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The houses that weren’t
gone were in the wrong place.Dad rides us by to check on a new Greek family.
I’m shocked to find out they have a son named Dino. I thought I was the only
Dino on earth. This is really a bad day.<br /><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Norther we get worser it looks. Whole forests swatted flat or snapped off.
Three rows back there’s a boat in a tree. Stop to watch a group of men, some
wearin hip waders, gathered on a Cherry Grove sidestreet a few hundred yards
from the ocean. Some have cameras poked in front of their face. They’re oohin
and spoutin scripture. Gawkin at a 40-foot creosote piling stickin into a
house. It jus don’t seem possible waves could ride somethin big as a piling so
far inland. But there it is, a 40-foot creosote pole, pokin right through the
front of the house like Poseidon fired a giant arrow.<br />
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dad puts his hand on me. “Everytheeng looks
like hell huh son?” I’m noddin. My eyes mist up. Even the bird dogs look sad.
That’s the first time I knew what hell looked like.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-18478215822940646392014-06-24T08:47:00.001-07:002014-06-24T11:45:43.341-07:00<b>PAY IT FORWARD</b>: My old man Tony use to tell me there were only two kinds of people in the world...happy and miserable. "Happy people stay happy no matter what they have or don't have. Miserable people stay miserable and like the sayin goes they like company. They do their best to make everyone else miserable. Avoid them...run from them."<br />
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In any business, in any family we all have to deal with a few of these lifelong <i>Les Miserables</i>. So appreciate the happy people in your life and business. Tell them what a pleasure it is to know them, to be in their company, to be of service to them.<br />
<br />
The other night at Flamingo Grill, 10 twentyish people walked in. They impressed me instantly by their upbeat demeanor, their delicious smiles and their gracious manners. We seated them at a large round table. When they got their entrees, they held hands and joined in a rather long prayer. A customer nearby watched. He was impressed and moved. He told their server to bring their bill to him and add a 25% tip. He left without their knowing who he was.<br />
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It was a delish moment for all. A beautiful pay-it-forward moment. Don't know the young people's name but I took a photo. All the best to you all.<br />
Dino<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmBrmp-hJLB9vIeDpblEjWrl8eSm4WVePeuO4KSTmlUiJ-51UM0gy-UWN0cfwDizENSM_zegedje0QLK_Y1ZocC_b5HQJROgaWo20zaBzsRlPy32hsLPumfDA-iBf0PEhGZCXl8sCQ_c/s1600/IMG_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmBrmp-hJLB9vIeDpblEjWrl8eSm4WVePeuO4KSTmlUiJ-51UM0gy-UWN0cfwDizENSM_zegedje0QLK_Y1ZocC_b5HQJROgaWo20zaBzsRlPy32hsLPumfDA-iBf0PEhGZCXl8sCQ_c/s1600/IMG_0065.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-15517916464217352532014-05-08T14:29:00.000-07:002014-05-08T14:29:28.086-07:00Note from Jay HugginsDino, thank you for allowing me to be a part of the Cagney's family!<br />
Some of my most cherished times were enjoying the opportunity to be part of the Dino(s) team. You two made a material difference in my life teaching me a better work ethic, the importance of quality, commitment to service, positive attitude and most importantly a wonderful friendship.<br />
Jay Huggins<br />
President of Crescom BankDiogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-26491968461567022722014-05-08T14:27:00.001-07:002014-05-08T14:40:52.086-07:00Stain glass window from Red Springs Baptist church is back home in Red Springs, N.C. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0a46K-LdGPnK8Hv1f97kc41FtSHNSFOFB-fpJn1RIoVbavoJq81-HfHSOWstkQ6UtR30yyOVLMyxHR4VL8CRZ7kHqpk_5_mshtXU7p-lucM1uKz4rKsGyeqDeKaeH6mGZVC0zyhYGIo/s1600/IMG_0036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0a46K-LdGPnK8Hv1f97kc41FtSHNSFOFB-fpJn1RIoVbavoJq81-HfHSOWstkQ6UtR30yyOVLMyxHR4VL8CRZ7kHqpk_5_mshtXU7p-lucM1uKz4rKsGyeqDeKaeH6mGZVC0zyhYGIo/s1600/IMG_0036.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
This incredibly gorgeous window was rescued from a demolished church in Red Springs N.C in 1974. The church opened in 1910, torn down in 1974. A new church was built.<br />
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In 1976 it was restored and installed in Cagney's Old Place where it stood proudly in the main dining room for 37 years. After Cagney's closed, it was sold back to the newer Red Springs Baptist church. Thanks to church member Ed Tindall, it's spirit lives on in the new church. Bring a tear to a glass eye. It brought a tear to ours when Ed brought us the picture below.<br />
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<br />Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-16543629310094009782014-03-16T10:34:00.001-07:002014-05-08T15:03:36.534-07:00How we got to Myrtle Beach- From the first two pages of my memoir by Dino Thompson.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #d2d3d4; font: 28.2px Times;"> Folks are always asking how we got to Myrtle Beach.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> All their worldly possessions, me in a baby-blue bassinet, wedged into the back of a two- tone Lasalle, we were migratin south from the shuttered shipyards of New Port News. Snakin down two-lane Ocean Highway 17 on our way to the Florida boom when the Greek meat-balls and feta cheese ran out and we pit-stopped for gas, lunch and a diaper change in a tiny resort crossroads called Myrtle Beach. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> We pile out the car and push through the art deco door of the Kozy Korner Cafe.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> A Broderick Crawford lookalike in french cuffs and an expensive suit, uglied up with a wide amoeba tie and fake gold tie clasp, gives me a cute-baby poke and escorts us to an aluminum booth with flip-down seats. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Broderick turns out to be the owner, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a Charleston-born, cigar-chewin geechee-accent Greek who goes by the not-so-Greek name of Tom Haley.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> He introduces hissef to my Cypriot-born ole man who goes by the not-so- Greek name of Tony Thompson.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Where y’all headed?” asks Tom, napkinin off his two-tone shoes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “On our way to Florida,” Tony says.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Whaddayou plannin on doin down there?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Find a business, start a new life. We heard things were good there.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Tom waves his manicured hand. “Gotta goin business right here. It’s for sale.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Tony glances around. “I only have fifty two hundred dollars.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Tom smiles, slaps the table “Whaddayou talkin? Thas the price.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Any other Greeks live here?” asks Tony.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Yea. . . there’s Papa Chris, George Anthony, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Louie Achilles, John Gravis, Baroutsos, Charlie Kordas and . . . plentya Greeks.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Mind if I look around?” Tony says, as a red lipstick’d waitress packed in a snug uniform and a toothy </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hey-how-yall smile, slips the pencil from behind her hairnetted ear to take our order. An hour and a handshake after meetin Tom Haley, Tony’s introducin himself to the waitresses and cooks. “Hello, my name ees Tony. I’m the new owner.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Tony informs my mom who's spooning some green goup into my mouth. She slaps her head, crosses herself. “What d’you mean you bought this restaurant? I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">don’t even know the name of this town. There’s nothing here. No customers, no nothing.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Tom points a manicured finger out at the deserted street. “Whaddaya mean nothin here? We got four restaurants, two gas stations, a movie theater, drugstore, dimestore, bingo parlor, auction house, train </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">depot, the Lafayette Manor, and don’t forget the Pavilion. . . In the summer the town’s fulla people.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Mom’s suckin air, tryin not to cry. “Where are we going to live?” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> “Upstairs apartment comes with the deal.” </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> So an hour after lunch, mom’s upstairs throwin out the last tenant’s trash, knee-scouring the apartment </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">with Ajax and tears, movin us into what’s gonna be our Myrtle Beach home for the next thirteen years.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> That's how we got to Myrtle Beach.</span></div>
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Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-41652760910007548152014-01-17T11:22:00.000-08:002014-05-08T14:57:41.433-07:00Another reason to remember the Ocean Forest Hotel- its Architect.MEMORIES:<br />
Every October brings back demolition memories of the Ocean Forest Hotel and wonders at what might've been. This past October I re-printed a blog homage to the hotel. Forty years ago this October, the <i>Magnificent Castle on the Ocean</i> was imploded by Hudgens and Company of Atlanta. The owner of Hudgens confided to me the Ocean Forest was the finest constructed building he had ever examined. Over a roast of oysters at Morse's, he told me. "This hotel needs renovation, not demolition." He then turned over a placemat and laid out the economics and showed me he could gut the interior, create new larger rooms, redo the original lobby decor, make a few exterior alterations and bring back the landmark to its original splendor and the 12-acre ocean front property still had room for further development.<br />
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ARCHITECT RAYMOND HOOD is why the Ocean Forest Hotel was the finest constructed building Mr. Hudgens had ever examined. Hood was one of most revered high-rise builders in the world. His extraordinary visions created...<br />
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<ul>
<li><b>Chicago Tribune Building</b> opened in 1924 is listed as a Chicago Landmark.</li>
<li><b>American Radiator Building</b> opened in 1924 which <i>Fountainhead</i> author Ayn Rand once called the most beautiful in New York. It's on the National Register of Historic Places.</li>
<li><b>Ocean Forest Hotel</b> opened in 1926 and 1927 demolished in 1974.</li>
<li><b>New York Daily News Building</b> built in 1929 designated a National Historic Landmark in 1989.</li>
<li><b>Masonic Temple</b> in Scranton built in 1930 is the city's cultural center.</li>
<li><b>McGraw-Hill Building</b> built in 1930-31 is a NY landmark.</li>
<li><b>Rockefeller Center</b> built 1930-1939. Comprising 22 acres, 8,000,000 million sqft of buildings, four acres of gardens and is still one of the world's most vibrant city centers and visitor attractions.</li>
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All but the Ocean Forest Hotel live on.</div>
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<br />Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-42980055286851208592014-01-05T17:43:00.000-08:002014-01-05T17:43:22.360-08:00A thank you to Brent Rainwater who left this world.Time to pay our respects to a loyal customer/friend of Flamingo Grill.<br />
We met Brent the first week Flamingo Grill opened. He sent a handwritten letter complimenting our chef on our lobster bites and béarnaise sauce.<br />
<br />
From Florence S.C, Brent Rainwater might as well have been from Florence Italy.<br />
I was born in a pot sink, learned to walk and talk in a cafe, have au jus coursing through my veins but Brent's passion, his knowledge, his wicked enjoyment of food made me seem a culinary illiterate. He befriended some of the world's celeb chefs and his dining experiences were otherworldly...Lutece, Per Se, Alinea, Prudhomme's, Emeril's. <br />
<br />
And I thought I was hip to movie history until Brent and I butted heads while he and his sweet wife Anne dined on Peppercorn tuna, Steak Oscar, cajun oysters and extra sides of bearnaise. I'll miss swappin foodie philosophy and movie history with Brent.Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-38310640497829294362013-12-21T20:10:00.004-08:002014-05-08T15:00:15.360-07:00<b>This December marked our 28th year at Flamingo Seafood Grill.</b><br />
We look forward to 2014, to enjoying longtime friends and meeting new.<br />
In a tornado of silly, cruel, petty, depressing and 24-hr negative news... it's the fascinating, kind, upbeat and gracious folks who have passed through our doors who<br />
continuously renew our smile and recharge our emotional batteries.<br />
Wishing you prosperity of the soul this coming year and whatever else you do...<br />
<i>Non illigitimi carborundum!</i><br />
Dino Thompson<br />
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Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-67082978981595826102013-10-16T13:47:00.001-07:002013-10-16T13:47:17.794-07:00The Government Shutdown.We'd be a helluva lot better off if we fired every damn petty senator and congressmen and replaced them with the first 535 names in the phonebook.<br />
<br />
We'd then have decent, mostly hardworking folks who've worked for a living, ran businesses, made payrolls and got along with others.<br />
<br />
<br />Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-72698579862740912872013-10-04T13:16:00.004-07:002014-05-08T15:01:47.863-07:00HOMAGE TO THE OCEAN FOREST HOTEL by Dino Thompson<br />
<div class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">HOMAGE TO THE OCEAN FOREST HOTEL<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">People called it The Million Dollar Hotel, The Castle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">on the Ocean, The Wedding Cake Hotel. Most us locals just
called it…The Hotel.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<h1 style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></h1>
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<h1 style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why should anyone care about the long-gone
hotel? Because it was the splendiforous white castle on the north end of town
we called… The Ocean Forest Hotel. </span><span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It loomed large over the beach on a 30-foot-above-sea-level
plateau and...<o:p></o:p></span></span></h1>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
was much more than just a hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
a spectacular architectural remnant of the most ambitious attempt to “Create
the most desirable haven of rest and recreation in the world…the most complete
playground ever contemplated.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those high-filootin words were the voice of the visionary developers
describing their grandiose venture. The venture, called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arcady</i>, was named after a place in ancient <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Greece</st1:place></st1:country-region> where
men found peace and solitude in their natural environment. The natural place
they chose for this dream was that ribbon of sand we would know as Myrtle
Beach. Greenville’s John T. Woodside and his brothers were the originators and
constructors of that vision. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Dreamers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Land acquired in 1925, the hotel and golf course were finished in 1928.
These were the leading actors in a breathtaking 60,000 acre resort and ocean
swept production. The founders of this grandiose dream went all in with their
lives, money and reputations. The '29 Crash would lop the economic legs off their
attempt at creating a coastal paradise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Woodsides lost more than their shirt. They lost their six textile
mills, (the largest textile mill under one roof in the entire world). They lost
their financing, their fortune, their 17-story Woodside National Bank, their
magnificent hotel, and their nowhere-else-on-earth dream. They lost the entire
coastline of Myrtle Beach, 12 miles of pristine shoreline garnished with 30-ft sea-oated
sand dunes, twisted live oaks and windswept myrtles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Arcady
was to be the most ambitious resort haven in the entire country. And it would
have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seventy-five years later nothing
touches the concept or the finished product.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Hotel<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The main entertainment entrée was…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ocean Forest Hotel.</i> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This white-brick 10-story sandcastle designed by famed Chicago
architect, Raymond Hood, boasted 202 ventilated rooms, indoor & outdoor
pools, lighthouse spire, salt or fresh running water, colonnaded marble
verandas, magnificent Georgian ballrooms, 20-foot chandeliers crafted by
Europe’s finest crystal makers. They offered ocean front dining, outdoor entertainment,
men & women's exercise clubs fully-equipped with spa, steamboxes, free
weights, pulleys, cables, pommel horse and shake-the-fat-of-your-booty
machines. There were maple bowling lanes and an indoor and outdoor Olympic-size
pools. Hotel bathrooms offered hot, cold and saltwater baths. The tower offered
Myrtle Beach’s 1<sup>st</sup> radio station as well as gambling rumors. The ground-floor
arcade provided men’s and ladies clothing, coffee shop, jewelry store, drug
store and hoity-toity salons…The hotel even provided ice water piped into each
room. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And this was in the 1920s. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ownership<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When completed, control and
ownership of Arcady would be turned over to the members. No part of the project
could ever be sold. The first 500 family memberships would be sold at heady
$1,250, which would give them, “…the privilege to build and occupy homes in a
specially favorable and restricted section, if they so desire.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ocean Forest Golf Course & Clubhouse<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Guests and members could opt for use of the Robert White designed 27-hole
golf course and stay on premise in the 60-room Georgian clubhouse and inn. The
golf layout designer would become the PGA’s 1<sup>st</sup> President. The
all-male golf course would be frequented by actors, politicians and the legendary
likes of Sarazen and Snead. A few cigar smokers and gimlet drinkers lounging
around that same clubhouse conjured up a need for a magazine dedicated to
sports and leisure. They would name the publication <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sports Illustrated</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Outdoor Amphitheater<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Also overlooking the ocean, nestled beside the south side of the hotel,
they built an acoustically-correct, open-air amphitheater. Locals called it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Marine Patio</i>. You could savor the
dance music of all the famous big bands…. Carmichael, Dorsey, Basie, Spike
Jones, Harry James, Lennon Sisters, with the silvery ocean in the background. Those
who couldn’t afford the ticket, would blanket-sit on the moonlit sand dunes and
ogle the comins and goins of snazzy dressed couples sippin illegal cocktails. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When the band kicked in beach-listeners would sand-boogie barefoot to a
hip swing tune.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
whispered Ayn Rand’s Peter Keating of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fountainhead</i>
was based on noted high-rise architect Raymond Hood who designed the Ocean
Forest Hotel. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Architect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
The designer of our wedding cake hotel was <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">MIT
grad Raymond Hood. He also created the Gothic Chicago Tribune Tower, the Daily News building
in New York, the McGraw-Hill building, the black-brick Radiator Building which
became the Bryant Park Hotel. Raymond Hood was also the senior architect for Rockefeller
Center and the RCA Building. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Outdoor Amenities<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Other play-toys offered were red-clay tennis courts, skeet & trap
range, dieticians, Near the golf course was an open-beam-cypress horse stable
which housed 40 rent-a-rides. Also on the recreation menu was archery, miles of
hiking, hunting, riding trails and of course 14 miles of sailing, sunning and
fishing along a pristine ocean front lined with windswept myrtles and cabana’d
beaches. And within walking distance, 6 freshwater lakes paralleling the
Atlantic were there for canoeing, bass fishing and moonlight trysts. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Amenities which were to come, were a separate golf course for ladies,
separate courses for the children, boys and girl camps, nurseries for the
infants, beach and bath house, wildlife sanctuary, and Yacht Basin carved out
where the current Yachtsman Hotel sits today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing on our Grand Strand or any other strand was conceived quite that
grand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Summer Stock Theater<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Great Gatsby-ish après-theater cocktail
galas, glistening with parfait gowns and pastel’d tuxedos capped off the
theater productions. The South’s only theater-in-the-round boasted names like
Veronica Lake, Sinatra, John Ireland, Tuesday Weld, Shelly Winters, Diana
Barrymore, Eddie Bracken, Tallulah Bankhead, Jeffrey Lynn, Zazu Pits. The
celebs, pols, and money movers graced the stage, gambled in the tower, sipped
perfect manhattans in the Brookgreen Room and prowled the verandas in linens
and silk. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For
most of my life its fabulousity has never been exceeded. It was our social
universe and the biggest, baddest, most imposing structure for 200 miles. It
was our Coliseum, our Taj Mahal, our Parthenon. Ask any local yokel directions
and the answer went something like…"Be bout a mile past the Ocean
Forest."<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marine Patio, Ballroom and Brookgreen Room<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most all us local boys fastened our first cummerbund, ogled our first
cleavage, kissed our first bare neck, sipped our first cocktail, heard our
first champagne cork pop and danced our first cheek to cheek foxtrot in the
Ocean Forest Ballroom or Marine Patio. Twas an elegant brownfaced bowtied
bartender served me my first cocktail, a nutmeggy brandy alexander, at age 6 in
the swanky Brookgreen Room, while I listened to violin stroller, Eduardo Roy,
bedazzled in a Liberace-ish </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">neon jacket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were a Baptisty dry state back then but the Ocean Forest was the
closest thing we had to royalty so the local constabulary cut them serious slack.
My dad said it was painted with invisible paint, the sheriff just couldn’t find
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Friday the 13<sup>th</sup> of Sept 1974<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never ride past
without it looming large over my memory. Imagining it refurbished... seeing
linen-garbed, pomaded dreamy couples sipping perfect manhattans on that perfect
veranda in front of windswept myrtles on that perfect stretch of cabana'd
beach. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>50 years after its immaculate construction, on that sunny but tragic Friday
the 13<sup>th</sup>, the last castle of the Woodside brothers’ dream was
tumbled into twisted rubble by Hudgins and Company demolition. Fade to black. <i>A
perfect implosion…an imperfect ending.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We crouched behind the sand dunes and cried for our Castle on the Sea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even the head of the demolition company told me the hotel should have
been renovated. That it was the finest construction he had seen. They auctioned
off the woodwork, crystal and glitter, even the cups and saucers and room keys.
They then buried the broken bones of the once magnificent hotel in what is now
Cagney’s parking lot. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> All
that's left of what shoulda been our Breaker’s, our Greenbrier, our Fairmont,
our Plaza hotel… are just a few artifacts, some postcards, concrete roads, the
Pine Lakes Golf Course and Club House and pangs of what mighta been, coulda
been, shoulda been.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
my mind it's still there. Cause I want it to be.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPanCWDCx4XdiawmyNy7FN4wfmNPxJD8yUiy7mwnC_4FHhURElt2SCOzpCozHPOMZWL_x_rmGx7Vrno6xZga6HErB7kmXn8uTLrshxUKUYLIZeV3jkAhygiBesSQr_7V4x0BAcXInLEY/s1600/Scan+140340000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPanCWDCx4XdiawmyNy7FN4wfmNPxJD8yUiy7mwnC_4FHhURElt2SCOzpCozHPOMZWL_x_rmGx7Vrno6xZga6HErB7kmXn8uTLrshxUKUYLIZeV3jkAhygiBesSQr_7V4x0BAcXInLEY/s1600/Scan+140340000.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Dino Thompson- Author of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Greek Boy- Growing Up Southern</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-53418188457613368712013-07-30T11:12:00.001-07:002013-10-04T13:19:19.645-07:00Chains- Damn em ta hell<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Arial Black","sans-serif";">CHAINS - DAMN EM TA HELL</span></u><u><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Biggest restaurant changes in last 35
years…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Sloppy dress…Unruly kids...Non
smoking…Obesity...Celeb chefs…Finger food…Raw food…Fancy pizzas…$3 Bottle
water…$5 coffee…and CHAINS.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Back in my long ago there were none here...then
along came HoJos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Back when</span> quarterbacks called their
own plays, presidents wrote their own speeches, and ham steak with pineapple
ring was on every menu, usetabe every food joint was somebody’s mom and pop. Only
time you used the word “Chain” in a sentence was to describe fences, bikes and pervy
sexual positions. Cruise the 2-lane main drag back in the day and you knew who
was who. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Lotta joints had
their own names blinkin…<i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Lee’s, Oliver’s, Raimondo’s, Lloyd’s, Floyd’s, Christy’s, Cluie’s, Eyerly’s,
Haley’s, Larry’s, Harrell’s, Hare’s, Tony’s, Vereens, Selvey’s, Morse’s,
Moody’s, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
From my open car
window, going sixty, I could rattle off the names of the other owners as they
neon’d by. They were all legends of the summer. The pioneers who came in
loaded-down sedans. The ones who created from nothing. The ones with the balls
to throw all their chips in one pot. All gone to the dining room in the sky. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Charlie Kordas at Seven Seas<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>George Anthony at Mayflower<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Tony Carnaggio at Tony’s<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Capt Juel’s at The Hurricane<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Louie Achilles at the Broadway<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Wimpy <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Anderson</st1:place></st1:city>
at Aunt Maude’s,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Tony Coury at the Rip Tide<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Charles Fleishman at White Heron<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Chris Moshures at Excel & Mammy’s Kitchen<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Warren Cromley at Rice Planter’s<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Sam Diminich at Roma<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Eli Saleeby at Brass Rail<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Johnny Burroughs at Peaches Corner<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Sammy Vereen at Wayside<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>John Loud at Clipper Ship<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Alex Karetas at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seaside</st1:place></st1:city><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Spero Bogache at Ocean View<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Cooter <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jennings</st1:place></st1:city>
at Sloppy Joes and the Bowery,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Papa Chris at Mammy’s<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Chris Drosas at The Colony<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Lee Letts at the Pink House<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Lattie Upchurch at Outrigger<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Tony Thompson at Kozy Korner<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Now,
goin sixty, your eyes blur with same-ification</span>. One chain after the
other on every highway. When did unique become bad, same good? <o:p></o:p></div>
Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-41983052758588334922013-07-01T21:41:00.002-07:002013-07-01T21:41:33.610-07:00Health FoodStopped by the Health Food Store today waiting for my wife to stock up on some Vitamin D3. While I waited I ogled my time away watchin unhealthy, weirdly-garbed, sandle'd people seeking the fountain of youth with Vitamins A thru Z. They were being tumerac'd, ginger'd, fish oiled, wheatgerm'd, zinc'd, selenium'd and horse chestnut'd.<br />
<br />
All I could think of is... just come to our restaurant and have a healthy cut of salmon, side of asparagus and a glass of heart-healthy red. Or say f-k it and have a NY Strip topped with crabmeat and béarnaise sauce and a dirty martini.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Vitamins A thru Z ain't gonna keep us from dying.</div>
Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-21365648781796105102013-06-25T10:13:00.004-07:002014-05-08T15:04:37.409-07:00Thanks for the memoriesWanted to take a moment to thank you for all the heartfelt notes, calls and personal visits you've shared about Cagney's. Means the world to know it was a special place to work and dine for so many of you. It certainly was a special place for us.<br />
<br />
Here's an interesting note.<br />
In 1974, we bought the stained glass after they demolished the Red Springs, NC Baptist Church (built in 1911). Two years later we re-assembled a beautiful window which fronted the entrance to our Cagney's kitchen. A month ago, one of the members of the old church approached us to buy the window back. they wanted to build a special spot in the new church and back light it.<br />
<br />
The gorgeous window has returned to it's original home!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOJNx33NWU8HNGIpWSBfHgv4AAs4LQWFomYmoaKsdeosT7z7qGDzWVxhbhNuk4iwuqlbAkQPXHAXDyPdWHFrGrF5vhTisHk8S7d-I0RWDxZI2UakXzucSifDQVwwt4ZvdNfH65q5E3Z8/s1600/Scan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOJNx33NWU8HNGIpWSBfHgv4AAs4LQWFomYmoaKsdeosT7z7qGDzWVxhbhNuk4iwuqlbAkQPXHAXDyPdWHFrGrF5vhTisHk8S7d-I0RWDxZI2UakXzucSifDQVwwt4ZvdNfH65q5E3Z8/s1600/Scan.jpg" height="273" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Life goes on...<br />
Thanks again for your friendship and memories.<br />
Your old busboy/sweeper<br />
Dino ThompsonDiogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-83439957436240124382013-06-20T20:43:00.003-07:002014-05-08T15:06:45.992-07:00Since Cagney's has closed my partner and I have had the pleasure of serving many of Cagney's regulars at our sister restaurant, THE FLAMINGO SEAFOOD GRILL.<br />
For 30-some years my partner and I took turns working one night at Cagney's, the next night at Flamingo Grill.<br />
<br />
No we both work every night at Flamingo Grill.<br />
We've been "business dating" for 37 years, now we're married.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EvyYIojf7Et5k6FhBcYvuf3BveqXRQ-DszcjRCbcRFZ6hFZr17u7z67pXiEvzGRsaNxp5_fEDjqQ9T_ZCrBbScI_TC6sfpnygdcnLinGR_eGVr8AiqEVcLgqI_8vaCCLPWyWebuNIBQ/s1600/DSC_0139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EvyYIojf7Et5k6FhBcYvuf3BveqXRQ-DszcjRCbcRFZ6hFZr17u7z67pXiEvzGRsaNxp5_fEDjqQ9T_ZCrBbScI_TC6sfpnygdcnLinGR_eGVr8AiqEVcLgqI_8vaCCLPWyWebuNIBQ/s1600/DSC_0139.JPG" height="196" width="320" /></a></div>
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Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-8401932807375538032013-05-04T10:24:00.000-07:002013-05-04T10:26:34.078-07:00DOES A NAME MAKE A DAMN?<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">I’ve had mighty tasty meals in joints with
names like… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Black Cat, Chicken Shak,
Donut Diner, Forks, Eats, Grubbs, Mammy’s, Punk’s Place, Hook’s, Hoar House, Skeeters,
Sloppy Joe’s, Terminal café , Bearded Clam, Knife & Fork, Three-Spot Grill,
Chat n Chew, Whistling Pig.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And not-so-tasty
meals in tight-ass tablecloth joints with names like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Bon Repas, Bon Appetit, </i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Belle Cuisine, Auberge du Soleil, Legends,
Par Excellence, Paradise, Parthenon, Penthouse, Pinnacle, Primo’s, Top of the
World and House of Good Food. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what’s in a
name? Does a nifty moniker guarantee success or insure flopdom? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Would Cary Grant have made
it big as Archibald Leach? Roy Rogers as Leonard Slye? Ice-T as Tracy Morrow,
Francis Gumm as Judy Garland? Muddy Waters as McKinley Morgenfield? I
don’t tink toe Buckwheat.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">I mean how much 7-Up was
sold before they nixed the original name, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lithiated Lemon</i>? Trader Vic’s was first called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hinky Dinks</i>. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Couldn’t give a piece of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pantagonian toothfish</i> away til they
renamed it Chilean Sea Bass. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rose’</i> wine was dead as Nehru suits before they called it blush.
<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Order snow crab and you
might get toad crab, just as good but not such a euphonious appellation. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Lake trout ain’t trout and
has never been near a lake, it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">silver
hake</i> from the ocean. Orange roughy useta be call <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">slime head</i>. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">How many hifulters could actually
fork a mouthful of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pig thymus glands</i>
into their mouth if some clever cook hadn’t re-named it sweetbreads? <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">Order marsh rabbit in
Baltimore and you’re gonna get muskrat.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">I ordered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spotted dick</i> in Europe just to hear
myself say it and I always picked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drop-Your-Drawers-and-Run
chili </i>at a local cook-off. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">How many shirts would you wear
with Ralph Lifshitz logo’d on the front? <o:p></o:p></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lifshitz is Ralphee Lauren’s real
name.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-9030105222266399052013-03-07T14:21:00.001-08:002013-03-07T14:21:07.695-08:00Slowly Emptying CagneysWe've started moving things out of Cagney's. Every item, every piece of woodwork has its own unique story.<br />
<br />
Lamps, barber poles, animal heads all seem to be sayin..."Hey, where you takin us? This is our home." I keep apologizing to inanimate objects.Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-87265405336853843012013-01-04T19:38:00.001-08:002013-01-04T19:42:28.871-08:00From Dino Thompson<br />
It's been a couple months since we dimmed the stain glass lights at Cagney's.<br />
We're trying to get past it, but certainly not over it. First I want to thank all our friends who so generously shared their thoughts, memories and sadness about Cagney's closing. It's been a tough emotional ride because it was such a huge part of our creative lives and our joy of serving others.<br />
<br />
And of course a galaxy of heartaches to leave behind such a wonderful group of men and women. What an honor and privilege to have worked with so many fine and decent young people, many of whom blossomed into extraordinary men and women along side us. It's been a joyous ride to be a part of their lives.<br />
<br />
Come see us at Flamingo Grill...We're still dedicated to putting a tasty smile into your evening and experiencing the joy of being of service to others and seeing friends.<br />
<br />
<br />Diogeneclemenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16987316707428093367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7648131987248288826.post-42671927366465600562012-10-13T12:05:00.001-07:002014-05-08T15:15:29.154-07:00Every night, familiar faces, misty eyes. Friends we've served for almost 40 years.<br />
Each day getting more difficult to hear their praise of Cagney's and all it's meant to them and to their families. Bring a tear to a glass eye.<br />
<br />
Our blow-your-mind loyal staff is maintaining excellence and dedication like we'll be here for another 40yrs. Damn we're so honored to have worked with these people.<br />
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