All my readers know that I am a huge NASCAR fan so you may be surprised to hear my comments on last Sunday’s Brickyard 400.  To put it mildly, it was a debacle and I place the blame squarely on the shoulders of Goodyear.

The Brickyard is known for the abrasive nature of its track but give me a break!  Thousands of races have been run there, never with the result we witnessed Sunday.  The track is usually rubbered-in as a race progresses, resulting in lessened tire wear.  This didn’t happen Sunday because the Goodyear rubber compound simply blew away like so much dust in the wind instead of sticking to the track as it should have.

To compensate for the tire problem, NASCAR called a competition yellow about every ten laps or so.  What ensued was a bunch of race cars lapping the Brickyard at about fifty miles and hour while half a dozen addled race announcers tried desperately and without much success to keep up the buzz, at least when there wasn’t a commercial running.  The resulting race, the second most important race on the entire NASCAR circuit, was boring with a capital B.

The flubbed race Sunday rests solely on the shoulders of Goodyear.  The tire company mixed up a bad batch of rubber with which to make the tires and NASCAR compounded the mistake by allowing almost no tire testing.

I’m not sure of this but I think the Hendrick group was one of the only teams allowed to test the tires on the track.  They responded in the race by being the only team to change four tires on every stop - and they won the race.  Did they know something the other teams didn’t know?  Did they benefit from this knowledge?  Hmm!

Goodyear should have to repay every loyal NASCAR fan that paid hard-earned money to watch a carnival sideshow that didn’t even hire a clown to lighten the situation.  Hey, and I think we die-hard NASCAR fans also deserve an apology.

http://www.EricWilder.com

A most interesting list of the ten most expensive books sold by AbeBooks in 2007.

http://www.abebooks.com/docs/RareBooks/10-expensive-2007.shtml

http://www.EricWilder.com

The following commentary was written by Michael Gilbert.  Michael is from Colorado Springs, Colorado and is an active player in the energy industry.

Everyone is running around concerned over energy, energy, energy.  Oil this, gas that, ethanol maybe, hybrids for sure and everyone agrees that nuclear is the answer, except none of us want it our back yard.

Oh and did I mention the cure all for those of us whom are so inclined to go completely green, solar powered and wind driven homes…While I’m not sure how green batteries are, a viable solution for those who live in a predominantly sunny, windy area.

Pretty cool if the area is built for it off the cuff.

Anyway let’s get down to the facts (or at least how I see it).

First and foremost we have all been conditioned with higher prices through the technique of sticker shock.

In other words smack them (us) with crazy outrageous costs, get us to gasp and scream in outrage, then offer us a discount and tell us how lucky we are.

(Please review gasoline prices over the past few years and the trend they have followed.)

The next step is to remove the discount and reintroduce sticker shock.  (Continue with this trend until outrage overcomes the discount).

Now obviously there are other factors (some real others… well, imagined, or otherwise)

However there is one thing that is absolutely clear.  A higher price (for everything that is energy related) is here to stay.  Demand is not going to decrease and reliable and legitimate alternatives are years away if not longer… and we all better get used to it.

So, I‘ll ask you a question, what do we do….no seriously I mean it what do we do?

And please don’t throw cliché answers at me.  There are no all inclusive wholesale immediate answers where we will wake up in the morning and it will all be better.

If you have a suggestion please make sure you have thought it through with a very realistic timeline that includes how and why big business would get involved.  (Remember it doesn’t happen without big business and they won’t do or institute a damn thing with out huge profits to offset huge profits)

In a time when change is the thing maybe we can be the ones who truly pave the way for it.

http://www.EricWilder.com

My first wife Gail was the youngest of five sisters and two brothers.  As in most Cajun families the siblings were close, the oldest five all living within ten miles of each other.  Gail’s mother Lily had three sisters and a brother and they all lived less than a quarter mile from each other all their lives.

Although I always had a predilection for Lily’s cooking all of Gail’s aunts were wonderful cooks.  They all had their specialties never to be passed up whenever offered.  Poulet Sauté a La Creole (Chicken Sautéed Creole Style) was the specialty of Gail’s Aunt Lectra.

I recently found this recipe in a stack of old letters.  It’s a Creole standard but I’m fairly sure that Lectra, like all good Cajun cooks, had a secret ingredient or two that she never shared with anyone.  I’m thinking maybe a touch of paprika.  It doesn’t really matter because I know all you aspiring Cajun-Creole cooks will soon find your own secret ingredient(s) that will make this dish your own.

POULET SAUTE A LA CREOLE

2 spring chickens                                  6 tomatoes, sliced

1 clove garlic, chopped                         Salt and pepper

1 sprig of thyme                                    2 tablespoons butter

2 large onions, sliced                             1 teaspoon minced parsley

2 tablespoons flour                               1 bay leaf

2 green peppers or                               2 cups stock

    pimientos, chopped                           2 cups cooked rice

Disjoint chicken, season with salt and pepper and brown with butter.  Add onions and brown, then flour and tomatoes, peppers or pimientos, garlic and herbs.  Simmer 20 minutes; then add seasoned stock and simmer for 45 minutes.  Serve chicken covered with sauce.  Serve with boiled rice for 6.

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When I was a kid one of my favorite TV shows was Mr. Lucky.  It was about a professional gambler that ran a casino on a ship anchored just beyond the three mile limit to avoid trouble with the Feds.  I remember that Lucky always wore a tuxedo, usually white and he was always suave and debonair, at least until provoked.

Mr. Lucky lasted only one season, from 1959 until 1960.  It was filmed in black and white, probably the reason few fans remember the series.  The thing I remember most is that Lucky was a true hero.  Like the TV characters of that era, as portrayed by Steve McQueen (Bounty Hunter), Richard Boone (Paladin) and Nick Adams (The Rebel), he could only be pushed so far before losing his temper and teaching the bad guys (usually real bad!) a much needed lesson in life.

Like many shows of the day, the music outlived the series.  Click on Eric’s Books page at his website and listen to the theme from Mr. Lucky.  See if you don’t agree with me.

Such TV series are gone, replaced now by endless game, dance and reality shows.  Maybe we need a return of the hero with a flawed past and a heart of gold.  Where are you, Bat Masterson?

http://www.EricWilder.com

I recently published an article titled Interesting Stuff that gave a brief and interesting history of the origin of certain sayings and names.  It prompted a reply from my friend Dave Beatty from Livingston, Louisiana.  Here are is some more interesting stuff that he has uncovered:

Beatty’s More Origins

I read on you blog the origin of some commonly use phrases and thought you might like to ‘learn’ about some more.  I say learn because with all of the internet sites, anyone can go to them and learn the origin of almost any saying.  The sayings listed below are the ones I remember and learned in my many travels and did not ‘learn’ by just going to some web site.  I think this is the way sayings should be passed on thought time, and not from web site to web site.  I hope you enjoy and you might just learn one or two new ones.

 “So cold that it will freeze the balls off a brass monkey“

As the story goes, in old sailing days, war ships would stack the iron cannon balls in a pyramid held at the base by a ring.  This ring was/is made of brass and called a monkey.  As it got colder, the brass would contract more than the iron balls did and the pyramid of cannon balls would fall ‘off the brass monkey”.

 At a dinner party someone says “A toast” to or for whatever, and every one will lift their glass and touch them together with each other glass at the table.

As the story goes, in the old days the preferred method of killing your enemies was to invite them to a dinner party and poison them.  To make sure that no one was being poisoned, it became the practice to have everyone at the table to pour a little wine from their glass into each and every one else’s glass.  Therefore everyone was drinking the same wine.

 The military salute:  

This practice is reported to be based on the practice of knights of old raising their face shield to show their face as they approach each other on the road.  As to say, look at my face, I’m a friend.

There are several more that I have learned over the years but they will come later, when I can remember them.

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Exploration for uranium heats up as the world gropes for new energy sources.

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20602099&sid=aa7Pjg_HCYQ8&refer=energy

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The results of my recent yearly physical showed two adverse things: my cholesterol is high and my blood sugar is elevated.  While I’m not diabetic I am moving in that direction.  I was told to start eating like a diabetic or else become one.

I began assessing my diet but didn’t have to go far to discover at least one major reason for my condition.  The culprit is beer.  I love the beverage and not just the light American variety.  My favorites are darks and ambers, most with the consistency of highly refined motor oil.  The problem is they are all loaded with carbohydrates.

It’s hard to believe that one little beer can cause major health problems but for a person with a tendency toward obesity and an exercise ethic that consists of little more than walking from the dinner table to the computer screen, it can become a death threat, especially if you drink several six-packs, or more, every week.

I haven’t drunk a beer since last Wednesday and the regimen is beginning to play havoc with my writing.  Why?  I can’t think of anything else except quaffing a pint of Bass or Beck’s, or one of the many wonderful American brews such as Anchor Steam or Full Sail.  Sorry if I didn’t mention your favorite brewski as - in good Oklahoma and Will Rogers fashion - I personally never met a beer I didn’t like.

For all my faithful readers out there I don’t mean to make light of a serious health problem.  The possibility of becoming diabetic frightens me to death and I intend to deal with it.  I guess I’ll just have to start making do with a shot glass of Guinness once every week or so.

http://www.EricWilder.com

It is nothing new for soldiers to return home from a wartime situation with little or no mental support.  I left Vietnam one day and was on my own in New Orleans two days later.  Soldiers went away to war and some returned, in one piece or otherwise.  Like every soldier before me and every one since, I left something behind that I will never recover.

Like today, much of my generation’s pleasures and displeasures were expressed in the music of the times.  Last night I heard Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On and it triggered a long-hidden memory.

The song is one of the most affecting anti-war ballads ever penned.  Written during the height of the Vietnam War it raised awareness about the plight of returning soldiers, especially those from the black, inner-city.  The words are poignant and ring true, even today.  Especially today!  Here are the lyrics from What’s Going On.

Mother, mother
There's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today

Father, father
We don't need to escalate
You see, war is not the answer
For only love can conquer hate
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today

Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
Oh, what's going on
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Ah, what's going on

In the mean time
Right on, baby
Right on
Right on

Father, father, everybody thinks we're wrong
Oh, but who are they to judge us
Simply because our hair is long
Oh, you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today
Oh

Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me
So you can see
What's going on
What's going on
Tell me what's going on
I'll tell you what's going on - Uh
Right on baby
Right on baby

Soldiers are still going away to war.  Some will return - in one piece or otherwise - but every one of them will leave something behind on the battlefield when they come home.  Last night What’s Going On triggered a long-hidden memory – a memory of abandonment, despair and lost innocence.  Little has changed since Vietnam.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Lust, self deceit, a single young mother and her two-timing boss.  Add in a snowstorm, a party, a spurned suitor and a white rabbit.  Mix well and you have a recipe for a promise never kept, or maybe never made.

SHROUDED PROMISES

By Eric Wilder

With gentle hands, Leslie Scott clutched the arms of Howard Pike's big leather chair.  Pike was late, and welling tears revealed Leslie's gloom, blue and red neon pulsating through the open window as she imagined footsteps at the door.  She longed for Howard's contagious smile and booming voice, but knew in her heart he wasn't going to show.  She continued to wait anyway.

            Snow was falling in sooty clumps on the sidewalk when Leslie remembered brave little Billy, waiting alone for his mother to return home and cook supper.  Having no more time for tears, she grabbed her coat and started for the door just as Howard's phone rang.  Leslie answered in a rush.

            "Pike and Scull."

            "Leslie. Why are you working so late?"

            "Carla, is that you?"

            "Yes, dear is Howard there?"

            "Gone for the day."

            "That rat.  I wanted to remind him about the party tonight."

            "Sorry Carla.  I'm the only one here."

            "Poor dear, why don't you turn off your computer and come to the party?"

            "Oh, I really couldn't."

            "Sure you can.  Bern is here and Howard will show up before the night is over.  You know how lively things get when those two party together.  "Anyway, there's someone here I'd like you to meet."

            "I don't have a sitter."

            "Find one, Darling."  Carla hung up the phone.

            Leslie stared at the dead receiver.  Maybe Mildred, the janitor's wife, would watch Billy for her.  After finding Mildred  alone in her one-room basement hovel, she gave the slovenly old woman half of her remaining weekly wages to sit with Billy.  Forcing the guilt from her mind, she changed into her best blue party dress as Billy finished the half-cold hamburger purchased on her way home.

            No buses traversed the Scull's fashionable neighborhood, so Leslie took a cab she could little afford.  Waiting on the front porch, shawl pulled tightly around her neck, she listened as

violins created a beautiful melody, just beyond the door, feeling very much like an uninvited intruder.  Blocking the entrance as if she were, the maid frowned when she opened the door.

            "May I help you?"

            "I'm Leslie Scott.  The Scull's invited me."

            "May I see your invitation?"

            A woman in a thin party dress tapped the maid's shoulder, then stood shivering, arms hugged tightly to her chest.  "Leslie's my special guest, Margaret."  Margaret nodded and disappeared into the house.  "Leslie," she said, touching the younger woman's shoulder.  "Come in.  Don't mind Margaret."

            Instantly immersed in the noisy party going on around her, Leslie followed her into the house.  Carla hurried through the crowd, grabbing champagne for herself and Leslie from a passing waiter.

            "I simply must discuss something with you, Les," she said, leading her to an upstairs bedroom.

            Leslie asked, "Have you seen Howard?"

            Lighting a cigarette, Carla only stared.  Leslie noticed her faded green eyes, strangely incongruous with her short-cropped, bleached hair, but somehow complementary to her anorexic figure and pale complexion.  Raising her chin, she blew a wisp of smoke toward the ceiling.

            "You look lovely Leslie, but you really should do something about your wardrobe.  Baby blue isn't your color."

            Leslie ignored her remark.  "Your party's lovely, Carla.  What did you want to talk to me about?"

            Still staring, Carla said, "You should see my hairdresser.  You're lovely, but there's so much he could add."

            "Carla --”

            "Sorry Dear."

            Leslie felt uneasy, forehead flushing and a red flush spreading down her face as Carla eyed her like a butcher sizing up a cut of beef.  Carla finally asked, "Are you warm, Dear?"

            "I’m fine."

            "Maybe, but your tits just turned the color of a boiled lobster."

            Leslie put her hand over her plunging neckline, smiling weakly when she realized Carla's joke.  Carla continued, unabashed, to stare, finally turning, puffing the cigarette as she gazed listlessly out the window.

            "There's someone I want you to meet," Carla said.

            "But --"

            "My brother Joe.  He's young and has a law degree.  Most important, he's single."

            Carla glanced around for an ash tray.  Finding none, she deposited the butt into a vase and sat her empty champagne glass carelessly on the dresser.  Grabbing Leslie's hand, she led her from the door.  At the base of the stairs, they found Carla's husband Bern with an attractive middle-aged blonde woman.  Leslie saw him touch the woman's leg, but Carla didn't.  Pinching her smiling confidante before strutting away, the woman left Bern to peck Carla's cheek and plant a much too friendly kiss on Leslie.

            Carla asked, "Who was she?"

            Bern motioned a waiter for another drink.  "Richard's - our banker's - wife."

            Without commenting further about her husband's overly friendly companion, Carla also grabbed a fresh drink and asked, "Have you seen Joe?"

            Bern pointed to the far wall.  "Mr. Holier-than-thou is standing by himself in the corner."

            "Come, Leslie," Carla ordered, dismissing her errant husband without another word.

            As Leslie edged passed Bern on the stairs, he blatantly stroked her backside, causing her neck to flush.  Pretending not to notice, she hurried after Carla.

            "Joe, Darling," Carla said, embracing her younger brother.  "Why aren't you mingling?"

            With a shrug, the young man said, "Not my style, Carly."

            Carla gave him the same visual once-over Leslie had received in the bedroom.  Leslie sipped her champagne to avoid his embarrassing stare when the man's eyes caught hers.

            "-- this is Leslie."  Hearing the last part of Carla's sentence, she smiled, realizing she was being introduced.  "Leslie, this is my handsome brother Joe."

            Joe shook Leslie's hand, holding it a moment too long.  Self-consciously, she pulled it away a bit too fast.

            Carla edged away into the crowd. "Can you entertain this pretty-young-thing while I hobnob with the other guests?"

            "My pleasure," Joe said.

            Leslie glanced around the crowded room.

            Joe asked, "Looking for someone?"

            "Just seeing who's here."

            "How do you know Carla?"

            "Bern's my boss - and his partner Howard.  You know Howard?"

            "Yes."

            "Is he here?"

            "Haven't seen him, but I haven't done much mingling."

            Again, Leslie glanced around the room, this time seeing Howard and his wife Cynthia enter the party through the front door.  Margaret took their coats and they disappeared into another part of the house.

            "If you'll excuse, me I have to go to the bathroom," Leslie said, barely glancing at Joe as she departed to find Howard.

            Joe waited alone for ten minutes before abandoning his drink on a coffee table and starting after her.  Halfway through the crowded room he bumped into Howard Pike's wife Cynthia.

            Cynthia draped her slender arms around his neck and said, "You weren't trying to avoid me were you, Joe?"

            Unwinding her arms, Joe pushed her gently but firmly away.  "How are you, Cyn?"

            "Much better."  Hiccupping, she grinned foolishly, hand at her mouth.

            "I'm looking for someone," he said, moving away.

            "Wait," she said, grabbing his elbow.  "Another drink?"

            Cynthia had already had more than one, but Joe asked, "What are you drinking?"

            "You know what I drink."

            With a drunken attempt at seduction, she kissed her fingers and touched them to his lips.  Joe grabbed the wobbly woman's shoulders, maneuvering her against the wall for support.  Then, shaking his head, he looked around for the nearest bartender.

            "You all right, Cyn?"

            Cynthia nodded, eyelids drooping.  After patting her cheek, he started to the bar.  When he handed Cynthia the fresh drink, she greedily savored it, the half swallow of straight scotch reviving her.  When she answered, her words were slurred.

            "Who are you looking for?"

            "One of your wonderful husband's employee's."

            "Leslie?"

            Confused, Joe's eyes narrowed inquisitively and he asked,

 "How did you know?"

            "Wives know.  Besides, she found us when we got here, wanting to discuss company business with Howard."

            "Company business?"

            "Funny business is more like it."  Draining her scotch, she pleaded, "One more, Joe?"

            Again, Joe took Cynthia's glass, her words playing through his mind as he returned to the bar to refresh her drink.

            When he returned, he asked, "Where did they go?"

            "Probably to the nearest toilet with a lock on the door."

            "What?"

            Grinning impishly, Cynthia explained.  "That's where he made love to me the first time - at a New Year's party, both of us butt-naked on a toilet seat."

            "You're incorrigible, Cyn."

            "Maybe," she said, putting her arm around his waist and hugging him to her delicate breasts.  "It was fun.  Let's find a bathroom so I can relive old memories."

            "Why don't you just browse through some photo albums," he said, backing away.

            "The photos I'd like to see are in your apartment."

            Joe winked and started through the crowd as Cynthia finished her drink and wobbled to the bar for another.  True to Cynthia's prediction, Howard and Leslie had found a secluded upstairs bathroom.  Leslie sat on the toilet stool, skirt hiked to her thighs and panty hose rolled down around her ankles.  Her unbuttoned blouse revealed an ample expanse of bosom radiating an embarrassed shade of pink.  Howard stood primping in front of the mirror.

            "Please come home with me, Howard."

            "Can't," he said his voice booming and distinctive.  "I have business."

            Leslie watched him comb his hair and preen his moustache with his little finger.  "You haven't seen Billy in a week."

            "Busy, busy" he said, turning around.  "Besides, we've already made love."

            Averting her gaze, Leslie stared sullenly at the tile floor.  "When are you going to tell Cynthia about us?"

            Caressing her bare breast, Howard bent forward and kissed her full on the mouth.

            "Soon."

            Howard patted her head like a pet dog and opened the bathroom door.

            "Howard, wait."

            "Gotta go."

            Without bothering to close the door, Howard hurried away.  Leslie shut and locked the door, then stumbled to the mirror.  Hair a mess and dress torn and mauled, she began to cry.

            Joe searched the party for Leslie with no success, soon completing the loop and finding the intoxicated Cynthia propped against the same wall where he had left her.  Spotting him, she held up her empty drink glass.

            "Please, daddy.  One more."

            Nodding, Joe returned with a fresh scotch for her and a tall bourbon for himself.  With one hand on his shoulder for support, she tapped his glass and choked down everything but the ice.

            "Drinking away your troubles, Darling?"

            Joe glanced over his shoulder as Carla Scull approached through the crowded room.

            Cynthia said, "You don't have enough booze for that."

            "Someone knocking my booze?" Bern Scull said, appearing through the crowd behind Carla.  From his wobbly gait, Bern was also suffering from alcoholic indulgence.

            "Bern, baby," Cynthia said.  "I wondered where you were."

            Bern laughed, stumbled to Cynthia's side and grabbed her around the waist.  Both leaned against the wall for support.

            Carla ignored their obvious groping and asked, "Where is Leslie."

            "The bathroom," Joe said.

            "There she is," Bern said, pulling away from Cynthia and pointing.

            Joe saw her, moving aimlessly through the crowded room.

            "Leslie, over here."

            In a haze, Leslie drifted toward them without a smile, or look of recognition.

            "Leslie," he said, taking her hand.

            Suddenly smiling at everyone as if in a trance Leslie looked at Joe and asked, "Can I have a sip of your drink?"

            Joe handed her the drink laced with extra ice and she thrust it to her lips with both hands.

            Bern, again, pulled Cynthia toward him, asking, "Where's that no good partner of mine?"

            "Haven't seen him," she said, numbly.

            "He left the party with Jim O'Brian and his long-legged, puff-brained secretary,” Carla answered.

            Leslie's body stiffened.  Her hands trembled and she dropped the glass. It exploded into flying ice and shards of crystal against the hardwood floor.  Leslie sank to her knees to pick up the mess but Joe touched her shoulders and held her.

            "No harm," Bern said, waving across the room for Margaret.  "Let’s go to the living room."

            Without waiting, Carla, Bern, and Cynthia walked away.  Joe helped Leslie to her feet.

            "Don't worry," he said.  "Carla will never miss it."

            "I have to make a phone call."

            Joe pointed, through the crowd, at a closed door.  "There's a phone in the den.  I'll show you."

            After leading Leslie to the empty den, Joe switched on the lamp beside the couch and handed her the phone.  When no on answered, she put her finger on the button and dialed another number.

            "Calling for a taxi?"

            "Yes."

            Taking the receiver from her, Joe said, "My car is outside.  I'll take you home."

            Remembering she'd spent her last five dollars getting to the party, Leslie accepted his offer, but remained passively silent during their icy trip to her apartment.  Joe walked her to the door, watching her shiver as she fished in her purse for the keys.  After opening the door a crack, she took his hand.

            "Thank you," she said.

            Slipping inside, Leslie shut the door behind her, leaving Joe to briefly stare at the peeling paint before starting back down the icy sidewalk.  Before he reached the car, raspy hinges creaked behind him and the door opened once again.  Leslie called to him, as if in shock.

            "Wait.  I need your help."

            Disturbed by Leslie's voice, Joe returned up the walk and followed her into the squalid, cold-water flat, watching as she shook an incognizant old woman, lying on the couch.

             Leslie demanded, "Where is Billy?"

            After snorting loudly and rolling over, the old woman covered her head with her arm and dropped an empty bottle to the floor.  It dribbled whiskey on the thread-bare rug.  Leslie's impassioned question went unanswered and she glanced up at Joe, tears forming in her eyes.

            "Billy's gone!"

            Hurrying back outside, Joe searched the shadow-cloaked sidewalk which was faintly illuminated by the feeble light of the porch lamp.  "I see some footprints in the snow."

            Pushing past him, Leslie ran through the ankle-deep mire,

still wearing her baby-blue party dress.  Joe stalked the tiny footprints by the light of the full moon.  Before reaching the surrounding chain-link fence, flat ground around the apartment sloped suddenly downward.  There they found Billy, foot caught beneath the wire.  After releasing his foot, Leslie hugged him to her breast.

            "Mommy," he said weakly.  "I slid down the hill."

            Draping his coat around the boy, Joe helped them back up the slope.  Returning to the warmth of Leslie's apartment, they got Billy out of his wet clothes, dried him off and warmed him up, and soon learning he was more frightened than hurt.

            Leslie knelt beside his bed, holding his hand, and asked, "Why did you go outside?"

            "I saw a white rabbit through the window and chased him."

            Granting them a moment of privacy, Joe vacated the bedroom and woke Mildred, still asleep on the couch.  After ushering her out the front door, he poured a glass of water from the rusty kitchen tap as the ripple of soft fabric behind him interrupted his thoughts.  It was Leslie, watching him from the bedroom doorway.

            He asked, "Billy all right?"

            Leslie started to answer but hesitated.  Hearing the metallic rattle of keys in the lock, she wheeled around with startled disbelief.  As Howard Pike opened the door and entered, eyes unfocused and dilated, she smiled weakly and her lower lip began to tremble.

            Unmindful of Joe's presence, Pike removed his overcoat and went to Leslie, drifting forward in a drunken, exaggerated gait.  Twirling her once in the air, he let her slide slowly through his arms to the floor.  Joe waited for Leslie's negative reaction.  Instead, her trembling lip magnified her smile.  Enraptured by Pike's sudden appearance, she wrapped her willowy arms around his ruddy neck.

            Feeling suddenly like an unwelcome voyeur as painful reality encompassed his soul, he watched Leslie unbutton Pike's shirt and cover his bare chest with passionate kisses.  Opening the front door he stepped out into the cold then turned for one last look before plodding away through the snow.          Bathed in dim light filtering from the single remaining bare bulb in a corroded light fixture on the ceiling, Leslie's brown eyes registered some indeterminate emotion far beyond Joe's ability to fathom.

            Blinking away his confusion, he backed slowly away and shut the door behind him. Two steps from the door he began whistling a broken tune.  Without looking back he trudged through the snow to his car and drove slowly away.

END

I left Texas Oil & Gas in 1978, intent on becoming a successful independent oil man. Practically broke, I had little more than the false bravado of a young man that had never tasted defeat. Well, maybe a few defeats. My recent divorce following a seven year marriage had left my ego slightly dented. I was either too young, or too stupid - maybe both - to worry much about failure.

My first six months as an independent oil man I went through every penny of my savings, meager though they were. I got by, somehow, with a mortgage on my motorcycle - a Triumph Bonneville - and a thousand dollar loan from my new girlfriend. To say that I succeeded because of perseverance would be a lie. My departure from paycheck security exactly coincided with the Arab Oil Embargo of 1978. Before 1979 had ended I was rolling in dough and firmly convinced that I was the smartest geologist there ever was

Do I have stories about the last oil boom? Well, let’s just say I could write a book about it. Here is just one story:

John, my partner from Mississippi, and I spent our mornings drawing maps. At lunch, we would go to a watering hole named Over the Counter. We often stayed until three or four in the afternoon drinking scotch and whiskey. Yes, we were living in that kind of world. One such day after leaving OTC we found a man waiting at our office door.

"Someone told me you boys are prospect generators. I’m going back to Florida tomorrow and I need a deal. Can you help me?"

We both shook our heads. In those days you never had to show a prospect more than three times before someone would buy it.  That’s how desperate oil people were to drill wells.  We quickly informed him that we had no prospect at the moment.

Please, I’m a desperate man. Surely you have an idea, or something."

John reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin.  In his distinctive Mississippi drawl, he said, "Here’s an idea I was telling Eric about at lunch." He showed the structure map, drawn in faded ink on the napkin, to the stranger from Florida. "This prospect is in Grant County. This dry hole had two feet of porosity and this dry hole had a show of oil on a drillstem test. I think you’ll find oil right here," he said, pointing to an X near the center of the napkin.

The stranger pulled out his checkbook and wrote us a check for a thousand dollars. "If this lease is open, I’ll give you another four thousand and drill a well. If it hits, I’ll assign you a 3.125% override."

With that, he disappeared, with the napkin, down the hall to the elevator. A week later we received a check in the mail from the man for four thousand dollars. His company drilled the well and it came on for a hundred and forty BOPD, ultimately producing around sixty thousand barrels of oil.  Our new acquaintance ultimately bought another dozen or so deals from us, drilling most of them.

This is a true story and such was the rock and roll world of the last oil boom. We thought that it would never end, but it did. I was a multi-millionaire by thirty and dead broke by forty. I came though the ordeal bent but not broken.

John became a lawyer. I stuck it out, continuing as an independent geologist, sometimes making a big kill, but mostly barely surviving. Along the way, I began putting my thoughts on paper, at first just to vent my frustrations. I soon learned that I had a passion for the pen that has never abated.

Yes, I lived the last oil boom. I can tell you stories you would not believe, and maybe someday I will.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Here is an incredibly easy meal to prepare that is often eaten on Louisiana hunting trips in front of an open fire.  It is hearty and very tasty.

1 can Lima beans                                              1 pkg. Spaghetti

1 large can tomatoes                                         1 lb. cubed beef or pork, cooked

1 can whole corn

Cook spaghetti, drain and rinse.  Add other ingredients and salt and pepper to taste.  Serve hot over toast or biscuits, using part of juice of meat for liquid.  Serves six.

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I came home early this afternoon because Marilyn had left for Ardmore earlier today to pick up our daughter Kate.  My new pup Princess had been alone inside the house for a while and I wanted to give her a potty break.  When I opened the back door I got a big surprise. A large snake dropped down from somewhere above me and landed directly at my feet.

The snake was as startled as I was.  It started into the house but turned away when I emitted a yelp.  I know what you’re thinking but no, it wasn’t a scream, just a mild yelp.  It was enough however to cause Mr. or Mrs. Snake, whichever the case might be, to think better of joining me inside.

The reptile was about three feet long and had a maximum diameter of about two inches.  It had no rattler and looked to me like a garden variety snake, maybe a king snake.  It was black and had several red stripes the length of its back and sides.  Whatever kind of snake it was, I watched from a distance as it crawled away into the grass and disappeared.

I’ve been wondering ever since Mr. or Mrs. Reptile dropped by for a visit (yes, I know, bad pun) what it was doing above my door.  I inspected the area carefully but found no evidence that someone had played a prank on me.  It didn’t come from the roof because the patio on the back of our house is covered.

The snake and I both had quite a start and the incident made me think of voodoo priestess Mama Mulate from my French Quarter mystery Big Easy.  Mama wouldn’t hoodoo me.  I created her for heavens sake!  Still, maybe I crossed somebody out there and they hired a local mambo or houngan to teach me a lesson.

Nah!  No one practices voodoo in Edmond America.  Or do they?

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I moved to Oklahoma City thirty-five years ago.  Having already survived a tour of duty in Vietnam and almost two years of graduate school in Arkansas, I was unprepared for what awaited me in Oklahoma.

My new job with Cities Service Oil Company closely coincided with the first Arab oil embargo that occurred in 1973.  Oil that had sold for three dollars a barrel for decades quickly jumped to twelve.  This seems miniscule when considering prices this year that have approached one-hundred-fifty dollars a barrel, but a quadrupling of price in 1973 resulted in what could only be described as an explosion of drilling activity.

As a fledgling geologist with less than a year’s experience, I recommended the leasing of more than a million acres in Kansas.  Yes, Cities purchased the leases and soon drilled half a dozen wildcat wells.  I lasted a little more than two years with Cities Service before another company tripled my salary and hired me away.

My new job as a development geologist took me to downtown Oklahoma City with a rising energy company called Texas Oil and Gas.  TXO had nine or ten geologists on staff (I can’t remember the exact number).  My first day on the job, the chief geologist took me and another geologist to lunch at a restaurant called Over the Counter.

A former stockbroker owned OTC, along with another restaurant named Bull and the Bear.  When I ordered iced tea, the waitress, a German lady, informed me that TXO geologists had mixed drinks for lunch – at least three.  “You look like a Wild Turkey man,” she said.  From that day on, whenever I entered OTC, Gerlinda would bring me a Wild Turkey and water – a very strong Wild Turkey and water.  She kept them coming until I had drank at least three.

I soon began engaging in what I now call “rock and roll” geology.  There was a company joke that each geologist generated a prospect per week, or risked losing their job.  The joke wasn’t far from the truth.  We had a Friday prospect meeting that usually lasted all day.  After creating pencil-drawn structure and isopach maps, taped and pasted cross-sections and a rudimentary economic projection during the week, we would present it to management on Friday where it would likely be accepted and added to the drilling agenda.

After the Friday meeting, every geologist would adjourn to the nearest bar (and there were many to choose from) to drink away their stress.   During my two years in the pressure cooker I had ninety-nine wells drilled and probably consumed a barrel or so of Wild Turkey and water.  With my liver screaming for help, I left the company and went “independent” in 1978.  The seventies oil boom was just beginning and excitement filled the air.

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Cajun and Creole cuisine is known and loved throughout the world but native Louisianans have a dirty little secret – they love fried foods.  From fried oysters to fried turkey, there is little they haven’t tried to fry.  One of my favorite dishes that my Mother prepared almost every Sunday was fried okra.

Roll the okra in flour then dip in a mixture of egg and buttermilk.  Batter the okra with corn meal and then fry in hot oil until brown all over.  Salt and pepper to taste.  Serve hot.

My Mother had a large cast iron skillet she used to fry things in.  While my Grandmothers fried with lard (pig fat) my mother began using vegetable oil once it was widely available.  Personally, I prefer the vegetable oil.  Try it and enjoy.

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In 1969 I won the lottery but it wasn’t a prize anyone would want to win.  In the first draft lottery conducted in this country since World War II, 366 numbers were drawn, one for each day of the year.  The number coinciding with your birthday became your lottery number.  While I wasn’t first my number thirty-eight was good enough to get me drafted in the first round. 

I was in my first semester of graduate school and had lost my student deferment after earning my bachelor’s degree the previous term.  My first wife Gail and I were in our fifth month of marriage when I got my orders to report for a physical examination in Shreveport, Louisiana.  It was the one and only physical I’ve ever taken that I was hoping to fail.  I didn’t and less than two months later I was standing with a group of several hundred young men being sworn into the U.S. Army as a draftee.

Shortly after lowering our arms we were informed that we were now the property of the U.S. Army and expected to follow orders, like them or not.  Within the hour I was on a bus loaded with draftees on our way to Fort Polk, Louisiana.

Louisiana has a large black population and I was the only white person on the bus, except for the driver.  Because I had a college degree and not because I was white, I was told by an unfriendly sergeant that I was the squad leader for the busload of men.

“Wilder, you’re responsible for getting these men to Fort Polk.  If you stop for a potty break and one of those boys wants to take a crap, you go with him into the shitter.  Every last person that gets on the bus better damn well get off of it at Fort Polk or I guarantee it’ll be your ass and not theirs.”

Yes, we all made it to Fort Polk but not because of my exemplary leadership abilities.  I was the oldest and most out of shape person on the bus and realized there was little I could do if someone decided to go AWOL.  It was well after dark when we unloaded and we got little sleep that night, spending most of it being poked, prodded, injected and questioned.  It was my first day in the Army and I felt more like an unwilling participant in a waking nightmare than a lottery winner.

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Princess, my solid black pug is my newest pet and I have a hard time writing sometimes because she constantly demands her rightful place in my lap.  Since she is the first pup or kitten that I have had in a while, I had almost forgotten the same insistence all my other pets once exhibited.

Kitties Chani and Hamlet were with me, one of them almost always on my lap, during the months it took for me to write Ghost of a Chance.  Likewise Lucky, too big to be a lap dog even though he wanted to be, slept at my feet as I worked on A Gathering of Diamonds and Big Easy, Tabitha or Rouge trading off for time in my lap.

King Tut, Mad Max and my other cats also did their tour of lap duty and I wonder now if I would have ever finished the books without them.  As I think back I realize I was never far from a trusted friend as I wrote.

How many other writers have literary pets?  I wonder.  I’ll have to worry about the answer to that question later because right now my thighs are growing numb and Princess needs a treat.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Marilyn and I live on the east edge of Edmond, a section of town that is still largely undeveloped all the way to our City water supply of Lake Arcadia.  Because of the numerous creeks, draws and stands of trees between us and Arcadia many forms of wildlife proliferate near our house.  The newest addition to our menagerie is a group of four wild ducks.

I use the word new loosely.  The ducks visited for the first time last summer and decided to stay, disappearing for a couple of the coldest months and reappearing along with the robins and daffodils this spring.

There were actually two groups of ducks last year and part of this year.  One group included two males and a female, the other group two lone males.  Both groups returned this spring but something happened to one of the males in the second group.  The lone male in the second group attached himself to the other three ducks and remains so to this day, even if he isn’t well accepted.

The original three ducks allow the fourth to tag along, except when he gets too close to birdseed left for them by Marilyn (they also eat the cat’s uneaten hard food, at least the fish flavored variety).  When Odd Duck tries to claim his share of birdseed one of the two males in the first group lowers its heads and chases him away, at least for a second or two.  This is all strange because Odd Duck is the largest male.  Odd Duck is slightly mistreated but he always manages to get his share of the goodies.

I’m sure you animal purists out there are saying we shouldn’t feed the ducks.  Yes, we have changed the migratory and social pattern of these wild creatures, probably for ever.   Still, altering the lives of four ducks likely has no effect on the species as a whole, or the ecosystem.  The ducks have absolutely no fear of humans.  This trust and total lack of fear is probably the reason our distant ancestors were originally able to domesticate these and other animals. 

The ducks often fly away for hours, probably to Lake Arcadia where hundreds of other wild ducks congregate.  I don’t know where they go but they are in our front yard every morning by seven and every evening by seven.  Hmmm!  Come to think of it I don’t know if we have them on a schedule or the other way around, and for that matter who’s domesticated whom.

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I grew up about thirty miles from Fouke, Arkansas, the location of the 1960’s and 1970’s sightings of the infamous Boggy Creek Monster.  I never personally saw the monster (read Bigfoot) but I discussed the sightings with a close friend that I trust and that lived near Fouke and had relatives there.

Bo Smith told me that at least two families in rural southwestern Arkansas saw the large humanoid on more than one occasion.  Is it possible that at least one and perhaps a family of the creatures live in southwest Arkansas?  The short answer is yes.

For those of you that have the pictures I published of Jeems Bayou, you already realize how much rough, swampy, hilly, unpopulated land lies within the three-state area known as the Ark-La-Tex.  Could a wild animal hide forever in the woods of the Ark-La-Tex?  Go into the forest and look for a deer in daylight, or a bobcat or coyote.  It is unlikely that you will see one.

Have I personally seen a Bigfoot?  No but I have I seen and heard strange things in the forests of the Ark-La-Tex more times than I can remember.  Is there really a Boggy Creek Monster?  Maybe not but spend the night camping in southwest Arkansas sometime and I think it will cause you to admit that at least the possibility exists.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Trees City was founded by the legendary oil finders Benedum and Trees.  These two wildcatters had moved to north Louisiana after finding large oil fields in Oklahoma.  They discovered the field in far northwest Louisiana for which the town was named.

Trees City quickly became a boomtown complete with churches, honky tonks and a post office.  During the height of the oil boom, twenty-five thousand people lived there.  Today it is little more than a memory.

Thick trees, vines and creepers cover most of what was once a thriving city.  Permanent steel towers, constructed on site for the drilling of a single oil well, still peek up through the tall trees.  Even the post office is gone, located now at the Oil Museum in nearby Oil City, Louisiana.

Benedum and Trees sold their interest in the field to Gulf Oil for a million dollars, an enormous sum of money at the time.  The amount pales compared with the vast riches recovered by Gulf Oil.  It doesn’t matter much now.  Where roughnecks once toiled to recover Mother Nature’s dark liquid bounty, only ghosts wisping silently over Jeems Bayou still remain.

http://www.EricWilder.com

The best Cajun cook I ever knew was my former mother-in-law Lily.  Every meal was an experience and always served up in authentic fashion.  One of my favorite side dishes was her famous eggplant dressing that she prepared, like all her other culinary creations, sans cookbook.

I watched her make this dish many times and I’m recounting it now from memory, but I think it is pretty close.

2 large purple eggplants, cubed and diced                    5 slices of bacon

¾ pound ground pork                                                  1 ½ teaspoons black pepper

Salt to taste                                                                  1 large can whole tomatoes

2 ½ cups cooked rice                                                   French bread crumbs

1 ½ cups onion, garlic, sweet pepper, chopped

Cook the eggplants in salted water until soft.  Drain, mash and set aside.  Sauté bacon in large cast-iron skillet and then add onion, garlic and sweet pepper mixture.  Sauté until vegetables are wilted and then add to eggplants.

Cook the ground pork until brown, drain the fat and then stir in the eggplant mixture.  Add the can of tomatoes, salt and pepper and bread crumbs.  Mix well and then simmer on medium-low heat for about twenty minutes.

Pour the mixture into a casserole dish, add the rice and more bread crumbs and then bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes.  Enjoy.

http://www.EricWilder.com

My Brother Jack was born on July the Third and he and I loved fireworks.  We both wanted to be soldiers and we practiced war our entire childhood.  Because of our obsession my favorite holiday, and my Brother Jack’s, was and is the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.

While growing up in small town Vivian, there were no City ordinances barring the use of fireworks.  Every manner of explosives was sold including M-80s and Two-Inchers.  Jack and I are both lucky to have all our digits as we later experimented with everything we could strike a match too.

My buddy Timmy Jon and I even mixed our own batch of gunpowder and almost burned up the house with it.  The first Fourth that I can remember, however, we made do with firecrackers, bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles.

On the Fourth of July my Mom and Dad would buy us about ten dollars worth of fireworks.  Ten bucks doesn’t sound like much but you could pop lots of firecrackers for that amount in the sixties.  We always began the fireworks as soon as it was dark enough.

I don’t remember my age but I was old enough to feel the excitement of impending danger.  With our Dad’s help we began lighting sparklers, popping firecrackers and launching one bottle rocket after another.  We soon got down to the good stuff.

‘Hold it in the air and shake it,” My Dad directed as he lit my first-ever Roman candle.

I can still remember the percussion and slight recoil as incandescent flame burst from the coiled-paper barrel of the explosive device.  I couldn’t count at the time but I had a seat-of-the-pants feel for how many fiery rounds the candle contained.  When it was over I held the warm rod in my hand, inhaling acrid smoke and burned powder.  It was an odor I will never forget.

My red-headed Brother Jack was next at bat and he had mischief in mind before my Dad ever lit the candle’s fuse.  My Mother was standing behind us in the open door of our house.  Soon as the candle started spitting fire, Jack began pointing it at anything that caught his fancy - a tree, the family car, me, and finally toward the open door of the house.

Dodging the oncoming fireball, my Mom screamed and jumped off the porch.  Jack put at least three fireballs through the house, luckily catching nothing on fire.  When he finally threw down the spent Roman candle my Dad just shook his head, grabbed the remaining fireworks and walked into the house.  Mom followed him, but not before unloading verbally on Jack.

Nothing much else was ever said about the incident, Mom and Dad giving Brother Jack the benefit of the doubt that what he did was caused by inexperience and lack of good sense.  After living in close proximity to him until I was fifteen, I know better.  He went to sleep that night giggling about scaring my Mom and Dad and getting away with it.

The Fourth of July means a lot more to me than just fireworks and hot dogs and we should all reflect on the sacrifices this wonderful holiday immortalizes.  Still, my favorite holiday remains the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.

http://www.EricWilder.com

Yes, even in Edmond America there are pagans.  Check this article out!

The Edmond Sun, Edmond, OK - Local Pagans celebrate summer.

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 I realized there was something exciting and quite different about New Orleans the first time that I visited the city. Today, if you go south on Canal Street you will eventually end up at the Mississippi River. The City is in the process of rebuilding, but if you had followed Canal to the River before Hurricane Katrina you would have encountered many tourist attractions such as the Aquarium of the Americas, the World Trade Center and the Canal Street Wharf. Unlike today’s tourist-driven atmosphere you would have found something quite different had you taken the same journey in the 1950's.

I first visited New Orleans during the Eisenhower Era and remember standing on south Canal Street and staring down the hill toward the Mississippi River. New Orleans is a major international seaport and what I saw was a bunch of seedy bars that sailors from many countries frequented when they were in port. The bars were off-limits to American military personnel, and for good reason. They were dangerous, the women you met there "loose," and venereal diseases rampant.

"Those bars are a good place to get killed," my Aunt Carmol, an ex-marine during World War II and no shrinking violet herself, had told my brother and me. "Don’t ever go there."

The Canal Street bars were long gone before I ever had the opportunity to defy Aunt Carmol’s advice. Still, even as a youngster I felt the potential danger and lingering intrigue present around nearly every corner of New Orleans. One less dangerous but very intriguing place that was eventually cleaned up by the U.S. Navy was Storyville, the Big Easy’s early-day fantasy land that did as much to establish the City’s reputation as a latter-day Gomorrah as anything else in its history.

During the early days of New Orleans there was a shortage of females. To alleviate this situation, street prostitutes were released from French prisons on the condition that they migrate to the new colony. In 1744, the number of bordellos and houses of prostitution prompted a French army officer to comment that there were not ten women of blameless character in New Orleans. City-wide prostitution continued until 1897 when a puritanical city official devised a plan to control the problem. The plan resulted in the formation of Storyville.

Locals called Storyville "The District." It existed from 1897 until 1917, the concept of New Orleans’ alderman Sidney Story. Story’s plan wasn’t to legalize prostitution, but to control it by defining the boundaries within which it would not be prosecuted as a crime. The concept worked for nearly two decades and ironically the District became one of the City’s leading tourist attractions.

Despite the belief of many - likely propagated by fictional accounts in literature - Storyville wasn’t located in the French Quarter. It encompassed an area north of the Quarter, just east of Canal Street between N. Rampart and N. Claiborne. Elaborate bordellos, fancy restaurants and dance halls quickly appeared and flourished, along Basin, the street that became a legend because of its association with early jazz.

Jazz flourished in Storyville, although it didn’t originate there. Each bordello was a place for music as well as prostitution and each establishment generally had a piano player to entertain its guests. The bordellos often hired bands to perform, as did the restaurants and clubs that sprang up in the District. Jazz superstars such as Buddy Bolden and Louis Armstrong often performed there. Storyville was near a train station and many visitors to the City also frequented the bordellos and the clubs to listen to jazz. These visitors, as well as sailors of all nationalities, took this new sound back with them to their cities and countries of origin.

In 1917 the Secretary of the Navy was Josephus Daniels and his nickname "Tea Totaling" perfectly described his tolerance for sin. Daniels insisted that New Orleans either shut down Storyville, or else he would close the naval base across the river in Algiers. The base provided too much income to New Orleans for the City fathers to see it close so they shut down Storyville instead.

A wave of Puritanism swept across the United States during the era of World War I and the residents of New Orleans weren’t exempt from this phenomena. Embarrassed by Storyville, city fathers began systematically dismantling the District. In the years following 1917, all the elaborate bordellos were demolished leaving only a metaphorical scar in place of nearly two decades of irreplaceable history. Even the street names were changed, world famous Basin Street becoming North Saratoga.

Toward the end of World War II, city fathers made yet another planning blunder. Soldiers were returning home from war and needed a place to live, so the Iberville Housing Project was built on the site of Storyville. Never spoken about in travel brochures or in tourist information, the low-cost Iberville Housing Project quickly became dangerous and crime-ridden. Close to the French Quarter, the Project was a place to avoid at all costs instead of the tourist attraction that the District had once been.

Even with the dismantling of Storyville, prostitution never left New Orleans. It simply spread out across the city to places like the seedy bars frequented by sailors on south Canal. Unlike south Canal, transformed now into a tourist attraction rather than a city blight, the area around Storyville remains largely unknown and off limits to tourists.

New Orleans’ city fathers made a colossal blunder when they demolished the historical District. They compounded their error when they covered up their mistake by building the infamous Iberville Project. Finally realizing their horrible error in judgment, they did return the name Basin to the famous street that was home of legendary jazz and fabulous bordellos. 

New Orleans still exudes a well deserved aura of danger and intrigue and there are still more than enough historical sights to see, even though one of the most famous is forever gone. Few vestiges of Storyville remain, yet like the tang of Tabasco Sauce on the palette, its memory remains long after the last spicy bite of Etouffee has been consumed.

http://www.EricWilder.com

It’s almost impossible to grow up in northwest Louisiana without learning how to swim.  My Mother never did and remained afraid of drowning until the day she died.  Because of her inordinate fear of water, she made sure my Brother Jack and I had lessons when we were very young.  From that point on, we were rarely far from the water’s edge.

Jack and I quickly became excellent swimmers.  My favorite TV show was Sea Hunt with Lloyd Bridges and I always imagined that someday I would become a professional frog man like my hero Mike Nelson.  It cost a quarter to get into the Vivian Municipal Pool and my friends and I went almost every day.  Likening myself to Mike Nelson, the main character on Sea Hunt, I could swim the breadth of the pool underwater ten times without surfacing and I still remember visiting Marineland of the Pacific where many of the episodes were filmed.

I wish some movie producer would make a feature film of Sea Hunt.  I would go see it and I’m sure millions of other baby boomers would also attend.  Who would be the star?  How about Jeff Bridges?

Jack and I bought swim masks, fins and aqualungs as soon as we could afford them.  While neither of us ever made it to a South Pacific atoll it is still on my bucket list.

http://www.EricWilder.com