Dear Smiley: Now that you have been able to get to the bottom of the “streaking” at St. Joseph’s Academy, there are two other outstanding mysteries that you might be able to solve.
Both are from the ’50s and/or early ’60s.
No. 1: On the night before the annual Baton Rouge High-Catholic High football game, some “hoodlums” painted the big white letters green in front of the old Catholic High School downtown.
No. 2: Remember the robbery at the big poker game at the Catholic High Men’s Club Barbecue in the school gym, where it was reported money — and pants — were confiscated from the poker players. Who dunnit?
No one has been able to solve these mysterious happenings YET! Please help!
That’s show biz
Dear Smiley: Reading about tattoos reminded me of the best one I have ever seen.
I do a number of company physicals, allowing me to view tattoos of all types and locations.
I walked into the treatment room one day and there was a young man wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
On his neck, protruding from the shirt, was the tip of what appeared to be a tail.
As he removed his shirt, I noted that the tail grew larger, encircled his upper chest and disappeared into the jeans at the waistline.
“Didn’t that tattoo hurt when you got it done?” I asked.
He smartly replied, “Yeah, but it’s made up for it by all the attention I receive.”
WALTER H. DANIELS, M.D.
Dear Smiley: As the (baby) daughter of the late Byron “Bull” Durham, who bought you your tattoo, I just wanted to say that I hope your tattoo looks better than Daddy’s did.
I can assure you that one bargain he may have gotten for his dollar tattoo was that none of his children have ever had any body art (including his Harley-riding son).
By the way, if my Daddy has any change coming, my checking account number is …
Dear Cassie: Yeah, mine’s a bit murky too (the “Smiley” looks like “Smmy”). And it was a cash deal, $1 even, no change.
Drawing the line
Dear Smiley: I’ve been drunk enough to want a tattoo; just never drunk enough to get one!
Follow the trucks
Dear Smiley: After reading several stories about food, I was reminded of a family vacation my mother and stepfather and I took in the early ’50s.
We left from Opelousas, bound for the Smokies and then on to Washington, D.C.
Naturally cars didn’t have air conditioning in those days, and naturally it was in mid-July.
Places like Holiday Inn didn’t exist in those days. You stayed in “tourist courts.” The two signs you looked for were “AAA” and “Vacancy.”
Fast-food restaurants also didn’t exist.
My stepfather, Francis Broussard, was a gasoline distributor and familiar with truckers.
He had this theory: “You can tell a cafe has good food if there are a lot of trucks in the parking lot. Truckers know where the good food is.”
Well, maybe so. But Smiley, I was introduced to greasy-spoon food before it had a name.
It was good — but when you’re 12, everything you eat is good.
Dear Smiley: A friend from the Frozen Nawth stopped by and spent the night.
I was in the kitchen brewing coffee and getting ready to fix breakfast when he got up.
He poured himself a mug of java and sat down at the table, and I asked him if he wanted some eggs.
“I could eat some eggs,” he said.
“Hominy grits?” he asked.
“Hominy you want?” I said.
He got up and shuffled away, saying, “Man, it’s too early in the day.”
Do the wave
Dear Smiley: Those clever devils at LPB are pandering shamelessly to us gray-hairs by selling us CDs from our days of slow-dancing and jitterbugging in the ’50s.
When the camera pans the old-timer audience during a song, hands are waving high in the air — not like the kids, in unison, but waving in all directions.
This is either an indication that members of our generation march to his or her own drummer — or are just disoriented.
C. WARD BOND