People always ask me how did I get so crazy, and was I always like this?  Well let me answer this once and for all:  yes I've always been crazy, but let me add that everyone in the neighborhood I grew up in --known as Tangle Town-- was crazy. 
     Nick Valenti told me an alien spaceship had hovered over Tangle Town, and the exhaust from the ship was inhaled by everyone that lived in the vicinity and ever since then, no one in the neighborhood has been the same.  Nick was the Guru of Tangle Town.  He was heavy into Red Rider comic books, and used to spend his summer days reading them over and over. We figured that anyone who took the time to read during the precious days of summer vacation had to be smart, so we believed everything he said.
     Back when I was young, Ishpeming was divided into different sections and neighborhoods. Each section had its own baseball field, swimming hole, ice rink, ski hills, ma and pa stores, etc, and you didn't dare cross into anyone elseís neighborhood.  There was Tangle Town, Cleveland Location, Nebraska Location, Junction Location, West-end Dago Town, the West End and the Barnum Location  just to name a few.  Most of these neighborhoods were built around iron ore mines. Some of the locations had tough characters, especially the Cleveland Location.  They were the biggest, toughest, meanest bunch around.
     I remember my buddy Bruzzy Petro had to go to the Cleveland Location once to visit his maís sister.  His ma and aunt kept bugging him to go out and play with the boys outside.  Bruzzy knew better; there was no way in hell he was gonna go out there with that bunch of savages.  Finally Bruzzyís ma got sick of him and tossed him out to the wolves, so to speak.  Within minutes, they pantsed him and threw his Levis on top of a telephone pole.  Then they took his underwear off and filled them up with fresh dog poop and put them back on Bruzzy.  How was he going to explain that to his ma?  Sheíd say:  ìIf you had to take a dump, why didn't you just come in the house you pig?  And  I suppose you threw your pants away cause they were full of poop, eh? Take that you little weasel.î (an inevitable smack) 
     Our neighborhood never had fighters like the others did. Since we weren't fighters, we'd act crazy instead and this usually helped avoid any potential fights. They knew if you beat up a kid from Tangle Town, you would get some kind of curse laid upon you. When we were walking home from the movies or had to walk the borders of any of these locations, weíd always wear our clothes backwards and put our shoes on the wrong feet. Other kids would cross the street to avoid coming near us.

     I was a D student in high school, so I got stuck in the classes that had all the criminals, flunkies, guys and girls that were in their thirties, the insane, and the hoods.  I was what you'd call "the class clown."  I supplied all the sound effects and any other thing I could come up with to disrupt the class.  I always figured I wasnít learning a thing so why should anyone else? 
     One good thing that came out of being in the Slow Bunch was I got to know all the weirdoes that couldnít conform, all the tough guys that could fight like hell that carried knives and brass knuckles.  If anyone tried picking on me from any of the neighborhoods, Iíd tell them I was going to visit my buddy Zorro (one of the tough guys) and theyíd back off.  I loved those guys and girls in those classes, and most of them ended up presidents and owners and bosses of some of the biggest companies in the country. 

     The old man could see I wasnít gonna be the sharpest tool in the wood shed, so he took me down the basement and showed me two shovels.  He said as he pointed to one of the shovels: 
     ìThat one there is a coal shovel.  Itís for shoveling coal and snow.  The other one with the big handle is a muck stick I borrowed from the mine.  We use that one for shoveling muck and it's also good for turnin' over dirt in the garden.  Pick ëem up and get the feel of them... cause at the rate your goin' in school, you're gonna be at the end of one of them for the rest of your life.î

     My ma told me not to hang around Cakes Kikonen cause he was odd.  I didnít quite understand what she meant ëcause hell, everyone in the neighborhood was odd, like Spags Aho  who used to spend summer vacation hiding in a tree waiting for someone to walk under it so he could drop a rock on their head. 
     Well, after buggin her over and over, ma finally told me she didnít want me around Cakes 'cause he was a fairy.  I thought that was a little strange 'cause I had just went swimming with Cakes the other day and I didnít see any wings.  Maybe they were invisible or something. 
     Anyway, him and Bubbles Tutola went up on Jackson Bluff all the time together, and one day I saw Bubbles and asked if he had fun with Cakes up there and he replied, ìWeeeeeeeee . . . .î

     Me and Vito were walking by Harold Finsterís house one day.  Haroldís old man built a 7 foot plank fence around the house, and Blinky Nelson said he built it to keep Harold and his sister Lu Lu in when the full moon came out. 
     Anyhow, we could hear Harold on the other side of the fence sayin: ì7-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-7 . . . .î  We kinda looked at each other like, ìwhat the hell is goin on?î 
So I told Vito: ìTake a look through dat knot hole in the fence and see whatís goin on in there.î 
     Vito bent over to take a look and a finger came out and poked him in the eyeball.  Then we heard Harold scream:
 ì8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8 . . . .î

   Harold was convinced that Ruby Quick was out to rape him so he wore two pairs of pants all summer.  He figured if she pantsed him, heíd still have another pair on to escape with.

     Because we had no TV in the 50ís, we had to find other ways to entertain ourselves in the winter.  No one stayed in the house unless you were so sick you couldnít move.  We had a huge cardboard slide down the street that we rode constantly, the Ishpeming Ice Rink where we spent most of winter, and sleigh riding on John Peteís hill, and the ski jumps on the neighborhood hills.  Every neighborhood had ski jump hills.  Ours had:  Tree Gap, Short Stop, Daisy, Rocky, and Brass wire. 
     On weekends we shacked cars.  This was considered cheap transportation and fun winter entertainment, ëcause the road was always slick with snow and ice.  The best boots for shacking cars were ski boots.  They slid the best on ice and snow.  Leather choppers were great for the hands, ëcause they didnít stick to the bumpers like woolen mittens did.  Every winter, thousands of mittens clung to the bumpers of cars.  Sometimes if you were lucky you shacked a car that had your mittens you lost last week still stuck to them. 
     Me and Vito used to hide in the snow bank by Charlie Richardís store and wait for cars to drive up so we could shack ëem.  One time, Sula Ristanen, one of the town drunks stopped at the store to buy some Jumbos.  When she came back out, we jumped on the back bumper.  Instead of going forward, she accidentally put it in reverse, rolled and stopped on one of Vitoís new ski boots.  She then put it in drive and burned rubber, tearing Vitoís boots into sixty two pieces.  Boy did he catch hell when he got home.
     Another time, me and Vito were heading out to the Winter Sports area to do some downhill skiing.  It was a two-mile walk so hell, why walk when we could shack a car?  So with our skis over our shoulders, we caught this car at the end of 3rd Street by the Baptist Church.  We hung on all nine blocks of 3rd street . . . the longest shack job in the history of Ishpeming!  We were about a half-mile from, approaching US Highway 41, when the car got to green light to go.  By this time it was going about forty miles an hour, and we were on back enjoying the rush we felt from shacking so long,  that we forgot a very important thing:  the highway was bare.  Once we hit that bare pavement, we rolled about thirty feet, ass over tin cups and tore the hell out of our bums and had to limp the last half mile to the ski hill.  Boy was that fun.

     Me, Vito, and Jeffrey Jensen had a Tarzan swing that swung over a fifty-foot cliff.  You didnít dare let go or you ended up on a pile of scrap iron, railroad ties, and pungle steaks at the bottom of the cliff.
     One day, the neighborhood bully, Zip Jockski was coming down the tracks that led to our swing.  We knew he was going to move in on our swing and start pushing us around like he always did.  This time we were ready for him.  We loosened the knot at the top of the swing that attached it to the tree and waited for him to come over to us.  Sure as hell, he came over and started pushing us around and telling us that he was going to swing on our swing.  We told him he couldn't ëcause he was too big, heíd break it.  Of course, like we figured, that only enticed him more.  He grabbed the swing and took a running leap and swung out over the cliff, and as if we couldnít have planned it better, the rope let loose while he was fully extended over the drop off.  Boy he hit that scrap pile and rolled all the way down it.  We yelled from the top: 
     ìWE TOLD YOU SO!  WE TOLD YOU ITíD BREAK!î at Zip who just lay there, bleeding and bruised, his pride hurting more than anything physical.  Then we all started crying ìMA, MA, MA HE BROKE OUR SWING!  ZIP BROKE OUR SWING!î as he jumped up and limped for home. 
     We laughed our butt's off when he got far enough away.  Nothing was greater than getting even with a guy that tormented the little guys.  We were heroes of the neighborhood for weeks.

     Our football team was called the Ishpeming Garlic Snappers.  We were a scrappy bunch of guys.  Karly Jackson, who was are quarterback, was 5'2" and wore coke bottle glasses (he couldn't see nuthin').  Our fullback was "Bugeyes" Johnson who was the tallest guy on the team at 6'1", 97 lbs. soaking wet, and had one leg that was shorter than the other.  The two back field guys were brothers, Cuff and Link Nelson, who were small but boy were they tough.  They were great to give the ball to because neither one of 'em ever took a bath, so no one on the other team would go near them.  Then there was this Italian guy on the team named Jo Jo Valenti who always ate garlic.  I tell you his farts and breath would peel the skin off a dog at a hundred paces.  No one on the other team wanted to play across from him ëcause he would breathe on them and constantly fart during the game.  So we figured if the whole team ate garlic before the game, maybe we could fart like Jo and ìgasî the other team to the verge of retching, and force them to forfeit the game. 
     So thatís what we did.  We got to be known as the Ishpeming Garlic Snappers.  Every time we lined up for a play, the other team would line up five yards away from us.  Even though this gained us five yards a carry, we were still unable to win a game, but it sure beat the hell out of getting flattened every play.  The other team was always afraid to pile on us in case one of us farted in the pile.  They just knocked us down and ran away.  It sounds ridiculous, but hey, we needed some kind of advantage over those other teams.

     When we first got our band together back in 1964, we used to haul our gear around in Wild Bill Morcomís 1947 Chevy.  That car was a classic.  It had a bent frame, so when you drove it down the road, you looked out the driver side window instead of the windshield, which had a big crack in it so you couldnít see out of it anyway.  There were big holes in the floor of the back seat so if you had to whiz, all you had do is to p-ss in these holes onto the highway.  One front fender was gone, so we only had one light (the lights were on the fenders) and that had a short in it so it only worked when we could afford fuses. The front passenger door was tied shut ëcause the door handle fell off and the drivers side door was bent from hitting a tree and wouldnít open so we had to crawl through the window to get out.  Both the plastic covers of the taillights were broken, so we taped red plastic reflectors over them that we found on a railroad sign.  It had no heater and the tires were so bald you could see the air in them.  The Ishpeming police used to borrow it to train their new rookies in finding the fifty-seven defects the car had. 
     Boy did we have fun in that car.

     When I was in high school, dates were as scarce as alligators in the U.P.  After great efforts, I lined me and Wild Bill Morcom up with two girls from Suomi.  We took them to the movies then to Norpees for pizza.  On the way back to Suomi, we pulled into the Palmer Dump to do some necking. 
     We had Wild Billís í47 Chevy, you know, the one with no heater, and of course it was the middle of winter (when isnít it the middle of winter up here?) so we had blankets to keep us warm.  Wild Bill was in the back wrapped up in a blanket with his date and I was in the front with mine talking about school or something when all of a sudden Wild Bill leaves the loudest fart Iíve ever heard.  Talk about embarrassing. 
     With the mood ruined after that, I started the car and headed for Suomi.  On the way home I laid into Bill.  ìWhat the hell do you gotta embarrass us in front of those to beautiful women for?î
     ìWhat are you talking about?î  He asked.
     ìDid you have to leave that big fart?  Jesus, I canít take you anywhere without you pulling some kind of sh-t like that.  Now we're never going to get a date with them again.î
      ìThat fart?  It wasnít me, it was my date.  Swear to god.  Itís a good thing you left right after that, ëcause I could hardly breath under that blanket it stunk so bad.î 
     I was impressed.  Thatís the kind of date a Yooper guy loves.  One who farts on the 1st date, eh.

     My grandmother bought a small corner building in downtown Ishpeming and turned it into the Royal Bar.  The Bar eventually ended up in my uncle Brunoís name and his three brothers bar tended.  They were all great storytellers and funny guys.  Everyone in town loved going in there ëcause it was non-stop entertainment.  On Saturday nights, they would put comedy shows on and entertained folks for many years with their slapstick. 
     When I was fourteen, I worked behind the bar and helped clean up on weekends, my first paying job.  Uncle Bruno was like a second father to me and my mentor.  I wanted to be like him and make people laugh.
     One day he was having his usual argument with one of the regulars, Sticky Niemi.  They were arguing about who was the cheapest between the two of them.  I got so tired of listening to the same things being said over and over, so I decided to end it once and for all.  I gave them both a dime each and told them to go out and see how far they could stretch it and then come the following week I would judge who was the cheapest and end this on going argument.  That next week I forgot all about the deal I made with them until they started up again on the same subject.  I went over to the two of them and asked if they both spent their dime.  In unison, they both said, ìyeah.î
     ìSo Uncle Bruno, what did you do with your dime?î I asked.
     ìWell, I went to Olsenís Newsstand and bought a ten cent cigar.  The first day I smoked a third of it and saved the ashes, and on the second day I smoked another third of it and saved the ashes, and on the 3rd day I finished it and saved the ashes.  On the fourth day I fertilized Aunty Pennyís house plants with the ashes.î
    ìGeez, thatís really stretching a dime,î I said a bit amazed by the answer.  I could see old Sticky was twitching by now, he couldnít wait to tell me what he did with his dime. 
     ìAll right Sticky, whatíd you do with your dime?î  Sticky took a deep breath and then said:
     ìI went to Rockís meat market and bought a bratwurst for ten cents.  I took it home and peeled the skin off, fried it up and ate a third of the brat.  On the second day, I ate another third, and on the third day I ate the rest of it.  On the fourth day, I took the skin that Iíd peeled off of it, and rinsed it out and used it that night for a condom.  On the fifth day I took a poop in that skin, and tied it back up, and on the sixth day, I took it back to Rockís meat market and told Old Man Rock that this bratwurst smells like shit.  Old Man Rock gave it a sniff and said ëyah youíre rightí and gave me my dime back, putting the bratwurst back into the case.  So anyway here it is,î  Sticky said slapping the dime down onto the bar with a huge grin on his face. 
     In case you havenít figured it out by now, Sticky won the contest and the title of ìCheapest Man in Ishpeming,î a title that today is still unbroken.  I heard a couple days later that Old Man Rock sold that bratwurst to some Finlander as pepperoni.

     The Royal Bar was a hang out for the miners at one of the local mines in Ishpeming.  Each bar in town had their steadies.  When work let out at 3:30, the bar would fill up with hard drinking miners trying to wash down some of the dust they swallowed during the day.  By 4 oíclock, it was three thick at the bar.
     During the day before this rush, all we had in there was the usual barflies that were always hanging around--retired miners, lumberjacks, etc.  Jumbo Freeberg was one of them guys that was always there, always sitting in the same seat.  Heíd start early in the morning and then take a nap at the bar around two and wake up for the rush at four where he knew he could mooch some drinks off some the miners he knew.
     One day, about an hour before the rush, my uncle Bruno told me to wake up Jumbo.  I went to shake him, and he didnít move.  Stiffer than a doornail.  Uncle Bruno checked him out and told me to call Dr. Bertucci who had an office next door.  Doc came in and checked him out and pronounced him dead.  ìIíll go call Fassbenderís Funeral Home to come pick him up,î Doc said solemnly.
     Well in the meantime, guys started piling into the bar.  They all gathered around Jumbo and were slapping him on the back and Herby Ruspuckka was yelling in his ear, 
ìCome on Jumbo, wake up and have a drink on Old Herby, you old goat!î 
     This went on for about an hour.  Guys were buying Jumbo drinks and slapping him on the back.  There was even a guy carrying on a conversation with him about planting gardens and cow sh-t.  Jumbo had at least twelve shots of booze in front of him when the door swung open and in come the two undertakers from Fassbenders Funeral Home with the stretcher.  The place went dead silent.  They came over and lifted Jumbo onto the stretcher and wheeled him out the door. 
     The minute the door shut, the place went right back to its noisy hum.  The guys that were sitting by Jumbo grabbed up them shots and said, ìWell, canít let these go to waste.  Hereís to old Jumbo!î as they tipped the bottoms of the glass skyward.

   I was working at the Royal Bar one Saturday night and the place was packed.  I worked one end, Bruno worked the middle, and Uncle Franky worked the other end. 
     Shirley and Roy were regulars and they got into their usual Saturday night battle. Finally, we had to toss them out before they destroyed the place. Shirley was a big woman and could beat the crap out of any man who gave her sh-t.  Roy was a skinny ninety-six pound beanpole of a guy. 
     After we tossed them out, they went staggering into the Coffee Cup down the street.  Shirley told Roy not to let her order anything fattening ëcause she was on a diet.  When they finally placed their order, Roy ordered a large pizza with double cheese for himself and an order of dry toast for Shirley.  That pissed Shirley off real good. 
     Roy spotted some friends across the restaurant and went over to bullsh-t a little with them.  When the food came and Roy was still bullsh-tting, Shirley couldnít resist taking a piece of Royís pizza.  Just as she was sliding a piece down her yahzoo, Roy came back and caught her.  They got into another brawl.  She took a swing at him and as he was ducking, and nailed him on the top of the head with her plate of dried toast.  He grabbed the pizza and smashed her on the top of the head with it, and took off running for the Royal.
     In they came, him facing her, walking backwards, and her screaming like hell.  She looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon with mozzarella cheese and cudhigi hanging down to her shoulders moving like a bull mouse in heat.  Uncle Franky grabbed Roy and Bruno, who was 5í2î, grabs Shirley.  She had Bruno on her back like a sack of 
polaloes (sic), spinning round and round and hitting everyone in sight.  She slipped and fell on top of Bruno and squashed him to a pancake.  ìGET HER OFF ME, SHE BROKE MY GUT!  I CAN FEEL IT!  MY GUT JUICE IS
EVERYWHERE!î  he kept yelling and yelling. 
     We managed to roll her off poor Bruno.  He got up and took a look at himself and then smelled his hands.  ìOh hell, she didnít break my gut, she just peed all over me.  I gotta go upstairs and change.î  When Bruno got upstairs my aunt Penny started yelling at him.
     ìWhat the hell is going on downstairs?  You fooling around with those women again?  Look at you, you no good for nothing.  Why the hell do you smell like pee? Nag, nag, nag . . . .î  Penny slapping him the whole time. 
     Poor uncle Bruno got the hell beat out of him twice that night.

    I was cleaning up the bar one Saturday, when these two Wing Nuts came in from the local air base.  Uncle Bruno was there with me and he asked:
    ìWhaddaya want?î
    ìUhhh, some beer,î  one of them replied.
    ìI gotta see some ID,î  said Bruno.
    ìYou donít need to see our IDís, weíre from the base you old fart,î the tall one said.
    ìI got a better idea, how about you get out,î Bruno told them with a stiff glare.
    ìCanít we at least have a Coke?î the tall one pleaded. Reluctantly he poured them two Cokes, and the short one picked up the cokes and poured them on the bar.
    ìGet the hell out!î Uncle Bruno yelled.
    ìIím sorry, it wonít happen again, can we just have two more cokes?î the tall one asked innocently.  Bruno again filled up two more Cokes, but was obviously irritated.  The tall one grabbed them this time and dumped them out onto the bar.
    ìALL RIGHT, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE AND DONíT COME BACK!î  Bruno screamed at them.  Not five minutes after they left, the two wing nuts were back, this time with a friend who had to be at least 6í5î. 
    ìThree beers,î the spokesman for the three piped up.
    ìAre you guys nuts?  Get the hell out of my bar!î   Bruno stood his ground.  Surprisingly too, seeing as he tops 5í2î with thick soled shoes.  The big friend grabbed Bruno and dragged him over the bar.
    ìGive us three beers or die!î  The big guy yelled in his face.
    ìO.k, o.k, Iíll get them,î Bruno replied in a meek voice.  When the big guy let him down, Bruno continued, ìI have to go downstairs to get the beer ëcause thereís none left here in the cooler.  Donít worry theyíll be nice and cold.î
    ìThatís better old man,î the tall spokesman said, 
    ìAnd hurry up, ëcause weíre thirsty.î  Little did they know that Bruno kept his Spanish-American War rifle with a four-foot bayonet in the basement.  Out comes Bruno screaming:
     ìIíM GONNA STICK YOU LIKE THE PIGS YOU ARE! AH, AH, AH, AH!!î 
     They flew out the door with Uncle Bruno right on their ass.  He stuck the big guy right in the bum as he rounded the corner.  About a half hour later, the cops came in the back door of the Royal.
     ìIs Bruno here?î  One of them asks.
     ìNo heís out at the Carp River fishing,î I says.
     ìOh, well, we have reports of a little short guy with a cigar in his mouth and a six foot gun chasing three guys all over town.  Are you sure heís not here?î
     ìNo, like I said, I told you before, heís out fishing at the Carp.î
     ìOh, o.k., well, you tell him when he gets back that we were here to see him,î the cop said with that unbelieving tone to his voice.  And with that they turned and filed out the door they came in.

     Fred Rock was a guy who owned a meat market down the street from the Royal Bar.  He hated Rudy Startucci who used to deliver the pop to the Royal.  I never did understand why he hated Rudy so much, some old small town feud. 
     So Rudy comes in and walks by Fred who was having a drink at the bar.  Fred picks up the bar stool next to him and hit Rudy over the head with it.  Uncle Bruno was working behind the bar and he grabbed his sawed-off baseball bat and nails Fred over the head as hard as he could.  Fred lets out a scream and runs out of the bar holding his head, a trail of blood following him out. 
     About a half hour later, Fredís wife calls the bar to inform Bruno that Fred is coming down to kill him with the pistol that Bruno just sold him.  Well, Bruno tells her to tell Fred to meet him in the street out front of the bar.  By the time Fred got there, the sidewalks were filled with people waiting to see the shoot out.  Fred, with his head all bandaged up is yelling:  ìIím gonna kill you!î
     ìNo I donít think so,î Bruno says coolly holding his bat.
     ìWhaddya mean, I got a loaded gun here!î  Fred yells back.  Bruno says back:
     ìYeah but it ainít got no firing pin in it.  What do you think Iíd sell you a gun that works?  Hereís another one for Rudy,î and with that, Bruno whacked him on the bandaged head with the baseball bat.

     It was two in the afternoon during hunting season, and the Royal Bar was packed.  My uncles Bruno and Frankie were working the bar.  I was playing with Johnny and the Playboys at the Diamond Club that night, and had stopped at the Royal for a while before going to the club.  There was the usual pack of local regulars (both men and women), most of them dressed in their hunting clothes along with a mix of down state hunters laughing and having a good time. 
     Uncle Bruno was what youíd call an all-round sportsman.  He was a steady hunter of rabbits, birds and deer, along with being an avid fisherman, so he really fit in with this crowd.  He could go on for hours telling stories about his misadventures in the woods, which is what he was doing when I walked in on this particular afternoon. 
     I had been there not ten minutes when these four hunters from Detroit walked in and sat right next to me at the bar.  After they ordered a round from Bruno they asked him where the deer are.  A fatal mistake.  All the regulars in the bar who heard that got real quiet, cause they knew what was coming. 
     Bruno says:  ìDeer?  You wanna know where da deer are at to?î
     ìYeah,î says one of the hunters (affectionately called ìapple knockersî by people from the U.P., referring to any downstaters), ìwe heard you were the expert on deer hunting and could tell us where to go.  Youíre Bruno, ainít you?î
     ìUh-huh,î Bruno replies, and by this time we all know what heís cooking up in that brain of his, and after a pause he continues: 
    ìI know a spot where a huge buckís been spotted all week and no one I know has claimed it yet.  I already got my buck; otherwise Iíd be there right now. Now, not too many people know about this spot, so donít go telling no one.  Just go down Division Street two blocks, turn left, and then go two miles until you get to Millimakiís Gas Station.  Itís closed now, so donít worry, they donít care if you hunt dere.  Just park your car across the road and wait.  Right dere is where that big buck has been spotted crossing da road.î 
     Well, I could see the gleam in those Apple Knockersí eyes as they drank up and headed for the door.  Right as they walked outside, all the regulars in the bar ran to the windows to watch those guys ramble on down Division Street and make the turn on Pine to go to Millimakiís Station. 
     When their truck was out of sight, the bar erupted in hoots, howls, and laughter.  Classic Bruno.  What a perfect set up.  Little did these guys know that Bruno had sent them to not only one of the busiest roads in Marquette County, but a spot that leads out to south country where The Wayside Bar is, and where a hell of a lot of guys hunted and drank.  The only thing was that the deer hunting area was another twelve miles down the road, and these guys were still in the suburbs of Ishpeming where tons of cars and pickups would pass by them and laugh at the idiots hunting where no one in there right mind would hunt.
     About an hour later, to everyoneís surprise, in walks those same hunters Bruno had just sent out.  They sit down at the bar and Bruno walks over to them.  ìYou boys done hunting already?î  He says with a snicker. 
One of the guys swells up with pride and says, 
     ìYes, weíre done for the day.î
     ìHell man,î Bruno replies, ìdonít get discouraged so easily, you gotta stay out there at least a couple of hours, anyway.î
     ìOh no,î one of the hunters pipes up with excitement,  ìwe didnít have to. No sooner did we find the place and get our guns out of the cases when this huge twelve-point buck walks across the road, right where you said he would.  Well I aimed and BAM! one shot and down he went.  Do you know anyone who could gut it for us?î 
     Bruno at this point dumbfounded, runs over to the window and takes a look at one of the biggest bucks he ever saw, strapped to the apple knockerís front fender.  ì'Oly sh-t!î  Bruno gasps.  ìWhat a monster!  You got him by Millimakiís Gas Station?î
     ìYeah, right where you said,î the hunter said with a huge grin.
     ìíOly Sh-t Iím heading out dere to Millimakiís Gas Station!î 
     And out the back door he goes, rifle in hand.  Everyone in the bar started laughing like hell, at the vision of cars whizz by laughing at the short Italian guy standing on the side of road, hunting where no one in their right mind would hunt.

     When I got out of the service back in ë67, I was looking for a band to start up with playing drums. I searched and searched and finally hooked up with a buncha dudes from the Copper Country called ìLane Dawson and the Dawson Boys,î and let me tell you, what a group of crazy buggers they were. There was this one time at this New Years Eve gigÖÖwait, hold on a sec, getting ahead of myself. Before I get to that I should mention a few things about ìLane Dawson and the Dawson Boys.î
     Lane Dawson was a cross between Roy Orbison and young Marlon Brando. He had the whole nine yards: the dark glasses, the jeans rolled up, the leather jacket and the motorcycle. The bass player was Dave Riutta, aka ìHeikki Lunta.î He was always disappearing before the gigs. When weíd finally find him, we could always tell what shape he was in by the number of drink sticks in his shirt pocket. He was nuts. Why is it that all bass players seem to be nuts? Itís been my experience that if the bass player isnít nuts, they probably ainít worth a shit as far as bassists go.
     Our steel guitar player was Weldon Mattson. He was from the planet Zurkonnanen. He was always trying to convince me that sleep was a waste of time. Heíd stay up for days at a time and get these big purple bags under his eyes. Despite this odd personality mix we sounded great together and had one helluva band. Weíd all wear these red coats and black pants, and did a lot of good old country, some Buck Owens, some Polkas, and a lot of CCR. We played around the UP/Wisconsin circuit of bars and dance halls and it was a blast. Hell, we even had people that would follow us around cause they liked us so much.
     So itís New Years Eve 1968/69. Lane had booked us at a place called Snuffyís Saloon and the place was packed wall to wall with Jackpine Savages: Iron Range Hockey players, wild women, and an assortment of other crazies from around Marquette County. We started playing around 9:30. Since we werenít allowed to drink on stage (so we were sober most of the time except maybe Dave), we had a vantage point and weíd make a game out of checking out the crowd. I scanned the crowd and everyone looked like they were having a good time except for this old gummer who was sitting alone by the door. he apparently was there celebrating all day, cause his table was full of empties and he was just sitting there swaying back and forth and drooling. 
     So anyway, weíre playing this nice fast number and I look out at the crowd and notice Pigeon Summers from the Iron Range Hockey Team (the bad asses of the Midwest) coming down the isle to ask this woman sitting at the bar if she wanted to dance. Sheís sitting there with a skinny little guy who mustíve been her husband, and she shakes her head no. 
     Well, 15 minutes later Pigeon is back again and again she refuses. He keeps this up for what seemed like an hour. Back and forth, back and forth. Finally the skinny husband jumps up and points his finger at Pigeon. Pigeon gives the guy a shove to the ground and goes back to hassling the woman. The skinny guy stands up, cocks his fist back and lets it fly. BAM! Right square on the side of Pigeonís head and down he goes, sprawled on the dance floor, out cold. Everyone keeps dancing and is stepping all over him, they didnít give a sh-t. 
      In the meantime, Pigeonís buddy, another Iron Ranger, comes down the bar looking for his buddy. Finally after 15 minutes of looking he finally spots him all sprawled out on the floor, and picks him up and heads for the door--down the isle, past the bar, and they almost get out the door and Pigeonís buddy stumbled and they both run into the gummer sitting next to the door. All the bottles and cans that were collected on the old manís table go flying. The gummer jumps up and nails Pigeonís buddy right in the jaw. As they say, the fight was on.
     The gummer and the buddy fought there way back down the isle toward the dance floor, falling over tables and into booths, kinda like a John Wayne movie. The old gummer and the buddy were like a tornado moving through the bar, the farther they moved into the bar, the more ìstuff" or, in this case, people they picked up. And boy did they leave a path of destruction. By the time those two reached the dance floor, there had to be at least 30 people swinging at each other and more joining in every second: women screaming, bottles flying, old ladies hitting people with their purses, man it was great. We just kept on playing, trying to add background and timing to the punching, by this time the whole bar including the dance floor up to the stage was pandemonium. 
     All of a sudden Lane stops playing and points over by our P.A. speaker. Slowly, we could see the speaker being sucked into the chaos and the cord was stretched out like a toe chain. Me and him dive into the crowd and follow the cord to the speaker and then crawled back to the stage, speaker in tow, without so much as a punch landing on us. Right when we get back on stage, we hear someone scream: 
     ìGET THE GUYS IN THE RED COATS!î  Oh sh-t, they meant us. We knew our safe time was up so we backed up by my drums and took a running nose dive into the heart of the action.
     While all this is going on, Snuffy, the owner, who was only 5í2î but tougher than rawhide, was playing the edge of the fight with his bartender Big Eddy who was easily 400 lbs. As soon as some guy would come near the edge where Snuffy was, heíd cold cock them and toss him to Big Eddy who was by the back door, and from there heíd toss them out to the alley where Snuffyís dog Uncle Remis was chained up. Uncle Remis was a recent graduate of attack dog school (top of the class) and a flunky of obedience school (for his unwavering tendency to eat people). Heíd finish ëem off. 
     After the dive off the stage, I crawled my way over to the womanís john hoping to find safe sanctuary, when all of a sudden some guy grabs me and without thinking, I let him have it in the gut. He went sailing backwards and knocked the john door right off the hinges. I looked back to the stage and saw the rest of the band had made it back to the stage, and I yelled to them to start packing the stuff. No sooner had I finished saying this, when an old lady jumped on my back and wrapped her purse strap around my neck, closing off my wind. The more I spun around to get her off, the more sheíd choke me. She kept yelling, ìYOU STOMPED MY SON, YOU STOMPED MY SON!î 
     Finally, I backed up toward a wall and rammed her into it 3 or 4 times until she slid off my back. I tossed her to Snuffy who tossed her to Big Eddy who tossed her out the door to Uncle Remis.
     What a New Year's that was. Afterwards, the place was totally trashed. Snuffy had wrapped the fake Christmas tree around Pigeon Summersí head. It was 11 o'clock and Snuffy paid us a full night and we beat it for Ishpeming to the Venice Bar to have a pizza and some drinks. We walked in just in time to toast to the new year. Man, I sure miss those days.

     Vito was my best chum .  .  . like a brother and a best buddy rolled into one. He still is, but I donít see him as much as I use to, him having moved to the big city of Grand Rapids. Vito was the kind of guy that always got me into some kind of sh-t one way or another. I know that when I hang out with him, itís only a matter of time until something crazy happens. Iíll give you an example.
     I was sitting patiently at my house waiting for the Packers and the Bears game to start one Sunday afternoon awhile back. It was a big play-off game and I didnít want to miss it for anything. And so, as if his psychic radar went off, that, incidentally only goes off when I simply want to stay home and vegetate, Vito walks in.
     ìHey Hoolie, come take a ride with me to the camp, I gotta pick up some spare tires,î he says.
     ìNo, no, I canít, thereís a big game coming on and I donít want to miss it,î I tell him:
     ìI know how it is when I go somewhere with you, something always happens.î
    ìAw come on, itíll only take 30 minutes tops, out and back and thatís it.î
    ìBullsh-t, itís never ëout and back and thatís it,îí I says back, ìsome kind of sh-tís always happeniní, Iím staying here where Iím safe.î
    ìHoolie, come on, I PROMISE Iíll have you back in a flash... come on, come onÖcomeÖî
    ìAll right!î I scream. ìBut, out and back and thatís it. No stoppin' and screwing around. I donít wanna' miss this game.î I head out after him, deciding to just go as I was: T-shirt, jeans, and bedroom slippers.
    ìOh yeah,î Vito says over his shoulder as he reaches the car, ìgrab your gun in case we see a bird.î 
    At this point I donít argue, I just comply and grab the 4-10 out of the garage and off we go.  We get to the camp and Vito loads up the tires into his trunk.  ìLets take a look up in the field across from the pond over there,î he says.
     ìNo way, I only got my bedroom slippers on and I ainít walking nowhere, besides I want to get back for the game.. . ëout and backí remember?î I reply.
     ìAaah! We got plenty a time, come on,î he says, ëjust 5 minutes, thereís a nice path to walk on, and who knows maybe weíll scare up a bird or two.î  I reluctantly follow him (what else was I gonna do?), and we start into the field. After about 10 minutes of walking and no ìnice pathî to be found, I stop and yell to Vito whoís by this time several yards ahead of me: 
     ìHey, come on, letís go back, my feet hurt in these bedroom slippers and Iím probably missing the kick off, and where the hell is this ënice pathí youíre talkin' about?î
     ìI think itís back that way,î he says and points back to where we came from, ìfollow me.î  We walk and walk and walk. Suddenly the terrain starts to look really unfamiliar. I stop again.
     ìO.k. Hawk eye, where the hell is this path?î I say, irritation bubbling in my voice.
     ìUuuummm, I think over here,î and with that Vito strikes the old ìPathfinderî pose, putting his hand over his eyeballs and scans around the terrain. Uh-oh, I think.
     ìVito are we lost? If we are, donít say nothin' just climb that pine tree over there and see if you can see the camp from here or Iím gonna shoot your ass with this 4-10.î  He saw the flames in my eyes. He raced up the tree in no time.
     ìWell I can see the basin over there, so I think the camp is somewhere over there,î as he points in an arbitrary direction and then shimmies back down the tree.
     ìCome on, I know a short cut from here, where we can get to the camp in five minutes. Yeah, I know where we are now."
     ìYeah,î I say, ìlost.î We start walking his ìshort cutî and five minutes later something starts happening to the ground. 
     ìVito, I think weíre sinking.î
     ìNaaa, youíre just---î  Before he could finish, we plunged straight into a swamp and within seconds were up to our armpits in muck, all scratched to sh-t and getting bit by 5 lb. bloodsucking mosquitoes. I really wanted to kill Vito at that point. We finally crawled out the other side of the swamp and we both collapse on the side of a maple ridge.
     ìVito, Iím gonna kill you now.î I said calmly between breaths.
     ìUhh, yeah, how ëbout I carry that 4-10 for yuh for awhile,î he says with a big sh-t eating grin on his face.
     ìNo, then I wonít have anything to kill you with.î  We finally catch our breath and start walking again. About a half hour later we make it out to a dirt road. My arms, face and hands were swollen from bugs chewing on me and my feet are swollen cause I got on goddamn bedroom slippers, not to mention the fact that the game was started by now and we donít know where the hell we are. We decided to toss a coin as to what direction to go and it came up ìheadsî so we went left. 
     After another twenty minutes of walking, by gosh we came out on the north camp road! We finally knew where we were: seven miles away from Vitoís camp. Just as I was about to raise the gun to bash Vito, we heard laughing coming from the woods on the other side of the road. We followed it and came to a clearing where a bunch of teenagers were sitting on their car drinking beer. I walked in the clearing with the 4-10 in tow and Vito following behind, and said: 
      "All right kids, if you donít give us a ride back to our camp, Iím gonna drop you right here and now.î 
     We must not have been very threatening, full of swamp muck and mosquito bites and me with my bedroom slippers, cause all they did was burst out laughing at us. Me and Vito looked at one and another and realized we did look a tad bit pathetic...why hell, we couldnít help but laugh also. 
     They good naturedly gave us a ride back to Vitoís camp and I made Vito give them the rest of the beer he had in the refrigerator.
     I got home in time for the second half of the game. After the game I limped over to Vitoís (my feet were so bad that I could barely walk) to kill him. When I got there, he talked me into takin' a ride with him out to Skandia to pick up on old double barrel shot gun some farmer was selling. 
     ìItíll only take an hour,î he says.
     ìO.k. but no stoppin' and screwin' around this time.î
     ìNo screwing around, down and back, one hour, tops,î he replied with a grin.
     ìO.k., down and back, one hour.. .I gotta be back in time for Benny Hill.î 
     And with that we hobbled into his car and drove off just as the sun was tipping below the pines.

     Vito is a pilot so he gets to check out all the good fishin spots while flying. One time after he got back from flying, he told me that he found what looked like the headwaters of the Clark Creek out north of Ishpeming. The Clark was an ice cold creek with tons of trout in it. Vito suggested that we go and look for those headwaters, and that sounded like a good plan to me. 
     He picked up me and Eddy Vup in his ë56 Chevy and headed out north, crossing the Clark into some real wild country. We came within a 1/2 mile of the pond when we ran into a swampy area with a 3 foot by 20 foot long mud hole. 
     ìDonít even try to go through there, letís park here and walk the rest of the way,î I says.
     ìNo the heck with that. . . why walk when we can 
drive . . . weíll make it,î Vito replied.
     ìAll right,î I said reluctantly, seeing no use in arguing with Vito ëcause we were going to do it anyway, 
     ìIíll get out and guide you.î  Me and Eddy got out of the car and I says, surveying the area ahead: ìIf you keep you left wheels in the center hump and the other two wheels on the right edge, you might make it, but GO SLOW.î  Vito then backs up the Chevy around the bend in the road until heís out of sight.  ìHey! What the hell are yuh doin?î I yell. I could hear him winding up the Chevyís motor.  I'm waiting...when suddenly, OH NOOO! 
     Here he comes around the corner, pedal to the boards and fish tailiní it! He misses the mud hole completely and goes airborne straight off the road and down into the swamp. 
     ìARE YOU NUTS?î I yell down to him, the car slowly sinking in the swamp.  ìSh-t. Well, weíre going to have to dig you out and put something under the tires for traction, but weíre going to need a shovel and a jack. You got that stuff, right Vito?î
     Vito replies, ìUuummm, well hereís the thing. You know how bad the trunk was rusted out, right? Well one night the sucker finally caved in, and you know, since I didnít have a spare anyway, I figured why have a jack, and the shovel, well, what the hell do I need a shovel for anyway?î 
     I didnít say anything and simply pointed to the road in the direction we came from. Without a word Vito turned and started hoofing it back the 10 miles to town. Me and Eddy sat and waited, eating Ritz crackers that I had brought with me.
     About a half hour later, We see a truck with three people in it, one of them being Vito with a huge teethy grin on his face. The lucky bugger must of ran into the only two people that had been out this way in the last 3 weeks. After a lot of shoveling and jackin, we managed to pull the Chevy out by night fall and we headed back to town without even getting a line wet. 
     Me and Eddy thought about killing Vito, but before we could he talked us into doing some night fishing at this pond he spotted up by Michigamme while flying...he told us he found what looked like the headwaters of the Tioga River.

     I asked Darb Holmgren one time what was the best time to disconnect the electric pump at the camp so it don't freeze up on me.  Darb, being a Yooperland Guru, knew all things Yooper and told me that Labor Day was my best bet.  You see, he knows the weather might either stay in the 80's from Labor Day until November or 2 days after Labor Day, drop down to the 20's and stay that way until next summer.  That's why it's best to do everything ON Labor Day, cuz anytime after that is a gamble.  You'd think after living up here all my life I would've used my Yooper instincts and did what Darb told me to do, but no.  I'd rather play Yooper Roulette with the weather.  It's more fun that way.  Especially when your pump and water lines freeze up under the camp and you gotta crawl under there and hope none of the pipes burst.  I've already cracked two pumps playing Yooper Roulette, procrastinating, hoping the weather was going to hold out just a few more weeks.
     It's the same thing when it comes to long underwear.  When the hell do you take those damn things off?  Darb told me July 4th, but even that's a gamble.  Don't laugh, this is true.  One time, back in the 70's, a bunch of us guys decided to go up to Republic for the festivities they had every year for the 3rd and 4th of July.  We entered a bunch of events like canoe races, tug of war, etc. and stayed in the cabins they had behind the Nature Bar.  After a great party the night of the 3rd, we woke up the next morning to 30 degrees and a few feet of snow!  Of course none of us thought to toss some warm cloths in the trunk like our moms always told us to, so there we were standing outside in our shorts drinking cold beer and eating pasties in the middle of a snow storm!  It was no fun at all.
     Being a musician in Yooperland is the true test of your love of music.  If you ever want to know when a big snow storm is going to hit, just check with us (Da Yoopers) cuz everytime we gotta travel somewhere to play music, it's snows.  I remember one time back in the 70's, we had a job down in Munising.  The weather had been gorgeous right up through November.  That particular day, it was in the 60's so we headed down there in our thin jackets, no boots, no shovel, no hat, no gloves, and no long underwear.  We got down there, and after loading in, we parked the van in front of the bar and played the gig.  By the time we went to load out, we couldn't find the van because there was a snow drift from the bar roof all the way across the street!  After tunneling the van out and starting home, it was a white out all the way back to Ishpeming, visibility was about 2 feet in front of you and that was it.  I had to drive, and by the end of the ride I had sore spots on my wrists and shoulders, from gripping the wheel so tight and from guys resting their chins on my shoulders and staring out into the black and white swirling abyss.  What a hell ride that was. 
     All you have to do to get out of the winter weather up here is drive 3 hours south to Green Bay and you are in the tropics.  If you are ever in Green Bay in the middle of winter, and you see someone on the side of the road on his hands and knees, they're probably not drunk, it's just a Yooper who hasn't seen black top for 6 months, so he's just checking it out to remember what it looks  and feels like.
     October 31st is the usual time the retired Yoopers from Yooperland head south to Arizona for the winter.  No more snow shovels, snow scoops, snow plows, snow blowers, roof rakes, salt, frozen water lines, flooded basements and 40 below weather.  I can't wait until the time i can jump in the van and head her down to the desert and dance around a cactus with a Corona.
     Let's just face it, Man just wasn't meant to live up here in the winter.

    Dave came up with the bright idea of stealing his old man's 52 Chevy so we could go cruisin the back roads for birds.  His old man was midnite shift so we had plenty of time to hunt, cuz he'd sleep until 6 pm.  We pushed the car out of the garage, and down the road until we got far enough away from the house to start it up.  We stopped at the gas station, put a buck in for gas, and hit the bush roads.  Vito and Dave were in the front seat and me and Joey were in the back seat.  Joey was a nervous twitch ass that was always worried about everything, like getting caught with Dave's old man's car.  He had his shot gun loaded and pointed at the ceiling and he was tapping on the trigger all nervously.  Dave, in his usual stock car racer mode was wheelin down the dirt roads, flyin through puddles and over big ruts.  We were laughin and screamin when all of a sudden, Dave nails a big swamp hole and--
BAMB!  Joey's gun goes off.
He shot the ceiling all to hell:  the cloth was hanging down over Joey's head and there was about 2000 BB holes peppering the roof, and the car was filled with gun smoke.  We pull the car over and get out.  We all couldn't stop laughing . . .everyone except Joey who was crying,
      "Holy sh*t!" Vito yells, "take a look at the roof!"  All the paint was gone where the blast had hit and it looked like the car had 2000 little pimples all over it.  After our fit of laughter stopped, reality set in.  We needed a quick fix it.  So we headed over to Eddie's house and got his old man's hammer and started pounding the hell out of the roof trying to take the pimples out. Then we get some black paint and roll it onto the roof.  Joey's in the inside with me trying to sew the cloth back up with fishing line.  After we got everything done, we look her over and figure that Dave's old man will never notice cuz he so short and can't see the roof anyway.  About 100 yards from Dave's house, we stop the car again and start pushing it up the driveway.  Just as we pass close to the house, we hear Dave's old man shouting from above us: 
     "What the hell happened to my car?"   We look up and there he is standing on the 2nd floor outside deck looking directly down at the roof of the car.  We told him that some guys stole his car and shot the hell out of it with a shot gun and luckily we stumbled onto it abandoned in the woods and pushed it home because Dave wasn't allowed to drive it.   It was pretty good story, but in the end, the old man didn't buy it.
     Man, did Dave catch hell for that one.

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