We Watch Forever

They had a party at our prison last night and they thought we couldn’t see.

This rotten stone hell where we walk in darkness forever is not as it was when I faced the hangman in 1932 or as it was when my companion in eternal misery met his end in the electric chair 27 years later. Both of us thought that death would free us from the horror and unforgiveable conditions of the West Virginia Penitentiary at Moundsville, West Virginia. We were wrong.

My name is Harry Powers. My companion inside these walls is Elmer Brunner.  I came to end in this madhouse of pain because I killed people, lots of people. I lured women, and sometimes their children, into my trap in a town called Quiet Dell with promises of romance and marriage. Instead, I dispatched them to the next world, confiscated their money and belongings and dumped their remains in shallow graves. Elmer was far less sophisticated. He murdered an old woman in a botched home burglary in Huntington. His biggest mistake was using a claw hammer to do the deed and leaving it behind, bloodied and marked with his fingerprints.

I remember the cloudy cool morning of March 18, 1932 when they marched me up the scaffold, draped a hood over my head, placed the noose around my neck and dropped me through a trap door. I thought it would end my travails. Instead, I was still there and watched helplessly as the guards brought me down, a doctor proclaimed me dead and my body was stuffed in a bag and hauled away for burial in a nearby unmarked grave. But, I remained and have remained stuck inside these huge stone walls of silence and pain ever since that moment when the rope did its worst to my earthly shell.

Elmer has a similar story to tell but his end came in 1959 in a rugged wooden chair that was connected to an electrical power source. They gave him a 1,600-volt surge of power that killed his brain and a second that fried the rest of his internal organs. He recalls it vividly and now walks these grounds at my side silently watching all that happens here.

Elmer and I are not the only tortured souls that walk these grounds. In all, 94 men were executed here and many more were slaughtered by fellow inmates, killed themselves or died from disease or at the hands of ruthless guards. Like us, many of them remain, silent, undetected and tortured by an eternal sentence to walk these grounds and watch the odd behavior of the living who use our tomb for entertainment and amusement.

When they erected these massive stone walls in what they called the gothic style in the 1870s they put in turrets and battlements that made the prison look like a castle. I guess they wanted people to think they were safe from the evil men entombed inside.

Over the years, we watched prisoners defeat internal locks and wander freely to torture, abuse and kill each other.

We watched them gamble, fight and rape in the “Sugar Shack,” the underground room where most people now fear to even enter.

We watched the state cram 2,000 prisoners into a prison built for half that number in the 1960s and all the suffering and violence that resulted.

We watched 15 prisoners escape in 1979 and kill an off duty state trooper on the street outside in the process.

We watched them riot in 1986, kill three of their own and get the state’s governor to come in to negotiate.

By 1995 they finally moved all the living prisoners out and we had little to watch.

We were astonished when they began to use these rotting old halls and cells to train cops and guards about how to handle prison riots after the living prisoners were moved out. They came in with all their modern weapons and tactics and practiced how to subdue make believe rioters who were hired to play the rolls of evil men.

More astonishing still to us was when they began to give children tours of our prison. Now, they use the sites of our misery as a Halloween joke and laugh with glee when they pretend to lock each other in our old wretched tiny cells.

Through all that, we watched—and, we watch still.

Last night, hundreds of people came in through the old North Gate where our earthy remains were once removed from the prison for burial. They came in for a massive alcohol infused party that they called a steak fry.

As moonlight reflected off razor wire atop fences inside the weathered stone walls, they rolled massive charcoal grills into our old prison yard.  People grilled thick juicy steaks by the glow of flashlights where men once traded cigarettes for simple comforts.

Odd loud music erupted from the big open building they built in the later years of the prison as a cafeteria and then modified to be a teaching facility and party room for hire. 

There were kegs of beer set up where men used to be fed slop on metal trays.

Intoxicated young people danced and sang with their arms in the air and their voices raised in song where men were once humiliated and abused.

And we watched.

The people we watch will never know the terror, fear, and death that once dominated these grounds. It is all locked away in little-studied public records and in the fading memories of the few men who survived this particular brand of hell. But it also survives among those of us who wander this site undetected, unremembered and unknown forever.

In the Tradition of "See Something, Say Something": Avoid this Movie

I fully realize that the 21^st Century bywords “see something say something” pertain to something quite more serious than movies. But, I was witness to something so horrendous over the weekend that I feel compelled to “say something” as a warning to unsuspecting Coen Brothers movies fans everywhere. Here it is: “Avoid at all costs the train wreck of a movie now playing in theaters called “Hail Caesar.”'

I am an unashamed fan of Joel and Ethan Coen’s writing and directorial work. “O Brother Where Art Thou?”; “Raising Arizona”; “Miller’s Crossing”; and the remake of “True Grit” are truly among my favorite movies of all times. Their writing credits for other major films like Angelina Jolie’s “Unbroken” and Steven Spielberg’s “Bridge of Spies” have also left an unforgettable mark on fine movie making. How then, can the mess of “Hail, Caesar!” be explained?

Ever since coming across the first trailer for the film months ago, I awaited the release date of the movie with excitement and anticipation. The previews and even a few early reviews of the film I discovered described another spectacular movie exercise in comedy along the lines of my favorite, “O Brother.” The cast was promising: George Clooney, Josh Brolin, Ralph Fiennes, Jonah Hill, Scarlett Johansson, Frances McDormand and Channing Tatum among others including another personal favorite in a bit role, Wayne Knight—Newman of the old Seinfeld show. The trailers showed edited glimpses of slapstick genius and described a plot line that never materialized in the actual movie.

Only two vaguely humorous things occurred in the 100 minutes that my family and I were held captive in our local theater for a viewing of “Caesar.” The first was a bit at the beginning in which Wayne Knight appears as one of two hapless kidnappers out to bag movie star Clooney. Knight remains a gifted physical comedian given something to work with. The Coens would have done well to keep him involved with the rest of the movie.  The second almost funny bit concerned a roundtable discussion involving a rabbi, a protestant preacher, a Catholic priest, and a Greek Orthodox priest assembled by a movie studio exec to discuss and approve a movie’s depiction of Jesus Christ. After six or seven minutes of banter reflecting each man’s refusal to accept the religious tenants of the others, it wrapped with one holy man telling the studio executive: “Eh. I’ve seen worse.”

Too bad I can't say the same about this mess. From that point on the laughs were over.

The trailers described the plot like this: Somebody kidnapped a 1950s era mega movie star played by Clooney right in the middle of the filming of a new studio epic called “Hail, Caesar!” and only Hollywood’s biggest starts can find him. We helpless movie goers thought we were in for a slapstick unleashing of 1950s stereotypical movie stars for a funny search for Clooney’s character. Forget it. It never happened. Instead we got boring communist intellectual discussions by a band of blacklisted writers, a feeble minded Clooney struggling to comprehend, and a sprinkling of Coen versions of Hollywood stars who never actually got involved in the hunt for the kidnapped actor (except for a stooge-like cowboy actor who stumbles in on the plot).

The Coens wasted Hill, Johansson and others with only passing relevance to the action in dead-end unfunny subplots. They seemed to just be making up parts for their pals including Coen spouse Frances McDormand. There is a bit in the middle with Channing Tatum dancing with sailors that was a surprising change of pace for the action star and wasn’t horrible to sit through. The film sank lower and lower from there.

I was also offended that the editing done for the trailers did not reflect what eventually happened in the movie. The trailers were funny. Executed in the full film, they lost their edge and didn’t even elicit a chuckle. As a result, the only things funny about “Caesar” appeared in the TV commercials. Just one more reason movie goers should save their money.

I know, I know, film critics out there have been quick to tell we unwashed and uncouth folks in the hinterland that this is a Hollywood spoof that uses the awfulness of the 1950s movies portrayed in “Hail, Caesar” to make a point that the studio system was breaking down and the cold war and the red scare were influencing the way movies were made and presented. Okay. Sure. That’s probably all true but for goodness sakes, don’t wrap this in the mantle of comedy, put the Coen brand on it to make us think it is going to be good, then torture us with 100 minutes of pure drivel that, if it doesn’t ruin that tested Coen brand, sure tarnished it.

Apparently, I wasn’t alone in looking forward to this film. It was projected to earn between $9-11 million in its opening weekend. It made $543,000 during its Thursday night previews and $4.3 million on its first day. It grossed $11.4 million in its entire opening weekend finished second behind “Kung Fu Panda 3.” I will be keeping a close watch to see if and how much earnings plunge after word of mouth sinks a knife into this Caesar’s chest like Brutus in a bad mood.

Sitting through this mess was almost enough to put me off going to movies for a while. I usually don’t write movie reviews. I may never write one again. And, I will be more than cautious the next time a Coen Brothers movie comes to town.  But this time, I saw something and I had to say something.

A bit of Downton Abby in Pittsburgh’s “Millionaires’ Row”

From the street after dark, it was an impressive 110-year-old, limestone, three-story rich man’s monstrosity of a structure that loomed up from Fifth Avenue in Pittsburgh’s Shadyside neighborhood with a distinct air of bygone elegance. The first floor windows revealed glimpses of a busy Saturday night inside. Cars pulled up out front and valets rushed to remove luggage for arriving guests and take responsibility for disposing of vehicles. We switched off the navigation assistance that helped us find the Mansions on Fifth Hotel and pulled into the driveway to begin a two-night stay over the Martin Luther King Jr. Birthday holiday. It was interesting, fun, thought-provoking, and so expensive that a repeat visit will be highly unlikely.

For 25 years of the early 20^th Century, the massive structure was the home of one family – the Willis McCook clan. McCook was a prototype for today’s corporate lawyer. He specialized in mergers and acquisitions and made a fortune in the booming Western Pennsylvania of the early 1900s. His most famous client was Henry Clay Frick, the union-busting, hard-charging, coal and coke company executive who partnered with steel magnate Andrew Carnegie and cracked heads in the Homestead Mill riots. After the Homestead debacle, Carnegie blamed Frick for the carnage (even though at the time he went along with Frick’s decisions) and the two became bitter enemies. As Frick’s lawyer, McCook was in the thick of it. But, that’s another story.

McCook and his wife, Mary, had 10 children and they all lived comfortably with a squad of servants and the family pooch in the big house he built in 1907 for $300,000. It had its own second floor chapel, a billiard room, library, nine bedrooms, third floor servants’ quarters, beamed ceilings, lots of dark rich wood paneling, fireplaces, engraved decorations, and impressive stained glass windows. Apparently, things were going so well that McCook built a smaller red brick mansion right next door for his eldest daughter, Bessie, as a wedding present. The main house became a focal point for social life on “millionaires’ row” as Fifth Avenue was known then. Formal dinners, parties and social events were all played out in the stately halls and the wide picturesque back terrace of the McCook Mansion.

Willis and Mary died in the 1920s and by 1939, the family’s fortunes went aground. The hulking house was eventually sold at a Sheriff’s sale for $28,000. The University of Pittsburgh had it for a time and used it to house university-affiliated military officers in training during WW II. Then another family bought it and it became a rooming house for Carnegie Mellon University artsy types. Legend has it that among the 500 or so CMU students who lived there over the next 50 years were actress Shirley Jones, actor/comedian/director Albert Brooks and the late actor George Peppard when they were all CMU students. A fire broke out on the third floor in 2004 that destroyed part of the roof and led to the structure being boarded up, abandoned and put up for sale.

Eventually, entrepreneurs Richard Pearson and his wife, Mary Del Brady, put together a financing package that allowed them to buy and renovate the McCook mansion and Bessie’s old house next door to create the Mansions on Fifth Hotel, which opened in 2010.

Cindy and I were not prepared for the mud when we pulled into the driveway of the mansion/hotel. The front and side lawn of the house must have once been covered with lush green grass with sophisticated landscaping. The need to accommodate the cars of hotel and dinner guests had taken its toll. It appeared as though some sort of gravel or other surface materials had once been scattered around the house to accommodate 21^st Century vehicles but it had long since worn away leaving messy shoe-splattering mud for patrons to navigate on their way toward the worn old mansion steps. Somewhere, Mary McCook cringed as we tracked pieces of the front driveway across the wood floors of the entranceway.

Upon entering the old home, we were struck by the beauty and craftsmanship of the fine old dark wood paneling and beams. The huge great room or grand hall that we entered from the front door was decorated with chairs and tables reflecting the early 1900s. There was a fireplace in the corner next to the entrance to the old billiard room that now serves as the facility’s bar room.  A gigantic staircase dominated the room and led guests to a landing where an impressive floor to ceiling stained glass window dominated the area. Off this grand hall were dining rooms that had once been the McCook’s library, sitting rooms and formal dining room.

In a nook to the right of the main entrance was a desk where we checked in and a “butler” (he looked remarkably like the valet) took charge of our luggage before showing us to our room. I had signed up for a room on the Hotel’s web site and, being unaware of the layout and arrangements, I must have unknowingly signed us up for a room in the mansion next door instead of the main house where we wanted to stay. Management was helpful and polite in explaining that while the main house was booked Saturday night, we could transfer over to a room on the third floor for Sunday night. Satisfied with the arrangement, we trudged back through the mud to our first room in Bessie’s red brick mansion next door.

The McCook-Reed Mansion as it was known, is a less dramatic smaller red brick home that was actually finished before the main house in 1906. It is ornate in its own way with plenty of dark wood accentuation on the inside, but far less intricate and expansive than old man McCook’s digs next door. We were assigned a room that Bessie had apparently kept as a first-floor parlor room. There was a fireplace, and indications of pocket doors on the outside wall of the room. Inside pocket door evidence was covered by the huge king size bed’s headboard. In addition to the bed, there was a flat screen television that didn’t work at first (we had to call for help), one chair with foot stool, one stand-alone wooden closet with drawers, one desk and one desk chair.

The whole house seemed dark and dusty. There were numerous cracks in the plaster walls of our room and beside one window leaned a tired-looking lone floral-covered ironing board. It seemed out of place perched against the wall there, but the just wasn’t any place else in the room to put it where it would be out of sight. The bathroom was great with modern tile floors, a big claw footed bathtub and a separate walk-in shower in addition to the other usual accommodations. After settling in, we headed out on foot to do some shopping on Shadyside’s main drag about five blocks away.

We had just returned to our room when there was a knock on the door, I thought it would be our “butler” delivering the sparkling wine and strawberries I ordered as part of our package. It was a “butler” but he brought an unwelcome message. The poor man had been sent by management to explain that the boiler in the McCook-Reed Mansion was on the fritz and there would be no hot water available for some time. He handed me a little slip of paper that basically said the same thing but it was signed “warm regards” by the management. He uncomfortably added that he wasn’t sure that the boiler would be repaired before morning.

We were contemplating a morning without a hot shower an hour later when another knock came at the door. This time it was another “butler” in muddy shoes carrying a silver bucket with our sparkling wine and two glasses. I was about to ask about the missing strawberries when he reached into his coat pocket, fished around a moment and came up with a cellophane container that encased a big slab of chocolate fudge.

“Oh and here,” he said handing me the container. “They also sent you this. Enjoy.”

He accepted my tip and trudged out. I opened the bottle and poured us ample glasses but our attention was soon diverted to what sounded like two men bickering in the basement. We couldn’t quite make out the words, just the tone. It was coming up through the furnace register in the corner of the room and we came to realize it must have been the experts summoned to do battle with Bessie’s old basement boiler in an effort to restore hot water to the house full of guests.

The workmen were apparently successful. There was hot water in the morning, but our time in Bessie’s house was over. We packed our bags for our move to the big house and went next door for breakfast.

“We are here for the buffet,” Cindy told the hostess when we stepped inside the great room.

“The what?” came the reply.

“Breakfast,” I added.

“Oh, you mean brunch,” she concluded. “Follow me. You will be in the library.”

She led us to what had been old man McCook’s library which was now configured into a fancy eating room. There were books behind the glass in the built-in shelves of the ornate room. It would have been a nice touch if those books had been publications from the period, but instead it was an eclectic collection of books from Jackie Collins, pop culture biographies, late 20^th century history books, and smattering of bargain book fiction. A serious server poured us coffee.

“The buffet is open,” she said. “Please help yourself.”

It was a truly grand buffet – or brunch. It was fresh, hot and elegant. A gentlemen prepared omelets to order in the corner next to the ornate fireplace. A big table in the center of the great hall decorated with extravagant floral arrangements held silver platters upon which servers placed bacon, sausage, polenta with maple syrup, French toast, fresh fruit, bagels, pastries, cheesecake and a variety of other top notch specially prepared offerings that kept most patrons coming back for seconds.

It was difficult to converse in the serving area because just steps away, a massive baby shower brunch celebration had begun and everyone attending was talking at full volume all at the same time. The noise bounced off the heavy dark wood walls and around the room making a racket like a small gymnasium full of cheerleaders who were all belting out a different cheer. We scampered back to our table in the corner of McCook’s old library and enjoyed our food, relishing the relative silence.

When the bill arrived, it indicated that we owed $82 for the buffet—or brunch! Fortunately, Cindy recognized that we had been charged the mere mortal off-the-street riff raff price for the buffet—or brunch. As guests, our cost for the mealwould be only $62.

We settled up and headed out for a day-long set of cold weather Pittsburgh activity. When we returned late that evening, all our bags had been dutifully moved to new room. A very friendly and efficient front desk person showed us to our new room that she explained had once been the third-floor servants’ quarters under the McCook regime. We climbed the steps past the impressive stained glass, under the thick wood beamed ceilings and over thick decorative Victorian era carpets to the second floor. Bright and interesting artwork covered the walls of the second floor and each had a price tag offering the renderings for sale. Then, we went through another fire door and scaled a second more narrow set of stairs that opened on a wide and spacious third floor.

Our host unlocked a room door and led us into a suite. By then, we were panting too hard to speak but managed to convey approval of our newer grander surroundings with vague hand signals. The first room had original built-in wood drawers and a huge hutch that held the fully operational flat screen television. There was a large couch and a love seat and a big two-part leather footstool/coffee table in front of the couch. Three steps located beside the built-in drawers took us down into a large bedroom that held a desk, wing-back chair and ottoman and a full-size desk and desk chair. The modern, up-to-date bathroom was off the bedroom.

Could this have been where Shirley Jones or George Peppard rested their heads after a full day of doing actor in training things over at CMU? Before that, was it where the McCook’s exhausted butler retired to read Butler and Yeats after a hard day of pampering a large spoiled family? We were certainly warm, snug and comfortable. I had earlier mused that the old joint could be haunted. I slept like a rock. Cindy slept with one eye open and on the lookout for orbs, lights, creeks, moans, groans or other ghostly apparitions—sorry Cindy.

We checked out in the morning, paid the bill (our move to the big house cost us an extra $347!), and set out for home. Mansions on Fifth was an interesting experience. There are few chances to get an accurate glimpse of how the captains of industry once lived in America and the folks who restored the property completed their task successfully with love and care. They are to be congratulated for their vision, patience and hard work. But, I can’t say that I would return. The expense, about $600 for two nights and another $62 buffet—or brunch—was pretty rich for our taste. 

The McCook-Reed Mansion part of the complex still needs a lot of work before the price tag can be justified. But, if you would like to stay in what could pass for the Pittsburgh version of Downton Abby, the main McCook Mansion, don’t mind the jolting cost, and don’t mind getting your feet muddy, I can recommend it. There are few opportunities out there to live even for a weekend like a 19^th Century Pittsburgh millionaire.

What's all this about edible electronics?

Raquel Welch, cutting edge medical treatment and Carnegie Mellon scientists:  it's all here

Edible electronic devices – the words conjure thought-provoking images: licorice IPods perhaps or maybe Blackberries tasting of…well…blackberries.  How about chicken flavored DVD players or cheddar cheese GPS devices?

Well, forget it. You should be thinking more along the lines of that old 1960s Raquel Welch movie “Fantastic Voyage” if you want a more accurate bead on what the folks at Carnegie Mellon University are cooking up.

In “Fantastic Voyage” scientists miniaturized a specially designed submarine down to one micrometer in size with a crew of folks inside. The sub was then injected in some poor man’s blood stream. Raquel and a crew of other folks are supposed to drive the sub through the man’s various organs to zap a blood clot with a fancy laser device thus saving his life.

Raquel and company have a rough time of it. An arteriovenous fistula forces the sub to take a detour through the heart, where, in order to avoid turbulence which would destroy the craft, a cardiac arrest has to be induced. 

Then, when they go though the inner ear everybody outside the guy’s body must remain perfectly silent to prevent another turbulence threat to the sub. Then, it’s off to the poor guy’s lungs to replenish the sub’s oxygen supply.

Well, they eventually accomplish their mission and zap the clot after enduring a saboteur’s hijinx and some cold war plot devices. The big problem with the “Fantastic Voyage” scenario was that people are involved.  What if you didn’t need to miniaturize a full-scale submarine to carry pesky smelly people into a body to practice medicine from the inside out? 

Scientists argued long before men climbed into those tiny space capsules in the 1960s that people really weren’t necessary to explore space. It could all be done with machines.  It appears like the same can be said of efforts to practice medicine on people from the inside out. Why figure out how to miniaturize a vessel to carry people inside a body when you can just build little devices to go where you want to perform various assignments? That’s where the Carnegie Mellon folks enter the picture.

 “We are creating electronically-active medical devices that can be implanted in the body,’’ said Christopher Bettinger, an assistant professor in the Departments of Materials Science and Engineering and Biomedical Engineering at CMU in a University press release. “The idea is for a patient to consume a pill that encapsulates the device.’’

Now that’s an edible electronic device.

Jay Whitacre, a professor in Materials Science and Engineering, is working with Bettinger. The CMU brainiac’s are not only developing medical devices that fit inside a pill that can be swallowed by patients and whisked to specific sites to tackle specific problems, they are also cooking up edible power sources that can keep those medical devices inside the body humming along and doing their jobs.

“Our design involves flexible polymer electrodes and a sodium ion electrochemical cell which allows us to fold the mechanism into an edible pill that encapsulates the device,’’ said Bettinger.

Once the battery packaging is in place, Bettinger’s team would activate the battery. The CMU folks say the edible batteries could power biosensors to measure biomarkers or monitor gastric problems. The battery also could be used to stimulate damaged tissue or help in targeted drug delivery for certain types of cancer.

“There’s so much out there we can do with this novel approach to medical devices,’’ said Bettinger, who recently received a National Academy of Sciences (NAS) Award for his work on advanced materials for next generation implanted medical devices.  

It has taken more than a decade to whip up the edible electronics approach and Bettinger indicated some of the innovations in the hopper could use newer synthetic materials that mimic the natural properties of soft tissue and biodegradable electronics that could usher in a new era of electronically active implants. 

So if someone asks you to invest in a new technology to miniaturize submarines for injection into human bodies for the purpose of treating medical conditions, better hold off. The CMU guys are way ahead of that idea.

New Japanese fad not exactly eye-licking good

No licking zone -- please

Charlotte Bronte once said, “The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter – often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter – in the eye.”




If the sober author of Jane Eyre is right, that faithful interpreter unconscious in the eyes of Japanese school children must be snapping awake in alarming numbers to say – “what the hell was that?”

It seems the young people of Japan are the undisputed international champion practitioners of an ugly activity that has health officials cringing at every corner of the globe.  It is called "worming."  It is when one person expresses his or her affection for another person with a warm, passionate lick of the eyeball! 




That’s right, somebody started the fad of laying a big wet slurp across the cornea belonging the object of his or her affection.

It is an exploding trend on the schoolyards, under the bleachers and in other discrete and not-so-discrete locations through Japan.

Americans who suffer auditory attacks from another fad imported from Japan – Karaoke – are now terrified that the trend will find its way onto US soil and threaten one more of the human body’s senses. Here is a particularly hideous example of Karaoke's reach.

The possibility of an inebriated Karaoke singer being congratulated for slurring through a rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee” with a heart-felt lick of the eyeball from his or her equally tipsy date is almost more than civilization should be expected to endure.

Health officials are trying to stamp out the eye-licking phenomenon by noting an alarming increase in cases of pink eye among Japanese young people.  They are also frantically predicting that the practice can introduce sexually transmitted diseases where they haven’t traditionally been a problem – in the eyeballs of worming practitioners. Of course, there is also the possibility of blindness.

If we absolutely must import another fad from our friends from Japan, I nominate two other options instead of the dreaded worming trend.

Japanese innovators have come up with LED Teeth – LED inserts that can be placed over teeth like a mouth guard.  These bolts of light then light up whenever the wearer smiles. They can even blink or change color from blue to red. On a dark street, a parade of LED teeth wearers can inspire fear and panic like nobody’s business.


Then there is "Dekotora" - an abbreviation for "docoration truck." Take one tractor trailer vehicle, festoon it with a rainbow of color flashing lights and you have what looks like an evil carnival on wheels rolling down the highway. Imagine the potential for startling left lane huggers on the Interstate into submission when you pull up on their bumper late at night with a Dekorora in full glory.

Let’s just hope discriminating tastes will make the right decision on which Japanese fad is destined to invade.

Hubcaps, Psychology, and Basketball - the Odd World of Bob McCoid

Ex-psych prof, hubcap master and basketball shot genius
 Bob McCoid from the Wetzel, (WV) Chronicle

Don't let the Yankee Rub it In

The small white structure at the end of a scruffy I-70 exit ramp in Western Pennsylvania was obviously an old service station: its pumps long ago removed and all oil company signage unceremoniously ripped down when the site was abandoned as unlucrative for the selling of gasoline.

A one-word sign in red lettering is the only indicator of what now occupies the interior of the property where grass is slowly overtaking the once busy asphalt parking lot – “HUBCAPS.”

Oh there are hubcaps inside all right. At one time there were more than 200,000 of them. They are piled high on shelves in an order that only the master of the premises can navigate. 

The humble little hubcap shop has stood for decades alongside I-70, first at one abandoned gas station at another exit and now at its present location. It has offered motorists an affordable alternative to costly visits to their car dealer when forced to seek replacements for wheel covers lost along the highways and byways of the West Virginia/Pennsylvania region. 

Need something snazzy to jazz up that 1984 Dodge?  It’s likely in the back next to those fancy 1968 Cadillac hubcaps or under those wheel covers for a 1988 Nisson.

But it isn’t the vast array of hubcaps that wows the visitor to the little shop. 

It isn’t the magnificent disarray of the tiny office where the most modern piece of office equipment you are likely to find amidst the rubble of paper is probably a 1970s era electronic calculator.

The main attraction is the 76-year-old proprietor – Bob McCoid, what he has done with his remarkable life, and what he can do with a basketball.  A quick visit with McCoid is likely to knock your socks off just like a sharp curve on the highway will pop off a right front hubcap.

McCoid is a retired college psychology professor and researcher who molded young minds at the University of Kentucky and at his alma mater, Marshall University. He has been operating the hubcap shop since retiring from the Community College of Allegheny County and lives on a rural Pennsylvania farm.

The first time I stopped in to the shop in search of a hubcap for a 1991 Plymouth Reliant, McCoid was all business and came up with just what I needed. He didn’t mention his odd hobby and particularly incredible skill until I noticed an array of press clippings that festooned his office wall that said something about basketball shooting.

“What’s all this then?” I asked, sounding like John Cleese in a Python sketch while gesturing to the articles.

Turns out, McCoid is a multiple world champion basketball shooter from the free-throw line and the three-point arc.  That sentence is heavy on current tense because McCoid is a dead eye that still travels America to compete against rivals who are often his junior by decades.

McCoid lights up when offered the chance to talk about his skill and he picked up a basketball from his hubcap-selling counter when he began to answer my questions.

“I’m headed to the World Senior Games in Utah and the Senior Olympics in Los Vegas in October,” he explained, spinning the ball in the upturned palm of his hand. “I just got back from South Dakota.  I did a competition in Tennessee not long ago. They stopped me after I put 20 out of 20 in and won the competition.  They said, “hey, don’t let the Yankee rub it in.’”

The question of how he got involved in such an exacting activity sparked a surprising answer.

“I was on the (1955) Wheeling (WV) High Basketball team and I was always a pretty good shot,” he said. “We once scored 140 points against Weir High. Of course, they scored 110 points. It was a record that stood for years.”

McCoid practices at Wheeling WV's Howard Long
Wellness Center

McCoid said he put down the basketball when he left high school to go to college and never picked up another one until he was 60 years old and he found that his knack for knocking them in with a swish had not diminished even after a 37-year hiatus.

He believes in frequent and long practice sessions. On my first visit, McCoid pulled out a well-worn small notebook in which he keeps meticulous records of his practices and its results.  Page after page of dates and numbers indicating shots taken and shots made appear in his careful unique handwriting.

Over a ten-year period, his record shows that he averages about 14,000 three-point shots per year and 20,000 free throws per year.

One day, not long ago, he shot for 3.5 hours and was successful on 985 free throws out of 1,000. His personal record is 990 out of 1,000.  His record in 2012 for consecutive free throws was 304.  He has an all time best of 354. Since 1998, he has hit on 100 or more consecutive free throws more than 700 times.

He is just as prolific from the three-point arc. 

He has been written about by local sports writers from Pittsburgh to Martins Ferry, OH and appeared on television shows when they “miked-me-up” so the unique sound of the ball leaving his fingers can be clearly heard. He has given demonstrations all over the nation and is quick to criticize the way young people have been taught to shoot the basketball at the free throw line. You can get a quick lesson from him on free throws on YouTube. 

 “They teach kids to stand with their weight balanced with one foot ahead of the other,” he said. “That’s wrong.  That makes their orientation to the left or right. You need to stand with both toes on the foul line.”

He also believes in shooting the ball with the center finger of the shooting hand centered firmly over the little air hole in the ball to ensure proper balance. He said the ball should rest on the fingertips with a clear pocket of air between the ball and the shooting hand palm.

He has a wall full of trophies and medals from his many competitions and he has no intention of slowing down, just like the double knee replacements he had a few years ago did little to dent his skill or enthusiasm.

McCoid has another skill that today’s ball players would do well to emulate: he is confident without being an egomaniac.  If not specifically asked about his success, he would never have mentioned it to me. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a firm belief in himself.

“I expect to make them all,” he told John Howell of the Martins Ferry Times Leader last January.

Howell wrote that during one competition recently his closest competitor missed a free throw and Bob told the person next to him “he just lost” and then stepped in and made all of his shots to win.

As impressed as I was with McCoid’s obvious skill and competitive spirit; the uniqueness of his little hubcap shop; and his respected career in higher education, I walked away from my conversations with a keen appreciation for the temperament of the man and his willingness to share his experience and skill in a genuine fashion that doesn’t say “look at me and how great I am” but rather “look at what I’ve done and think about what you can do.”

That’s what knocked the caps right off my hubs and made me appreciate the uniqueness of Bob McCoid.  Long may he shoot and swish.

Solo Drive to the Great Smokey Mountains

After being foiled by an unpleasant encounter with the commercialism of Pigeon Forge, TN last month, I took a long drive down US Route 321 this week in a second attempt to penetrate the Smokey Mountains – the second most visited National Park in the US – to see just what all the fuss was about.

Nearing the foothills of the famed mountains, I encountered Maryville, TN. In Maryville, Sam Houston of Texas fame once built a schoolhouse and taught children before fleeing the experience to live among the Cherokees instead. More than 150 years later, Shaquille O’Neil grew up learning how to miss foul shots but otherwise dominate opponents on Maryville’s basketball courts.  With a tip o my hat to the unlikely pair of Houston and O’Neil, I drove through the picturesque town on my way to a pleasant encounter with the history and nature of the Smokey Mountains.

In June, I blogged about passing through another gateway to the Smokies called Pigeon Forge that was so loud, tacky and off-putting that I turned around and never entered the National Park that was just down the road.  This time, I found a more peaceful pathway through a little town called Townsend, TN.

Townsend calls itself the peaceful side of the Smokies and earns up to the nickname when compared to the bustle of its Pigeon Forge neighbor to the north.  The town has a number of low profile 1960s-era motels here and there, a few modern chain establishments and a healthy peppering of unique non-franchise barbeque, country cooking and trout-serving restaurants as well as interesting antique shops.  It also has a colorful collection of campgrounds and businesses enticing tourists to rent bright yellow inner tubes for a leisurely float down the nearby scenic Little River or bicycles to explore the pathways paralleling Rt. 321.

Townsend, founded in the early 20^th Century as a hub for the logging industry that almost destroyed the Smokey Mountain region, has transformed itself in the 79 years since the National Park was established into a friendly welcome mat for the millions of visitors that journey through each year.

A particularly bright Townsend spot is the Great Smokey Mountain Heritage Center – a rustic appearing yet modern facility dedicated to explaining to its visitors the history and culture of the region. A quick movie in a comfortable auditorium explains the origin of the mountains, the culture of the original Native Americans, the way early settlers carved out a living in coves high in the mountains, the conflicts that persisted during the turbulence of the Civil War, and the temporary prosperity and nearly permanent damage wrought by the logging industry.

A separate museum gallery houses Native American artifacts and displays showing how the early settlers lived in the mountains.  Outside, great care has been taken to preserve and restore cabins, blacksmith and wheelwright’s shops, a church, barns and other architectural artifacts from the early days of Smokey Mountain settlements.  

A restored logging saw mill at the Heritage Center

And, of course, there’s a gift shop featuring crafts, books and other souvenirs.  There’s also a bright new outdoor theater in the back that hosts summer concerts.

Armed with my new Smokey Mountain background information, I ventured into the National Park via a shaded windy road and quickly witnessed the origins of the name “Smokey Mountains.” The high green mountains are topped with a natural fog that hangs over the range and looks much like smoke.  The fog is the result of all the vegetation exhaling organic compounds that form vapors at normal temperature and pressure – thus Smokey Mountains.

I headed for something called Cade’s Cove where, at one time, sturdy and spirited people scratched out happily productive lives growing corn; raising, slaughtering and eating pork; and sometimes making “liquid corn” for special consumption.

In the central and southern Appalachian Mountains, a cove is a small valley between two ridgelines that is closed at one or both ends. Cades Cove is not only the most frequently visited part of the National Park, it was also where generations of Cherokees hunted and small populations of settlers made homes. After the park was established, the people moved out but several of their rustic homesteads scattered throughout the cove as well as a few old frame church buildings, were preserved for visitors to stop and visit. Well, of course, some of them are said to be haunted.

I didn't see a bear like this in Cade's Cove but you might.

The homesteads and buildings can be visited on an 11-mile loop drive that is famous for spectacular views and a chance to glimpse wildlife including the Black Bear.  Unfortunately, all I got to see was a lone wild turkey and a couple of deer like I see in my backyard all the time. While there were plenty of spectacular views and the mountain air was truly impressive to breathe, the pace of the drive can tax patience. Caravans of vehicles motor through at a snail’s pace.  There are plenty of pull-offs for folks to use if they see something they wish to photograph.  It took well over a 90 minutes to finish the 11-mile drive.

On the outskirts of the Cades Cove loop are campgrounds and picnic sites.  It is a trip for nature lovers with plenty of time.  Spotting a bear would probably thrill the kids but otherwise, it probably isn’t a trip today’s kids would appreciate unless they have their IPods or tablets for alternative entertainment.