Here's some fun: tiny, man-made baby black holes swallowing the earth! Gahhhh!
I was curious about the phenomena of the missing Higgs Boson, mentioned at the bottom of the article, and went here to try to figure out why it being missing was a problem. It didn't help. This semi-sarcastic piece of drivel didn't help, either. So… I lost interest. The Higgs Boson can remain missing for all I care.
Had an organic Honeycrisp apple from Whole Foods yesterday… apple heaven, that's all… apple heaven.
Saw Part 1 of an interesting library DVD last night, "The Journey of Man." It's a search - using DNA - to determine how early man roamed throughout the world. According to the author/presenter, Spencer Wells, human life began in Africa, and, according to the genetic evidence, the Bushmen of South Africa are direct descendants of the earliest men. Click here for a short wikipedia article.
The Bushmen are an interesting bunch. Have you ever seen "The Gods Must Be Crazy?" That was about them. They have a quality to their spoken language, Xhosa, that is unique in the world, incorporating the sound of clicks. It is speculated that perhaps the earliest human language had clicks as well.
Anyway, according to Wells, some of the Bushmen left Africa some 50,000 years ago and migrated to Australia, where the second oldest genetic record exists. How did they get there? Overland, through the south coast of India, where Wells found genetic evidence for the route.
I'm interested in genetics because of a YDNA test I took a couple of years ago to help resolve a genealogical brick wall. (It did, but not completely. As is usually the case in genealogy, one answer creates all sorts of new questions.) In the process of having my YDNA typed I learned that I belong to Haplogroup R1b, the most frequent Y-haplogroup in Europe. Among their many achievements, people of this haplogroup painted the cave art in France and Spain, exterminated the Neanderthal and wrote web sites of greatly scattered topicality.
The YDNA test led to some unexpected results; I learned of this via an e-mail I got one day from a Cuban-American named Ernie Santana living in Miami, Florida. He had an exact YDNA match with me on a 12-marker test. Ernie's father's family originally came from the Canary Islands. Family Tree DNA (the company I got my YDNA test through) says that there is nearly a ninety percent probability that we share an ancestor about 600 years ago. Since YDNA testing can find genetic matches far past the available genealogical documentation, they do not suggest following up on different surname matches such as these. And I haven't. But it's interesting to note the geographical displacement of my ancestor's descendants. As far as I can tell via documentation, my Clarks originated in Yorkshire, England, settling in County Antrim, Northern Ireland; Lycoming County, Pennsylvania; Burlington County, New Jersey; Brooklyn, New York and ultimately Burbank, California, from whence I hail.
Do you eat apples? Do you like the Red “Delicious?” I ate one yesterday; I was desperate and bought one at work. Yakkk. Mealy and tasteless. Next time you’re in the store look for Honeycrisp (my favorite), Cripps Pink Lady (my former favorite, until I discovered Honeycrisp), Gala or Fuji (both are good tasting, but I give the edge to Fuji). They make Red Delicious and Golden Delicious taste very bland and unsatisfying in comparison. It’s like the difference between watery and artificial CountryTime Lemonade and Schwepps Bitter Lemon. The Honeycrisp has a very satisfying snap when bitten, and an unusual sweet/buttery kind of taste. Well, to me, anyway. A Cripps Pink Lady is effervescent and like a champagne - a weird description for an apple, I know, but it fits. Try one and see.
The apple I have longed to try, however, is an English apple: Cox's Orange Pippin. Haven't found one anywhere.
I watched a fascinating NOVA episode last night (a library DVD check out): "Monster of the Milky Way," about supermassive black holes. Turns out there is one at the heart of our own Milky Way; scientists know because they track the paths of stars encircling it and find that the stars attain incredible velocities as they approach, then get flung away in an elliptical orbit, like comets and planets. The only thing that could account for it is a very large black hole. They theorize that massive black holes help form the shape and type of galactic clusters - fascinating. Prior to watching this I thought the only thing escaping a black hole are x-rays (Stephen Hawking theorized this years ago). Turns out there is other matter ejected as well; incredibly long flumes of matter. The analogy is that of a firehose used to fill a dog dish - most of the water flies out. What's more, according to computer models using Einstein's equations, the center of a black hole is composed of trapped light and so is very bright. But you can't see that from the outside.
Inside a black hole ordinary physics break down because the equations start to make little sense. So it's all theoretical and nobody is sure of anything save the old cosmologist's saying, "The universe is not only stranger than we imagine, it's stranger than we can imagine."
You can watch the program here.
Tuesday morning weigh-in. I lost not a pound - drat! 270, same as last week. I am on a plateau. Truth to be told, however, I didn't eat as well as I should have over the weekend at that theatre convention. Too much restaurant/hotel food. So, my total lost is 42 pounds over nineteen weeks for a weekly average weight loss of 2.2 pounds.
Odd things happen with my digital bathroom scale. I get up in the morning, take off all my clothes and step onto the scale: 271 pounds. After much silent cursing, I try again: 271. Shift it some on the floor and try again: 271. So, disgusted, I take a shower and dry off and step on the scale again: 270 pounds. What th-? This is at least the third time I have seen this. Now, I know I'm not washing off a pound of dirt because my wife would throw me out of bed were that the case. And I seriously doubt that the act of walking downstairs to shower and walking back upstairs to weigh in burns a pound of weight. So it must be some kind of weird rounding up or down function of the scale. The doctor's scale at work suggests that my bathroom scale is high by two pounds - which offers some consolation.
I attended the Virginia Theatre Association (VTA) Conference in Richmond with my daughter's high school drama troupe; it was fun. I had forgotten how surprisingly good the acting quality of the various school troupes could be. It's great to watch those young people on stage acting their little hearts out…
I saw nine one-act productions. The best one by far was an adaptation of three of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales put on by E.C. Glass School in Lynchburg. It was one of the final four. Of course, the Miller's Tale - a perennial favorite featuring adultery, swearing and farting - was one of the stories. English lit types, by the way, are totally hung up on that particular story. Every English class I've had in high school or college (I have a minor in English lit) featured it. But… be that as it may, E.C. Glass did a great job with it.
One school did a very interesting historical piece about the 1811 Theatre Fire in Richmond - "Volume of Smoke" - which was appropriate given the location of the conference.
72 people out of 600 died in the fire, and the play involved survivors and the dead describing the incidents of the evening. It was quite effective, I thought. The gal playing the "Bleeding Nun" (a character in a play within a play) was excellent. She seemed almost like an adult in intensity and acting ability. The best male acting job I saw was in a short adaptation of the story of Icabod Crane by Washington Irving; the fellow played the title role and was quite in character and very convincing.
My favorite moment in a play at the conference, however, was in a piece ("Controlling Interest") about four eight-year old boys in a playground, who hold a business meeting to determine whether or not they might like girls. They invite two girls to the meeting. The girls, not surprisingly, are much more mature than the boys, and begin by telling the boys that henceforth, for the rest of their lives, every waking thought will be about the girls. And, "...I'm not saying now, or even this year, but, if you're lucky and we decide that this could possibly happen, you might possibly get to see one of us without a shirt." Then there's a priceless pause as the boys gaze off into the audience, wearing semi-perplexed expressions on their faces that suggest that this notion has possibilities - but they know of no reasons why.
My own daughter did quite well at auditions, I am happy to report. She did some college auditions and got call backs from eight (an unusually high number) of them - about half of all the colleges who sent representatives. She even got a call back from Virginia Tech, which was cool. Where she goes and what she majors in is still to be determined... unfortunately...
I am now reading "The Call of Fife and Drum" by Howard Fast (a Hollywood Commie and Stalin Peace Prize awardee), a collection of three of his historical novels about the Revolutionary War. The first is "The Unvanquished," about George Washington at the disasterous 1776 retreat from New York City. It's readable and lively... Washington is depicted as a man consumed by self-doubt and disappointment at his failings who never lets on. Was he that way, really? Possibly. (At the VTA conference I saw a kid walk by wearing a tee-shirt that said "Harness The Power of Mediocrity." Heh.)
Bad news: I am sorry to report that Porter Wagoner, the only Country-Western musician I like besides Johnny Cash, died last night. He was one of the giants of the Old School.
Last excerpt about Lincoln; I'm done with the book.
Somebody once wrote me an e-mail, stating that he enjoyed reading my take on pop culture. Pop culture? Hmf. I can do high art as well...
A while back I mentioned that I had bought a CD at a yard sale for a buck, a collection of classical works by Edvard Grieg (Norwegian) and Jean Sibelius (Finnish, pictured above). Recently, during my half-hour walks with an mp3 player’s ear buds plugged into my ears, I’ve been listening to the Sibelius Violin Concerto in D minor, opus 47 - one of the pieces on the CD. I’m getting familiar with it and hear bits of it in my head during the day. I’ve heard it repeated enough now that I’m looking forward to learning it as I hear it again.
Listening to many kinds of classical music – non-programmatic symphonies and concertos – takes work. It’s not like listening to a three minute song in AABA form (which, by the way, is adapted from classical music and is sometimes called abbreviated sonata form). You listen to a lengthy classical piece once and perhaps get a feel for what the movements are about. Then, with repeated listenings, the melodies become familiar and the shape of the piece (how themes are introduced and modulated) starts to become apparent. Bits of orchestration start to pop out (“Oh, here’s that passage where the brass sounds like duck quacks”) and you find favorite passages. Finally, once you’ve gotten to know it from start to end it’s like a friend, and you feel like your IQ has risen a point or two as a consequence of having become familiar with it. (Honest!)
The odd thing is that with all the classical music I’ve listened to over the years I have noticed that the stuff I had to work at the hardest to like is the music that, in the long run, I like the best. And usually, the music with easily identified themes and melodies is kind of like snacking on a candy bar. It’s sweet and tasty, but doesn’t provide nourishment for long.
For instance, in 1988 I discovered Ralph (pronounced “rafe”) Vaughan-Williams’ “Pastoral” symphony – a piece with little drama or dynamics and nothing to really distinguish it on a first hearing, save perhaps a part for a wordless soprano at the end. I had to really work at understanding it. But if it’s possible to wear out a CD with replayings, I would with my recording of it. It is one of my very favorite symphonies.
Another bit of fun is following along with the notes, if there are any, while listening. For instance, you don't really need to know music to figure out where this stuff is happening: "...the slow movement opens with an F Major horn solo above an F Minor chord, a theme which is developed by a solo 'cello. Just as in the first movement, the ideas flow gently from one to the next, ultimately leading to the trumpet cadenza. It is in effect a natural trumpet (a trumpet without valves) in Eb since the player is not to use the valves, so that the interval of a seventh has its natural, slightly "out-of-tune" intonation."
You just listen. That passage, by the way, is in the Vaughan-Williams Pastoral symphony. During World War I, V-W, serving as an ambulance driver, was listening to a bugler blowing the "all quiet" at sunset atop a hill. The bugler missed the octave and blew a seventh instead, and V-W later incorporated that into a symphony. The entire work has since been interpreted as a sort of lengthy elegy to the dead of World War I. So, you see, there are neat anecdotes to be learned as well.
I’ve enjoyed Sibelius’ music ever since I was sixteen, when I discovered his Fifth Symphony. For some reason his music is especially popular in the Anglo-Saxon nations; the Germans haven’t really taken to it. (There’s a famous story about a very Germanic old conductor who, having run his orchestra through one of Sibelius’ greatest works, the 2nd symphony, remarked with indifference, “This isn’t too bad.”) The music of Sibelius, for most people, conjures up deep, dark northern forests, frozen landscapes and a general sense of the bleakness of nature in hidden, mysterious places. It does for me, at any rate.
And look at Sibelius... an old man with a craggy, granite face. I wanna look like that when I'm in my seventies and eighties! It has been often commented that that magnificent face, the Finnish landscape and his music all seem to have coalesced somehow.
Anyway, what's really cool with classical music is an ability I once observed in the janitor in elementary school, a college student in his early twenties. He could turn the radio on to the classical station and identify the composer by just listening to the orchestration and characteristic way the melodies were written. Thirty five years on, I can do this as well. Not only that, but I can often figure out what the piece is by recognizing that it is not a piece I know, and therefore must be… whatever it is. My success rate is quite good. Ask my wife. Sibelius is especially easy to spot; nobody else uses brass in canon atop muted tympany the way he does.
Anyway, that, Dear Reader, in a nutshell, is the Joy of Classical Music.
No blog entry tomorrow - I'll be in Richmond with my daughter's high school drama troupe - so have a great weekend!
More from "The Wit and Wisdom of Abraham Lincoln," by Alex Ayres - click here. I like the one about Robert Todd Lincoln. So much so that I added it to Lincolnia.
Last night I watched a stills restoration of the famous lost Tod Browning film "London After Midnight" (1927) that aired on Turner Movie Classics. I used to see prints from this movie in monster magazines when I was a kid, and have always wondered about it. It's called "lost" because the last known print was destroyed in an MGM fire in 1965. There may be another print in a film archive somewhere, but if so, it hasn't yet turned up. This film is primarily known for the effective and over-the-top makeup by Lon Chaney (pictured above). The TCM version was composed of production photos strung together with the title card text and set to music by the fellow who wrote the new scores for the Harold Lloyd comedies, Robert Israel.
I'd like to say that the film (as judged by the stills restoration) lives up to expectations, but it doesn't. In fact, it's boring and silly; a tiresome murder mystery. Still, you have to admire Chaney's makeup job. Wow. Right up there with The Phantom of the Opera (1925), which I think has never been topped.
Last night in a phone conversation, my son mentioned another horror film: "Eyes Without a Face" (1960) - an excellent film. I can't think of many other films where face stealing forms the plot... You can read a review here.
Earlier in the conversation, my son said that he doesn't open any of my blog links because they don't open a new window - so I fixed that. From now on, they will. So shut off your pop-up blocker on your browser. Personally, I think it's easier to simply use the "back" button, but whatever... He also tells me to add a comments section, but I'm not sure how to accomodate that in simple HTML - which is all I can write.
Also, there will be no blog entry this Friday. I volunteered to be a chaparone/driver with my daughter's high school drama troup at the Virginia Theatre Association (VTA) conference in Richmond. A basic rule of parenting is that when a kid's teacher contacts you to ask about such things, you should volunteer. After 23 years of being a father I'm proud of the fact that I have been a volunteer at many of my kids' activities (all night grad parties, field trips, lunches, VTA conferences, drama booster, lacrosse games, etc.). Ben Stein's advice is accurate: "Being a Daddy is priority number one. When you are old and facing oblivion in a nursing home or a hospital or on a golf course in winter, you are not going to wish you had spent more time at the office or making a sales call or watching a show. You will wish you had spent more time with your family."
I got a phone report of the Rugby World Cup final result while in camp at Cedar Creek. South Africa beat England. How about that? The Southern Hemisphere Strikes Back!
I am now reading "The Wit and Wisdom of Abraham Lincoln," by Alex Ayres. An excerpt here. Not so witty. Also: "After the Battle of Bull Run, President Lincoln heard some accounts of the conflict that reflected more favorably on the Union cause than events would warrant. Listening to one such report, President Lincoln raised one eyebrow and asked, "So, it is your notion that we whipped the rebels and then ran away from them?" Ha!
I watched my all-time favorite Civil War movie last night, John Huston's "The Red Badge of Courage" (1951). Bought it on a DVD at Cedar Creek for $7, I couldn't resist. I always have to explain myself when I mention that I like this film to reenactors, because the uniforms, the drill and the battle formations are wildly unauthentic. For instance, many of the troops are using 1903 rifles, and the hat brass dates from 1876. The superior resolution of the DVD reveals stuff I didn't see in videotapes: the protagonist's collar is attached with a hook and eye. Authentic sack coat collars use a simple button. And at one point, it appears that the protagonist is firing caps at the Rebs... not likely to propel a minie ball out of a barrel doing that, let alone kill a Reb. BUT... this film is excellently cast and directed, and does justice to Stephen Crane. The story is told simply and directly. Watching it, you get a real feel for war, cowardice and bravery. With much bigger budgets, far longer running time and the help of reenactors as extras, "Gettysburg" and "Gods and Generals" fail in that respect.
Last week I mentioned the right shoulder shift position; see this. It's an extreme example of a pet peeve of mine from Huston's movie.
Tuesday is weigh-in day: 270. That's 42 pounds lost in eighteen weeks, 2 1/3rd pounds lost per week, average. One pound up from yesterday. I guess I'm recovering from the stresses and strains of warfare.
:)
The 143rd Anniversary Battle of Cedar Creek was great fun! As promised, PHOTOS HERE. Take a look - some of these are pretty good. Being a casualty brings with it great opportunities for camera work...
Check out this conversation in the ranks during batallion drill on Saturday:
There were a lot of (totally unconvincing) females dressed as musketmen at Cedar Creek. It's really annoying to hear, in a high voice, "Cover down! Align to the right!" during frenzied battles. Yeesh.
I was right when I wrote last week that my not losing any weight in the prior week had to do with not taking my blood pressure meds. On Friday morning I weighed 274. Took my meds. Eight hours later I weighed 272! This morning I weighed 269 - so I lost five pounds since Friday! (Lots of marching around.)
The NuttyBuddy. Be sure to check out the video at left. The inventor's demeanor suggests he's taken one too many cracks to the "boys."
I'm marching with Mister Lincoln's Army this weekend, starting today after work. Photos next week, I expect. Wouldn't you know it? Thunderstorms expected. Nevertheless, we soldier on in all sorts of weather. Real men are not intimidated by electrical arcs crashing all around us. Heck, we fix bayonets and carry our muskets at right shoulder shift when that happens!
You laugh, but did I ever tell you the story of the photo session at 125th Manassas in July, 1986? It was the first mega-event of the 125th series, and the organizers wanted to capture the troop numbers for posterity. So they marched us all into a field where he were posed, muskets at right shoulder shift, bayonets fixed, standing at attention while the photos were taken. We could see some heat lightning, which I took as my cue to remove my bayonet. I figured that, by being the lowest thing tipped with steel, the zaps would take out one of my pards, not me. (It's sort of like the story of the two zebras running away from a pursuing lion. One says to the other, "We'll have to run faster than the lion." The other says, "I just have to run faster than you.")
So if you see the photo (I never did) and you see one guy without his bayonet fixed - that's me. Mom didn't raise a total idiot.
Having done both Revolutionary War and Civil War reenacting, I can tell you a thing or two about the military close order drill of the periods. Von Steuben was a genius! You know Von Steuben: he was the Prussian military adviser who joined Washington's army at Valley Forge to assist in drill and discipline. Anyway, he came up with a simplified drill that was very easily learned. I had a pard who used to call it "s--thead drill," as any s--thead could be easily taught to do it. Civil War drill, by comparison, is complicated, and takes more than a few drill sessions to master.
Best of all is modern drill as taught by the United States Marine Corps; I was rather good at it. In fact, I developed my very own scheme whereby I could always ensure that there was one and only one beat (step) between the preparatory command ("column right") and the command of execution ("march!") - just like the best drill instructors did it. Watching Marine recruits drill on the "grinder" at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego is cool. They're all tense because they're afraid of getting yelled at, and there's a certain degree of electricity in the air. The snap and precision of close order drill is really interesting.
But there's none of that in reenacting. We slog along, tin cups hanging from haversack straps banging into bayonet scabbards, etc. The whole thing sounds like an antique car rattling down the road. With the Rebs, it looks like an animated length of tattered and noisy laundry on the march. (Yanks appear more military because we're all in navy blue sack coats and light blue trousers; the uniforms are more uniform, in other words.)
Hey - early next month I'll be back in my hometown (Burbank, California) in conjunction with a business trip. Due to fortunate scheduling I'll be able to attend my high school's homecoming football game, the Burbank-Burroughs game. (I graduated from Burbank High School in 1974, several lifetimes ago.) Burroughs High is the town rival; I haven't been to a Burbank-Burroughs game since 1965! I'll also get to go to Knott's Berry Farm for free, as they're having a Veteran's Day deal. Bring a copy of your DD-214 and get in free, cool.
Have a great weekend!
Last night I re-watched an old Humphrey Bogart film that gets a lot of enthusiastic press in film noir circles, "In a Lonely Place" (1950). It's called a classic film noir and Time put it in their Top 100 list in 2005. But watching it, I feel like a twelve year-old witnessing adult behavior and not understanding any of it. I can see that what I am watching is a good film with good performances, but none of it is reaching me; it's just sort of beyond me. That doesn't happen very often. So, I rewatched it. Same reaction. The film isn't growing on me at all with repeated viewings. Why is this film significant?
A bit of doggerel from it is usually cited as being representative of the story itself: "I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me." Okkaaaay.
If I mention the old gothic ABC TV soap opera "Dark Shadows" (featuring vampires, werewolves, witches and warlocks), I suspect roughly half of you will know what I'm talking about and half won't. Wikipedia article here. I used to be a real fan of it as a kid, running home from school to view it at 4 PM, like millions of other American teenagers. Yesterday a friend mentioned that Johnny Depp has bought the rights to do a Warner Brothers film based on it (article here); apparently he, too, is a fan. I am of two minds about this. On one hand, I am sorry to see Depp involved because I think he's a wretched little wanker for reasons I won't go into here - and yes, I know I am wildly out of sync with the rest of the world, who apparently falls at his feet. On the other hand another revival (there was a short-lived primetime TV series in 1991) is interesting.
Speaking of vampires and the raising of the dead, I see the 2008 Star Trek movie is casting. I suppose that it will contain all sorts of in-jokes and references designed to make professional fans of the franchise go all warm and jiggly inside; I hate that about Star Trek. I hate it even more when I get the references...
I see some kid named Chris Pine is in negiotiations to play the central role of James Tiberius Kirk. He looks the part. If you can manage to cast James T. Kirk with a flashy pretty boy fly-half Johnny Wilkinson type you'll be on the mark, I think. Zachary Quinto, who looks a bit like an anguished intellectual, looks right for a young Spock.
...and that's enough of the emerging movie-related talk. I'm beginning to feel like a writer for Entertainment Tonight.
Took my good lady wife out for dinner last night as it was her birthday. We went to the Evening Star Cafe in the Del Ray district of Alexandria. Ever been there? It's excellent. The food is reasonable and tasty; gourmet food at "popular prices."
My favorite restaurants in Northern Virginia, however, are those in the Great American Restaurants chain. We've been going to Mike's in Springfield for twenty years and have never gotten a bad meal. And the help is amazingly attentive. We've been to all of the Great American Restaurants; they are all excellent. Take it from me... since Mom was a waitress and hated to cook on the weekends, I was practically raised in restaurants in the Los Angeles area. (An area of the country where you can dine very well for not a lot of money.)
...and now I feel like a restaurant magazine writer. That's it for today before I morph into Dr. Phil.
Here's an e-mail I received from a reader, who will be known as "Bill." I wouldn't normally run something like this here, but I was very gratified indeed at the mention of his playing rugby with his son. It was a very encouraging e-mail.
Bill is encouraging me to play some more rugby; I probably will, someday, despite the fact that I am now 51. "Fifty is the new thirty," right? When I attended my last Civil War reenactment as a participant in 1997, I saved all my gear because I had the feeling that I wasn't finished with the hobby. (My motto is "Never say never again.") I took a decade off - discovered rugby, along with other things - and when I came back to reenacting I enjoyed it all the more for having taken some time away. So I'm not done with rugby. I just don't have any immediate plans to play soon.
People are reading this blog and asking me about weight loss. BASIC PRINCIPLE: YOU NEED TO BURN MORE CALORIES THAN YOU TAKE IN. I suspect everything else - Atkins, Low Fat, Beverly Hills, pineapples, etc. - is a fad. I once read somewhere from a credible source that the only weight loss plan that really works and keeps the lost weight off is Weight Watchers. And Weight Watchers is nothing more than counting calories. They call 50 calories a "point" to make it simple, but it's the same thing.
Go here. Input your sex, height, weight, approximate activity level and desired weight loss per week. Read the daily calorie limit. Eat up to it but not beyond it. Keep a running total of your calories through the day (I use a post-it note). Use the nutrition information printed on packages, or find it on websites for chain restaurants/fast food places.
Do some exercise. (I walk for 30 minutes about 4 times a week.) Use this website to estimate how much you’ve burned, if you want. Graph your weekly weight. Stick to the plan. That’s it, really. I was hungry for the first few days I started a calorie limit and then wasn’t as my system adapted. It’s really easy. I have lost weight a number of times in my life in various ways (eating only low fat food, exercising my tail off, etc.), but this is really the easist and most sensible way to do it. Simple physics, just run the numbers.
HOWEVER... this morning I stepped on the bathroom scale and found I had gained a pound, in spite of sticking to my calorie limit and exercising the past couple of days. Yikes! I think I know what's happening, though... I am once again seeing what happens if I discontinue taking my blood pressure meds. Since I take a diuretic (Diovan HCT), which works by ridding the body of water, what I may be seeing is water weight. My blood pressure rose somewhat, from 100/70 to 123/76, but it's still in the normal range. Having lost a lot of weight, I'd like to get off the meds if I can. I suspect that my high blood pressure was caused by my excess weight - or was at least made worse by it. The challenge is convincing my doctor of that the next time I see him...
But enough of the organ recital. (What my wife calls middle-aged and older people obsessively talking about their health issues.)
Here's an interesting excerpt from that book about Arthur Conan Doyle I'm reading. The death of Sherlock Holmes, and the subsequent fuss it caused, must be a literary first. Conan Doyle relented and brought him back to life later on, by public demand. I think this, too, must be a first for a literary character.
I watched another great Harold Lloyd film, "The Kid Brother" (1927). This one, like "Speedy," "The Freshman" and "Safety Last," is filled with funny sight gags and the physical energy that characterized Lloyd's best work. He's called "the Third Genius," but I much prefer him to Charlie Chapin or Buster Keaton. Really, if you ever get a chance to watch or tape one of his films, you should. The humor is still fresh and surprising. And if you don't watch a lot of silent films, you may be surprised to see how optional dialogue really is in film - especially with humor.
Watch this, if you have a few minutes and you can view youtube videos.
According to my Old Farmer's Almanac, on this day in 1859 Robert E. Lee, commanding a group of U.S. Marines, stormed the firehouse that John Brown was using as a fort and took him captive, thus ending the celebrated John Brown Raid on Harper's Ferry, Virginia (now West By God Virginia). For me, however, the most interesting player is the free black man Dangerfield Newby. A very sad story... A letter found on his dead body revealed his motive for joining Brown:
Dear Husband: I want you to buy me as soon as possible, for if you do not get me somebody else will. The servants are very disagreeable; they do all they can to set my mistress against me. Dear Husband,. . . the last two years have been like a troubled dream to me. It is said Master is in want of money. If so, I know not what time he may sell me, and then all my bright hopes of the future are blasted, for there has been one bright hope to cheer me in all my troubles, that is to be with you, for if I thought I should never see you, this earth would have no charms fo me. Do all you can for me, which I have no doubt you will. I want to see you so much.
Newby's wife was sold after the raid and moved farther south.
Saw an excellent film last night: "The Other Side of Heaven," about Mormon missionary John H. Groberg. If you have to see a Mormon-topic film (a decidedly mixed bag of goods, in all), this is probably the one to watch.
I'm about half-finished with "The Doctor and the Detective," that book about Arthur Conan Doyle. Here's an interesting passage, about Holmes' appearance. I thought Holmes' use of his famous deerstalker cap was an invention of the author, but no.
Weigh-in day: I lost no weight last week - GAK. Oh, well, at least I didn't gain any. I'm at the dreaded "dieter's plateau." The two options are 1.) Eat less, and/or, 2.) Exercise more. Pretty drastic. I think I'll continue with what the daily calorie requirement website says is my weight-loss calorie level for another week and see what happens.
Monday, paugh. Now I really have Friday on my mind.
I saw the Rugby World Cup semi-final match (England vs. France) on Saturday. I don't know what they're paying Jonny Wilkinson, but he's worth every cent to England. I see that in the RWC he's the high points scorer, 243. So the stage is set for a South Africa vs. England final on Saturday... I won't see it. I'll be at a Civil War reenactment this weekend, at Belle Grove Plantation - the Battle of Cedar Creek.
It was a Navy weekend... I watched some more "Victory at Sea" episodes and, Saturday night, saw the Navy Band perform at Constitution Hall in D.C. The occasion was the 232nd Birthday of the U.S. Navy. As is always the case with the armed forces musical ensembles, the performances were excellent, professionally staged and just great to watch and listen to; I had a ball. I have written about them in this blog before (15 June) - I try to make as many of these performances as I can.
Every now and then they'll bring in a headliner of some kind, but they never seem to need them. The individual performers associated with the musical ensembles all seem to be excellent. For instance, at the Navy performance Senior Chief Musician John L. Fisher sang... to look at him, he doesn't appear to have star quality in the commonly accepted sense of the word. He's bald and somewhat stout - in fact, he looked somewhat like a prop to me. But he has a terrific stage presence, a wonderful voice and did a great job. I hope to hear him again.
Phil Stacey, whom you may remember from American Idol, was the headliner. He was excellent, too, but, frankly, I prefered Fisher...
I tried to watch the John Wayne/John Ford Western "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" last night, but got bored and fell asleep. I don't know why this film has the reputation it does. Bought it at a yard sale for a quarter; I pitched it.
Oh, yeah, I added Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to my list of Famous Ruggers.
Did Arthur Conan Doyle play rugby? He did, in the early 1870's, when attending a Jesuit school. From The Doctor and the Detective - A Biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Martin Booth, this. Doyle introduced rugby into his Sherlock Holmes stories. Holmes' pal Dr. John Watson, M.D., in his younger days, long before he met Sherlock Holmes, played rugger for Blackheath, according to the Sussex Vampire story. And a Sherlock Homes story dealing with a missing rugger is "The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter."
BIG rugby match this weekend, the semi-final of the 2007 Rugby World Cup: England vs. France. Think Agincourt and Crecy. I'll be watching it at the home of an English friend who has also invited a Frenchman over. This ought to be interesting. I can moderate the arguments.
I have once again been watching episodes of the 1952 series "Victory at Sea"; I found the complete set of 26 episodes on DVD at a yard sale. And, once again, I wish I had spent some time aboard a Navy vessel. The last time I mentioned this to a friend of mine who was in the U.S. Navy in Vietnam his response was, "No, you don't."
Speaking of Vietnam, I'd like to get a tiny bit political, here. On Tuesday, Harry Reid, the Senate Majority Leader, visited my alma mater, BYU, and spoke on national issues. At one point he stated, "I say the invasion of Iraq was the worst foreign policy blunder in our country's history," and, according to the Salt Lake Tribune article, many in the audience applauded. Democrat or Republican, I feel I must address what I think is a fairly major bit of shortsightedness from a high-ranking policy-maker. After all, our nation's history encompasses 400 years, and that leaves a lot of room for error.
Let's see... foreign policy blunders... George Washington's attack on the French at Jumonville Glen is credited with sparking off the French and Indian War. (About 10,040 killed, wounded or captured on the British and American side.) Let's face it, that was pretty dumb. Washington was even suckered into signing a surrender agreement in French in which he accepted the blame for the attack. The Governor of Virginia chewed him out for it when he got back home. Whoops. And how about his famous comment about the massacre, "I heard the bullets whistle, and, believe me there is something charming in the sound?" Can you imagine the media response to THAT these days?
How about the War of 1812, called "Mr. Madison's War?" It resolved little or nothing. U.S. casualties: Killed or Wounded, 6,765; Disease and other, 17,205; Civilian, presumably 500.
How about the War with Mexico? Sure, we won territory as a result of it. But even U.S. Grant, who came out of it a military hero, thought that it was a reprehensible case of a big nation bullying a lesser one. Mark Twain thought the same about the War with Spain.
We could endlessly discuss the American Confederacy's assumption that Great Britain's economic reliance upon cotton would assure its recognition of Jefferson Davis' government - a foreign policy blunder - but let's not.
Pearl Harbor? There was a major foreign policy whoopsie. Japan caught us with our proverbial pants down, big time. 2,333 military and 55 civilians killed.
The 1961 Bay of Pigs Invasion in Cuba? A clear blunder, but one Senator Reid is perhaps unlikely to acknowledge, caused as it was by an administration from his own political party.
...which leads us to Vietnam. A hot topic of conversation, but, arguably, this is a far greater foreign policy blunder, leading as it did to 58, 209 dead Americans.
Coming to more recent times, I personally think being asleep at the wheel on 11 September 2001 was a major blunder, especially given the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center - a clear warning of intent.
So there. You can think of more candidates if you like. (And I encourage you to.) Frankly, I think anyone elected to Congress should be required to attend refresher courses in American history so they don't force us to re-learn it.
Have a great weekend!
I finished Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge yesterday, a nearly perfect book in my opinion. I have only one complaint with it, and it is but a single (mega)sentence. Here it is:
"As the lively and sparkling emotions of her early married life cohered into an equable serenity, the finer movements of her nature found scope in discovering to the narrow-lived ones around her the secret (as she had once learnt it) of making limited opportunities endurable; which she deemed to consist in the cunning enlargement, by a species of microscopic treatment, of those minute forms of satisfaction that offer themselves to everybody not in positive pain; which, thus handled, have much of the same inspiring effect upon life as wider interests cursorily embraced."
Huh?
I am now reading The Doctor and the Detective - A Biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Martin Booth, a yard sale purchase. I just started it, so no excerpts yet. I'm sure you all know Conan Doyle as the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories. These were a favorite with me back when I was a teenager. In fact, one of my favorite Christmas presents from 1970, when I was fourteen, was a complete collection of the Holmes stories. Check out this image from the book: SACD and wife on their tricycle.
It's called a tricycle here, but the single rider versions were popularly known as "penny farthing" cycles because of the relative size of the two wheels. They were legendarily dangerous... think about it. If the rider's weight is high and more or less over the axle of that big wheel and a rock of sufficient size gets in the way of that skinny tire, what happens? The rider falls forward on his face. In the case of Mrs. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, she eats dirt with his weight on top of her! But wait... is that a tiny wheel in front? If it is then what they're on really isn't a tricycle, is it? Hmmm. Anyway, the penny farthing design was replaced by the much safer bicycle we have today, with two more or less equal-sized wheels spread out front and back. Still, I have always wanted to try out riding a penny-farthing because they look so cool... (The other thing I have always wanted to do is empty the drum magazine of a Tommy Gun into a dumpster, gangster-style.)
Anyone out there Prisoner fans? The Patrick McGoohan series from 1967/1968? The TV show way ahead of its time with statements about the individual vs. the community, freedom vs. confinement, etc.? Great stuff. Wikipedia site here, if you have no idea what it is I'm writing about. I watched it when it first aired; I loved it. Still do. Have all the episodes on tape.
It never jumped the shark. Anyway... I bring it up because the show used a penny farthing cycle as a graphic theme. It had a significance, but I forget what it was. There's some rather half-baked speculation here, but I think I recall something more definitive from the show's creative staff. Patrick McGoohan, the series' star and leading philosopher, holds the opinion that man has gone too far too fast with his technology, and to advocate a slowdown or even retrenchment in "progress." A penny farthing cycle, being a suggestive image of a prior century, may be a symbol of this belief.
Whatever... like Twin Peaks (another favorite TV show), the Prisoner is nothing if not a great vehicle for people's speculation about What Does It All Mean?
Be seeing you.
You know, it's funny. I have been reading about the American Civil War off and on ever since I was seventeen, when I took a high school class taught by a teacher who had a rare enthusiam for the subject which he made contagious. You can say I've been ill ever since. But I never before encountered the amazing tale of Richard Thomas Zarvona, the cross-dressing Reb Zouave. (Not to be confused with the Charles d'Eon de Beaumont, the Dragoon in Drag.)
It kind of reminds me of another early American oddity, Thomas/Thomasine Hall. His/her story, from 1629, is here.
I read an interesting article the other day, about family political dynasties in America. It focused on two families in particular: the Bushes and the Clintons. George H.W. Bush was president from 1989 to 1992. Bill Clinton from 1993 to 2000. George W. Bush from 2001 to 2008. As the article did, let's suppose that Hillary Clinton wins the next election, and that she wins reelection after that. (I'm being apolitical here, and offering no comment either way.) So add in Hillary Clinton from 2009 to 2016. That's 28 years with a member of only two different families occupying the White House. The question raised by the article was, will America do that?
My question is, is America even remotely aware of it? I base this on my observations regarding the political and historical acumen of the general member of the public. Some of the better questions asked me by tourists visiting reenactment camps:
The whopper was one I overheard, asked by a teenage girl in a tone of perfect sincerity: "If this is a battlefield how come there are no bullet holes in the monuments?" That one stopped me dead in my tracks.
Political humorist Mark Russell was once asked if he ever worried about good comedy material drying up. "Not as long as Congress is in session," he replied. I might say the same about reenacting camp humor - not as long as the public attends.
I lost the second weekly pound this morning... sometimes that happens. If I don't lose it on Tuesday morning, I do the next day. (I use a digital bathroom scale; I have no idea if it's rounding up or down.) So I have lost 39 pounds, total. I think when I hit 40 I'll buy myself a treat, a banana split or something. Maybe some of that Haagen-Dazs Reserve Hawaiian Lehua Honey and Sweet Cream. Have you tried that stuff? Ambrosia.
I admit, I am the world's worst handicapper. If I tell you that I think Australia will win the Rugby World Cup - ignore me. Recently, Australia was beaten by England (Australia must be mortified), and favorites New Zealand by France (even more so). That leaves England, France, South Africa and Argentina in the semi-finals. Whoda thought? I suspect South Africa will prevail... which means put your money on, say, Argentina.
Friday night my daughter and I watched "Unwrapped" on the Food Channel; it's a show about how favorite (read, junk) foods are manufactured. Always interesting. Anyway, they did one spot about the Historical Division of Mars, Inc. (didn't know they had one), who make Colonial-style chocolates for the historic sites market. The historic sites market includes places like Valley Forge, Gunston Hall, Williamsburg and Mount Vernon. From an article: "The chocolate was developed with the Colonial Chocolate Society and the company believes it accurately resembles the chocolate eaten during revolutionary America. The chocolate has an irregular appearance and slightly gritty texture, which is said by Mars to reflect the way cocoa beans were ground at the time.The company was attempting to mimic the handmade techniques originally used." The website is here. Anyway, yesterday I made the short drive down to Mount Vernon to buy some of this stuff to try it for myself.
I bought a little muslin bag of four sticks for $6.50 - pricey. But hey, nobody said that being a history buff would be inexpensive. The first thing you notice is the smell; as described, it's aromatic and smells like real chocolate. It tastes... not sweet. Not bitter, but not sweet. Having tried lots of chocolate and pastries when I was in Berlin, Germany, I have come to the conclusion that we Americans must have the worst sweet teeth in the world. There seems to be two basic food tastes in the U.S.: sweet and salty. We add sugar and salt to everything, and it's unusual when you taste something that is neither sweet nor salty. Anyway, the Mars historical chocolate is good and I'll probably buy a stick of it whenever I'm at one of these sites.
I also stopped by Washington's Grist Mill ($4), which I have never seen working. Ever since I read those Eric Sloane books about old wood technology earlier this year (see entry for 4/20) I've wanted to see this place. I did an event there with the 1st Virginia (Revy War) back in 1992, but this was before they got the millworks running. It's fascinating to watch all those wooden gears, levers, pulleys and mechanisms running to produce three qualities of grain. I made a real nuisance of myself with the docent, asking question after question.
Another interesting part of the site is Washington's Distillery, which opened in April of this year. A Scotsman wrote a letter to General Washington, suggesting that as he had a good farm and mill at Mount Vernon, that he could easily produce a profit making whiskey. ("Who has alcohol, has cash," he wrote. Never were there truer words.) He also offered to help make the whiskey. Before long, Washington had five stills running, producing the largest output of whiskey in Virginia. A fascinating place, as the whiskey-making process is explained and a cool little fifteen minute History Channel production is shown upstairs.
No, they don't sell Mount Vernon-produced whiskey there - or any other kind. But the little gift shop sells the chocolate!
So, if you have a hour or two and would like to see an interesting Fairfax County sight, visit Washington's Grist Mill and Distillery. Highly recommended, and you can visit it separate from the full-blown Mount Vernon tour (you can buy a ticket at the Grist Mill). The website is here.
I'm still reading Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge, an excellent work. I came across this passage, where the title character reprimands his daughter for using slang:
It was dinner-time—they never met except at meals—and she happened to say when he was rising from table, wishing to show him something, "If you'll bide where you be a minute, father, I'll get it."
"'Bide where you be,'" he echoed sharply, "Good God, are you only fit to carry wash to a pig-trough, that ye use such words as those?"
She reddened with shame and sadness.
"I meant 'Stay where you are,' father," she said, in a low, humble voice. "I ought to have been more careful."
He made no reply, and went out of the room.
The sharp reprimand was not lost upon her, and in time it came to pass that for "fay" she said "succeed"; that she no longer spoke of "dumbledores" but of "humble bees"; no longer said of young men and women that they "walked together," but that they were "engaged"; that she grew to talk of "greggles" as "wild hyacinths"; that when she had not slept she did not quaintly tell the servants next morning that she had been "hag-rid," but that she had "suffered from indigestion."
Dumbledore and Hagrid... Do you suppose J.K. Rowling read this passage? A "dumbledore" (noun) is an old word for a bee. "Hag-rid" is an old adjective for indigestion. From a "mugglenet" dictionary: "Hagrid - J.K. Rowling said: "Hagrid is also another old English word meaning if you were Hagrid, it’s a dialect word meaning you’d had a bad night. Hagrid’s a big drinker. He has a lot of bad nights." Grid was a Norse giantess known for having a terrible temper. "Ha" is a variant of the Old West Norse name element "half." So, "Ha-Grid" may just mean "Half-Grid" or more notably "Half-Giant." " Haggard" can also mean "appearing worn and exhausted, gaunt; wild or distraught in appearance; a disheveled individual." From the Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy, the Old English term "hag-rid" means "indigestion" (not surprising considering all the weird things Hagrid eats). Found in the exact same paragraph as "Dumbledore." Coincidence?"
Finally, Tuesday is weigh-in morning. Only lost a pound last week, which averages out to 38 pounds in 16 weeks. 2.38 pounds per week. Must have been that colonial chocolate...
A memorable youtube video: "Why Man Creates - the Edifice (1968)." The last time I saw this was in 1974, when I was in high school. It's the beginning of a cool short film that teachers used to show; I forget what class. As my pal Mike and I were A-V assistants, we used to have to roll the projectors and 16 mm film on carts to the classes. Every now and then we'd replicate the Gregorian chant heard during the "dark ages" apart of this: "What is the shape of the earth?/Flat!/What happens when you come to the edge?/You fall off!/Does the earth move?/Nevvverrrrr." The natural echo in the halls made it sound really good. We also occasionally greeted one another with another part from this: "Bronze!" "Iron!"
The edifice is by Saul Bass, a now-legendary graphic designer with a distinctive style who got a lot of work in films back in the Fifties and Sixties. You have certainly seen the clever logo for West Side Story - that's Bass' work. More: Saint Joan, The Man with the Golden Arm (one of Sinatra's best films, by the way), Vertigo, North by Northwest, Bonjour Tristesse. He also designed some corporate logos you'll recognize.
The Bass work that always mystified me as a small child was his design for the film Exodus (1960) - I was four. Who are those people and why are they reaching skyward? Are they all trying to get the rifle or is the boat burning? I only got around to seeing the film when I was in my forties, and was disappointed, frankly. (What film could keep pace with a four year-old's imagination?) But what really got me about the film was the theme by Ernest Gold. My parents bought the soundtrack album, and whenever they played it I would sob uncontrollably! To this day I don't know why it affected me so profoundly (I've heard classical music that seems far sadder), and even today, whenever I hear it, I can still feel something like what must be a kind of subdued panic attack taking place. Weird!
Another really cool youtube video: The (Animated) Bayeux Tapestry - this is SO neat. Back when I was a teen for a time I was absolutely possessed with the story of Harold and William, and the Battle of Hastings in 1066. So much so that one night I had the weirdest dream... I was a Saxon housecarl in King Harold's army, equipped with an axe, on the forced march from Stamford Bridge to Senlac Hill (where the battle was fought). The dream was very fatalistic in tone; I knew I was going to die. I woke up with a profound sense of displacement: it was really 1972, and I was a sixteen year-old in Burbank, California. Time to get ready to go to school. What was I doing here? Or there? Geez... no wonder I later became a historical reenactor. It's bred in the bone, I guess.
The tapestry itself, to use an overworn term, is iconic. When I was a little boy I had a bed with a sort of wraparound bookcase. At first it held toys, but later on my parents bought me a couple sets of inexpensive encyclopedias - the kind you got at supermarkets. In retrospect, it was the best thing they ever did for me. I loved to sit up at night and thumb through them. Anyway, one of the volumes had a scene from the Bayeux Tapestry; I found it fascinating. Years later, as a teen, I actually cut out the fold-out narrative photograph of the tapestry from a library book! (One thing my parents didn't impart was a respect for community property...)
One of these days I'm going to get to see the real thing, and to visit Senlac Hill... some day...
A three day weekend looms. (Well, it does if you're a federal employee like me.) All Hail Cristóbal Colón! Have a great weekend!
I didn't like Finn, by Jon Clinch, at all. I wrote a review of the book for amazon.com, explaining why. I gave it one star. Out of 63 or so reviews, the great majority gave it five stars, so I am clearly in the minority. Doesn't necessarily mean I'm wrong...
As threatened yesterday, I am now reading Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge, a far superior work. What sort of man would drunkenly sell his wife and child? The sort of poor Wessex native that Hardy - and I - find interesting.
I talked to an avid watch collector at work yesterday; he was pleased to show me his Rolex "Double Red" (so called because "Sea-Dweller" and "Submariner 2000" are both printed in red on the dial face). This is a highly sought after watch. He said one collector offered him $20,000 for it. I'd have taken it if I were him - but then, I don't like Rolexes. I'm a Breitling man, myself.
Back in the mid-1990's, when I was deeply interested in Swiss watches, I used to read and contribute to a forum called "Watchtalk." It was the home of an unknown wit who called himself "MisterRolex," who championed what he called "the Rolex lifestyle." A common posting from him might begin, "I am presently reclining on a deck chair on the deck of my pool, looking at the vintage British Racing Green Jaguar XKE parked in my driveway. A bottle of fine Courvoisier VSOP sits on the table next to me. Today I'm wearing my Datejust Oyster Perpetual..." He used to annoy the hell out of fellow posters, who apparently didn't get the joke. I thought his postings were hilarious. Anyway, as described by MisterRolex, the Rolex Lifestyle never seemed to include pimping, thuggery and drug dealing. (Let's face it, these folks form a sizable contingent of the Rolex wearers in America.)
Ever hear of a "Confederado?" They're Brazilian rebs, the descendants of Confederates who fled the American South after the Civil War. I saw a good article about them in last weekend's Washington Times. Here it is.
And, with his usual wit, James Lileks points out some "Dubious Moments in Comic History." My favorite is this one. "Customized with those stupid bat details he always puts on..." Ha! Lileks points out that he never read D.C. comics back in what we now called the "Silver Age," mainly because they were so goofy. Marvel, of course, was producing far more highfalutin' stories dealing with the deaths of cosmos, gods battling it out in Asgard and Reed Richards exploring the limitless reaches of the human mind. Whatever. I liked 'em both. The D.C. stories were goofy and accessable, and the pretentious Marvel stuff was good for a kid who would later enjoy Shakespeare.
The great thing about the Stan Lee-Jack Kirby Marvel Comics teaming in the 1960's was the seemingly effortless and limitless creativity. Sure, there were all those new and unusual super-heroes (Spider-Man, the X-Men) and epic, intergalactic plotlines (Galactus and the Silver Surfer), but there was more. For instance, I recall reading an issue of "Nick Fury and his Howling Commandoes"; at one point Fury and his Commandoes had to be picked up by a submarine. The sub's crew looked just as interesting and unusual as Fury's guys. One had an upside-down pipe in his mouth, another an odd hat, another unusual facial hair, etc. You got the impression that Lee and Kirby could have easily spun off a comic book dealing with the adventures of a sort of seaborne version of the Howling Commandoes. But they were just bit players in one comic, appearing in a frame or two without dialogue, that's it.
Saw a great Western last night: Winchester '73 (1950), starring Jimmy Stewart. It was directed by Anthony Mann, who is primarily known for his hard-hitting films noir. Okay, so here we are in the West. Darned if there aren't odd plot twists, a morally ambiguous protagonist, incidents in the past that cannot be escaped and an overall fatalistic tone. Throw in some noir stalwarts like Steve Brodie, Dan Duryea and Jay C. Flippen into the cast and you have what looks a lot like... well... you know.
Last night I saw a crackerjack little RKO film noir from 1949, The Threat, starring Charles McGraw (pictured above) as the title character. McGraw is a film noir stalwart and a b-movie favorite, known primarily for his husky voice and hard-boiled demeanor. (I suspect the cartoon character of McGruff the Crime Dog was based on him.) He has one of my favorite lines in all of noir, in the film he is primarily known for, The Narrow Margin. He's a detective. His partner's wife just received word that her husband was gunned down. McGraw offers this one as sympathetic, heartfelt comfort: "Tough break, Marsha."
In real life McGraw met a nasty end: he slipped and fell through a glass shower door.
The image above is from that film. His female costar is notable, Marie "Queen of the B's" Windsor. As her nickname suggests, she was another film noir stalwart. Tall, statuesque and built (measurements: 37 1/2-25-39 1/4), she was every bit as hard-boiled as McGraw. She's also a fellow BYU alumnus of mine and a former Miss Utah. Her real name was Emily Marie Bertelsen of Marysvale, Utah. From imdb trivia: "Often cast as an adulterous wife, slutty girlfriend, female gang leader or gun moll, she proved so convincing in those roles that she often received Bibles in the mail with passages underlined that covered the 'sins' she had committed onscreen, warning her that she would go to hell if she didn't reform. Several of those types of letters dwelt so much on her 'immorality' and 'evil ways' that, unnerved, she turned them over to the police."
More about Ozymandias, from yesterday... here is a short video illustrating Shelley's poem. Not a big deal, really. I also forgot to mention that there's an adjective "ozymandian," derived from the work. (Ozymandian: huge or grandiose but ultimately devoid of meaning; an ironic commentary on the fleeting nature of power and the enduring power of human egotism.) It pays to increase your word power!
I'm on the last pages of Finn, by Jon Clinch - Pap Finn is about to murder yet somebody else. It's a disappointing book. Looking at the reviews on amazon.com is puzzling; everyone seems to think this book is "astonishing," etc. I think I'm going to write a review to find out if we all read the same book! It is badly flawed, in my opinion...
My next book will be back in the assured world of classic literature, I think. (They ain't called "classics" for nuthin'.) Perhaps The Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. I was very impressed with the film versions of Hardy's works. Roman Polanski's Tess, John Schlesinger's Far From the Madding Crowd and the more recent BBC version of The Mayor of Casterbridge were all excellent.
I once pointed this out to Western Suburbs, but there was one passage from Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles that really stood out to me. Here it is - Tess is looking through a calendar:
She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth and death; also her own birth day; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor's thought that some time in the future those who had known her would say: "It is the -teenth, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died"; and there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of that day, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she did not know the place in month, week, season, or year."
I look at calendars differently since reading this...
Every now and then at work, when the weather isn’t sweltering, I take a brisk thirty minute walk while listening to an mp3 player. I have a number of different routes, but the one I like best is through several old graveyards in Alexandria. Alexandria City calls the area the "Wilkes Street Cemetery Complex," and it is made up of the cemeteries of a number of old, established churches. They all date from about 1808. Being a genealogist and history buff, naturally, I am at home in a cemetery.
I can’t help but notice this tombstone, belonging to one Heath J. Brent, age 21, "A Soldier of the Cross" (which is marked on a side not shown in the photo). He was killed before Petersburg, VA on 25 March 1865. Being a Civil War buff, this naturally causes me to wonder. What happened on the 25th of March, 1865? Hmmm... that’s pretty late in the Civil War, given that Lee’s surrender was on April 9th.
It was one of the last major offensive actions by Robert E. Lee, actually... the Battle of Ft. Stedman. It lasted four hours, from 4 AM to about 8 AM, so Brent was probably killed then.
Doing some Internet research I cannot find anything about Heath Brent, but I was led to
For some reason I'm reminded of a poem, "Ozymandias," by Percy Bysshe Shelley. "My name is Heath J. Brent, a soldier of the Rebellion: Look on my marker, ye Curious, and ponder..."
The wikipedia article is enlightening. I just learned from it that Ozymandias is, in fact, another name for Pharoah Ramesses II (shown above), traditionally believed to be the Pharoah of Exodus. (You know, Yul Brynner.) Cool!
Tuesday, weigh-in day. Down another two pounds from last Tuesday, which makes 37 pounds in fifteen weeks, 2.47 pounds/week, on average. I now weigh 275 pounds. I ate like a pig last Thursday for a high school thing I helped with, and kind of fell off the wagon on Saturday as well. But my calorie counting diet seems to be forgiving.
I am growing disenchanted with Finn, that book about Huck Finn's Pap I'm reading. It has a non-linear timeline (for apparently no reason), and is getting confusing. A half-black, half-white baby named Huckleberry Finn has been introduced into the plot. Is that the Huck Finn we all know and love or not? I don't know!
Yesterday I snuck off to the Wilderness/Chancellorsville battlefield in the morning; it's about a 50 minute drive south. As it was a beautiful day it was good convertible weather. Saw this at the visitor's center: Amos Bean of the 3rd Maine. He could be hit but not killed! Also saw this.
I went partially to either prove or debunk something I was told when I was in the Marine Corps. The story goes like this: At the Battle of Chancellorsville in May, 1863, "Stonewall" Jackson was hit by his own men while doing some nighttime scouting. His left arm was amputated and he later died of complications. (In fact he died of clumsy and ignorant medical treatment, but that's neither here nor there.) There are three places in Virginia associated with this, a stone next to the visitor's center that marks where he was hit, the house on the other side of I-95 where he died (called the Stonewall Jackson "Shrine" - which tells you something about the South), and the place where his arm was buried.
The story I was told was that legendary Marine Corps General Smedley D. Butler a.k.a. "Old Gimlet Eye" (pictured above), came across Jackson's arm in the 1920's, dug it up, examined it, and reburied it with a new marker. The old marker said simply (small font), "Here lies buried the arm of Stonewall Jackson." The new one, according to the tale I was told, said, (small font): Here lies buried the arm of Stonewall Jackson. (Large font): REBURIED BY GENERAL SMEDLEY D. BUTLER, UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS. The point being, apparently, what a colossal egotist Butler was.
The arm is buried in the Jones Family cemetery of "Ellwood," a small farm house located within the Wilderness. After checking with an ever-helpful National Park Service employee at the Chancellorsville Visitor's Center I drove to Ellwood, where I spoke to a volunteer docent there. She smiled and nodded as I related the tale I was told. The facts: General Smedley D. Butler, U.S.M.C. was indeed in the area supervising maneuvers, and came upon Jackson's arm. He did indeed have it exhumed and examined, and was convinced of its authenticity. He had it reburied, with a new brass plaque made up for the occasion. The Park Service removed the plaque when it acquired the Ellwood property in 1977, and have it stored away someplace, but they had an image of it which I photographed. Here it is, the moral of this story being, as always, do your own research.
The marker is here, a nearby interpretive display here (note no mention of Butler).
I think I mentioned this once before, but I once clobbered myself at the (so-called) Stonewall Jackson Shrine. It was on the way back from the 125th Anniversary Battle of Chancellorsville reenactment in 1988. Having never been there, me and the teenager I was giving a ride to stopped in. Yes, dressed as Federal soldiers, circa 1863. Now, bear in mind that I was - and to an extent still am - a Northern partisan in attitude. The Romance of the Olde South is not for me - phooey. And I have little interest or fondness for the mawkish sentimentality that led to an old farmhouse being nomenclated a "shrine." So it was with considerable skepticism that I entered. I was about to leave (there isn't much to see) when I slammed my forehead hard into a low ceiling beam... it being wholly unexpected and with sufficient force to cause me to see stars, planets, Saturn, a stray comet or two and various flashing lights, I cursed loudly. The docent, an older lady, ran up to ask if I was all right. The teenager just looked at me and said, "That's what you get for disrespecting Stonewall." I have never returned.
I am still annoyed that the National Park Service calls the house where Abraham Lincoln (an infinitely greater man) died, "The House Where Abraham Lincoln Died," but Stonewall Jackson gets a "shrine." Pullleesse.
While at the intersection of the Brock Road and the Orange Plank Road in the Wilderness - one of my favorite Civil War sites - I noticed that they recently put in a trail that leads to a Vermont monument. (Photo one & photo two.) Cool! And here is a shot of the interpretive marker that stands nearby. When I was a teen in L.A. I used to read about the Wilderness battle and wondered what it must have been like... the word most veterans used was "hellish." The thick scrub made a shambles out of any organized troop movements, and the black powder smoke hung low in the air. Nobody could see anyone they were firing at - men fired towards musket flashes. Small fires started which burned the seriously wounded. Hellish, indeed. Wikipedia article here.
Still reading Finn by Jon Clinch, a tale about Huck Finn's "Pap." The author did something I disagreed with. In Twain's novel, Huck fakes his own murder in order to get away from his Pap, who has him locked up in a shack. The Pap screams "Murder! Murder!" and we don't have an account of him again until his body is found by Jim and Huck in a beached raft, downriver. In Finn, Pap isn't taken in by the ruse and knows his son faked his murder. Why Clinch changes Twain's story, I don't know, but I disapprove. Seems to me that any new work using The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as a starting point needs to accept the parameters of the story Twain wrote.
Friday. Geez, I thought it would never get here. What a week.
I met a bean counter on the elevator today who told me that today was the last day of the 2007 fiscal year. (In the government, fiscal years begin on 1 October and end on 30 September.) I slapped my forehead and said, "...and I forgot to put up the tree!" Not sure if he found that amusing or insulting... and I don't care, really. Right now those people are making my professional life a living hell.
I am now reading Finn by Jon Clinch. It isn't often that I read non-fiction by authors other than Hardy, Dickens, Steinbeck, etc., but this one was too attractive to pass up. It was displayed in the library's new books section - it's about Huck Finn's father "Pap" Finn, and how he came to wind up dead at a game of cards in a raft on the Mississippi (as recounted in Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn). It also naturally gives some of his backstory. I'm only 37 pages into it but so far it is heavy with the suspicion of mayhem and murder.
What nerve, to take on as a starting point what many (and I am in this category) consider to be the greatest American novel ever written. We'll see how Clinch does. It could be as bad as Gone With The Wind II, or some such ill-starred sequel - or it could be a credible extension of Twain's immortal book. One thing's for sure... it won't be as good. (How could it be?)
But, getting back to the Greeks for a moment, one of their great literary successes was taking the Trojan War root material in Homer and expanding upon it. Sophocles, Euripides and Aeschylus all wrote brilliant plays based on Homer's material (what he supposedly wrote, or dictated, etc.). Perhaps the same thing is possible with the Finn Family.
I see the New Zealand All-Blacks are the favorites to win the 2007 Rugby World Cup. My money, however, is on the Wallabies. Just a hunch, is all. Can somebody give me the information on the where and when of a local broadcast of the semi-final and final? Summers Restaurant in Arlington, I expect. Is that info posted yet? Perhaps I should simply do the sensible thing and post a message on the message board and ask, huh?
That's it for this week; Brigham, over and out. Have a great weekend! (Mine will include some film noir, hammock and convertible time.)
More from The Legend of Odysseus, my excellent yard sale book: I have always wondered about the account of Achilles dragging the body of the slain Trojan hero Hector around the walls of Troy in his chariot... it seems to be one of those things that could have actually happened. So unbelievably savage it's believable, if you know what I mean. We have absolutely no way of knowing for sure. (Just about all scholars point out that we don't really know if there was even a Trojan War, as described by Homer.) But it's a vivid image. Anyway, here is an excellent rendition of it by Peter Connolly. If Achilles' shield looks too fine it was because it was manufactured for him by Hephaestus, the godly blacksmith.
Another great illustration is of a late Bronze Age boar's tusk helmet - how it could have been manufactured. Good stuff, that. As I said yesterday, certainly not a classical period Greek helmet, the kind we're used to seeing in films and books about Troy. Finally, note Connolly's image of Thetis and Zeus; she is asking a favor from him, on account of her son Achilles. The interesting thing is that Connolly got the pose right. In ancient Greece, a suppliant seeking a boon would have to adopt a humiliating, ritualized stance - on the knees, with one arm grasping the back of the legs at the knees and the other hand holding the beard.
I am now moving in the book from a quick retelling of Homer's Iliad (called the world's greatest war story) to Homer's Odyssey (called the world's greatest adventure story). For all its difficulty and inaccessability, I prefer the Iliad. I like that whole over-blown chariots-axles-deep-in-blood stuff. Did you know that our phrase "bites the dust" for dying comes from the Iliad? One of Homer's many poetic touches...
Sorry no update for yesterday. I had to take my good lady wife in for foot surgery; she's fine and resting at home, on the mend.
I finished Kenneth Clark's The Romantic Rebellion - Romantic Versus Classical Art. One of the later chapters was on Edgar Degas, and included his Spartan Girls Challenging Boys to Wrestle. You can fill in your own clever caption! Yes, this kind of thing actually happened in ancient Sparta. Boys and men exercised in the nude and the Spartan girls were well-known among the other Greek city-states for being somewhat... butch. They were called "thigh-flashers" and took part in sports and contests. In the other city-states, girls and women kept to their households. In fact, the ideal was described by Pericles: women were not to be known for good or evil. That is, they were to be socially more or less invisible. Not in Sparta.
While the Spartans had a badly repressed slave class, they had advanced or liberated notions concerning their women. Not dissimilar to the Klingon women depicted in Star Trek...
However, it may be that Degas' painting doesn't portray competition at all, but a mating ritual. See article here. What does Degas intend with his "curious iconography?" A good question, perhaps best left to the classical scholars and art historians.
I am now reading reading a great little book entitled The Legend of Odysseus, illustrated by Peter Connolly. It's a work intended for teens, but Connolly's superior illustrations make it fascinating reading for anyone interested in the Trojan Wars. The thing I like best about it is that he gets the clothing and armor right: Diomedes and Aphrodite, Patroclus Scaling the Trojan Walls - no cliched Athenian classical period armor here!
President Bush Selects Civil War Reenactors To Take Part In Iraqi Troop Surge (sort of).
Weigh-in day yesterday: I once again lost two pounds last week, putting me at a total of 35 pounds lost over 14 weeks - 2 1/2 pounds per week, on average. My rate of weight loss has slowed somewhat, but I was expecting that. I'm now 277... last time I weighed this was February, 2001. And yes, for the record, it is possible to gain weight while playing active spring and fall seasons of rugby. I did it. Three hours of rugby practice a week and a Saturday match cannot counter eating whatever one wants in whatever quantity one wants!
I'm getting over a head cold that morphed into a chest cold. It felt like somebody installed a valve in my head and pumped my face up to 2 or 3 psi; I've been sort of light-headed for days. At one point I got up and nearly passed out from the dizziness. Had it not been for the sinus congestion, I would have kind of enjoyed it.
Last night I watched an interesting film noir from 1951 I've been waiting years to see, He Ran All the Way, starring John Garfield as a rather stupid thug - ably complemented by a very young Shelly Winters, who plays another dummy. The title is puzzling, since the great majority of the action takes place in an apartment. (So what running did he do all the way?) Anyway, it's one of those films where the bad guy is hiding out from the police by taking refuge in somebody's home and constantly threatening everyone with his gun. There are enough noirs using this plot device to identify it as another noir sub-genre (see the entry for August 29th). These always manage to push my buttons, as I'm constantly looking for an opportunity for a member of the family to plunge a kitchen knife into the back of the bad guy... This noir has an unforgettable ending: Garfield is shot and dies in the street gutter, which is lit by James Wong Howe's usual excellent noir lighting. (From wikipedia: "Howe earned the nickname 'Low-Key' because of his penchant for dramatic lighting and deep shadows, a technique that came to be associated with 'Film Noir.'")
The film was co-written by Dalton Trumbo, one of those blacklisted Hollywood artists. (He was, in fact, a member of the American Communist Party. He is often quoted as having said, "I never considered the working class anything other than something to get out of" - some Communist!) Trumbo wrote what is, to me, one of the most unintentionally funny and over the top anti-war works ever written: Johnny Got His Gun. The situation: a soldier in World War I suffers injuries such that, 1.) His arms are gone, 2.) His legs are gone, 3.) He cannot see, 4.) He cannot speak, 5.) He cannot hear. So the entire book is about his attempts to communicate. As Oscar Wilde once said (about something else), it would take a heart of stone not to laugh at it.
According to wikipedia, "Shortly after the 1941 German invasion of the Soviet Union, Trumbo ordered all copies of Johnny Got His Gun to be recalled and stopped any further publication of the book. After receiving letters from individuals requesting copies of the book, Trumbo contacted the FBI and turned these letters over to them, questioning the correspondents' loyalty to the Allied war effort." What a weasel!
In spite of himself Trumbo occasionally penned some good works, and He Ran All the Way was one of them.
I am continuing to read Kenneth Clark's The Romantic Rebellion - Romantic Versus Classical Art. The works of Ingres, Blake, Gericault, Delacroix and Turner are all examined. An interesting work I learned about is Delacroix's The Death of Sardanapalus. "This painting gave Delacroix a chance to depict in a remote place and time the sort of physical and emotional violence that so fascinated many painters of this age. Sardanapalus, an Assyrian ruler of the seventh century BCE, held out against his besieging enemies for two years before his palace fell. Delacroix depicted the last moments of Sardanapalus, who watches as all his treasures, horses, and concubines are brought together to be burned with him in a defiant act of self-immolation." Well! Talk about getting into a snit!
It kind of reminds me of the old Viking custom of the war lord's body being burned aboard a longship, with a woman put on board to burn with him. (This was considered an honor.) I approached my wife with the idea, but she was cool to it, to say the least.
I am continuing to read Kenneth Clark's The Romantic Rebellion - Romantic Versus Classical Art. Good stuff - very readable. Another chapter is on the work of Francisco Jose de Goya. Here's another half-hearted and brain-dead art review:
The Naked Maja - Kenneth Clark says that whomever was the owner of that trim bod certainly wasn't the head that's atop it. Note how the head doesn't really fit well on the body - it's a composite. (The head. You're supposed to be looking at the head.) Looks like a painting that would hang over the saloon in a Western film, doesn't it? The Maja also came in a dressed version - to which I say phooey.
The Duchess of Alba - ...with whom Goya had an affair. Clark points out that she wears two rings, one says "Alba," the other, "Goya." She points to the name "Goya" in the dirt at her feet. You sort of get the impression that things aren't going well, there, don't you?
Charles III, the King of Spain - What's interesting about Goya was that he was able to paint images of royalty looking like this - an apparent mental deficient - without pissing them off. Amazingly, he kept getting portrait work.
The Family of Charles IV - Again, homely royalty. You can imagine what he'd do with the House of Windsor. Detail: I can't believe she was thrilled about paying Goya's commission for this one.
Portrait of Dona Francisca Vicenta Chollet Y Caballero - The dog looks more pleased.
The Manikin - Wheeee! Next, let's get some guy we don't like in the village - and drop him!
Detail from Portrait of Himself at Work - Clark says that he actually used to paint wearing that hat, which had candles on the brim which enabled him to paint at night.
Clark points out that as Goya turned stone deaf and started to withdraw from society, his paintings became nightmarish - which is certainly the case with Saturn Devouring His Son, a quaint little work. When I was doing a page for Rugby Players Eat Their Dead and needed a logo, it was the first image I thought of.
The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters - That is, when reason slumbers, monsters appear - as in dreams. OR, when humans allow their reason to slumber, they produce monstrous things - like the Holocaust. Clark says it can be taken either way.
Finally, an article I once wrote (as Jonah Begone, my Civil War pen name) has been translated into Polish for a European site! The article in English, the article in Polish. That's a first for me...
Have a great weekend! (By the way, Autumn begins Sunday the 23rd at 5:51 A.M. EDT.)
This is a website for the military. Go there, take the political test and it will return the name of the candidate (Democrat, Republican or other) whose political beliefs most closely match yours. Then there's a 1-800 number you can call to arrange a date. Should I tell you who I scored highest with? Nahhhh.
I am now reading Kenneth Clark's The Romantic Rebellion - Romantic Versus Classical Art. It's an art history book and is excellent thus far. I learned something new in the very first pages, that the Romantic movement in art stemmed from a desire to invoke fear in viewers. Fear? Really? That surprises me. I thought it was some strong but generally undefined emotion... I didn't know it was specified.
Anyway, the first chapter is on the work of Jacques-Louis David, celebrated painter of Napoleonic times. Let's examine some of his stuff, shall we?
The Oath of the Horatii - What immediately passed through my mind upon viewing this was the strong emotion displayed by the men swearing an oath of some kind - to the complete and total indifference of the women. It's kind of like a rugby match: the guys are running around out on a pitch, 100% involved and committed, swearing the very air blue around them with emotion. Most of the women are huddled in chairs in blankets, trying to stay warm and oblivious to what their husbands and boyfriends are doing. They're waiting for the match to be over so they can go to the bar and warm up. I've been to Civil War things like that, too. Some heartfelt commemorative is taking place, with tubby bearded guys in reproduction uniforms standing around a monument with tears in their eyes - and their women are off in the distance waiting for the whole maudlin thing to be over. I would rename this painting, Gender Gap in Interests.
Portrait of Madame Récamier - Geez, look at the legs on that couch. Were I to recline upon it those things would snap like matchsticks. Madame Récamier must be as light as a feather. (Another artist painted her here. That pose suggests to me, "Hmmmm... if you move the dresser over to the other wall we can put the bed over here. Or maybe move the sofa to where the armoire is...)
Madam Tangry and her Daughters - Ouch. Mom is better looking than her daughters.
Leonidas at Thermopylae - Nawwww... that's Leonidas in some park in Paris. A far, far cry from the same events depicted in "300." Interesting details: One, Two, Three.
The Sabine Women Enforcing Peace By Running Between the Combatants - Spoilsports. Detail. Another detail.
Madame Verninac - Is it me, or does she appear somewhat wall-eyed?
The Death of Socrates - Back in ancient Greece, if you're going to walk around half-dressed in a sheet you had better spend some time in a gym. Apparently Socrates did. Detail.
The Death of Marat - Wasn't a big bleeder, was he? The note, translated from the French, says, "Today, take a shower instead, and lock the door. Signed, A Friend."
Mars Disarmed by Venus - Have you noticed that if you're going to paint classical characters in the buff, you frequently have to rely upon strategically-placed doves, straps, swords and the like? Mars is wearing an expression on his face like he'd really rather be off killing somebody somewhere. And it looks like he's copping a cheap feel with his left arm. Detail. Another detail.
Well, that's it with my cheesy art criticism on Jacques-Louis David. More tomorrow with some other unfortunate, maybe.
I sometimes get e-mails advertising fake wrist watches, an unfortunate by-product of an interest in Swiss watches. Here's by far the most attention-grabbing one I have ever seen. A Rolex... funny, I would have assumed He'd be a Cartier Man.
I could stand Hamilton's The Roman Way no more, and pitched it into the trash. A far, far less interesting work than her book about the Greeks. Ten or twenty years ago I would have toughed it out and finished the book. Nowadays time seems more precious, and I will cease reading a book that I have lost interest in.
This morning on the way in to work I read Sophocles' Philoctetes. What's it about? Read a summary here. A wounded man with a bow, a duplicitous but ultimately noble youth, Odysseus and Hercules (who conveniently descends from Mount Olympus at the end to provide a resolution to the story). I really like Greek, that is, Athenian, plays. Short, sweet and direct. As is the case with most of them, this one has a Chorus - a dramatic device consisting of a group of people who comment upon the action, frequently interacting with the characters. Wouldn't it be cool if each of us had our own Greek Chorus, attending our affairs and providing comment? Sure, it could become a bit clumsy when in small rooms, but think of the benefits: 1.) Our actions would be interpreted for others, 2.) Their helpful commentary would assist us in making important decisions and, 3.) When we feel low or blue, they would sympathetically wail and bemoan our fate with us. I think a personal chorus would be especially useful at rugby matches, standing on the sidelines, nodding amongst themselves: "Well played! He moves with the speed of Hermes and scrummages with the strength of Hercules! O that others on his team would be so favored of the Gods!", etc.
Andy Smith alerted me to a French rugby player known as "the Caveman," or as he's more elegantly and quaintly known in France, l'Homme des Cavernes. Here he is, making a big hit on an All-Black: Whump! Wikipedia bio here.
Yesterday I mentioned that I was experimenting upon myself with my blood pressure medication. I made the mistake of mentioning this to the nurse at work who took my blood pressure (a tiny bit high). As I predicted, I got dark looks and disapproval. She summoned another nurse, and together they badgered me about it:
Nurse 1: This is not wise.
So I relented and took my medication, and agreed to meet with my doctor and discuss possibly lowering my dosage to account for my lowered weight.
Come to think of it, those two nurses looked and acted a lot like a Greek Chorus.
Reading Hamilton's The Roman Way is something of a chore. She clearly doesn't have the enthusiasm for the Romans that she had for the Greeks, and it shows. One can only read passages from Plautus, Cicero and Terence so much. But... hey... I'm half-way through.
I saw Clerks (1994) the other night (a yard sale purchase for a quarter), supposedly one of the twenty funniest comedies ever. Frankly, I don't see it, but I suppose this is a generational thing. Or a New Jersey thing. Anyway, this is the work that gave drug dealers Jay and Silent Bob to the world - a dubious achievement. It's not that I don't think an examination into the life of a low-paid clerk - or an economic underclass - is worthwhile... it is. Uncle Tom's Cabin helped to further along a war and subsequent huge social change. People forget its original subtitle was "Life among the lowly." And it's not that I'm especially offended by the off-color language or situations in the movie; I'm not. It's just that while I found the whole thing interesting, for me, it was depressing in a way that no film noir is. The problem is that I know and have encountered aimless low achievers all though my life, and they cause me to fret a little. Why? It's not because I consider myself God's Gift to the Literate and Educated and look down upon them. It's because I feel that, without a whole lot of work and constant effort on my part, I would easily revert to being one myself.
I will state for the record that I have strongly blue collar roots. My first job out of the Marine Corps was something my father had arranged, working in a reclamation yard at Lockheed Aircraft, stacking wooden pallets for reuse and sorting through all sorts of industrial trash. My co-workers were all the 1979 version of Clerks. They all talked of bettering their situation, but none did. I could write a story like Clerks about the various characters I knew. There was Al, the miserable old guy who used to bring a can of Vienna Sausages into the men's room stall with him in the morning. For him, luxury was sitting on the pot, eating the sausages and reading the paper. Or the guy I chatted with casually one day only to find out that he was out on bail awaiting trial for manslaughter because he had gunned down a man who was seeing his girlfriend. Or the teenager who used to do drug deals in the parking lot. Or the guy who sat down to lunch and didn't object to a dead rat lying on the floor near his chair. Or Al Faber, my bosses' bosses' boss, who kept insisting how important a clean plant was. Every morning he would throw his cigar butt on the ground for me to pick up, when I walked my route with a trash can on wheels, tidying up. He once dropped his car keys on the ground on the way to the office; I threw them on the roof in petty revenge. (A scene right out of Clerks, by the way.) During the entire ten months I worked there I kept relentlessly thinking I've got to get out of here/I've got to get out of here/I've got to get out of here/I've got to get out of here.
Well, whatever. That was then, this is now. My continuing job these days is to reinforce how important college is to my kids!
Speaking of kids, tonight I attend the last-ever Back to School Night. (My youngest child is a senior in high school.) Hooray! I've been attending these since 1989, when my oldest child first started kindergarten. Will I be glad to be finished with the public school system in Fairfax County? I should say so. The institutional self-regard, the educrats, the social nonsense ("A Community of Caring School"), the rampant political correctness, the notes home in poor grammar ("Your student should fill our their forms..."), the occasional poor teacher, the SOLs (and the teachers complaining about having to teach to them), the dysfunctional fellow students, etc. My wife and I are exhausted.
Tuesday is weigh-in day. I note that I have lost another two pounds, now at 279. (That last digit - a nine - bugs me. 281 seems less than 279 somehow.) Anyway, I have lost 33 pounds in 13 weeks - 2.54 lbs/week. On Saturday I bought a new pair of jeans, 40" waist. I haven't been able to fit into a 40" waistband since 2001. I have a complete suit with 40" trousers that has been hanging patiently in my closet, waiting for my arrival. I bought them in 1994. I'm not into them yet, but I will be in a month or so, I think.
I'm conducting an experiment upon myself (against my doctor's wishes): I have tried discontinuing my high blood pressure medication. I think my weight is what caused it to be high. Yesterday my blood pressure was normal without it. If it's high this afternoon, I go back. If it's normal I monitor it again. Whenever I suggest this experiment, health professionals look at me darkly. So if there's no entry here tomorrow it's perhaps because I've had a stroke or something, dealing with the Fairfax County school system...
What a great weekend! Nice autumnal weather... I like this time of year, when the weather gets cooler. It's refreshing, after a long, hot summer. Another nice by-product of losing weight is that I'm no longer overwarm all of the time. So I no longer feel like I need to wear billowy Hawaiian shirts in the fall!
I am now reading Edith Hamilton's The Roman Way, which is somewhat shorter than her book about Greece. I get the impression that she has less enthusiasm for classical Rome than for classical Greece; that describes me as well. To me, the Romans were clods compared to the Greeks. Dangerous and extremely well-organized clods, but clods nonetheless. What's more, I think the Romans suspected as much about themselves. They easily conquered Greece - and then began a brain drain out of Greece and into Rome. Even their gods were Greek exports, and every wealthy Roman wanted to have a Greek slave as a teacher for the kids. This suggests that they compared their cultures and found themselves lacking.
Greek rationality and humanism appeal to me. Like most Westerners, however, I get my religious cues from Judaism (the Judeo-Christian ethic). The best of both worlds: a Greek intellectual heritage and a Hebrew religious heritage. Western Civ... great stuff... we should be teaching it in college again...
Speaking of Western Civ - and the fall thereof - this: Leave Britney Spears alone! One of the funniest videos I have ever seen. Is this a male or a female? I'm not sure. "Anyone has a problem with her, you deal with ME!" In some odd, disconnected way it sort of reminds me of the time I saw a Sally Jessy Raphael talk show where Sally confronted an (allegedly) abusive mother and told her that she'll take her kids away from her if she doesn't attend treatment (or some such thing). Since when does a talk show host have the legal power to remove children from the custody of a parent? The pop culture is odd, odd, odd, that's all there is to it.
I learned a technical truth over the weekend: vinyl is a better archival medium than magnetic tape. I've been digitizing certain cassettes (an interview with a family member about family history, home-made music recordings I made in my twenties, a live band I recorded in 1974, favorite records on cassette, etc.) and making audio CDs out of them. The technical quality is, to put it mildly, variable. Last weekend I plugged my turntable into the computer and started digitizing LPs with much better results. Cassettes often develop fade-through (you can hear reversed sounds from the other side) and a high frequency dropoff after 20-30 years. LPs are inert platters of vinyl and they sound as good as they ever did. And with the new stylus I bought last year, they sound great! Okay, not as good as the best digital recordings, but pretty good, for analog. I was surprised at how quiet some of the surfaces on known, noisy LPs were with the new stylus. I think the diamond may be tracking different places in the groove, or something...
By the way, I still have about 1,200 LPs and a state of the art (in 1974) turntable which I will never get rid of. (I might replace it for one of these, however...) I learned my lesson about getting rid of big chunks of my past when I gave up my comic books. I won't make that mistake again.
By the way, I have a Thorens TD125 turntable, a nice piece of engineering in the 1960's, 70's, 80's or any other decade. The fact that it still runs flawlessly is a testament to the quality of its build. It weighs a ton - which I find reassuring. I use an SME 3009 Series II tonearm (early 70's vintage) with a Shure V-15 Type III cartridge and stylus, tracking at exactly one gram. (I have a balance I use.)
Remember, as the 8-Track fans say, "High tech is in the eye of the beholder."
I am continuing to enjoy Edith Hamilton's excellent and highly readable The Greek Way. Here's an excerpt. Think back on the recent movie, "300." That whole business about Greek freedom and liberty versus Persian enslavement was not created out of whole cloth as a theme for a movie or a comic book. It was a definite theme in contemporary Greek thought, as Hamiliton indicates. When the Greeks defended Athens and the Spartans attacked the Persians, they knew very well what they were fighting for!
Having said that, I will offer it as my own personal opinion that I think the Spartans were the Goon Squad Blockheads of Classical Greece, and that I much prefer the Athenians.
I wrote up an article about my observations on returning to reenacting after a decade off: Some Notes on New Millennium Reenacting. Things are different, things have changed - even in a hobby whose whole goal is to seem like times 145 years ago.
And here's one last Antietam image, Me and my pard Chris in the ranks. That face I'm making is my imitation of a guy I sometimes encounter at work; I think he's a patent examiner. I don't know his name. At any rate, he's always wearing that odd, doubtful expression on his face, even when by himself in an elevator. It's like somebody just suggested to him, "I think we ought to make Britney Spears the Secretary of Defense" and he's reacting to the notion. I can only imagine what's churning about in his mind to get him to look that way so often. Or maybe it's neurological - an odd facial tick of some kind. Or maybe he's just what my sister-in-law calls a space cadet.
Note that I'm resting my hands on the end of my musket barrel - this drives a certain type of reenactor (whom I call the OSHA Safety Appointee) nuts. A black power muzzle-loader is not like a modern rifle, which could possibly have a cartridge in the chamber. I know very well that there is no possibility that anything is unexpectedly coming out of that musket. Why? Because I previously inverted the musket to pour out any powder, and capped off to extinguish any powder that might be in there. I suppose an angry ant might crawl out of the barrel to attack me, but that's about all that is likely to happen. Still, it makes the OSHA guy feel safer to chide scofflaws for this sort of thing, so I invite him to.
Note the faded color on my forage cap, which I bought in 1983. Time for a replacement!
Oh, and no, those aren't second lieutenants in front of us. Those little brass bars are mounts for epaulets, if worn.
I finally got around to watching Monty Pyton's The Meaning of Life (1983) last night. Except for the notorious Mister Creosote segment, I found it frequently unfunny. There are segments that look like they're simply ad-libbing in front of a running camera, which is very odd for a feature length film. Anyway, a disappointment. Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) is vastly funnier, I think.
I am looking forward to a weekend of doing nothing. So, enjoy yours!
Another photo from Antietam last weekend. Bum, bummm, bum, bum, bum, bum, bummm, bum, bum, bummm. (Bwaaaaa, bwaaa, bwaaaaa). Lotsa people talkin'/Few of them know/Soul of a woman/Was created below.... (drum entry, distorted guitar riff).
Here's another. In general, in a Civil War pup tent, if you thrash around at all the whole thing will collapse on you. Of course I could do what everyone else seems to be doing, inhabiting the much larger A-style tents, but my money is better spent elsewhere.
Yet more: Midnight at the Bloody Road. Hydration. On the march.
I had some facial moles removed this morning; part of my mid-life upgrade (convertible, weight loss, facial surgery, possible hearing aid). The hair, what little there is, I'm leaving alone. No Rogaine, augmentation surgery, comb-over, etc. Hair, after all, is such a trivial matter. At least baldness is tidy, as Dad used to say.
I also had spider veins lasered off the tops of my nose - this was an interesting activity. It felt like a burn and a scalple at the same time. A weird feeling. And being electrically cauterized was interesting, too. What's that I smell? Not to worry - my burning flesh is all. Reminiscent of Salem, Mass, 1692.
Eh, got to go. Lots going on today, even for one such as I with superior executive and time-management abilities... I'm somewhat overwhelmed right now.
I am now reading The Greek Way by Edith Hamilton, written in 1930. It is what we would now call politically incorrect in that she posits that some cultures are better than others. Her opinion, that the Greek Athenian culture of the rational, examined life is superior to that of the Persian and Egyptian East, where thinking for one's self was discouraged and even punished. Why is this relevant today? Because the same question comes up in discussions about the Western democracies (based heavily on Greek thought) and radical Islam. Good stuff, and she is an engaging writer. I can tell right away that I'm going to enjoy reading this one; I zipped through the first 44 pages on the Metro this morning.
I also bought Hamilton's The Roman Way at the same yard sale where I got the first book. I already know she's going to find the Romans, compared to the Greeks, sadly lacking.
Okay, this is cool. I open my inbox this morning and see that the google robot discovered and sent me an e-mail about a blogger writing about one of my websites. Anne Altman of New York City, New York was compelled to admit to the world yesterday that she loves me.
And yes, my father was awesome - not everyone could pose with a can of Ruppert Beer.
Jared Hess, who wrote and directed Napoleon Dynamite, directed a short called Winner Take Steve, which you may view. 2 minutes and 14 seconds. The notion that two Steves coexisting is disallowed, and that a middle-aged guy (a school administrator?) in an electric cart could demand - and get - a competition to decide "once and for all" who's Steve, is hilarious. I especially liked the fact that the winner took pride in his confirmed identity as Steve.
This is the kind of thing that made Napoleon Dynamite so fun: odd little notions involving painfully average people in common place environments and situations. The Celebration of the Average, the Elevation of the Normal. There's a gentle sort of humor in it.
I saw Meteor (1979) the other night - peeeee-uuuuuu. "Lame" doesn't begin to describe it. After the first 45 minutes I starting fast forwarding through large portions of it. I was seriously hoping that the chunk of rock would come down on the script writer and director - or, at least, Sean Connery and Natalie Wood.
Iron Man, to be released in May, looks far more promising. Interesting use of Black Sabbath's song. When I was ten years old I recall trying to turn a promising piece of cardstock that came in Mom's pantyhose package into an Iron Man mask. I settled for a cardboard Captain America shield instead.
While channel surfing the other night I landed upon the Classic Arts Showcase (that channel that shows the ten minute classical music clips) and saw something interesting: a countertenor. Specifically, Alfred Deller. What's a countertenor? A guy with an unusually high voice, a male alto. The difference between a female alto and a male alto seems to be power and volume - Deller sang forcefully. I suppose this is because of greater upper body strength; I really don't know. But it's a different vocal sound, that's for sure. In the clip, Deller sang a couple of ballads from Elizabethan times with his son, who is also a countertenor.
Of course, "back in the day" there were castrato singers... but Deller clearly was not one of these. (Not with a son!) Funny tale from wikipedia: Once a French woman, upon hearing Deller sing, exclaimed "Monsieur, vous êtes eunuque", to which Deller replied "I think you mean 'unique', madam."
As promised yesterday, some photos from last weekend. Forgive the crappy images - as I wrote, I think I used an old roll of film. And, just to be safe, that's the last time I use 800 speed film.
Another excerpt from "A Hog on Ice," by Charles Funk. I really like the "eat crow" one...
Tuesday is weigh-in day, and I have now lost 31 pounds in twelve weeks. The rate of weight loss has decreased a bit, as I expected it would, but it's still more than 2 1/2 pounds a week, average. Pretty good. I am now at 281 pounds; my goal is 240. Being middle-aged, I don't think I'll get there. But the nearer I get to it, the better, of course.
Did I write somewhere that Summer was over?
"September Storm" was great! Hot, but great. An Eight on the Reenactment Event-O-Meter. (Yes, there is a rugby Event-O-Meter.) Lots of tubby, bearded guys falling out due to the heat - the Boonsboro, MD paramedics were busy. In fact, one battle was a half-hour late because a guy had to be picked up before we could start.
We did a dusk tactical that was really fun and interesting; we rarely do those. In this one we spread ourselves out behind foliage along a hillside, waiting to ambush the Rebs. (If they came down the road in one direction, we were to open fire, if the other way, to withdraw.) It was neat, waiting there and hearing them come up, their regimental fife and drum playing "Dixie." We could hear shouted commands but couldn't see them through the brush and trees, etc. Finally the company on our left opened fire, giving the game away, and we stumbled over fallen trees and through thickets forming up in lines and shooting. Normally, this kind of thing is tricky because guys want to fire before forming up a line, and in gathering darkness there's always a chance of getting a stray musket blast headed your way from an exhausted and careless musketman. But, other than a few turned ankles and bramble scratches, etc., we were okay.
I hurt my knee slightly at some point going up or down a hill; I'm not sure how. But I did almost exactly the same thing twenty years ago at the 1987 Antietam reenactment, scrambling around a hillside. It was made worse by an event I did the following weekend, when a teenaged soldier did a flying tackle on my leg and just about crippled me for walking. This time isn't as bad.
At the Saturday afternoon spectator battle we had to halt in the shade while the paramedics took one guy away. I was sitting on the ground in my wool uniform, great beads of sweat dropping off me, thinking, "Hey, this is harder than rugby!" At least in rugby we dress sensibly. I really do need to work at coming up with a less exhausting form of recreation for myself... Another thought that crossed my mind was that losing thirty pounds since my last reenactment in May was a very, very good idea.
The work digital Nikon I was going to take crapped out so I had to take my old film camera, the Pentax K1000. Sadly, the photos turned out badly; I think I used an old and worn out roll of 800 speed film. I never have had good luck with 800 speed film... so, I'll post photos later. My pard Chris took his little digital camera.
What was really cool is the fact that people remember my Jonah Begone stuff. I haven't had an article printed in the Camp Chase Gazette since 2001, but I met a bunch of reenactors who smiled broadly and claimed that they recognized me when I introduced myself. Neat.
I made the same observation I did back in May when I did my last reenactment: this hobby is graying. Ten or fifteen years ago the age of the average Civil War reenactor was about 35. Nowadays it appears the average age has advanced considerably, to about 45-50 or so. (If one of us were to be magically transported back to the camp of the Army of the Potomac in 1862, I'm certain we would all exclaim, "But they're just boys!") This suspicion was confirmed in a Saturday evening conversation with a friend of mine who has always stayed active in the hobby - there is a dearth of young people. He's not sure why. But I am certain that a bunch will be filling the ranks starting in 2011, with the 150th anniversary of Bull Run. The number 150, like 125, has magic associated with it. People want to commemorate big things that happened 150 years ago. I hope I can still scramble up and down hills in 2011, when I'm 55...
One last thing about last weekend's event... every reenactment has a "thing" associated with it in some way, a saying or a story or some other jibe or joke. These are hilarious while sweltering in camp (the heat affecting the mind, perhaps), but rarely make sense when recounted in the office. Last weekend the commander or some sergeant of some company a few streets down from us kept running around camp yelling commands and following them with the word "NOW." In love with his authority, I suppose. So, naturally, I took to yelling "NOW" in a loud imitation of him. "Hey, let's go to the sutlers, NOW!" or, "Let's go get a Coke, NOW!" - that kind of thing. It wasn't long before our company officer began to sardonically issue commands followed by "NOW!" This was all the funnier since I was in what appeared to be an AARP company, and nobody had the least intention of doing anything quickly in that heat.
More excerpts from A Hog on Ice, the book I'm presently reading. I've never heard of batfowling...
That's all for today. I have to go back to work... NOW!
I was at a workplace management conference at the Baltimore Inner Harbor on Wednesday. You know how these go... lots of professional young women in suits acting as facilitators, nodding their heads affirmatively at comments (any comments) from the gathering. I only caught one of them uptalking this time, but, thankfully, she didn't do it for long. (What's uptalking?)
Do I sound sexist? Tough. Hey, I caught one young woman being ageist, when she asserted that people twenty or thirty years older than she (me), always favored face-to-face communication over e-mail. (I don't.) I could have been a real boor and asked, "Gee, I didn't know that. Is there a favored communication style that, say, Black people employ?" but didn't. The fact is, you can't consider or treat people monolithically - but we all seem to want to.
The funniest thing I got out of this conference was the term "OS!M." It was coined by a speaker, Steve Farber. He set up the phrase by describing an Olympic skeleton athlete. These are guys who ride an impossibly tiny sled down a huge, icy hill towards an utter abyss at ridiculous speeds. Their only protection against grievous harm is a helmet. An extreme sport. Generally, the first time they do it they utter two words on the way down, which explains the OS! part of the phrase. The "M" stands for "moment." So an OS!M is one of those things you have when you've just made a risky decision that looks like is going to produce an extreme result; his point was that truly energetic managers have these from time to time and that this is to be expected.
When Farber explained it I could recall some OS!M's in my life: 1.) Getting off the bus at Marine Corps Boot Camp, 2.) My first rugby practice, 3.) My first rugby match, 4.) My first practice session as a bassist with my band, 5.) When we bought our first house, 6.) When my wife informed me that we were going to have our first baby, 7.) The starting gun at the 2004 Frederick Marathon, 8.) The time I "replied all" to an e-mail going out to about 12,000 recipients, etc.
He also had a funny quote on one of his slides: "It's like the man who wanted to be a matador who realized, as 2,000 pounds of raging animal was bearing down on him, that all he really wanted to do was to wear tight pants and hear applause."
Which reminded me of another quote from a man who once leapt off the Golden Gate Bridge to his death (he survived to make the quote): "As I passed the bottom girder of the bridge on the way to my death on the surface of the water, I suddenly realized that all of my problems had solutions - except leaping to my death." An OS!M, to be sure.
I am now reading A Hog on Ice and Other Curious Expressions, by Charles Earle Funk. An excerpt tells you all you need to know about what kind of book it is.
Last night on "Who Wants to Be A Superhero?" Stan Lee and the producers picked The Defuser, the obvious choice (see entry for August 10th) and therefore a surprise to me. So... we can expect to see him dashing about in spandex doing super deeds, possibly?
Tonight my pard Chris and I camp out at the 145th anniversary of the Battle of Antietam, "September Storm." Normally September events are temperate, but this one is different: "Tomorrow: Except for a few afternoon clouds, mainly sunny. A stray shower or thunderstorm is possible late. High near 90F. Tomorrow night: Isolated thunderstorms during the evening, then partly cloudy overnight. Low 62F. Chance of rain 30%. Sunday: Times of sun and clouds. Highs in the upper 80s and lows in the mid 60s." Near 90F and humid in dark blue wool - swell. But I am happy to report that since I lost about thirty pounds since May, when I did my last Civil War reeanctment, my belt has to have a new hole in it 4 1/2 inches further in!
Have a great weekend! I'll let you know if Chris and I did...
I'm back! Long story, but I was away last Thursday and Friday and will be away tomorrow and Thursday as well. So no updates.
Hard to believe, but they really are working on a new Star Trek movie. I would have thought that after the lackluster Voyager and the collective yawn for Enterprise, Paramount would want to give the franchise a rest for awhile. Guess not. Two Spocks... hmmmm.
I finished that Shakespeare biography I was reading last week. It's sad, really. We don't really know a lot about the man other than that he wrote the finest plays in the English language and some bits of genealogical info, but what the book made clear is that he apparently had high hopes for his posterity. His father had requested a coat of arms that William finally received - not surprisingly, it features a heraldic spear. Unfortunately, Shakespeare's direct male line died out when his son Hamnet (not Hamlet, Hamnet) passed away at the age of eleven. (Where did Shakespeare get the name Hamnet? From a childhood friend in Stratford-Upon-Avon, Hamnet Sadler, a baker.) And his daughter Judith had sons, but they died without issue. So there are no direct descendants of William Shakespeare. The Shakespeare line descends through William's siblings.
I am now reading Barnabas Collins, by Marilyn Ross, a Dark Shadows novelization I read 38 years ago when I was thirteen. Why? I dunno. Got it at a yard sale. Marilyn Ross's photo is here. Not quite what you expect, but that's life in the serial novelization business.
I lost no weight at all in the last week. A dreaded plateau. Bummer.
I went out on my Harper's Ferry/Antietam Ghost Tour with my reenactor friend last Saturday. We left at 9 PM and arrived back at 3 AM. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, The Bloody Road is a creepy place to be at night, period. And we tried making my Beetle go up Spook Hill in Burkittsville without power... it didn't work, just as it didn't work back in 1985 with my Porsche.
A great Labor Day weekend... and summer is over...
Saw another great 1950's Broderick Crawford film noir last night: "Big House, U.S.A." It's another police procedural, but not quite as heavy-handed about it as the one I reviewed yesterday. It's really more in the "prison bust out" sub-genre of noir. What a cast! It featured some great 1950's character actors. Ralph Meeker (an actor renowned for his sneer and overall oily demeanor) is a kidnapper who goes to prison and is thrown into the cell known as the "Lion's Den." The Den contains Broderick Crawford, mentioned below, who is the brains behind the bust-out. A definite play against type because a moviegoer would never assume he'd be the brains behind anything. But he does have one of the best lines in the movie: "I'm gonna kidnap a kidnapper for the money he kidnapped for." Lon Chaney, Jr., who was at the time an alcoholic and looks like one in this, is a cellmate. An extremely buff Charles Bronson is a volatile murderer. The last is William Talman, an actor renowned for having unsettling, lizard-like features.
An interesting scene involves Talman using a blowtorch to burn off Bronson's facial features and fingerprints after bludgeoning him with a hammer! You don't see it, of course, but, like, wow.
Great stuff! I had no idea that Crawford did so many great noirs...
I mention sub-genres of film noir. Here's a few that I can recall:
The Prison Bust-Out
...I'm sure I could think of others if I gave it more thought.
One of life's little pleasures right now is watching broadcasts of 1950's Broderick Crawford films noir on Turner Classic Movies. Last night's was "Down Three Dark Streets." It's an excellent example of a right wing film noir, or police procedural. This one comes complete with ponderous intonation, stately march and the cops (in this case, FBI men) exchanging meaningful glances. In fact, it's an early example of the Dragnet house style. But I liked it; Broderick Crawford gives the whole thing heft and believability; he looks and acts like The Man. The ending - the murderer/extortionist is captured at the base of the Hollywood sign! - is great!
I mention right wing noirs... yes, film noir comes in two political varieties, right wing and left wing. The left wing noirs came first, and are mostly about the difficult circumstances that the "little guy" has to live in, which, naturally, leads him to crime. The authority figures are usually crooked: nobody trusts the cops, for instance, and the local politicians are almost always in the pay of some gangster. The films were an outgrowth of the Warner Brothers "social problems" and gangster films of the 1930's. Many of these left wing noirs were written, produced or directed by Hollywood communists who were later blacklisted. The right wing noirs were a response to the left wing ones, and portrayed the police, FBI and big business sympathetically. For the record, I prefer the left wing ones. While they're usually overwrought, they seem to be less hackneyed and cliched.
Broderick Crawford was cool - one of Hollywood's lesser but more unusual stars. For one thing, he didn't look like a star. He looked like the average Joe you'd see at the race track holding a tip sheet, or at a bar. Beefy and deep-voiced, he excelled at playing hoodlums and tough, hard-bitten detectives. In one great film I saw the other night, "Scandal Sheet," he played the hard-bitten editor of a newspaper who turns to murder. Looking around at the current bunch of stars, there is no Broderick Crawford type at all. Fred Thompson is about the closest thing, I guess - and it would be difficult to see him holding a cigarette in one hand and a shot glass in the other, Crawford style. (Especially if he's running for President. Assuming he is.)
When I was a kid I used to watch him in "Highway Patrol" on TV, which made me want to be a California Highway Patrolman when I grew up. It was an idea I flirted with when I was planning to leave the Marines. (That and being a hobo for a time - but I reflected back on when me and my friends used to throw rocks at hobos, and thus decided against it.) I also considered being a railroad engineer... but didn't know how to go about it. When I was in high school I wanted to be a high school history teacher. Eventually I wound up going to college and becoming an electrical engineer - and now an engineering manager. Frankly, I think I would have been happier as a Highway Patrolman.
Or a hobo.
Project Weight Loss is proceeding along satisfyingly predictable lines. Tuesday morning is my weigh in, and I have now lost 28 pounds in ten weeks, an average of 2.8 pounds per week. (My calculations are to lose two a week.) I now weigh about what I weighed when I ran the Frederick Marathon in 2004 - after six grueling months of training runs. Simply counting calories and exercising some portion control is a whole heck of a lot easier! Geez, I think back to being a 280-something pounder trudging along for 26 miles... by far the biggest slug there. What on earth was I thinking?
Anyway, yesterday I learned a valuable nutritional lesson (known by every woman): If you're counting calories to lose weight, don't eat at a Chinese restaurant! I had eight pieces of sweet and sour chicken and some chicken fried rice: 1,127 calories by my best estimate. There are much more filling ways to intake 1,127 calories. I was robbed!
Monday. Augggh. Major suckage.
Didn't go on the midnight battlefield tour on Saturday; thunderstorms. Not good convertible weather. Postponed to this Saturday.
An amusing site is the so-called "Hall of Douchebags Gallery," part of rockandrollconfidential.com ("Your band sucks"). My favorites are here: Collection One, Collection Two, Collection Three, Collection Four. My all-time favorite caption is this one. "The Human Equals Sign..." I love that guy. So much so that I made him today's poster boy.
It's good to know how NOT to end up in the Hall.
Another Rutles song for you: "Joe Public." Based obviously on the 1966 John Lennon Beatles song "Tomorrow Never Knows." I like that drone... in the Beatles song it's a steady C major, but the Rutles tune has harmonic changes. I'd like to learn the bass line to it. On both songs I also like the way the drums do a start-stop kind of beat.
The eerie Alec Guinness-James Dean story (scroll to bottom).
Rugby, like bacteria, viruses and nematodes, is everywhere. Last night my good lady wife and I ate at the Coastal Flats in Fairfax Commons. While there I noticed a big twentysomething guy who worked as a waiter/server/whatever they're called these days. It's not quite that he looked familiar, but that he had a familiar "aura" about him. So, playing a hunch, I asked him if he ever played rugby. Yep - a few years back. With George Mason University. "Second row?" I asked. Yep. Turned out I had shoved him backwards in scrums a couple of times. (I love playing college sides for that reason - we always win the scrums.) He knew "Cutie" Webb.
I did this kind of thing once before in a line at a Wal-Mart, when I was standing behind a guy who had a distinct prop ambiance. He was surprised when I called him on it.
My best one was at a restaurant a year or so ago, where I saw a woman who looked distinctly French-Canadian to me (a result of examining a lot of genealogical photographs). I asked, "Excuse me, but are you of French-Canadian lineage?" She looked surprised and said, "Yes. That's pretty good. Most people assume I'm Italian." I asked which families, but she declined to answer. Too bad - she looked like she fit right in with my mother's family lookswise.
Many human pursuits have a culture associated with them, and with the culture comes a sameness. I'm not sure if it's a case of the people adapting to the culture or merely the same kind of people gravitating to one another and forming a culture, but I have noticed it time and time again. In the past I've spotted what I've confirmed to be historical reenactors (when I'm really on my game I can tell which war), rugby players, Mormons, Brits, French-Canadians and, most easily, Marines.
Yeah, yeah, everyone can spot a Marine - they have those short haircuts. But so do many soldiers and airborne troops. What sets a Marine apart is a certain cockiness, or assurance of manner. Hard for me to describe, but I know it when I see it. So much so that I can almost always tell when a civilian used to be a Marine, so that the hair length isn't a giveaway.
I am now reading The Life of Shakespeare, by F.E. Halliday, a Penguin paperback. Okay, a Pelican paperback. Same thing. Penguin paperbacks - specifically, Penguin Classics - are one of life's little reading enthusiams for me. I almost always buy them when I see them at yard sales. Anyway, no excerpts from this work, yet, save citing The Bard's gravestone:
Note that the words "sake" and "spares" appears in this, a possible construction of "Shakespeare."
The Superhero competition is getting closer. Last night Stan Lee eliminated Whip-Snap, leaving The Defuser, Hygena, Hyper-Strike and Parthenon. I think Hyper-Strike will win; lean and athletic (in real life he's a circus performer) he actually looks like a superhero. My wife keeps suggesting that I ought to come up with a heroic persona (Chronos: the Master of Time) and audition for the next season's competition. As I don't drink, the idea isn't likely to be acted upon.
Here's another Rutles song for you, "Lonely-Phobia." It's isn't a direct swipe of any Beatles songs that I can hear, but it's reminiscent of their style circa 1965-1966. It's catchy... I hear it in my head every now and then. It reminds me of a lesser-known song by the Who called "Melancholia."
Have a great weekend!
Ear buds in ears, I've been listening to the Rutles (Beatles mockmentary band) lately... Their first work, The Rutles (1978), is a straightforward mocking/copy/swipe of familiar Beatles tunes and production tricks. It's clever, but not the sort of thing you'd want to listen to much. Their second album, 1986's Archaeology, is a different matter. While these songs are clearly also copies of Beatles tunes and styles, they stand on their own better.
I like Questionnaire - it manages to be very John Lennon - both in voice and the opening piano part ("Imagine") - and mockingly funny. At one point the beat comes right out of "I Am the Walrus."
The song Shangri-La is a real pastiche of Beatles songs and techniques. Besides the Lennonesque vocal it has the opening piano chords of "A Day in the Life," the high trumpet of "Penny Lane," a guitar part like "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," circus music like "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite" and, most obviously, a closing chant like "Hey Jude." It's a major swipe. And yet... I find it running through my head. These songs aren't so much Beatles swipes as they are supplemental songs, in a way. At any rate, I like them.
Yes, yes, I read about the 59 year-old linebacker. One thing to remember about this guy: he isn't the typical sit-at-a-desk sedentary type. He's in the fitness industry, is fit and, apparently, always has been. That, and a commendable sense of determination, is what makes his run at belated college glory possible. Of course I admire him. Who wouldn't?
Of all the weird characters in Napoleon Dynamite, the most irritating to me is Uncle Rico. His constant desire to go back to 1982 and be the man he was so he can be a college hero, drives me nuts. I want to scream, "Big deal. So you're in your thirties. Take up rugby and redeem yourself!" In a sense, Mike Flynt, the 59 year-old linebacker, is a sort of Uncle Rico made good. He was kicked off his college team in his senior year because he got into the latest in a long list of fights, and he spent the rest of his life dealing with that.
Now... I have a problem with letting one major thing that happened in your youth more or less define you for the rest of your life. I think there was an entire generation of Civil War veterans who did just that, and I think it's sad. Life offers so many challenges and opportunities - at all ages. (I took up rugby at age 42, having never played any team sports before.) So my hat's off to Flynt for recognizing what's possible late in life.
While I'm throwing accolates his way, however, we have some hometown athletic heroes who are doing, and have done, things on a par or surpassing Flynt. Jeff Bush is 50 (?) and has played rugby more or less constantly - at a high level - for at least the last eight years I've been in Western Suburbs. I have often told other players that I wish I had Bushy's skills and ability. When I came out to practice last year, I was surprised to learn I wasn't the only fiftysomething out at practice; there was also Lee Coogle. And O.D., who plays sevens (which I am convinced is really a young man's game). And, of course, Kelly Watkins, the club goader/mentor/coach/confidant. Amazing!
Some age-related links:
Sadayoshi Morita - the world's oldest active rugger.
The Comeback: A middle-aged man responds to his critics
Today I read another principle in that Dale Carnegie book I have always known: "Remember that a person's name is to that person the sweetest and most important sound in any language." I got a graphic illustration of that last week.
Sometimes at work I stick ear buds in my ears, plug myself into an mp3 player and walk briskly for a half-hour. Not only does it help me to shrug off the afternoon doldrums, but it burns about 200 calories and allows me to listen to some music. Anyway, coming down the hall I could see a fellow I worked with - very briefly - nine and a half years ago. I doubt he remembers me at all, and we haven't spoken to each other since. But I recalled that his name was Ernie. As we passed he sort of glanced at me. I smiled and said, "It's Ernie, right?" I have rarely seen a person's face light up so much at work.
I have always been impressed with people who can remember names because I have a hard time with it. Music excepted, I am primarily a visual person. This is partly because of a musket-fire induced hearing loss. Also, I have an unfortunate belief that a person's looks are more memorable than his name. Carnegie quotes an old politician's adage: "Remembering a voter's name is statesmanship. Forgetting it is oblivion."
The Batmobile! I used to think it was cool when I was a kid reading Batman comics. Still do. I call our 2002 Dodge Caravan the "Batmobile" because of its dark blue color and bulbous shape. Check these out: Batmobile Page One, Batmobile Page Two, Batmobile Page Three, Batmobile Page Four.
It's hard to believe that the fearsome Batman ever drove anything so mundane as a 1973 Mustang, isn't it? I remember those - they were underpowered, low compression dogs compared to the models available a few years prior. My favorite Batmobiles are the ones with the corny bat face at the front and the huge bat-scalloped fin at the back. Still... that fin makes you wonder what happened on the occasions when the Dark Night Detective had to pull into a parking structure with a low overhead clearance. The Gotham police, staring at a dark blue, bat wing-shaped piece of fiberglass lying on the ground at the entrance to a garage: "Look! Batman's been here!" (That would make a good Bizarro comic.)
I was not at all impressed with the "tumbler" as the new Batmobile in Batman Begins. And I thought that the chase sequence was the weakest and lamest part of the film. I suppose director Chris Nolan was going for a rougher, more tactical and less refined overall look and feel to the latest incarnation of the hero, but the tumbler made me think of dune buggies and the desert (or, worse yet, monster trucks, and, by extension, NASCAR) rather than film noir rain-washed city streets at night.
Sadly, Batman's new ride appears to be the Batpod. Ugh.
Based on this, however, it looks like Nolan may have gotten the Joker right. Finally. To me the best look is still Conrad Veidt in The Man Who Laughs (1928), which, after all, was Bob Kane's inspiration for the character. Also, another image from the upcoming movie seems to show Nolan's awareness of a great old film noir, The Killing. More or less the same clown mask.
Geez, it's like summer just sort of vanished. Gray, cool, cloudy, rainy...
I am now reading Dale Carnegie's classic How To Win Friends and Influence People ("Newly revised for the Eighties!" - That's what you get when you get your books from yard sales...) Why? It's not the kind of book I normally read. A few months ago I was meeting with a sales rep. At the end of our meeting, when we shook hands, he gave it a 1/16th turn. "Why did you do that?" I asked. After some questioning I found that it was a thing he had learned in a Dale Carnegie leadership course. It's intended to show that you're controlling the encounter. (Ha! Not with me, it isn't.) Anyway, this wasn't the first time I had encountered the name Dale Carnegie, and so when I saw his book at a yard sale, I bought it.
In the beginning of the book Carnegie writes what I have learned is a truth: "...even in such technical lines as engineering, about 15 percent of one's financial success is due to one's technical knowledge and about 85 percent is due to skill in human engineering - to personality and the ability to lead people." As a working engineer (and a successful one, I might add) for the last 23 years, I have learned that this is so. When I first graduated from college my wife was taking an organizational behavior class, where she was taught that success in business is 30 percent ability and 70 percent compatibility. I scorned this notion. However, I have come to accept it as being true. And one senior manager I spoke with, whose opinion I valued, thought the ratio was more like 20-80.
Engineering is, famously, a field the human relations types avoid. (It's what furnishes the humor in Dilbert.) We get a lot of mutants; people who are best chained to a computer and not allowed to ever speak with the customer. I have met many Unix types I am convinced were dropped off by an alien race, or dropped on the head when infants. And the engineer I knew in college with the best GPA was incredibly deficient in the ordinary social skills that make day-to-day human interactions possible. (BUT - he somehow managed to find himself a woman and was married, which confirms another truth I have observed, "There's an ass for every saddle.")
I hire senior engineers for the federal government, something I take very seriously. After all, if you let a whack job in, you'll never be able to get rid of him. And my success, in part, is measured by what my staff is like - who I let in. I look for technical ability and experience, sure. But I also pay close attention to the compatibility indicators because I have observed that's what creates success. Once, years ago, I was hiring for a position having to deal with the Business Customer From Hell. The position required not only an ability to direct technical staff, but an uncommon sense of tact and an understanding of the nicities of human communication. After doing much interviewing, I got a "Thank you" card from one applicant. Guess who I hired? And guess what I have done ever since after every job interview?
I look forward to reading more of Carnegie's insights.
At the end of my ninth week of calorie counting/portion control I find I have lost 25 pounds. That's 2.78 pounds per week, on average. As I am on a targeted daily calorie intake designed to lose two pounds a week (as calculated by this website), I must be either shortchanging myself calories or I have a higher metabolism than I thought. Whatever. It's all good, as they say. Last night I finished off three chocolate chip cookies (270 calories) and a big bowl of buttered popcorn (350 calories), so I don't feel like I'm starving myself. Just eating sensibly. No Atkins, no fads - just running the numbers. It appeals to the engineer in me.
I was cramming popcorn down my maw while watching a favorite Brit-noir, Odd Man Out (1947), by Carol Reed; a fine film. It's about a mortally wounded IRA gunman on the run - but, of course, it's really about more than that. From a review: "Meanwhile, cinematographer Robert Krasker provides a high contrast film noir look, chasing (James) Mason through muddy alleyways where wet brick walls glisten in the glare of streetlights. Technically triumphant and marvellously played, this is a neglected British classic well deserving of a re-release." Agreed! It needs to get the full Criterion DVD treatment. Last night I noticed how much of the dialogue takes place indoors, in quiet - almost whispered - spoken tones. Seriously, it's one of the best films I know and also one of the very best "Irish issues" films out there. If you ever get a chance to see it, you should.
Last week I mentioned German poster artist Ludwig Hohlwein. Here's a collection of some of his work: One, Two, Three, Four. And some German posters of various artists and eras: One, Two,Three,Four. Admit it. You know you like this stuff.
"God will give you blood to drink!" Here's an interesting passage from that book about Massachusetts witches I'm reading. It reads like a scene from a horror film...
What a great Saturday; perfect weather for dashing about in a convertible! This Saturday night, weather permitting, me and my Civil War reenacting pard are reviving an old custom of mine, back in the mid-1980's when I had my '75 Porsche 914: skulking about on the Antietam battlefield and in Harpers Ferry late at night. I do not believe that the Antietam battlefield is specifically haunted, but it is certainly an eerie place at night. Especially when you're sitting in the so-called "Bloody Road" and reflecting upon what the site looked like after the battle.
The only ghosts I have direct knowledge of was a friend of mine - "Spanky" - who used to reenact with a Reb regiment. He and his friends used to whiten their faces, put on their uniforms and lurk around the Dunker Church, waiting for the inevitable group of teenagers. Then they'd jump out at them, scaring them half to death. Their other haunt was a site called Spook Hill; read my pard Spanky's account at the end of the article.
"Spanky?" Everyone in my regiment had Little Rascals nicknames. I was Buckwheat.
Look at this. I could be a sumo wrestler on Jupiter. That is, if Jupiter weren't a giant ball of gas without a tangible surface to stand upon... Floating sumos - now there's a concept.
I'm half-way through that book about the Massachusetts Witch Trials, The Devil in Massachusetts by Marion L. Starkey. It has become unexpectedly engrossing - a real page-turner. So far, no Freudian psychiatric mumbo-jumbo, which means that not only can you not judge a book by its cover, you can't judge it by its preface, either.
It's a trial just reading about how a gaggle of silly teenage girls were able to carry on (as if being possessed) and "cry out" the names of so many innocent people as witches - with sensible, intelligent people believing them. Makes you want to travel back in time and lecture them all about being dunces. Were I one of the judges I'd force the girls to watch each and every execution. Well, scratch that. I'd slap them silly. But... this is historical revisionism. You can't do that. Actions have to be judged in the context of the times. Hopefully we study the past to learn from mistakes. "Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it." - George Santayana
The names in this work are interesting; olde-tymey Puritan and Quaker names you just don't encounter anymore: Deliverance Hobbs, Goody Bibber, Increase Mather, Nathaniel Saltonstall, Goody Balch, Priscella Shattuck, Goody Esty, and perhaps the topper of them all, Dorcas Hoar. Reading this work, I was wondering just how many women in late 17th C. Massachusetts were named "Goody." Doing some research, I find that it's not a proper name at all; it's a nickname for married women, short for "Goodwife." (I call my own spouse "Cari Goodwife" every now and then. Maybe I'll take to calling her Goody Clark. No telling what she'll take to calling me in response.)
One of my many interests is the pre-1940 German advertising poster. When I was in the Marines I was looking through the discount book section of the PX when I came across a work entitled Masters of German Poster Art by Hellmut Rademacher. Thumbing through the pages I recognized that I was having one of those "Hey, I like this" moments I get every now and then, like when I came across a television channel broadcasting a rugby match, or handled my first 35 mm SLR. So I bought the book for a couple of bucks. (See what it's worth now - good deal!)
German poster art is distinct. You can go to restaurants to see old European posters being used as wall art, but they're all French, American, Italian or, sometimes, British. Rarely German. Why? Because the non-German posters - especially the French ones - are nice. (Examples here.) The German ones are much more direct and, sometimes, somewhat harsh. (Examples here - I really like this stuff.) There are many styles, and I quickly developed preferences. I like Viennese Secession and
Sachplakat. To me, International Typographical Style is overly austere and boring. You see it everywhere.
I found favorite artists, too: Lucian Bernhard, Hans Rudi Erdt, Julius Klinger, Ludwig Hohlwein. Do you see how completely boring modern poster art is, compared with this stuff?
A few years back I was very happy to find a big, full size reproduction of a 1937 Hohlwein poster for my living room. Sometimes I simply sit in the corner and stare at it admiringly.
Have a great weekend!
I had a weird dream last night. I was at some kind of scientific base on Mars, where I could use my legs to propel myself through the lighter atmosphere to leap long distances. Naturally, the team stationed there formed a couple of rugby sides, and I was amused to be playing rugby on Mars. The problem, however, was that my ankles and legs began to get swollen from all the leaping, and I feared that I had permanently injured myself in some way.
The martian atmosphere is, in fact, about 1/3rd that of earth. So instead of being a 289 pound second row, I'd be a 109 pound winger. But this wasn't a fact that I had kept in mind... my dreaming mind just assumed it.
One mental exercise I like to do after an odd dream is to replay the events of the preceding day to see what, if anything, influenced the dream. Sure enough... I wore a WSRFC logo polo shirt to work yesterday, and, during a business meeting a guy said, out of the blue, "I used to play with Western Suburbs." This was back in 1993 or so, and was only for a short time. And I forgot his name. Anyway, he was a hooker, and told me of a chronic back problem (ruptured disk) that prevents him from playing any more. So I must have had this on my mind at some level.
Mars? Well, yesterday I was remembering a story I had read about a special watch that JPL had a Pasadena watchmaker develop for Rover Mission engineers. It keeps martian time. Hence, a dream about rugby on Mars. It's obvious.
Okay, what's bizarre about that star that NASA held the press conference about yesterday? The star is Mira, and it's streaking through space at 291,000 miles per hour, trailing a long stream of gas behind it. (Yeah, I know, some rugby players do that, too.) Story here.
Still reading that book about witch hunts in Massachusetts... it's quite well-written and lively. An easy read. Apparently the whole thing was mostly due to a couple of bored and repressed children gaining attention by acting possessed and making accusations - which the townsfolk acted upon. It's a case study in human mob instincts, fear, superstition and just plain ugliness.
Ah, Massachusetts. Home of the 19th century abolition movement, bastion of modern day liberalism and political progressivism, home to many of my maternal side aunts and cousins... and the only state to ever execute a pregnant woman.
Errrrrrrrkkkk. Halt. Full stop. Wait, what? Yes... the case of Bathsheba Spooner, in 1778. One of the maxims of Roman and English law is Quot praegnantis mulieris damnatae paena differatur, quoad pariat, which translated, means, "If a capitally condemned woman is barely with child, she shall be executed, but if she is quick with child, execution shall be staid until she is delivered." Not in Massachusetts in 1778!
I may have to read this book.
Hey, we didn't get tee-peed last night - how nice!
I am now reading The Devil in Massachusetts by Marion L. Starkey. (Hey, he's got to be somewhere.) No, it's not about Ted Kennedy, Mitt Romney, John Kerry or some other modern politician - it's about the famous Salem Witch Trials of 1692. As a history, I'm suspicious of the author's stated intent to introduce psychoanalysis into the narrative. As this book was published in 1950, when the world was deeply under the influence of Freud (which produced some colossally bad movies), it's dated. But the narrative is lively enough. No excerpts for you yet.
Apparently the whole thing began with hysteria among teenage girls; having two of my own I know a thing or two about that. But not as much as my friend Mark, who has five daughters. Not surprisingly, I sometimes call him "Tevye."
Having read a few books about sexual politics, brain chemistry and gender issues, I will state confidently that we men are badly outclassed by females when it comes to creating and dealing with emotions. They absolutely welcome and embrace them. We deal with emotions by suppressing them or shutting them down entirely. Talking about them or sharing them - which is what females encourage us to do - won't help. I believe it has to do with the way our brains are wired. (A really, really good book on his subject is "What Could He Be Thinking?: How a Man's Mind Really Works" by Michael Gurian.) As usual, the ancient Greeks understood all this, which is why there were priestesses, rather than priests, of Dionysus - the god of emotional abandon.
One of the oddest notions current in American society during the Eighties and Nineties was that the only difference between men and women was upper body strength. Ha! Try telling that to the parents of both sexes! Toy manufacturers have always known differently. You can walk into just about any toy store and see the Barbie stuff and the baseball bats and balls unapologetically separated into boys' and girls' aisles. When my son was born, my wife decided on a "No violent toys" policy. (I didn't care - these days, knowing better, I'd disallow it.) So what did Ethan do? He made swords and guns out of sticks, Duplos, and once, memorably, a banana. I knew my wife threw in the towel on this one when Ethan jumped down the stairs after returning home from a drive, brandishing a He-Man Masters of the Universe sword. I smiled and asked her, "Gave up, huh?"
Testosterone, 1. Estrogen, 0.
My daughters never made swords or guns out of anything - and this had nothing to do with being socialized by the culture. Women are different creatures. And this sometimes makes men deeply suspicious. (I once saw a misogynist tee-shirt worn by a guy which said, "Never trust anything that can bleed for five days and not die." At Disneyland, yet.)
By the way, we all know the word for hatred, distrust or dislike of women: misogyny. But did you know there's a companion word for the hatred, distrust or dislike of men? Misandry.
Hey, I read in the paper today that NASA is supposed to make some kind of announcement about the discovery of a "bizarre star." This has me curious. And as tempting as it is to suggest that NASA perhaps name the bizarre star Michael Jackson or Britney Spears, I won't.
Hum. Slow news day.
We got tee-peed again this morning. Last night my daughter and her friend did a retaliatory tee-pee strike of their own on one of the houses of the boys they're sure did ours. So last night the boys struck again. This was a rather half-hearted effort, however; just a few rolls. What I really resented was the 2:50 AM doorbell ring. As soon as we heard it and looked at the time on our clock radios, my wife and I knew what happened. A look out the window confirmed it.
My daughter gets up a half-hour early before work and cleans up, this time.
And enough is enough. If this happens again I'm visiting a parent.
While brousing wikipedia I found an account of Lincoln's Doppelgänger. Oddly enough, given as much reading as I've done about Abe Lincoln and the Civil War, I've only learned about this incident earlier this year.
I'm sure you know that a doppelgänger is a German myth. The relevant wikipedia article is here. Seeing one's own doppelgänger is an omen of death.
However, I met my doppleganger on several occasions, back in the Eighties when I was in college, and live to tell the tale. It was weird. I used to walk to the BYU campus for classes, and every now and then I'd come across another student who looked like me, dressed like me and wore his hair (which was the same color) as I did. We also carried the same style backpacks for our books. The only difference was that he was somewhat shorter and fatter than I. The first time I merely noted him and thought, "That's funny." Then I began to see him more often, always walking to or from class. Once my wife was with me, and I pointed him out to her. She agreed that there was a high degree of similarity. On subsequent occasions we began to take note of each other as we passed - a sort of furtive, embarrassed look was exchanged between us without any acknowledgement, as if we both thought, "Ugh. There I am again." (For some reason I think about this guy whenever I see a Seinfeld episode where Jerry meets Newman, and they exchange wary greetings. "Hello, Newman." "Hello, Jerr.")
Towards the end it got really odd because we started encountering each other in surprising ways: I'd swing around a corner of a building and there he was, unexpectedly. Or I'd be in the middle of a woods path, all alone, and there'd he be, sitting on a bench. Or I'd stop for lunch at the campus eatery only to look behind and see him. I recall once I was talking to somebody and there he was, in the distance, walking across my field of vision, like a shot in a movie.
I'm far more extroverted and gregarious now than I was then. Nowadays I'd stop and say something like, "Okay, this is ridiculous. Who are you, why do we look so much alike and why do we keep encountering one another in such odd circumstances?" But I didn't. On one of our last encounters we sort of nodded, but that was it.
Anyway, I graduated and left BYU. I was half expecting to see him turn up somewhere at my graduation ceremony, but no, it didn't happen.
My friend Don had the best explanation for doppelgängers. Once, at a Civil War reenactment, I introduced him to another reenactor I knew who resembled Don to an uncanny degree. Don merely looked at him, shrugged his shoulders and said, "There are only so many molds."
We got tee-peed yesterday - for the third time. It wasn't as bad as the last time, about five or six years ago, when they got into the house and tee-peed the Christmas tree. That's just plain Mansonesque. As a result, on my evening rounds before going to bed, I always make sure the back door to the deck is locked.
The tee-pee ritual is hard to fathom. As I have a teenage daughter at home this means other high-schoolers either like her or dislike her... it's hard to know. A tee-pee can go either way. And who can tell what's going through the mind of a teenager? Anyway, this attack involved the use of Saran Wrap and plastic forks stuck into the ground as well as toilet paper.
Friday night was fun; we went to the Evening Parade at the historic Marine Barracks on 8th and I in D.C. As long as I've lived here I've wanted to do that, I've just never gotten around to organizing the trip. I saw Paul "Lumberjack" Jenkins, Jay Period and Bryan Laird there, with wives and others in a party... small world.
On Thursday night we attended a performance by an Army symphonic ensemble. They played what is now the National March by Act of Congress in 2006, Souza's The Stars and Stripes Forever. You know, the one with the famous piccolo counterpart. This arrangement featured three - count 'em, three - piccolo players. They got a round of applause. It's not very often that a piccolo player gets any recognition, but Souza made it possible. One of the pieces played was a salute to the Armed Services, where each of the services' theme songs was performed as a medley; audience members were invited to stand as their branch of the service was recognized. I got to stand during the Marines' Hymn; I always feel goose bumps on those occasions.
The Marines' Hymn - "From the Halls of Montezuma," etc. - is nothing if not jaunty. It seems to fit the extroverted, in-your-face character of the Corps especially well. It was originally a tune in a French opera by Georges Offenbach, who also wrote galops and other dance music. (Think of women flipping up their skirts at the Moulin Rouge - that kind of thing.) Given this, there's no telling how it made its way to the United States Marine Corps.
I was a frequent performer of the tune. When I was in the Corps I used to order what I called the Indigestion Special ("I.S.") from a Jack in the Box: a large coffee, a hot lemon turnover and an order of onion rings. The subsequent stomach acid and gas enabled me to belch out the initial verse of the Marines Hymn. I haven't been able to do that for years, however, thanks to Prilosec OTC. Great stuff.
I am now reading Ghosts and Haunts of the Civil War - Authentic Accounts of the Strange and Unexplained, by Christopher K. Coleman. It's pretty lame, but short. I found it at a yard sale and, since it was only fifty cents and I'm a reenactor, I felt obligated to buy it. It repeats the old John C. Calhoun Visitation story as an apparent fact. Strange and unexplained? Hardly. The story never appeared during Calhoun's lifetime, and only popped up in a very Northern work published after the war. It may be dismissed as retro-propanganda.
Still, the book does have one interesting tale so far: The Sundered Banner. Makes a good addition to my Lincolnia page, where I put odd bits from the life of Abraham Lincoln. What surprises me about this story, however, is that nobody assigned any witty comments to Abe during the incident. Like, "...boys, I reckon the Old Union will take a bit more effort to repair, but be repaired it will!" or some such thing.
The reality show Who Wants To Be A Superhero? is back on the Sci-Fi channel... the website is here. As I was a huge comic book fan as a kid, I enjoyed this show last summer and I'm enjoying it again now. It's sort of the spiritual descendant of the superhero try-outs scene in Mystery Men (1999), which concept was ultimately derived from the super-hero auditions in the 1960's Legion of Super Heroes comics. What makes the show interesting to me is the whole notion of exploring what it is that makes one a hero. The ancient Greeks had some decided opinions on the matter, and their literature has influenced Western Civilization for thousands of years. This reality show is a clever update of that. (One of this season's heroes is even named "Parthenon.")
Some of you may recall that last year I quickly decided Feedback had the necessary qualifications to win - and he did. I exchanged some e-mail with him last year; he seems like a nice guy with commendably heroic motivations. With this year's crowd I was less quickly decided. But let's go over the contestants one by one...
Braid - Eliminated quickly, and properly so. Not a strong personality or a well-defined concept.
Mr. Mitzvah - A Jewish superhero, eliminated last night. Too bad. I liked the concept of a Jewish superhero, but this fellow was just... odd. He came across as sort of like Woody Allen with aggression issues and a thousand yard stare.
Mindset - Eliminated last week. Certainly not the physical build (tubby) that one would associate with a conventional hero, but with this show that doesn't matter. (After all, an endearing character named Fat Momma took second place last time.) His problem was that he came off as being arrogant.
Ms. Limelight - Eliminated last night. Giddy and ditzy, she couldn't even recall what her super powers were supposed to be. And yet... she lent a bubbly sort of sparkle to the cast, like a piccolo in a symphonic ensemble. Her character would translate well to a comic book super group format, I think. Anyway, I was sorry to see her depart.
The Defuser - A police detective in real life; a take charge personality. An alpha male and the most obvious choice... which is why I don't think he'll win, ultimately. (Or I should say, won, since I think the show has probably already finished production.) The producers are going for the less obvious, which makes sense. If somebody named Fat Momma - who gets her powers from jelly doughnuts - can display heroic qualities, a viewer can watch the show and think, "I can do that." Nevertheless, the Defuser is a contender.
Whip-Snap - She seems pretty intense and so is a contender. A lean black woman who pulls off the whole "whip-snap" idea. I like her. She just might win.
Basura - As you may know, "Basura" is Spanish for "trash." One thing's for sure: she fits her costume. But, no, she isn't the one.
Parthenon - A gay entrant, which probably isn't as novel as it seems. (I'm guessing there's a gay superhero in comics by now.) The problem here is insufficient heft and presence. I'm not really sure what he's about.
Hyper-Strike - A real life circus performer who is athletic (some broadcast footage showed him leaping about amazingly and doing somersaults) and looks like a super hero in a lineup. He make not like his costume, but Stan Lee is right - it suits him. He reminds me of a Flash type, lean and mercurial. Another contender.
And, lastly, the one I'm rooting for...
Hygena. A woman in a maid costume who cleans as a super power?!? Well, stop and think about the concept for a minute: in the history of mankind on earth countless millions of people have died as a result of poor hygiene. Poor hygiene, disease, sickness and ignorance - they're all associated in my mind. As the old saying goes, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness." So a superhero dedicated to cleanliness could be seen as a rescuer of millions. Well, *I* like the concept, anyway. And Hygena is the stated champion of mothers and homemakers, another plus in my book. We lionize cops, firemen and the military - and properly so - but homemaking and motherhood has always been heroic to me. So I'm rooting for the gal in the maid costume. I mean, check out her uncompromising attitude about cleaning toilets.
And, guys, maid costumes...
Finally, Hygena, real life name Melody Mooney, is a BYU-Hawaii grad. (BYU has campuses in Utah, where I went, Idaho, where my son and daughter go, and Hawaii.) So I have to go with my alma mater on this one.
Have a great weekend!
As far as heat goes, yesterday was a record-breaker around here. And, wouldn't you know it?, I got the afternoon Metro bus that wasn't air-conditioned. It was like being in an oven on wheels. At one point I melted, dripped through the doors at the gap at the bottom, and reconstituted myself at my stop - that's how hot it was yesterday.
BUT... having spent 10+ years as a Civil War reenactor, camping out and wearing wool during summer weekends and being intimately aware of the general weather patterns, I'm predicting that this is the last gasp of Summer. Sure, there'll be hot days left, but this is the worst of it. Year after year, I noticed that the August events were never anywhere as bad as the June and July events. So my guess is that when the colder weather arrives this weekend it'll lead to an Atlantic storm that will usher in the late summer cool down. As I have a major event to attend in early September - the "September Storm" (Antietam 145th) - I certainly hope so!
I read an interesting book yesterday, The Light in the Forest by Conrad Richter. It's a tale about a white boy who was raised by the Indians being returned to his biological parents after having been captured for ten or eleven years and living among the "savages." As was the case with Natalie Wood in John Ford's excellent film The Searchers (1956), he doesn't want to go back. Needless to say, things don't go well. What surprised me was the rather vehement anti-white slant adopted by Richter, which is all the more interesting considering the work's 1953 publication date, during the reign of movie cowboys Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. Perhaps the book was written in response to the period one-sidedness of white man-Indian dealings. I must mention, however, that he doesn't exactly paint the Indians as being saints, either. At any rate, like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, it was yet another interesting tale of race relations in America...
Speaking of huckleberries, last night I watched Tombstone (1993), about Doc Holliday and the Earp brothers in Arizona. It was an okay film... I thought Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (1957) was rather a better work on the same subject, actually. Tombstone featured Sam Elliott mumbling into his gigantic mustache... with some work I am now able to do a passable imitation of it. The thing I found curious about this film was the frequent use of odd, period phrases by Doc Holliday: "I'll be your huckleberry," "You're no daisy! You're no daisy at all," "You're a daisy if you do!" Hearing this, I had the feeling that perhaps they were direct quotes. A quick google search produces a website that gives me exactly what I was looking for.
But did the real Doc Holliday actually use those phrases? Yes for the daisy, probably not for the huckleberry - according to this site. I will admit that Val Kilmer really shined in Tombstone; it was perhaps his best role to date. (I thought he sucked as Batman.)
August. The Dog Days. Doldrums. Heat and humidity. Really, it's a major effort to simply lift my fingertips to the keyboard, let alone make them dance about, producing sentences like this.
I notice that on the message board only six guys showed up for practice yesterday. Without going into my opinions about Rugby Sevens, which will only inflame O.D., I will state that I am unsure of whether I think this reflects well or poorly on the club. On one hand, I expect you young, vigorous guys (and Bushy) to want to dash about in sweltering heat courting heat prostration, throwing a ball around. It's what you do, right? On the other hand, doing anything physical in this heat is barbaric. Last night on the news I saw a report that a couple of gigantic Redskins players had to be escorted off the practice field due to heat effects. (We meaty, Homerically-sized guys don't dissipate internal heat as well as skinny types.) Still, I can't help but feel that if those over-entitled behemoths are getting six and seven figure salaries and hero status for playing football, they ought to be capable of doing a two hour practice session in over-warm weather.
Went to the neighborhood pool yesterday, as is my wont during weather like this. Scant relief there. The water was like tepid bathwater. But... I brought me a bar of Lifebuoy and made the best of it.
You know, every time I smell Lifebuoy it brings me right back to my thirteen weeks in Marine boot camp. That was the only soap available in the PX, or that was what was issued to us - I forget which. Did you know Lifebuoy is the company that originated the term "B.O." for "body odor?" It was perhaps one of the more successful advertising slogans ever developed. After all, who wants to smell like B.O.? Or "Morning breath?" When we were kids we used to chant it like a foghorn: BEEEEEEE-OHHHHHHHHH. I suppose originally, they tied it in with some advice from a non-existent medical authority figure: Health Professionals Recommend the Use of Lifebuoy to Avoid Offensive B.O. (Body Odor).
Oh, sure. You laugh. How quaint. But I'll have you know that there's honest-to-goodness scientific research being done on the matter. How do I know? This photo. And you thought your job sucked.
Speaking of jobs, I'm going into D.C. today for a follow-up interview about a new position. Hope I don't smell like BEEEEEEE-OHHHHHHHHH. But I won't. Lifebuoy!
You know what's funny? I distinctly recall, during August rugby practice, being able to tell among the forwards who was present merely with the sense of smell. (When I mentioned this to my wife and a female friend of hers, they both went, "Eeeeewwww.") Once, I recall jogging a lap with everyone else and detecting the smell of a rugger that I had not noticed being present. "Is he here?" I thought. Looking around, I saw that he arrived late and had fallen in, and was jogging behind me, grinning. Perhaps as my sight fades and my hearing gets even worse (thanks to years of unprotected musket fire), my sense of smell will become dominant.
So far I have lost twenty-one pounds. Hey, I fit into (most of) my old rugby jerseys again! And there are polo shirts I have completely forgotten about which I also now fit into. Wow... I have a wardrobe.
I watched my yard sale VHS of Saving Private Ryan last night; that part at the end, when an older Ryan asks his wife if he was a good man, always gets to me. That film is so articulate about our indebtedness to the G.I.s - and all veterans. Who knew Steven Spielberg had it in him? I wrote a semi-autobiographical article for reenactors on the subject, once.
Perhaps my most memorable viewing of Saving Private Ryan was at a Numero Uno Pizza restaurant. We went there one Saturday night with another couple; the televisions located around the restaurant were playing some sports-related talk show. By the way, I dislike televisions located in restaurants. We're there to eat and socialize, not get bombarded with media. My wife hates 'em more than I do. Once, she wrote the following on a "How did we do?" card at a barbeque joint: "Lose the TVs. I spent the evening with my husband looking just over my head. This is annoying." Next time we went there the televisions were gone. But I digress.
Back to Numero Uno Pizza: at one point somebody switched the channel to a broadcast of Saving Private Ryan - at the part where one of the soldiers is shot by the machine gunner near the damaged radar antenna, his chest and mouth oozing blood as his fellow soldiers frantically attempt to save his life. This, while we're eating calzones and pasta. The waitress happened to come to the table at the point, and we suggested that she turn around and look at the TV: perhaps a change of channel is called for? Embarrassed, she ran off to switch programming, and afterwards the manager came to the table and apologized profusely. I had to smile.
The message of the film is important and one we all ought to keep in mind - but context is important, too!
I am now reading James Burke's Connections; I always liked the associated PBS show in the early 80's. The book defies providing excerpts, as it's about the lengthy and intricate series of human invention that led to modern innovations. For instance, the Black Death of the 1340's led to eventual favorable economics, which led to the wool industry in Northern Europe, which led to cloth manufacture, which in turn led to mechanized looms, which led to punched cards controlling cams that produced cloth patterns, which led to tabulated cards used for census machines that led to Hollerith cards used in computer programming, etc. One innovation often leads to another, in other words. Good stuff.
I saw The Prestige the other night; excellent film. But then, given that Christopher Nolan directed it I expected that it would be. His Following and Memento are two favorite neo-noirs, and he breathed new life into the Batman franchise with Batman Begins.
The Tesla Coil plays a prominant part in the plot - I have always loved those things. (And casting David Bowie as Nikola Tesla was brilliant... his entrance, through arcs of lightning, was unforgettable.) There was one they used to fire up during our visits to the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles when I was a kid. I loved the way it ignited neon tubes held by the lecturer.
Did you know tesla coils could play music? Indeed. Here's a youtube video. And here's a couple of coils playing the Super Mario Brothers theme.
Everyone knows Thomas Alva Edison as the Wizard of Electricity, but there were others. Tesla was one. Another was Charles Proteus Steinmetz. When I was a kid in junior high I found a the spine of a book on the shelf of the school library so arresting that I had to read it: "Steinmetz, Maker of Lightning." It had his face surrounded by lightning bolts.
It's interesting that Tesla fought with Edison over which method of delivering electricity would prevail: direct current (DC), which is what Edison championed, and alternating current (AC), which was favored by Tesla and Steinmetz. AC won because it was more efficient, one of the relatively few times Edison had to admit commercial defeat.
Over the weekend I went through all my trousers - those that fit, those that don't (yet), and those that are now too big. The ones that are too big go into a box I marked, "Pants of Historical Sizes." A gratifying experience. Also, my Fender shirt festooned with Stratocasters and Telecasters now fits me. I can wear it to work to annoy the suits.
One last thing: a reader passes on this calorie counter website. It's good for fast food joints.
I hate August. If I'm not going on vacation during the month - and I'm not - then I get to fill in for everyone else who is. This is depressing.
The suckitude of this is counterbalanced by the fact that my plans to lose weight are working; I have lost eighteen pounds since June 20th. How? Number-crunching. As I'm an engineer this comes naturally to me. This website tells me how many calories I can eat every day in order to lose, say, two pounds a week, which is the rate I'm going for. Entering in my current data I get 2,436 calories. So, being lightly physically active, I can eat this much in a day. (By the way, I gained weight during the seasons when I played rugby. I have learned that physical activity alone won't remove pounds.) This website tells me how many calories are in the foods I eat, when the nutrition information isn't available from a box. So I can keep a running calorie count during the day.
The advantage of this is that I can eat literally anything I want, and even a greasy Five Guys burger and fries are okay - as long as I budget for it. But I won't lie... portion control plays a big part. I'm the kind of guy who can finish off nearly an entire bag of potato chips or a quart of ice cream if I wanted. But do I want to? The first week of my diet I used to think about food all the time, and was more or less in my usual mode - planning my activities around my meals. I haven't been in this mode for about a month, now, so I'm more or less eating when I'm hungry, which isn't all that often. I've dropped a pants size (44 to 42), which is nice, and my clothes are fitting better.
The trip to Busch Gardens was a wake-up call. I have never, ever had a problem riding the rides at theme parks. However, it was clear to me that I could not remain at the weight I was at and expect to ride all the coasters. On some of them I had to fit myself into the "larger guests" seat - which was humiliating enough to cause me to be more determined to shed unwanted pounds. For me, every since I was a little boy, riding the rides at theme parks has been one of life's great joys. In fact, I get such a high about it that I have become well known for the pace I set. (At the end of the day Wednesday my poor daughter-in-law said, "I have never had such an intense experience at a theme park," and dropped right off to sleep once we got into the van.) On a couple of occasions I have gone to Disneyland with adult male friends and utterly wore them down by getting to the park at 8 AM and closing it at Midnight. That's sixteen hours. In 2001 I spent eight hours at Disneyland one day - and returned the next day for another sixteen hours.
So. If I expect to drag grandchilden through theme parks in my 50's and 60's - and I do - I must lose weight.
I am now reading The Planets by Dava Sobel, a rather minor work. I have also read her Longitude and Gallileo's Daughter. (Longitude is excellent.) Each chapter is about a different "character" in the Solar System. This excerpt is from the chapter about the Moon. I wasn't aware of the color characteristics of moon dust...
Have a great weekend; I'm certainly going to try.
2 August 2007
After a very fun day with three of the people I love best in the world I am back at work, where I'm filling in for at least two people who are away on vacation. What's more, I'm in a crappy mood, having said goodbye to my son and daughter-in-law. So no update until my mood improves.
1 August 2007
Going to Busch Gardens with my son, daughter-in-law and my daughter. No update.
Posted some leave/vacation/wedding photos here (scroll down to the last "photographs" bullet). I'm proud of this setting. A couple of days before the wedding and photo shoot, I scouting around looking for sites. There are wedding couples all over Salt Lake City's Temple Square, but very few of them, I think, know about know about or use the 10th floor observation deck of the building next to the Temple. (The wedding photographer gave me a high five when I showed it to her.) Too bad that's not a large single piece of glass without the aluminum framing... when I get some time, maybe I'll try Photoshopping it away.
Almost done with Mother Tongue - English & How It Got That Way by Bill Bryson. Perhaps inevitably, there's a chapter on swearing. (As Blackadder once asked Samuel Johnson, the writer of an early dictionary, what else do people look up in dictionaries?) Here's a highly amusing excerpt.
Back from leave/vacation/wedding - and am I not thrilled to be back at work and the usual grind? (Answer: no, not at all.)
Seeing my son getting wed was one of the emotional and spiritual high points of my life, and I am very happy to have taken part. I'll have some photos later; I haven't had time to transfer and process the hundreds that people took, let alone sort through the official photographer's set. When I was married in 1980 there were, perhaps, 150 photos total taken. Nowadays, with digital cameras, people take a lot more. There must be thousands. I collected as many CDs as I could before we left Utah but, well... there are a bunch.
Hot? I'll say it was hot. It averaged about 105 degrees in the afternoons the entire time we were there except for the last day. BUT... I was fine. An arid 105 degrees is nowhere as bad as 90 degrees with humidity.
And yes, I did collect some funny Utah names for my database. Our waitress at one place was Merridee, and a kid named Ryun told me that there weren't any XXL polo shirts at the BYU Bookstore. Another waitress was named Sasharai.
While away I watched the current Harry Potter film (#5 in the series - The Order of the Phoenix) and finished the last book (#7). I have to state that I'm a little disappointed with both. The film is good (critics call it "workmanlike"), but it's really, really plot-driven. I suppose it has to be, but what's missing is the "sparkle" - the interesting little bits of magical lore and invention, like animated portraits, Diagon Alley or new characters being introduced - that made the earlier films so fun to watch. Most people who have seen it state that it is "dark," which it certainly is. Unfortunately, with the darkness comes some pretension and pomposity; the stuff I really disliked about the Lord of the Rings series. And, let's face it, the importance of Harry's First Kiss in the movie is considerably lessened by actor Daniel Radcliffe's airing out of his private parts for Equus, which I'm sure really, really annoyed the suits at Warner Brothers. So far, my favorite film, by far, is the first one.
As for the last book... while it resolves all the loose ends, it does so with nearly incomprehensible technical explanations about wand construction, abstractions (love and selflessness) and a complicated and soap opera-like back story. Hardcore fans will like it, but the more casual reader will wonder why wading through 500+ pages of it wasn't as fun as reading the similiar length fourth novel in the series (The Goblet of Fire).
Well, it's over, anyway. Rowling ended the tale in a manner that would seem to kill any notion of a sequel, thank goodness. But... I suppose a crazed fan base could still demand - and possibly get - a prequel or some other ill-advised addition to the story arc until the whole franchise collapses with the weight of its own importance and excessive internal cross-references (which is what happened to Star Trek and Star Wars).
My opinion is that if readers are hungering for the adventures of an older, darker Harry Potter then they ought to turn to H.P Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe and the classics. Hey, they're called that for a reason!
My son saw the Simpsons Movie and liked it, but I'm no more inclined to look at Bart Simpson's penis than I am Radcliffe's.
As I was on JetBlue to the flights to and from Utah, I watched their televisions rather than read, so I am still working on Mother Tongue - English & How It Got That Way by Bill Bryson. Two excerpts: Foreign English and The origin of the term "O.K."
All right? Okay.
This will be my last blog entry until the 30th; tomorrow we leave for Utah (the home of funny place names). I am making every effort to entirely ignore my e-mail and the World Wide Web while away!
As I mentioned, it's for my son's wedding. When we get back there's a reception here, so we'll be busy getting ready for that. So it's not quite a vacation - it has a big expenditure of money in common with one - but at least it's not work or the usual thing.
From a friend: Mark your calendars.
I bought Star Trek: Generations (1994) at a yard sale for a buck Saturday. I always liked the tagline that went with the poster: "Two Captains, One Destiny." Wags quickly came up with, "Two Captains, One Toupee." Like many others, I wasn't a fan of the way James Tiberius Kirk bought the farm in this movie. For a character who was so very larger than life and heroic, what amounted to an industrial accident (a fall on a metal deck) was an ignominious end. I would have expected him encircled with the bodies of dead Klingons, etc. Still, it's not a bad film. And it has the Duras Sisters for (unintended) comic relief. (I note one of them appears in the "Know your Star Trek Cleavage Test." Pretty hard to get that one wrong, actually...)
There's talk of Star Trek XI, which is rumored to be a prequel to the original five year mission TV series. Or Kirk and Spock in Starfleet Academy. Or something else. A young Captain Kirk... interesting. He is my all-time favorite character in the whole Trek universe. But if they can't rejuvenate the franchise the way Casino Royale did for the Bond movies and Batman Begins did for that series, I say give it a rest for a decade or so. But what has already happened is the utterly predictable fans' demand for continuity, adherance to canon, etc. I hope the producers ignore them. Joni Mitchell once pointed out that art is not created by a fan base. Nobody told VanGogh, "Paint a 'Starry Night,' man!" A film that makes Trekkies nudge each other with insider satisfaction will likely leave the greater numbers of movie viewers unmoved or annoyed.
I am now reading Mother Tongue - English & How It Got That Way by Bill Bryson. It's fascinating so far... I like word origins and the linguistic history of English. Here's an excerpt, a passage of some of the ways English is different from other languages.
People in Utah speak their own variety of English, called "Utahnics." (There it would probably be pronounced "yew-TAW-neeks.") They interchange O and A sounds, so that it's possible to throw an apple car out the cor window. That yellow vegetable that grows in ears is called "carn." And my wife always gets laughs from non-Utahns when she does her Utah dialect: "Lardy, Darathy, what a gargeous arange farmal!" ("Lordy, Dorothy, what a gorgeous orange formal.")
Another characteristic is the clipped T sound. You can hear, for instance, the word "teacher" pronounced "TEAT-chur," with a distinct, short halt between the syllables (caused by the tongue making a quick flip off the roof of the mouth). At church one might hear, "Sister Jent-sen is my new spear-tchual living teat-chur. She wants me to always bring my scrip-tchurs." On the other hand, some sounds are stretched out, as a Southerner might do: "Golll, Sister Christiant-sen is reely see-ick (sick)!"
And catchphrases... don't get me started on "For cuuute!," "Scrud!," "Fetch!" and "My heck!"
And that's all for now. I'll check in when I get back.
My good lady wife and I went to a great free concert last night; the U.S. Army Orchestra ("Pershing's Own," but we taxpayers pay for it) played Beethoven's 7th and Grieg's piano concerto in the huge Vienna Presbyterian Church, which covers an entire city block. So we drove a Volkswagen to Vienna to hear Beethoven - but we passed on the schnitzel and sauerkraut. Drove home with the top down... how did I do without a convertible all these years?
I'm still reading "Orphans Preferred - The Twisted Truth and Lasting Legend of the Pony Express" by Christopher Corbett. Here's the amazing tale of the ride of Pony Bob - 380 miles in 36 hours. I am proud to note that Pony Bob was a Mormon...
Yesterday I mentioned a little fracas I was involved with on the way to school from lunch. The other time I got into a school fight was, in contrast, just plain absurd. It also happened during lunch, except I was seventeen and this took place in high school. I was sitting on the grass in front of the school, under a pleasant, shady tree, with a girl (Becky) enjoying my lunch when - Bop! - she was hit in the shoulder by a thrown grape. A green seedless grape. The kind that California produces in abundance. In fact, did you know that California is the number one state in terms of producing agricultural goods in the United States? Not Iowa, not Kansas - California. It's true. But I digress.
I looked around, doing rapid mental calculations as to the grape's trajectory and probable point of origin, and deduced that it was probably thrown by one of the idiot surfers sitting in a group not too far away. There were three or four of them, and they were all characterized by having hair of a type that I have only seen in Southern California in the 1960's and 1970's: glossy blonde. I have no idea how they got their hair to look that way. It looked like the follicles were flattened out, smoothed and then oiled with Lemon Pledge (I guess) so that it was shiny. It was a surfer thing. Weird. Anyway, we ignored it and continued eating and talking. Another grape landed between us on the grass, and this time a boorish guffaw could be heard emerging from the surfers. Aha, I thought, audible confirmation. We ignored this as well.
Then, as I was making some intelligent point that I assumed would cause Becky to revere my intellect and fall irrevocably in love with me, a grape hit me on the side of the face. More guffaws. I saw red. So I stood up and started to walk towards the lemon pledgers. One of them, a doofus I can only remember as Rick, stood up. I forget who said what (four letter words were exchanged) or who threw the first punch, but we were quickly engaged. He got a weak hit on my jaw but I got a good punch in his stomach, when all of a sudden we were both completely bowled over onto the grass, seeing stars. It was Mr. Reis, my electronics shop teacher, who (Becky later told me) had made an impressive running leap onto us both. He wasn't a big guy - in fact he was quite short - but his running velocity contributed to the kinetic energy of his tackle.
He physically pushed me into the first classroom he could find and lectured me about fighting. All I could do in defense was to sputter, "It was a grape! Rick! A grape! Rick threw a grape at me! He hit me and he hit Becky! Grapes!" I could see him smile at bit at this, and then I could no longer hold back, either, and laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.
I later got a kiss from Becky on some other occasion, but that was it with her. And still, today, whenever I eat seedless grapes I think of Rick and this ignominious affair.
Have a terrific weekend. I hope the yard sales are better tomorrow morning than last week...
I see that I forgot to provide a link for the 1965 Coke ad on yesterday's entry - duh. Here it is. Perhaps that entry was a little, uh, personal. But hey, if I can't get sympathetic psychiatric treatment from my rugby club, who can I get it from?
Also, my friend Greg points out that Boys' Life was right on the money - if a little late - on that car-within-the-car concept. Check this out. No oval portholes, however.
Paul "Lumberjack" Jenkins calls my attention to this The 10 most dangerous toys of all time website. Frankly, I date the Wimpification of America from when lawn darts were banned. Killjoys. I distinctly recall, as a kid, jamming the end of a Daisy air rifle into the dirt and firing it at other kids. A little dirt and rock fragments flung at someone's face by compressed air is good for their character development. And the dirt clod battles! Those were great. The more, the merrier. I have had more than a few clods bounced off my back to no lasting harm.
The most dangerous implement in my hands, however, was not a dirt clod or a Daisy air rifle, but a golf club. I was walking back to school one day from having lunch at home (I lived close to the school), when Kevin Dinwittie came out and gave me some flack about something or another. Kevin was a twerpy, red-headed kid. He and I never got along. Anyway, he had a golf club in his hands for some reason, and insults came to blows and we wrestled. Somehow, as we both gripped the club, I managed to torque the end of it into his mouth, badly chipping a tooth. Copious amounts of blood issuing from his mouth, he ran into the house and I fled to school feeling like a nine year-old convict on the run. I was only in class for an hour or so when I was called into the principal's office. The principal, Kevin, and his father awaited me. The dad loudly complained about my assault and battery - and dental work costs. My father arrived - the principal phoned him - and listened. It was pretty much a circular panel of complaints about how thoroughly awful I was, and my grades and general poor citizenship in class were invoked in a sort of general case against me. I was given no opportunity to rebut any charges. Finally, Dad rose and simply said, "Come on, son, we're leaving," and we left. I never thought so well of the Old Man as then.
We went to a grocery store, he bought me a Mad magazine, and the whole thing eventually blew over. For the rest of the time I knew him Kevin had a visible place on his tooth where the dental work had been performed, and from time to time in Middle School I'd taunt him by yelling "Fore!" at him.
Other than that, I have never been interested in golf.
I'm still reading "Orphans Preferred - The Twisted Truth and Lasting Legend of the Pony Express" by Christopher Corbett: Mark Twain meets the infamous desperado Slade. Mark Twain is my favorite writer, I think.
I learned something interesting today... that there was a camp for Japanese-American World War II internees in my hometown of Burbank, California. I don't have the details, but apparently it was a sort of staging place for them before going to permanent homes in and around Los Angeles. So, naturally, I put a page on the subject on my Burbank website. What happens next is that I'll start getting interesting e-mails from old-timers who knew of the place; I'll add these to the web site. And yet another Internet niche interest is filled.
A few weeks ago I purchased an old issue of Boys' Life, the scouting magazine, on e-Bay. It's dated October, 1965, so it was mailed out in August 1965. I was an awkward and socially inept ten year-old doofus, not doing especially well in Cub Scouts. I wanted to see this particular issue again because I remembered the featured story, "Cars of the Future." ("The future" being the year 2000, now seven years past.)
Check out the car on the cover - that's what the futurists said we'd be driving in 2000. Yeah, right. Has it never occured to these people that bubble domes on cars are incredibly hot to sit under on sunny days and expensive to manufacture? (And don't I recall an episode of the Simpsons where Homer designs a car for General Motors that has a ridiculous bubble top?)
The thing I remember best, however, was on the inside - the car-within-a-car that we'd all be driving. You've got to love those oval windows in the back... When I bought my first minivan I thought it looked something like I remembered this looking like. But we must be kind to the futurists and the editors of Boys' Life. In 1965 gasoline in the U.S. was something like 25 cents a gallon - or less. Nobody was thinking in terms of $3.00 or more for gas, hence, gynormous imagined vehicles like the Boys' Life car-within-a-car.
Then there's the Jetsons car - they apparently couldn't make up their minds about whether or not tires would be necessary. Strong Hanna-Barbara influence on this one, I think.
What surprised me about the circa 1965 Boys' Life was its strong literary quality. There are articles by no less than Isaac Asimov, Pearl S. Buck, astronaut John Glenn, Jr. and undersea explorer Jacques Piccard. Good articles, written especially for the magazine. There are a lot of good articles in this magazine... today's Boys' Life is badly dumbed down in contrast. It probably mirrors the current academic achievement among males in America.
But what floored me the most was something that I had entirely forgotten about since I saw this Boys' Life issue 42 years ago: the Coke ad on the back cover. Seeing it again gave me at first a shock of recognition, then an odd, residual depressive feeling. Seaching my memories I remembered why. Look at that guy: blonde, All-American football player, smiling because he has undoubtedly just won his game (perhaps he made the winning touchdown), pretty laughing female in one hand (clearly thrilled to be with him), Coke in the other. He is clearly on top of the world. He has it made. I BADLY WANTED TO BE THAT GUY.
But I was a dorky, socially maladroit ten year-old underachiver, and scouting was a major disappointment. The banner on the top of the magazine said, Boys' Life - For All Boys. But not quite all...
It's interesting how things in life sometimes intersect.
Earlier this year I video taped a Twilight Zone marathon broadcast on the Sci-Fi Channel, and saw an episode entitled "King Nine Will Not Return." Synopsis: "The World War II bomber, King Nine, has crashed in the desert. Captain James Embry finds himself stranded, alone except for the wreckage and the mystery of what happened to his crew, all of whom have disappeared." Watching it, I had a hunch that it was probably based on some real-life incident. But there were other episides to watch and so I moved on, not researching it.
On Saturday I bought a videotape at a yard sale for a buck: "Military Blunders," produced by the History Channel. The second segment was about the World War II bomber Lady Be Good (named after a song by George Gershwin), which was lost during the war and found in 1959. The discovery of the wreckage inspired the 1960 Twilight Zone episode - just as I had guessed. (See "cultural references," here.)
The first segment on the tape reminded me of something, too.
In Arthurian literature, stories about King Arthur and his knights, a final battle at Camlann was to be waged between the armies of King Arthur and his bastard child Mordred. Both armies were gathered on the field when a parley was called. An uneasy peace was worked out, and both armies prepared to go home and disband. However, an adder crawled over to where one knight waited. He drew his sword out of the scabbard to kill it. The flash of his blade was spotted by an enemy knight, who assumed that the treaty was merely a trick. He attacked. Since neither side trusts the other - or the treaty - a general attack involving both armies was launched. Eventually, all were killed save King Arthur, Mordred and one of Arthur's knights, Bedivere. Arthur and Mordred fought, and Mordred was killed by Arthur; Arthur was fatally wounded by Mordred. (Or was he? Hence the myth of the Return of the King, Avalon, etc.)
The first segment was about a lost Luftwaffe bomber that mistakenly bombed London rather than the military target, oil reserves in the Midlands. Prior to this, bombing runs on both sides targeted military targets only and left the civilian populations alone. In fact, the Luftwaffe was specifically ordered by Hitler NOT to bomb any English cities. But it did by accident and nine London civilians were killed. (The hapless Luftwaffe bomber crew were transferred to the infantry.) Churchill angrily ordered an RAF bombing run to Berlin the next night in retaliation. This infuriated Hitler. As was the case with Arthur's and Mordred's armies, the thing quickly escalated, leading to the Blitz, and the far more devestating bombing of Germany by the Allies. According to the History Channel, the original blunder by the Luftwaffe crew led to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of civilians in World War II - and Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
I've been taking that bug out at night, with the top down, and simply joy-riding. It's a tonic for my soul. The day I got it I took it out at midnight and simply cruised up and down the Fairfax County Parkway and listened to the stereo. It is much more open than my last convertible, a Porsche 914 (which was really a targa top, not a true convertible). With the Porsche, there was a back window right behind my head. Lots more air and breeze with the bug! And the stereo sounds great... ten speakers and sufficient wattage.
Speaking of the Porsche 914 - I had two of them, a '71 and a '75 - the New Bug reminds me a lot of them. The handling is tight and it corners well. The acceleration is certainly good... this bug has a five cylinder, 150 HP engine; my old bug barely got by with a 52 HP engine. The New Bug accelerates about as well as the 914 did, I think.
Yard sales were interesting. That car is a magnet for middle-aged women, who kept complimenting it. I recall the same sort of thing with the Porsche - except the females were younger. But, as my father used to say, "Many a good tune played on an old fiddle." (I will state for the record that I am happily married to my wife of 26 1/2 years, and am not seeking any violins to play except the one I have.)
My scheme to lose weight by eating sensibly - something I never tried while actively playing rugby - is working. I have lost twelve pounds in the last three weeks. Hopefully this week I crack back down into the two-bills-and-change territory; a place I haven't been since marathon training back in 2004. And the physical therapist measured my pain-free range of motion this morning - it has improved since I started. (I developed shoulder tendonitis last fall season.) So... all is well.
I'm half-way through "Orphans Preferred - The Twisted Truth and Lasting Legend of the Pony Express" by Christopher Corbett. It wasn't just the riders who suffered from warlike Paiutes. Speaking of Indians, I read in the paper this morning a mention of an interesting bumper sticker seen in an Indian reservation: "America - Love It or Give It Back!" Heh.
By the way, next week I'll be out for that week and the next. I'll be at my son's wedding in Utah - no updates.
7 July 2007
Look what I bought. The Doyle-Dane Birnbach ad agency was right - it does make your garage look bigger.
"WANTED. Young, skinny, wiry fellows. Not over 18. Must be expert riders. Willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred." - California newspaper help-wanted ad, 1860. I'm still reading "Orphans Preferred - The Twisted Truth and Lasting Legend of the Pony Express" by Christopher Corbett. An excerpt: Aubery's Ride (the inspiration for the Pony Express). One part of the book mentions "...George Chorpenning and Absolom Woodward contracted with the Federal government to haul mail from Sacramento to Salt Lake City, about seven hundred miles of the most barren country in the United States (the state of Nevada today still calls this part of the route, a grim stretch of two-lane blacktop, the loneliest road in America)." Curious about this, I googled "loneliest road in America" and turned up this website. "Around 1986 to 1988, Life Magazine is said to have ran a very negative article about Nevada titled 'The Loneliest Road.' An AAA spokesperson had described the State Highway 50 route through Nevada thusly; "It's totally empty. There are no points of interest. We don't recommend it. We warn all motorists not to drive there unless they're confident of their survival skills." Geez. That bad? Even in the 1980's? Another website.
In 1982 my wife and I once drove Interstate 80 from Salt Lake City, Utah to Winnemucca, Nevada. That was BORING. In fact, it remains the most boring long drive I have ever made.
The Western desert... it reminds me of the time in Summer, 1967 (the celebrated "Summer of Love") when my parents drove an un-air-conditioned 1966 Mustang from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. An eleven year-old, I was slowly dying of heat, boredom and dehydration in the back seat. It was a memorable trip. At one point we pulled over to assist a couple who had broken down alongside the road in the desert. We drove them to the nearest gas station and tow truck; they were both rather large people, and the three of us were crammed into the back seat. Since my parents were also rather heavy people, it was an extremely uncomfortable fivesome who were jammed into that Mustang. Later in the trip we broke down in Yermo, California (the two events may have been related), and spent most of the day there while the local gas station ripped my parents off for the cost of a carburator rebuild, a gas pump, fuel filter and new muffler. In hindsight, I'm guessing the only problem with the car was the fuel filter was clogged or perhaps the gas pump failed. We spent most of the day sitting miserably in the local restaurant - the Bun Boy - and got a late, late arrival into Vegas. On subsequent trips to and from Vegas, Dad always made a point of rolling down the window and extending his middle finger at Yermo whenever we passed by. Mom jammed the pedal to the floor to get by faster. I hereby continue the family tradition by stating that I would prefer to have the larger of my testicles crushed between two cinder blocks than ever live in Yermo, California. But I digress.
Another thing I didn't know was that Route 50 crosses the entire width of the United States, from Sacramento, CA to Ocean City, MD - 3,073 miles. Not really thinking about it, I figured it was just a regional thing. You know, Route 50, one way to get around in Fairfax County...
Speaking of getting around in Fairfax County, it looks like we have a deal with that Volkswagen dealership. I mentioned that we were $2,000 apart; the dealership called, and, after considering the "true value" of our trade-in, we're meeting each other halfway. What makes the deal attractive to us - besides the car - is a 1.9% APR loan incentive from VW that ends on Sunday. Last night we looked at a Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder, a nice car. Groovy lines. As usual with cars of this type with rakish windshields, however, when I sit in it and put the driver's seat as low as possible I'm staring through the upper 20% of the glass. As I'm rather tall in the saddle this is also the case with other low-built sporty cars. I call it the clown car motif, where my head sticks up way over the car or feels like it is. A pity, but that's life in the 97th percentile. So... it's a red VW convertible for us.
Yes, that's right, a chick car. I'll be driving around in a chick car. I admit it. But, geez, guys, I spent four years in the Marines, played 83 rugby matches and my hobbies include marching around in a wool soldier uniform in the heat dragging a fourteen pound musket. You'd suppose that my masculinity is sufficient to bear driving a VW convertible if I wanted to. (Or wearing nice, lacy ladies' panties under my Civil War woolies, you know, like the ones at Victoria's Secret with the red satin heart embroidery stitched thereupon.)
Have a great weekend... photos of me and the He-Man Bug to follow.
DESERT ADDITIONAL: As you perhaps know, it is very hot out in the West right now. This from AP: "Temperatures climbed so high Thursday that authorities warned residents of southern Nevada, southeastern California and northwestern Arizona that outdoor activities could be dangerous except during the cooler early morning hours. Phoenix reached 115 degrees; Baker, Calif., reached 125 degrees. At the Big Boy Restaurant in Baker, which has a 134-foot-tall thermometer outside, there was a run on cold shakes, general manager Enrique Munoz said."
When I was a kid, radioactivity - like nitroglycerin - was cool. It was ominous, dangerous, parents were always talking about it and we kids didn't know much about it. Best of all, it had its own symbol. So that made it cool. (I used to like Doctor Solar, Man of the Atom comics - he wore the symbol on his chest. Nowadays, the part of Doctor Solar is played by Vladimir Putin.) The other night I watched a film I recall seeing as a kid, "City of Fear" (1959) - a late period film noir/science thriller. It's always fun to go through these old films shot in L.A. in slo-mo to check out the various signs and sights I recall as a child. Gas stations were big, and had little flags flapping in the breeze, signs were neon, etc. I vividly recall this film as a child as a TV rerun. The film was okay, but had a plot hole big enough to drive a tank through: Vince, an escaped convict, steals what he thinks is a million dollars worth of heroin stored in a canister, but is in actuality deadly radioactive cobalt 60. This canister of radioactive material is is dangerous enough, if opened, to threaten a city of three million people. So... what's it doing stored in the medical facility of a prison? Anyway, the last scene is great - Vince collapses and dies of radioactive poisoning, and the environmental health guy (I didn't even know they had 'em in 1959) drapes a blanket over him and places a card with the radioactivity danger sign on the blanket! Fade to Lucien Ballard's shot of the city at night and the end...
I am now reading "Orphans Preferred - The Twisted Truth and Lasting Legend of the Pony Express" by Christopher Corbett. Here's an excerpt. Apparently there's a lot of non- and half-truths about the Pony Express due to the rip-roarin' literary qualities of the press extolling the character of the Wild West. This book seeks to clear up what it can.
Me and the VW dealership in Woodbridge are $2,000 apart on a new convertible VW Bug. We won't go up and they won't go down. And we haven't yet met half way. So no deal. Maybe I'll get a phone call. At any rate, the search continues.
Had a great seat at Lady Bird Johnson Park last night to watch the fireworks. We sat right across the Potomac. We parked in the North Parking lot of the Pentagon, put up the minivan hatches and tarps for the thunderstorm (which blew over), and had a great time. This is the way to do it.
O! The Fourth! The Glorious Fourth! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!
"The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more." - John Adams, 3 July 1776.
Cool old Fourth of July postcards here. These are outstanding; I wish this graphical style was around more today.
I have finished The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave - an American classic and a very powerful book. It goes next to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn on my bookshelf. Again, I learned new things reading it: Why do slaves sing? and Southern Christianity. The part about religion lends force to something I had once seen on an abolitionist's banner: "The Almighty has no attribute that can take sides with the slaveholder."
Frederick Douglass was a very eloquent writer; he was also a truly wonderful orator, by all accounts. I'm not a member of the Blame America First crowd, but every 4th of July I like to link to one of his more piquant speeches: Why Celebrate Independence Day? Reading it, I always reflect upon the nature of liberty and slavery, freedom and bondage. American history is so unique... our shared heritage is a truly interesting mix of the ennobling and the galling. Nowhere is this so evident as in a study of the Civil War, the "American Illiad." Is it any wonder there are so many books on the subject?
An article on Civil War reenacting appeared in the Washington Post Sunday, a link is here. The stand-out quote for me is by one Ray Wetzel, to the question, "Why live like a Civil War soldier these days if you don't have to?" "Because they can't." Weird logic, there. If the Civil War vets could come back they'd be out reenacting like a Twilight Zone vision of hell, fighting the same battles over and over, etc? Baloney. They'd be out cutting the grass, going to the store, baseball or soccer games, etc. Enjoying the fruits of their sacrifice - like we'll be doing tomorrow.
Hey, this whole new car thing is starting to become not fun. Frankly, as attractive as a shiny new car is, it can never be as attractive as my rapidly breaking down 1995 Pontiac ScrumMobile. I look at it and my heart swells with gladness. Why? Because it's PAID FOR and has been for years. However, the transmission needs work (second gear grinds), the air conditioner doesn't work and I hate the standard transmission. Now it's starting to smell like burnt clutch. So go it must, after 8 1/2 years of use. The only question is, when? When a deal comes my way.
My doctor has prescribed physical therapy sessions for my shoulder tendonitis. I developed this from doing way too many lineout hoists one August afternoon at practice. (Borell's 4,367 punitative push-ups didn't help, either.) Perhaps my body is telling me Ixnay on the Rugby-bay. Anyway, a pretty twentysomething Arabian gal is assigned as my Drill Thrall and has me doing all sorts of shoulder exercises: pulling a rubber band from a wall, moving a ball around on a wall, forcing my body through a door with my arms on the frame, etc. Afterwards she attaches me to electrodes which make my upper arms twich - a very odd feeling. But afterwards the pain is almost entirely subsided, so I'm guessing that it helps. Perhaps I'll make my triumphal return to rugby after I'm all healed up and have lost some weight. (I've been counting calories and have lost eight pounds in the last two weeks. Geez, I ate a lot.)
I am now reading The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave. I learned something new on the very first page: slaves typically didn't know their own birthdays.
I test drove a 2007 Mustang on Friday; what a disappointment. My main problem is that there's a wide plastic center console that my knee bangs against while driving. I can't get the driver's seat back far enough for me to reach the gas pedal straight-legged, so my right knee has to rest on the console, right on a bone. Not pleasant. That takes the Mustang out of the running. I drove a friend's convertible 2006 Toyota Solara on Saturday morning - a very nice car, and recommended by Consumer Reports (who loves Toyotas). The problem there is that I sit rather tall in the saddle, and with the seat as far down as I can get it my sight line is through the upper 25% of the windshield. I can drive that way, but it doesn't feel quite right. I sort of feel like I'm in a clown car, if you know what I mean. My friends talked me out of a Jeep Wrangler, citing a well-known unreliability. In fact, the kid whose Jeep I test drove mentioned that he's having serious paint problems after only two years of ownership. So that's out.
A reader asked about the Chrysler PT Cruiser convertible. I looked at those, once, but I feel like the car looks like a bathtub on wheels - and having owned two Dodges (both of which had transmission problems that cost me money), I'm not inclined to buy another Chrysler product. This kind of takes the Sebring out of the running. The price is right on both cars, but... no... I don't think so.
Chick car it may be, but it looks like the VW Beetle convertible is the car. I fit comfortably in it (believe it or not) and it's fun to drive. It's fun to look at. It's just fun - which is what I'm going for. And, of course, is gets the seal of approval from my wife. So now the trick is to find one at the right price.
I bought two videotapes for a quarter each at a yard sale on Saturday:
1.) Tom Hanks' That Thing You Do! (1996) I've always liked this film, and now, having been in a band myself, I appreciate it a little more. The real trick of this film was to come up with a hit song for it that sounds like a hit song - and Hanks did it. From IMdB trivia: "Adam Schlesinger penned the title song in response to a contest being held by the studio. Their song won, thus it was used in the movie and ultimately launched their career of Fountains of Wayne, which Schlesinger played bass for." It's very catchy. The whole band name thing is funny - once again, from IMdB trivia: "While trying to decide on a name for the band, the names glimpsed in Jimmy's notebook are: The Dollars, The Lords of Erie, The Pistunes, The Thorns, The Mozarts, The Echoes, The Ticks, The Didoctics, and The Flannels." The Pistunes?!?
2.) Elizabeth (1998) An excellent, excellent film, even though, as I wrote before, I'm no fan of the Tudors. I got a kick out of the rather over the top part at the end where she cuts off all her hair, dons an elaborate wig and plasters her face with whitening, transforming herself from a vulnerable girl into the English icon Gloriana, The Virgin Queen. And Kathy Burke, who played Bloody Mary Tudor, looked spot on. She looked just like the famous portrait. An all-around class production.
Interesting photo of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Everytime I think I've seen all the photos of the Beatles, another appears. Obviously, they were photographed a lot.
Geez, what a week. I thought Friday would never get here.
Watching the concert performance of Carmen last night at Wolf Trap was a blast. My daughter had thoughtfully provided us with covered seating, rather than seats on the lawn. Good thing. It poured! D.C. Diva Denyce Graves sang the part of the fickle and feckless title character. Carmen is perhaps the world's favorite opera, and for good reason. Everyone knows the music. You can hate classical music, but you've heard - and probably like - the Toreador Song. And dramatically, Carmen works.
Wikipedia has this: "In fact, Opera America claims it (Carmen) to be the fourth most-performed opera in North America." What's the first? Madame Butterfly, by Puccini. Ewwww...
As I was listening to it last night, I kept thinking, "This is a film noir plot." I'm sure there's some film noir that is really just an update of Carmen, set in an American city circa 1948. The problem is, there could be so many that no one in particular comes to mind. A guy who gets corrupted by a sexy, uninhibited chick? That could be Gun Crazy, or even Something Wild. He goes to prison for her? That's in The Killers. A more virile guy horns in on the femme fatale? The Killing. She gets killed by her lover (who also dies) in the end? The Strange Love of Martha Ivers. Maybe you could make a bunch of noirs out of the elements in Carmen, come to think of it...
I am now reading The Book of Merlyn by T.H. White. It's the intended conclusion to his great Arthurian work The Once and Future King, which I read as a teenager and really liked. In fact, I am surprised by just how much of it I remember. His political beliefs (capitalism sucks) and beliefs about humans (the animals are superior) are dated and tiresome, but he's always an interesting writer.
Scientists could create the first new form of artificial life. Too late. I'm pretty sure this is somebody I know at work. Or scummed down with.
I'm kinda sorta in the market for a new car. The ScrumMobile - my 1995 Pontiac Grand Am - which I bought in November 1998, is having all sorts of problems pop up and we're both really sick of the minivan. Our next car WILL be a convertible. After driving minivans for the past 14 years, I want a fun car.
So far the list of convertibles includes:
VW Beetle. Pro: Stylish and fun. I like Bugs, always have. Always wanted a convertible one. VW quality. Not expensive - about $25K. A bargain, really. Con: No getting around it, it's a ChickMobile. The other day the neighborhood pool lifeguard said, "I can't see you driving one of those." My daughter, not surprisingly, is playing this aspect down. (She wants it to drive.)
Chrysler Sebring. Pro: Big and roomy, sensible for a middle-aged guy. The obvious choice. Not expensive. Con: My son thinks it's a car that 65 year-olds drive. And it's a Chrysler. I haven't been sold on buying another one of them having owned two Dodges.
Pontiac G6. Pro: I fit into it. Convertible hard top. Con: Pricey at $29K. I'm not really sold on the style or appearance. It looks odd and retro Japanese-styled to me.
The dark horse entry, the Jeep Wrangler Sahara. Pro: FUN. With the doors off and the windshield down, more sky and air than any other convertible. The Sahara is $26.6K, the base X is $21.6K. Con: A twentysomething's ride. Plastic roof, no storage security. More like a truck than a comfortable passenger car. Jeep reliability/quality is legendarily bad. In fact, the kid who said he couldn't see me in a VW Bug has one, and was telling me that after only two years he's having problems with the paint finish.
'05 or '06 Mustang. Pro's: Not expensive, fun, stylish, the retro 1965 styling is really me. That 300 HP GT package is way cool. Cons: The new ones, the '07's, are unacceptably expensive at $45K.
Toyota Camry Solara. Pro: It's a Toyota, which means high-quality. I fit in it comfortably. Nice car and design. Con: Unacceptably expensive at $32K.
VW Eos. Pro: VW quality, convertible hard top. Con: Not as stylish or as clever as a Bug. A bit pricy at $29K.
I was told to look at a Saturn Sky (a two-seater), which I will. But I'm not optimistic. Sadly, the Pontiac Solstice and the BMW Z3 and Z4 are all too small for me. I suspect I'll be staring at the metal at the top of the windshield. And a Mazda Miata? Forget about it.
Have a great weekend!
Here's another excerpt from The Lincoln Nobody Knows, by Richard N. Current: Lincoln, the not so tender-hearted. Exploding bullets... whoa. When I was in high school, reading every book I could lay my hands on about the American Civil War, a friend of mine casually mentioned them, and that the Confederates had them. I hadn't read a thing about them; this passage explains their short use. The Hague Peace Conference of 1899 prevents them.
Hmmm... it's been awhile since I fed the google robot indexers any links between "Lew Bunch" and "Homoerotic." How about this: I watched The Boys in the Band (1970) the other day, the breakthrough film about gay men. Film critic Robert Osborne called it the "Birth of a Nation" of the 1970's gay movement. Overall, it was interesting but very stagey, with occasionally what I'd call theatrical dialogue. (In other words, comments that evoke a response from an audience that doesn't really sound like natural conversation.) It was... okay. For a bunch of men who call themselves gay, very few or none of them could be called happy. (One quote: "Show me a happy homosexual and I'll show you a gay corpse!") But I accept that this film is dated, mostly unrepresentative of real people and perhaps mostly concerned with bringing issues to light rather than depicting actuality. My guess is that gay men these days regard this film as a sort of historical artifact.
When I was fourteen my jaws dropped at the TV ad campaign featuring a very fey actor in the cast lifting up his shirt and lisping, "I'll be your topless cocktail waitress." I've wondered what exactly the film was all about ever since. (What band?) It is sad to note that, according to wikipedia, five of the nine leading actors subsequently died of AIDS-related causes.
The other day I was floating around in the neighborhood pool when I once again met Doug, a fellow I had spoken to last summer - in the pool. Doug is an interesting guy, an entrepreneur. He's a mechanical service tech for Otis Elevator. One day, as he was lugging his tools to and from jobs, it occured to him that there just had to be a better way. So he and another fellow developed a type of tool bag that is easily pulled by a handle - like luggage, except this is a tool bag. (Or a bag for just about anything else, really.) The clever thing about the design is the wide-tracking double wheels, which provide an unusual stability for heavy tools. They applied for a patent on the axle and wheel system, and got it granted to them earlier this year.
The marketed product is the "Silent Partner," and they have a logo and a website: http://www.silentpartner.tv. Proudly made in the United States of America with Union labor. They hope to market it to companies like Otis, who deploy technicians with tools. So far every prototype has been met with enthusiam by technicians, and I was certainly impressed with the one Doug brought to the pool. It's well-made and very clever. The bag can be embroidered with the company logo on the nylon front and the colors can changed to reflect corporate identification. I hope he makes a killing on these. This kind of private enterprise always impresses me. I wish I could do things like that...
Last, but certainly not least, is my son Ethan's wedding, to take place next month. We got some invitations to send out yesterday. Now, I have been living with the idea of my son getting married for many months, but when I finally saw his face on a wedding invitation my stomach just sort of went glurp. Familiar face, unfamiliar context. As a father, many thoughts came to mind looking at these: I guess he really has grown up - I'm glad we put braces on his teeth when he was a teenager - Was it really 23 years ago that the ultrasound told us we could expect a boy? - She's so pretty (but he's always had pretty girlfriends) - Is that really the two year-old who used to knock down the Duplo towers I'd build him? - Is there a name for that currently popular twentysomething guy hairstyle?, etc. Next month is going to be interesting. Hopefully not quite as emotionally wrenching as when my daughters tie the knot, but who knows?
Speaking of daughters, tonight I go with my youngest to Wolf Trap to hear a concert performance of Bizet's "Carmen." She bought the tickets for me for Father's Day. How absolutely and utterly COOL!
It's always cool when you revisit something you liked when you were a kid as an adult, and find that your instincts were good and the thing in question is still impressive. For instance, Roger Corman's The Masque of the Red Death starring Vincent Price, which I saw in the theater in 1964, was still cool when I finally saw it again as an adult in 1982. (My best friend's sister, who, at the time, was the president of the Los Angeles Beatles Fan Club, insisted upon seeing it because Jane Asher, Paul McCartney's girlfriend, starred in it. She was sizing up the competition, I guess. My friend and I wanted to see a Hammer production of Frankenstein instead, but she, being older and physically bigger, prevailed. I'm glad she did.) Nowadays it's highly regarded and considered one of the very best Edgar Allen Poe film adaptations.
Sorry to say, such is not the case with Adventures Into The Unknown #158 from August, 1965, which I bought (again) recently. The gallant Nemesis (a dead man returned to life as a superhero - you probably never heard of him) takes on the evil Sunflower Sid, who is seen hurling a javelin. For some reason, I recalled Sunflower Sid as being Joker-like, especially sinister and creepy and have remembered him, lo, these 42 years. Reading the story once again, however, the only adjective that pops into mind is "lame."
But then, Nemesis was lame, too. When I was nine, I had a problem with that whole bare legged aspect to his costume, and the little light blue hood. I had seen enough of bare-legged teenagers and adults to realize that they had hair on their legs. What was the deal with Nemesis? The only solutions I came to were that either, 1.) He didn't grow any there, being somehow prepubescent like me, or, 2.) He removed it using a depilatory, like Mom. The mental image of Nemesis at home wiping Nair on his legs - or shaving them - didn't endear himself to me as a superhero. I could overcome the fact that, back then, bare-chested males were drawn without nipples, but that whole Nair thing put me right off. Apparently nobody in America thought much of Nemesis, either - he didn't last long. From the article: "Considering that the Grim Reaper himself supplied Steve Flint with his costume, I've got to wonder about the stripped trunks and bare legs, and what that says about Death! Apparently the Reaper claims the costume will 'strike fear into their hearts'...um, are you sure that's not will 'induce terrible, incapacitating belly laughs into their guts?'" Precisely.
Well, HERE'S a fellow who might strike fear into people's hearts. "Not surprisingly, after Allgier's photo was broadcast on TV, police received several tips regarding his whereabouts." In Salt Lake City? I bet! He must have stood out like a pile of coal on a snow bank.
Oh, getting back to superheroes for a minute, the second season of the Sci-Fi Channel's "Who Wants to be a Superhero?" airs next month. Here's the website. You may recall the torturous process by which Feedback emerged as last year's superhero. Since then he has gone on to perform all sorts of super-feats and has been extensively covered in the world media for his bravery, might and desire to right wrongs and fight evil.
Okay, he hasn't. But I'm reasonably sure that at least he doesn't use Nair on his legs.
Hello, world. Another sweltering steam bath in Our Nation's Capital. Sweating profusely at 6:45 AM is no fun. It's poolside for me when I get home, brother.
One of the many things I wonder about is when, exactly, Americans got the idea that Civil War troops commonly wore long sideburns. When I was a kid during the centennial (1961-1965), I used to see advertisements in magazines (Look, Life, Boys' Life, etc.) for an art school, "Draw the Yankee!" The idea was that you would copy the pencil sketch of the Yankee soldier, send it in to a group of artists, who would examine it to determine whether or not you could be an artist, and accept your money for the correspondence course. Nice racket. The pencil sketches of the Yanks (and Rebs) always had long sideburns. So, I figured that the mistaken notion originated in the 1960's. But, no! Last night I watched a Harold Lloyd comedy from 1922, where he plays a Confederate in a flashback sequence. Guess what? Long sideburns. So the notion was in place before 1922.
I think it must have been the involvement of General Ambrose E. Burnside in the War Between the States that did it. I'm guessing that sometime before 1922, say, 1900, the notion sprung up. As you can see from the image above, General Burnside had awesome, wraparound sideburns. In fact, the term popular term "sideburns" came from a rejuggling of his last name. So perhaps people thought, hmmm... Burnside, sideburns... soldiers must have worn 'em.
But no, Civil War soldiers did not commonly wear their sideburns long. Look at the photos. They wore different varieties of beards (full, goatees, nanny goat, Amish), but, in general, not sideburns. Every Civil War reenactor knows this.
Speaking of the Civil War, here's another excerpt from The Lincoln Nobody Knows, by Richard N. Current: Lincoln, the tender-hearted.
Finally, some more tunes from the Ditty Bops, a group I discovered yesterday via a google search tangent. I like their music, which is usually in a 1920's/1930's acoustic dance style. "Short Stacks." "Skinny Bones." (To hell with what you're not.) "Angel With an Attitude." My favorite lesbians!
Monday... paugh. Mondays depress me.
I saw another great Val Lewton film recently, The Leopard Man (1943). This one was directed by Jacques Tourneur, who made a brilliant career out of using shadows creatively. So, needless to say, noirheads like me admire his work a lot. His film noir "Out of the Past," with Robert Mitchum, is considered to be one of the best and most representative noirs. In fact, I've read entire aricles about just the lighting in this movie. He also directed one of the all-time best Twilight Zone episodes, "Night Call," which freaked out one of my daughters one night. He also directed a highly-regarded cult horror film, "Night of the Demon," which I've seen and like. An enviable career.
I'm telling you younger guys, skip the modern stuff and the 1980's mad slasher films. There were much better horror films shot in black and white during the 30's and 40's...
I am now reading The Lincoln Nobody Knows, by Richard N. Current. It is excellent and I'm learning all sorts of new things about a man I thought I knew. (I have a web page.) Well, that is, as much as I can know. I know he's hard to know. A good question is, what did he look like? We generally know the answer to that because he lived during the era of photography. However, of Abe Lincoln it has been said many times that no picture or photo really did him justice. Here's an excerpt that explains this.
I can't mention Abe's looks without drawing your attention to this interesting website, Is this the face of a young Abe Lincoln? Fascinating. I think it is he.
Yard sales were interesting on Saturday... I found a woman who had a couple of wooden boxes of exactly the same manufacture as one I inherited from my mother. Mine is made of a light wood with a removable tray, and has a door in the lid to keep things. I remember it as being a family possession all of my life; Mom always kept old birthday cards and other trinkets of my early childhood in it. I still have it. Anyway, this woman told me it's a Navy "ditty box." Hers were manufactured by her great-grandfather in the Washington Navy Yard circa 1910. She sold one for $125. She had another one for $100 and another, with the bottom coming out, for $70. I found an exact example of it on the web by typing "navy ditty box" in google, here. So... now I have a name, an original usage and an approximate date and value for mine!
Typing "ditty box" in google returns interesting things... as is often the case when doing searches on the Internet. Check out "Wishful Thinking" by the Ditty-Bops. Nice tune, good harmonies, clever video. And yes, they are lesbionic. (That shorter one needs drastic eyebrow plucking.)
The last note on today's rather quirky entry regards a bellows table my family used to own. I got an e-mail from some people who own one, and wrote to ask me when it was built and how much it's worth.
"Bellows table?" you ask. Think 1960's Los Angeles kitsch. Here's a description from my childhood account:
...past the open door of the den was one of our most notable possessions, the bellows coffee table. According to lore there was only two of them manufactured; a doctor owned one and my Mom bought the other back in 1970 or so. When Mom retired and left Burbank she gave or sold it to some people across the street, who in turn gave or sold it to some other people across the street. In August 1998 during a visit back to Burbank I managed to track it down and photographed it for posterity.
As you can see it is truly notable: it's a Formica-topped coffee table in the shape of a bellows. Dad hated the table to no end because he used to jam his shins against the handles and the tack heads that encircled the edge of the top. (The people across the street had the same complaint, which is why they got rid of it!) In his defense I have to admit that it was an awkward shape for a coffee table. Also, dust, dirt and a lot of dropped food collected in the Naugahyde folds of the bellows; you can see it's quite dusty here. It was very unpleasant to clean out, when it got cleaned out. I used to find doughnut fragments and powdered sugar in the folds.
If you want to see another bellows table (is it the other one?) and you have the videotape of Ron Howard's wonderful film Apollo 13, you can see it in the family room of Marilyn Lovell's house. When they're all watching television she's leaning against one. (Frankly, I think the set decorators went overboard in their zeal to recreate the Seventies here - I bet the real Marilyn Lovell didn't really have one.)
I see one just like the one that tore the skin off of Dad's shins on Craigslist for $249.
So now you know what ditty boxes, ditty-bops and bellows tables are. Aren't you glad you read this far?
Today's topic is death!
An excerpt from A Book of Country Things, by Barrows Mussey as told by Walter Needham, published in 1965: Old Vermont tombstones.
I know exactly the kind of tombstones Needham is referring to, the ones where "lies" is spelled "lyes". (Two good examples are here.) Is there a good website? Of course.
Those old Puritan gravestones are cool. It's part of our American folk art tradition, along with cigar store Indians. They were carved in the late 17th century/early 18th century and have skulls with wings, hourglasses, scythes, Father Time - all Puritan symbols of mortality. They're slate which, unlike the sandstone markers we have here in the Mid-Atlantic states, last for centuries.
Whenever I go to New England, especially Massachusetts, I try to find a good old cemetery to wander around in to look at them. Back in 1990 I did a Revolutionary War battle reenactment in Massachusetts; one night I snuck off to a local cemetery to do some crayon rubbings of the better ones. (I used to have a couple up on the wall of my office until guest comments led me to believe that people were thinking I was some kind of ghoul, so I took 'em down.) It occurred to me that the church and tombstone I was rubbing were there the night Paul Revere rode by on the nearby road, to warn the villages of the arrival of the British. You just don't get that kind of history in Burbank, California, where I was raised!
I recently saw a genealogical "how to" video about recording information from tombstones… they said not to do rubbings because it's hard on the stone and might damage it. So now I'll be content to take photographs only.
Old slate tombstones with Puritan art are oddly also found in Charleston, South Carolina. I forget why. There was a colony of Puritans there, perhaps? I have a book at home that explains it.
Speaking of death… the other night I watched a favorite classic horror film, Val Lewton's The Seventh Victim (1943). I say horror film, but it's really more of a horror/mystery/film noir in style. There is almost no blood at all and no monsters, but plenty of mood and subtle imagery. Have you ever seen any of Lewton's films? They're excellent, and he has a cult following these days.
The Seventh Victim has a number of interesting and mysterious touches, all of which add an eerie and dreamlike feel to the movie:
- At one point a woman is in a shower when another person is heard stepping into the bathroom. Because of "Psycho" we're conditioned to expect a mad slasher next, but instead we see the shadow of a woman on the shower curtain. In a low voice she warns the woman in the shower that her sister is a murderer and to leave town. The intruder then leaves.
- A woman is pursued through the dark city streets and rushes into an alley, where she hides in the shadows from her pursuer. At one point, flattened against a wall, she moves her hand around a corner, the camera following her hand. It's then grabbed by a man on the other side of the corner, who leers at her.
- A sweet young thing takes a position teaching Kindergarten children. They sing a song, and she finishes it with the line, "Here comes a candle to light you to bed/Here comes a chopper to chop off your head."
- The sweet young thing and a private investigator break into a house, where a mysterious darkened corridor and door await. Both know there's a clue of some kind within, but both are reluctant to proceed. The PI goes in, disappearing into the darkness. Shortly, without a sound, he comes back out clutching his chest and not saying anything - he falls to the floor, dead.
- The best is at the end, the conversation between Jacqueline and Mimi (go here and scroll down). The last scene in the film is that the dying Mimi goes out for a night on the town while an abrupt sound from behind Jacqueline's closed door (significantly, room #7 - a gallows) indicates that she has hung herself!
Great stuff. "They just don't make 'em like that anymore."
One last thing: The 305. I liked the coffee-throwing scene...
Have a great weekend!
Biology is weird, really weird.
The other day I was watching a favorite Spongebob Squarepants episode ("Sailor Mouth," where Spongebob and Patrick swear comically) when Spongebob made a dismissive reference to a nematode, as if to say how silly they are. "What's a nematode?" I thought, suspecting that some interesting scientific fact was behind it, as is sometimes the case in that cartoon. So, I went to my favorite quick source for facts (and whatever else contributors feel like inserting), wikipedia.
Get a load of this: "Of the pseudocoelomates, the Nematodes are the most common. Nematodes have successfully adapted to nearly every niche from marine to fresh water, from the polar regions to the tropics, as well as the highest to the lowest of elevations. … In certain fertile areas the topsoil is estimated to contain in the billions of nematodes per acre. In the 1914 edition of the Yearbook of the United States Department of Agriculture N.A. Cobb wrote on the abundance of nematodes: 'If all the matter in the universe except the nematodes were swept away, our world would still be dimly recognizable, and if, as disembodied spirits, we could then investigate it, we should find its mountains, hills, vales, rivers, lakes and oceans represented by a thin film of nematodes. The location of towns would be decipherable, since for every massing of human beings there would be a corresponding massing of certain nematodes. Trees would still stand in ghostly rows representing our streets and highways. The location of the various plants and animals would still be decipherable, and, had we sufficient knowledge, in many cases even their species could be determined by an examination of their erstwhile nematode parasites.'"
UGH. Not to put too fine a point on it, but we are surrounded by parasites. Everywhere.
However, it sort of puts the workplace into perspective, doesn't it?
The other reason I claim that biology is weird is that, if you discount any purpose for human beings to be on earth having to do with God, a Plan or some lofty uses having to do with the Arts and Sciences, etc., the facts are pretty depressing.
Let's look at the propagation of the human species. We are born and grow, and endure puberty, after which we can multiply ourselves. This happens pretty early, and we're at a physical peak more or less around age 20. We're about as attractive as we're going to get (the purpose being to attract mates).
NOTE: The well-known Beer Goggles Effect is set aside, for the time being.
We have about ten or fifteen years to reproduce ourselves. Perhaps twenty if you live in West Virginia and get an early start. Then what? I mean, I'm 51. My looks and corporeal body started going to seed, what?, thirty years ago. (Some experts claim longer.) What biological purpose is there for me? The kids are 2/3rds out of the house now, with one more leaving in a year. Yeah, there's my wallet, from which all college blessings flow, but, biologically speaking, what earthly use am I? Or any of us?
To depress the hell out of you, I guess.
And no, Spongebob Squarepants wasn't really swearing in a cartoon - it was bleeped out by dolphin sounds, foghorns, bells and other nautical sound effects. It's really a funny episode, and led to my adopting Patrick Star's phrase for swear words, "Sentence enhancers" (like "hell").
I'm now reading A Book of Country Things, by Barrows Mussey as told by Walter Needham, published in 1965. It's a book I had seen advertised in the Old Farmer's Almanac ever since I was a kid, which I have always been curious about. I found it at a library book sale. It's along the lines of something written by Eric Sloane (see entry for 4/20), in other words, olde-tymey lore. How to tap a maple tree for sap, erect fences, that sort of thing. So far I like it. Here's an excerpt, about Needham's grandfather and his views about religion. Gramps sounds like a piece of work.
Last night I watched my new DVD, ABBA - The Definitive Collection. My daughter got it for me for Father's Day.
Yeah, that's right, ABBA. I like ABBA. Always have. During the Seventies it was fashionable to scoff at them - "DUDE! Turn that crap off and play Boston or Frampton Live!" - but I think they've more than held up over the years.
Hey, if I told you that Kurt Cobain was an ABBA fan (he was), would you think better of me?
Okay, granted, early ABBA (Mamma Mia!) was pretty hard to take. It seemed juvenile, goofy and... well... foreign. (Their lyrics are sometimes odd. For instance, one doesn't feel a beat on a tambourine - "Dancing Queen". And I always thought "You can dance/You can die/Having the time of your life" was awkward.) But as time went by and the various relationships began to deterioriate (Bjorn and Agnetha divorced, as did Benny and Anni-Frid two years later) their songs began to get edgier and more Nordic (think Ingmar Bergman) and less pop-oriented. In other words, their work matured. Late period ABBA is better than early or mid period ABBA. Have you ever heard "The Visitors?" A pretty good description of paranoia for a pop song. Much better than the Ozzy song, anyway. And "Head Over Heels" describes a Biotch long before the word was coined. The songwriting still holds up, for the most part, and I have never heard a better produced group. The synthesizers (Benny favored a characteristic string ensemble sound), bass, drums and vocals always sounded as clear as a bell. Transferred to a 24 bit format, their recordings sound stunning. Speaking of that, they were using digital recording techniques before anyone else. In fact, Led Zeppelin began to use their facilites at Polar Studios for their recordings.
The DVD is a collection of their videos which, not surprisingly, vary in appeal and quality. The later ones are better. All were filmed before the MTV era and so were pioneering. As one amazon.com reviewer pointed out, the one for "The Day Before You Came" (a favorite song of mine, it's especially Bergmanesque) was light years ahead of its time, and so it is. Most of them were directed by Lasse Hallström, who certainly knew what he was doing. I've seen his film My Life as a Dog; it's excellent.
And, let's face, it, Anni-Frid and Agnetha were pretty easy on the eyes. Agnetha reputedly had the best looking rear end in pop. They still look good (Agnetha, Anni-Frid). Scandanavian women age well. In 1992 Anni-Frid married a German prince, and is today styled Her Serene Highness Princess Anni-Frid Reuss of Plauen, so... I guess you could say she's done well for herself. (Especially given her start - from wikipedia: "Lyngstad was born out of wedlock in Ballangen, near Narvik, Norway, as a result of a liaison between her mother, Synni Lyngstad, and a married German sergeant, Alfred Haase, during the Second World War German occupation of Norway.")
I saw them live in concert at the Long Beach Arena in September, 1979 on their first (and only) North American tour. Along with the Sensational Alex Harvey Band in 1975 and David Bowie in 2004, it was one of the best rock concerts I have ever seen. The crowd was unusual... a mix of children, adults, grandparents and my friend and I (we were 23). I wanted to take a girl I was attracted to, but she had other plans. (Her loss!) So I wound up taking my best friend and, later, marrying the girl.
Beware of El Trauco!
Bob Fawcett alerted me to an upcoming American (!) movie about rugby in Utah starring Gary Cole and Sean Astin: "Forever Strong." (The IMdB entry is here.) It's about Highland High rugby and Larry Gelwix, whom I once interviewed. There are a number of movies with rugby in them - and some rugby movies - but I believe this is the first by Americans about American rugby.
Rosie O'Donnell as the new host of the Price is Right? Gak. That's the New Coke of game show programming.
Still reading How the Cadillac Got Its Fins by Jack Mingo: How the Marlboro Man Got a Sex Change. The title is somewhat deceptive. The Marlboro Man didn't get a sex change. Whatever... it's an interesting story. "Discerning feminine taste is now confirming the judgment of masculine connoisseurs in expressing unanimous preference for the Aristocrat of Cigarettes…" What a line. My B.S. alarm would be going off, loudly.
Previous to reading this article I always thought the Marlboro cigarette name referred to Upper Marlboro in Maryland, where there was a major tobacco auction. Guess not.
As for how cigarette manufacturers sell their products, the industry's cynicism hasn't changed in fifty years - as this article indicates. When I was teaching youth groups every Sunday I used to occasionally show a church video called "Up in Smoke" - a Mormon church classic. While it was produced in 1959 and was laughably dated in terms of production style, humor, acting and cast (and therefore memorable to my boys), the message was as timely and as up-to-date as could be. It's about how a cigarette company executive looks for ways to push the product, including selling to the youth market. His son, a popular and handsome young college football player, visits dad at the office. Dad secretly confirms his son's decision not to smoke, as it would endanger his athletic performance. The hypocrisy is apparent.
As Mingo's article states, Marlboro is the number one "starter" cigarette in America. Why? I have no doubt it's at least partially because the advertising campaign is not really selling a product that lowers athletic ability and causes all sorts of dangerous health problems. It's selling masculinity. And to a generation of sometimes fatherless males (who later over-compensate for the lack of a male model in the home by gang membership and societal problems), this is a potent attraction.
Fact: The biggest single statistical predictor of male juvenile deliquency, gang membership, unwed parenthood or problems with the law is not economic status, education level or anything else. It's the presence or lack of presence of a father in the home. My nine years as a Scout leader, and being around other people's sons, taught me some interesting things about society. Whenever I hear my wife talk about a troubled youth I say, "Tell me about the father," and, almost always, the situation there is not good. Fathers are incredibly important; in fact, being one to my three kids is by far and away the most important work I have ever done or, I suspect, ever will do.
Happy belated Father's Day!
Back to cigarettes: I am not one of the people who favor punishing tobacco companies (and smokers) with heavy-handed Congressional actions and laws. After all, tobacco is legal. But that doesn't mean using it is a good idea, of course. Whenever I talk to a young person about smoking - and I do, every now and then - I mention an observation I made from my early days in rugby. I started playing when I was 42; a statistically overweight non-smoker. But as old and fat as I was, I was usually in better shape and could finish running laps better than many a younger man in his twenties or thirties who was overweight and smoked. There is a definite athletic edge or performance enhancement in not smoking. (And in eating fresh fruits and vegetables.) I have noticed this and heard it from smokers and those who have given up smoking.
I recall a muscular and wonderfully fit Marine Drill Instructor who used to demonstrate doing one-armed pull-ups; he smoked. He told us that his level of fitness overcame the fact that he smoked, and I suppose that it did. But I would like to hear from him now, 33 years later. He'd be in his mid or late fifties. I have observed many Marine Gunnery Sergeants and Master Sergeants who smoked, drank and looked prematurely aged - in fact, it used to be something of a stereotype and a joke among us younger Marines.
"Every man over forty has the face he deserves." - George Orwell
I want a cigar store Indian for my basement. I have since 1990.
Not a real one; a 70+ year old carved wooden antique. They've been aggressively collected since the 1940's and are worth many tens of thousands of dollars. Some of them, like this well-known princess, qualify as art or museum pieces. I can only imagine how much she's worth these days. More than $100K, I'd guess. (Go here and scroll to the very end - a $48,875 example. And that was five years ago.)
I'm looking for a good quality reproduction in plaster, concrete, cast aluminium (the real ones were once offered in cast zinc) or even fiberglass or wood - I don't care, as long as it looks right. I once wrote to the collector who created the page linked above; he sent me to this fellow. His carvings are okay, but a little rough. (He sort of looks like a cigar store Indian himself, doesn't he?) It's not quite what I'm looking for. Neither is this. I want one that looks smooth and finished, late 19th C./early 20th C. and preferably Eastern. See, this is a Plains Indian. I want one that looks something more like this. Or these will do. The paint job doesn't matter; I plan to repaint it the way I want and to properly dirty it up so it looks just right. But the form has to be correct. That's the hard part. In seventeen years of looking I haven't found one that quite fills the bill. Well, I did, but didn't take advantage of it.
Back in 1993 I was laid-off from my job at Melpar E-Systems in Falls Church, but quickly found a job in Southern Maryland that required me to commute an hour and a half each way. I put up with that for about three months, then found my current position. Every day I drove past a lot near Bowie where a guy was selling all sorts of cast aluminum figures, one of which was a nice, unpainted cigar store Indian reproduction. It was $350. I would have bought it, but we were a bit low on money because of my being out of work for a month, and I didn't get it. I've been regretting it ever since. I went back and found he had left, and never was able to get a lead on the aluminum Indians, which were cast somewhere in Mexico. Drat!
And then there's Concrete World, in Lynchburg, VA, about three hours south. I drove past this place in November, 2003, on the way to a friend's house for Thanksgiving. The smaller one is about what I'm looking for in form, but is too small. I'd have to built a wooden pedestal, like this. I'd like one about five or six feet tall. The larger one is okay - but not entirely right, either.
You see, I like American folk art a lot. 19th C. ship's figureheads, signs and old weathervanes are especially interesting to me. The cigar store Indian, to me, is the grand-daddy of the American style.
Do any of you have any leads? Please write me if so!
I am now reading How the Cadillac Got Its Fins by Jack Mingo. Here's a mind-blower: Gatorade. Up to fifty student athletes were dying every year because of heat stroke (the coaches believed that it was a bad idea to let them have water on the practice fields)? This is criminally ignorant! I can't imagine big guys running around for football practice in the heat and humidity and not sucking down vast amounts of water...
Also from the book is this interesting excerpt, from the chapter about the Goodyear blimp. 1942 was apparently an interesting year in the California skies. See this article about the "Battle of Los Angeles."
The last excerpt from Boot, by Daniel Da Cruz: esprit de corps. I italicized that section because, in my reading of military books, I have seen this stated again and again. The incredible courage exhibited by Civil War Federal soldiers who were standing, shoulder to shoulder in open fields, trading minie balls with Rebs who were sometimes less than 100 yards away, was not due to a love of the Union, Honest Abe or the Emancipation Proclamation. It was due to the fact that they were in a company with men who were, more often than not, from their hometown. G.I.'s stayed in the foxholes at the Battle of the Bulge because, mainly, they refused to let each other down, not because Bing Crosby sang a song about the 4th of July.
This same mentality - under dramatically less dangerous circumstances - is apparent on any rugby practice pitch or match pitch. The pack mentality... I believe men have it hard-wired into them. It needs only to be nurtured and invoked by the skillful commander or coach.
I am now reading How the Cadillac Got Its Fins by Jack Mingo, a business/pop cultural book I threw in the library sale paper sack. A bit of summer poolside fluff, really. I found this chapter interesting: How the Walkman Caught the World's Ear, about the Sony Walkman.
When I was a high school junior in 1972-1973 I used to walk from school along a railroad track for about a mile to a cafe where my mother worked. Once there I'd take the car home and later help her with the 8 PM evening rush - lunch for the swing shift Lockheed workers - and we'd go home. While walking along the railroad tracks I'd think about music, as I had just gotten interested in classical music and was buying albums like crazy. As I was also an audio nerd and interested in stereo equipment, I knew that cassette mechanisms were, or could be, rather small. (I had taken apart and worked on a number of cassette decks.) I also knew that it didn't take much power to drive a pair of headphones, even the larger headphones of the era - the smaller, lighter headphones for the Sony Walkman hadn't yet been invented. I thought about how nice it would be to have a small, portable, battery-powered stereo cassette deck with headphones to listen to on the walk along the railroad tracks... essentially the Sony Walkman. So I like to credit myself with the idea a full seven years before it was developed at Sony!
With the kids being older and it being easier to get out and about, lately I've started to look at the performing schedules for the various service bands in the D.C. area. One of the great things about living in the D.C. burbs is easy access to these outstanding musical ensembles - which perform for free! (Well, okay, not free... we pay our taxes for them. But you catch my drift.) Here's the schedule of the United States Marine Band, "The President's Own." I see they're performing in Alexandria this Saturday. If I can talk my wife into it, I'll go. The FAQ is interesting... I didn't know that the lowest grade was Staff Sergeant and that they didn't go through boot camp.
Well. The weekend gapes before us... whatever you decide to do with it, have a good one!
31 October 2007
30 October 2007
29 October 2007
25 October 2007
24 October 2007
23 October 2007
22 October 2007
Me (I see a trooper go by and begin singing "Super Trouper," by ABBA - guys start staring at me): What? You can like ABBA and not be gay.
About five Yanks, in unison: No, you can't.
Me: Hey, one rugby club I know sings "Dancing Queen" after matches.
Yank: What club is that?
Me: Rocky Gorge.
Yank: Who do you play for?
Me: Western Suburbs. Do you play?
Yank: I used to, for the Richmond Lions.
Me (Looking at him): Front row?
Yank. Yeah, hooker. (Looking at me) Second row?
Me: Yeah!
Other Yanks look on in puzzlement.
Turns out his name is Ken Linn, and he knows Tyler Schmahl, Dan Bicehouse, Charlie Grant, etc. Apparently we scrummed down against each other in 2000 or 2001, too. Small world, huh?
19 October 2007
18 October 2007
17 October 2007
16 October 2007
15 October 2007
12 October 2007
11 October 2007
10 October 2007
1.) (Looking at a campfire) "Is that a real fire?"
2.) (Looking at a body-shaped indentation in the straw thrown down under my pup tent) "Did you sleep there last night?"
3.) (Looking at my navy blue wool uniform) "You guys are supposed to be cowboys, right?"
4.) (Looking at meat roasting on a spit over a campfire) "Is that food?"
...and the most common of all, normally asked on sweltering days,
5.) "Is it hot in those wool clothes?" (Answer: yes.) I once heard a good retort from a Reb, which I plan to use: "Are you hot wearing those clothes?" "Most women think so."
9 October 2007
5 October 2007
4 October 2007
3 October 2007
2 October 2007
1 October 2007
28 September 2007
27 September 2007
26 September 2007
24 September 2007
21 September 2007
20 September 2007
19 September 2007
Nurse 2: High blood pressure is called "the Silent Killer."
Nurse 1: You haven't told your doctor you planned to do this?
Me: No.
Nurse 1 and 2: (Dark looks)
Nurse 1: Do you have any history of high blood pressure or stroke in your family?
Me (reluctantly): Well... my father died of a stroke.
Nurse 1 and 2: (Really dark looks)
18 September 2007
17 September 2007
14 September 2007
13 September 2007
12 September 2007
11 September 2007
Photo one - Me, sitting in the shade attempting to stay cool. (Note the earnest guys in the background, drilling in the sun.) A Coke with lots of ice is in that cup... I can fit into my military vest again!
Photo two - My company on a halt, Sunday. Multiply what you see by about seven or eight and that's the total number of Federal troops who showed up.
Photo three - Federals fire with Dead Reb in foreground. I had to ask him to hide his lit cigarette. (See, soldiers generally didn't smoke cigarettes during the Civil War. They smoked pipes and cigars.)
Photo four - Rebs at the "Hagerstown Pike," which was specifically constructed for the event. The goal was to more or less reproduce this image.
Photo five - A really blurry image of the Federal line in the woods during the Saturday dusk tactical. In rapidly fading light I tried to get a shot anyway... it really looked cool. I like those woodland battles. The troops are wearing bucktails on their caps, just as the 13th and 6th Pennsylvania did. (They were handed out, but I didn't get one.)
10 September 2007
7 September 2007
4 September 2007
29 August 2007
The Guy and Gal on the Run from the Law
Amnesia
The Rise and Fall of a Gangster
The Big Heist
The Dreamlike Plot
Mistaken Identity
Lust Leads to Murder
Corrupt Youth
The Murderous Psychopath
Social Injustice
Police Procedural
Nazi Spies
Boxing
28 August 2007
27 August 2007
24 August 2007
To digg the dust enclosed here!
Blest be ye man that spares thes stones
And curst be he that moues my bones
23 August 2007
22 August 2007
21 August 2007
20 August 2007
17 August 2007
16 August 2007
15 August 2007
14 August 2007
13 August 2007
10 August 2007
9 August 2007
8 August 2007
7 August 2007
6 August 2007
3 August 2007
31 July 2007
30 July 2007
16 July 2007
Friday the 13 July 2007
12 July 2007
11 July 2007
10 July 2007
9 July 2007
6 July 2007
5 July 2007
4 July 2007
3 July 2007
2 July 2007
29 June 2007
28 June 2007
27 June 2007
26 June 2007
25 June 2007
22 June 2007
21 June 2007
20 June 2007
19 June 2007
18 June 2007
15 June 2007
