Creature Double Feature

The older I get the more nostalgia rears its ugly mien. I battle those feelings. It is a natural human inclination to look back fondly. However time's rose-colored lens skew reminisces. As Finley Peter Dunne (late 19th/early 20th century humorist from Chicago) said, "The past always looks better than it was. It's only pleasant because it isn't here."

I spurn sentimentality's attempt to make a stooge of me. That being said, last night's airing of the 1963 American International film, The Raven, initiated waves of wistfulness. During a break in the movie, TCM ran an ad that provided impetus for today's blog.

Next Wednesday, October 24, select movie theaters in conjunction with Turner Classic Movies 
will show a double feature of the horror classics, Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein. The link below shows participating playhouses. 
http://www.fathomevents.com/upcoming/alllocations.aspx?eventid=1105

The opportunity to see these films in a cinema evokes memories of many rainy South Jersey afternoons of my youth. Parents would select one of their group to round up neighborhood children into the ubiquitous station wagon for a trip to the Westmont Theater. Hordes of hellions filled the movie house for a cartoon, selected short and feature film. On special days, a double feature played, so the cartoon and short were omitted.

Normally when the lights dimmed, the theater would erupt into a cacophony of cat-calls and bronx cheers as a barrage of spitballs and candy projectiles filled the air. The exception would be movies like the aforementioned double feature. By then these two classics were over three decades old, yet their power and cinematic splendor would awe the adolescent assembly into rapt silence.

Despite my curmudgeonly cynicism, memories of those afternoons awaken fond thoughts - as ever BB
"...Well, if I could discover just one of these things, what eternity is, for example, I wouldn't care if they did think I was crazy." - Dr. Frankenstein from 1931 film

Trivia Tidbit - Anyone planning to portray Frankenstein's monster on All Hallows' Eve take heed. In doing so, one must decide which monster to depict. (and yes the monster has no name; he is often called Frankenstein, but that is the creator's name, not his.) The picture above is the monster from the original film - notice the fashionable bangs.
The picture to the left is the monster from Bride, and following reputable sequels. (several of ill repute were made) Said bangs were singed off at the end of the original film in the castle's fire which caused the monster to fall through the fiery floor encasing him in the glacier under the castle until found by Igor.

Quadrennial Scam

In 1972 I turned 18-years-old. Being a upright, bright-eyed American boy, I fulfilled two civic duties - registering for the draft and registering to vote.

The former was ominous as the country was still embroiled in Southeast Asia. The latter was rousing as
I would be among the first group between the ages of 18 and 20 to vote in federal elections.

Not yet the jaded cynic who types these words, I actively campaigned for George McGovern hoping not to become another victim of "Uncle Sam's Blues." (A favorite Jefferson Airplane tune and Hot Tuna harbinger). Thus began my descent from idealistic activist to realistic curmudgeon, and my penchant for backing hopeless presidential candidates.

Ten presidential election cycles later, the prospect of another fills me with bile. My years in the gaming industry taught me to recognize a fixed game when I see one. This quadrennial flim-flam engineered by power-brokers and monied interests doesn't even display the panache of a good confidence game.

The terms confidence game and confidence man, later shortened to con man, date to the mid-1800s and a William Thompson. He would gain people's confidence and hold money, watches, jewelry in safekeeping never to be seen again. He provided inspiration for Herman Melville's last novel, The Confidence-Man. Critics consider this to be a precursor of the nihilistic, absurdist style of the 20th Century.

Another 19th Century scammer was George Parker. He has gone down in history as the man who sold the Brooklyn Bridge...multiple times. He also peddled Grant's Tomb and the Statue of Liberty. Parker was so convincing that many who bought the bridge did not realize they were hoodwinked until the authorities stopped them from setting up toll booths.

A 20th Century swindler, who would fit right in with current political candidates is Gaston Means. He took the confidence game to a national level working for the Bureau of Investigation (pre- FBI), and the uber-corrupt Harding administration.

When one of his confidence games was uncovered, Gaston would unabashedly claim innocence and worm his way out of trouble. He once ingratiated himself with an heiress. She began to suspect something was afoot. So Means took her hunting, and she ended up dead. Despite expert testimony, he beat the rap.

Eventually these flim-flam men received their just desserts. Alas, I can not say the same for today's politician schemers. I guess only duly-elected crimes pay. As ever - BB

“Political language. . . is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.” - George Orwell

The Public House

During this country's earliest days, the public house was the center of the community. It served many purposes: tavern-restaurant-community hall-post office-information center-et.al. The baby boom, the federal highway system and the inception of suburbs filled with Pete Seegar's ticky-tacky houses sounded the death knell of the pub's importance to the community.

When I moved to Fells Point, the amount of local barss staggered me - first figuratively, later literally. Repeated visits gave insight to each establishment's disposition. Some catered to locals and had its stalwart regulars; others tried to attract tourists and imbibers from the outer counties. 

During the ensuing decade and a half, the look of Fells Point has changed. As the neighborhood wrestles with gentrification; many of the older places find themselves displaced. I know many who bemoan the departure of established local watering holes. As the Merry Pranksters counseled, Nothing Lasts. 

While I don't normally use my musings and doggerel as a bully pulpit, I want to extol DogWatch Tavern as it approaches its first anniversary. This is not a typical Fells Point bar. It offers a fine menu which changes seasonally. It has a sports-viewing area with couches and cushioned chairs.  It has other trappings that should make a Fells Point local cringe, i.e. beer pong played with a volley ball and 5-gallon buckets.

While the accoutrements may not elicit a locals' feel, the staff does. Everyone who works there makes you feel like it's your bar. Just a few weeks before they opened, I talked to one of the owners. She told me she wanted to have a tavern where the locals could feel at home. To quote a badly-timed attempt at a political rallying cry - Mission Accomplished.

Located at 709 S. Broadway, you should check it out and see for yourself. While they do not stock Green Chartreuse, they can introduce you to an interesting libation called a Powerball - as ever - BB

"There is nothing which has yet to be contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn." - Dr. Samuel Johnson

Musical Brotherhood

Music filled my childhood. On the old monaural record player, Mom played show tunes and Irish folk music, and Dad played Mr. Aker Bilk and Jerry Murad & the Harmonicats. Those are some of my earliest memories.

When I was 5 or 6, my sister took piano lessons. Somewhere along the line, she had guitar lessons too. Her failed attempts thwarted any chance I had at lessons. But formalized lessons would not  have worked for me either. By age 12, I took an old nylon-string from the attic. About the same time, a family friend bequeathed me a 4-string tenor banjo.

Armed with a Mel Bay tenor banjo chord book and a guitar book, 12 Bob Dylan Hits Playable with Three Magic Chords, my personal musical odyssey began. By 14, I was playing in a jug band at family parties and church coffee houses. By 19, I was playing in pick-up bands. Actually playing is hyperbole. I was awful, yet fearless.

When I reached my 20s, I relinquished any idea of performing live. By then I had the guitar which is still my favorite, a C.F. Martin D-18. During the ensuing 30-plus years I just played with myself (oh, grow up; pun NOT intended) treating the guitar as a hobby.

I moved to Fells Point in 1997, but didn't embrace the music scene until I met my muse. She was the impetus that overcame the inertia and got me performing again. But it was not she alone. The encouragement and support of Fells Point's extraordinary brotherhood of musicians sustained my recital renaissance.

Billy Thomson, Larry Dennis, Rudy Strukoff, Ken Gutberlet, Dave Miller, Joey Fulkerson, Chris McAfee, Johnny Smooth, Ed Schoberl, and so many others have lent both moral and tangible support. They unselfishly provided the hardware I sorely lacked - mics, stands, speakers, PAs, etc. I don't even have to ask. Once a gig is announced, they inquire as to what I need and what they can do. It's truly heartwarming.

But the support doesn't end with the musicians. Donna at Leadbetters, Ana Marie and Tony at Cat's Eye proffer their venues graciously. Their generosity and hard work are indispensable in fostering the neighborhood's music scene. Equally important are the friends who attend the shows. You have no idea how much your presence means to me.

To all of you, I want to offer my deepest and most sincere thanks. Without you I would still be playing with myself. Okay that one was intended because this was getting a little maudlin. As ever - BB

"Like family, we are tied to each other. This is what all good musicians understand." - Billy Joel

Monkeyshines

Charles Darwin postulated about natural selection. His The Origin of Species introduced the world to evolution, though Darwin never used that term in his book. Unfortunately, he was wrong when it came to man. We have not evolved. Various species adapted or became extinct. Man is the exception to this rule.

We are the same beings who roamed the earth for millennia. Our technology has advanced. We domesticated animals, planted crops, invented tools, transformed said tools into weapons. We communicated with grunts, hand-gestures, created language, pictographs, cuneiform, alphabets. We sent messages with hollowed logs, smoke signals, reflected light, letters, electronic signals through wires, electronic signals through the ether.

Our things have evolved, but our bodies and psyches remain the same. Amongst the technological trappings, we are the same aggressive, pugnacious creatures who dwelled in caves.

I could easily embrace existential nihilism, but cannot because often in my life I've encountered the awe-inspiring spark of humanity. Be it literature, art. music, or just one human being's gentleness and kindness to another - we are capable of the extraordinary.

That is the individual, not people. Man is an amazing creature. Mankind is a mob moved by malicious, malodorous motives. As single entities, we create beauty such as  David, Don Giovanni, and I and the Village. As groups, we create such savagery as the Inquisition, the Holocaust and the Killing Fields.

Just look at the political farce playing out in the United States. Instead of looking for solutions and trying to work together, we are "carrying signs that mostly say 'Hooray for Our Side'" to quote Stephen Stills. We rally round demagogues and employ divisive tactics. This is a microcosm of the world's turmoil.

We are still howling primates, jumping up and down, hurling feces at each other. The feces have evolved into hateful words and weapons of mass destruction, but the flingers are the same, old simians. As ever - BB

"I got disappointed in human nature as well and gave it up because I found it too much like my own.” - J.P. Donleavy 

Ain't Necessarily So

'Contrariwise,' continued Tweedledee, 'if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic.' - Through the Looking Glass - Lewis Carroll


I began college with a double major - English Literature and Philosophy. My Dad's comment was, "Great, you can think about trying to get a f@#*in' job." I would have been upset if I wasn't jealous of such an excellent retort. 


My English Lit knowledge helped in my Logic class during an oral exam. When asked to explain Logic, I responded with that quote. The Franciscan brother who taught the course looked at me without saying a word. I continued explaining that Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll's real name) was a mathematician and logician eruditely illuminating on the logic inherent in the quote. When I finished, Brother Vianney quipped, "Curiouser and curiouser" I bowed to him in acknowledgement of his maintaining the Carroll allusion. Since I was being graded, I discretely refrained from pointing out that while my quote was from Through the Looking Glass, his was from Alice in Wonderland. 


I did get a job teaching grammar in a parochial elementary school. Several years later I became the Fredo Corleone of my family and went to learn the casino business. However, language remains a passion for me. English is fluid, expressive and expansive. It collects words and phrases from a host of sources making them its own. A myriad of exceptions exist for every rule. Many "rules" are arbitrary and became so, not for the language's sake, but for political or socioeconomic reasons.


That leads us, circuitously I admit, to today's subject matter - AIN'T. We have all been taught that this word is vulgar slang not to be used by polite, educated individuals. But it ain't so. The word was an acceptable contraction of "I am not" into the 19th Century.


No one belittles a speaker for saying "Aren't I?" This interrogative dissects as "Are I not?" Correctly is should be "Am I not?"; ergo, the correct contraction would be "Ain't I?". What caused this calumniated contraction to evoke such wretchedness?


As the 19th moved into the 20th century, the upper class decided ain't's usage beneath them. Commoners and the working-classes used it, and patricians decided to banish it from polite English. It remained in use with the the working class, and other "undesirables" into the 20th century and is still used today. 


The contraction has become the "utility player" of slang words. It now substitutes for a multitude of other contractions displaying the fluid, ever-changing quality of English. It's a favorite of writers and purveyors of bon mots giving phrases a je ne sais quoi. 


Will ain't ever regain its place in "accepted" English? As the saying goes, "It ain't over till it's over" As ever - BB


“When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less.” Lewis Carroll from Through the Looking Glass

City of Brotherly Love

A trip to the Jersey shore gave impetus to the last blog. The approach of my natal anniversary kindled this musing on the city of my birth, Philadelphia.

"I was thrust unto this stage of fools" in Philadelphia on Thursday, June 17, 1954. About four months after my birth, my family moved across the Delaware to Haddonfield NJ, another colonial-Quaker settlement. This could explain my love of oatmeal and affinity for Barbara Bush who resembles that guy on the Quaker Oats' box.

As a kid, Philly was like Oz to me. We'd drive across the Ben Franklin Bridge to visit relatives and/or friends. As we approached the crest of the bridge, the skyline produced awe and excitement.

Several of my father's medical school alumni moved to South Jersey at the same time. The families grew up doing things together. Several came from South Philly. We'd go to block parties on holidays in their old neighborhoods. The sights, sounds and smells of these Italian urban communities seemed alien, yet wonderful.

Until the early 70s, we would celebrate Thanksgiving at my great-aunt and uncle's in southwest Philly. The best part would be the ride home when Dad would drive us past boat house row adorned with lights and then through Center City with all the stores festooned in holiday finery.


Closer to Christmas, all the cousins and their Moms would meet in Center City on a Saturday afternoon. We'd start with lunch at the Horn & Hardart's automat, walk through Lit's Brothers and Strawbridge & Clothier looking at the decorations and Christmas villages. The afternoon would finish off at the Wanamaker's light show accompanied by the world's largest playable pipe organ.

These memories swirl happily through my mind tinted with the  rose-colored glasses of remembrance. The curmudgeon in me refuses to allow nostalgia to lull me into the belief that those were simpler, better times.

In the first eight years of my life, Eisenhower used the CIA to overthrow the legally elected governments in Guatemala and Iran, Francis Gary Powers' spy plane crashed in the USSR showing the world America was spying on them, the Cuban missile crisis had us on the brink of nuclear war and civil rights' abuses on black Americans was at its zenith. By the time I was 10, we began sending troops to Vietnam to support a government which forbade elections and came to power in a bloody coup.

No wonder despite my fond memories I have an ever-present feeling of impending doom - as ever - BB

"The past always looks better than it was. It's only pleasant because it isn't here." - Finley Peter Dunne