Neighborhood Merrymaking

In 1965, highway planners proposed linking I-95 to I-83. The original plan would have destroyed much of Fells Point and separated the upper part of the neighborhood from the waterfront. A grass roots effort saved the area from that fate. Locals held a large block party to celebrate, and that began the Fells Point Fun Festival. Over ensuing decades, the revel grew.

In February 1997, a career change brought me to Baltimore. Despite growing up only 100 miles away, I knew little of my future hometown. I asked where I should look to find a place to live. I was told Fells Point and have lived here ever since.

From my first festival on, I've enjoyed the good time all-the-while hearing how much more fun it was back in the day. That is nothing new for Fells Point. In the last 16 years, a week has not gone by without some old-timer regaling me on how much better the neighborhood used to be. To quote the Merry Pranksters, "Nothing Lasts." To quote Ram Dass, "Be Here Now."

One often bemoaned aspect of past festivals was the fact that you could drink in the streets. I have never experienced that as it ended about 20 years ago. This year, revelers will be able to carry their libations through the streets just like those halcyon days.

That brings up one of the innate dichotomies of the Fun Festival. It wants to cater to families with children's areas, puppet shows and wholesome fun. Depending on how you measure the confines of Fells Point, the neighborhood has 64 to 120 drinking establishments. Add to that the two beer gardens the Festival hosts, and a drunken bacchanalia transpires. Mostly these two opposing poles coexist. Though a certain group of party goers refer to themselves as the Fells Point Stroller Kicker's Club (several are regular readers of this blog - you know who you are). Before you let the bile of outrage rise in your esophagus, they lean to the platonic not the practical.

Personally, the Festival has a special significance. Twas at this event that I met my muse and partner. Since then, we have celebrated together. At times the imbibing has gotten the better of us. One year we attempted to enjoy in moderation and made a pact. When one felt the approach of drunkenness, he/she would utter a "code word" to alert the other of impending inebriation. The word was SHOTS. Probably not the best choice.

This year we will attempt that again. My list of possible watchwords includes "Chartreuse" and the phrase "Jitney to Jagertown." Maybe I'm not the one to come up with the code word. As ever - BB

“Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another.”   - Anais Nin

Crystal Cat Whisker

At the dawn of radio, people discovered that by using household items, they could build a simple radio receiver to pick up news, weather, farm reports and other broadcasts at very little expense. No power source was needed as the radio waves picked up by a long wire antenna provided the induction. A crystal acted as the diode and a thin wire which touched the crystal bestowed the feline sobriquet which provided this post's title. They became very popular in the 20s & 30s.

I remember my Dad telling me the story of building one with his Boy Scout troop. He fondly looked back on nights listening to faraway transmissions. Imagination spurred me into action. With my "life savings", I purchased an old transmitter at an Army/Navy surplus store, ran a wire from my third floor bedroom window across the backyard to the garage roof. The crusty ol'coot who owned the surplus store had fashioned an AC plug out of an extension cord which gave the receiver power.


Looking out the kitchen window, Mom saw me precariously perched on the eave of the garage. Upon completion, she sat me down to await Dad's wrath for my recklessness. He came home, Mom explained the situation and up to my room we went. I expected chastisement until I saw his smile. Nodding his head, he examined the receiver and my rigged antenna. After dinner, we went up to my room, turned on the power and spent the rest of the evening tuning in Radio Free Europe, and other foreign broadcasts. Mom was less than thrilled with the outcome.


During the day, on Philly AM radio, I'd listen to Joe "The Rockin Bird" Niagara, Hi Lit and Jerry "The Geator with the Heater" Blavat. This was the early 60s before FM and AOR formats. In the evenings, I could tune in R&B and Blues stations from Chicago, Memphis and New Orleans. Music's nefarious influence began weaving it's magic spell on me.

The naivete of nostalgia produces rose-colored memories. My rambling recollections have extended this blog's brief intro into a mess of meandering, multi-paragraph musings.

The blurred focus of this missive was to be Internet radio. Webcast, streaming, whatever buzzword you wish to use, is taking the radio format to new frontiers. Wresting the airways from commercial hands, anyone with some digital savvy can now broadcast worldwide.

A good friend and blogbenefactor, Dave Custy, launched Baltimore Internet Radio this week. BIR will be Baltimore's global gateway. The programs will explore business, tourism, history, and shows of local interest including the music scene.  
****Shameless Self Promotion Warning****  My band, Without a Net, is the first interview on the Music Scene segment.

Here's the link:  http://baltimoreinternetradio.com/    Check it out! You wont be disappointed and won't have to climb onto a garage roof to listen. Though that would be cool. As ever - BB

"...my style was too erratic and hard to pigeonhole for the radio..." - Bob Dylan

Prognostication Woolgathering

In the summer of 1972, Springfield Creamery, owned by Chuck Kesey (brother of author, Ken) and his wife, almost lost the business due a competitor's heavy-handed tactics. The Grateful Dead came to the rescue with a concert. Bootlegs have emerged over the years, but this past Tuesday, the official DVD and CD were released.
 
In true "Musings & Doggerel" form, this blog does not concern itself with that.

Searching for a solution to their predicament, the Keseys turned to the Merry Pranksters who turned to the I Ching. This is considered one of the most ancient Chinese texts dating back several millennia. The I Ching does not foretell the future, but gauges the yin-yang of a situation to guide decisions.

During my mind-expanding past, I often referred to the Book of Changes. Tossing the three coins six times reveals hexagrams which refer to descriptions that you contemplate. I cannot say whether I received any true inspiration from the I Ching, but I did find the text thought provoking and heartening.

I also dabbled with the Tarot. Curiously, the card that emerged most frequently in my readings was the Fool. (Insert obvious joke/dig here)

Many would think these soothsaying shenanigans foolish. But the Fool is also a seeker of crazy wisdom, in Buddhist terms yeshe chölwa. This translates as "wisdom gone wild" - think Aristotle, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer and Foucault dressed in Hawaiian shirts drinking Jagerbombs with topless women in Cancun. 

During my first college sortie,  I studied metaphysics, epistemology, and ontology. That was followed by my "lost" period, but the search continued in the aforementioned unconventional areas.


Eventually the responsibilities and demands of the "real world" squelched my cerebral curiosity. I'm still not sure if that was maturity or cowardice. Regardless, it's now water washed under the bridge of time. 


Several years ago, I read an article in the Smithsonian. The author, a statistician, compared the success rate of modern prognosticators (weather and financial markets) to ancient prophecies like the Oracle of Delphi. Their track records were virtually identical. 


Perhaps my augury experimentation was not in vain. With that in mind, this morning I read dove entrails and the signs portend an auspicious outcome. As ever - BB


"Try another approach." - the I Ching 

Let Your Fingers Do the Walking

Last Friday evening I drove home, found a good parking spot (urban denizens who depend on street
parking understand the serendipity in this) and was ready for a weekend in Fells Point. Right there on the front stoop was the new phone book - a large paper anachronism.

Gone are the days when a jerk would leap in joy exclaiming, "The new phone book is here! The new phone book is here!"

Obsolete now, though for some reason they insist on printing it. Another piece of antiquated telecommunication equipment is the telephone booth. Known as a place to cram college students and as Superman's changing room, they have become virtually impossible to find. I'm not talking about the aluminum and plastic shells, but those four-walled, collapsing door sarcophagi.

The phone booth holds a special place in my heart. Well not exactly in my heart. For explanation, enter my way-back machine and travel to the summer of 1967.

It's a sultry July night. Myself and a motley congregation of like-minded, bored 13-year-olds, wander the empty streets of Haddonfield looking for something to occupy our time. One of the group mentioned an older brother who had to "light a fart" as part of a college fraternity initiation. A pack of matches appear. We soon discover that flatulence is indeed flammable.

This provided one night of amusement, but mid-summer tedium was ubiquitous. Our ingenious, yet
perilous, imaginations devise a game to occupy our time - Fart Baseball. The playing field was a phone booth located in the center of town by the A&P market.

We divided into two teams. The back corner of the booth opposite the telephone was marked with four lines - single, double, triple and home run. The batter, well really the farter, would bend over with his posterior pointing at the delineated corner.  He would signal the on-deck farter when he was prepared to expel his "hit". The match was lit, and the height of the ensuing blaze measured against the aforementioned lines. If the flame did not reach a single, or if the gas did not arise before the match extinguished, that was an out. As the "runners" advance by other "hits," scores were tabulated. The abridged game was four innings.

We embraced the competition. Days were spent eating beans, broccoli, cabbage and other ammo-fueled foods. Evenings were spent in camaraderie scented by methane and sulfur. Our amusement generated more players, a league was planned with playoffs and a World Series scheduled for Labor Day weekend.

Eventually, a mob of teenagers hanging in front of a closed grocery accompanied by occasional fiery eruptions attracted the local constabulary. I will never forget the looks on their faces as we described our newly invented American pastime. Haddonfield is a small town, so the officer in charge knew most of us and our parents. Shaking his head, he told us to disperse. He would be too embarrassed to explain this stupidity to our parents, but warned dire circumstances should he see us "playing" again.

We tried a few games in other locations, but our pastime fizzled out...gone with the wind you might say. As ever - BB

"Surprising, given the impact of the fart on the life of the American boy, how little you still hear about it..." - Phillip Roth from The Great American Novel

I Only Write Awkwardly

The title could refer to my left-handedness, my gawky syntax, or my obtuse subject matter. Could, but doesn't. The heading is an impromptu acronym for a state in which I lived for four years, Iowa. Last night a game of channel-surfing roulette landed on TMC's airing of The Music Man.

Written by Meredith Wilson and set in imaginary River City, The Music Man was  based on Wilson's hometown of Mason City, Iowa. So he said. Not so according to the denizens of Davenport, Iowa where I lived.

In a public house early in my Midwestern sojourn,  I mentioned my
delectation of the musical and a desire to see Mason City. The comment raised quite a ruckus; flustered voices intensified. "Pshaw, Davenport is the real River City!" Such vehement language unsettled me.

Those Grant Wood American Gothics pointed to the fact that in the movie, River City is just across the border from Illinois which Davenport is. Mason City located in north central Iowa is not adjacent to any border. While

Davenport, IA

Wilson's hometown is on the Winnebago River, Davenport is on THE RIVER, the Mississippi.

Their vehemence prompted prudence. I bowed to their knowledge of the state shifting the subject to something less volatile. I proceeded to regal said Hawkeyes with my best Music Man trivia.

Aside from that musical, Meredith Wilson wrote The Unsinkable Molly Brown and the Christmas classic, It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas. He played piccolo in John Phillip Sousa's band and in the Arturo Toscanini-conducted New York Philharmonic.

Shirley Jones was pregnant during filming. She told the director, but did not want the cast to know. The costume designer worked diligently to hide her growing abdomen. The ruse worked until filming the scene on the footbridge singing Till There Was You.  Preston holding Jones jumped back yelling, "What was that?" The baby had kicked and Preston felt it.

In her later years, Wilson's widow made more money from his estate because of The Beatles' version of Till There Was You than from the movie's residuals.

And my favorite, Preston had starred in the musical on Broadway. Wilson wanted him in the movie, but the studio wanted a more bankable box-office attraction. They asked Cary Grant. Grant told them, "I won't do it, and if you don't get Robert Preston, I won't go to see it!"

This musing was going to concern itself more with the state of Iowa, but my penchant for lavish musicals, and trivia, got the better of me. I guess my brain manifested another acronym for the state - Idiot Out Wandering Around. As ever - BB

"Libertine men and Scarlet women!
And Rag-time, shameless music
That'll grab your son and your daughter
With the arms of a jungle animal instink!" From the song Ya Got Trouble in The Music Man

Paladin

Have Gun...Will Travel ran from the 1957 - 63. I stumbled upon a rerun marathon of HGWT the other night. Watching evoked childhood memories from the recesses of my hippocampus. Twas this TV Western that led me to chansons de geste, the Arthurian legend and my sense of chivalry and honor.

As a child I watched it often with my father. It all started with a horse head on the gun belt. My Dad informed me that the horse is called a knight in chess, and the gunfighter's name, Paladin*, was another name for a knight.
* Paladin was his nom de guerre, his actual name is never mentioned.

Dad spoke with a twinkle in his eye because he realized where it would lead. The concept of an Old West shootist roaming the range as an knight errant intrigued me.

The ensuing trip to the library uncovered a world of faith, loyalty, courage and honor. The cynical reality that most knights were brutal, thug-like mercenaries who terrorized Europe had yet to intrude on my young innocence.

The word, paladin was originally used to describe the peers who composed Charlemagne's court. Their exploits became the first chansons de geste. The Song of Roland became the most popular, but my favorite was the Song of William. This epic poem describes Guillaume's heroic feats against the Saracens and his adventures with a giant - a kid's daydream factory.

These led me to the tales of King Arthur. He, or the composite of Romano-Briton warrior/kings now known as Arthur, predated Charlemagne by about a century. However, his legend and the tales of the Round Table were composed much later. They share the same theme of chivalry and heroic deeds with the earlier tales.

I took this code to heart, and though the years have eroded my innocence, I still try to live by it. The recent viewing of HGWT shed light on other aspects of Paladin's disposition that affected me. Despite his rough and tumble, gunfighter demeanor, he enjoyed opera, literature and fine dining. Throughout the shows, he quotes Julius Caesar, Marcus Aurelius, Shakespeare and others.

I have always relished in portraying a nefarious appearance while appreciating finer things in life. Like that time I went to a performance of my favorite operetta, The Mikado, in a sleeveless t-shirt to show off my tattoos. As ever BB

"I think perhaps Homer described it better. A creature with the form of a goddess, the walk of a queen and the heart of a tyrant." - Paladin

Schizophrenic Missive

This started as a blog about the 50th anniversary of the 1963 march on Washington. 
 
The serious tone disconcerted me. Rescue came last night by way of the TV's cathode ray in the form of Vincent Price in the bad 1965, Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine followed by it's even worse 1966 sequel, Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs. To quote Leonard Pinth Garnell, "Inscrutably bad."

 The effects of watching almost four hours of incredibly bad cinema resulted in this "split-mind" missive.

Fifty years ago next month over 100,000 people descended on Washington for the "March for Jobs and Freedom."  Most people remember the march for Martin Luther King's "I Had A Dream" speech. A great oration, but just part of that special day. A prime example that Americans suffer from what I call the Fr. Guido Sarducci University syndrome.

One of my favorite SNL skits, announced the establishment of the Fr. Guido Sarducci
University. You could get a 4-year degree in only four weeks as the school only taught you what you would remember several years after graduation, i.e. Economics - Supply & Demand; Business - Buy low, Sell high; Philosophy - I think therefore I am; etc.

The problem with this selective memory is we forget many of  history's interesting nuances. A multitude of important people and events are neglected by this myopia. Bayard Rustin, a true unsung American Hero, is one such casualty.

Rustin spent months organizing the 1963 march. His apartment in Harlem became the march headquarters. He admittedly tried to stay behind the scenes so his personal situation did not hinder the movement. Black, openly gay, and a communist turned socialist, Rustin triggered many red flags in 1963 America.

A practitioner of non-violence, he served time in prison rather than fight in World War II.  He then went to India to study Gandhi's methods of non-violence. He taught these methods to Martin Luther King. After the 1963 march, Rustin continued to crusade for the rights of the underprivileged. He never desired the limelight, but an American of this stature should never be forgotten.

What should be forgotten to all but the most offbeat are the two aforementioned movies. Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine was a spoof of James Bond's Goldfinger costarring Frankie Avalon. Originally planned as a musical comedy, most of the songs were cut in editing. Leaving a jumbled mess. The film's only redemption are the shots of 1965 San Francisco and a campy cameo by Annette Funicello.

The movie bombed in the US, but was successful in Italy. This spawned Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs; filmed in Italy because no one in America would touch the film. Frankie Avalon had the sense to bow out, and teen heart-throb Fabian* costarred. Price was the only actor to be in both. Hopefully, he made enough money to purchase more fine art for his collection. Much of which was later donated to East Los Angeles College creating the Vincent Price Art Museum.
 *Side note of interest to probably only me - Fabian's full name was Fabian Forte. He was from Philadelphia. In my teens, I dated his cousin, Donna Forte.

This musing rambles from a pivotal civil rights protest to kitschy bad movies. "Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice." As ever - BB  


"When an individual is protesting society's refusal to acknowledge his dignity as a human being, his very act of protest confers dignity on him." - Bayard Rustin

"The eyes of Goldfoot are upon you." - Vincent Price in Dr Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine