Who's Buried in Grant's Tomb?

Trick question? You bet. The answer is no one. The General Grant National Memorial, commonly called Grant's Tomb located in New York City's Riverside Park, is a mausoleum. One gets entombed, not buried, in a mausoleum. Semantics aside, saying Ulysses Grant would be only half correct as entombed next to him is his wife.

The "correct" answer has led to the untrue belief that no bodies are interred there. But then, aporcypha abounds among us.

From the Greek for hidden away, apocrypha originally referred to Biblical books considered by the canonical powers as not divinely inspired, i.e. the Gnostic gospels. The word's definition has expanded to mean anything spurious.

Another classic example is the idea that before Columbus' voyage in 1492, people believed that the earth was flat. Since ancient times, most knew the earth was round. A century before the birth of Christ, Eratosthenes calculated the world's circumference within 100 miles of the actual figure. Even the common man could look at the unobstructed horizon and notice the earth's curvature.

The "world is flat" theory became popular after Washington Irving's 1828 biography of Columbus. An inveterate story-teller, Irving wouldn't let facts interfere with a good plot device. I concur.

Other facetious facts include Ben Franklin's support of daylight saving time. He mentioned it in a letter as a jab at the French habit of sleeping late. He did not mean for the idea to be taken seriously. Unlike Paron Weems' stories about George Washington. Weems coined the cherry tree story. His goal was to immortalize Washington as an American-Augustan demi-god.


Why does ever-gullible man take such pleasure in these tales? I believe it's an atavistic predisposition. Some chromosomal link to ancestors sitting watching the fire's shadows play on cave walls as the tribal storyteller weaves his verbal tapestry. Intrinsically, we are as credulous as those cavemen. Our technology has advanced, but we still delight in a good story and passing them on to others. It would be more romantic relating them around glowing embers as opposed to opening and/or sending an email.

To debunk some popular emails which people enjoy sending me: the word shit in not an acronym for shipping manure, Captain Kangaroo did not rescue injured fellow Marine Lee Marvin on Iwo Jima and displaying the middle finger as an insult has nothing to do with the Battle of Agincourt. - As ever BB

"There are people so addicted to exaggeration they can't tell the truth without lying."  ~Josh Billings*

*Pen name of 19th century humorist, Henry Wheeler Shaw - no relation

Did You Hear the One About?

Last night...New Orleans...Midnight...the police announce that Mardi Gras had ended and begin clearing the streets. Ash Wednesday had begun and with it Lent.

Easter is the first Sunday after the first Full Moon after the Vernal Equinox. Lent, a period of fasting, penance, retrospection and alms-giving begins 40 days before that. Well, kind of...today is March 9 and Easter is April 24. If you do the math, that's 46 days. Sundays don't count as Lenten Days. (Note: this is Roman Catholic. There are slight differences in the observance by other denominations and the orthodox churches).

Lent ends on Easter Sunday. Again, sort of...as of the Second Vatican Council, Good Friday and Holy Saturday are no longer considered Lent, but part of the Easter Triduum. Confused yet?  Just take two stations of the cross and call me in the morning.

As an altar boy, I enjoyed serving Mass between Holy Thursday and Easter Sunday. In respect for Christ's suffering, the sanctus bell is replaced by the crotalus (clapper in the vernacular). Getting the full sound out of this required subtle wrist action.


The only thing cooler was being a thurifer. You had to know how to swing the thurible to keep the incense from falling out and burning properly. The thurifer (just love using that word) also had to know the sequence of swings. At Christ the King, those who screwed up felt the wrath of Monseigneur McIntyre especially if you were his grand-nephew - lucky me.

So begins the celebration of the passion of Christ. On Good Friday, he was crucified, died and was buried. On the third day, the stone of the sepulcher was rolled away, he arose and walked out. If he sees his shadow, it's six more weeks of Lent.

Quite a lead in, just to relate one of the most sacrilegious jokes I know- as ever BB

"God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh."  - Voltaire

Answers?

"Any answers? Any questions? Any rags, any bones, any bottles today?" - Groucho Marx as Professor Wagstaff in Horse Feathers


From Plato's academy to Wagstaff's Huxley College, man has pondered the answers to life's great mysteries. But as Douglass Adam's wrote when ultimate answer (42) was solved, we then have to figure out the question.

In ancient Greece, wandering scholars, known as sophoi, provided education for money. Plato abhorred what he saw as specious scholastics. He preferred philosophers, literally "lovers of wisdom," who gave freely of their knowledge. A related debate wages today, but both sides doth reek more of power than prudence.

Metaphysics deals with the first principles of things. It looks ontologically at the existence of being and epistemologically at how we know being.  Can universals exist in reality, or merely as concepts? Empiricism versus skepticism versus existentialism - as Jefferson Airplane sang, "The human name doesn't mean shit to a tree."

Philosophical debates tangle in the rhizome of man's ego. The Buddha illustrated this in his Flower Sermon offering a blossom rather than expressing a rational creed.


Western thought focuses more on control than knowledge. Ken Kesey addressed this concept in the screenplay, Over the Border, encapsulated in his collection, Garage Sale. In it, he ponders the great question, "How does this thing run?" Which inevitably leads to the next question, "How do I drive it?" Finally comes the ultimate interrogatory, "How the hell do I get off it?"

Man still embraces the hubris of Icarus...as ever - BB

"The answer is never the answer. What's really interesting is the mystery. The need for mystery is greater than the need for an answer." - Ken Kesey

Puissant

On a cold, snowy evening, I curled up in a comfortable chair, wrapped 
myself in a warm blanket and read a tome on Celtic culture. I came across the phrase, "the puissant Celtic race..." I dinna ken its meaning, so left my toasty cocoon and went to my dependable dictionary.


Puissant - adjective, archaic, poetic/literary meaning having great power or influence.

St. Paddy's Day being only a few weeks away, this phrase stirred a musing on my Celtic roots.


During the Paleolithic era, tribes with common bloodlines wandered Europe and crossed the land bridges to Britain and Ireland. As the glaciers melted, the seas rose separating these landmasses from continental Europe. Celts traveled across Europe, to the Iberian Peninsula, across the water to Ireland, from there to Scotland. Others crossed the water from what is now France to Britain. They did not know that the people they encountered shared common lineage.

The race had a powerful influence indeed. Before the dawn of the Roman Empire, Celtic tribes controlled from the North Sea to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Black Sea. Their strong points included lyrical poetry, art and metallurgy. While the Celts had strong clan loyalty, their weak point was organization.

They had no central leaders, no strong governmental units. Thus they fell under the aegis of first the Roman Empire, then succeeding regimes. The Celts were true anarchists. Proof that anarchy can lead to a fruitful, vibrant society despite the word's modern connotation.

So, instead of celebrating St. Paddy's Day in a drunk revel of Guinness and whiskey, explore Irish culture.   Enjoy the words of James Joyce, Jonathan Swift, W.B. Yeats and a host of others. Experience the joy of Celtic myth through Herminie Kavanagh's Darby O'Gill stories. Listen to the sounds of the Chieftains, the Irish Rovers. For those with more modern tastes try the Drop Kick Murphys and Floggin Molly.

Make the day much more than just a green dyed Frat party...boy maturity sucks.  As ever - BB

"For the Gaels of Ireland are men that God made mad/For all their wars are merry/And all their songs sad." - G.K. Chesterton

Pun Intended

Bernadette stared at the charred edges of the cape in her hands. “We were lucky, fortunate, charmed. That could have been our demise, the end, finito.”

Billy began to chuckle then stifled it under her angry gaze. Bernie’s habit of tripling synonyms always amused him and inspired her superhero persona, Thesaurus Girl. “You’re right. We need to find flame-proof fabric for our costumes,” he said.

“It’s not just that,” she rejoined. “We need to prepare better. We’re always going off half-cocked, flat-footed, off guard. That’s dangerous, perilous, risky.” Biting his tongue to hold back the snicker, he nodded agreement. Since that first day, her acceptance of his mission astounded him.

Two days after the “cable incident” unleashed his super powers, Billy wandered across the street to Boots Saloon. The red letters once read, GO-GO GIRLS, but years ago the “S” had fallen off the sign. It had never been replaced which was apropos as the bar never had more than one girl per shift. Bernadette worked afternoons and Gwen nights. A variety of wigs, costumes and noms de danse gave the pretense of new dancers.

Billy stared into a beer as Bernie sat at his table. Maybe he was still woozy from the incident, or maybe he just needed to tell someone. He started babbling about his new found power and using it to fight crime in the neighborhood. Perhaps vocalizing his idea could somehow convince him of its folly.

When he finished, Billy raised his head expecting scorn or ridicule. Instead, her eyes burned with intensity. “That’s just what we need around here. But book smarts alone won’t cut it. I can be your aide, your assistant, your sidekick,” Bernie said.

He’d seen her strength and agility while pole dancing, but crime fighting? She proceeded to tell him how dancing had led to yoga, then kickboxing, then several different martial arts. Their partnership was formed.

Back in their basement lair, Thesaurus Girl opened her laptop to search for flameproof material. Billy idly leafed through the city paper. The half-page ad grabbed his attention. “We may not have time for new costumes,” he said.

Bernie looked up as he handed her the paper. The large bold type jumped out at her.

Looking for a warm reception? Lumber on down to The Trap!

For more information call 1-A-HOT TIME 

Ask for loquacious lad or garrulous girl

A PUNSTER ENTERPRISE

Bernie quickly dialed the number on her cell phone and a machine answered. “Hello dynamic dimwits. I knew you'd call. You dolts just detonated another devious device. You’ve got twenty minutes until it explodes. Did you hear about the dictionary that fell into the river?” The line went dead.

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Thesaurus Girl.

“It’s a pun. The dictionary was un-a-bridged,” responded Dictionary Man. “The bomb is under a bridge, but which one? The clock’s ticking, so there’s no time to prepare. Looks like our modus operandi is to be half-cocked, flat-footed, off guard.”

Thesaurus Girl shot him a nasty look as she grabbed her singed costume to once again face the Punster.

Will our heroes find the bomb and get there in time to defuse it? Tune in again for further adventures of the discourse duo.

Trinity of Tripsters

Since I can remember I’ve danced to the “sound of a different drummer.” Could it be organic, caused by an odd translocation of my chromosomes, or a mutation in my neural network? Perhaps it’s environmental. By the age of 10, I had watched The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Kennedy assassination and The Outer Limits with equal relish.

 Early on, I was exposed to three great tripsters.

1. Lord Buckley – At age 12, my friend, Dave, and I would sit in his basement listening to the Lord's albums for hours. His raps illuminated the rhythm, irreverence and beauty in language. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHPrNCQQBvY
2. Over the next few years, my friend Pat’s musical interest shifted from rock to jazz. He turned me on to Rashaan Roland Kirk. A talented multi-instrumentalist, he’d play several saxes, a flute and other instruments at the same time. His monologues during performances were laced with satire and absurdist humor. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPATPXGJgKo
3. In 1968, I read The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. That led me to On the Road. They bookend the life of Neal Cassady from the beat beginnings of the late 40s to the psychedelic awakenings of the mid 60s. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99uZor1OTO0

 Did my multifarious make-up attract me to these bohemians, or did their early influence shape my persona? That is my chicken/egg conundrum.

This unorthodox trinity still produces my Inner Smile. Voltaire wrote, "Let us read and let us dance - two amusements that will never do any harm to the world." They may not harm, but I view those amusements as driving forces in the revolution. As ever – BB

"If I can't dance - I don't want to be part of your revolution." - Emma Goldman

Apologia for Philly Phans

Before I begin, Apologia for the Latin-challenged means a statement or defense of a position. It is not an acknowledgement of an offense.

For over half a century, I have suffered the slings and arrows of being a Philadelphia sports fan. Recently, our teams have done well, but infamy darkens our sports' story. The Phillies have lost more games than any other franchise in history. The 76ers once won only nine games over an entire season. The Eagles have not won a championship since 1960. Despite winning two Stanley Cups in the mid-70s, those Flyers were better known for brawls and the appellation, The Broad Street Bullies.

But we fans still buy tickets. Still wear our jerseys. Still bleed the team colors. (The Phillies' color is red, so that's no big deal. Especially when the drunk sitting behind you wields a ice pick.)  We cheer and some times boo. Okay, maybe boo more than cheer. But if your translate Philadelphia from the  Kione Greek it means City of Brotherly Tough Love. Honest, I read that on the Interweb, so it must be true. 

As Jere Longman wrote is his book,  If Football's A Religion, Why We Don't Have a Prayer,  "Philadelphia has gained a reputation for its fans' hostile taunting, fighting, public urination and general strangeness." Of course, he was writing about Veteran's Stadium's infamous 700 level. The Vet is gone. Lincoln Financial Field and Citizen's Bank Stadium are kinder, gentler places.

Well sort of - an 11-year-old girl was purposefully vomited on by a fan at a Phillies' game last year. Then there was the guy who ran out on the field, avoided police and had to be tased. A couple weeks later, a 19-year-old in a red bodysuit ran onto the field. The police didn't use a taser  despite the fact that the entire stadium was yelling, "Tase him, Tase him!" With the exorbitant cost of not only the tickets, but concessions, can you blame fans for wanting the most out of their entertainment dollar?

Being a Philadelphia fan is a family tradition. Game day is a chance for families to bond. Even our opponents recognise this fact. Take ex-New York Giant, Michael Strahan, "It's the only place where you pull up on the bus and you've got the grandfather, the grandmother, the kids and the grand kids - everybody flicking you off." By flicking, he refers to the displaying of the middle finger.

They say you are what you eat. Philly fans eat things like hoagies, scrapple, cheese steaks, tastykakes, soft pretzels (the ones you buy from some guy on the side of the street marinated in exhaust fumes) and wash'em down with a Frank's Black Cherry Wishniak. Could this explain our behavior? It's a Phanatic-version of the Twinkie Defense, but much tastier. As ever - BB

"The streets are safe in Philadelphia, it's only the people that make them unsafe." Frank Rizzo