Say What?

At 2 am this Sunday, we set our clocks ahead one hour. Blame for the biannual changing of the timepieces usually falls on farmers unless you ask one.

As daylight saving draws nigh, I think back to my time in Iowa. The week before the clock change, area TV stations would parade out the most Grant Wood looking farmer they could find. This old-timer would rant about how politicians were the ones messing with the clocks. Farmers are up and out before the sun no matter what time the grandfather clock shows -thus spake the curmudgeon Hawkeyes.

That memory turned the rusty cogs of this ol'cranium. Many things accepted as common knowledge are fallacious. Today's chapter: Inaccurate quotes.

This week marks the 131st anniversary of the publication in Strand Magazine of the first Sherlock Holmes' story, A Study in Scarlet. Despite it's mention in films and just about everything else Holmesian, in none of Arthur Conan Doyle's tales did the scientific sleuth utter the words, "Elementary, my dear Watson."

Another that has always nagged me is "far from the maddening crowd". Originally written by Thomas Gray's, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, the phrase is "far from the madding crowd" which is also the title of a Thomas Hardy novel. It's mostly used incorrectly.

The ninth most quoted person in Bartlett's is Alfred, Lord Tennyson. As a child, I read Charge of the Light Brigade over and over. Many are familiar with the words, "Ours is not the reason why; ours is but to do or die." (insert loud buzzer here) Wrong! The quote is: "Theirs not to reason why/Theirs but to do and die"

Now onto the movies and one of my favorite actors, Humphrey Bogart. Bogie impersonators' ubiquitous line is "Play it again, Sam." However, those words were not uttered in Casablanca. Rick says, "Play it for me. If she can stand to listen to it, I can. Play it."

Another Bogart classic, The Treasure of Sierra Madre, contains a classic misquote. Never does the bandit say the words, "We don't need no stinkin' badges." The actual lines are "We don't got no badges. We don't need no badges. I don't have to show you no stinking badges!"

There are many more examples. Why the misquotes? That question tickles my curiosity. In some cases, I believe, it's brevity. Take my Bogie examples. Both reduce several lines of script down to a few words. As for the literary examples, I blame that on people being lazy and quoting what they hear without knowing the actual work. As Mark Twain said, "A classic is something everyone wants to have read, but nobody wants to read."

An even more intriguing question is why do these misquotes bother me so. Is it a harmless eccentricity or a debilitating obsession? Eccentrics are happy with their behavior and don't want to change. Obsessives hate their behavior, but can't change it. I figure what, me worry! So I must be eccentric - 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

Leap Day

Today marks my fifteenth leap day. They started when I was two. Every four years since then, these 366-day-years have meant very little to me. No offense to those Leapers who enjoy the celebration. But then, Leap Year is an important plot element in Gilbert & Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance.

Gilbert & Sullivan's operettas are one of my guilty pleasures. Some have been lucky enough to be present when I extemporaneously break out into a piece from the HMS Pinafore or the Mikado. (my rendition of Poor Little Buttercup is sensational)

For those not familiar with Pirate's libretto, the main character, Frederic, is apprenticed to pirates until his 21st birthday. Unfortunately for ol'Freddy, his birthday was February 29. With a birthday every four years, he won't reach 21 until well into his eighties. They just don't write plot twists like that anymore!

Ireland's St. Bridget is also associated with Leap Day. Legend has it that she went to St. Patrick complaining that a woman never gets the chance to pick the man she wants. So Paddy agreed that one day every four years, women could ask men to marry. Traditionally this became Leap Day.

In one of life's strange twists, the St. Bridget tradition morphed with a holiday in Al Capp's Lil Abner. One of my favorite Sunday comics, the crazy colorful characters first attracted me. In later years, the satire caused my chuckles.

The "homeliest gal in the hills" was Sadie Hawkins. Her father, a Dogpatch dignitary, fearful of her living forever with him started Sadie Hawkins day. On this day, women who could chase down a husband could get married. Al Capp's yearly Sadie Hawkins' comic strip fell in November. Somehow these two traditions melded together and February 29 has become a bachelor's bane.

With its connection to an operetta, an Irish saint and a comic strip, I have convinced myself that February 29 has become one of my most-liked days. I'm a leaper! Wouldn't you like to be a leaper too? as ever - BB

"Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform/And tell you ev'ry detail of Carataucus's uniform/In short, in matters vegetable, animal and mineral/I am the very model of a modern Major-General." - from The Major-General's song from Pirates of Penzance

I Knew That!

Aside from the appeal of acquiring arcane knowledge, I get a kick providing little known facts related to everyday things. I truly delight in the light gleaming from people's eyes when they are told a detail they don't know about something they do know.

Take the sticker that gives the expected city and highway mileage shown on new cars. We've all seen them, but did you know it has a name? It's a Monroney Sticker; named for Oklahoma senator, Mike Monroney. He sponsored the 1958 Auto Disclosure Act which initiated the sticker's use. Information required on the sticker has changed over the years, but the name remains the same.

Others include the name of the movie playing at the drive-in during the Flintstone's opening credits, what a tittle is and where the terms upper and lower case relating to letters derive.

My all time favorite is the Wilhelm scream. I'm sure you have all heard it, but few realize this ubiquitous movie/TV sound effect. (I know at least one blog follower who does - a nod to my buddy, Christian.)

Originally used in the 1952 movie, Distant Drums, the scream didn't get it's name until the 1953 film, The Charge at Feather River. Film historians believe this was the third time that sound effect was used.

For decades, film editors used the scream, but it took Star Wars to make it a cult classic. Lucas repeatedly used it throughout the entire series, as did Speilberg in Raiders. For me, true delight rises from the fact that one of my that guys - "you know that guy he played..." has a close connection to the Wilhelm scream.

Sheb Wooley is that guy. This trivia gem has so many facets where do I start? Though a country-western singer, his biggest hit was the novelty pop song The Purple People Eater, which he wrote as well as performed. Sheb acted in many movies among them, High Noon, Giant, The Outlaw Josey Wales and many TV shows including Rawhide with Clint Eastwood.

As if that isn't enough, he wrote the theme song to the TV classic Hee-Haw. Yes, it was he who vocalized the iconic Wilhelm scream. I can't believe more children aren't named Sheb. It works for both boys and girls. As ever - BB


"I said Mr Purple People Eater, what's your line?/He said eating purple people, and it sure is fine/But that's not the reason that I came to land/I wanna get a job in a rock 'n roll band" - The Purple People Eater

What Can You Get for a Nickel?

Not much these days! Until the early 50s you could make a phone call for a nickel. (in some rural areas the five-cent call lasted up to the early 70s). Remember pay phones? They have gone the way of  typewriters and animal sacrifices.

Even a Luddite like me doesn't use a typewriter any more. As for animal sacrifices, sure they are anachronistic, but until the oracle gets one of those swipe machines for my debit card, it's the only option I have.

Back to the nickel - old slang for the nickel was a jitney piece. It took some etymological sleuthing to find out why. Best guess is that the word comes from one of two French sources. Jeton in French means a small metal disk; jeter means to throw or discard.

Today, a jitney is a small passenger bus that takes people around Atlantic City. The AC jitneys are the only privately funded public transportation system in the United States. Their history is a story of entrepreneurship.

In 1915, Atlantic City's trolley system went on strike. Two clever fellows decided to chauffeur people around town in their private cars for a nickel, or to coin a phrase (ooh that one hurt) a jitney piece. The concept caught on as cars required no rails and no public funding. By 1917, AC began issuing jitney licenses, and the system still exists.

Throughout the Depression, jitneys surfaced in cities across the nation. Out of work men who owned cars could make some money shuttling anyone with a nickel around town. Most of these ceased with the end of the depression. A handful kept operating as illegal cabs and the term, jitney is still used to denote illegal taxis in some American cities. Other than Pittsburgh, I'm not sure what cities. I always knew them as gypsy cabs until I came to Baltimore where they call them hacks.

The Hill is a predominantly African-American section of Pittsburgh. Up through the 70s, cabs would not go into that neighborhood. Some denizens filled that void illegally using their cars. Playwright August Wilson wrote a play in his Pittsburgh Cycle entitled  Jitney which centers around one of these illegal taxis.

During the 11 years I lived in Atlantic City, I rode jitneys on a daily basis. They were colorful as well as convenient. Many were owned by Greeks who would decorate the inside and blare Entekhno music. As owner/operators, they make more money the more passengers they take. A ride to work on a Jitney racing to beat out competitors to the next stop would get my heart beating faster than a strong cup of coffee. - as ever BB

"Make a pledge and mischief is nigh" - one of three inscriptions on the temple at Delphi

Step Right Up

I find reincarnation a fascinating subject. While not convinced that I have had past lives, certain intriguing possibilities exist. One is a snake oil salesman traveling the west in the 19th century. The showmanship, magniloquence and larceny involved appeal to me.


History lumps all of these itinerant "doctors" as snake oil salesmen, but during their time, there was a difference. Many ersatz entrepreneurs sold patent medicines. An interesting name because, except for Fletcher's Castoria, none ever received patents; they were trademarked. Patents required ingredient disclosure, and we couldn't have that. Snake Oil was another matter.

The construction of the transcontinental railroad brought an influx of Chinese workers to the west coast. The arduous toil caused sore muscles. These laborers sought a traditional liniment, the oil from the Chinese water snake. Both racism and unwanted competition created animosity. The patent medicine hawkers used the term "snake oil salesmen" as a derogatory term for those who sold the oil to the Yellow Peril.

With improved education, more savvy consumers and governmental watchdogs, modern Americans cannot fall prey to such tomfoolery. Who am I kidding? Infomercials, on-line offers and direct-response TV have replaced the vagabond medicine show and its horse-drawn wagon. But the spurious offers of amazing results from unregulated potions and testimonials from grateful shills, remain same as it ever was. Herbal supplements, vitamins, male enhancements and all natural extracts have replaced nostrums like Dr. Kilmer's Swamp Root and Luciana Cordial.

In my mind, one essential element is missing - panache! Despite the slick production values and fast talking pitchmen that flood the airways, showmanship has vanished. The convenience of sitting in your house while wares are hawked pales to the performances of the past.

Imagine having your dusty, drab, day-to-day routine interrupted as a clapboard wagon creaks down Main Street. An impromptu stage is erected. A slick, honey throated man in a frock coat and top hat splinters the morning with oratory. After a few jokes, he introduces a three piece band, and music fills the air. Then the exotic, sultry, Fatima dances the hoochie-coochie. Women blush and try to shield the young ones' eyes. Men abashedly stare at her erotic gyrations. As the crowd reaches critical mass, the barker begins his spiel.

That was entertainment. His nostrums might not have lived up to the lofty tales he wove, but they were not without benefits. The major ingredient was alcohol usually mixed with opium or cocaine. While dangerous and temporary, they did provide a respite from your aches and pains.

"Step right up and take advantage of this rare, wonderful elixir I have brought to you today. Away with aches, prevent pain, banish baleful boils. One spoonful of Dr. Bill's Antediluvian Antidote for All Ailments is the answer for everyday pain and woe."

 Something tells me that occupation fits my personality and talents. As ever - BB

"He's a young faith healer; he's a woman stealer/He will cure by his command/When the music's hot you might have to stand/To hear the Klondike Klu Klux steamboat band/Don't you sweat it; you can't forget it/ W.S. Walcott Medicine Show" - The Band

Impending Doom

Mid-winter doldrums' icy digits pierce the psyche. I could blame these frigid fingers for the shadowy specter surrounding me. I could, but that would be less than truthful. Frankly, since I can remember, I have always felt the omnipresence of impending doom.

When I met a certain statuesque redhead, she was familiar with Hunter Thompson, but had not read his work. I started her off with his only piece of fiction, and one of his earliest, The Rum Diary.  It contains the lines: "...I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other..."


She brought them to my attention, saying, "When I read those words, I expected to see 'as ever, BB' after it." Res ipsa loquitor


Doom comes from the Old English, dom, meaning a statute or legal judgement. Its most famous use is The Domsday Book, the financial census and tax ledger ordered by William the Conqueror. Some say the word's ominous definition derives from this. Others say is comes from the description of the Final Judgement in the King James Bible. Whatever etymology tickles your fancy, doom's oppressive shadow darkens our existence.

The cataclysmic climax of this big, blue marble does not perturb me. Years ago, I came to the realization that life is ephemeral. As Robbie Burns penned, "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men/ Gang aft a-gley." At any time you could be walking down the street and one of Terry Gilliam's 16-ton animations could squish you. 


 I've delved into idealism, existentialism, empiric rationalism, phenomenology, etc. ad infinitum. It all boils down to Be Here Now - a nod to Ram Dass. You live for the now because nothing is guaranteed.


My problem is not eschatological, but diurnal doom. The morning dew of personal  plans, ideas, hopes, dreams that dissipate under the mid-morning sun. Like Duke and Dr Gonzo racing the big, red shark through the desert, perhaps it's time to break into the ether - as ever BB


"Man makes a beast of himself to forget the pain of being a man." Dr. Samuel Johnson (The epigram at the beginning of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas) 

Latitude Lassitude

In the northern latitudes, January heralds the coldest temperatures. Without going into the details of thermal equilibrium, blame the angle of the sun, ambient temperatures and, as polar plungers know, lower water temperatures.

The cold causes hibernation in fauna and endodormancy in flora. Man fares worse in winter. Our vestigial instinct bids us to increase caloric intake, hunker down and sleep out the season.

But, nooooo! Modern society tolerates no respite. We pursue insidious pressures to satiate the maw of Mammon. The 21st century has transformed the rat race into a rung wheel. Like Sisyphus, we labor futilely.

So, how do we keep the blues at bay until the vernal equinox proclaims the return of Ostara? I could pontificate on Seasonal Affective Disorder, light therapy, vitamin D and exercise, ad infinitum. But that is much too practical.


I combat the weather's weariness with words. January marks the birth of two of my favorite authors, Jack London and Lewis Carroll. I focus on London's work from his Yukon adventures. To Build a Fire and Call of the Wild, read on a cold night wrapped in a warm blanket lessens the sting of he season's frigid fury. While Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass offer escapism and the delight of word play.

Of course, you can always look forward to January 28 - National Kazoo Day. What better way to beat winter's blues than to place a membranophone between your lips and hum the humdrum from your mind? When SAD threatens to cause pain to my brain, I grab the kazoo, don my most colorful raiment and march through the neighborhood playing John Philip Sousa.

If nothing else, the gaping looks of the confused, somewhat annoyed, neighbors is sure to warm the cockles.  As ever - BB

"Contrariwise, 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." - Lewis Carroll