For the Sake of Old Times

The title of this post is an idiomatic translation of the last line of the chorus of Robbie Burns' Auld Lange Syne. Tomorrow is the last day of the year according to the Gregorian calendar. My apologies to those readers who adhere to the Julian, Jewish, Aztec or Marie calendars.

The year's end imparts the opportunity to reflect on the past and envisage the future. The Buddhist in me has a problem with this. As Ram Dass opined, "live here now." The past is but a memory and the future but a dream. Be that as it may, our species feels impelled to ponder both past and future at this time of year.

Aside from personal introspection, this season affords us the time to celebrate the good times and commiserate the rough times with friends. I availed myself of such an opportunity last night at the Cat's Eye Pub.

Blue guitar maestro, Jimmy Adler, played at the Cat's Eye for the first time. The event brought out many friends. Being a Sunday night, the crowd was smaller giving space for dancing and jovial camaraderie.

I may not have the chance to see all of you soon, so I take this time to wish you all a very Happy New Year. Thank you all for your support and friendship over the year. My sincere apologies for any transgressions. May the new year find us all happier and wiser. As ever - BB

“Hope
Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering 'it will be happier'...” - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/w/williamsha394960.html#JUODjPIUZqrFDp2D.99

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
Read more at http://quotes.dictionary.com/come_gentlemen_i_hope_we_shall_drink_down#Qfxe7zy6gmKY5OwR.99

"Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness." - William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor

Left Out

Usually l reserve my rants about that sinister minority, Lefties, for August 13. Why? I'm tired of explaining everything...look it up yourself.

But, today I was sent a link by a "friend" about interesting lefthand facts. Knowing me as most of you do, I wasn't expecting any revelations. But, these facts were much more sinister than the usual fodder.

My first use of sinister, now considered archaic by Merriam/Webster, means "towards the left." The second is the more common usage - something harmful or evil. Both from the Latin for left. The Latin for right is dexter from which comes dexterous - manually or mentally adroit.

Oh sure, there's no bias against we southpaws, or as the nuns called us, "children of the devil." The nuns also told me that lefthanders would never find a decent job. Okay, they were right about that. Ending up like Fredo Corleone, I learned the casino business.

According to most studies, lefties are more likely to suffer psychoses, especially schizophrenia. Our life span is nine years shorter than the right-handed. We are more prone to alcoholism, drug abuse and dyslexia. Two out of three ain't dab!

I believe the impetus for all of these traits is surviving in a right-handed world. At best it leads us to drink; at worst it makes us crazy. For just one day, I would like the entire world magically switched to leftcentric. You'd quickly realize the day-to-day things that confound we of the other hand.

Research also shows that we experience more fear than the other side. Of course we do! The mere thought of scissors, ladles, three-ring binders, felt tip pens,  or measuring cups fills me with foreboding.

Measuring cups you ask? What could be the problem with them? Pick up one with your left hand. What do you see? The metric measurements!!! How many milliliters in a half-a-cup?  I can feel the bile rising as I type. The metric system, really? It's like watching soccer, the metric system of sports, and a waste of my finite time on this plane of existence.

One interesting theory is that lefties had a vanishing twin in the womb. Discovered in the 80s, when ultrasound treatment became commonplace for pregnant women, a vanishing twin is a multi-gestation pregnancy in which one twin dies in utero and then is partially or completely reabsorbed by the other. Now that is weird.

How this results in the survivor being left-handed is not explained. But this would give justification to that evil twin who occasionally emerges and orders shots. You know of whom I speak...as ever BB

"After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor." - John Huston

After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/johnhuston160571.html#HpGRovAyefzidek7.99

After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/johnhuston160571.html#k7TgKErOATCphmKC.99

After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/johnhuston160571.html#k7TgKErOATCphmKC.99

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

So Low Tech

Last Saturday after completing a bare minimum of the necessary chores, Kristin and I wandered down to Leadbetters. A friend was playing the afternoon gig with no microphone, no amps, just he and a guitar.

Nick's Guitar in it's infancy

The friend playing was Nick Trossbach. Besides being a musician, Nick is a luthier who made the guitar he used. Nick gave impetus to this musing. I extend him my thanks. Catch Nick when you have the opportunity; you won't be disappointed.

His performance transported me to a simpler age.  For a couple of hours, the guitar resonated music, hands clapped the beat, voices joined in harmony.

I understand the need for amplification and  appreciate the depth and texture electronics give to instruments. But the sound of unadulterated music touched an atavistic chord in my soul.

Music is in our DNA. Some anthropologists believe that producing melodious sounds predated speech. Perhaps music precipitated the spoken word. Before hollowed log drums and bone flutes, man stomped and clapped...a primal hambone.

 Digression Break: Hambone, also known as a Juba dance, came to this country through West African slaves. It's an a cappella form of dance in which hand-clapping, thigh-slapping,  and foot-stomping produce the rhythm. The style became a crowd favorite at county fairs and minstrel shows. Levon Helm's first performance was doing a hambone at a fair in Arkansas as a youth. This led to his love of percussion. Back to our regularly scheduled blog:

Saturday's interlude brought to mind friends and family sitting around a bonfire, or a front porch,playing and singing for fun. That has always been one of my favorite settings. Stop by my stoop in Fells Point one weekend morning when the weather is nice, and you'll see what I mean.  As ever BB

"To stand up on a stage alone with an acoustic guitar requires bravery bordering on heroism. Bordering on insanity." - Richard Thompson

Time Flies

like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. - Grouch Marx

June approaches, the summer solstice nears as does another natal anniversary. This one brings me within one year of the six decade mark. Birthdays never held much sway for me, but never did I think I would reach this plateau. 

At my birth, Dwight Eisenhower was president, the Lone Ranger’s last radio episode aired, the first Fender Stratacaster appeared, the H-Bomb was tested on Bikini Atoll, Bill Haley & the Comets recorded “Rock Around the Clock. Television’s glowing cathode ray was my nightlight; nascent rock n’ roll my lullaby. 

  

This big, blue marble and I have gone through some changes. Strange waters have flown under that bridge. 

Years ago overexertion from physical activities caused sore muscles - lugging a refrigerator up five fights of stairs, a grueling pick up basketball or football game, carrying a keg through a snowstorm. Now I wake up with pains attributed to "sleeping funny". Sleeping? Really? The creator's sense of humor manifests itself in my corporeal planned obsolescence. 

A familiar adage says, "You are only as old has you feel." My corollary adage is, "You are only as old as you feel those first 15 minutes after waking up." That puts me closer to the century mark. The day's initial moments involve clearing stuffed nasal passages, working out kinks in the neck, shoulders and lower back. That's if it's a good day.

Unnatural sounds emerge as I struggle to unblock airways, stretch out muscles and joints to greet the dawn. The noises accompanying my morning ablutions are frightening. 

Of course these are all physical symptoms of aging. Mentally...well to be honest, I try not to delve too much into that. Regular readers of these ramblings have a cursory glimpse of  my mental morass. Discretion, decorum and dread of indictment preclude me from disclosing a more realistic peek into my psyche.

Maturity, more accurately, aging has not affected my consciousness. Like Peter Pan, I have never grown up. Something inside of me has kept the wonder, curiosity and mischievousness of childhood alive. I consider it a blessing; others probably consider it something quite different. As ever - BB

"So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!" - from Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

 



 

 

Boiled Hippo

Sounds yummy!

This week, your eclectic essayist ventured to The Discovery City, Columbus, Ohio. How does the strange title allude to this trip? Air travel, of course! I do not eschew obfuscation.

My business visit to Ohio's capital necessitated a plane ride. Despite hurtling 30,000 feet above terra firma in excess of 500mph in a cylindrical conveyance which does not accommodate my size, I don't mind flying. I just need a book to distract from the innate horror of plummeting to a fiery demise.

For this journey I chose, And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks. Written in 1945 by William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, it predates their Beat Generation notoriety. Rejected by publishers in the 40s, the book was not printed until 2008.

The co-authors alternated writing chapters. Imitating a pot-boiler detective story, Hippos lacks Kerouac's spontaneous rhythm and Burrough's non-liner, cut-up technique. While reviewers saw the book as flat, I enjoyed this peek at two emerging talents. The book shows glimpses of Burrough's sardonic humor and Kerouac's impromptu prose.

The story is based on Lucien Carr's murder of David Kammerer. Carr was a student at Columbia University introduced to the Beat's inner circle by Allen Ginsberg. Kammerer was older and had been infatuated with Carr for years.

Sensitivity did not seem to be an issue when the two tried to sell the book in the 40s. But later, their friendship of Carr, who served his time and landed a respectable job with the Associated Press, kept the book under the floorboards. Yet the tell-tale beat of its notoriety sounded for over sixty years. Carr died in 2005 and Hippo saw light of day in 2008.

Many view the title as the book's most interesting feature. The gory, bizarre, enigmatic visual captivates. Burrough's claimed phrase came from a radio report of a circus fire. He believed it made a perfect title for a book. Kerouac agreed it was a radio report, but of a fire in a London Zoo. In later interviews he said an Egyptian zoo.

After my trek to the Buckeye State, my favorite part of the book were the double-takes I received from people who espied the title as I read. As ever- BB

“I began to get a feeling (...) of being the only sane man in a nut house. It doesn't make you feel superior but depressed and scared, because there is nobody you can contact.” - William Burroughs, And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks

The First Earth Day

Philadelphia hosted a large celebration that original Earth Day, Wednesday, April 22, 1970. All area schools closed, but not Bishop Eustace Preparatory School. The principal said Eustace would remain open on Earth Day with random attendance checks throughout the day. Absence would result in suspension.

My rebellious spirit awakened. The next day in homeroom, I stood up and announced I would not be in school April 22. To my surprise several of my classmates stood up and proclaimed the same.

That evening I told my tale at the dinner table expecting parental pride at my principled defiance...not quite.  Dad resignedly shook his head with the "what is wrong with this kid; thank God he's not the only child" look.  Mom's concern centered on a suspension on my permanent record. Later anger replaced concern as the mother's grapevine indicted me as ringleader.

Wednesday, we took the train to Philly and began the five mile walk to the Belmont Plateau. I wasn't sure of the best route, but it soon became apparent. We joined the growing throng marching to Fairmount Park. The picture above shows the crowd which closed West River Drive.

Never had I experienced such a mass of humanity, a migration of Biblical proportion. Once there, I wandered around the sea of people feeling part of a true synergy.

We had thought of neither food nor drink. The April sun and long walk left me parched and sunburned. No vendors existed as corporate merchandising mania had not yet manifested itself at such events. The Fellowship House and Philadelphia Ethical Society had set up an area with hoses supplying fresh water.

After a long line, I reached the hose, drank thirstily, and wished I had something to hold water. A hippie girl in a peasant blouse and cut-offs noticed me and offered her last sip of wine. I drank and handed it back to her. As if reading my mind, she shook her head, giving me the jug. I thanked her. She smiled, touched her lips with two fingers, put her fingers to my lips and twirled away. She never uttered a word. I remember thinking, why can't more people be like this.

My original thought was to carry water for personal use. That girl triggered an epiphany. I spent most of that Elysian afternoon taking water to thirsty people in the crowd. A teenaged Gunga Din, I would refill the jug and return to the multitude. Thankful wayfarers proffered food, wine and other sundry items, my first karmic experience.

The speakers included Sen. Ed Muskie, poet Allan Ginsberg and  Ira Einhorn, aka The Unicorn. That's him flashing the peace sign to the crowd in the picture to the left.

The Unicorn, Philly's own hippie, presented a composed, tranquil aura. Eight years later, he'd become famous for killing his girlfriend, absconding to Europe and remaining on the run for over 20 years. Tis another tale.

Performing in Fairmount Park that day were several local bands and national acts. To be honest, my impetus for going was the music. In 1970, rock and roll held more sway on this fifteen-year-old Sophomore than the ecological welfare of our planet.

The wise fool learned a lesson that April day. I left Belmont Plateau with an idyllic empathy for this big, blue marble and my fellow passengers. The 43 years since have eroded much of that feeling. However, when I remember the touch of that hippie girl's fingers on my lips, my mind's eye sees her silently dancing away, that empathy returns. Res Ipsa Loquitor  as ever - BB

"Come on people now/Smile on your brother /Everybody get together /Try and love one another right now" Get Together - Chet Powers