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

Vato Loco Numero Uno

That would be Oscar Zeta Acosta - lawyer, activist, writer and bull-goose looney. Acosta was the true life Dr. Gonzo of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas fame. He met Hunter S. Thompson in 1967. Oscar's involvement in the Chicano Moratorium March and the killing of journalist Ruben Salazar led to Thompson's article, Strange Rumblings in Aztlan.

What is not mentioned in Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas is that Acosta accompanied Thompson to discuss southern California's racial tensions and Salazar's killing privately, away from LA. The picture to the right is the only one of them together in Las Vegas during that epic adventure. I love that he's wearing gloves. Discretion means not leaving fingerprints. You just never know.

Oscar's partnership with Hunter is not the focus of this rambling. His life, even without the "fear & loathing" association, enthralls me. Before his mysterious disappearance in 1974, he wrote two books: The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo and The Revolt of the Cockroach People.

The first describes his upbringing as a bright, young Mexican-American enamored by the American Dream, and yet simultaneously repelled by America's violent, racially prejudicial underpinnings. It contains his first meeting with Hunter in an Aspen Bar. The second tells of Acosta's connection with the Chicano Moratorium and the radical Brown Berets. Both reads that I highly recommend.

In 1970, Acosta ran for sheriff in LA. While he only garnered 100,000 votes, his notoriety and flamboyance attracted attention to the Chicano cause.

Fitting that this iconoclast known by most from Hunter Thompson's caricaturisation, and believed by many to be only a figment of his imagination, enigmatically evaporated into the ether. The Brown Buffalo was last heard from in May of 1974. In his short 39 years, this meteoric mutant, stomped on the terra - to use Lord Buckley's phrase. He truly was the Number One Crazy Dude! As ever BB

"One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die." - Hunter S. Thompson from his eulogy of Oscar Z. Acosta, The Banshee Screams for Buffalo Meat