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