Teevee Reverie (cont'd)

Let us take a moment to review.  Last week I led you on a guided tour of TV sitcoms of the 1960s.  You learned (or would have, had you been paying attention) that producers hit their nadir in development of entertainment art during this decade.  But this is not a criticism.  Nay, I praise their genius in designing exactly the hypnotic drivel that captured the intellect of the target audience, pre-pubescent pop-culture sponges.  I offer myself, and the endless hours of dedicated watchfulness, as proof positive that in their cauldron of intellect-free stew, they hit the target as none before them had.  So with that dubious endorsement, let’s stroll down the rest of this nostalgic lane and take a look at my three favorite offerings of the era, according to my flawless assessment.

Harkening back to the impact the Second World War had on the consciousness of the producers of this period, it is not surprising that many of the sitcoms were set against a backdrop of that historical cataclysm.  In today’s uber-sensitive, politically correct atmosphere, it is hard to believe that a show like Hogan’s Heroes (CBS 1965-1971) would ever be scheduled must less enthusiastically embraced by the public at large.  For you see, the central premise of this offering was, now hold on to your leder-hosen, Nazis were funny!

If you are not familiar with the weekly bumbling of Sergeant Shultz (John Banner) or the inept naiveté of Stalag 13 Commandant Colonel Klink (Werner Klemperer), you would hardly believe that a gang of POWs could run a successful insurgency operation deep inside of Germany.  But each week, U.S. Army Air Corp. Col. Robert Hogan (Bob Crane) led his internationally diverse cadre of fellow prisoners as they bamboozled the Luftwaffe and Gestapo at every turn.  They were so successful that the show lasted six years (168 episodes).  In the real world the D-Day invasion of Europe to the capture of Berlin took less than a year!

But Hogan and his team could not win the war by themselves.  And they were ably assisted in the Pacific Theatre of Operations by the daring volunteers who manned the PT Boats so valuable to the early, inter-island campaign against the Japanese Imperial Navy.  This show was military farce at its best.  Quite the opposite of Hogan’s Heroes highly proficient clandestine maneuvers, McHale’s Navy (ABC 1962-1966) was the epitome of that military argot FUBAR.

The action centered on the crew of PT (patrol torpedo boat) 73 commanded by Lt. Cmdr. Quinton McHale (Oscar winner Ernest Borgnine… yeah, that’s right, Oscar winner, look it up).  Of course, the show relied more on antics than action.  Comic focus came from the friction between PT 73’s inept but eager executive officer, Ensign Parker (Tim Conway) and squadron commander Captain “Wally” Binghampton (Joe Flynn).  Each episode follows a familiar plot line.  Martinet Capt. Binghampton and his number one, Lt. Carpenter (Bob Hastings), devise and hatch a plan to trip up McHale and his crew so as hasten their removal from front-line service.  Through the bumbling of Ens. Parker and the misfit crew of the “73” they somehow outflank the captain, frequently earning recognition or decoration from up the command chain.  Hey, that sort of sounds like the real military, doesn’t it?

In an early episode, McHale’s crew successfully shoots down a Japanese plane and captures the pilot.  Rather than turning the POW over to the Navy, the crew domesticates Fuji (Yoshio Yoda) and assigns him to houseboy duties.  Fuji’s catch phrase was, “Oy Vey!”  Until I got into high school I thought, “Oy Vey!” was a Japanese curse word.

But as the American viewing audience was reliving WWII through the filter of comedic exaggeration, there was another war in which we actively engaged.  The Cold War (term coined by our old friend, George Orwell) was particularly insidious due to its fulcrum being defined by mutually assured destruction.  Think about that for a few seconds, the security of the whole world was reliant on the presumption that if war started, everybody would die!  Everybody!

As always, art imitates life and a whole new genre blossomed, known as spy fiction.  Of particular import was a series of “spy” novels penned by WWII British intelligence officer Ian Fleming, introducing us to fictional hero James Bond.  But literature is for readers.  The real impact came as a result of Bond’s adaptation into films.  The success of the third movie, Goldfinger (United Artists-1964) in the U.S. launched a mania for all things spy related.  Suddenly the era of Western ebbed and shootouts were between men in trench coats.

Enter Mel Brooks and Buck Henry, two of the zaniest creators of comedy in history.  They jumped on the spy genre bandwagon and gave us Get Smart (NBC 1965-1969, CBS 1969-1970).  It tracked the adventures of superspy Maxwell Smart, Agent 86 (Don Adams) as he bumbled his way through saving the free world week in and week out.  He was joined by his co-agent and love interest, Agent 99 (Barbara Feldon), whose name we never learned.  As with most such shows, the cast was rounded out by Smart’s long suffering boss, “Chief” (Edward Platt).

No matter how serious the peril Agent Smart’s ineffectiveness led them into, the good guys prevailed in the end.  Max et al worked for a counter-intelligence organization named CONTROL.  Their principal activity was to check the evil plots of their Eastern Bloc nemesis, KAOS.  The show featured recurring roles for KAOS villains and CONTROL Agents.  Among the notables were Siegfried (Bernie Kopell) and Hymie the Robot (Dick Gautier) and boasted an impressive array of guest stars: Milton Berle, Carol Burnett, Johnny Carson, Broderick Crawford, Buddy Hackett, Bob Hope, Leonard Nimoy and Don Rickles to name but a few.  The plots also featured Bond-esque gadgets like the shoe phone, the cone of silence and the intruder traps in Smart’s apartment that seemed effective only when activated in error by the hero.

As is common among Mel Brooks’ heroes, Smart developed a folio of catch phrases that even today bring a smile to aging Baby Boomers:

     “Sorry about that, Chief.”  

     “Would you believe…”

     “Missed it by that much!”

     “The old (such-and-such) trick and I fell for it!”

     “And… loving it.”

     “I asked you not to tell me that.”

The blending of Mel Brooks’ creativity and Don Adams’ delivery make Get Smart my favorite sitcom of the 1960s.

If you enjoyed this trip down memory lane, then be sure to read next week’s offering, “Favorite Excerpts from the Gregorian Chant”.

Teevee Reverie

We learned sadly of the death of Ken Weatherwax (59) this week.  And if you have not been following the news you probably have no idea of his relevance to the world of pop culture.  But if you are a Baby Boomer, as I am, you would certainly recognize the name Pugsley Addams.

For those of you not familiar with this fictional television character, he was a member of The Addams Family, the ABC sitcom premiering in September of 1964.  Pugsley was the juvenile son of Gomez and Morticia Addams.  The Addams Family portrayed a rather ghoulish household based on the satirical comic strip art of Charles Addams.  The television show had a run of three seasons producing 64 episodes.  It was one of my favorites.  But this post is much broader in scope than one television show.  It is about my recollections as a TV viewer in the 60’s.  I am sure that my impressions were somewhat skewed by my level of maturity (or lack thereof) but I have fond memories of those evenings lying on the floor basking in the gray scale aura (there were shows produced in color but my family did not purchase its first color TV until 1968) of some of the cheesiest entertainment ever offered.

You must remember that television in the Sixties was the product of the Greatest Generation.  And their consciousness was all about two experiences; the Great Depression and World War II.  So quite naturally the quest for humor quite often flowed from the fountainhead of the war and things military.

One exception was The Andy Griffith Show (CBS-Oct. 1960 to Apr. 1968) which dealt with the day-to-day life of a small town community in rural America.  Although the setting was contemporary, the bucolic, Southern motif gave the show more of a 1930’s (Depression era) feeling.  Andy Griffith played Mayberry sheriff Andy Taylor, whose homespun approach to all things served to mollify the hysterics brought on by each week’s sitcom emergency.  The energy of the show was really driven by Don Knotts as Deputy Barney Fife and the rest of the town’s eccentric characters.  While Sheriff Andy rarely carried a gun, Deputy Barney certainly did; unloaded, a single bullet in his uniform shirt pocket. Among the cast was Ron Howard who played Andy’s son, Opie.  Yes, the Ron Howard who grew up to be one of the boomer generations greatest film directors.  To avoid any confusion, syndicated reruns are generally titled Andy of Mayberry.

Although that show bore no military motif, one of the funnier characters was spun off into its own series Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C. (CBS-Sept. 1964 to May 1969).  Pyle, played by Jim Nabors, was a Mayberry gas station attendant whose lifelong dream was to become a Marine.  Gomer was an affable sort whose joyful, homespun approach to all things aggravated his drill sergeant, Vince Carter (played by Frank Sutton) to dyspepsia. Such was Sergeant Carter’s distress that at the end of season one, he gave up his billet as a drill instructor to return to platoon sergeant duties.  You guessed right, despite all odds being against it, Carter’s platoon was the assignment of one new boot camp graduate, Gomer Pyle.  Although this show played through the worst years of the conflict, Viet Nam was never mentioned.  Ah, the magic of television.  An interesting side note:  In 1964, ABC aired a one-season loser to compete with Gomer Pyle titled No Time for Sergeants.  It was the story of a U.S. Air Force recruit Will Stockdale whose homespun approach to the military was a constant source of aggravation for his sergeant.  The irony is, No Time for Sergeants was a novel (1954 Mac Hyman) which was adapted into a Broadway play and motion picture (1958) starring… Andy Griffith as Will Stockdale.  (If you didn’t go “Hmm!” reread the previous paragraph… we’ll wait for you here).

Such copycat competition was common in the sixties.  I guess the mantra of television scheduling executives was, “If a bad idea worked for them, how can one worse lose for us?”

To wit, The Munsters (CBS Sep. 1964 to May 1966) was a counterpoint to ABC’s The Addams Family.  Unbelievably, The Munsters outperformed The Addams Family in the Nielsen ratings and episodes produced (70).  The Munsters relied on cheap visual gimmicks and pratfalls for its humor.  Let’s face it, seeing a seven foot tall, green, unwitting moron scare people into double-speed running only makes one laugh… maybe once.  The Addams, on the other hand, were a bit sinister and the humor carry over from Charles Addams comic strip strengthened the sense of the macabre.  I have admired Fred Gwynne’s (Herman Munster) work as an actor (see My Cousin VInny, 1992, 20^th Century Fox) but John Aston (Gomez Addams) is naturally hilarious, always.

Another example of dueling sitcoms was couched in the world of the supernatural.  In 1964, ABC launched Bewitched starring Elizabeth Montgomery (Samantha) as a witch who agreed to forsake all her powers so she could marry a mortal, Darren Stevens (originally played to perfection by Dick York, unfortunately replaced due to illness by a less talented Dick Sergeant in the final three seasons).  In 1965, in response to the success of Bewitched, NBC offered I Dream of Jeannie (Barbara Eden); the story of a genie trapped in a bottle discovered by wayward astronaut Tony Nelson (Larry Hagman… yeah that’s right, the evil J. R. Ewing of Dallas began his TV career as a good guy!) whose space capsule had landed on a desert island.

The overarching plot of both shows was the same.  Supernaturally endowed sex kitten promises to live a “normal” life for sake of their beloved.  Funny thing how such a simple goal can be so hard to achieve in the world of situation comedy.  Each episode followed a template: Samantha/Jeannie cheats on vow to forsake magic; unforeseen consequences cause angst and probability of discovery for Darren/Tony; powers used just one last time to rectify situation; everyone lives happily ever after… ‘til next week.

The truth is, the viewing audience tuned into the respective shows for different reasons.  While the story lines of Bewitched were no better than I Dream of Jeannie, the gem was in the supporting characters.  Bewitched offered familiar supporting and guest actors such as Agnes Moorehead (Samantha’s mother), Alice Pearce (nosy neighbor Gladys Kravits), Alice Ghostley (Esmeralda) and Paul Lynde (Samantha’s uncle Arthur), who all made numerous, hilarious appearances.  We tuned into I Dream of Jeannie to watch Barbara Eden’s bare midriff.

Now I, for one, never could understand this devotion to living the simple, normal life.  If your oversexed, immortal (never to age, guys, never to age) paramour had the powers to provide a life of luxury and excess free of work and consequences, why would you choose to be Joe Lunchbox.  It didn’t ring true to me then, it doesn’t today, “Conjure up the yacht, baby… we’re wintering on the Riviera!”

Don’t panic, there’s still more come.  But as this is panning out to be a bit longer than I expected, I will continue next week.  Here’s a tease:  Think cold war spies!       

Golden Holiday Bestees!

Yes, it’s time for another installment of The Bestees; my selections for the best examples of the subject genre from the Golden Age of Hollywood.  This nostalgic wandering will have us visiting traditional offerings appropriate to the holiday season.

For my Greatest Generation, Baby-boomer and X-gen readers, this will likely be a stroll (or perhaps sleigh ride) down nostalgia lane.  Because we began our individual collections of cultural icons before the great mass media explosion, our exposure was limited somewhat by the three (or four, if you lived in a market large enough to support independent stations) channels entering our homes through the television.  We all saw the same movies growing up.  You will encounter nothing new here other than my opinion, well formed as it tends to be.

For the Y-gen, Z-gen and Millenials that frequent my erudite ramblings, you may be exposed to something new and valuable in helping you understand your forbearers.  So put down your i-whatevers and watch a movie… in particular one (or all, if you dare) of these movies.

In reviewing “greatest” Christmas movies lists to ensure I did not forget anything, I was disheartened to see the likes of Die Hard among the population.  A movie must have more going for it than to be set against a Christmas Season backdrop to be a true Christmas movie.  It must somehow relate the philosophical import of Christmas to a redemption or epiphany for a downtrodden soul on the brink of losing their faith or moral compass.  You know, redemption, the whole point of the event, seasonally.

Christmas, euphemistically referred to as the Holiday Season in our politically-correct era, has always been a time for feel-good morality plays.  I am not ashamed to say that the following list of films contributed much to my concepts of morality, charity and community.  So for your pop-culture edification, and perhaps a little tuning of your personal ethos, I give you the best Christmas movies of the Golden Age of Hollywood.

10.)  Babes In Toyland 1934-MGM, directed by Gus Meins, Charles Rogers:  There are many film versions of this children’s classic.  Setting this one apart are the antics of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.  If you don’t know those names, this is a good place to get acquainted.  For you grandparents out there, this movie is an excellent opportunity to offer your precious little ones an alternative to X-box, et al.

9.)  Christmas in Connecticut 1945 Warner Bros., directed by Peter Godfrey:  Barbara Stanwyck and Dennis Morgan star in this romantic comedy about a food writer who has no domestic skills being forced into a public relations liaison with a returning war hero.  All movies made in 1945 featured a returning war hero as part of the cast.

8.)  The Shop Around the Corner 1940 MGM, directed by Ernst Lubitsch:  The plot of hostile music shop co-workers unaware that they are the amorous correspondents seeking love drips with irony.  This gem stars Maureen Sullivan, Jimmy Stewart and Frank Morgan (the Wizard of Oz).

7.)  We’re No Angels 1955 Paramount Pictures, directed by Michael Curtiz:  Take three hardened Devil’s Island escapees, add one family headed by an inept merchant and mix well with a sinister corporate auditor.  Humphrey Bogart, Peter Ustinov and Aldo Ray are the convicts but Basil Rathbone is the criminal.  Adolf, though, may just be the best character in the story.

6.)  Meet John Doe 1941 Warner Bros., directed by Frank Capra:  Who’d a thought Frank Capra would be involved in a movie about a down-on-his-luck baseball player manipulated by a scheming publicity writer into a role as political advocate?  Well yeah, I guess everybody would.  Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck play the principals, but the story is carried by supporters Walter Brennan (ever stalwart) and Edward Arnold (ever evil).  Will he jump?

5.)  The Man Who Came to Dinner 1942 Warner Bros., directed by William Keighley:  An oft copied plot for movies and teleplays, this is the unsettling story of the ill wind that blows no good.  Monty Woolley plays a pompous, over civilized New York critic inserting himself into the lives of his Midwestern hosts and manipulating the lot.  At its heart, this is a love story; you just have to peel away the onion layers to get to it.  This is my favorite Bette Davis performance.  That gives you great insight into either Bette Davis or me, you choose.

4.)  Miracle on 34^th Street 1947 Twentieth Century Fox, Directed by George Seton:  Edmund Gwenn’s portrayal of a man who may or may not be Santa Claus will leave you wondering.  Remember, this is the man who was chasing giant ants around the New Mexico desert in 1951’s Them!  Please, please, please do not substitute any of the made-for-TV copies for this gem.  Then write to Santa and tell him you were a good little girl or boy.

3.)  The Bishop’s Wife 1947 RKO, directed by Henry Koster:  David Niven is a bishop faced with a crisis of faith who asks God for help with his faltering quest to build a cathedral.  The cavalry arrives in the form of Dudley (Cary Grant), an angel dispatched to help ease the bishop’s burden. Dudley, however, seems more interested in the bishop’s wife, played by Loretta Young (who wouldn’t).  There is also a nice performance by Elsa Lanchester (that’s Frankenstein’s bride) as the bishop’s housekeeper.  Although my objective analysis places this gem at number three, it is my favorite holiday film.  And that, professor, is undeniable fact.

2.)  A Christmas Carol (originally titled Scrooge) 1951United Artists (USA), directed by Brian Desmond-Hurst:  Just forget about any of the other versions of this story you are familiar with.  Alastair Sim’s performance as Scrooge most likely allowed Charles Dickens (look it up!!!) to rest in everlasting peace.  Sans all of the dreamworld sorcery of animation and CGI additions of later versions of this classic story, Sim and his co-actors bring the personalities to life.  You will never call someone Ebenezer lightly again.

1.)  It’s a Wonderful Life 1946 RKO, directed by Frank Capra:  Not only is this the best Christmas movie ever made, I’ll give you your spoiled southern belle and Mafioso family, and aver that this is the greatest American movie ever made.  Nobody with a heart (and that includes some of us who’s possession of such an organ is suspect) can watch this film and not root for George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) as he struggles with events spinning his ordered world out of control.  If you don’t agree that this is the ultimate underdog triumphs story, well your heart is two sizes too small!    

 After you’ve seen all of these movies, we can get together and listen for a bell to ring.

   

Alcohol 101

People with whom I have been acquainted for some time know that I used to tipple.  To be perfectly forthright, I imbibed to a grand degree.  I would proffer that my experience in the discipline of alcohol consumption would qualify me an expert on the subject.  Well, at least it would if I could remember the details more clearly.

I do not wish to leave you with the impression that I am an alcoholic.  I can take the nectar or leave it.  I have never been a daily drinker and the only times I would drink alone were on solo camping trips… and then mostly to ease the pain in my knees resultant from a day’s hiking activity.  I eventually learned that not hiking at all is a more efficient way to deal with that problem.

Though I find the flavor of some alcoholic beverages quite appealing, I never really crave them.  However, when I was younger and sturdier and devil may care, given an atmosphere readily improved by social lubricant, I would make the most of the opportunity and tope until I was the funniest guy in the room; quite possibly the world.  No one else’s opinion was considered or even solicited.

It all started about the time I first went to college.  I was a commuter student living at my parent’s house.  (I did not drink outside of family circles while in high school and then just the occasional beer with the uncles… I guess that’s part of the avuncular job description.)  My first real experience with bacchanalian excess came as the result of a woman.  Who’d have guessed?  I do not recall her name; she was a lightsome, willowy, dark haired beauty that worked at the A&W Root Beer restaurant that I frequented.  Actually, I had worked at that same store the semester before, but now had matriculated to a job on the loading dock at May Co.  (Make a note to remind me to write about some of my adventures in the retail trade.)  But I digress.  Subject objet de amour and I were trading notes on beer consumption one day (Yeah, I was winging it.) and she made the unhappy mistake of uttering the phrase, “If you buy a case, I’ll drink it!”  My personal motto of “let no challenge go unanswered” was never better put to service.  With all the smoothness of eighty-grit sand paper, I maneuvered this lass into a date for the following weekend; my parents, you see, were out of town on vacation leaving me the convenience of an empty house. 

There was a problem, however.  I was a mere child of nineteen.  Where was I to get a case of beer?  There was only one acquaintance I thought mean enough to willingly join a criminal conspiracy aimed at the fraudulent use of his driver’s license to provide a minor with beer.  He was a cook at this very same A&W.  He had been there years before I started, remained years after I left and feel sure would be there still if the restaurant hadn’t been converted into a suite of real estate offices.  I do not recall his name, probably because his ridiculous visage resembled that of an orangutan.  He was no taller that five feet, had the build of a (lightweight) wrestler; always leaning forward at the waist, arms swinging to and fro across the front of his body as he walked. He had copious coarse, wavy, rust-colored hair that he pulled back into a pony tail.  He was a surly know-it-all (as opposed to someone you may know as a friendly know-it-all, just sayin’); I really had no use for him… except that he was twenty-one years old.

So as the much anticipated weekend approached, I ambled into the A&W one evening (knowing monkey boy would be working the closing shift) and in passing conversation circled around to my need of libation; this of course without divulging the details of the plan. I reckoned there would be no reason to implicate someone he might know.  To my delight, perhaps astonishment, he indicated a willingness to abet my debauchery.  So off to a nearby 7-11 we drove.  Although I had an accomplice with valid beer-buying credentials, this particular neighborhood purveyor of convenience had a reputation of being willing to democratize the distribution of government controlled beverages.  They didn’t even ask to see the little primate’s ID!  So I boldly carried my case of ill-gotten Coors (I thought it an appropriate brand, as my parents were visiting family members in Colorado) to my Pontiac and stashed it in the trunk.  The clerks paid no attention that we had arrived in separate cars and I was carrying away the purchase my accomplice had paid for.

Now in all fairness to the employees of the 7-11, they looked as if they were probably selling much more contraband under the counter than over, if you know what I mean.  This was the Seventies and these clowns could have stepped in for Cheech and Chong.

So on the appointed Saturday, at the appointed time, I arrived at the A&W to pick up my “date”.  She was not there.  Rusty was there.  And the way he was grinning as he told me that what’s-her-name had gone home sick several hours ago suggested that he knew the story and was somewhat amused by my misfortune.  Ah well, now I had a case of beer in the fridge on a Saturday night and no one to drink with.

Over the next week, as I was ruminating on what to do with a case of beer, I decided to throw a party for my co-workers at May Co.  But the numbers didn’t quite work out so I determined to secure another case of brew.  Remembering the ease with which the 7-11 staff had surrendered the Coors, I figured I could pull this off without conspiratorial assistance.  After all, they were willing to vend to a higher ape.  I was a six-foot tall, two-hundred pound Neanderthal.  And upon reflection, I believe they would have sold anything to anyone with the arm strength to carry it through the door.  The transaction went smoothly.  And to add a bit of class to the soiree, I mixed it up a bit by selecting Budweiser.  When entertaining the masses, one must equip for a variety of tastes.

No, this is not one of those stories with a calamitous outcome.  The party went smoothly.  I was able to get everyone out of my parents’ house without material damage.  I do not recall how many twelve ounce beers I consumed.  But I do remember the puking.  And so, the ogre and the fairy lived happily ever after… and beer was crossed off the menu.

Coming soon!  “How I Learned to Love Tequila”

Sweet Sounds

One of the advantages of living alone is that it affords one the opportunity to enjoy listening to music.  I’m not talking about background noise from the television or radio.  I’m alluding to just sitting in a dimly lit room, engaged in no activity other than enjoying sound.  My tastes are rather eclectic. Tonight I have been listening to classical; no one specific, just some compilation albums I have.  The reader should not think this is a snob play.  I am no aficionado. I know very little about classical music.  I have identified a few composers whose works have inspired me to learn their names and recognize their styles.  I know that Mozart was crazy and the Beethoven was deaf and crazy but I am no real student of the genre.  To me music evokes serenity; an emotional response based solely on feeling.  It’s very rare for me to not be thinking about something.  But with the lights low and my ears bathed in the sounds, my mind can wander anywhere without purpose; no apologies necessary. Earlier in the week, I was listening to rock and roll; The Eagles, Brian Setzer. Def Leppard provided the sound track for last night’s cerebral wanderings.

I have always been a loner.  I’m not a social basket case. I have (a few) friends that I consider very close.  Outside of that I do not really belong to a wider circle.  As you knew me in my professional career this revelation might seem a bit counter intuitive.  But leadership requires a bit of glad handing and showmanship. The problem with acting a role is that one may not have been as successful as one thought, and the minions won’t tell. But in spite of the bombastic rhetoric and the concern shown for others, it was all a performance. Afterward I would retreat to my office, or better yet my car, to be alone and recharge my batteries.

I know that many people are uncomfortable being alone.  There seems to be a common trait among people that prefers company. They must be in touch. You can see this everywhere you look since the introduction of digital connectivity into our society.  People are now so tuned in to their social media that they are totally oblivious to the persons around them. They walk down the street with their ears dammed by sound buds and their visual focus confined to the screen of their smart phone or iPad. I am so thankful that I was born to a generation that walked with their heads up and attention focused on the immediate environs.  It just scares me to think how many beautiful women I would have missed glimpsing had I not been paying attention to where I, and they, were going.

So where did my need for solitude originate?  Is it genetic or learned?  Since I am an only child and was always able to retreat to my room and leave the outside world behind, I have an inkling it was more environmental that congenital.  But it is certainly a keystone feature of my personality.

When I was a young man, say ten or twelve years old, it was not uncommon for me to go on solo walks around the Casa de Oro area that lasted for two hours or more.  I was probably more familiar with the street layout than the local fire fighters.  I particularly enjoyed these excursions in summer when there was plenty of light remaining in the late afternoon and early evening and the temperature had begun to drop. As I remember these walks, I am mystified by the scarcity of other strollers or even families enjoying the evenings in their yards.  But on street after street, in house after house, you would see the same flicker of the television on the ceiling through the living room window; cocooned away with electronic heroin. And in those days, there was nothing but reruns in summer.  Do you remember having only three or four channels to watch? 

When I achieved driving age the pattern was the same; the car adding only to the distance that could be covered in the allotted time.  And the real freedom came with the purchase of my own car; no more, “Dad, can I have the keys to the Buick?”  Yes, dad was still a Buick man, used of course. And to make a connection (tenuous as it is amid these ramblings) now I had music. First there was the AM radio Pontiac so generously provided as standard equipment. Then, after a few paychecks granted in exchange for labor at the A&W, I was able to add an eight-track tape player.  A 1966 Le Mans with a Pioneer stereo; I was king of the road.

My music preferences were a bit less eclectic in those days, restricted more by lack of experience and exposure than refinement of taste.  I had all the Beach Boys albums.  My country collection included guys like Waylon Jennings (before he and Willey Nelson became outlaws) and Tom T. Hall, Dave Dudley singing about bringing the big rig home and of course, Johnny Cash lamenting being named Sue.

I feel at this juncture it is appropriate to explain my affinity for Country Music.  It is my opinion, therefore very true, that much of the Pop and Rock music of the 1960s sucked. Iron Butterfly’s Ina-Gadda Da Vida; Tony Joe White’s Poke Salad Annie; The Beatles; everything after Help!: This is what passed for music? I just could not get into the scene, man!

So I retreated to what I had heard my parents listening to as a kid.  I’m not going to defend its artistic brilliance, but at least I could sing along with the lyrics without compromising my intellectual integrity.  So you could find me, cruising around greater San Diego, windows down (while the AM radio was a standard feature, air conditioning was not) belting out Ahab the Arab with Ray Stevens, “He’s the Sheik of the Burnin’ Sands!”

At long last, the 1970s arrived and Rock music was again musical.  We got great groups like The Eagles singing about Lyin’ Eyes. There was the soul movement with the Temptations and The Four Tops. The south rose again powered by Lynyrd Skynyrd and Molly Hatchet.  Aerosmith looked like a lady.  ELO introduced sophistication by adding cellos to the mix. And Boston gave us More than a Feeling.  Maybe it was because the music was now being served with alcohol but it sure seemed to offer more than the acid laced crap of the previous decade!

Then MTV took us a whole different direction in the 1980s.  The show was just as important as the music.  We replaced our cassette decks with CD players and our muscle cars with sports cars.  And the music got more lyrical: Robert Palmer was Addicted to Love; Peter Gabriel hit us with a Sledge Hammer; The Cars had us Shake It Up.  Van Halen dumped that troglodyte David Lee Roth and picked up the soulful vocals of Sammy Haggar. And Def Leppard poured some sugar on us.  The eighties were a party time and it’s a wonder I can remember anything about it.  But it sure was fun!

As I’ve aged, my tastes have broadened a bit.  I found the Blues and Swing; Big Joe Turner and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.  My collection is comprised mostly of what you would call Oldies.  And I do have a lot of early Rock and Roll from the fifties and sixties, stuff I consider oldies.  But it’s all just background noise if you don’t take time to sit and listen to it.  And thankfully, I have remembered that lesson.

Burning Desire ...well, Maybe Simmering

Let me take you back in time; to an idyll where needs were simple and desires so passionately held.  Now honesty begs me clarify that this is not a time you can find on a calendar.  For each of us the parameters will differ.  My halcyon days most probably concluded before the parents of many of you were born.  But then the era is unimportant as the emotions run true for each generation in turn.

I write, of course, of childhood.  That time when fervor will be ignited so easily by the imagination, sparked by overwhelming desire of objects: Trinkets, baubles, gewgaws whose value is amplified by cultural approbation as the treasure of the age; in a word; the toy.

It does not matter in which epoch one’s life is lived.  For each, there is that one point of yearning that is so readily twisted into desperate need.  When fancy becomes obsession and reason deserts the beholder.  The phrase, “I need it!” is the unnatural mantra of the spell bound coveter.  There is no antidote for this psychological venom but possession.  Without it, the world is empty space, ennui without end.  But for those endowed with luck, empowered by the gods to secure the golden fleece of their dreams, there is fulfillment, joy, Nirvana!

And as the days of bliss flow ever forward into the eternity, our soul is calmed by the knowledge that we possess the one thing, the locus of our universe, the reward for all our efforts.  Until, of course, a new enchantment overtakes our reason.  Our attention is turned away from what we knew in our heart of hearts was to be our true love forever and ever.  And the erstwhile objet de Coeur, once such a bright star, fades into the darkness of unremembered elation.

I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toys' R Us kid 

There's a million toys at Toys 'R Us that I can play with! 

From bikes, to trains, to video games, 

It's the biggest toy store there is! Gee whiz! 

I don't want to grow, cuz baby if I did, 

I wouldn't be a Toys 'R Us kid.

 

A Pastoral Parable

Oh, serenity of an elm shaded lea,

At once so calm and so inspiring

Until a bird doth shit on thee,

And nature shows her whimsy!

Ominous Omen

I went to college a bunch of times.  Why is a subject for another missive.  But as a result, and the particular major I pursued, I took several statistics courses.  Not being a math whiz, I was terrified at the prospect each and every time.  But fear and desperation can combine to be great motivators.  Because I was aware of my shortcomings in the mathematical sciences, I applied a level of focus and effort far beyond my wont.  And to my surprise, I learned something.

Okay, you can stop worrying now.  This is not going to be a treatise on statistical methodology.  I will leave you with just one piece of relevant statistical truth and it doesn’t involve numbers.  If one can measure the history of an event, one can predict the likelihood of future occurrences with a known level of confidence.

A discussion of just how much confidence would require a dissertation on statistical methods and you don’t really want that.  It is the concept here that I am trying share, not the mechanics.  You don’t have to know just how an internal combustion engine works to believe that your car will get you to the store.

Now to the point:  I get a lot of junk mail.  Not spam, real honest-to-goodness snail-mail, postal-service delivered crap right to my mail box.  It is probably quite similar to what you receive; grocery store mailers, real estate solicitations, discounted home remodeling offers.  I usually deposit them directly into the recycling bin without carrying them across the threshold.  But once in a while, I get something that just defies nonchalance.  Such a delivery occurred this week.

Let me recall you to the opening remarks about statistics and their analysis.  Like no other industry, insurance companies employ armies of mathematical analysts to predict future outcomes based on historical data.  They are the most important cogs in the insurance industry wheel as their work output is the foundation for premium pricing on issued policies.  And they have to be accurate.  If an insurance company prices premiums too high, they will lose business to competitors.  If they price their policies too low, they will not collect enough revenue to cover claims, operations and profit to remain in business.

These heroes of the insurance game are Actuaries.  And they live in a world of statistical analysis so advanced that it has its own moniker, Actuarial Science.  They take their jobs very seriously; as do their employers; as do governmental oversight agencies (e.g. Insurance Commissions).  So seriously, in fact, that they must be certified through testing, just like a CPA or an Attorney.  I’m sure you’ve heard jokes about how dull accountants are.  Well, we make fun of actuaries.  But I digress.

Let me now tie junk mail and statistical forecasting together.

This week, I received an offer from the Trident Society.  Yeah, I’d never heard of them either and that helped spark my curiosity enough to open the envelope.  It was a nice piece of stationary resembling in size and design an invitation, such as to a wedding or baby shower (we’ll talk about the relative merits of prenatal hygiene at a later date).  Much to my bemusement, the content was an offer was for pre-paid cremation services.  I had to wonder, “Do they know something I don’t?”

Now if this solicitation had been addressed to “occupant” or “postal patron” I would have dismissed it as mere chance.  But it was addressed specifically to me right down to the zip-code +4.  Someone has targeted me as a likely customer for future cremation services and I want to know how they came up with my name.

As incentive to sign up for a sales pitch, they offer to enter my name in a contest to be selected as their pre-paid cremation winner of the month.  This produces a quandary.  I never win anything by random chance.  So, if I sign up does that ensure I won’t be needing their services?  Or, if I don’t sign up, will I die before I have a chance to make arrangements for their services; thereby deferring the onus of these decisions to the executor of my estate?

Zombie Zero!

Okay, so I am perusing the internet this week and I encounter a news story entitled, “Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse?” I could feel the pulse in my eyeballs as my blood pressure soared into dangerous territory.  I have for some time now been experiencing a growing impatience with the current practice of marketing Zombie defense products.  Have you noticed the proliferation of “Emergency Zombie Apocalypse Response Vehicle” spare tire covers on Jeeps? The gun range at which I do most of my shooting offers a full line of “zombie” character targets for which they charge a substantial premium over regular bulls-eye targets… and people are scooping them up! (Without any notable improvement in marksmanship, I might add… if the Zombies do appear, the best place to stand is right in front of one because they seem to be bullet-repellant.)  Did you know that reputable firearms ammunition manufacturer Hornady is producing a line of bullets labeled “Zombie Max^TM” Ammunition?  Their web ad contains the following “disclaimer”:

 Hornady® Zombie Max™ ammunition is NOT a toy (IT IS LIVE AMMUNITION), but is intended only to be used on…ZOMBIES, also known as the living dead, undead, etc. No human being, plant, animal, vegetable or mineral should ever be shot with Hornady® Zombie Max™ ammunition. Again, we repeat, Hornady® Zombie Max™ ammunition is for use on ZOMBIES ONLY, and that's not a nickname, phrase or cute way of referring to anybody, place or thing. When we say Zombies, we mean…ZOMBIES!

Really?

I’ll tell you how to defeat the Zombies.  TURN OFF THE TV… SHUT DOWN THE VIDEO GAME… WALK OUT OF THE MOVIE THEATRE!

I have no problem with either the science fiction or horror genres of film.  And when I was a ten year old, I pestered my parents for toys that let me live out the fantasies I experienced in the movies.  As I recall, James Bond was very much in vogue at the time so I was particularly enamored of spy stuff.  Before that, when TV was ruled by the Western, I wore my Mattel six-shooter everywhere.  BUT I OUTGREW THEM.  I advanced to a stage where real-world stuff was the locus of my discretionary spending.  Stuff like cars and fast food and girls. I have no problem with nostalgia either.  I will watch a Warner Bros. Merrie Melodies cartoon whenever I can.  But I don’t carry a carrot around with me everywhere I go!  All of this aggravation got me to thinking about the origin of this craze.  So, after my pulse returned to a more congenial rate and my breathing more regular I decided it was time to educate you, the gullible public, on the true nature and history of Zombies.

Etymologically, the English word zombie was first recorded in 1819 in a history of Brazil in the form of “zombi”  The origin of the word is West African and derives from the Kongo language words “nzambi” (god) and “zumbi” (fetish), per the Oxford English Dictionary (credit to Wikipedia “Zombie”).  The cultural historical root of the zombie is Haitian, from the African slaves transported there.  Per the folklore, a zombie is a dead person physically revived by a bokor sorcerer.  The zombie remains under the control of the bokor as a personal slave and has no will of its own.  There is no reference in Haitian folklore to mass risings or apocalyptic swarms.  Eye witness accounts of necromancy and the animation of the dead has largely been debunked by the scientific community except on those rare occasions when zombie activity can be blamed as a source of global warming and rising sea levels.  Then ninety-five percent of the academic community pronounces zombies not only as plausible but incontrovertible truth.  As evidence they offer Al Gore.

In popular fiction, flesh-eating undead have been around since the Epic of Gilgamesh (an epic poem from Mesopotamia) considered the first truly great work of literature… the first surviving tablets date to the 18^th century BCE and contain the verse:

I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,

I will smash the door posts, and leave the doors flat down,

and will let the dead go up to eat the living!

And the dead will outnumber the living

White Zombie (United Artists-1932)

While that may sound pretty apocalyptic, there is no tangible connection to zombies.  Reanimation of the dead by scientific means as we are familiar with in our century (fiction) was prefigured in Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (have you read it, Swee’ pea?) in 1818.  Bram Stoker gave us Dracula in 1897 and the race to scare the hell out of us was with tales of the undead was on.  The word zombie was introduced into our cultural consciousness by Bela Lugosi in the 1932 film White Zombie directed by Victor Halperin, wherein they were depicted as the mindless henchmen under the spell of an evil magician a la the Haitian tradition; still no apocalypse.

So where did the notion of an apocalyptic army bent on devouring the living have its genesis?   Credit goes to George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968).  This was the film that started it all, though Romero’s script did not reference “zombies”.  Puffed up literati comment on the social significance of Romero’s army of the dead as criticism of real-world social ills, but they probably get paid by the word.  Romero’s bad (and I mean it, it is bad) first effort launched us into an age of the zombie, but it took a while.  Romero waited ten years before writing the first sequel, Dawn of the Dead.

The next two decades brought us a spate films about evil spirits and reanimated dead feasting on flesh, but it wasn’t until the new millennium that armies of undead, in all their various iterations became mainstream box-office fodder.  So now we have shoulders upon which we can surely rest blame.  It is the Millennials!  In no small part are they responsible for the cultish growth of all things “Zombie”.  And who did they put in charge of preparing us for the upcoming battle for the survival of mankind?  None other than Barrack Obama!  Well, I can’t think of anyone else better suited to lead us in a fantasy war against an imaginary foe.

Hints for Surviving Hallow e’en

Chainsaw - There is a popular trend toward chainsaw slasher films.  If you are attacked by a chainsaw wielding psychotic, RUN.  I have done some little bit of chainsaw work and they are heavy and unwieldy.  All but the fattest, uncoordinated ghoul bait can outrun someone with a chainsaw.  And if one of your party happens to be a bit on the portly side it will just to aid in making your escape more effective.

Vampires - Dracula and his ilk flow in and out of fashion and I’m not sure they are cool this year.  But to be on the safe side, carry a cross; or better yet a “cross fitchy” on which the bottom has been shaped into a point.  Don’t forget your wooden mallet and find a Catholic Church so you can pick up some holy water.  How do you feel about the smell of garlic?

Mummies – If you have the presence of mind, look for the loose end of the mummy’s shroud.  Grab the material and give it a good yank is if you are starting a lawn mower (or chainsaw).  The resulting spin should remind you of a top and give you plenty of time to escape.  As a back-up, carry a copy of the Book of the Dead.

Houses - If perchance you find yourself either alone or in company within the environs of a spooky domicile, and you hear a creepy noise, feel a cold chill or stumble over a recently slain body, get out of the house by the shortest route!  Do not go upstairs; the best you could hope for is a window leading to an old tree, probably haunted.  Do not go downstairs: Do you know why they always find the bodies in the basement?  Think about it.  That’s right, because the only way out is blocked by whatever chased you down there in the first place.  If you survive the night, make a note to yourself to contact a licensed realtor in the morning to begin the search for a single-story ranch with lots of doors.

Ghosts - Don’t panic.  It’s just some prankster wearing a sheet.  Ghosts aren’t real.  But if you are feeling a bit squirrelly, pull the sheet so the eyeholes are no longer of use, grab his trick-or-treat bag and run.  Your yield in purloined candy will rise as the evening advances.

Storm Trooper - Like ghosts, their helmet impairs their vision.  Give it a twist.  Grab their flashlight disguised as a light saber.  Run.

Final tip: Regardless of your costume, which by now you should have figured out must include no headgear, wear good running shoes.

Happy Halloween!

Frankenstein (Universal-1931)

Extra! Mars Attacked!

A special bulletin for readers of the Obsequious News Service!  Sunday, October 19, 2014, Comet Siding Spring (named for the Australian Observatory at which it was first seen) will have a close encounter with our neighbor planet Mars.

Comet Siding Spring

The comet will pass within 87,000 miles of the Red Planet, (I don’t have to go over that again, do I? Do we all remember from the blog post of April 7, 2014, “Extra! Mars Attacks!” why the planet is named Mars?) just one-third the distance between the Earth and Moon.

Comet as seen from Mars

In addition to the close encounter, this occurrence is remarkable because the comet is from the Ort Cloud: Which is a long, long, way.  The Ort Cloud is that ring of rocks and ice balls out beyond Neptune where that erstwhile planet Pluto resides.  NASA suggests that Siding Spring was nudged out of its usual orbit by a passing star some million years ago (talk about a road trip) on a trajectory toward the sun.

Maybe… or could it just be a bit of revenge?

While several satellites and the Mars bound rovers are keyed up to take pictures as the intruder passes, there is no indication that we will be able to see the comet from Earth.  That can only mean one thing… STEALTH TECHNOLOGY!

Keep your eyes open and report anything you don’t see to authorities.

Happy Birthday Mickey Mouse!

Okay, you’ve got me.  This week’s post has nothing to do with Walt Disney’s beloved rodent.  I am almost ashamed to say it is possibly the one subject more off-putting than vermin, The Constitution of the United States.  I can hear the yawns now. Oh, and you patriots out there: shut up… there is some measure of sarcasm in everything I write.

   

Be honest, if I had titled this post The Constitution, would you have started reading it?  I didn’t think so.  But hang with me for just a few lines and see if this doesn’t spark your interest.

Since the very first moments after the ratification of the Constitution there has been debate on the scope and meaning.  Does that sound like a description of the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare)?  Except that the ACA is 906 pages (the actual text of the statute, not including subsequent regulation) and the Constitution is only 4,400 words.  That’s less than nine pages in modern typewritten font: Less than nine pages to define the parameters of a whole federal governing system.  Interesting fact; it is the oldest and shortest written Constitution of any major government.

Interestingly enough, the conventioneers that would eventually produce the Constitution had no legal authority to do so.  The Continental Congress, somewhat preoccupied with keeping the creditors at bay, created a body of state representatives charged with correcting a major flaw in the original Articles of Confederation.  The revolutionaries, it seems, had borrowed a considerable sum from several European countries to fund the war with no real mechanism for repayment of the debt.  Does this remind you somewhat of our government today?  This was critical as back in the days before world monetary controls, creditor countries collected the arrears via invasion and conquest.  The problem was the original Articles of Confederation included no proviso for direct taxation by the Confederation.  All monies had to be gathered from the coffers of the independent states, all of whom were a bit reluctant to hand over the wealth they had just fought a war to retain.

James Madison

James Madison is considered the father of the Constitution because of his efforts to get the document drafted.  He was a Virginian and protégé to Thomas Jefferson, Much of the template of the Constitution came from the Virginia Constitution which had been written by Mr. Jefferson. The final document was a compromise generally reflecting the constitutions of Virginia and New Jersey. One of the key sticking points was the disparity of votes caused by basing legislative representation on population.  The solution was the introduction of a bi-cameral legislature, one house of which would be populated evenly by representatives of each state.  This was the birth of the most deliberative body in politics, the U.S. Senate.  You know, the gang led by Harry Reid who can’t bring anything to a vote.  Ah, the progress we’ve witnessed in two hundred and twenty-seven years.

Gouverneur Morris

The actual text of the Constitution was largely written by Gouverneur (enate family name, not a political office) Morris, delegate from Pennsylvania (although a citizen of New York).  Yeah, things were a bit confused in the early years.  He is largely credited with authorship of the Constitution’s preamble, you know: “We the People...”

Interestingly enough, two of the three heavy hitters of the Continental Congress that created the Declaration of Independence were not at the Constitutional Convention.  Jefferson was in Paris as the U.S. Minister to the Court of King Louis XVI working to shore up monetary and military support for the new country, and reportedly charming the ladies of polite society.  And his old pal (but political rival) John Adams was serving as Minister to The Court of Saint James (England, for you tyros) trying to put a happy face on relations between two countries recently at war.  If you’ve read anything about Adams you understand the irony in his appointment as a diplomatic envoy. Benjamin Franklin was a delegate to the convention and signer of the Constitution.

Adams and Jefferson

On September 17, 1787, the delegates of the Convention approved the Constitution and adjourned.  That was the easy part.  The delegates were all interested in forming a unifying federal government.  But having just fought a war to dislodge the onerous taxation and control of the British, many members of state governments were resistant.  A case had to be made that would convince the states, with their varied political and economic interests, that turning over governance to a distant federal bureaucracy would not reinstate monarchial tyranny.

Alexander Hamilton

In a herculean effort, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison and John Jay (but mostly Alexander Hamilton) wrote eighty-five articles (really op/ed pieces) published in New York City newspapers to sway popular opinion in favor of ratification of the new Constitution.  These opinion pieces were titled The Federalist Nos. 1 – 85 submitted under the pseudonym “Publius” to protect the identity of the authors (a common but curious practice by political writers as far back as the classical Greek era).  It is widely held by modern scholars that the influence of The Federalist in the ratification process was minimal as they were generally available only to residents of New York.  They are however, considered a significant resource in gleaning Constitutional intent.

As stated, there was considerable resistance to the formation of a strong central government.  Among the concerns was the natural tendency of government to self promote and grow its power at the expense of the states and the individual.  Thomas Jefferson was among the more influential opponents to the Federalist template.  The compromise posited (lore has it at a dinner hosted by Jefferson for the purpose of bringing the political opponents Hamilton and Madison together) was the addition of a bill of rights.

Hamilton asserted that such a document was superfluous as the powers of the federal government would be strictly limited to those positively enumerated in the Constitution. (Ha-ha-ha… that one still cracks me up!)  The Bill of Rights proponents prevailed.  The Constitution was adopted September 17, 1787 and ratified by the final state (Rhode Island… but they had to park their carriages in Connecticut) May 29, 1790 thus becoming the supreme law of the land.

As you know from current debate, even the express limitations attached to government power by the Bill of Rights are constantly under attack.

Recently there has been much sensational discourse on the state of the Constitution as to it being a living or dead document.  What an unfortunate choice of language!   Of course the document is living, as it is the officially adopted law of the land.  The authors (and by agreement, the signers) recognized the need for adaptability in a changing world by including a provision for amending the document when in the best interest of the CITIZENS.  They also showed considerable insight into human behavior by making the process arduous and exacting so as to preclude capricious change on a swelling tide of temporary emotion.  The Constitution has stood for over two hundred years and amended only seventeen times. (Prohibition of slavery, good… prohibition of alcohol, not so much.)

It is the duty of the legislature as representatives of the people, not the executive branch of government, to assess the applicability of Constitutional provisions and undertake the amendment process when shown to be necessary.  The courts have dismissed the right of nullification by the States.  If no such right of nullification exists, where do the courts derive their authority to liberally (small “l”) apply modern philosophies (either pro or anti government) to change the original intent expressed in the Constitution?

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little expedition through your history.   Be sure to tune in next week when we explore the political machinations that created the Duchy of Lichtenstein.