100

If  you are paying attention, you may have guessed that the title of this week’s post refers the fact that last week’s was the one-hundredth submission if you don’t count the first which was merely an announcement that I was starting a blog and features would be forthcoming.  (All of this, of course discounts the existence of my travel blog.)

So I thought I’d review some facts and figures about the blog (because feelings don’t really matter) so far.

Across 100 posts, the blogsite has received 6,046 pageviews.  Now you would think, if you did the math in your head, “Hey, that’s not bad… sixty hits per week.”  But the truth is, there are some weird anomalies going on here.  We’ll get to those later.

The truth is, with one exception, the highest pageview count was received by the first post, The Great Potato Excursion (a boyhood memoir) with fifty-six hits.  After that, the readership dropped sharply and averaged around twenty hits per week for about nine months then dropped again into the single digits range.  Obviously, some television network is airing Mr. Ed reruns opposite by blogpost releases.

By far, discounting the aforementioned anomalies, the single highest pageview count was enjoyed by …and Taxes.  If you were among the eighty-one visitors to that post, then you will remember it was not about taxes at all but the inevitability of death.  By pure coincidence it was posted on April 11, four days before the income tax filing deadline. I am sure some number of poor desperate tax filers were looking for last minute suggestions on how to screw Obama, Inc. out of one more dollar.  God’s work, I say.

But in September and October 2014, something strange happened.  The Ukraine became my favorite audience and boosted the monthly counts to 633 and 556 respectively.  No, I don’t know why.  Adding to the mystery, the vast majority of these hits went to The Greatest Invention of My Lifetime and The Greatest Invention of My Lifetime, cont., an inane two part treatise on my love affair with the word processor that had been published on successive weeks in June of 2013.  Yeah, go figure!  There was some Ukrainian spill over onto The Zen of Mustachios (81-July 3, 2013) and Cats or Dogs? (77-June 6, 2013).  Those are the facts and I can’t even begin to explain them.

But speaking of foreign countries, the readership breaks down like this:

USA                3,555

Ukraine              705

Turkey               387

France               152

Germany            147      Thanks Nicky, miss you.

Russia               127

Poland               115

New Zealand        81

China                  65

Mexico                52       My good friend, Chris (BTW Amigo, that’s just half!)

I have received very little feedback from readers.  My friend Frank is always ready with a thought or two, but I see him weekly anyway and he’ll do anything for a burrito.  The most frequent can be paraphrased to, “I didn’t get that at all!”  My former sergeant offered the most valuable insight when he corrected my use of the word “roll” when I had intended to use, “role”.  Once a mentor, always a mentor… thanks, Doug.

So that’s where we are to date.  And, considering the tissue tender nature of my ego, I think it’s probably time to change things up.  Rather than forcing the creative (non) juices to flow on a weekly basis, I will write as I am inspired by the humorous world around me and post as produced.  You may get lucky and never be haunted by my musings again.

Tout Suite Too

As you will remember, last week we left our hero in a dire predicament…

So there was my Nova, doing its best impression of the space station ala 2001: A Space Odyssey (MGM-1968), hurtling southward while spinning on its own axis.  Once a vehicle has lost traction and turned its ass around one hundred eighty degrees, the operator has become more or less dead weight and is merely along for the ride, as short or long as it may ultimately prove to be.  So I calmly removed my hands from the steering wheel and pondered my situation, the probable outcomes and the faint strains of Johann Strauss, Jr.’s “Beautiful Blue Danube”.

The situation:  Some might say my car was out of control at this point.  This is incorrect.  It was perfectly under control of the calculable and predictable laws of physics.  And as such, it would continue to travel in a straight line until interrupted by some other force.  A quick assessment of my environment (from memory, it’s dark) yielded that I was on a two lane country road.  On the left, no right, no left… on the east side of the roadway is a shear drop-off of ten to fifteen feet.  On the west side is a cliff face of solid granite. The prospects seemed grim at best (la-dah-dah-dee-dah, dum-dum, dum-dum).  I counted three complete spins (I have no idea how many actually occurred).  When the vehicle came to a stop, as a result of gravity and the coefficient of friction between my tires and the macadam, I realized I had neither collided with the escarpment nor been launched into orbit.  Unbelievably, my car had come to rest perfectly centered in the northbound lane (remember, my original direction of travel had been south) facing the correct direction.

For a brief moment I sat there and collected my thoughts, most of which were, “I need a restroom!”  Rather than try to maneuver a U-turn in these hostile climes, and perhaps encounter a cruising Highway Patrol unit, I just opted to follow my good fortune back into El Cajon and seek out another route to Casa De Oro (my home community).

Lesson learned?  C’mon, this is Dale we’re talking about.  My motto: Any lesson worth learning is worth learning multiple times.

In 1986 I realized a life-long dream and purchased my first Corvette.  It was a 1981 model year.  The color was metallic graphite.  It would sparkle in the moonlight.  On one occasion, while cruising through a strip-mall parking lot, a little kid called his father’s attention to the car and shouted, “Dad!  Look, it’s the Batmobile!’  Yeah, I was cool.

I was a resident of greater Los Angeles at the time.  Two weeks after the purchase, I drove to my folks’ house in San Diego for the weekend to show off the new wheels.  I arose early Sunday morning to take the Corvette out on the nearly deserted roads to see what she could do.

There was a complex network of rural roadways within minutes of my parents’ home so it didn’t take long for me get truly into the spirit of the proceedings, which was speed.  I was tearing along Willow Glen Road in generally a southwesterly direction.  This is within a couple of miles of the famous sub-orbital, maiden flight of the Nova.  The proximity reminded me of that fateful night.  But no fear, I was in a true-to-form sports car now.  I could scoff at the laws of physics.  Haw!

Suddenly I found myself face-to-face with a familiar driving challenge; a slight upgrade in a curve where the apexes of the hill and curve coincided.  With cool aplomb, I goosed the gas just a bit to transfer weight to the rear wheels and increase traction.  The master has arrived!

Then there was a sickening reemergence of a long-suppressed feeling.  My rear end was coming around faster than I could steer into the slide.  Once again, hands off of the wheel, into analysis mode.  It seems pea-gravel, detritus from the rock wall on my right, significantly changes the formula, greatly reducing friction.  This time, the car made only one rotation as it slowed.  I remember thinking, “I’m gonna beat the devil twice (as it turns out, I have competed with and fought the devil to at least a draw on several occasions, but those are other stories for other times) in one lifetime.”  As the front end continued to slow its sweeping arc across the spinning landscape, I let out a breath.  Then a new question popped into my head, “Hey, when did they put that guard rail (BANG!) there?”

Nature can be very humbling, especially when we test wisdom again and again.  I was very lucky to have survived spin-outs twice (that you know about): The first cost me nothing but pride.  The second was a bit more expensive, about $600 in body work.

Tout Suite

I am a car guy.  I believe we established that in A Short (very) Story back in May of 2014. If you haven’t read it or don’t remember, I suggest you give it a look see.  It lays the foundation for much of my life. 

I do appreciate the finer points of car design.  But my passion is for driving, not wrench turning.  And thus, my focus has always been improving my skills as a pilot.  A motor vehicle is an instrument.  Van Cliburn doesn’t tune pianos, he pounds on the keys.  And as is the case in most any passionate pursuit, I have been known to push the limits right up to or slightly beyond the edge of the performance envelope.

Jamacha Road

It was a Friday night; more likely very early Saturday morning.  I was headed southbound on Jamacha Road (pronounced ha-maa-shaw: CA state highway 54) out of El Cajon en route my parents’ home where I still lived.  Those of you familiar with the area today would not recognize it way back then.  Today, it is a five-lane, curbed, well-lighted boulevard comprised of both residential and commercial zones.  In 1974, it was a two lane country road with no night lighting.  There were no signals or stop signs from the city limits of El Cajon to the junction with State Hwy 94: It was about three miles of near-straight blacktop.

1972 Nova

I was driving a 1972 Chevy Nova powered by a stock 350 CI V-8 engine.  I was feeling a little squirrely and may have been ever so slightly under the influence of a liquid intoxicant.  Good judgment has never been my strong suit and as events would betray, my suit was at the cleaners on this night anyway.

The road was clear of all traffic so I leaned into the accelerator a bit.  Eighty miles-per-hour, I seem to recall.  Just south of Hillsdale Road, the road grade begins a gentle incline.  As it passes the entry to the old quarry (no longer there) the highway jogs just a few degrees left at the same time it reaches the apex of the grade and starts downhill.  This is where I learned my first practical lesson regarding traction and the unloading of one’s suspension.

When a spring suspended vehicle is climbing a grade at speed, it is building energy in an up direction.  As the car reaches the apex and transitions to a down direction, the inertia of the suspended weight continues upward for a very brief period of time unloading the suspension, resulting in a reduction of traction.  Normally, you only notice this if there is enough suspension travel to result in that floating feeling one gets while riding a roller coaster:  Negative Gs as it were.  However, if this reduction of traction coincides with the need to maneuver, let’s say for a curve in the road, the effect can be more serious.

So there I was, still travelling southbound along Jamacha Road, while at the same time my car was spinning on its own axis.  I was unnaturally calm as I witnessed the event; it was too bad that this was happening in the dark, as I would expect the passing view was somewhat exhilarating.  My life did not flash before my eyes as is suggested in cartoons.  My thoughts were turned more to the depth of embarrassment my parents would endure over the death of their only child in such a ridiculous fashion.

…be sure to tune in next week to learn Dale’s fate.  Did he die in a fiery crash? 

They Comet and Goeth!

The year 2015 is starting out with a swoosh for the sky watching crowd.  Comet Lovejoy is making a rare visit to our neck of the solar system.  This comet was discovered only last August (by Australian amateur astronomer Terry Lovejoy, thus the name).  Unlike our more famous comet, Halley, which has a period of 75-76 years (period is the number of years needed for a comet to complete its solar orbit), Lovejoy’s period is approximately 8,000 years.  If you miss it this time, any descendants of yours around to witness the next visit are likely to regard you as an ancestor as we do the caveman.

Comet Lovejoy

I have tried unsuccessfully to find Lovejoy thus far.  The glow of the full moon was too bright the first couple of nights and then last night, the sky clouded up.  As the month progresses and the moon rises later (it rises just a bit less than one hour later each night) an observer will have a longer period of post twilight darkness to find and observe the comet.  Here in metropolitan California, you will likely need the aid of binoculars or a small telescope as the comet’s natural brightness is not enough to overcome ambient light to view with the naked eye.

You have seen pictures of comets with their tails leaving the impression that they whoosh across the night sky.  This is misleading.  On any particular night, the comet will appear stationary in the sky.  It is moving (at incredible speed) but the sky is so vast that it takes hours to make any appreciable progress against the background of stars.  However, from night to night, if you are dedicated enough to watch, you will notice that the comet has moved along its orbital path, just as the planets do, i.e. it will be in a different position relative to the stars and constellations.

Comet Halley

I was lucky enough to see Halley’s comet in 1986 (I doubt I’ll last long enough for its next appearance in 2061) and it remains one of the highlights of my sky watching experience.  I was fortunate enough to experience Halley during a camping trip to Joshua Tree National Park where the light pollution was minimal.  It was my first comet and to my surprise, did not resemble the large telescope images or the artists’ conception illustrations.  Rather than a bright point with a flaming tail, a comet will appear as a (small) cloudy or misty blob.  If it is reflecting enough sunlight, or you have a more powerful telescope, you may detect a bright spot within the blob.  That will be the body of the comet itself, the fog being the halo of detritus swept off of the comet by the solar wind.

Rather than attempt (and most likely fail) to instruct you in how to locate the comet, I suggest you Google “green comet” (so nicknamed for its green tint) which will offer you several websites that can take you through the mechanics.  The comet, depending on weather conditions, should be visible through much of January.

Good hunting!

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.