tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65839833166335597472024-02-22T11:10:23.448-05:00Mount Drinkmore™Four boring jobs. Four bored idiots. Witness the workday ramblings of a quartet of morons breaking the chains of tedium before nipping off to the pub. Atop Mount Drinkmore, every hour is Happy Hour.Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17688268218462706348noreply@blogger.comBlogger248125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-67415397131069221122020-01-12T10:34:00.011-05:002024-01-07T11:45:20.947-05:00Neil Peart Helped Me Find My Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7B9Vf-awgtFkMftrtZILWKzd4VUqzbkkqYlhfZfyJoIlaQ5Z_dFKkIW1egWEpjIM14GqWVi-MSDkm3vXtMik2dKq7UjqwsqjAyyhyphenhyphen_COMUPXYnUdZv2ctaNDguILI38kUmPFGJ7UUYL6/s1600/Neil+1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7B9Vf-awgtFkMftrtZILWKzd4VUqzbkkqYlhfZfyJoIlaQ5Z_dFKkIW1egWEpjIM14GqWVi-MSDkm3vXtMik2dKq7UjqwsqjAyyhyphenhyphen_COMUPXYnUdZv2ctaNDguILI38kUmPFGJ7UUYL6/s320/Neil+1.jpeg" width="250" /></a></div>
I spent the summer of 1981 sweaty and shirtless in my bedroom as I air-drummed relentlessly to Rush’s <i>Moving Pictures</i>. An inveterate desk-tapper through much of my schooling, I knew nothing about playing drums, having attempted it several months earlier in seventh-grade music class and coming off a fool thanks to my lack of coordination.<br />
<br />Still, instinctively seduced by a thumping, mesmerizing backbeat played almost as if a lead instrument, I sat for hours on the edge of my bed learning roundhouses and mimicking beats in time signatures I couldn’t determine—fairly competently before long, as I rosily recall—my concession to ignorance the misbelief that the snare drum is placed outside of the right knee, not between them, and unenlightened to the futility of performing two-handed snare work across my body on an actual drum kit.<br />
<br />Fully “awakened” to music’s magic only a few months earlier (during a genuinely epiphanic moment delivered by Jimmy Page in that same seventh-grade classroom), I, like so many soon-to-be Rush fans, turned onto the utterly unique Canadian trio through the ubiquitous radio presence of “Tom Sawyer” and “Limelight.” Electrified, I made <i>Moving Pictures</i> my first record purchase. Teenage-hood commenced the moment I dropped needle to vinyl.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08e3Vgdg-h5VXifnhuKQ2pRdyNiXsa9MPiRosnmG8tc8gqqwqlZSodcev0_4OkGv_wVvzxKRq2n263mPBimyHKBfceWpx8JTgwo7a_-AM56dLsC523afOguxzNH-wUWTLe-1o5YZkqUE1/s1600/MP.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj08e3Vgdg-h5VXifnhuKQ2pRdyNiXsa9MPiRosnmG8tc8gqqwqlZSodcev0_4OkGv_wVvzxKRq2n263mPBimyHKBfceWpx8JTgwo7a_-AM56dLsC523afOguxzNH-wUWTLe-1o5YZkqUE1/s200/MP.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Yet it wasn’t just the dynamic music and stellar production: Rush’s secret of success lay in its mature, evocative lyrics. Rock never had particularly been the playground of the erudite, but first glance of the lyric sheet proved that this Neil Peart guy had weightier topics to poetize than unrealistic <i>I’ll love you forever</i>’s or frivolous paeans to sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Rush immediately captured my fascination—and nearly four decades later, it has not let go.<br />
<br />
Several years would pass before actual drums lay beneath my flailing limbs, and even longer until I put pen to paper, but I quickly found a tenuous association with Neil. Growing up in a suburban neighborhood eerily reminiscent of that featured in its music video, “Subdivisions” caught me at the precise moment of teenage vulnerability—the <i>Signals</i> album being released the very week I entered high school. A tall, gawky freshman, lost in a sea of faces—most of them more appealing than mine—I was living the very words Neil expressed about <i>his</i> high school halls. Like Neil, I was a misfit, an outsider, maladroit at making either friends or conversation and virtually invisible to girls. I even resembled that confused, pitiable boy in the “Subdivisions” video, although, mercifully, I had exchanged my bulky, socially debilitating eyeglasses for contact lenses a year earlier (though that had not improved my self-esteem very much). Possessing no idea how to be cool and unwilling to conform, I was cast out.<br />
<br />
Before high school ended, I was a drummer, and before college concluded, a lyricist as well, adding to that tenuous bond (albeit with a fraction of Neil’s talent and monastic discipline on the drummer’s throne). When I finally joined bands after college, I insisted on contributing lyrics and quickly became the primary lyricist because it was one of the few things in which I held implicit confidence. (<i>Unlike</i> Neil, I’ve always considered myself a lyricist first, a drummer second.)<br />
<br />
Though Neil was less a direct influence on my lyric writing than Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, and Pete Brown, his commitment to integrity helped me refute the age-old stigma that drummers are incapable of writing compelling lyrics and that for a band to depend upon a drummer’s words is creative suicide. I could express myself in a way that I was never able to do verbally, opening up my life in a manner that I’d never dreamed and inspiring me to write lyrics of which I could be proud even though, as a Middletown dreamer, few would ever hear them. What a dreadfully barren existence I would have suffered had Neil not provided the example of mastering words as well as drums.<br />
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Neil Peart very likely had a more profound influence on my life than any other individual. He, Geddy Lee, and Alex Lifeson made life better, for me and countless others, often when life became oppressive—or even hopeless. That’s an incalculable legacy—an even richer one than the many songs and books Neil leaves us. Although, these days, I often lament my age—and how quickly I’ve gotten to it—I feel hugely fortunate to have been born when I was so that I could come of age at the very moment at which Neil’s words and Rush’s music could catalyze my restless dreams of youth. There very well might not have been anyone to fill that role had I been born at some other time.<br />
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Neil Peart deserves a <i>Thank you</i> beyond my capability for that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Ogt2c_P7lbAeRjGaYfwoQXBavK1U_P9_MP6OxkchSqw-A4E8x3e7ACw4kim8qHKdzwm9Not4k1YuPABjNN_yUORUnjjhuAZfN0Dvz9wW4wsp6bhdvWq9wLpnLj-RR8RSPKKRN-XIcIJ9qWdw_jSCg4S-NdU56LxRah9vBsa265MgMYAGKyDVp53e1RcH/s800/Neil%20Peart%20-%20COLOR%20MP.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Ogt2c_P7lbAeRjGaYfwoQXBavK1U_P9_MP6OxkchSqw-A4E8x3e7ACw4kim8qHKdzwm9Not4k1YuPABjNN_yUORUnjjhuAZfN0Dvz9wW4wsp6bhdvWq9wLpnLj-RR8RSPKKRN-XIcIJ9qWdw_jSCg4S-NdU56LxRah9vBsa265MgMYAGKyDVp53e1RcH/w400-h266/Neil%20Peart%20-%20COLOR%20MP.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<br />Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-68961391944134433872016-10-09T15:17:00.015-05:002023-11-24T12:31:56.478-05:00Salt Lake City Is No Place for All That Jazz<p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSW26upZC_96b3K3N1L2LiuY6eG4ucfIJqAn_Q8Hpv_sqRma5tX6gNdVwtJy-W2-52TpHdVxT8nGxsUCnFpfPybFcKQgfsi_mycjL4cl_ZtmhW-TEoZzHyfFtU-KScQdBtE88Bi-rN2wg5/s576/Mays+-+Koufax.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="576" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSW26upZC_96b3K3N1L2LiuY6eG4ucfIJqAn_Q8Hpv_sqRma5tX6gNdVwtJy-W2-52TpHdVxT8nGxsUCnFpfPybFcKQgfsi_mycjL4cl_ZtmhW-TEoZzHyfFtU-KScQdBtE88Bi-rN2wg5/w369-h207/Mays+-+Koufax.jpg" width="369" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Countless professional sports teams have relocated when their
financial situations became untenable in their hometown. It is a reality nearly
as old as professional sports itself. Yet relatively few peregrine franchises
choose to bring their nickname with them. And why should they? Sure, the
Brooklyn Dodgers, New York Giants, Baltimore Colts, and Minneapolis Lakers
possessed franchise monikers that were too deeply ingrained in the fabric of
their sport—and too valuable in their marketability—to be rechristened, but
owners are often eager to rename their incoming team something with indigenous appeal
that will bring locals into the arena.</div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After all, why would the NHL’s Colorado franchise retain
“Rockies” when moving to swampland whose most mountainous feature is the New
Jersey Turnpike rising over the Hackensack River? Just as <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Denver</st1:city></st1:place> would have proved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">très stupide</i> to keep the Nordiques nickname in its new mile-high
home. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And the Dallas Texans would have been dang suicidal not to
have switched to the “Chiefs” upon arrival deep in the heart of Kansas City. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So it is perplexing that the NBA’s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Utah</st1:state></st1:place> franchise retained its Big Easy–born
Jazz nickname.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Utah, and specifically Salt Lake City, is both the temporal
and spiritual home of Mormonism. Mormonism, like most religions, is—at least in
principle—a strictly codified belief system. In Mormonism’s case, guided by its
13 Articles of Faith. Its Book of Mormon contains a “history” far older than
Christianity and is supplemented by lengthy scriptures such as the Doctrine and
Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price. All in all, the Book of Mormon
seems—from its own sources as well as interviews with “average” members of the
Church of Latter-Day Saints—to be a highly regimented template of conducting
one’s life righteously and steering clear of sin (even though Mormonism’s
founder, Joseph Smith, and his polygamous congregation lived lives that
made them<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>even by standards
of their day<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>outcasts of
mainstream Christianity).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, it goes without saying that straight-laced Salt Lake
City<span face="">—</span>home of the Utah Jazz<span face="">—</span>bears no cultural resemblance
whatsoever to vivacious, hedonistic New Orleans. More to the point, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jazz</i> is the spiritual antithesis of
religion—this most improvisational of art forms thrives on its lack of
boundaries and its emphasis on personal expression. Whereas religion arose to
curb the chaos of an uncivilized populace, jazz embodies, musically, that very
chaos. Frankly, jazz never could have evolved in a button-down town such as
Salt Lake City or a state as conventional as Utah—only the melting-pot,
loose-moraled, devil-may-care streets of a city such as N’awlins could have
birthed this deeply emotive and unpredictable art form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1HEk4xpYukG8GRprq0EtDXUx40BIfVyetzp1pXPTGMx21rbj9Z9AFcwUEPCNdJ9l2VSJnN068VVcpEkQlMu8743NDWEIH8MMqpOdXMljPrIXweBPBKW_uJZIcsD9_YiureqnMFbXvNo_h/s322/Pete+2+bw.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1HEk4xpYukG8GRprq0EtDXUx40BIfVyetzp1pXPTGMx21rbj9Z9AFcwUEPCNdJ9l2VSJnN068VVcpEkQlMu8743NDWEIH8MMqpOdXMljPrIXweBPBKW_uJZIcsD9_YiureqnMFbXvNo_h/s0/Pete+2+bw.jpg" /></a></div><br />One need only look upon one of the great practitioners of
personal expression on the basketball court, Pistol Pete Maravich<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—perhaps the John Coltrane of the
hardwood—whose freewheeling style of play </span>personified New Orleans and
its Jazz franchise. Considering both that Pistol Pete was hardly the poster boy
for Salt Lake City’s reverential atmosphere when he and his Jazz arrived in
1979 (Maravich was quoted in a biography of the same name as having no interest
in Christianity during his playing days) and that, by 1979, Maravich’s days as
a basketball virtuoso were behind him, it’s beyond baffling that Jazz owner Sam
Battistone, Jr., didn’t rename the franchise.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, why weren’t the Utah Jazz redubbed something closer to
the city’s<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—and by extension, the
state of Utah’s—</span>heart?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Such as for what Salt Lake City is truly known<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>even more than its homegrown
religion and choir:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Salt, of course. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAz8OE69ox7wYK6dcOngq36SjPR29GV9cmvQ63uBUMVP5Tcs0IgEROK7A-SyC8e3t4MgedUEi8LnwWBrwESWQYEnNaVoHUDWKWl8Fr__2E11TNcLaIlemtnmdh2DQ5U0vDoIpDG2vhXHN/s500/SALT+jersey+GRAINS+%252B+MY+NAME+FIXED+3.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="257" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAz8OE69ox7wYK6dcOngq36SjPR29GV9cmvQ63uBUMVP5Tcs0IgEROK7A-SyC8e3t4MgedUEi8LnwWBrwESWQYEnNaVoHUDWKWl8Fr__2E11TNcLaIlemtnmdh2DQ5U0vDoIpDG2vhXHN/w258-h500/SALT+jersey+GRAINS+%252B+MY+NAME+FIXED+3.png" width="258" /></a></div><br />Long in the vanguard of team names utilizing a
collective noun, Battistone could have continued that fashion by rechristening
his NBA franchise the Utah Salt. After all, the Great Salt Lake<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>sitting just west of the city
founded by Mormon bigwig Brigham Young<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span>is
larger than Rhode Island and, on occasion, Delaware, providing both Utah’s
capital and the state, itself, with its foremost secular identity. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And the marketing opportunities didn’t end there. The Utah Salt
would be ripe for a third jersey: the “NaCl.” Similar to “NOLA” of New Orleans
renown, “NaCl” would represent both the chemical formula of table salt and,
when either read or spoken as a quasi-nickname for the team, a hip phonetic
reference to Salt Lake City’s famous Mormon TaberNACLE Choir.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Such a marketing plan even could have included the rallying
cry “Get the NaCl” to capitalize on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get
the Knack</i> album and its single, “My Sharona,” that debuted just four months
before the Utah Jazz played its first game and were each massive No. 1 hits <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">by then. A lawsuit likely would have
ensued, but a quick settlement would have provided invaluable buzz for the
fledgling team and been well worth the legal wrangling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Who could have predicted that young jazzmen going west would culminate in such a lost
opportunity?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR0xqM67iX6RI45pEC36XFd5dBTVAoOkU7v0Gu5aHd8oDGD_nlk17FOkNnoN-U5Vdtjgj6i6tzRLll_Ikdz9ueSH8hWSAFAFZs_7_UCYfHBCbaGxsH8gUnQPlDt1dehpaeUlMf8Pj1NRn/s800/home+jersey+1_clipped_rev_1+small+NaCl+MY+NAME.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="417" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR0xqM67iX6RI45pEC36XFd5dBTVAoOkU7v0Gu5aHd8oDGD_nlk17FOkNnoN-U5Vdtjgj6i6tzRLll_Ikdz9ueSH8hWSAFAFZs_7_UCYfHBCbaGxsH8gUnQPlDt1dehpaeUlMf8Pj1NRn/w214-h410/home+jersey+1_clipped_rev_1+small+NaCl+MY+NAME.png" width="214" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-40687009193882576982016-10-06T16:23:00.015-05:002020-09-08T17:59:16.237-05:00A Tris Speaker Sing-along<div class="separator"><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="320" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWf8-ljvnAs36JnijTPx42X_ww7dfPPvqw2LaXjS8hyJH2pJXz_HKJ20IRuSRahqjZE5PYH4EGn5ozdzutebTGKSd1MOXreYMNz6SgFOQkvvsJeFaPaLfo2RcDHF5Tjc4IA_ms420ztXe3/w205-h256/Tris+color+1+FIXED.png" width="205" /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="" style="font-size: 11pt;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face="" style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>“</b></span><b>(They Call Me) Tris Speaker</b></span><span face="" style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>”</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Click the YouTube link at bottom and sing along...</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I<span style="color: #222222;">’ve clubbed them for pairs<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ve slugged the most doubles</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ve hit almost as many</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As stars seen by Edwin Hubble</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">They call me Tris Speaker</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ve been roundin' first so spry</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I won</span><span style="color: #222222;">’t get the fame that I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’m after</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">’cause of a guy named Ty</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I asked Stengel, Charles Dillon</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Who was Speaker</span><span style="color: #222222;">’s equal?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">He perfessor</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ed back to me</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There was only one Gray Eagle</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">They call me Tris Speaker</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’</span><span style="color: #222222;">ve been roundin</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ first so spry</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I won</span><span style="color: #222222;">’t get the fame that I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’m after</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">’til the Hall opens in </span><span style="color: #222222;">’39</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />People tend to rate me</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In the middle of the pile</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As I ransack their fields</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And ruin pennant plans</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Focusing on home runs</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">Not the records I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ve compiled</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ve got more doubles</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Than Rose, Cobb, and The Man</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I won</span><span style="color: #222222;">’t get the fame that I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’m after</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">’cause of a guy named Ty</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I learned how to cut down base runners</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">In assists, no one</span><span style="color: #222222;">’s within a hundred seventy-five</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was happy in Boston, even more in Cleveland</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’m most valuable in socks of red, blue, or argyle</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">You</span><span style="color: #222222;">’re lookin</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ at me</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’m lookin</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ for two</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once you pitch that ball</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">There ain</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;">’t</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;"> nothin</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;">’</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;"> you can do</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">They call me Tris Speaker</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ve been roundin</span><span style="color: #222222;">’ first so spry</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I won</span><span style="color: #222222;">’t get the fame that I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’m after</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">’til the Hall opens in </span><span style="color: #222222;">’39</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">I won</span><span style="color: #222222;">’t get the fame th</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222;">at I</span><span style="color: #222222;">’</span><span style="color: #222222;">m after</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">’til the Hall opens in </span><span style="color: #222222;">’39</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UAbzlj3nf4E" width="320" youtube-src-id="UAbzlj3nf4E"></iframe></div>Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-48740588900661964372016-10-04T19:55:00.013-05:002023-08-21T11:17:35.617-05:00Atlanta's Fiery Nickname Flamed the Fans Rather Than Fanned the Flames<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqNUV3f2yVzOuuQ0DWvDaMcQul1sKTtnaej7PdnGMkyaUDA4p6qrXXYH6nhpofrd8bM4CTkmbC6jx41YnmGcJZMbAR_NXrai3THeiu9QbUl_qTAijg7wjBiSm641CQ8dMOL_JkGtFEJio/s600/Falcons+1+FIXED.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="415" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqNUV3f2yVzOuuQ0DWvDaMcQul1sKTtnaej7PdnGMkyaUDA4p6qrXXYH6nhpofrd8bM4CTkmbC6jx41YnmGcJZMbAR_NXrai3THeiu9QbUl_qTAijg7wjBiSm641CQ8dMOL_JkGtFEJio/w266-h384/Falcons+1+FIXED.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>Apart from the Braves, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place></st1:city>
has never enjoyed much success as a sports town. In 50 seasons, the Falcons
have lost nearly 57% of their games—yielding
the fourth worst winning percentage among all 32 current NFL franchises. Reaching
the Super Bowl but once, Atlanta lost handily to the Denver Broncos in 1999. Unlike their
sharp-eyed namesake, the Falcons have possessed poor vision and rarely drafted
well. This team 250 miles from the Atlantic Ocean somehow also spent the bulk
of its existence in the same division as the Los Angeles/St. Louis Rams and the
San Francisco 49ers, long-time powerhouses that took turns beating up Atlanta
for three decades and left it little room for playoff hopes.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And since emigrating from St. Louis in 1968, although the
Hawks have qualified for the playoffs more often than not, their hoop dreams
have fallen achingly short season after season. Even Hall of Famers Dominique
Wilkins and Pistol Pete Maravich—freshly off NCAA superstardom—could not lead <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place></st1:city> even to the
finals. Consequently, the Hawks have perennially ranked among the worst in NBA
attendance since arriving in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the Falcons and Hawks largely are cases of subpar
general management and small-market struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><st1:city w:st="on"></st1:city></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PlAJufI3zf7CFZEHfUOxMWuMMcWJpnitPEAn2UB09_YyCUNw7bUkIgNJr9KZNLsu30kHVgYLK9eoUUrhjG8GD_EqZl15p9jgf1S4I3UhHhsSLQxnd8JTlwsEy7DSwjgZL_gHgisZC8TbV6SX2RagDS-zvwK6EmT9ulTJcULjff6qgSDAnZrMN8FspA/s227/Atlnata%20Flames%20logo%201.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PlAJufI3zf7CFZEHfUOxMWuMMcWJpnitPEAn2UB09_YyCUNw7bUkIgNJr9KZNLsu30kHVgYLK9eoUUrhjG8GD_EqZl15p9jgf1S4I3UhHhsSLQxnd8JTlwsEy7DSwjgZL_gHgisZC8TbV6SX2RagDS-zvwK6EmT9ulTJcULjff6qgSDAnZrMN8FspA/s16000/Atlnata%20Flames%20logo%201.png" /></a></div>Atlanta’s original hockey
team, the Flames, is an altogether sadder story: Born in 1972, the Flames were
the first franchise to bring NHL hockey south of the <st1:place w:st="on">Mason-Dixon
line</st1:place>—no easy going for a fledgling team competing for talent with
the brashly spending World Hockey Association. But General Manager Cliff
Fletcher drafted shrewdly and acquired skilled youngsters who made the Flames
competitive almost from the get-go. Led by such gritty skaters as Tom Lysiak,
Eric Vail, Bobby Leiter, Pat Quinn, Guy Chouinard, and the exciting goaltending
tandem of Daniel Bouchard and Phil Myre, <st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place>
reached the playoffs by its sophomore season, after which it never failed to
finish at least .500.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, the promising Flames contained a fatal flaw:
Owner Tom Cousins (already the owner of the NBA Hawks) named the franchise after General Sherman’s burning of
Atlanta. How Cousins—a native Atlantan—could select such a mind-blowingly inept name is beyond comprehension. Even today, the city’s torching at the hands
of <st1:place w:st="on">Sherman</st1:place>’s army is a sore spot for
deep-rooted Atlantans, some of whom still refer to the Civil War as the “War of
Northern Aggression.” And if <st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place>’s
ignominy continues to be a touchy subject now, it was even more so in
pre–politically correct 1972, when Jim Crow and Civil Rights remained fresh
wounds in the Southern psyche. Why would Cousins risk alienating his fan base
by reminding them daily of their city’s ultimate humiliation?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_d3stzEqnoRWW_QD4_Wg25YC6JiQas_T6MqcE5cCyWzs6tnk9bMhH6ndOlndPLcmbTPVpndnWRm75Ac21PnspnYBexGi9rRTgBwHcm4y-HGUbiLVUU2AFjaCgEW061H4hYcoOIPVK9SOD/s425/ALL+%252B+MY+NAME+2png.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="425" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_d3stzEqnoRWW_QD4_Wg25YC6JiQas_T6MqcE5cCyWzs6tnk9bMhH6ndOlndPLcmbTPVpndnWRm75Ac21PnspnYBexGi9rRTgBwHcm4y-HGUbiLVUU2AFjaCgEW061H4hYcoOIPVK9SOD/w272-h272/ALL+%252B+MY+NAME+2png.png" width="272" /></a></div>The fact is that, for all of their success and promise, the
Flames never drew well. Attendance dwindled throughout the 1970s, and the
franchise relocated to <st1:place w:st="on">Calgary</st1:place> in 1980. But
forget the dearth of Stanley Cups and superstars—the Atlanta Flames’ failure
can be blamed solely on its name. Let’s face it: If you’re going for the
perpetually popular Civil War angle, at least name your team the Atlanta
Hydrants so as to fill potential fans with the defiant hope that their city and
their homes will be spared rather than bashing already-fragile Confederate egos
by reminding them of the cinders their ancestors’ homes became. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sure, a logo of a hydrant isn’t as flashy and inspiring as a flaming “<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A</span>”—but who cares how good a
uniform looks when traumatized spectators are too frightened to leave their
homes for fear of Blue Bellies setting torches to their town?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-48852910527842489072015-10-02T15:12:00.002-05:002020-07-08T14:18:19.820-05:00Spahn and 750 Games—How’d He Keep His Numbers the Same?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35cn0QApODhNK870J3mEdz57DAuGgqZvyQP9STLlNvCA3M9G0ZGuIxOuNrVt_OuXbh8rE3SCpCDZWD5jUhBHJY1U_xpzKuH5x0qnkb32TDERWlRo5KaYuZBb-y88BgqMusnQmDWjHXTpL/s1600/Warren+Spahn.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1003" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35cn0QApODhNK870J3mEdz57DAuGgqZvyQP9STLlNvCA3M9G0ZGuIxOuNrVt_OuXbh8rE3SCpCDZWD5jUhBHJY1U_xpzKuH5x0qnkb32TDERWlRo5KaYuZBb-y88BgqMusnQmDWjHXTpL/s320/Warren+Spahn.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a young southpaw, I naturally felt an affinity for major
league left-handers. Lefties, by nature, are outsiders. The consensus of
sources spanning more than three decades states that only about 10 percent of
the population is left-handed, making we portsiders indeed a rare breed. I,
personally, never experienced the forced switching of penmanship meant to
“cleanse” left-handed schoolchildren of earlier generations—a barbaric act harmful
to the esteem, if not to the wiring of the brain itself. However, I was
encouraged to slant my lined paper at a right-hander’s angle. And many a
classroom offered a dearth of one-piece desks built for left-handers, my left
elbow hanging humiliatingly in midair while my “normal-handed”
classmates wrote in fully supported olecranal luxury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">
When you’re left-handed, it dominates your whole being in a
way that the majority of the world cannot understand simply because the world
is fitted to them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, even from a young age, I was told that baseball teams
are forever on the lookout for left-handers who can throw with control, which
made me feel special, even if my backyard catches with Dad hadn’t yet graduated
from tennis ball to horsehide.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus, it’s no surprise that I possessed an innate connection
to southpaws who took the mound at Veterans Stadium, on television, and on my
baseball cards. Hometown Phillies Steve “Lefty” Carlton, Tug McGraw, Jim Kaat,
and Randy Lerch (a lefty with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> name!).
Randy Jones (a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cy Young–winning</i> lefty
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> name!). Don Gullett, Mickey
Lolich, Fred Norman, Paul Splittorff, Frank Tanana, Jerry Koosman. And, of
course, the deity of all southpaws, Sandy Koufax, who, though just before my
time, commanded the highest respect in my household because the electrifying southpaw,
by virtue of his Jewish heritage, single-handedly revived my Flatbush-born father’s
interest in baseball after his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers broke his heart. (Sadly,
that renewed vigor for the game once and for all abandoned my father with
Koufax’s retirement.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, I also knew of the great lefties of old: Lefty
Grove, Lefty Gomez, Eddie Plank, Carl Hubbell, even Babe Ruth himself! But the
southpaw who loomed largest, of course, was Warren Spahn. One of my baseball
magazines contained his lifetime record. Thirteen 20-win seasons. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thirteen</i>?! And a win total, 363, to
which no other lefty stood remotely close. For me, and perhaps other young
southpaws, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">363</i> became something akin
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">714</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">4191</i>, an instantly identifiable benchmark in baseball history that
spoke for itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in examining Spahn’s record more closely, one finds a
statistic that is both so ironic and improbable as to almost defy belief.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During a career in which Spahn pitched 363 victories, the
multitalented hurler also recorded 363 batting hits. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When one takes into account the myriad variables that go
into this mind-boggling confluence—from the fact that a starting pitcher’s
at-bats vary from game to game depending on how well his hurling keeps him in
each contest, to the fact that Spahn relieved in 85 games, further fluctuating
his at-bats—one wonders how something so weird could happen. And then there’s
the additional confounding variable that Spahn appeared in 18 games as a
pinch-hitter, which chance would likely employ to further skew two totals rather
than bring them together. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Macroscopically, how could one total derived from a pool of
750 (games) end up equaling another from a pool of 1872 (at-bats)—especially
considering the first is accrued at a maximum of one per game whereas the
second is almost always accrued multiple times per game?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is for strange cases such as this that I wish I were a
mathematician so that I could calculate the odds of two wholly unrelated
totals, incurred at vastly different per-game rates (0 to 1 for wins; 0 to
infinity for hits), somehow matching up perfectly over the course of 21
seasons. Still, it doesn’t leave me exactly hollow to state abstractly that the
chance of both totals landing on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">363</i>
is merely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">astronomical</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even considering that Spahn possessed an uncanny (though
surely unrealized) knack for knocking as many hits in a season as he tossed
victories—Warren authored 11 occasions in which his win total of any given
season equaled his hit total of any given season, including an incredible eight
times in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">same</i> season—the fact
that 10 seasons not only did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
match but varied in range from 0 to 21 for victories yet from 1 to as high as
36 for hits still makes this statistically improbable in the extreme.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet there exists <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">another</i>
layer to this algebraic madness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spahn, who seemed as if he would continue winning forever,
going 23–7 at age 42, finally was snared by Father Time in 1964. After
suffering only his second losing campaign since breaking into the big leagues more
than two decades earlier, he was purchased from Milwaukee by the young New York
Mets just before Thanksgiving.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the ledger closed on his Braves career, Spahn boasted 356
victories—again, the exact number of hits he notched as a Boston/Milwaukee
Brave. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Struggling through 20 games with the ever-floundering Mets,
Spahn staggered to a 4–12 record, his bloated 4.36 ERA hardly helping the
punchless New Yorkers. Yet in those 20 games, as well as one in which he
pinch-hit, Spahn collected four hits, equaling his victory total. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7A1zIBGOrJy4seSIUvgBfUogS4rmLDD3Sxka5xiFhPELszLlteTz74Ortj8SHVquR48-OxZxqNmZ1TPJl8FSjQ2hvCDAkrZHhAkn6dBJVc7340EJ3hAySGRSsBQaP-2abJKx6_irbF5jC/s340/Warren+Spahn+-+Mays.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7A1zIBGOrJy4seSIUvgBfUogS4rmLDD3Sxka5xiFhPELszLlteTz74Ortj8SHVquR48-OxZxqNmZ1TPJl8FSjQ2hvCDAkrZHhAkn6dBJVc7340EJ3hAySGRSsBQaP-2abJKx6_irbF5jC/s320/Warren+Spahn+-+Mays.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Going nowhere, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place></st1:city> released Spahn on July
17. Two days later, the San Francisco Giants, tangled in fourth place yet only
5½ games off the lead, signed Spahn, hoping to coax a last bit of magic from
his left arm for the stretch drive. Perhaps revitalized by taking the mound
once again for a contender, Spahn pitched better, for a time. He cut his ERA by
nearly a run and chipped in three victories, although his last five appearances
were spent in relief, as the Giants came up two games short at the wire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet with eerie consistency, Spahn once again managed to rap
as many hits as victories, rapping a trio of singles to match the 3–4 record he
put up with San Francisco. The Giants released Spahn after the season, ending
his remarkable major league career.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Not only had Spahn managed to produce equal victory and hit
totals across 21 seasons (interestingly, he stroked his first hit in 1942 yet
had to wait, because of highly decorated military service in World War II,
until 1946 for his initial victory), but he, improbably, registered matching
numbers of hits and victories with each franchise for which he played.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Such a quirk in the statistics seems only to make
already-astronomical odds exponentially longer.</div>
<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Were I capable of calculating the odds of merely accruing
363 for both totals across a career as long as Spahn’s, then trying to do so
while including the further factors of identical sums across three franchises
might cause my calculator to explode. It simply doesn’t seem as if it could
happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if all that weren’t enough, the breakdown of Spahn’s
corresponding pitching wins and batting hits achieved as a Brave by city very
nearly match as well: As a Boston Brave, Spahn won 122 games while collecting
120 hits, which, of course, leaves his totals after the franchise moved to
Milwaukee Brave at 234 pitching wins and 236 hits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then again, neither did the probability of a pitcher not
winning his first major league game until age 25 yet going on to win 363 for his
career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-6193988254983519722014-10-22T19:16:00.000-05:002014-12-07T16:42:21.347-05:00! Spy Too Many Exclamation Points on !-95<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9aKn20XMwCradZ4I5WuLzhzX2Eag29JX6KxObHAbY_cKr38WhIPNwLqaaOcNt9DbMBYEJFeNjcVBDNqBLP7a8pgSpq4RxZ42CgVKyoGpnzFaF4Fr43rQPwqEAfNpz-TND3KneZ3pLfO3/s1600/Exclamation+points+sign+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9aKn20XMwCradZ4I5WuLzhzX2Eag29JX6KxObHAbY_cKr38WhIPNwLqaaOcNt9DbMBYEJFeNjcVBDNqBLP7a8pgSpq4RxZ42CgVKyoGpnzFaF4Fr43rQPwqEAfNpz-TND3KneZ3pLfO3/s1600/Exclamation+points+sign+2.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
While driving home from Florida, I passed this sign
yesterday, which stands at Exit 169 on the southbound side of I-95 near
Florence, South Carolina. It looks to me like writer Jake Jarmel now manages
the Triple T Truck Center and he hired on-again-off-again girlfriend, Elaine
Benes, to edit his billboard.<br />
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<br /></div>
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Of course, Elaine, upset that Jake’s latest endeavor lacked
a certain emotion and intensity, apparently added unnecessary exclamation
points—ostensibly to connote such messages as:</div>
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<br /></div>
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“It was a damp and chilly afternoon, so I decided to drive
my semi!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>and</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“I pulled the lever on the clutch, but the truck’s engine
wouldn’t start!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3-gJJai5tD9YOh9u0hHf0CmiqxxlIOjyhfBcUfXWhDn3kmb3JT3T1MCxASk5h_tTVXBbey4kqu8px5UGr8gsiU3d9j2lr-UmYWdl_TY_dxKW_zYJSvLdwS1H_ivRtFdkBv_T04O_SHKI/s1600/Mr.+Lippman+!!!.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3-gJJai5tD9YOh9u0hHf0CmiqxxlIOjyhfBcUfXWhDn3kmb3JT3T1MCxASk5h_tTVXBbey4kqu8px5UGr8gsiU3d9j2lr-UmYWdl_TY_dxKW_zYJSvLdwS1H_ivRtFdkBv_T04O_SHKI/s1600/Mr.+Lippman+!!!.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, the dialogue implies a plot so banal that an
inordinate number of exclamation points may be the only thing keeping this
truck-repair place from being boarded up in bankruptcy, but Mr. Lippman isn’t
going to see it that way and will want those exclamation points gotten rid of,
should he drive by…</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7F979JJ-fwPa_k_XV4V-oCuSSXHcEItDo_aavU0jTyzNbh62cpVi86hmzsohH-LzKol0jQgjNkmnGayuDEhBuNuPYxOYzF_ipO3eJvCI17ZWwt3nT92hZQ50vO87yQUlWR7eF7XUqQ4f/s1600/Elaine+!!!.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7F979JJ-fwPa_k_XV4V-oCuSSXHcEItDo_aavU0jTyzNbh62cpVi86hmzsohH-LzKol0jQgjNkmnGayuDEhBuNuPYxOYzF_ipO3eJvCI17ZWwt3nT92hZQ50vO87yQUlWR7eF7XUqQ4f/s1600/Elaine+!!!.gif" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Images from</i> Seinfeld <i>copyright NBC</i>.)</span></o:p></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-67051666092559996462014-09-28T20:28:00.000-05:002014-10-31T11:34:49.321-05:00Maybe the "T.S." Stood for "Terribly Similar"...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnttUMKWlJ7XmXJGaiPDhYwmt1oqCnY2gTn_mhr_S4d8VTBjh6WI3DlnMppXpxfRdOxN25BckC6osJHSoVWNYt9PmnOnSTWX8cJNK4fmf4gls41W6fld-Z4XhPxqhW6IFNzC2-YpRwbhn/s1600/House+of+David,+Robin+Williams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnttUMKWlJ7XmXJGaiPDhYwmt1oqCnY2gTn_mhr_S4d8VTBjh6WI3DlnMppXpxfRdOxN25BckC6osJHSoVWNYt9PmnOnSTWX8cJNK4fmf4gls41W6fld-Z4XhPxqhW6IFNzC2-YpRwbhn/s1600/House+of+David,+Robin+Williams.jpg" height="320" width="185" /></a></div>
Jesse Lee Tally, known as “Doc” Tally, played baseball for
the barnstorming Israelite House of David team from 1914 to his death in 1950. The
House of David was a religious commune founded in Benton Harbor, Michigan, in
1903 and thrived through the 1920s and 30s. Its founders—not the most visionary
of religious leaders—declared sex a sin (even for procreation), in principle
dooming their movement after a single generation.<br />
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<br /></div>
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The House of David became a national phenomenon during that
time for fielding a long-haired, long-bearded evangelizing baseball team
(actually, several teams) that crisscrossed the country playing amateur;
semipro; and professional opponents, including squads from the major, minor,
and Negro Leagues. Sort of the Harlem Globetrotters of baseball, the House of
David team grew famous for its fancy, yet very formidable, play. It even, for a
time, boasted several former Major League greats, including Three Finger Brown
and Grover Cleveland Alexander, as well as the legendary Negro
Leaguer, Satchel Paige—all of whom were required either to grow their whiskers
or don a fake beard. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The House of David even beat the Major Leagues to night
baseball, playing its first game under electric light in 1930—five years before
the Bigs. (Ever shrewd in enlarging opportunities to play for paying customers,
the House of David brought portable lights on its buses to allow night games.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_NU9YiqworwjrAveE7_EX2xvP52TmenFLTmWh6zXnE2voF4MMC7T6lgVmMnGVSF_B9dhrgCmrC5ZYokppM4hXpHifjQU5Lo-KTKhhgEZ9tUog5Py45UBv14iYmmDOyLdjQqauUip-Ic3/s1600/RobinWilliams-GoodWillHunting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_NU9YiqworwjrAveE7_EX2xvP52TmenFLTmWh6zXnE2voF4MMC7T6lgVmMnGVSF_B9dhrgCmrC5ZYokppM4hXpHifjQU5Lo-KTKhhgEZ9tUog5Py45UBv14iYmmDOyLdjQqauUip-Ic3/s1600/RobinWilliams-GoodWillHunting.jpg" height="200" width="168" /></a></div>
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Anyway, I find Jesse Lee Tally the spitting image of the
recently deceased Robin Williams. Reputedly the House of David’s best player,
Tally invented the famous pepper games with which players would wow crowds with
their acrobatic and dexterous skills before, and during, contests. Tally thus
seems like the same type of good-natured, entertaining ham that Robin Williams
came to be. Interestingly, Williams was born little more than a year after
Tally’s death and just a hundred miles from Benton Harbor (in Chicago).*</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* Perhaps stranger still, Williams starred in the resemblant-named
2004 “dramedy,” <i>House of D</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s almost as if Jesse Lee Tally’s spirit entered the
newborn Robin Williams’ body in 1951—all it had to do was float to the far side
of Lake Michigan, and it had more than a year to do so…</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzkr7nk6EJEmsSiZOX_nXwqcErFeGP5KKl1e_KQhQIZnVLON6HX1StM8brx0RPweYCCUft6s3QXAvuBGgYt2u-t8VfNFf6dX8NMjunnIHfaGShI4pBOxbSr2VIWvFaM8Ws7OICaKIUrIQQ/s1600/Mork,+fly+be+free.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzkr7nk6EJEmsSiZOX_nXwqcErFeGP5KKl1e_KQhQIZnVLON6HX1StM8brx0RPweYCCUft6s3QXAvuBGgYt2u-t8VfNFf6dX8NMjunnIHfaGShI4pBOxbSr2VIWvFaM8Ws7OICaKIUrIQQ/s1600/Mork,+fly+be+free.gif" height="236" width="320" /></a>So, it is entirely possible that Robin Williams possessed
great baseball potential, even if he never sensed it. However, the world is a
better place for him taking the route that he did—not only because he left a
legacy of laughter, but because Williams’ natural inclination to field a batted
ball, then toss it in the air while declaring, “Fly, be free!” would have led
to a catastrophic amount of unearned runs…
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Image from</i> Good Will Hunting <i>copyright Miramax Films; image from</i> Mork and Mindy <i>copyright ABC</i>.)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-56068739918446600832014-09-25T21:17:00.002-05:002023-02-03T10:07:28.743-05:00No Breakdown of Communication at 7-Eleven<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMn5Rk3mYuQK7qeN48CQTHSLAJu5rWYQlN0KWEGIC25IujhXo5bT5MCAJKWBL2M7EjMTnp3lWMI2YaUbHTssOzJI2eNoDT9HcgJthSMfeXOzI9OeTC7bL_eRNOVObAaexEt7OXPDseT936/s1600/LZ+poster+edited,+med.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMn5Rk3mYuQK7qeN48CQTHSLAJu5rWYQlN0KWEGIC25IujhXo5bT5MCAJKWBL2M7EjMTnp3lWMI2YaUbHTssOzJI2eNoDT9HcgJthSMfeXOzI9OeTC7bL_eRNOVObAaexEt7OXPDseT936/s1600/LZ+poster+edited,+med.jpg" width="297" /></a>I walked into my local 7-Eleven last evening, and the radio
that’s always kept at the back of the store, next to the freezers, was playing “Communication
Breakdown”—one of my favorite songs by one of my favorite bands. Sadly,
Led Zeppelin, following John Bonham’s death, disbanded just before I grew old
enough to attend rock concerts (i.e., afford a ticket), so I never got to see them play live (although
I have seen each surviving member perform solo).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Even so, getting to hear the Mighty Zep launch into one of
its most molten tunes from as close as just to the right of the Ben & Jerry’s
pretty much made up for it. Naturally, I stayed for the entire song, blithely disregarding
potential post-concert traffic hassles awaiting me in the parking lot.<br />
<br />
Now if I could only get to hear the Jimi Hendrix Experience at my local Sherwin-Williams... <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsIPoQ6-aH6YtS8L9F5nKjH0Q9QSRxCmvJAxMlqL8ObGCHImTyOqmvBPCxwYHNqQ9obgR5c14D0e4Uyg_u4DA06phL_waHYMa6C0i7eJN7ehKcOH6JIDTi57WrzU0W6jOwJvXfmP_URqP/s1600/Zeppelin+ticket.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsIPoQ6-aH6YtS8L9F5nKjH0Q9QSRxCmvJAxMlqL8ObGCHImTyOqmvBPCxwYHNqQ9obgR5c14D0e4Uyg_u4DA06phL_waHYMa6C0i7eJN7ehKcOH6JIDTi57WrzU0W6jOwJvXfmP_URqP/s1600/Zeppelin+ticket.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-52398765091999598692014-09-05T11:09:00.000-05:002020-06-08T16:13:18.940-05:00Over There...Over There...Why'd They Put All the Words Over There?<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVlWTWJAI_S0lM8RS09q39-zifFkU3EB2cWetXw_7EW9VV0GD7Le5PMG6jxqGzqVQnWG6AJ5dDVO-_WfAXxjK7xMABDqUKUW2vkeLk_pktFaoGHISOJBikeBQVgW41Rt2vZ3fSAxfthn9/s1600/Marne+WWI+photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVlWTWJAI_S0lM8RS09q39-zifFkU3EB2cWetXw_7EW9VV0GD7Le5PMG6jxqGzqVQnWG6AJ5dDVO-_WfAXxjK7xMABDqUKUW2vkeLk_pktFaoGHISOJBikeBQVgW41Rt2vZ3fSAxfthn9/s1600/Marne+WWI+photo.png" width="320" /></a>Today is the 100th anniversary of the start of the First
Battle of the Marne, the week-long bloodbath that marked one of the first major
clashes of World War I. Fought just east of Paris, this Allied victory
prevented the Germans from reaching the French capital and making quick work of
the war. Unfortunately, with more than half a million casualties laying dead or
carried off the battlefield, the First Battle of the Marne also set the pattern
for the devastating trench warfare that turned much of France and Belgium into
killing floors over the next four years—a pattern of seesawing advances and
retreats so futile that, nearly four years later, witnessed another major clash
along the River Marne.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Known, of course, as the Second Battle of the Marne (above), this
smaller, but still murderous battle halted the German advance in the summer of
1918 and hastened the Axis’ surrender. More than 132,000 Allied soldiers were
killed or wounded in this three-week struggle, including 12,000 Americans. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivaoLyB6JKeyrWwcspXZFGn_055kvKpN5eN2-dRk6nCBXIiE7hRcDEB0HcXCiZsiI9NwT5F89CK1xVmW5w5jAn8s6p185ihZv1bWR2A2YKNQjEbC7JdFydWJ3oJYSMC0s23zdFpiWF_YEV/s1600/Marne+marker.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivaoLyB6JKeyrWwcspXZFGn_055kvKpN5eN2-dRk6nCBXIiE7hRcDEB0HcXCiZsiI9NwT5F89CK1xVmW5w5jAn8s6p185ihZv1bWR2A2YKNQjEbC7JdFydWJ3oJYSMC0s23zdFpiWF_YEV/s1600/Marne+marker.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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County Route 537, which passes less than a mile from my home
in its long trek across the breadth of New Jersey, is known within the limits
of Mount Laurel, Hainesport, and Mount Holly as Marne Highway. Commemorating the
great sacrifice of American doughboys in that second sanguineous battle, a blue
historical marker is mounted on a Marne Highway road sign just west of the intersection with Larchmont Blvd. The problem is that the marker—a small-fonted, two-paragraph explanation of the Second Battle of the Marne—stands
approximately 150 feet from the stop-lighted intersection. There is no shoulder
in which to pull over (and if one did, one’s car would dangerously—and
illegally—obstruct the right-turn-only lane that begins a few feet beyond the
sign). Furthermore, there is no hope of gleaning more than a sentence of the marker
even while decelerating toward a red light. (Imagine trying to read the sign above while moving at anywhere from 25 to 50 mph—hell, try reading it <i>right now</i>!)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus, the only possible practical way of
actually reading this small acknowledgment of American contribution to that
pivotal battle is to be stopped in traffic backed up from the intersection, which, although a line of traffic often does form there, hardly ever backs up <i>that</i> far.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or one could simply walk over to the sign and stand just a
few feet from the roadway to read it—a monumentally inconvenient and
not-entirely-wise option, especially on that stretch of non-residential road flanked by daily-active railroad tracks. (This
is exactly how I took this photo, walking home from the auto-repair shop
a quarter-mile down the highway from this intersection.)<br />
<br />
Sure, one could keep driving around the block, hoping to glean the entire message a line or two at a time with each drive-by<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>and this might just be most in the spirit of Great War stupidity, as driving around this block entails an approximate 2.2-mile trek, including three traffic lights, because none of the streets within this <span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>block<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span> exit to another side of it. I guess a family <i>could</i> make a day of this by driving down Marne Highway, spying a line or two, turning right onto Larchmont Blvd., eventually merging onto Route 38 West, making another right onto Hartford Road, taking it back to Marne Highway, turning right, and again driving by the sign at approximate 7-minute intervals until the reading is complete (there is an Italian restaurant, Chinese takeout, and a 7-Eleven on the opposite side of the Marne Highway<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">–</span>Larchmont Blvd. intersection should a family wish to stop for lunch during their reading). I suppose a savvy couple or family could pre-plan for each member to simultaneously read a <i>different</i> section of the marker, which, if performed and recited correctly and in order, would drastically cut down on the time, effort, and gasoline expense involved. But this is not an easily executed strategy and could backfire catastrophically—like many a World War I offensive. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNln1BoHI3a2wXx5K14cdGSCQNXaAVOQalgdNprOn0S-C5HAXYh81fhFO6O5RezZfKUxjsXIbB_DeoPKVKDhNDGVIJgxWjUI-EJvaR2cm_P4g-Wrzly-8-WjAx0Bc6YLVqgqnK_CzEB1R/s1600/Over_There_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNln1BoHI3a2wXx5K14cdGSCQNXaAVOQalgdNprOn0S-C5HAXYh81fhFO6O5RezZfKUxjsXIbB_DeoPKVKDhNDGVIJgxWjUI-EJvaR2cm_P4g-Wrzly-8-WjAx0Bc6YLVqgqnK_CzEB1R/s1600/Over_There_1.jpg" width="245" /></a>Thus, to say that this historical marker was poorly planned
and futilely placed is an understatement—also very much in keeping with World
War I, itself, given the many atrocities perpetuated by idiotic generals who,
time and again, ordered regiments of men “over the top” and into the waiting
graveyards of no-man’s land.</div>
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<br />
So I<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">‘</span>m torn...<br />
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If the State of New Jersey (or perhaps Burlington County) allocated the expense and effort to commemorate the battle at all, then
why not do it right and set the sign where it could actually serve its purpose
instead of in a place where its words would surely go to waste? It seems
certain that the genius employee of the state/county/township responsible
for the placement of this historical marker was the great-grandchild of one of
those World War I generals who so asininely sent their men off by the thousands
to certain death for a few dozen muddy yards...</div>
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Did the war to end all wars teach us nothing about historical-marker placement? You can bet the Flemish sited their markers in readily accessible, easily readable locations.<br />
<br />
And yet for all of its seeming idiocy, perhaps the Marne Highway historical marker <i>is</i> perfectly placed, ideally echoing the utter absurdity of the Great War, as if it were a modern-day, metal-plated Zimmerman Note.<br />
<br />
Only Americans possess such a sense of irony...</div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-13910935126486724292014-08-29T22:14:00.000-05:002014-10-18T09:26:46.634-05:00With Twitter Abuzz About Keys of Bees, 'Twas Time to Channel Stevie and McCartney<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0oFMA9WispWM3CYBkedn84hSnACpslMdjrKVR9Qtp4wWP-NwPBOZ4UmiNLldT5A_QDfl1gXkmAPxkyCk84n6Mfb89U08bIzik8LYLV8yQy5BtpGNf1qd3_3QcrN5UBUDlW6OsCe8Jp7U/s1600/Bumblee+Man+to+be....jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0oFMA9WispWM3CYBkedn84hSnACpslMdjrKVR9Qtp4wWP-NwPBOZ4UmiNLldT5A_QDfl1gXkmAPxkyCk84n6Mfb89U08bIzik8LYLV8yQy5BtpGNf1qd3_3QcrN5UBUDlW6OsCe8Jp7U/s1600/Bumblee+Man+to+be....jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
This scientific fact has recently been making the rounds on Twitter: <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>Bees normally buzz in the key of A, but when they<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>re tired, they buzz in the key of E.<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span><br />
<br />
No, I neither own a piano nor play the piano—but that didn<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>t stop me from tickling the Ebony and Ivories about this bee-musing fact and writing a song that goes a little something...like this:<br />
<br />
<i>Every bee that I can see</i><br />
<i>Buzz together in the very same key</i><br />
<i>Side by side in their hive or swarming, oh lord, they<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>re after me</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We all know that bees bring the news in Sacramento</i><br />
<i>There is good and bad in every bee</i><br />
<i>Some are humble, some will bumble</i><br />
<i>But they won<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>t bother us if we mind our own beeswax, that<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s a fact</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Every queen in Ulee<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s apiary</i><br />
<i>Could breed drones for a ten-pound beard of bees</i><br />
<i>Side by side in their hive or swarming, oh lord, they<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>re after me</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We all know that bees buzz in <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>A<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>less their lids are low</i><br />
<i>There is sweet nectar in every bee</i><br />
<i>Some make honey, some cause you fright</i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>E<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span> is the key when bees don<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>t have the might to take flight</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwwpiP0W7pp8knJ2NcETCYRnuZAGN4lTzItDUq2PGlAYZpsuHPTodsMYN-92mcU47WqAdeSVhKmi1bPZ2bIx8WjuLZ9975kEU8Ykmwon3S90kxgNEXdwgi6H_49MNe4POPI9KFAutXKYu/s1600/Belushi+King+Bee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><i><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwwpiP0W7pp8knJ2NcETCYRnuZAGN4lTzItDUq2PGlAYZpsuHPTodsMYN-92mcU47WqAdeSVhKmi1bPZ2bIx8WjuLZ9975kEU8Ykmwon3S90kxgNEXdwgi6H_49MNe4POPI9KFAutXKYu/s1600/Belushi+King+Bee.jpg" /></i></a><br />
<i>Every bee has got no knees</i><br />
<i>It<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s a phrase that was made up falsely</i><br />
<i>If Sting got stung, the bee<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>d die and he<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>d cry profusely</i><br />
<i>John Belushi was killer singing <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>I<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>m a King Bee<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Every bee that I can see</i><br />
<i>Buzzing together in harmony</i><br />
<i>Ruth Buzzi so funny</i><br />
<i>As angry Gladys Ormphby</i><br />
<i>Ruth Buzzi socked it to me</i><br />
<i>When whacking dirty, old Arte</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>(Fade)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Image of Bumblebee Man copyright Fox Broadcasting; image of John Belushi copyright NBC</i>.)</span>Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-86210324917674879632014-08-09T14:10:00.002-05:002023-10-06T18:41:15.524-05:00If Only Clubber Lang Had Taken on Pyongyang...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpdcRXiPm_fWJbr8gVcogMt4m0D267bZUdax5bj1GXl4gdKUsy_ETigzekn7Ikk6F6Oa2IzIIdNjQo_PB8Sios-eNxembB6Pkf-wIFy4zAUqszhJhJenOLbDoGLHGqpI2GeF7cRsFd2Ji/s1600/Give_em_hell_Hawkeye.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpdcRXiPm_fWJbr8gVcogMt4m0D267bZUdax5bj1GXl4gdKUsy_ETigzekn7Ikk6F6Oa2IzIIdNjQo_PB8Sios-eNxembB6Pkf-wIFy4zAUqszhJhJenOLbDoGLHGqpI2GeF7cRsFd2Ji/s1600/Give_em_hell_Hawkeye.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I<span style="text-align: justify;">’</span>m watching a <i>M*A*S*H</i> episode from 1981. Thankfully, MeTV runs restored versions of <i>M*A*S*H</i> that include scenes, or parts of scenes, long ago hacked out by greedier broadcasters squeezing episodes for every last second of commercials. Some of these scenes likely have not been shown for decades—I certainly don<span style="text-align: justify;">’</span>t recall a lot of them despite being a <i>M*A*S*H</i> aficionado since the mid-70s. </div>
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Tonight, it was Episode 223, “Give ‘Em Hell, Hawkeye,” in which Capt. Pierce, fed up with year-long peace talks that have achieved nothing, pens a letter to President Truman, narrating it in voice-over as he writes. And as Hawkeye writes his letter, he refers to Harry—in newly restored dialogue—as “Mr. T.”<br />
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Now, the actual Mr. T, Laurence Tureaud, took that name in the late 1970s, but he was, by and large, anonymous until appearing as “Clubber Lang” in <i>Rocky III</i>, which debuted over Memorial Day weekend in 1982.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, clearly, Hawkeye using the name “Mr. T” in an episode filmed nearly a year earlier is unrelated to the yet-to-be celebrity of Mr. T.*</div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrr87alJxfCrUAGp9NIO74oU1a0dgKLOi9YWkXdR_6MtxMaoMfsGJ673j7XMOWO0aq23gJ7rEQgvlGj9AioBzk9vgBF30kd6bqYtjpz34jgVZo5Ox9_N7kyfGAYIImpMA_pOezN6FhnBtFER0LC22b2s6nYUb-3ZXnjlobk6jb3VtRdsyut9uMR6qu1zc6/s667/Mr.%20T%20OLD%20PHOTO_clipped_rev_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrr87alJxfCrUAGp9NIO74oU1a0dgKLOi9YWkXdR_6MtxMaoMfsGJ673j7XMOWO0aq23gJ7rEQgvlGj9AioBzk9vgBF30kd6bqYtjpz34jgVZo5Ox9_N7kyfGAYIImpMA_pOezN6FhnBtFER0LC22b2s6nYUb-3ZXnjlobk6jb3VtRdsyut9uMR6qu1zc6/s320/Mr.%20T%20OLD%20PHOTO_clipped_rev_1.png" width="240" /></a></div>But I can’t help wondering: if Mr. T had only become a Hollywood name a matter of months earlier, he could have actually portrayed President Truman in that <i>M*A*S*H</i> episode (<i>M*A*S*H</i> already had a long history of employing young, ascendant actors in guest roles). I see the episode as a two-parter, in which President Truman, “Mr. T,” responds to Hawkeye with a letter of his own—and, as did Hawkeye, narrating his reply in voice-over as he authors it...perhaps over a montage of his training regimen in the Oval Office, such as jumping rope, using a speed bag, or whatever else passed for hardcore cardio training in the early 1950s. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="text-align: justify;">Dear Capt. Pierce,</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="text-align: justify;">Thank you for your letter pleading for me to end this police action. However, you don’t seem to understand politics. One doesn’t back down from international threats to peace. South Korea was attacked. Attacked! You get it? If that little man, Kim Il-sung, don’t wanna come to the peace table, then I’ll come to him. The United States is ranked No. 1. ONE! That means we’re the best. But that bum has been taking the easy matches, sneak-attacking its peaceful neighbor. I’m telling you and everybody else at the 4077th: the United States will fight North Korea anywhere, anytime, for nothing. No, I don’t hate Kim Il-sung…but I pity the fool, and we will destroy any man who tries to take what we got.</span> </blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="text-align: justify;">In closing, my prediction for the war: pain.</span> <span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="text-align: justify;">Yours sincerely,</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="text-align: justify;">President T</span></blockquote>
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With aggressiveness that would’ve made Gen. Douglas MacArthur look like a Salvation Army bell ringer and accountability that would’ve left Harry S. Truman resembling a shriveling buck-passer, Mr. T might well have provided a ratings spike and seriocomic possibilities encouraging the stable of <i>M*A*S*H</i> writers to continue for several more seasons—perhaps even long enough to necessitate a romance between Hot Lips Houlihan and SSgt. Rizzo that would have perfectly encapsulated the lunacy of war...not to mention paved the way for either the best or the worst spin-off in television history.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Far predating this <i>M*A*S*H</i> episode, a <i>Welcome Back, Kotter</i> spin-off called <i>Mr. T and Tina</i> briefly ran on ABC in 1976, but the show was so short-lived and obscure that not even its star, Pat Morita, remembered it. Perhaps if he’d come up with the “Crane” a decade earlier…</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Image from</i> M*A*S*H <i>copyright CBS</i>.)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-62015749101127317552014-08-03T08:38:00.000-05:002015-04-30T11:18:15.186-05:00We All Lifted a Yellow Submarine...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXne-es0asGPym4Elsqij4u_STPO-PRNqHnUzJGnlcVnINWWpK5vqeDNlylNW5HGSBH7gK8I1SXGw-yWwFtTvH1AiG6tpsYTMfDy5LDcUWesnMoHIUq6S_gSJoNR2FpE5YhC7EUjRP1zJ/s1600/Stooges+sub.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXne-es0asGPym4Elsqij4u_STPO-PRNqHnUzJGnlcVnINWWpK5vqeDNlylNW5HGSBH7gK8I1SXGw-yWwFtTvH1AiG6tpsYTMfDy5LDcUWesnMoHIUq6S_gSJoNR2FpE5YhC7EUjRP1zJ/s1600/Stooges+sub.png" height="188" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, I just turned on the TV and caught the last ten minutes
of <i>The Three Stooges in Orbit</i> (1962),
a film I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. And in that brief span, several elements
immediately jumped out as closely presaging subsequent films—to the point that
I wondered more than just fancifully if this predictably insipid film filled
with recycled jokes and made on the cheap for a very over-the-hill comedy troupe
could actually have been the source of certain concepts used in later, higher-profile works. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhJnlSm2-qvUgWKB2u7VrEbfL4fQ7Rz-y1dbQ_wSludRcnjgyy3j3b9tsyr97mwRrUuHaIBGDV3r5SeR72G2zSdY6iLNmY3pXiM6D8dPwurIJ6xaBnRHsBw1XfZbcnOFx2IvjIo0KYTRP/s1600/Yellow+Submarine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhJnlSm2-qvUgWKB2u7VrEbfL4fQ7Rz-y1dbQ_wSludRcnjgyy3j3b9tsyr97mwRrUuHaIBGDV3r5SeR72G2zSdY6iLNmY3pXiM6D8dPwurIJ6xaBnRHsBw1XfZbcnOFx2IvjIo0KYTRP/s1600/Yellow+Submarine.jpg" height="186" width="320" /></a></div>
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Look at the propeller-powered flying submarine stolen by the
Martians (above). Is this not practically a real-life, full-scale model of the Beatles’
yellow submarine depicted in the 1968 animated feature film? <i>The Three Stooges in Orbit</i> predated <i>Yellow Submarine</i> by six years—yet looking at the similarities in concept and design, it’s not hard to suppose
that the director of the Beatles’ film, George Dunning, was a Three Stooges fan
who caught their movie upon its theatrical release,* perhaps even screening it
privately six years later for the crew of animators to give them a definitive sense of the artistic
style he wanted.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">* In 1962, Beatlemania hadn’t yet swept England, so Dunning, a Canadian expatriate who had yet to become associated with the Beatles, likely was walking around
London with little to do and thus had plenty of free time to see the new Three
Stooges film. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1h69PbobO6LejGgQF3SmcAi-wfvzwYKMi5XU-LikyuQSgl1rU2vopmSNKywMaVdfKxiGqGMCEfstJg-4QvnbUqlDE5yNMnCSi6a2aWXRyYxuOMwo99EKZPVuQH58mEmvZyQJM2RD5F8YY/s1600/Three+Stooges+in+Orbit+animated+dancing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1h69PbobO6LejGgQF3SmcAi-wfvzwYKMi5XU-LikyuQSgl1rU2vopmSNKywMaVdfKxiGqGMCEfstJg-4QvnbUqlDE5yNMnCSi6a2aWXRyYxuOMwo99EKZPVuQH58mEmvZyQJM2RD5F8YY/s1600/Three+Stooges+in+Orbit+animated+dancing.gif" height="261" width="320" /></a></div>
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Moments later in the film, Professor Danforth, played by long-time
quasi-Stooge, Emil Sitka, displays an animated television segment of the Stooges
dancing to stock, early 60s pop music. This is perhaps <i>even stronger</i>
proof that George Dunning and his crew lifted ideas from this Three Stooges film.
As you can see, that’s impressively sophisticated animation for 1962—and it
appears very much the progenitor to the dazzling animation of <i>Yellow Submarine</i>. Granted, the Stooges
weren’t as limber as the girl dancing to “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” but
their particular brand of fat, elderly elegance must have made a lasting
impression on Dunning.</div>
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Okay, this weakest incarnation of the Three Stooges is no “Fab Four,” but consider the cumulative work of Moe, Larry, Curly, <i>and</i> the criminally underrated Shemp—that’s
a four as fab as John, Paul, George, and Ringo, for sure.†</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">† Continuing the numbers game, the Three Stooges and the
Beatles each counted six participating members among their ranks: the
aforementioned four in each group, plus, of course, latter-day Stooges Joe Besser and Curly
Joe DeRita as well as Beatles’</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> castoffs Stuart Sutcliffe and Pete Best.</span></div>
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Furthermore, the Three Stooges went into widespread television
syndication in 1958, introducing them to a new generation—the Beatles’
generation. With the future Beatles all in their highly impressionable teens at
that time, it’s a good bet the lads watched and enjoyed the Stooges’ tomfoolery—especially
the angry, young man of the fledgling group, John Lennon, who probably would
have appreciated them most. I can easily see the Stooges’ violent tendencies
having rubbed off on the volatile Lennon. (<i>The Three Stooges</i> was actually removed from syndication for a time in the 1960s when mothers complained that their children were emulating the Stooges’ dangerous antics.) Now, I’m not saying that a few
episodes of Moe bullying Larry, Curly, and Shemp led to Lennon kicking original
bassist, Stuart Sutcliffe, in the head—as has occasionally been alleged in the
cause of Sutcliffe’s untimely death—but I <i>am</i>
saying that an irate John likely was not above rapidly fluttering his hand in front of
Sutcliffe’s entranced gaze, then snapping it down briskly, causing Sutcliffe’s
head to do the same. Whether <i>that</i>
facilitated Sutcliffe’s fatal cerebral hemorrhage, no one will ever know—but it sure looks like a lot of stress on the brain…</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjQcAO6NEcx2LpSJvLnW-IlcoJX0oZedBn4klkKva88gjwxqjzdpwWkvrSE9AX8IX0DTwyJHcvlost9MWsdtR4yQHdXol-ixiGggL6Jj6BbqRrTX6IyE2KzF8okOzXcnPhq5paskHQNAs/s1600/Shemp+flutter+-+best+one.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjQcAO6NEcx2LpSJvLnW-IlcoJX0oZedBn4klkKva88gjwxqjzdpwWkvrSE9AX8IX0DTwyJHcvlost9MWsdtR4yQHdXol-ixiGggL6Jj6BbqRrTX6IyE2KzF8okOzXcnPhq5paskHQNAs/s1600/Shemp+flutter+-+best+one.gif" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
As an aside, yes, the Beatles’ animated TV series (which the
Fabs had nothing to do with production-wise) debuted a month before <i>The New Three Stooges</i> cartoon in autumn
1965. However, the Three Stooges’ animated series included numerous live-action
segments, so it’s highly probable that <i>The
New Three Stooges</i> began development <i>before</i> the Beatles cartoon, although there may not have been enough time to permit
cross-pollination specifically between the two shows.</div>
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Having presented all of this evidence, it cannot be
overlooked that any discussion concerning the Three Stooges’ influence on the
Beatles begins with the fact that Moe was wearing a Beatles’ haircut before any
of the lads were born; thus, the Fab Four owe their most defining physical
characteristic to Moe Howard. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhT1HAWM8sWHyCfH8Lqr3_pfUGP7lIhoxDlTl9j53u2oK2QQ8WYT1a1JsqmnvMoLcwv239D6A-nKXbTP_m0PrNQ-IzYxJ0JtBPycFiMrSukJsEoY9whJDr6ngmA6wy6c0KUt7CY84-wCh/s1600/Martian+photo+stacked.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhT1HAWM8sWHyCfH8Lqr3_pfUGP7lIhoxDlTl9j53u2oK2QQ8WYT1a1JsqmnvMoLcwv239D6A-nKXbTP_m0PrNQ-IzYxJ0JtBPycFiMrSukJsEoY9whJDr6ngmA6wy6c0KUt7CY84-wCh/s1600/Martian+photo+stacked.png" height="320" width="280" /></a></div>
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But I’m not positing that <i>The Three Stooges in Orbit</i> was a creative well from which only the
Beatles drew ideas. Far from it. Though meant to look comic, the Martians in
this film actually appear disturbingly grotesque—even more so when the viewer
subconsciously realizes that they strongly resemble the horrifying Grendel in
the 2007 CGI version of <i>Beowulf</i>—or
rather, that Grendel strongly resembles <i>them</i>.
One wouldn’t think that the creators of a faithful and brutally explicit retelling
of a violent Dark Age tale would look to a Three Stooges film for creative
inspiration, but compare the Martians’ distended skulls, heavy eyebrow ridges,
and lacertilian digits to Grendel and try to deny a connection…</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDueFiPzDBB9FXLxDdqIk0i3KoUdMKS8blylhfXkBXxPAYPw6KmjKdR1b_FKSZ1-p5i0Qv9kNzkVsdt5M_UHc7Au8y3VdH4-ALBSv0m5VVu1xaR8GSIWGlsRcpIBpOxr-VIjqjmwjkf4nK/s1600/Grendel+stacked.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDueFiPzDBB9FXLxDdqIk0i3KoUdMKS8blylhfXkBXxPAYPw6KmjKdR1b_FKSZ1-p5i0Qv9kNzkVsdt5M_UHc7Au8y3VdH4-ALBSv0m5VVu1xaR8GSIWGlsRcpIBpOxr-VIjqjmwjkf4nK/s1600/Grendel+stacked.png" height="320" width="274" /></a></div>
Of course, Moe Howard—by several accounts, well-read in his
youth and possessor of two months of high school study—may, himself, have based the Stooges’ brand of aggressive comedy on the
original <i>Beowulf</i>…<br />
<br />
And as game-changing as was the granddaddy of all science fiction films, <i>Star Wars</i>, it’s glaringly obvious from where in his movie-going youth George Lucas later pilfered the concept of the Empire’s ultimate weapon, the Death Star...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnV2yKkWQGNZBDj3THheIK1YVZNR7e92YayHZ2bymvwqJt9NgrSAgKQwWSGe9WqhMae9gEu9ro5Ow6lr3boeXmnVPbsLG85oF_-8OoDQFbMsc74fPcDLuQTPODHhzvXogXU7GOvltK0xvC/s1600/Planet+laser+--+better.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnV2yKkWQGNZBDj3THheIK1YVZNR7e92YayHZ2bymvwqJt9NgrSAgKQwWSGe9WqhMae9gEu9ro5Ow6lr3boeXmnVPbsLG85oF_-8OoDQFbMsc74fPcDLuQTPODHhzvXogXU7GOvltK0xvC/s1600/Planet+laser+--+better.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Images from</i> The Three Stooges in Orbit <i>copyright Columbia Pictures</i>;<i> images from</i> Yellow Submarine <i>copyright United Artists</i>;<i> image from</i> Beowulf <i>copyright Paramount Pictures</i>.)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-77474148584906705552014-07-28T19:55:00.000-05:002015-01-02T12:30:36.723-05:00Costner’s Arms Caused Draft Day Harm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUkR0_dcHz_028Bd_cnWlwhCgNcV5g6g2GDvLwHcGeHHAlbY551pazDNyQy1C7fRVjH-1pjA33ll7CbGa-5D-FV5z5I3hH_qt0PvsA1a2Zhc6VYNHi2XXtnfYxwHpuu6TGqV105wu3Tv9/s1600/Draft+Day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUkR0_dcHz_028Bd_cnWlwhCgNcV5g6g2GDvLwHcGeHHAlbY551pazDNyQy1C7fRVjH-1pjA33ll7CbGa-5D-FV5z5I3hH_qt0PvsA1a2Zhc6VYNHi2XXtnfYxwHpuu6TGqV105wu3Tv9/s1600/Draft+Day.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
According to the Web site <i>Box Office Mojo</i>, as of June 18, 2014, the Kevin Costner film <i>Draft Day</i> grossed $29.4 million
worldwide. Against a budget of $25 million, this constitutes a major
disappointment for Lions Gate Entertainment.<br />
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I was not among the few who forked over money to see a film
that, seemingly, only a rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth football fanatic given a
free bucket of Milk Duds could tolerate. However, it’s clear that, apart from
the insipid drama of the behind-the-scenes string-pulling that occurs on the
NFL’s most crucial day of the off-season, the prime reason why <i>Draft Day</i> failed at the box office is Costner’s
glaringly obvious lack of range as an actor.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC4K_BhFxAOG1I3SfkITiXG9ndyjfI3VUPcSJ2e9nA9BHow4Za-EXVillGuq9CAAIr3pBTn_e3PEjR07r-4aYv8fOnSshGUa9ZLgl7K1TzZZzwUpVV6c_LjxioFK9SoqF0CGxwLffNK1x/s1600/All+photos.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC4K_BhFxAOG1I3SfkITiXG9ndyjfI3VUPcSJ2e9nA9BHow4Za-EXVillGuq9CAAIr3pBTn_e3PEjR07r-4aYv8fOnSshGUa9ZLgl7K1TzZZzwUpVV6c_LjxioFK9SoqF0CGxwLffNK1x/s1600/All+photos.png" height="320" width="310" /></a>I mean, compare his performance in
<i>Draft Day</i> (above) to some of his
major roles over the last quarter-century. Clockwise from upper left, in <i>Field of Dreams</i>, <i>JFK</i>, <i>Wyatt Earp</i>, <i>Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit</i>, and <i>A Perfect World</i>, Costner’s standard
acting technique remains unchanged. It matters not whether he’s portraying a historical
figure such as New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison or Old West lawman Wyatt Earp, or if
Costner’s role is a completely fictional character—he has not altered that cool,
calm, arms-crossed stance that so defines his image across the decades. </div>
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Sure, arm-crossing is called for in <i>some</i> roles—but to keep drawing from that well for one’s entire
career is to sabotage that career by desensitizing the audience. “We no longer
care that he’s acting casually confident—he’s <i>done</i> it,” filmgoers clearly said by staying away from <i>Draft Day</i> in droves. Do we really need <i>more</i> proof of the potential of arms on
the screen than Molly Shannon in Episode 156 of <i>Seinfeld</i>, “The Summer of George”? Letting her arms “hang like
salamis” as she “lurches around like a caveman” led to interoffice chaos.</div>
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And
the less said how disastrous is Raquel Welch’s lack of arm movement in that
episode, the better…</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6KB6GFy9oyX1yc1BeKBbqZcXHf64mVfR-lX5pHPISsaliJInR2jJ9Q52dpg4H4LuKEcSxACOvxtkutlCya0h_aecFG8Oz1HBamhNDfVskPH7lk6QQK_LsgUQ8GGqEFXIHrlmBO0r8Hfk/s1600/Molly+Shannon+-+Seinfeld.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6KB6GFy9oyX1yc1BeKBbqZcXHf64mVfR-lX5pHPISsaliJInR2jJ9Q52dpg4H4LuKEcSxACOvxtkutlCya0h_aecFG8Oz1HBamhNDfVskPH7lk6QQK_LsgUQ8GGqEFXIHrlmBO0r8Hfk/s1600/Molly+Shannon+-+Seinfeld.gif" /></a></div>
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Okay, said arm-swinging led to a pair of arousing catfights
involving Elaine…but who wants to see Kevin Costner in a catfight, even if it were
to produce the drama <i>Draft Day</i> so
sorely missed?</div>
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The bottom line is that arms = conflict. Can you imagine the bore-fest <i>Raging Bull</i> would have been had DeNiro stood scene after scene in the ring with his arms crossed? You can’t throw the title and pathetically destroy your career and reputation if you don’t first move your arms to punch and <i>win</i> the title... <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYejafh1GJm4eOAwguoufIUzfPREKfc132n0C-7VPYGxg0qpOc2X1MNhNNm0MdUhWbTmkjbAVW02SsnE3K0gpuB4sPYFGU9T7luQXaLi1KaJvMi4Ei1ipvagHV8JR6vbKReIoIuwaEn6p-/s1600/Stella-Kurtz.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYejafh1GJm4eOAwguoufIUzfPREKfc132n0C-7VPYGxg0qpOc2X1MNhNNm0MdUhWbTmkjbAVW02SsnE3K0gpuB4sPYFGU9T7luQXaLi1KaJvMi4Ei1ipvagHV8JR6vbKReIoIuwaEn6p-/s1600/Stella-Kurtz.png" height="320" width="294" /></a></div>
Perhaps I’m being too harsh on Costner. He could well be an
unknowing victim of Hollywood typecasting, selected for these roles solely
because of his experience and proficiency in characters that cross their arms—not
unlike Marlon Brando, whose outstanding ability to ooze psychotic torment by
grabbing his skull landed him many a classic role.</div>
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So I suppose I’ll cut Costner some slack and give him until <i>Draft Day II: I Can’t Believe They Green-Lighted
This One Also</i> to sort himself out…<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(</span><i style="font-size: x-small;">Image from</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Draft
Day </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">copyright Summit Entertainment
Lions Gate</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">; </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">image from</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Field of
Dreams </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">copyright Universal Pictures</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">; </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">images from</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> JFK, Wyatt Earp, </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">and</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> A Streetcar Named Desire </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">copyright Warner Brothers</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">; </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">image from</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">copyright Paramount Pictures</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">; </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">image from</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> A Perfect World </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">copyright Malpaso Productions</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">; </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">image from</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Apocalypse Now </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">copyright Zoetrope Studios</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">.)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-25640966414139653412014-07-26T13:19:00.001-05:002015-06-26T09:37:20.278-05:00This Guy's Got a Little Too Much Nike on the Psyche<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcZYIEoAEoEhxJsPoLfobRmGK-p0OPRzCcHtVPGSi1QAj9JfV39SWJM-4iQ40Lpjlid16B-c8QKap7Zq6-EYD1-wVDS-EHrkaaw7YmAYf8yRLrCrjHpIVz1IP4FNZ7u5cI4s6S4_zGnLA/s1600/FMD+1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcZYIEoAEoEhxJsPoLfobRmGK-p0OPRzCcHtVPGSi1QAj9JfV39SWJM-4iQ40Lpjlid16B-c8QKap7Zq6-EYD1-wVDS-EHrkaaw7YmAYf8yRLrCrjHpIVz1IP4FNZ7u5cI4s6S4_zGnLA/s1600/FMD+1.png" width="200" /></a></div>
These photos have recently made the rounds on reddit.com. I know nothing of their source nor the reason for the driver<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s unorthodox technique.<br />
<br />
My guess is that he<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s constantly saying embarrassingly asinine things.<br />
<br />
Or perhaps he<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s suffering from a particularly virulent case of <i><span class="il">Aphthae</span> epizooticae</i>.<br />
<br />
If the former, we can only hope that this man is en route to sensitivity training; if the latter, that he<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;">’</span>s on his way to a top-notch veterinarian.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvSO8gTn24LjCFh2RShL0rwbArLYPq1beiLxrybjfmbrb_q7HtfvSawCKlYRWHCzvWSc0430uwFKNNLpC_VULk5u2I75DgekWiqXdynGGqWs8PamFCrVvPkvE9NVOm0FcwFXDz6DkLU7o/s1600/FMD+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvSO8gTn24LjCFh2RShL0rwbArLYPq1beiLxrybjfmbrb_q7HtfvSawCKlYRWHCzvWSc0430uwFKNNLpC_VULk5u2I75DgekWiqXdynGGqWs8PamFCrVvPkvE9NVOm0FcwFXDz6DkLU7o/s1600/FMD+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvSO8gTn24LjCFh2RShL0rwbArLYPq1beiLxrybjfmbrb_q7HtfvSawCKlYRWHCzvWSc0430uwFKNNLpC_VULk5u2I75DgekWiqXdynGGqWs8PamFCrVvPkvE9NVOm0FcwFXDz6DkLU7o/s1600/FMD+2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Then again, I suppose this could be a pre-2005 photo of him placing a call on his mobile to Don Adams. (Laws prohibiting using a phone while driving were not widespread or well-enforced back then...)</div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-31874439109304254142014-07-25T19:27:00.008-05:002023-03-15T13:04:50.192-05:00It's Not a Lie...if You Believed It in 1937<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxgCuyzbar8SkfmYoOY8h3ih-ea3C4XnXLY9Wj1gumn_7-GXC-iJVNGJNDOkref5Bj0cHHqgodw8vO1a5wifVIB6SbslKtTEv2gw_IeB_Z60-VJv7qQv9dUNuuui9Pw24fakyjUGZLxTT/s1600/Beg%252C+Borrow+or+Steal.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxgCuyzbar8SkfmYoOY8h3ih-ea3C4XnXLY9Wj1gumn_7-GXC-iJVNGJNDOkref5Bj0cHHqgodw8vO1a5wifVIB6SbslKtTEv2gw_IeB_Z60-VJv7qQv9dUNuuui9Pw24fakyjUGZLxTT/s1600/Beg%252C+Borrow+or+Steal.jpg" width="213" /></a><i>Beg, Borrow or Steal</i>, a rather obscure comedy from 1937, aired on the Turner Classic Movies channel this afternoon. Its description in the Comcast grid:<br />
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<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>As a gesture, an American in Paris invites his daughter<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s wedding party to his nonexistent ch<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%;">â</span>teau<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>and they all accept.<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span><br />
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This plot sounds remarkably similar to <i>Seinfeld</i> Episode 171, <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>The Wizard,<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span> in which George Costanza is caught in a lie to his would-have-been in-laws, the Rosses, about not being able to attend a charity event on behalf of his deceased fianc<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%;">é</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span>because he is closing a lease on a house in the Hamptons. When the Rosses don<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>t call him on his lie, an infuriated George decides it<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s time to get nuts and takes it up a notch by inviting the Rosses to his new summer home. Hilarity ensues when the Rosses call his bluff, and George spends two painfully awkward hours driving them to the very end of Long Island, all the while describing in exquisite detail his nonexistent house, including <i>two</i> solariums and a pair of horses, Snoopy and Prickly Pete.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaOlXAxVloMNc5AmIuqHBHyTmSSMQKNKPs7m2nTFagTlkiBC9H4QgVsijqv-M7Pcfuy09ypdtR2XMCDeIawyA7YfuhnRzKSAPGGO3784f2zYV_Ai2a2wYy_B3-kTGdotQXZs23BHPN_y5/s1600/Drive+to+Hamptons.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaOlXAxVloMNc5AmIuqHBHyTmSSMQKNKPs7m2nTFagTlkiBC9H4QgVsijqv-M7Pcfuy09ypdtR2XMCDeIawyA7YfuhnRzKSAPGGO3784f2zYV_Ai2a2wYy_B3-kTGdotQXZs23BHPN_y5/s1600/Drive+to+Hamptons.png" width="320" /></a></div>
I didn<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>t get to watch the film, but reading Comcast<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s description of <i>Beg, Borrow or Steal</i>, it<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s not hard to picture American expatriate Ingraham Steward (Frank Morgan) squirming to keep his Costanza-esque lie going as the wedding guests inquire about <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>his<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">” </span>ch<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">â</span>teau. A lavish, pre-war, French home likely built in the 19th century most certainly had two solariums<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>as did George<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s purported lease. And horses for sure<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>I<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>m betting Snup<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%;">â</span>y and <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="line-height: 115%;">É</span>pineux Pierre. Let<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s face it: lies and deceit were all the rage throughout Europe in the 1930s...<br />
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It seems as though MGM got nuts and took it up a notch sixty years before George did...<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Beg, Borrow or Steal<i> image copyright MGM;</i> Seinfeld<i> image copyright NBC.</i>)</span>Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-42721149463460392602014-07-25T10:38:00.000-05:002014-08-02T08:37:12.862-05:00Carl Spackler's Lifetime of Learning to Think Like an Animal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzzof508jkqhpW9RiDIKf10jpSzwPt1po2toxZJtSSYGG5h_CP2_zOxYyvhGgqa-V368PY4L5Y_8W-8APJt5dJ-nEKI2EvGT4ylKx-Bz8w7LyAOIPoGd5JP47th5viCRLevuow9sPJOZc/s1600/Mole+Control.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGzzof508jkqhpW9RiDIKf10jpSzwPt1po2toxZJtSSYGG5h_CP2_zOxYyvhGgqa-V368PY4L5Y_8W-8APJt5dJ-nEKI2EvGT4ylKx-Bz8w7LyAOIPoGd5JP47th5viCRLevuow9sPJOZc/s320/Mole+Control.jpg" height="400" width="263" /></a>This U.S. Department of Agriculture bulletin was published in January 1940. No wonder the United States was so unprepared for Pearl Harbor and the Second World War<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">: </span></span>While the Axis powers were running rampant across Europe, Asia, and Africa, Franklin D. Roosevelt<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s administration worried about relatively harmless mammals that, although endangering American lawns and golf courses with their burrowing, certainly posed less threat to democracy than Hitler, Hirohito, and the other guy.</div>
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Geopolitical commentary aside, I believe that very well might be little Carl <span class="il">Spackler</span> learning greenskeeping tips from his father. Carl<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s age is never indicated in <i>Caddyshack</i>, but he could well be in his mid-forties. A life of golf-course maintenance in the unforgiving sun and liberal indulgence with northern California sinsemilla cannonballed by white wine likely has weathered Carl beyond his years, so being the youngster pictured on this 1940 cover is not beyond the realm of possibility.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQYsKbDH_FwZy42FbB06MI2JCaiLDShXhnqotcPGGT8M2Ucr22QT55YRC1JuUeBSHlZ52e_x51kDtW9ijF1PgQjQfRYtqEqbStUSgDLnLFc9IyvCxjd47wVXHh2powmyRPPH1DhONB8S0/s1600/Carl+Spackler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQYsKbDH_FwZy42FbB06MI2JCaiLDShXhnqotcPGGT8M2Ucr22QT55YRC1JuUeBSHlZ52e_x51kDtW9ijF1PgQjQfRYtqEqbStUSgDLnLFc9IyvCxjd47wVXHh2powmyRPPH1DhONB8S0/s1600/Carl+Spackler.jpg" height="182" width="320" /></a></div>
Sure, as assistant greenskeeper at Bushwood Country Club, Carl<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s primary task is to keep the course free of the destructive gopher, but its burrowing brethren, the mole, poses just as much threat to the American way of pretending to be athletic<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>so don<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">’</span>t think for one minute that the mole isn<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">’</span>t also Varmint Cong, even if it doesn<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">’</span>t prefer dancing to folk-pop as much as its tunneling counterpart. Thus, there is no reason that an experienced groundskeeper such as the man pictured on the <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>Mole Control<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span> cover<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>as well as his apprentice son<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>wouldn<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>t also know how to deal with the pesky gopher that decades later would plague Bushwood and its upper-crust members.<br />
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True, one would think that a greenskeeper training since the 1940s wouldn<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>t still be six years from the position of head greenskeeper in 1980, but who knows how long Carl spent in Tibet caddying for the Dalai Lama as well as practicing to become a Cinderella-story Masters champion, himself? And let<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s not forget that Carl devoted a lot of time to broadening his education on chinch bugs, manganese, and nitrogen, not to mention inventing and registering his own kind of hybrid grass<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">. </span></span>So even though he<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">’</span>s got that going for him<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">—</span>which clearly is nice<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">—</span>Carl<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 16.866666793823242px;">’</span>s career development might be lagging...<br />
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Au revoir, mole...<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Image of Carl Spackler copyright Warner Brothers Pictures</i>.) </span> </div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-69000158797397903722014-07-02T21:07:00.000-05:002014-08-26T17:39:38.722-05:00Apparently, The History Channel Don't Know Much About History<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAz139WVQ098fV4kz8MxbfB3AHx-rfxtSXvu_SC80OzjF51V5B6gduN38xuFvsdfjAtgNCEmxVoID-2OpwDNDc6JsG6Oj9fSORT5JovrzdXigYjWHi5mUXzEfA55L58ItZYKSRkAqrjZI/s1600/Mt+St+Helens.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
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I was recently re-watching episodes of <i>How the Earth Was Made</i>, a 25-episode History Channel series that
premiered in 2009. I had some gripes about it during the original run but never
put them to keyboard. So it’s high time I vented about the series—particularly
Episode 9 of Season 2: “Mount St. Helen’s.” Clearly, the writers and producers of
the show were starting to scrape the barrel for topics in Season 2, but this
episode’s premise is especially ridiculous.</div>
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As you no doubt surmised, this episode centers on the
eruption of Mount St. Helen’s in Washington State—the only major volcanic
eruption in the continental United States in modern times. Twelve years old
when the volcano blew itself apart, I know full well the significance of the
event and remember well the havoc it wrought.</div>
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But that was 1980—and this is a series about how the Earth
was <i>made</i>. By all scientific
consensus, the Earth is 4.6 billion years old. I hardly need to do the math for
you, but to illustrate my point…</div>
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Earth’s 4.6-billion-year age had long been established by
the episode’s debut</div>
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This episode first aired in February 2010—30 years after the
eruption</div>
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So, 4.6 × 10<sup>9</sup> – 30 = 4,599,999,970 years.</div>
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Therefore, 4,599,999,970 years—or 99.99999934782609% of
Earth’s existence by this episode’s original airing—had already elapsed by the
time Mount St. Helen’s erupted in 1980.* In other words, Earth had long been <i>made</i> when the Washington volcano went
kablooey. To purport that the Mount St. Helen’s eruption had anything to do with
the <i>making</i> of the Earth would be like
a centenarian trying to pass off his latest birthday cake as his birth
certificate.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">* Even in Christian fundamentalist Ken Ham’s creationist world of nonsense, a
volcanic eruption so recent would mean that 99.5% of the 6,000-year-old Earth’s
history had already elapsed—making Mount St. Helen’s just as irrelevant in the
context of this series.</span></div>
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But the Mount St. Helen’s episode wasn’t the only relatively
recent event that made for highly questionable television. <i>How the Earth Was Made</i> also featured episodes about the eruption of
Krakatoa in 1883; the Vesuvius catastrophe of <span style="font-variant: small-caps;">ad</span>
79; the formation of the Sahara, which occurred a mere few thousand years
before that; and a general overview of tsunamis<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>which have absolutely nothing to do with the formation of the waterless Earth and have less to do with ongoing processes that currently affect it than any other phenomenon spotlighted in the series. </div>
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Don’t misinterpret my harsh criticism as utter disapproval—I
enjoy the series and find it highly informative. I just think that the series’
title is deceptive and ill-conceived. Considering the immense timeline of
topics covered, it would have done much better with a less-specific
title…perhaps something along the lines of <i>How
the Earth Did Stuff </i>or <i>When Bad
Things Happen to Good Planets</i>.</div>
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After all, it’s not as if History Channel doesn’t have a…um…history
of broadcasting programs and series that utterly contradict its mission statement,
<i>viz</i>., <i>Life After People</i>. (It similarly ran the future-based <i>The Road Warrior</i> several times about a
decade ago.) Hardly the stuff of <i>history</i>…</div>
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I don’t demand much from History Channel…but I <i>do</i> demand thematic fidelity!<br />
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Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-61054963844187754452014-07-02T09:59:00.031-05:002022-02-25T13:35:25.718-05:00Shame, Blame, and a New Name for the Washington Redskins<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vfxIby7aMJbAAIjpHjQyiHWVbNcqUz-b6V6ATDIdc4GUX7AuvC40sIIGvFWZHRpMnVT6jlsxD7hEQSXYhytxCBfjcQkSThwax3EkpeuVbxIWMnq2OgFI01-hR23-DeQIh-SzU16zkrMH/s1024/Marsahll+1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="929" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vfxIby7aMJbAAIjpHjQyiHWVbNcqUz-b6V6ATDIdc4GUX7AuvC40sIIGvFWZHRpMnVT6jlsxD7hEQSXYhytxCBfjcQkSThwax3EkpeuVbxIWMnq2OgFI01-hR23-DeQIh-SzU16zkrMH/s320/Marsahll+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><font face="inherit">Washington Redskins owner Daniel Snyder continues to fend
off pressure to abandon his franchise’s 81-year-old nickname. It’s a
complicated and thorny issue, involving a long-dead racist owner, the First
Amendment, shameful ethnic policies and attitudes, tradition, fan loyalty, and
lots of money.<o:p></o:p></font><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">George Preston Marshall, who bought the fledgling Boston
Braves in 1932 and changed its moniker to the Redskins, most likely was,
according to Thomas G. Smith’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Showdown:
JFK and the Integration of the Washington Redskins</i>, the prime mover behind
banning blacks from the NFL, a blight that commenced that same year. Whether he
was or wasn’t, what cannot be disputed is the bewildering fact that Marshall’s
franchise did not integrate until an ungodly-late 1962, essentially making him
the NFL’s version of Tom Yawkey. And much like Yawkey’s long-vanilla Boston Red
Sox, Marshall’s Redskins deservedly went a quarter-century between playoff
appearances after World War II. (Interestingly, the Redskins of Boston played
their four years in Fenway Park, making Marshall and Yawkey partners in slime,
before Marshall relocated the franchise to the nation’s capital in 1937.)<o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">There’s a lot more to Marshall’s sordid story, and although
he always claimed the Redskins name was intended to honor America’s Indian
culture, any man with Marshall’s track record on race relations is not to be
believed.<o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">Various attempts to make Redskins ownership change the
franchise’s name have been initiated<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">—some
of them predating Daniel Snyder’s taking of the helm—but the fallback positions
have always boiled down to either the extreme longevity of the name or a
refusal to cave to political correctness. Advocates on opposing sides of the
issue can cite polls that show ample support for either retaining or jettisoning
the Redskins name.</span><o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">From a legal standpoint, I don’t know what the answer is;
from a moral standpoint, I’m in favor of changing any name that explicitly focuses
on the color of one’s skin<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">—</span>especially
in the capital of a nation that ostensibly stands for freedom and equality.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">Of
course, let’s not forget that this same capital did not deign to grant
unconditional citizenship to American Indians until 1924...<o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">Daniel Snyder is probably none of the things that George
Marshall was, and his refusal to re-christen his franchise surely is not
intended as a slap in the face to Native Americans. Yet he’s faced with an
uphill battle to moral ground, and history won’t have his back.<o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">My solution to this quandary is to rename the Washington
Redskins the Washington Rosaceas. This, I strongly believe, would satisfy both
sides<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">—</span>the offended party no longer endures a disparaging slur, while <st1:place w:st="on">Washington</st1:place>
ownership maintains the ethos of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">red skin</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> while freeing itself of</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> racist baggage</span>.</font></p><p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">And it keeps an “R” name, to boot.<o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="inherit">If this then offends rosacea sufferers, well, there’s never
been a solution that pleased <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everyone</i>…<o:p></o:p></font></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ZHY8ylcat7YAD9OMspzRrwRhbwNuY5UWlHVSCBUu7m9uIRUWMZHNxmTnTcJtz8_CRpw8RgDPliPlKhvRkWt8_d8lj_KuYGDtZV2Di081k0n5H88byUMpeESBKItuSQGuKP8_ffJsBntA/s627/ALL+%252B+MY+NAME.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="627" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ZHY8ylcat7YAD9OMspzRrwRhbwNuY5UWlHVSCBUu7m9uIRUWMZHNxmTnTcJtz8_CRpw8RgDPliPlKhvRkWt8_d8lj_KuYGDtZV2Di081k0n5H88byUMpeESBKItuSQGuKP8_ffJsBntA/s320/ALL+%252B+MY+NAME.png" width="320" /></a></div><font face="inherit"><br /></font><p></p><br /><p></p>Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-31034456792562146202014-06-17T08:53:00.001-05:002014-06-18T14:00:24.782-05:00Sing Along With O.J. Simpson's Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0poZZUYfOk5_0YMSxxDgFRjn6xfAemLclBhlvpcPcr93-yPiprbhkH7geG4LoEtG4cogEUGdi9HPXc_EdIAfEDXLZTYSkh6qCTzckPXOZi0g9kvtgFQb94txDQJju796VUNlMEHQHnEiC/s1600/Sgt+OJ+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0poZZUYfOk5_0YMSxxDgFRjn6xfAemLclBhlvpcPcr93-yPiprbhkH7geG4LoEtG4cogEUGdi9HPXc_EdIAfEDXLZTYSkh6qCTzckPXOZi0g9kvtgFQb94txDQJju796VUNlMEHQHnEiC/s1600/Sgt+OJ+copy.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It was twenty years ago today</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Police chased the Bronco driving O.J.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He’s been going in and out of jail</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Couldn’t sell his Heisman Trophy for bail</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So may I introduce to you</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The back you cheered for all those years</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We’re O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Juice used to be an All-Pro</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We’re O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He did his running in a Bronco</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in, O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’s horrible to be here</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’s like being a Buffalo Bill</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Such a huge TV audience</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He’d like to take you home with him</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He’d love to stab you at home</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CtRP7K-0JTiN01gzkNzAlovtuAdnUDzMfFhrhwuTuJzveiLxcc9-RZM6sR1S6nM2iWHNqT6jSKd0N9EWkHNJx5rEuoHOkIrU9-61wlKqdC86gvosiKubM8MGHZtKslPGqmMEtLWqqK38/s1600/Bronco+chase+GIF.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CtRP7K-0JTiN01gzkNzAlovtuAdnUDzMfFhrhwuTuJzveiLxcc9-RZM6sR1S6nM2iWHNqT6jSKd0N9EWkHNJx5rEuoHOkIrU9-61wlKqdC86gvosiKubM8MGHZtKslPGqmMEtLWqqK38/s1600/Bronco+chase+GIF.gif" height="163" width="200" /></a><i>I don’t really want to stop the chase</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But Marcia’s gotta prosecute the case</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And O.J.</i><i>’</i><i>s fingers in the glove are too long</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So the jury got the verdict wrong</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So let me introduce to you</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The one and only Orenthal James</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Knife...Scissors...SHEARS!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What would you do 'bout the lives led to ruin?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Would you stand up and render Guilty?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Lend me your ears and I’ll show you how wrong</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You would be not to set me free</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What do I do when my love’s cold awhile?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Does it bother you that you killed her?)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>How do I feel by the end of the trial?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Where’d you like the price of your soul billed, sir?)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Do you need anybody?)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I need somebody to kill</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Could it be anybody?)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My ex-wife and the waiter from Ill.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Would you believe that the glove is too tight?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Yes, I’m certain that it does not fit</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Would you convict if the jury were white?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I can’t tell you but you must acquit</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Do you need anybody?)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I need somebody to kill</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Could it be anybody?)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My ex-wife and the waiter from Ill.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Yes, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>With a little help from the Dre-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-heem
Team!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZmh5Y4dR3xtJayT2yZtL04AzTMrXtUn-xHzpP4wSlNsDIYi8dRVseeM3Zg-trq6dK4FOjOt79F9P-5aryVvMaq94BPmA5hGLfW2MzMTazaNOM41b4HVIF94hbnV7heR_IfhI7XylZMaV/s1600/OJ+gloves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZmh5Y4dR3xtJayT2yZtL04AzTMrXtUn-xHzpP4wSlNsDIYi8dRVseeM3Zg-trq6dK4FOjOt79F9P-5aryVvMaq94BPmA5hGLfW2MzMTazaNOM41b4HVIF94hbnV7heR_IfhI7XylZMaV/s1600/OJ+gloves.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Thanks to Drinkmore Pat for Photoshop guidance</i>; </span><i style="font-size: x-small;">GIF of chase copyright CNN</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">.) </span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-26801639545363042892014-06-13T17:03:00.002-05:002021-07-17T22:31:41.395-05:00It's Not a Nerd, It's Too Inane...It's Soviet Superman!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rsXfhUaieQyrmDSsCd8iokluSO4vwUlpXzscVBAHYTu2oewyGnEKXsSVYOu4bY8sKmZU8XKvrMl0pFGOABU6A0e74lIENpXlmr1T-sqWTSw7_3GKOJ2fek9K0JxQm_skNRYxA-BKDmvt/s1600/Superman+Vladivostok.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rsXfhUaieQyrmDSsCd8iokluSO4vwUlpXzscVBAHYTu2oewyGnEKXsSVYOu4bY8sKmZU8XKvrMl0pFGOABU6A0e74lIENpXlmr1T-sqWTSw7_3GKOJ2fek9K0JxQm_skNRYxA-BKDmvt/s1600/Superman+Vladivostok.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pat e-mailed the rest of the Drinkmore crew this panel
today. It’s from <i>Superman: Red Son</i>, a
three-issue comic book produced in 2003 and premised on Kal-El having landed in Ukraine
rather than the United States and grown up a Soviet “citizen,” fighting a
never-ending battle for Josef Stalin and the Red Army rather than Truth,
Justice, and the American Way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I’ve never read <i>Red Son</i>, aside from the canon of the story, in which the Soviet
Union apparently becomes the predominant superpower and the United States produces super-villains
to destroy both it and Superman, it is readily evident just from this panel why the USSR ultimately failed in its goal of world domination: the Russkies were dopes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Firstly, Soviet Russia officially adopted the metric system in
1918, almost immediately upon its inception. Now, I’m not saying that Tsar
Nicholas II might have saved his and the Royal Family’s <i>tsasses</i> by going metric—after all, the Russian Revolution was more socio-politically
than metrically motivated—but I <i>am</i>
saying that the Tsar could have substantially improved life under his apathetic
reign by standardizing the nation’s AAA maps both internally and to the rest of
Europe, vastly simplifying vacation travel for serfs. Even so, <i>why the hell was Soviet Superman calculating in “capitalist” miles instead of “communist” kilometers</i>? Soviet Superman wouldn’t have made it past Russian elementary school—yet <i>he’s</i> the USSR’s ultimate weapon? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Much more importantly than simple units of measure, look how utterly vague and scatterbrained
is the hammer-and-sickle–chested Superman: In a nation that measured more than
6,000 miles east to west and nearly 3,000 miles north to south—an area of
14 million square miles—he’s “pinpointing” a destination more than 3,000 miles away from
a known locale. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three thousand miles west of Vladivostok, a coastal city in
the Russian Far East, is just east of the Ural Mountains. However, the Urals stretch
north-south for approximately 2,500 miles. Even considering Superman’s incredible
flying speed, that’s still precious minutes wasted in a millions-of-square-miles
wild-goose chase across the Soviet Union’s spine. How many people will die and
homes will burn while the Man of Stoli searches for this chemical fire by needlessly zooming up and down mountainous wilderness of the Urals like Clint Eastwood looking for his refueling point in <i>Firefox</i>?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazm2bydqexD9U5nzgzYrZfxLMq_FxbI-WMHundQo0C2aPagh2fLu7UtGK4P5UMXatMLcltFejIUhH1yLxEZi3AtPjoJN0sCduSkljmlNsVQmHcPFdx0F8ow_ZIXmgR32WHDNqoxuOiVfv/s1600/Vladivostok+map+cities+in+red.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazm2bydqexD9U5nzgzYrZfxLMq_FxbI-WMHundQo0C2aPagh2fLu7UtGK4P5UMXatMLcltFejIUhH1yLxEZi3AtPjoJN0sCduSkljmlNsVQmHcPFdx0F8ow_ZIXmgR32WHDNqoxuOiVfv/s1600/Vladivostok+map+cities+in+red.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Considering that Stalin and Soviet Superman are surely in
Moscow—4,000 miles west of Vladivostok and thus obviously much closer to the
chemical fire than that cross-continental port city—citing Vladivostok as a
reference point makes absolutely <i>nyet</i>
sense. Why not use Yekaterinburg, a major city on the eastern slope of the Urals and
approximately those 3,000 miles west of Vladivostok, as the reference point? It’s
still almost 900 miles from Moscow, thus preserving the image of Superman heroically
coming to the rescue from a great distance yet eliminating the asinine inexactitude
that betrays his stupidity. After all, one does not summon emergency services
by saying that an ambulance is needed fifty miles west of a town located fifty
miles to the east…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That neither Comrade Kent nor Stalin—who also foolishly
fails to demand a more-specific location—could not fathom such obvious logic
displays the kind of flawed reasoning that led to the USSR’s demise. Would
American Superman know to go specifically to San Francisco if he were needed “3,000 miles
west of New York”? Of course not—but, possessing the American penchant for
individual thought and the free exchange of ideas, you can bet he would <i>look into it</i>, he would at least ask for
directions. Little wonder the USSR never landed a man on the moon, conquered
capitalism, or beat the Broad Street Bullies in 1976—those Soviets were such
slaves to their own narrow-minded system, their overbearing Mother Russia, that
they were utterly incapable of thinking even slightly out of the Bloc.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvq7IuWRmSwJ1SdW_nrLCyo7z7V4alZknXjyrhaZmd_dH0l5I9MeKkgPQbwcrlP46C4zAwLlYeg97ErZQHEU-kxzakmTLt0xmCRP_Vj4-r3I7-zJk7YFbKtMgEdpetCGhw1e_sXRHJLWg/s1600/Superman+GIF.gif" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvq7IuWRmSwJ1SdW_nrLCyo7z7V4alZknXjyrhaZmd_dH0l5I9MeKkgPQbwcrlP46C4zAwLlYeg97ErZQHEU-kxzakmTLt0xmCRP_Vj4-r3I7-zJk7YFbKtMgEdpetCGhw1e_sXRHJLWg/s1600/Superman+GIF.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that the United States owns an unblemished heritage of
geniuses at the helm—the US government hydrogen-bombed its own
country more than a thousand times since the end of World War II—but at least
our superheroes’ kryptonite isn’t common sense, and our pizza deliverymen get
their precious cargo to hungry mouths without empty-headedly basing their route on the customer’s distance from the Cumberland Gap.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Superman: Red Son <i>panel
copyright DC Comics</i>; <i>map of Russia copyright npr.org</i>.)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-59526987412267512552014-06-07T17:26:00.002-05:002022-02-24T08:46:46.032-05:00Abraham, Father of Nations...Abe Vigoda, Father of Patience<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LG5N5TYHieToSz9JuxMqItVgUapGUgtzcKyAxS7SPHKd_qAjB0tIQqNgj9Pf5rYj7iFzp-5u6MFWJgH08WIey9LRCG-bCGZNqudQqSQCoZU4Gx1tP2ZB2GTdIAlbSOFgwuOpsrzCW8_V/s1600/Vigoda+Fish.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LG5N5TYHieToSz9JuxMqItVgUapGUgtzcKyAxS7SPHKd_qAjB0tIQqNgj9Pf5rYj7iFzp-5u6MFWJgH08WIey9LRCG-bCGZNqudQqSQCoZU4Gx1tP2ZB2GTdIAlbSOFgwuOpsrzCW8_V/s1600/Vigoda+Fish.jpg" width="320" /></a>Abe Vigoda continues to astonish with
his longevity—especially those who thought he died long ago. (The extremely veteran actor has been
reported as deceased on at least three occasions over the last thirty years.) Born
Abraham Vigoda in February 1921 to Russian-Jewish immigrants, he remains the highest-ranking Jew in the
history of the Italian Mafia, enjoying the status of caporegime in the Corleone
crime family until his forced “retirement.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now 93 years old—and having looked ancient for many decades;
he was a mere 51 in <i>The Godfather</i> yet
appeared easily to be in his mid-sixties—I’m wondering if Vigoda can hold on to
become the oldest Abraham in history. Vigoda passed Abraham Lincoln only two months
into the run of his spinoff series, <i>Fish</i>,
in 1977, and moved into the No. 2 spot in 1986, when he eclipsed Abraham Zapruder, who had proved not up to the challenge by dying, years before, at age 65. Since then, only the biblical
Abraham has stood in Vigoda’s way.*<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* We can endlessly debate where Abraham Simpson belongs on
this list, but the fact is that his birth year has never been revealed. And with
the timeline of his life continually in flux, a determination of his true age would
be specious at best. Grampa Simpson is a World War II veteran, yet he also claimed
to have fought in the First World War, as well as participated in the 1936
Olympic Games. His service in World War II is undoubtedly true—at least, he was
certainly old enough to have served—but given Grampa Simpson’s penchant for
meandering tall tales and his suspect memory, much of his background cannot be
taken as gospel, even though we know he was of an advanced age when he fathered
Homer in the mid-1950s. Yes, through flashbacks and glimpses of Simpsons
future, we see Grampa and other Springfield residents <i>at different ages</i>, but because of strictly maintained canon, they
never actually <i>age</i>—their age at the
time of the series’ “birth” is the age that they have remained throughout the
canonical run of the series. Therefore, Grampa, an 80-something when <i>The Simpsons</i> premiered in 1989, remains an 80-something today regardless of the fact that nearly a
quarter-century has elapsed. So, even though Abraham Simpson once was likely much older
than Abe Vigoda, Vigoda has long since reclaimed second place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, according to Genesis, Abraham lived to the ripe,
old age of 175. Now whether you take the Bible at its literal word or dismiss
the ages of its many incredulously long-lived characters as gross
exaggerations, 175 remains the sole “official” age of record—and a target still
so far away that the nonagenarian Vigoda is little more than halfway there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, I believe Abe Vigoda can do it. The key to Vigoda’s
long life thus far has been his languid, almost reptilian, movement. Whether shuffling
gingerly through the Corleone compound or planted in fatigued misery behind his
12th Precinct desk, Vigoda’s patient, unhurried manner emulates the slow heart
rate and conserved body motion of such long-living animals as the elephant, the
whale, and the tortoise. Let’s face it: Vigoda even shares the same facial
expressions as a tortoise…</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vhfVfm9DyHbKbhx3wCqcVC34j-NXdvFx6VPl4jCWZbp19s66rg3oQLlVQ8T-bEbrXkzr4k70iqGXoGZk3pTPrIIMkYVb9fI-PsGAfuDupgG2q8aDnIGBbXkpKcuK1Om7wCe7Q0fBoq2P/s1600/Vigoda+tortoise.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vhfVfm9DyHbKbhx3wCqcVC34j-NXdvFx6VPl4jCWZbp19s66rg3oQLlVQ8T-bEbrXkzr4k70iqGXoGZk3pTPrIIMkYVb9fI-PsGAfuDupgG2q8aDnIGBbXkpKcuK1Om7wCe7Q0fBoq2P/s1600/Vigoda+tortoise.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Certainly, none of us will be around to see it, but I wouldn’t
be shocked in the least if, early in the year 2096, a shriveled-yet-still-filled-with-vim
Abe Vigoda quietly becomes the longest-living Abraham in human history. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After all, a 90-something who can take this hit isn’t going
any time soon…</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfiuIToXNv8n7lyZY8vGeEQAMgNtyJMvXL8DjFJ8HUC99PZWbVfwY8zNG9_xQqnCgFDtN5fLc70ObPIHTjoPMIrXG9bBz79xjc9jCiFH94AxCpCVjtTl5lDzB0eZH9bevMzJ1ajNu0I-q/s1600/9dpei.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfiuIToXNv8n7lyZY8vGeEQAMgNtyJMvXL8DjFJ8HUC99PZWbVfwY8zNG9_xQqnCgFDtN5fLc70ObPIHTjoPMIrXG9bBz79xjc9jCiFH94AxCpCVjtTl5lDzB0eZH9bevMzJ1ajNu0I-q/s1600/9dpei.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Besides, breaking the age record is the smart move...and Tessio was always smartuh.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Image from</i> Barney Miller <i>copyright ABC; image from</i> The Godfather<i> copyright Paramount Pictures; animated GIF of Snickers ad copyright Mars, Incorporated.</i>)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-51622347585874829262014-06-03T19:59:00.000-05:002014-08-22T20:25:24.312-05:00A Coupe Fit for a Pope—The Cordoba Could've Been a Holy Roller<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3PQdDnDDqMo0jw7z-Um2iLZYEmegEcA7LcBthy3bcG0-vYny5yU2tC99z1oZLW2dbyKaFTYOtFSe8BACvpBaCSHi8lpFWXdxbT4D1mhkqNBqwohPsM-gyM7K1at23MofJK_NV168YTQ4/s1600/Cordoba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3PQdDnDDqMo0jw7z-Um2iLZYEmegEcA7LcBthy3bcG0-vYny5yU2tC99z1oZLW2dbyKaFTYOtFSe8BACvpBaCSHi8lpFWXdxbT4D1mhkqNBqwohPsM-gyM7K1at23MofJK_NV168YTQ4/s1600/Cordoba.jpg" height="185" width="320" /></a></div>
What if the 1975 Chrysler Cordoba had seats made not from soft Corinthian leather, but from soft Corinthian letters—as in Paul’s letter to the Corinthians? Imagine driving in the plush comfort of parchmented scripture as you get to your destination in style and a state of grace...<br />
<br />
I’m surprised Paul VI<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>the first pope to make formal appearances in a motor vehicle<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>failed to deem this his <span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>Popemobile.<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span> The 1975 Cordoba certainly was roomy enough to accommodate not only His Holiness, but a trio of his favorite cardinals as well. And with a three-speed, automatic, V8 engine, the Most Holy Father would rest assured that he’d get to his destination with all expedience. Paul VI could even have issued a papal bull re-designating his vehicle as a <i>Chrystler</i> Cordoba...perhaps also decreeing that something from First Corinthians become the brand motto...<br />
<br />
Ricardo Montalb<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">á</span>n: <span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">“</span>The new 1975 Chrystler Cordoba<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>All things to all men (1 Corinthians 9:22).<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">”</span><br />
<br />Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-33614995655912744182014-05-24T17:31:00.000-05:002019-08-09T09:30:42.468-05:00Turning Siamese Would Have Been Quite the Coup d'Etat for All in the Family<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIMX-IvqG435p4fZOE_kqNQyX7T04FsbguOVHHeLgkORP4LAECXvdf1Mb2Gw1-eR9FwL1jL-tuSvNqPfC5KIMt3DLsUU2o4N7PRBD30AlVRzD3vWXzmgZwe6Dt3FJS_EuE7YMTLzE6GLy/s1600/Chang+and+Eng+Bunker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIMX-IvqG435p4fZOE_kqNQyX7T04FsbguOVHHeLgkORP4LAECXvdf1Mb2Gw1-eR9FwL1jL-tuSvNqPfC5KIMt3DLsUU2o4N7PRBD30AlVRzD3vWXzmgZwe6Dt3FJS_EuE7YMTLzE6GLy/s1600/Chang+and+Eng+Bunker.jpg" width="189" /></a>Amid the current political upheaval in Thailand, capped by
the military coup d’etat of May 22, this is the optimal time to examine why Chang
and Eng Bunker, the original Siamese twins, would have made an even better
Archie Bunker than Carroll O’Connor. Sure, O’Connor earned four Emmy Awards and
a Golden Globe for his timeless and beloved portrayal of Archie Bunker, who,
in turn, helped make <i>All in the Family</i> one
of the most culturally significant programs in television history. America
laughed for a decade at Archie’s convoluted logic, malapropos and mannerisms,
his equal-opportunity bigotry, and his big-hearted narrow-mindedness—all of
which mirrored a nation struggling with its own hypocrisy and neuroses by
finding the right way to reflect all that was wrong with America. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, Chang and Eng Bunker, twin brothers conjoined at the
chest by a large segment of cartilage, seem even better suited to the role.
Born to Chinese parents in Siam (present-day Thailand), in 1811, the brothers
found worldwide celebrity exhibiting themselves on tour as the “Siamese twins” (even
rating a mention in the <i>Guinness Book of
World Records</i> a century later as the source of the term). The Bunker twins
later immigrated to antebellum North Carolina, becoming successful plantation
owners—and slave owners, oddly enough, in view of the similarly low status of
“Orientals” in that age—as well as naturalized U.S. citizens. Proving more
desirable than many “single” men, they fathered twenty-one children between
them—literally between them, considering the logistics involved—and died in
1874.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWg8xyYNtnDTQFW_el_Moem4uM6K7Un8nIkx67D17vB8LB8ORN7SB6H39u6c7eK8b64ASSFwT0t2bstM97-tnaIZ0td9n4oTliFpjHW5QgjL1YyE7-RFZifS0QD0VyA3WskzDYQoRnXduX/s1600/Archie+Bunker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWg8xyYNtnDTQFW_el_Moem4uM6K7Un8nIkx67D17vB8LB8ORN7SB6H39u6c7eK8b64ASSFwT0t2bstM97-tnaIZ0td9n4oTliFpjHW5QgjL1YyE7-RFZifS0QD0VyA3WskzDYQoRnXduX/s1600/Archie+Bunker.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a show called <i>All
in the Family</i>, what could have been more familial than conjoined twins sharing
the lead role? Especially with the ability to call Edith a dingbat and Mike a
meathead simultaneously? Perhaps even opting for the comedic drama of one
brother a hard-line, war-hawk conservative and the other a bleeding-heart,
pinko-commie liberal, verbally battling each other between orders to <i>Stifle yourself!</i> and moans of <i>Aw, geez, huh? </i>(Their inevitable problems
with American enunciation hardly would have been worse than Archie’s butchering of the
English language.) I don’t know if the Academy of Television Arts &
Sciences would have awarded each brother his own Emmy, presented the two of them
with a single prize, or, most likely, bestowed the twins with two individual
statuettes soldered together, but Chang and Eng surely would have carted off
during the series’ run an armful of them—carried with each lending one arm, of
course.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During that narrow, 100-year window between Chang and Eng’s
death and the mastering of special effects that now might allow twin Thai actors
as talented and charismatic as Carroll O’Connor to appear conjoined—or, in lieu of expensive technical wizardry, at least
have them share an XXXXXXXXXXXXL shirt—we certainly were fortunate that
O’Connor gave the world Archie. But in a medium in which twins have long been
prized both as a source of comedy and conflict, Change and Eng Bunker—the first
of their kind, on the first show of its kind—would have yielded twice the
laughs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Boy, the
way Yul Brynner played</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Years on
Broadway Mongkut stayed</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Thais
like us, double we weighed</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Those
were the days<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>And you
knew Siamese twins</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Didn't
quite move like Errol Flynn</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Messrs.,
we could use a man<br />
Like Naresuan the Great again</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Didn't
need no coup d'etat</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Everybody
smiled through Buddha</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Gee,
Bangkok was Shangri-La</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>Those...were...the...dayssssss!</i><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
(<i>Chang puts
stogie to mouth with available hand as Eng leans head on Chang’s shoulder</i>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Image of Archie Bunker copyright CBS</i>.)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-24864426273405718252014-05-12T20:07:00.006-05:002024-02-21T19:26:50.329-05:00Deep Purple's Deepest Puzzle Solved...Thanks to Judith Owen <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKK4uSCAN_G5IJdS0o10YVVUjzIpuTErliIGT-emH04jvqqcHxMxCkDrGAmcbsw2fj3W-QWKwZhHxPZjpQ2roYl_lwREaHtlV06Sr5H373If4GwOMoXYNk_pMa3bUj0Vij_Hg5kRqGlYB/s1600/Judith+Owen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKK4uSCAN_G5IJdS0o10YVVUjzIpuTErliIGT-emH04jvqqcHxMxCkDrGAmcbsw2fj3W-QWKwZhHxPZjpQ2roYl_lwREaHtlV06Sr5H373If4GwOMoXYNk_pMa3bUj0Vij_Hg5kRqGlYB/s1600/Judith+Owen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Okay, this is a seriously overdue discovery, but you, too, may have been unaware of this: Welsh-born
singer-songwriter Judith Owen has righted one of the great wrongs in the
history of popular music. Not widely known in pop or rock circles, the velvet-voiced
pianist—and wife of humor mainstay Harry Shearer—devotes much of her musical
career to jazz and Celtic material that you wouldn’t normally hear in the
mainstream…and certainly not on rock stations, despite Owen covering songs by The
Kinks, James Taylor, The Police, Mungo Jerry, Shearer’s own Spinal Tap, and Deep
Purple.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 2005, Owen’s <i>Lost
and Found</i> album led off with a cover of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.”
Despite being pretty well versed in contemporary music, I never heard her
version—which also served as bumper music for the <i>Coast to Coast AM</i> radio show—until this morning. Owen’s wistful
and, yes, <i>smoky</i> rendition of the 1972
hard-rock classic—complete with alluring <i>uh-uh-uhh</i>’s
in place of Ritchie Blackmore’s immortal riff—adds an extra word to Ian
Gillan’s original lyric.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A word that corrects perhaps the most brazen grammatical
neglect since December 7th, 1941—a date <i>that</i>
will live in infamy (neglect that, in turn, stood as the most egregious transgression
in human communication until the 1976 debut of the sitcom <i>What’s Happening!!</i>—with its two vexing exclamation points yet no
trace of a question mark).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Even as a six-year-old I
was perplexed by “Smoke on the Water”’s <i>Some
stupid with a flare gun</i>. Sure, I had yet to embark on the great endeavor of
kindergarten, but even though basic grammar, syntax, and parts of speech lay in
my future, I recognized—as surely did most adults—something horribly amiss with
that line. “What’s a <i>stupid</i>?” I asked
myself every time I heard the instantly anthemic tune crackling out of Dad’s
car radio. I didn’t yet know what a noun was—but I instinctively knew <i>stupid</i> wasn’t one. In a perversely
psychotic twist of poetic license, Ian Gillan, one of the very greatest vocalists in rock music, had forced the square peg into
the round hole by singing an adjective as a noun. Somehow, the FCC had done
nothing—both it and the BBC couldn’t censor or ban songs containing a drug
reference or anything deemed even mildly “subversive” quickly enough in those
days, yet they sat on their collective hands as “Smoke on the Water” raced up the charts and
addled a generation of preschool minds with grammatical nonsense.</div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2yrBNQ8bvYLIjAOXvYIflFV-eaIAhvpN8mJUtReP0lBxhRpoYpz4DXTQmzWh2HU3bGWezrssiHS4ZuuVkDc1xdZQVMFG9dJrmmb8_YWn0vsC66qxhVOPCUUOhEAGuS4boRJySxIBj9Wl7/s1600/DP+1970.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2yrBNQ8bvYLIjAOXvYIflFV-eaIAhvpN8mJUtReP0lBxhRpoYpz4DXTQmzWh2HU3bGWezrssiHS4ZuuVkDc1xdZQVMFG9dJrmmb8_YWn0vsC66qxhVOPCUUOhEAGuS4boRJySxIBj9Wl7/s1600/DP+1970.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Confused and losing alarming amounts of sleep as “Smoke on
the Water” saturated the airwaves—and, consequently, my cerebrum—I eventually made
excuses for Ian Gillan…</div>
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“It was done for meter—following <i>stupid</i> with a noun would have made the couplet too long,” I
sometimes placated myself.</div>
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Other times—questioning my own rationalism—I fell back to no
one in particular on the all-healing mantra, “It’s rock ‘n’ roll, man!”</div>
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Yet why <i>didn’t</i>
Gillan use a noun in place of <i>stupid</i>?
Okay, he might have been lured by the alliteration of <i>some stupid</i>—even at the risk of creating one of the all-time
asinine lines—but Gillan still could have achieved this lyrical device by
opting for an “s-noun.” <i>Some sod with a
flare gun</i> would have worked smashingly. Or if the young bloke from Hounslow
had managed in his youth to pick up any Yiddish from the approximately 0.25% of
Jewish citizens living in that London suburb (based on 2011 U.K. Census data),
even <i>some schmuck with a flare gun</i>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0i_1zq3bDP5yMS0ovu_D9kDwEC4P0O4JU7-xmH9wMm7NGvb6jw_WgiKnvnX-yULMuEXPpO0eolSFSJJZPQj6qOpZZd16YTAQdfsSA2MYwjJS6vJdhbSYfMs4Sk0vyKOYEZXHXtYc9Dq6/s1600/Ian+Gillan.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht0i_1zq3bDP5yMS0ovu_D9kDwEC4P0O4JU7-xmH9wMm7NGvb6jw_WgiKnvnX-yULMuEXPpO0eolSFSJJZPQj6qOpZZd16YTAQdfsSA2MYwjJS6vJdhbSYfMs4Sk0vyKOYEZXHXtYc9Dq6/s1600/Ian+Gillan.jpg" width="281" /></a>It might be too cynical to believe that Gillan planned this lyrical
faux pas to garner attention—after all, the band self-admittedly operated in a constant
whirlwind of sex, booze, and drugs that likely left minds too fogged to know
that <i>A</i> is for <i>apple</i>, let alone articulate simple sentence structure. Then again, Deep Purple
hadn’t made an impact where the money was—the American singles chart—in nearly four
years, when it was essentially an entirely different musical entity. And even
though “Smoke on the Water” wasn’t officially released as a single for nearly a year, this signature-tune-in-the-making, with its haunting imagery and relentless crunch, was chiefly responsible for propelling <i>Machine Head</i> into the Top 10 in the United States and breaking Deep
Purple as a major force in rock. As far as I was concerned, the song seemed just
as provocative because of what was wrong about it as what was right about it.
(Not even the hopelessly straight-laced Pat Boone bothered to correct the line
in his infamous 1997 lounge-metal cover, probably with the aim of augmenting his pathetically disingenuous attempt at the
bad-boy image—so maybe I’m not being too cynical after all.)</div>
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Perhaps Ian Gillan’s carelessness even served as the
subconscious impetus for me to become an editor all those years later, sowing
in my young mind a need to make sense of a bewildering rock ‘n’ roll
landscape—a need that I carried into adulthood and from which I have made my
living ever since.*</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">* Not long before “Smoke on the Water”’s release, I had
already become well acquainted with another radio hit, America’s “A Horse With
No Name,” whose lyrical minefield of a chorus quickly became legend; however, that
song lacked the monolithic majesty of Jon Lord’s distorted Hammond C3 organ to
produce the same editorial consternation in my young logic center.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptnIxQjdLsU5MR9lmQL9v8Fnxog44ywBfqLyt3Y825lta21Kv83ILUc8IqVHfW__TtXfipeDwkp5fBt7TYnP_coMb7YR1VunB04LFfs5Bx6XaK8pTY1T8pe1lZUo9CAjolKI4hrgZxpuG/s1600/Lost+and+Found.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptnIxQjdLsU5MR9lmQL9v8Fnxog44ywBfqLyt3Y825lta21Kv83ILUc8IqVHfW__TtXfipeDwkp5fBt7TYnP_coMb7YR1VunB04LFfs5Bx6XaK8pTY1T8pe1lZUo9CAjolKI4hrgZxpuG/s1600/Lost+and+Found.jpg" /></a>Forty-three years later, along comes Judith Owen, like an angel
of grammar out of the Welsh mist, not only to cover this most iconic of rock
songs, but to <i>fix</i> it, by adding the
noun it so dearly lacked lo these many years. </div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Some stupid fool with
a flare gun/Burned the place to the ground <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Hallelujah, Judith. After more than four decades, we
finally know who was responsible for starting the fire that destroyed Montreux
Casino: A <i>fool</i>. A <i>stupid fool</i>. This information likely
came too late to amend the fire-insurance claim filed by Groupe Lucien Barrière
execs sifting through the cinders of their gutted casino, but it does mercifully
provide grammatical closure for Deep Purple fans such as me, disillusioned casualties of
the 1970s, and those who value the English language.</div>
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Now if Judith Owen only would cover Jimi Hendrix so that
castles made of sand can <i>melt</i> and <i>slip</i> into the sea—properly... </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Image of Ian Gillan copyright</i> Rolling Stone.)</span></div>
Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6583983316633559747.post-61266306722541008422014-03-17T11:20:00.000-05:002019-08-09T09:39:20.370-05:00Happy Days and The Godfather Aren't Apollonias and Oranges<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVoiIhncemWlxc1bkTu2qW_hMeu5Tdcl-w3Q1JQt3ZG7ghPtUSaF1PBvQ_1u42gai7HHPSCfXicVNP-azgkB6hpVtb50R0pO3IW3Vs40f3YdngxdWm0kFDLGZU2dupiExwxxFSn7vXNAp/s1600/Happy+Days.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkVoiIhncemWlxc1bkTu2qW_hMeu5Tdcl-w3Q1JQt3ZG7ghPtUSaF1PBvQ_1u42gai7HHPSCfXicVNP-azgkB6hpVtb50R0pO3IW3Vs40f3YdngxdWm0kFDLGZU2dupiExwxxFSn7vXNAp/s1600/Happy+Days.gif" width="200" /></a></div>
Although <i>Happy Days</i>' original theme song was Bill Haley and His Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock,” the producers eventually commissioned for Season 3 a new theme—yielding the Pratt & McClain “Sunday, Monday, Happy Days” theme that we all know.<br />
<br />
Keeping that in mind, let’s take a step back and consider for a moment that <i>Happy Days</i> premiered in the wake of <i>The Godfather</i>—and while the eagerly awaited <i>Godfather II</i> was being filmed. <br />
<br />
Now, I’m not saying that <i>Happy Days</i> was a shameless prime-time knock-off of <i>The Godfather</i>, but I <i>am</i> saying that undeniable similarities exist between the Cunninghams and the Corleones: Howard (“Mr. C”) heads his family with the protectiveness, if not brute vigilance, of Don Vito. Marion, like Mama Corleone, is the loyal wife, mother, and cook.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZLsCXnvft0IcyvczLrDNbLpH5Iy8ivXZoNXMBHnUlX6tv1lF1_F13uAHf7NcHHxsqCsb183unmWdD-udkqJ12YfPYlUf9E4_wJ-3uCl86Sm7Z66a-fXpkvOs01s5glZ54YajnMzAXq2U/s1600/Brothers.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZLsCXnvft0IcyvczLrDNbLpH5Iy8ivXZoNXMBHnUlX6tv1lF1_F13uAHf7NcHHxsqCsb183unmWdD-udkqJ12YfPYlUf9E4_wJ-3uCl86Sm7Z66a-fXpkvOs01s5glZ54YajnMzAXq2U/s1600/Brothers.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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And although The Fonz—lending ethnic provenance as “Arthur Fonzarelli”—Potsie, and Ralph Malph are not blood members of the Cunningham family, for all intents and purposes within the parameters of the show, they, along with Richie, serve as the four brothers. The hotheaded, impulsive, womanizing Fonzie is a dead ringer for Sonny; dim-witted Potsie aptly reflects Fredo; brainy Ralph Malph wouldn’t be far removed from Tom Hagen had the all-business <i>consigliere</i> possessed a sense of humor (or at least a pair of springy-eyeball glasses); and the shrewd, All-American Richie, of course, fills the role of war-hero Michael.<br />
<br />
Joanie rounds out the family similarly to Connie Corleone, even marrying The Fonz’s cousin, Chachi—as Connie wed Carlo, who, similar to Chachi, was introduced to his future bride through Fonzie’s cinematic “progenitor,” Sonny.<br />
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Furthermore, could Arnold and Al be more brazen clones of Tessio and Clemenza? Savvy restaurateur Arnold, like Tessio, clearly is the smarter of the two, whereas Al displays Clemenza’s girth and love of food.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10iVhszSddGfnKCoOrJMoFdQ_j9eKFk8WZXUmP4CXlMTIKXfsgg2EWB6b71ddOhkDoeSXVzZ7BP7j4U98u-w3VB_CIN6bN_L-RTEBwVxN4NIO5EXb3F1Un96HO-SLAsDu7gRH7II9cITK/s1600/Happy+Days+Gloria+Lori+Beth.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10iVhszSddGfnKCoOrJMoFdQ_j9eKFk8WZXUmP4CXlMTIKXfsgg2EWB6b71ddOhkDoeSXVzZ7BP7j4U98u-w3VB_CIN6bN_L-RTEBwVxN4NIO5EXb3F1Un96HO-SLAsDu7gRH7II9cITK/s1600/Happy+Days+Gloria+Lori+Beth.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Extending beyond the family, Richie Cunningham’s history with women closely mimics that of Michael Corleone: Although a violent end is not implied, Richie’s first girlfriend, Gloria, passes quickly through his life, appearing in five early episodes before departing—somewhat akin to Michael’s brief, star-crossed marriage to Apollonia Vitelli. Later, Richie weds Lori Beth, who, in her prim-and-proper WASPiness, echoes Michael’s second wife, Kay Adams and, like Kay, knows nothing of Richie’s former life with Gloria.<br />
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And perhaps the producers threw in for good measure that—even though they’re not analogous characters—Potsie, like Johnny Fontane, made his bones with a microphone.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQNTu_3Tx7hYHeglcfP-W2LeQAY-smzhXlL2EF1A6zFTC5nxOctJq-IUBLNFngqiAcE5D1ikOPH8SkYGtDZjGhA_SlVJFgjZhaxaJjgmPybCpluXOVBp3YtepfSUK3q9c_K-XM5yx-7qC/s1600/Potsie+Fontane.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQNTu_3Tx7hYHeglcfP-W2LeQAY-smzhXlL2EF1A6zFTC5nxOctJq-IUBLNFngqiAcE5D1ikOPH8SkYGtDZjGhA_SlVJFgjZhaxaJjgmPybCpluXOVBp3YtepfSUK3q9c_K-XM5yx-7qC/s1600/Potsie+Fontane.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Finally, eldest son Chuck Cunningham isn’t exactly a replica of the traitorous Paulie Gatto, but it’s no stretch to believe that the mysteriously vanished Chuck ended up slumped over a steering wheel somewhere in the marshes of Milwaukee. (After all, orange—the color of Richie’s hair—is the Italian symbol of death, and Chuck went missing not long after being in the presence of his younger brother’s hair...)<br />
<br />
Hell, the trisyllabic <i>Cunningham</i> even <i>sounds</i> something like an Anglicized version of <i>Corleone</i>…<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfrArZxunc4SXl0k4_aUFLPEIEY-0gmh8OWcOo4OdGnDPDf-Dy6shr5lW4x6YeD6t8XKkFP_hI0eyMqGK7BzvYQ5RZUQrJXhkldd76xrD3PTLwJrSse4mAGkjqy2WzBoNN7R7fmNrqGys/s1600/Apollonia+with+subtitle.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfrArZxunc4SXl0k4_aUFLPEIEY-0gmh8OWcOo4OdGnDPDf-Dy6shr5lW4x6YeD6t8XKkFP_hI0eyMqGK7BzvYQ5RZUQrJXhkldd76xrD3PTLwJrSse4mAGkjqy2WzBoNN7R7fmNrqGys/s1600/Apollonia+with+subtitle.png" width="320" /></a>With this less-than-coincidental—and very lucrative—family model in place, Executive Producer Garry Marshall should have further capitalized on the <i>Godfather</i> films’ popularity through the show’s new theme song, especially because <i>The Godfather II</i> was largely set, like <i>Happy Days</i>, in the nostalgia-filled 1950s. This could best have been accomplished by having Truett Platt or Jerry McClain—whichever is performing the lead vocal in “Happy Days”—sing the lyric as how Michael’s new Sicilian bride, Apollonia, recited the days of the week in <i>The Godfather</i>. Or better yet—<i>hire Simonetta Stefanelli, herself</i>, to sing the theme in her adorably fractured English...<br />
<br />
<i>Mon-day, Tues-day, Happy Days<br />
Thurs-day, Wednes-day, Happy Days<br />
Fri-day, Sun-day, Sa-tur-day, Happy Days<br />
The car explodes<br />
That’s the way it goes<br />
Fabrizio meant it for you!</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(<i>Images of </i>The Godfather<i> copyright Paramount Pictures; images of</i> Happy Days <i>copyright ABC</i>.)</span>Randyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00882493419310050580noreply@blogger.com0