Over There...Over There...Why'd They Put All the Words Over There?

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.

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.

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 right now!)

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 that far.

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.)

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—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 “block“ exit to another side of it. I guess a family could 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–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 different 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. 

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.

So I‘m torn...

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...

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.

And yet for all of its seeming idiocy, perhaps the Marne Highway historical marker is perfectly placed, ideally echoing the utter absurdity of the Great War, as if it were a modern-day, metal-plated Zimmerman Note.

Only Americans possess such a sense of irony...

Carl Spackler's Lifetime of Learning to Think Like an Animal

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: While the Axis powers were running rampant across Europe, Asia, and Africa, Franklin D. Roosevelt’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.

Geopolitical commentary aside, I believe that very well might be little Carl Spackler learning greenskeeping tips from his father. Carl’s age is never indicated in Caddyshack, 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.

Sure, as assistant greenskeeper at Bushwood Country Club, Carl’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—so don’t think for one minute that the mole isn’t also Varmint Cong, even if it doesn’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 “Mole Control” cover—as well as his apprentice son—wouldn’t also know how to deal with the pesky gopher that decades later would plague Bushwood and its upper-crust members.

True, one would think that a greenskeeper training since the 1940s wouldn’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’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. So even though he’s got that going for him—which clearly is nice—Carl’s career development might be lagging...

Au revoir, mole...

(Image of Carl Spackler copyright Warner Brothers Pictures.)     

Apparently, The History Channel Don't Know Much About History

I was recently re-watching episodes of How the Earth Was Made, 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.

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.

But that was 1980—and this is a series about how the Earth was made. 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…

Earth’s 4.6-billion-year age had long been established by the episode’s debut

This episode first aired in February 2010—30 years after the eruption

So, 4.6 × 10⁹ – 30 = 4,599,999,970 years.

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 made when the Washington volcano went kablooey. To purport that the Mount St. Helen’s eruption had anything to do with the making of the Earth would be like a centenarian trying to pass off his latest birthday cake as his birth certificate.

* 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.

But the Mount St. Helen’s episode wasn’t the only relatively recent event that made for highly questionable television. How the Earth Was Made also featured episodes about the eruption of Krakatoa in 1883; the Vesuvius catastrophe of ad 79; the formation of the Sahara, which occurred a mere few thousand years before that; and a general overview of tsunamis—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. 

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 How the Earth Did Stuff or When Bad Things Happen to Good Planets.

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, viz., Life After People. (It similarly ran the future-based The Road Warrior several times about a decade ago.) Hardly the stuff of history…

I don’t demand much from History Channel…but I do demand thematic fidelity!

Sing Along With O.J. Simpson's Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band...

It was twenty years ago today

Police chased the Bronco driving O.J.

He’s been going in and out of jail

Couldn’t sell his Heisman Trophy for bail

So may I introduce to you

The back you cheered for all those years

O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

We’re O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

The Juice used to be an All-Pro

We’re O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

He did his running in a Bronco

O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in, O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in

O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

It’s horrible to be here

It’s like being a Buffalo Bill

Such a huge TV audience

He’d like to take you home with him

He’d love to stab you at home

I don’t really want to stop the chase

But Marcia’s gotta prosecute the case

And O.J.’s fingers in the glove are too long

So the jury got the verdict wrong

So let me introduce to you

The one and only Orenthal James

And O.J. Simpson’s Stabbed in the Hearts Club Band

Knife...Scissors...SHEARS!

What would you do 'bout the lives led to ruin?

Would you stand up and render Guilty?

Lend me your ears and I’ll show you how wrong

You would be not to set me free

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

What do I do when my love’s cold awhile?

(Does it bother you that you killed her?)

How do I feel by the end of the trial?

(Where’d you like the price of your soul billed, sir?)

No, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

(Do you need anybody?)

I need somebody to kill

(Could it be anybody?)

My ex-wife and the waiter from Ill.

Would you believe that the glove is too tight?

Yes, I’m certain that it does not fit

Would you convict if the jury were white?

I can’t tell you but you must acquit

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

(Do you need anybody?)

I need somebody to kill

(Could it be anybody?)

My ex-wife and the waiter from Ill.

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, I won’t fry with a little help from the Dream Team

Mm, gonna lie with a little help from the Dream Team

Yes, I get by with a little help from the Dream Team

With a little help from the Dre-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-heem Team!

(Thanks to Drinkmore Pat for Photoshop guidance; GIF of chase copyright CNN.) 

Abraham, Father of Nations...Abe Vigoda, Father of Patience

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.”

Now 93 years old—and having looked ancient for many decades; he was a mere 51 in The Godfather 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, Fish, 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.*

* 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 at different ages, but because of strictly maintained canon, they never actually age—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 The Simpsons 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.

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.

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…

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.

After all, a 90-something who can take this hit isn’t going any time soon…

Besides, breaking the age record is the smart move...and Tessio was always smartuh.

(Image from Barney Miller copyright ABC; image from The Godfather copyright Paramount Pictures; animated GIF of Snickers ad copyright Mars, Incorporated.)

I Couldn't Have Curbed My Enthusiasm for the Stare-down of the Century (Make That Centuries)

As re-reported yesterday by Mental Floss, two grandsons of John Tyler, 10th President of the United States (1841-1845), are, amazingly, living. Tyler, who became president upon William Henry Harrison’s death one month into his term, was born in 1790. It seems impossible that a man born so far back in American history that, as a boy, he likely wore a tricorn hat and colonial breeches every day of the year rather than only on Halloween could have grandchildren who aren’t themselves long dead. Of course, neither of these grandchildren ever knew President Tyler, who died in 1862, but the fact that three generations of the Tyler family currently span 224 years is mind-boggling.

Tyler, a more randy president than even John F. Kennedy or Bill Clinton, fathered 15 children by two wives. Lyon Gardiner Tyler, his fourth son by his second wife, was born in 1853, when Tyler was 63 years old. (Tyler later begat two more sons, finally zipping up at age 70.)

Lyon Gardiner Tyler, who eventually became President of the College of William and Mary, inherited his father’s aversion to birth control, siring three children with each of his two wives, the latter three conceived when he was in his seventies. Both Lyon Gardiner Tyler, Jr. (born 1925), and Harrison Tyler (born 1928) are still with us, making them living links to an inconceivably remote past.

Mental Floss first broke this incredible story in January 2012—which is a damn shame because it would have fit wonderfully into a Season 2 subplot of Curb Your Enthusiasm, filmed in 2001.

In Episode 15, “The Thong,” Larry David, at the request of Rob Reiner, reluctantly agrees to be the prize in a lunch auction to benefit Groat’s syndrome (which—let’s be clear—has nothing to do with former Pittsburgh Pirate Dick Groat). Larry eventually sits down to lunch with a man named John Tyler (played by Tom McGowan), who paid $4,000 for the honor of sharing a meal with Larry. This John Tyler not only is no relation to the president, but is completely dismissive of sharing his name. Determined to provide John Tyler with an entertaining and affable experience, Larry, grasping for conversational ideas, even serenades his lunch guest with a Marilyn Monroe–esque Happy birthday, Mr. President John Tyler…

Now, Tom McGowan played the increasingly annoyed Ordinary John Tyler admirably, and the scene conjures a lot of laughs. However, it might have worked even better had McGowan’s role instead been played by one of John Tyler’s two surviving grandsons (who, at the time of filming, were only in their mid-seventies). Of course, it would have been pointless to have Lyon Gardiner Tyler, Jr., or Harrison Tyler play an unrelated man who happens to possess the name “John Tyler.” But had one of the grandsons played himself, upon Larry’s discovery of his lineage, there’s no way that Larry—a keen student of history both in the show and in real life—would ever have believed that the grandson of an antebellum president could be alive—thus yielding the absolutely ultimate Larry David stare-down as he tries to determine whether the man sitting across from him is telling the truth about being the grandson of the long-deceased President Tyler.

A Larry David stare-down a century and a half in the making—that would have been pretty…pretty…pretty…pretty good.

(Images of Larry David and Tom McGowan copyright HBO.) 

Teddy Spoke Softly...But Carried a Bic Pen

Letters to Kermit, a collection of many dozens of handwritten and typed correspondences from the desk of Theodore Roosevelt between 1896 and 1918, was first published in 1946. It is a candid and revealing look into the heart and mind of the twenty-sixth President of the United States, both before, during, and after his nearly eight years in office. And I think this little-known literary gem authored by one of the dynamic figures of the twentieth century deserves an excerpt:

Was Hernando Roy's Great-Great-Granddaddo?

Normally, I wouldn't think that Emergency!'s Roy DeSoto could possibly be a descendant of 16th-century explorer Hernando de Soto. After all, Roy DeSoto exhibits no Spanish or Hispanic features whatsoever beyond his surname. More tellingly, as a paramedic, he devoted his career to saving lives, whereas de Soto the conquistador left a legacy of violence and death during his tangles with the native peoples of what was to become the American Southeast.*

* Interestingly, Roy DeSoto's partner, John Gage, mentioned himself in one episode as a Native American—yet, to my recollection, at no point during the series' six-season run was he enslaved by Roy DeSoto or infected with smallpox.

Still, tantalizing historico-cultural evidence exists, most readily in the undeniable similarities of their headgear.

Throughout civilization, the helmet has, perhaps more than any other item of apparel, defined a man's nationality and stature, whether he be a Roman centurion, a Viking warrior, an English Roundhead, etc. Even with five centuries standing between de Soto the conquistador and DeSoto the paramedic, their helmets are virtually identical. Yes, Hernando's has a sharp, pointed brim whereas Roy's is gently rounded so as not to poke out the eye of a victim he may be carrying to rescue. And a paramedic would never gild his helmet with gold or festoon it with feathers unless his union was unusually powerful. But the firefighters' helmet is unlike any headgear now extant in the Americas. Nothing else truly resembles it. Thus, it is doubtful that such a unique helmet could have been designed independently in North America during modern times when de Soto and his like were already spreading their influence across the New World, including Station 51's L.A. County, which, of course, was settled by de Soto's brethren. 

I've made a strong case so far. Admittedly, however, I'll need more empirical evidence before I can prove beyond doubt lineage between these two pivotal figures of their respective centuries. So I'd better get down to the American Southeast and start digging.

Or get over to Best Buy and pick up Emergency! on DVD...

Move Over, Grover...and Let Morgan Take Over

Grover Cleveland is well known as the only Chief Executive to serve non-consecutive terms, which he did as the 22nd president, from 1885 to 1889, and the 24th president, from 1893 to 1897.

Now, he’s got company...

In the first real blockbuster of 2013, Olympus Has Fallen, Morgan Freeman portrays Speaker of the House Allen Trumbull. When President Asher is taken hostage by North Korean terrorists and held in the bunker of the White House, Trumbull assumes the role of Acting President of the United States.*

* I do not know what happened to the Vice President that he was stepped over in the chain of succession, because I have not seen the film—although I hear the popcorn is subpar.

Freeman previously portrayed President Tom Beck in 1998’s Deep Impact.

Okay, as implied by the Twenty-fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution and set in precedence several times since its ratification, Morgan Freeman’s term as Acting President is not recognized as a formal, “numbered” presidency—as were, of course, Grover Cleveland’s non-consecutive terms—but as far as the martini-clouded judgment of Mount Drinkmore is concerned, it’s legit enough for this post.

Thus having irrefutably—straight up with one olive—established Morgan Freeman’s non-consecutive presidencies...

Sure, thanks to his presidencies being fictitious, Morgan Freeman never got bogged down in such cinematically mundane crises as tariff issues, economic panics, and thorny questions of colonial annexation—as did Grover Cleveland—but Freeman still was under tremendous pressure to remember his lines, do promotional press junkets for the movie, and keep himself from becoming obese and bushily mustachioed.

Yet Morgan Freeman’s remarkable, on-screen political achievements don’t end there: As Speaker of the House Trumbull fifteen years after he was President Beck, Freeman joins John Quincy Adams as the only former presidents to serve as members of the House of Representatives, which Quincy Adams did from 1831 to 1848.†

† A further link between the two men is that Morgan Freeman portrayed the freed slave, Theodore Joadson, in the film Amistad, which, in part, retells John Quincy Adams’ successful 1841 defense of the “mutinous” slaves aboard the Amistad. (Even further, Morgan Freeman’s surname, itself, echoes Quincy Adams’ work as an abolitionist.)

Yes, Morgan Freeman has proved himself a titan of celluloid American politics. And still at the top of his game as a busy Hollywood actor, the 76-year-old Freeman has time and opportunity to become the only former president to serve in both houses of Congress, or perhaps even serve an unprecedented third non-consecutive term as Commander-in-Chief—a landmark achievement of which Freeman’s agent will hopefully possess enough savvy to be aware.

(Image of Deep Impact copyright DreamWorks Pictures; image of Olympus Has Fallen copyright Millennium Films.)

The Young Victoria's Secret: Michael Palin Trumps Emily Blunt

So we watched The Young Victoria last night, the underwhelming 2009 period piece starring Emily Blunt as the United Kingdom's iconic 19th-century queen. Sure, she made a beautiful Victoria—far more attractive than the real Victoria—but for my money, Blunt cannot hold the proverbial candle to Michael Palin in portraying England's longest-reigning monarch.

In Monty Python's Flying Circus Episode 41, "Michael Ellis," Michael Palin portrays a spirited, if culturally confused, Queen Victoria (seen here with her late husband, Albert, the Prince Consort). In fairness to Emily Blunt, Palin's Victoria is certainly not the Queen of The Young Victoria's youth, yet it is a more honest, realistic, and geopolitically consequential version. Palin plays her with the masculine verve that so defined the stuffy, sexless age we call Victorian. More importantly, Palin bravely infuses his queen with Germanic tendencies that epitomize Victoria's tangled cultural lineage, lest we forget that she sprang from the Teutonic House of Hanover and herself became progenitor to many future European rulers, including Germany's Kaiser Wilhelm II, Russia's Tsar Nicholas II, and, of course, Great Britain's George V—second cousins who would feud catastrophically in the First World War. When Palin's Victoria slips seamlessly from English into German, we are confronted with the hard truth that England and Germany—destined to rival for control of Europe—are deeply tied by blood, which will, over the coming years, muddle sympathies and affect both the course of poetry and politics. None of this can be gleaned from Blunt's pristinely Anglican Victoria. Frankly, one can hardly envision Blunt's Victoria curdling her nose at the recent soiling of the Victorian Poetry Reading Hall carpet and uttering Was ist das schreckliche Gepong? Es schmecke wie ein Scheisshaus! with any conviction.

Like all of the Pythons, Palin thrived playing female characters. His Victoria is Prussian and assertive without sacrificing English matronly compassion. When Palin's Victoria declares ant-themed poetry verboten, it is to be replaced with the more feminine themes of "skylarks, daffodils, nightingales, and light brigades." I'd be hard-pressed to believe Blunt's Victoria had she delivered such a royal decree!

Perhaps this is not a fair comparison. Sure, Emily Blunt is a Golden Globe–winning actress—but Michael Palin and the Pythons rank among the finest actors in the annals of television and film. It is no wonder that I also prefer Graham Chapman's "Erizabeth" (Monty Python Episode 29, "The Money Programme") to even the supremely talented Cate Blanchett's virgin queen. Blanchett portrays Elizabeth with a near-perfect balance of virginal sex appeal and icy integrity, yet it is Chapman who transcends the role, maintaining remarkable dignity whilst Erizabeth's closest advisors sit atop motorized bicycles and everyone, including Her Majesty, speaks Japanese pidgin English. This is not an Elizabeth whose reign is predictably defined by the Armada, but who defines herself by changing with the anachronous times and embracing the alarmingly premature industrialization of her kingdom.

Yes, Emily Blunt and Cate Blanchett are gifted and gorgeous jewels in Hollywood's realm, but I'll take Michael Palin and the late Graham Chapman as England's on-screen queens—for without a Python in drag...we are not amused. God bless you alles!

You're a Grandma's Old Flag...You're a High-Stylin' Flag

Once again, a furor has arisen over a citizen flying the Confederate battle flag on his/her property. Annie Chambers Caddell, of Summerville, South Carolina, has opened the latest can of worms by flying the flag on her front porch. She is white and lives in a “historically black” neighborhood. Caddell insists that she is merely displaying pride in her Southern heritage, but some of her African American neighbors see it as a symbol of overt racism and want her to remove the flag. Denying any hateful intentions, this rebel without probable cause refuses to comply, and objecting members of the community plan to raise the issue before a town board meeting later this month.

Regardless of Caddell’s constitutional right to fly the Confederate flag, or whether or not you view the rebel flag as a symbol of hatred or racism (I, personally, consider it a badge of treason, emblematic of the evil institution of slavery cloaked—like its vile cousin, lynching—in the spurious rationale of “states’ rights”; a flag of, literally, a foreign nation—and a vanquished one at that—that has no more business flying over an American government building than does the Japanese rising sun) one fact continually has been overlooked in this long-standing issue: it’s a good-looking flag: assertive design, attractive color scheme, lots of triangles. Sociopolitical implications aside, the Confederate flag brightens up any home, business, or official property. I find it a great shame that such an aesthetically pleasing flag carries the repulsive historical baggage it does and thus cannot be enjoyed simply as stylish decor.

Then again, The Dukes of Hazzard’s General Lee, with its Confederate battle-flag roof, serves as a constant reminder of one of the dumbest shows in television history (apart from Daisy Duke in her Daisy Dukes), thus doing even more to sully the flag’s reputation than its insurrectionist, segregationist legacy.

Those dopey good ol’ boys may never have been meanin’ no harm, but their car beats all you never saw...highlights the flag’s worst flaw...since the day that show was born.


(Photo of Annie Chambers Caddell by Brad Nettles and copyright The Charleston Post and Courier; photo of Bo and Luke Duke copyright CBS.)

SEPTA Buses Monk's Tables...and Walls and Windows and Doors...

On Tuesday, August 10, Philadelphia's version of the Hindenburg disaster occurred when a SEPTA bus, trying to avoid a police vehicle responding to a call, lost control and barreled into the entrance of Monk's Café. For those of you not aware, Monk's Café is one of the finest pubs in the city, featuring a dizzying array of Belgian ales, as well as other high-quality, hard-to-find brews. The back bar, which further features some of Philadelphia's best air-conditioning, was mercifully not harmed, but, as you can see, the establishment suffered heavy damage and required extensive repair.

I immediately rushed to the scene and kept constant vigil while repairs ensued. And as I held a candle in the wee hours, mournfully praying for Monk's speedy recovery, perhaps it was my sense of history mixing with my grief that caused me to realize how commonplace was this scene a millennium ago: the smashing of monks' walls, where beer was first concocted...inhabitants of the premises at the mercy of the intruder...the SEPTA bus a modern-day counterpart of the Viking longship...

Sure, no one was wantonly slaughtered that Tuesday night, and few were wearing hairshirts, but the moment echoed a calamity played out countless times during the Dark Ages, as evidenced by the ruins at Clonmacnoise in County Offaly, Ireland.

Look at the catastrophic damage suffered by that small church at right, where, presumably, a longship full of crazed Vikings, hopped up on hallucinogenic mushrooms and seething in a blood frenzy, rowed right up onto land and crashed into it, after which the fearsome marauders swarmed the helpless settlement and drank all the beer without paying for it.

Of course, Monk's Café will be rebuilt—not fall into ruin like so many targets of Viking plunder. And, thankfully, its waitstaff were not carried off into slavery by the bus riders. But the damage to Monk's reminds us that, even a millennium after the Viking Age, we remain in dangerous times...times in which death and mayhem can strike at any moment and ruin a delicious imported ale, just as our monkish predecessors learned. So the next time I'm enjoying a pint at Monk's Café, or indeed anywhere, I'm going to savor every sip, because one never knows when some mode of public or barbarian transportation might come bursting through the walls and send me into Odin's arms for final judgment. Skål!

(Top photo of Monk's Café copyright The Philadelphia Inquirer; second photo copyright NBC 10 Philadelphia.)

The Scourge of Rock

Unless you're a hardcore Billy Joel fan, you might not know that before he began his career as a highly successful solo artist, Joel was one half of the heavy-metal outfit, Attila. This forgotten band put out its only album in 1970, the cover featuring Joel and partner Jonathan Small as unconvincing Huns amid racks of freshly butchered meat. Joel has described the album as "psychedelic bullshit." Although I've never heard the album, I find it difficult to believe the author of such great rock/pop classics as "Piano Man," "New York State of Mind," "Just the Way You Are," and "Honesty" capable of creating an album's worth of "bullshit." I mean, as you can see below, the two-part "Amplifier Fire" seems to chronicle not only Attila's ferocious campaign through Gaul in 451, but cleverly juxtaposes the Hunnic marauder against perhaps his closest 20th-century counterpart, Godzilla, who sacked much of Japan before being stopped by the Pope and the Japanese army at the Battle of Tokyo Bay. The "Godzilla" segment of "Amplifier Fire" both predates Blue Oyster Cult's "Godzilla" by seven years and made Joel the first rock songwriter to liken a late-antiquity historical figure to a Japanese science-fiction monster—an accomplishment curiously unmentioned by Rolling Stone, Billboard, or any major music medium. Godzilla and Attila even met similar deaths: the giant reptile at the hands of the "oxygen destroyer" that suffocated him and Attila from a severe nasal hemorrhage that caused asphyxiation, and each while asleep.

Furthermore, considering Billy Joel's penchant for realistic, blue-collar vignettes of everyday life, "Tear This Castle Down," likely serves as a poignant first-person account by one of Attila's countless victims during the Huns' rampage along the Rhine, rather than merely as a half-assed, sophomoric dirge about high school girls. I'd wager that the protagonist, about to meet his fate at the hand of the "Scourge of God," sardonically bewails Attila's barbarity as Joel wistfully interplays Hammond organ runs.

And the album's finale, "Brain Invasion," surely must be a cerebral critique of Attila's ill-fated invasion of Italy in 452—Italy still the nerve center of western Europe at the time.

After the album flopped, Attila split and Small formed Alaric. They did a tour of southern Spain but were eventually overrun and slaughtered by members of The Moors, a North African Doors tribute band.

Now Attila is a Hun and a friend of mine
He gets me my spears for free
And he’s quick with a sword or a barbarian horde
But there's someplace that he’d rather be

He says, Bill, I believe I should be killing people
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could conquer Constantinople
If I could just get past Thrace

Sing us a song, you're a ruthless barbarian
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for rivers of blood
And you've got us kneelin' at your sight

La la la, di da dah...

Come and Knock on Their Door—And Bring the SWAT Team!

Last night, The Discovery Channel aired a fascinating program called Jack the Ripper in America, in which a former police detective and "cold case" expert proferred strong evidence that the infamous serial killer continued his grisly spree in New York and other American cities in the 1890s. The program made a convincing argument that Jack the Ripper was, in fact, James Kelly, one of the original suspects in the case, whom the London police lost track of after the Ripper's last confirmed victim. Kelly, who had escaped Broadmoor Insane Asylum shortly prior to the first Ripper killing—incarcerated there for stabbing his wife to death in the neck—strangely showed up at the asylum forty years later and offered a detailed account of his whereabouts during the previous four decades. His travels took him to many cities and locales throughout America where various prostitutes had been horribly mutilated during the same time frames that Kelly documented. Additional forensic evidence makes for a strong case that James Kelly was indeed Jack the Ripper.

However, Ripper "experts" have never asked for my theory of Jack's true identity. And I believe I know whose it is.

Are you ready, Scotland Yard?

The real Jack the Ripper must be none other than...














People's Exhibit A: Jack Tripper → Jack Tripper → Jack T. Ripper → Jack the Ripper.

People's Exhibit B: Many of the females with whom Jack Tripper consorted vanished without a trace:

» Roommate Chrissy Snow
» Roommate Cindy Snow (Chrissy's cousin)
» Lana Shields, his flirtatious middle-aged neighbor
» Linda Page, Jack's one-time girlfriend
» Helen (and Stanley) Roper, his original landlords

People's Exhibit C: Jack Tripper achieved a degree in the culinary arts. As a chef, Jack Tripper was an expert with knives and had unlimited access to them.

People's Exhibit D: Posing for years as a gay man, Jack Tripper would not have been perceived by women as a misogynistic threat, some of his eventual victims possibly even befriending and confiding in him. Such an elaborate ruse would, in the eyes of many, remove Jack Tripper from the realm of suspects.

People's Exhibit E: Jack Tripper had a criminal record and spent an unknown amount of time in jail. Even though those bars look as flimsy as a garden lattice, the fact that Jack Tripper was previously incarcerated lends support to a tendency toward violence and a complete disregard for civil behavior. His argyle jumper further suggests that Jack Tripper may have visited Great Britain—and possibly even the Whitechapel district of London, where the murders occurred.

People's Exhibit F: Like the Ripper's fifth victim, Mary Kelly, roommate Chrissy Snow's face was horribly mutilated...albeit with pie ingredients, which caused no permanent injury or disfigurement.




People's Exhibit G: Jack Tripper frequented the Regal Beagle. The modern beagle is an English breed and was highly prized as a hunting dog in 19th-century England—note Darwin's HMS Beagle as an example of the breed's status. As a quintessentially English pub, the Regal Beagle surely was a hangout for expatriated Brits in Santa Monica, a gathering place where English gentlemen could enjoy a pint of bitters while discussing the latest cricket match or ghastly murder. That Jack Tripper spent much time at the Regal Beagle lends strong credence to his possible English heritage.

Now I'm not saying that I've made an airtight case and that the file on Jack the Ripper should once and for all be closed...but I am saying that Vanessa just walked by my office in a thigh-high skirt and black leather boots, so I'm going to have to end this entry to make low, groaning noises...

Sibling Vapidity

Last Thursday, USS Intrepid, one of the United States Navy’s most decorated aircraft carriers, returned to the Manhattan pier she has called home for a quarter-century, after a two-year, $120 million renovation in nearby Staten Island. Intrepid—seen here steaming toward something exciting—saw action in six major battles of the Pacific war, as well as in Korea and Vietnam. She also twice served as a recovery ship for NASA astronauts. Since 1982, she has served as the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, one of New York City's most popular tourist attractions.

Yet, whereas Intrepid has one of the most distinguished careers of all aircraft carriers, little remembered is her sister ship, USS Insipid, owner of a stultifyingly boring and pointless history.

According to Jane’s Bickering Ships:

USS Insipid (CV-0) is surely the United States Navy’s most banal warship. Her keel laid down in autumn 1941 by wholly disinterested shipbuilders, she sailed from one end of the Pacific to the other without once encountering the enemy. Sighs of boredom from her exasperated crew could be heard aboard screening vessels more than a thousand yards away, and she soon came to be known throughout the fleet as "Dull Hull." By March 1945, even the Japanese Imperial Navy deemed her too jejune to seek out and directed their kamikaze pilots to target more interesting vessels. At war’s conclusion, she docked in San Francisco Harbor to scattered yawns.

Boatswain's Mate J.W. Chouinard and Betsy with
nothing to do in the Tasman Sea, 1944.

The third ship in the US Navy's history to bear the name Insipid, she inherited a pallid legacy. The original Insipid, a frigate that fruitlessly patrolled the Mid-Atlantic coast during the War of 1812, was taken out of service when her jaded crew contracted narcolepsy. Her successor, a Union gunboat, ran aground in 1864 due to "dreadful ennui."

Insipid's colorless career continued until 1962, when the Chief of Naval Operations recalled that she was still part of the fleet and, deciding that the ensuing paperwork would be more stimulating than giving Insipid another assignment, ordered her decommissioned. Capt. Theodore Purvis, tears of monotony streaming down his face, gushed, "Thank god that's over with..." Her 20-year ship's log, now displayed behind some empty boxes in a closet of the United States Navy Museum, contained no entries.

I'm Dreaming of an Olive Christmas

For centuries, countless Western artists have portrayed Jesus as lilywhite, blue-eyed, and flaxen-haired, creating his likeness in their image rather than admit his true ethnicity. But genealogy, biology, and common sense tell us that Jesus, a Middle Eastern Semite, almost certainly possessed olive (or even darker) skin, as well as coarse, dark hair. Our institutional images of Jesus—cast into public consciousness centuries ago by Europeans who could not, or would not, accept so foreign a savior—amount to ethnocentric self-deception.

Yet today, many Americans and Europeans still can't bear the idea of Jesus as anything but the classically wholesome, fair-skinned, Nordic type. Witness the blatant denial of Jesus’ desert heritage in this current ad for a S’mores nativity scene. Could Jesus be any whiter?

When will someone offer a historically accurate S’mores nativity scene using roasted marshmallows that properly reflect Jesus’ true ethnicity?

(Photo of S'mores nativity scene copyright Santa’s Depot.)

The Curse of Cato

Sports “curses” have haunted luckless franchises almost as long as professional leagues have existed: the Curse of the Bambino, the Curse of the Billy Goat, The Curse of Muldoon, and the Curse of Billy Penn, to name some of the most infamous.

I believe it’s time to add another “curse” to that list: the Curse of Cato.

Cato the Younger (95-46 BC) was one of Rome’s greatest senators, a staunch defender of the republic, known for his honesty, integrity, and his opposition to power-hungry militarist, Julius Caesar. A man of inscrutable moral fiber, Cato would be appalled that the Ottawa Senators franchise carries as its logo not the pride of the Roman republic, but a Roman centurion—the symbol of brute imperial dictatorship. As senator, Cato devoted his public life fighting to maintain Rome’s republican principles. Such a slight to republican ideals by the Ottawa Senators angers not merely the hockey gods, but Jupiter, Mars, and the entire Roman pantheon.

The Curse of Cato is starkly reflected in the fortunes of the Ottawa Senators. In fourteen full seasons in the modern NHL, the Senators have progressed from league doormats (losing 70 games in 1992-93) to paper tigers. Ottawa has registered at least 100 points in six of the last eight seasons—and is well on its way to a seventh—yet the talented Senators fall short of the Stanley Cup every year.

Prior to the Ottawa Senators’ re-institution to the NHL in 1992 and its adoption of the centurion logo, the first incarnation of the franchise won eleven Stanley Cups as one of professional hockey’s early powerhouses. In those bygone years, Ottawa donned a truer, more honorable logo—one that didn’t mock the franchise’s very soul by featuring its political arch-enemy. In fact, it could be argued—especially after a 12-pack of Labatt’s—that Ottawa’s original logo (seen here, on the sweater of Frank Finnigan) paid senatorial homage to Cato, who was known to friends, Romans, and countrymen simply as “O.” Even if you don’t drink Labatt’s, you can’t deny that the Ottawa Senators enjoyed infinitely more success sporting their Cato-friendly logo. When Ottawa shunned that in favor of an imperial image, the Senators lost power like their Roman counterparts in the wake of the Caesars.

Until the Ottawa Senators lift the Curse of Cato by replacing that centurion on their chests with the deserving image of Cato, Cicero, or one of the Gracchi, don’t expect a parade down Wellington Street any time in the next millennium.


(Ottawa Senators' logos copyright the National Hockey League. Graphic wizardry at center ice courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)