In Memoriam

As my friends know, I really always wanted to be a photojournalist.  I pictured myself as Larry Burrows or Robert Capa or Tony Vaccaro, taking pictures for “the folks back home” showing them “what it’s really like to BE there”.  (My Razorback friends will remember, that was always my goal with my football photography; not so much the game itself but to give the folks back home a “flavor” of “what it was like to really BE there.”)

I was always fascinated by the (often gruesome) work of Matthew Brady and his employees, who captured (for the first time) photographs of war as it occurred.  I was fascinated by the reports from the news correspondents, “Live from Beirut” or “Live from Singapore” or “Live from Teheran”.  It’s an important job, a job that is fascinating to me, and one that is often underrated. 

Until the very recent advent of the iPhone, YouTube, and high speed internet, the only way the world ever got to see what was going on as a government was overthrown, as an army marched, as a city was evacuated, as refugees fled, as an entire population starved; or the happy times as a monarch was crowned or a spacecraft was saved or loved ones reunited—the only way the world ever got to SEE any of that was through the lens of the photojournalist.  The photojournalist still plays a very important role in our society, poking, prodding, showing things some people want hidden, revealing to the world just how bad war is, how awful a despot can be, why we should never be complacent about starvation or the environment or the condition of our fellow man.

It’s a dangerous job.  The photojournalist is exposed to all kinds of diseases, weather, and other conditions.  Bullets don’t care whether you’re carrying a high-powered rifle or a high-powered lens, they rip through flesh just the same.

Photojournalists know the dangers.  They choose them, partly because of the thrill of it (it’s true), partly because it’s their job, but mainly to shine the light of truth on whatever story needs telling.  And—there’s always the chance that they might get that one great shot (like Capa’s of the soldier being shot) that will send them into “immortal” status.

We lost a photojournalist this week, in a foul, bloody, nasty and dishonorable way.  He was covering a war zone.  He was abducted two years ago and who knows what tortures he endured before being beheaded on worldwide television by an apparently British Muslim.

I take this moment to mark the passing of James Wright Foley, Photojournalist.

Here’s a link to a few of Mr. Foley’s last photos from the Syrian war:

James Foley's last photos

Ennui

For the first time in 57 years, I find myself totally disinterested in sports.  Always, by this time of year, I'm heavily involved with baseball, at least moderately interested in MLS, and of course am ravenously devouring everything I can get my hands on about football.

Not this go round.  I have not been to a single baseball game this year, and only half-heartedly watched a couple of Razorback playoff games.  The Astros could be first or last, I wouldn't even know (I suspect they're near the bottom; the bad thing is, I have no idea who's leading the Leagues--and worse, don't care).

NFL?  The only NFL team I've ever truly loved was the Dallas Cowboys--but even the hottest flame can grow cold.  I didn't watch a single one of their games last year and don't plan to do so this year.  As long as Jerry is being the General Manager, it's never going to be any better than it is right now.

I'm happy for my Baylor friends, who are enjoying success after all these decades.  Unfortunately, my loathing for the University prevents me from any interest in it.  I've been alienated from it for so long now that it has no more meaning for me than, say, Brigham Young or Notre Dame or any other kooky religious college.  There's nothing there.

I never thought I'd say it, but this year I can't muster any enthusiasm for Arkansas either.  Too much losing, too much drama, too much turnover.  Did I mention too much drama?  I'll watch the games but won't hesitate even one minute to turn it off if they fall too far behind--and this year, for the first year since 1991, my fall weekends will in no way be affected by the Arkansas Razorbacks' football schedule.  If there's something else I'd rather do, I'm going to do it instead of planning my life around a college football team.  And, this will make the second year in a row I will attend NO games.

On a broader scale, I suppose this is just life.  We're passionate about things for a while, then move on to the next thing.  I did church music, then symphony, then opera, for years.  Then I did the football thing.

The thing is, the "new" thing has always kind of eased in and supplanted the old thing; there's never been a gap.

This time, there's a gap, and it's weird.  I literally have lost interest in everything.

Travel?  Sure, as long as it's somewhere new.  Don't need New York, New England, even Florida or the West.  Never did need the Midwest and I've done the South to death.  Even London and Paris...maybe someplace like Rome or Buenos Aires or Rio or Hong Kong or Sydney--and as soon as I get the cash I'll go there.  I'm going to Gay Days in Anaheim this year, think that'll be fun.

Otherwise, what to do?  My therapist and friends say, "get involved!"  WITH WHAT?  One must first have interest in something....

Ennui.

Your Mother Always Told You…

…there were going to be people in your life that didn’t like you, and people you didn’t like.

She was right.

Patinas

Patina (Merriam-Webster):  “a surface appearance of something grown beautiful especially with age or use”

This last couple of weeks has brought me several instances of things associated with age and patinas.

I’m a regular denizen of Luby’s.  Anyone who grew up in Texas will associate Luby’s with family dinner after church, going through the line and begging for the chocolate pie heaped tall with merengue; Dad threatening trips to the parking lot with his belt for any misbehaviour, the drink-cart ladies,  etc.  (Arkansas people:  substitute “Franke’s”). 

More lately, Luby’s is associated with old people.  Drive up into any Luby’s parking lot and you’ll see their still-shiny Buicks, Mercury Grand Marquis’, and now Lexus’ and Avalons.  Go inside and there will be an abundance of walkers, canes, and white hair.  The polite staff knows many of the patrons by name (including, ulp, ME).

Luby’s is no longer cheap, and their food is neither as good nor as plentiful as it is in my memory; nor am I quite ready for a walker.  Nevertheless, I go there.  It’s down the street from my house; I can still get out with a Lu-Ann and water for $7; they cook it; they bus the table; they wash the dishes.  I can stay on my diet.  They don’t put much salt in the food.  It’s a win-win. 

Just an aside:  interesting how a certain brand or item becomes associated with certain ages or groups of people.  Buick?  In America, old people.  In China?  Ultimate status symbol.  Ford dropped the Grand Marquis rather than try to morph the brand; it had become so associated with “Granny” that they felt it was an impossibility (they are making the attempt with Lincoln).  Cadillac has semi-resurrected itself, but it has taken them billions of dollars and two decades to do it.  You still don’t hear a young person (as you did in the 60’s) say, “Wow, when I can afford one, I want to drive a CADILLAC!”

The fact that something is old does not mean it is no longer beautiful.  The nature of its beauty may merely have changed.

Estee’ Lauder, the cosmetics diva, was famous for a remark she allegedly made when she was a very old lady being interviewed by a very young female reporter.  The young reporter asked her, “Mme. Lauder, what would you recommend for me?”  The answer:  “Nothing.”  “Nothing!?”  “Yes.  When you are young, your youth IS your beauty.  As you get older—come see me.”

I have an old piece of gold jewelry.  It was worn daily for many years and, while it still gleams as only gold does, it has the thousand tiny marks and dents that daily use makes in such an object.  They form a lovely patina on the piece.  Does it look new?  Certainly not.  Can I buy a new one almost identical to it that will glisten and gleam and be totally shiny and without blemish?  Of course.  Would the new one have the character, the mileage, the patina of the old one?  Not without about 60 years of daily wear.  That jewelry was around while its owner fixed dinner, scrubbed floors, washed dishes, changed diapers, washed clothes, made beds, soothed fevers, hoed, raked, worked, played…and it grew old with its owner.  It speaks of a life well lived.  A new piece would certainly be shinier, but would never have the unique patina this one has—only promise.

Matt was over at the house last night, and suffered to hear me tell the story of the jewelry once more.  Looking around, he remarked, “you do have some pretty cool stuff.”  It’s interesting that a very young man, who prefers his fashion and his décor ultra-modern, can see the coolness of something that has survived the years, perhaps acquiring the unique patina that tells of its use (perhaps by many different people) along the way.

While on a business trip last week, I was in San Antonio (as usual, hotter-n-hell Texas).  Two ladies were coming in from the pool as I finished checking in and headed to my room.  The younger one, late 40’s/early 50’s, shorter, bleach-blonde, was in pretty good shape.  Swimming?  Tennis?  Something to keep her in decent condition.  The older, taller one was in her late 70’s (?)  Her (sadly thinning) hair was a henna that would make Lucille Ball proud.  She had, unfortunately, the osteoporosis to which so many women are subject; her back was hunched to the left side, not grotesquely but bad enough that I briefly thought, “Hunchback of Notre Dame.”  When I saw their faces (they were carrying on an animated conversation), it was obvious they were mother and daughter. 

Both of them were obviously “lookers” when they were young.  “Mom”, especially—tall, statuesque, long, long legs—you just know that when she walked into a room in 1962 dressed in, say, a Balenciaga thin-silhouette frock, with her then-thick, then-auburn hair up in some complicated ‘do and some high heels, makeup, nails and jewelry perfect, she had the men following her around the room with their tongues hanging out.

It struck me then that, though the ravages of age were taking their toll on Mom—hunched back, wide at the hips, (pardon this next one) “Granny boobs”, varicose veins, plus that –amazing- henna rinse—she had a patina of dignity and grace about her that only the old can have, a dignity and grace her daughter had yet to achieve.  Her former beauty had gone—but, as compensation, she had the patina of her life written on her face, hands, and body.

Not such a bad trade.

Gather Ye Rosebuds

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven the sun,

The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And, while ye may, go marry;

For, having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry.

--Robert Herrick, 1648

Four Totally Unrelated Topics: Maya Angelou, I’m Lucky, Houston Proud, and Love Field Part 3

Maya Angelou:

I can’t let a blog post go by without marking the passing of a great Arkansawyer and a great American.

Maya Angelou rose from a sharecropper’s shack in deeply segregated, Jim-Crow Arkansas to become Poet Laureate of the United States.  A brilliant woman.  There will be other brilliant people, but Ms. Angelou had a unique ability to string words together exquisitely.  She was personal, personable, and had a great perspective.  (alliteration, do I get extra style points?).  Her last tweet (May 23, 2014):  “Listen to yourself and in that quietude you might hear the voice of God.”

Rest in peace, Maya.

>>o<<

I’m lucky: 

I was busy feeling sorry for myself the other night (so what else is new?).  I had had a rough day at work (rougher than most), and was complaining (read:  whining) about it.  I was in the kitchen, Matt was in the living room.  Very, very quietly, he said, “You have a beautiful home and are surrounded by people who love you.  Sounds like a great day to me.”

BAM.  Right between the eyes.  I’m writing that on a post-it and putting it on my computer.

>>o<<

Houston Proud:

The fourth largest city in the United States of America, a city which has 3 times elected an openly-gay Mayor because she is damn good at her job, a city I’m proud to call my home, just passed the H.E.R.O.  The “Houston Equal Rights Ordinance” “…bans discrimination based not just on sexual orientation and gender identity but also, as federal laws do, sex, race, color, ethnicity, national origin, age, religion, disability, pregnancy and genetic information, as well as family, marital or military status.” –Houston Chronicle, 2014-05-29

The measure passed 11-6 and Mayor Parker immediately signed it.  The law became effective when she did so.

Houston now joins California, New York, and other enlightened areas in banning discrimination of any form; it’s the first Texas city to do so. 

The bill had the full backing of Houston business, “Big Oil”, and other groups. 

Kudos to Houston!

>>o<<

Love Field, Part 3:

I had two meetings in Dallas today; thanks to “The Company Plane” (one of Southwest Airlines’ old slogans), I flew up this morning, went to my meetings, and managed to get the 3:15 back to Houston.

Love Field has undergone a metamorphosis; they’re rebuilt it as Houston rebuilt Hobby a few years back; the old Main Terminal Building is now the “entrance hall” for the beautiful new airport.

One of the features that was in the original main lobby (very futuristic for 1957) was a world map, polar view, executed in terrazzo.  As a kid, I was always completely fascinated by this map.  I still think it’s wonderful.  It was exciting, it conveyed the idea that you were “going somewhere” and that “the world is waiting”. 

Throughout the various iterations of Love Field (including the ice rink installed over it), the map has remained.  Recently, it’s been covered up with the TSA Security lines.

They’ve now roped it off and it shines in all its glory.  It made me happy at 7, and it makes me happy at 57.

I couldn’t go past the roped-off areas, but notice that the silver lines converge on Dallas…

And, just a couple of gratuitous shots:

Taking off from Houston at 6:30 am

Arriving Dallas 7:30 am

The Keystone Pipeline

New York Times article today:

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/18/magazine/jane-kleeb-vs-the-keystone-pipeline.html?hp&_r=0

(Summary:  The woman objects to the Keystone Pipeline because it may kill some cows in Nebraska if anything goes badly wrong).

So you don't like the Keystone.  You also don't like fracking.  You don’t like refineries.  You don’t like drilling.  There’s nothing about the oil industry you DO like (except possibly the TV show “Dallas”).

I guess you prefer us to continue to have to kowtow to the Middle East for oil.  That Sultan of Brunei, he’s a real charmer (“Stone the gays”).  Then there’s the ever-so-charming Saudi Arabia, where “human rights” is a joke, where they regularly chop off body parts for minor offenses, and where people just “disappear”.  The Saudis are NOT our friends.  They are our trading partners.

If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at our great-grandparents (or great-great-grandparents, depending…).  They’re the ones who bought the Model T’s, paved the cowpaths, and took the family for a Sunday drive.  They’re the ones who wanted independence from the railroad companies’ schedules.  Main Street, USA at Disneyland and Walt Disney World is a really great fantasy, one I love to indulge.  Imagine those places with the streets covered in up to a foot of horseshit (sorry), because unlike Disney, the cities didn’t have an army of people following the horses around every minute picking up the poo.  So it wasn’t always just lovely.  Yeah, our great-grandparents wanted away from all that.

Then there are our grandparents and parents.  They fought “the Big One”, then came back and moved en-masse from the crowded cities to the Levittown-clone suburbs, so they could enjoy a better life for their kids, including nice, new houses with modern conveniences, good schools, etc.  They then ripped up the trolley car tracks and bought diesel buses because they were told, and believed, that “what’s good for GM is good for America.”

Speaking of GM, how about blaming big business for getting us here?  John D. Rockefeller (Standard Oil > S.O. > Esso > Exxon), Billy Durant (GM), Walter P. Chrysler, and oh, yeah, that Henry Ford fella…They made the automobile available and accessible and everybody wanted one.  They provided the product and Americans made them all rich beyond the dreams of avarice.  All cheerfully financed, of course, by J. P. Morgan and the other wolves of Wall Street (Wall Street is the dirtiest whore in the world, second possibly only to “the City” of London).

I’m not defending the oil industry; it’s as dirty as business gets.  Well, not as dirty as the banks/bankers/financiers, but almost.

Regardless of how we got here, we’re here NOW.

Look, kids:  There is no alternate source of energy.  Trust me, the oil companies are making huge research investments, because if there IS an alternative energy source, they want to be out in front of it.  We have built this current infrastructure of ours over a century.  How are we going to replace every gas station, every pipeline, and every car if an alternative energy solution DOES show up?  Who's going to pay for it if we do? 

There's not going to be anything different in alternate energy for at least the next 50 years.

Canada is going to sell that oil.  They're either going to ship it to Houston, where it'll be refined and sold, or they'll ship it to their Pacific Coast, where China will be delighted to buy it.  We might as well have it come here.

If you think there aren't pipelines all over the place now--think again.  They're literally EVERYWHERE.  The average age of a petroleum-related pipeline in the United States is 62.  With all the technology we now have, this will be the safest pipeline ever built.

Everyone who wants to whine about the petroleum-based economy we now have, cool.  Please get out of your cars at once (don't know how you plan to get around, but that is your problem).  Also rid your home of any petroleum-based products (everything plastic).  Don’t think your completely plastic-lined Pious (Prius) is making you more environmentally friendly—the batteries in those things, as of now, are chock-full of poisonous material that must be “safely disposed of” (how?  by burying it…kind of like nuclear waste, that you also don’t like).

One more little thing:  National Security.  It’s that much more oil if we ever need it, if we’re threatened.  Plus, really:  wouldn’t it be nice to be free of the tyranny of the Middle East?  They can go back to killing each other with reckless abandon, and we can get on with our western lives. 

I like my car.  I like my freedom.  I could go everywhere on the bus—but I don’t WANT to.  That means that periodically, I have to pull up to my “friendly” neighborhood gas station and “fill’er up”.

Build the damn pipeline. 

 

 

Addendum:

Things I failed to mention in the above rant:

• JOBS for Americans:  Surveying and prepping the land.  Building the pipeline.  Operating the pipeline.  Maintaining the pipeline.  Refining the oil.  Loading and shipping the refined product. 
• TAX REVENUE for America:  Just think of all the Federal, State, and Local tax revenue that’s going to generate.  Shame to leave it on the table.
• (from a friend in the O&G business):  Increasing population and demand for oil.  World population expected to increase by 20% in 20 years, most of it in developing countries (China, for example) which are consuming it by great gulps.  This equates to a 40% increase in energy demand.  We’ve got to have the oil from somewhere.
• Extrapolation from above:  It’s the old supply/demand curve.  We’re players on the world stage whether anyone wants that or not (nobody asked you, nobody asked me.  You want to live in the United States, that’s part of the price).  If world demand goes up 40% and world supply stays stagnant, increases marginally, or decreases, what happens to price?  More people wanting fewer items = price increases.  Economics 101, Baylor University, Waco, Texas, 1975, thank you very much.  So, if you’re paying $3.50 a gallon now, enjoy it, because $10 a gallon (or more) is coming unless we tap all our available sources.  That’s a crippling blow to our economy.
• Ethanol:  far from being “environmentally friendly”, ethanol is a bane to mankind for an amazing variety of reasons:  1.  It causes cars to use fuel less efficiently, thus reducing mpg, thus increasing gasoline use.  2.  It takes food from the food supply (most of the corn used for ethanol is used in livestock production, i.e., it’s fed to the pigs and cattle.  Supply and demand; with ethanol demand up, corn demand up, supply constant, price increases to ranchers/pig farmers, which goes right down the chain to us.  3.  Brazil is happily bulldozing the world’s greatest rainforest (doing immeasurable and irreparable damage to the global environment) to make fields to raise corn to make into ethanol.  Ethanol is possibly one of the greatest frauds ever perpetuated.  It is NOT environmentally friendly, any more than Pious batteries (hint to Pious and other battery-powered car owners:  the Honda Civic gets almost the same mileage on regular gas, with a standard internal combustion engine).

For All of You Complaining

About Southwest's "Cattle Car" boarding process, I offer the following:

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to MegaMerged Airlines Flight 0 to Nowhere.  We'd like to begin boarding with our First Class passengers through the Priority Portal on the left.  We'd also at this time like to welcome our Gold, Silver, Platinum, Diamond, Emerald, and Ruby passengers, as well as our Aardvark Skymiler OncePass Primere passengers, our Aadmirals SkyeClube Ultra Premium Elite passengers, and the holders of our Super Aadvantageous UberFabulous Golden Platinum Aall-Aaccess Visa card, all please board via the Priority Portal.  If we have any pre-board passengers, they may also board at this time."

(Now that 3/4 of the plane is boarded) "Boarding Group One, please board at the STANDARD (sneers) Portal (to the right of, and identical to, the Priority Portal).

This is better than "Group A, Group B, and Group C" in what way exactly???

A = All the Way to the Front

B = Back of the Bus, Please

C = Center Seat Only, Chump

I Don’t Know Why I’m Posting This…

…other than it’s one of my stupid stories, and I thought of it the other day because I was telling it to Matt.

When I lived in NYC, I was a lot younger and a lot slimmer (that was before I quit smoking).  I walked everywhere.

A bunch of friends and I went to the Fireworks on the East River for 4th of July.

Now, you have to realize, NYC in the summer is almost as unbearable as Texas.  LOTS of concrete, steel, etc which holds the heat in.

One of my friends insisted that the very bestest most optimal excellent place to watch the fireworks was off Canal, down by the Brooklyn Bridge, so we shagged our happy asses down there.  It was about 90 but felt like 105.  Humid.  I was wearing a pair of white shorts, t-shirt, and my brand new white Reeboks—the first pair I ever had. 

The fireworks over the East River for the 4th of July are amazing.  Better than Disney.  Better than anything I’ve seen before or since.  So great, in fact, that 8,000,000 people (that’s eight million) line the banks of the river (both sides) to watch them. 

This picture is not mine; if you want me to remove it, please email me and I will do so.

 

As fireworks shows go, once the last huge volley has gone off, when the crowd has uttered the last mass “Ooooh!  Ahhhh!”, there’s nothing left—so everybody goes home.

8,000,000 people going someplace at the same time is both astonishing and terrifying.  It didn’t dawn on our stupid selves that would be the case.  Of course the uptown trains (downtown and Brooklyn, too) were not only packed—the dense lines to get down into the stations themselves were blocks long.

Obvious plan:  hit a few bars.  Yeah, well several hundred thousand people thought of that idea at the same time, too.

We got the bright idea to walk across the island, to see if maybe the westside lines (the 1, 2, 3) were less crowded.  They were, and after an hour of trying we finally managed to get on a train headed uptown.

We were packed like sardines.  It was hard to breathe.  There was NO personal space, you were touching all the way around.  Ah, well, life in the City….

So, suddenly, I felt this warmth sliding down my right leg.  I immediately thought, “I cut myself, I’m bleeding profusely.”  That would not be unheard-of.  I maneuvered around a bit to see if I could see the cut.

No.  It wasn’t a cut.  The huge guy next to me had decided his need outweighed any other, had whipped it out, and was PEEING ON MY LEG.

I told my friends to get off at the next station.  “Are you NUTS?  We just spent 2 hours trying to get on!”  “If you don’t get off, just get out of my way, I’m getting off this GD train.”

So, I got off.  Took the brand new Reeboks off and tossed them in the nearest garbage can.  Walked barefoot about 40 blocks in NYC in July to get back home.

So, it is truly better to be pissed off than pissed on (I was both).

As I titled this, I have NO idea why I am posting this.  It wasn’t funny then, but kinda is now….

A Shout Out…

…to all the friends and family who keep me from going batshit crazy.

If it weren’t for y’all, I think I really WOULD flip out and become “Crazy Dog Person” or something.

Kathy and Marty, GO HOGS!

Robert, you’ve been in for the long haul.  Thanks for putting up with me.

Keith, like my Grandfather, you truly fit the term “Christian Gentleman”.  Not many reach that status with me. (there are four, of which you’re one).

Thank you, Matt, for being so loving, considerate and kind.  Your smile really does light up every room you’re in.  Having  you here has been wonderful for me.

Nathan, I just couldn’t go on without you.  All those shared experiences, and all that is to come.

Nathan and Matt:  y’all pick me out a nice nursing home.  I want a beach view, so I can sit there in my caftan, big floppy hat, Jackie-O sunglasses, clogs, a cigarette and an enormous cocktail and look out at the passing crowd.  (Think Albert in The Birdcage).

 

Who knows, maybe I’ll find some old coot and get married off before then….my computer dating match-thingy keeps wanting to put me with 65 year old guys in Connecticut.  Quite a commute from Houston, especially when I put MY age as the “top limit”.  Come on, doesn’t some nice 45 year old want a nice older guy?

 

 

(See, entries like this are what happen AFTER I take my drugs but BEFORE I can fall asleep……

Little Things I Can Still Do, Glen Campbell, and Memory

Looks like it’s going to be one of THOSE nights, since it’s 2:00AM, I’ve taken my sleeping potions, and I’m wide awake.  Nathan requested this blog, so I might as well write it.

Little things I can do:

Grocery store checkout totals.  I’ve been able to do this ever since becoming an adult.  I’m really not very good at math; I’m dyslexic (there was no diagnosis for this when I was a kid, they just thought I was “lazy”; I have trouble with numbers.  6 and 7 and 9 together just don’t work for me at all; I have to carefully line them out, sometimes dialing the same phone number 3 times to get it right), but, I can do this:  as I’m going through the grocery store, I’m keeping a running total in my head.  When I get to the checkout, and load all the groceries onto the belt—I look at the cashier and say, for example, “97 dollars”.  Almost without fail, I’m within 5 dollars of the total.  Sometimes I’m off—then the cashier takes off the coupons, and I’m back within the range.  Many of the cashiers at HEB know me, because I’m “that guy who can name the prices.”

I can speed read.  My sophomore English teacher (with whom I credit, along with my 6th grade teacher and my senior Honors English teacher, my ability to write a correct sentence in the English language) gave these little pop quizzes, to make sure you read the assignment.  If you read it, it was a snap:  “On page 93, Tom is having a conversation with someone.  Who was it?”  The answer is “Jim”, and if you read the chapter she indicated, you knew that.  If you didn’t read it, you didn’t; your score, therefore, was either 100 or –0-.  After a few of these (I always had a perfect 100% on my quiz scores), she asked me to stay after class.  “I’ve noticed that your answers are not exactly correct as far as the question itself, but it’s obvious you have read the material.  When did you read the book?”  “The night you assigned it.”  She’d assign, say, Huckleberry Finn.  I’d take the book home and read the whole thing in one night.  That way, I just kind of had to coast along while she gave her little quizzes, and I could pretty much summarize/analyze anything I read.  After that, she set me up with a speed reading course at San Antonio College, and I learned to speed read.  It’s very helpful sometimes; not great when you’re reading the intricate details of, say, a contract or an insurance policy, but great when faced with research.  I still read very fast (when I can stay awake).  I read “The DaVinci Code” in about 4-5 hours sitting on a beach in Florida, for example.  I don’t actually read the words, I read sentences and sometimes paragraphs in toto.  So, if I’m reading for pleasure, I have to purposely slow it down.

Math:  While not very good at math (I’m terrible with fractions and percentages, and let’s just say that geometry and I don’t get along at. all., though I am actually very good at –gasp- algebra!), I can still add, subtract, multiply, and divide in my head.  The same year I learned to speed read, I learned speed math.  I can add a long column of figures quickly in my head, and I can add very large numbers and get pretty close if there aren’t too many—say 6 or 8 tops.

Of course, I mostly use Excel now—but I can still do without it.

>>o<<

One of my first HUGE crushes on any recording artists was Glen Campbell.  He had been a successful studio musician (I hadn’t known that until recently) when the Smothers Brothers tapped him to be their summer replacement show, “The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour”.  He was a fabulous guitarist, his vocals were great, and, er, um, he was easy on the eyes.
 

The news came out today that he is being moved to an Alzheimer’s facility.  He was wealthy and living at home, so if he had to be institutionalized—it’s pretty much gone.

CBS Sunday Morning covered his Farewell Tour.

My Mother (who never learned to read well) suffered from dementia.  She was terrified of mental illness, so we never actually told her that diagnosis.  She knew us until the very last, but there was only a tiny flicker left.

My Grandfather (Dad’s father) went completely away.  He thought it was 1933 and FDR had closed the banks.  He didn’t know us at all.

Dad (though at 90 you have to say, “bravo!”) is getting dimmer and dimmer.  He’s still here, still drives, still knows all sorts of things—but it’s getting harder for him and there’re just a whole lot of things he no longer remembers at all.

It’s happening to me.  It’s the beginning stages, but it’s happening to me.  Matt has moved to Houston and is living with me currently.  He good-naturedly stops me when I’m telling him the same story I told him yesterday.  I’ll have no memory of having told him.

So, maybe these memories will be here for anyone who wants them.  

The South, Christianity, and Tennessee

Anyone who spends any time studying literature is bound to run across southern-born authors who have a love/hate relationship with the south.  I have to admit, though I’m no author, I too have that love/hate thing going on with the south.

More recently, I’ve added Christianity to that list as well.  Sorry, Christians, I’m having a tough time buying it these days, especially as it’s practiced in the US in 2014.  I’m tending to regard it as just another example of man’s attempt to explain the unknown.

Christians:  If you live in the United States, YOU ARE NOT PERSECUTED.  If you want to discover what persecution is, may I direct your attention to India, Russia, and China (those are the “nice” ones), the Muslim world (in its entirety) where evangelization will at very least land you in prison for life (if you’re lucky), and the ever-charming North Korea (where possession of a Bible carries a mandatory sentence of execution, no trial, no jury, no kidding).

In any event, this week the Tennessee legislature passed a nasty and hurtful bill in the name of “religious freedom”.

Tennessee's latest outrage

(this from the same state where a legislator keeps trying to make the word “gay” illegal…).

The law basically means you can say or do anything you want in the name of your religion. 

A quote directly from the bill:

“a student may express beliefs about religion in homework, artwork, and other written and oral assignments free from discrimination based on the religious content of their submissions. A student would not be penalized or rewarded on account of the religious content of the student’s work.”

The bill goes on to allow any student to commandeer school facilities for “religious purposes”.  So, students can preach at will, forcing others to listen to them; prayer over the intercom is back, etc etc etc.

I lived in Tennessee for 3 long, awful years.  I had some nice friends from there, but I HATED living there.  Churchy, preachy, nasty people.  Sorry, Tennesseans who are friends of mine, but that’s basically what I heard, over and over and over.

Some interesting facts about Tennessee:

Wealth per capita:  #40 of 50
Unemployment:  #43 of 50
Poverty:  #40 of 50
% of students graduating high school:  #42 of 50
Life Expectancy:  #43 of 50
Infant Mortality Rate:  #47 of 50.
Obesity Rate:  #44 of 50.
Overall Wellbeing:  #47 of 50.
Math scores:  #42 of 50.
Reading scores:  #35 of 50 (hey, they broke into the 30's!)
Least Income Inequality:  #41 of 50.
CRIME RATE:  #50 OF 50, WORST IN THE NATION.
Highest % employed in Math, Science, et al:  #38 of 50 (Oak Ridge...)
Teen Pregnancy:  #41 of 50.
Smoking Rate:  #47 of 50 (meaning 4th worst in US)
Diabetes Rate:  #46 of 50
STD Rate:  #44 of 50.

I looked these up on the internet; most came from very reliable sources (the CDC, for example).

Tennessee legislature, looks to me like you’ve got PLENTY of things to worry about without spending time on protecting Christians from non-existent persecution, eh?

Ah, well…this is the state that brought you the Scopes Monkey Trial.  It’s just sad to see that the great-grandchildren of the Scopes-era idiots are just as stupid (ignorant too, though there is a difference between the two) as their forebears.

Now, this is not saying that Tennessee’s southern friends and neighbors are any less stupid and ignorant; they’ve got lots of company.  It’s just that Tennessee is AGGRESSIVE about being stupid and ignorant.

One more thing:  Christians, do you not realize that bills like this are harmful and dangerous to YOU!?  What if a Satan Worshipper decided to take advantage of the bill’s provisions and proclaim his religion to your precious children?  What if a Christian decided he didn’t like that and they wound up fighting and potentially killing each other?  (Gee, this sounds familiar—Bosnia, anyone?).

One thing I DID learn from my religion classes at Baylor:  Christians are FAR better off when the law protects religious freedom, while saying as little about the actual practice of religion as possible.  The more you try to write religion into law, the more dangerous it is for Christianity.

At least a survey came out this week to the effect that gays are now more popular than evangelical Christians.  (Ya know, Evangelicals, think about that—you’re supposed to be attracting people by example; it appears you’re having the opposite effect.)

Sigh.  Rant over.

It's the Little Things

Just a quick thought on a subject that's been "done"--

As I write this I'm sitting in a hotel room on one of my business travels, performing one of my favorite little rituals.   It's not very original, but I cherish it anyway.

Dad ALWAYS encouraged us to read the newspaper.  Since he had to leave so early (he had to be at work by 7, usually), he liked the afternoon edition to be fresh and crisp and waiting for him when he got home.  He would discard a section and I would be circling like a shark in the waters below, waiting for it.

When I went off to college, I started taking The Dallas Morning News; upon moving to Houston, I took the Houston Post.  I learned (shocking to those who knew me) that if I'd get up early enough, I could drink my morning coffee (yes, an entire pot) and read my morning newspaper in peace.  In the early days of being an "adult", this also included my morning cigarette(s).

I'm still doing it at 57 (though I now use the online editions of the New York Times and the Daily Telegraph).  Online isn't the same as having the newspaper.  I miss the smell of the paper and the way you got a little newsprint on your fingers if you weren't careful; the paper also had uses afterwards, such as lining birdcages, wrapping things, putting down for the dog when in an apartment, etc.

Nevertheless, I now have "instant gratification", since the online editions are usually updated when/as news occurs or changes, rather than "waiting for tomorrow".  I miss all the grand old papers of yesteryear, but as long as the New York Times, the Telegraph, and the Times of London hold out, I'll be good.

So, here I sit on a business trip, finishing a $12 "pot" (it's so tiny...) of coffee (at least they use Starbucks), having read a bit of today's NYT.

Do you have any little rituals like that?  What are they?  

*Note to hotelliers:  Not all of us like to be in a crowded breakfast area with Fox News blasting inescapably out of the TV.

Fred Phelps and Other News Items

Fred Phelps

As most everyone knows (at least everyone in the United States), Fred Phelps was a so-called Baptist minister who founded a “church” (mainly his house and consisting mostly of his family) based on his outright hatred of gays, gay people, rainbow flags, and anything not completely toeing the line on his views.  Later, he expanded his vitriol to protesting (mainly at military funerals, but also at high-profile events) homosexuality with his trademark “God Hates Fags” signs. 

There was a time I thought I’d be throwing glitter in the air and dancing in the streets singing “Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead” when Fred Phelps no longer infested the earth with his presence.  There was a time I longed for someone (anyone) to blow his brains out. 

Lately, however, I’ve kind of taken a different turn.  I’m certainly not sorry that Fred Phelps is dead.  Is he in Hell?  I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell any more, so not sure where Fred is.  Nor do I care.

Now, I’m mainly sorry for him.  (WHAT?!)  I’m sorry for him that any human could become so sick and evil and twisted by hatred that he spun into this hate-filled thing. 

Society is moving past Fred and his whacko band.  NONE of my Christian friends countenance him or his followers.  Good has triumphed over evil once again.  Equality is slowly becoming the law of the land; an icon I never thought would happen in my lifetime, equality for gay people, is going to happen.  Whether it happens voluntarily or at the order of the Supreme Court (I’m thinking #2), it IS going to happen.

What I will not forgive Fred and his minions for doing is the picketing of military funerals.  I’ve been called everything in the book—faggot, fucking fag, cocksucker, you name it, and I’ve got a thick hide.  Protesting at these innocent families’ moment of deepest grief while an American hero is laid to rest just disgusts me.

I feel sorry for anyone whose hatred so consumed them.

>>o<<

Malaysian Airlines Flight 370

Anybody who knows me well knows that I am a Kennedy Assassination Conspiracy Theorist.  I just think there’s no way Lee Harvey Oswald KILLED Jack Kennedy.  Did he shoot at him?  Probably.  Was he, in fact, a “patsy”, as he claimed?  I think probably so.  Did the “magic bullet” actually happen?  (Read the Warren Commission Report, it’s available online on the National Archive website, just google it).  Not even a chance.  The “magic bullet” is fiction.

There are a lot of amazing theories on the disappearance of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370.  I have no idea what happened.  It’s one of the most baffling things I’ve seen or heard of in my entire life.  Short of alien abduction, I tend to think there’s a logical explanation out there somewhere.  If the plane actually crashed in the very deep waters over which it may have flown, we may never find the black boxes—and they’re the only way we can even guess at what happened.  Truly fascinating.

They found some of D. B. Cooper’s money, but they never found a trace of him—and that was the Pacific Northwest, not the ocean.

We may never know.

>>o<<

Sheridan, Arkansas High School Yearbook censored

My home town, Malvern, is southwest of Little Rock; Sheridan is south-central.  They’re about 30 miles apart on US 270, and there’s a lot of commerce and commonality there.

Sheridan residents, you have been portrayed in the national news in the worst possible light—and most of you shouldn’t be.  Most of you accepted a young man, one of your own, when he bravely came out.  Sheridan is about 30 miles down the road from Malvern, my hometown, and I would NEVER have had the guts to come out in Malvern.  Many Sheridan residents just took it in stride, accepted that “some boys marry boys” and got over it.  It’s shocking, then, that your school board and high school principal took such a bigoted stand in censoring the yearbook.   Censorship is NEVER a good thing.  If you tell the students “the yearbook is yours”, you can’t then come back and say, “Oh, except when some religious group in town is offended by what you publish.”  But thank you, Principal Williams and Dr. Haynes.  By showing what bigoted, homophobic jerks look like, you’ve given the rest of the world an object lesson in unacceptable behavior.  Bravo!  (Sigh.  Arkansas, in the news for being a bunch of backward, redneck hillbillies—again.  Just when I think we’re getting better…).

>>o<<

Gay Marriage

As I write this, Michigan has just become the latest state to have its discriminatory anti-gay-marriage law struck down by a Federal Judge.  It’s coming.  It’s taking a lot longer time than it should—systematically discriminating against any group of American Citizens, denying them basic rights, is Unconstitutional on the face of it.  Will everybody be happy when Equality becomes the law of the land?  Certainly not.  Are there people out there right now who wish that all those “uppity” black people are not picking cotton or shining shoes by day and eating watermelon and singing in the cabins by night?  Of course there are.  There are plenty of people in the world who hate people who are not JUST LIKE THEM—whites who hate non-whites, blacks who hate non-blacks, Baptists who hate Catholics, Catholics who hate Baptists; good grief, look at the middle east—Christians and Muslims have been brutally killing each other (in the name of the same god) for centuries.  (One of my favourite illustrations of the stupidity of this is the Star Trek (The Original Series) episode “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield”, in my opinion one of the better episodes of the entire series, in which two survivors== of a catastrophic planet-wide war are beamed on board the Enterprise—and continue their fight to the death, until finally returning to their own planet—which has been totally destroyed, all inhabitants lost; the two continue their battle to the death.  Cause of the hatred—they are pigmented black on one side, white on the other—except different sides.  Both consider the other’s pigmentation reprehensible and inferior—which is silly to the crew of the Enterprise and to all of us; what possible difference could it make?).

Commissioner Bele (Frank Gorshin), explaining to a puzzled Captain Kirk and a skeptical Lt. Uhura why being white on the left and black on the right is far superior to being white on the right and black on the left…

Are there a bunch of people who feel threatened by gay marriage?  Yes. 

Are there a bunch of religious people who don’t like it?  Yes.

Are there a bunch of conservative people who don’t like it?  Yes.

Does this mean that we should allow discrimination, because to end it means some group is offended?  If so, we should allow discrimination against black people because some whites are offended that they’re allowed the same rights; we should allow discrimination against women because some men are offended they’re allowed the same rights; the list is endless.  Before long, we’d just destroy the whole society—like the planet Cheron on Star Trek above.

Can a cake baker discriminate against an interracial couple because some religion or another dislikes it?  No.  Can she discriminate because she dislikes two men or two women marrying?  No.

Should churches and ministers be forced to marry gay couples?  No.  (They can believe what they want and handle their church as they wish—excluding gays, blacks, whites, or whomever they desire.  We do have limits on things churches can do; sacrificing children to Baal is not allowed in the United States…).  Religious people, know this:  You have the right to believe whatever you want—but so do the rest of us.

Government and businesses should be forced to give everyone the same rights.

Businesses are leading the way.  They know it’s coming and they’re out in front.

The Courts are headed there.

It’s coming.

Let’s just all agree that everyone should be equal and get on with it, shall we?

 

Please support the Human Rights Campaign, I do.

Family Stuff, and MUTANTS!

All my life, Mother collected her crystal, china, and silver patterns.  “A Southern Belle Primer” details southerners and their dedication to Crystal, China, and Silver patterns.  It’s just in our genes.

Mother’s crystal pattern was Fostoria American.  It wasn’t glamorous; it was classed as “everyday crystal” (that you have to wash by hand because you can’t put it in the dishwasher).  She had a ton of it.  We gave it to her for birthdays, anniversaries, etc. and she was always glad to get it.  As an adult, when I ived next door to them in Arkansas, I went shopping (at flea markets and antique stores) for the more esoteric pieces.  Long and short, she wound up with a LOT. 

Now it’s at my house.

One of the things I never got was the Old Fashioned glass.  It’s a bit small and strangely shaped for what it is.  Notwithstanding, it is NOT cheap.  I have other Old Fashioned’s (some crystal, some glass) that are bigger/nicer, so I had plenty already and wasn’t looking to add.

But—at an estate sale this last weekend, 2 doors down from me, there it sat.  One.  How they only had one…?  $1.  It’s here in my hand, with the ice slowly melting with the whiskey.  With my weight-loss program, any whiskey is too much, but ya know…gotta live a LITTLE bit.  So, I actually measure—and filled with ice, this is exactly 2 jiggers.  Cheers, Mom!

So, I’m sitting in my “little den” listening to my Magnificent Magnavox cranking out Henry Mancini loud enough to disturb the neighbors, sitting in a chair that’s been in my family since the 1920’s…(snif—the Maggie is going to the shop.  She’ll be fabulous when she gets back, though—full recap, revamp turntable, clean/repair.  I can rock the house now, what’s it going to be like when it’s fully restored?  Quick funny aside—I’m taking it to Dawson’s TV & Appliance here in Houston to be repaired.  The shop is a shambles; it used to be a beautiful store, gleaming (note to my friend Lisa Alston Lulick—it’s directly next to Dick-n-son’s .  Mr. Dawson sold me the first television set that I bought as an adult, new, from a dealer.  I moved to Houston, was staying on a buddy’s couch—my apartment wasn’t ready yet and the movers weren’t there with my stuff—but by God I had a TV, a 19 inch RCA Colortrak “Tabletop” model that I used for decades; $500.  Mr. Dawson is long-dead (he was old then), but the guy my age who was apprenticing there is still there—and knows how to fix this old equipment.  Mr. Dawson was an authorized Magnavox dealer, so this kid learned how.  He’s an old man now too (like me).  I can’t wait.  I love my Magnavox collection.  When I die?  That would seem to be a Nathan problem). (I have a Custom Imperial for Nathan, and one each for David, Rachel, and Matt).

…while my dinner cooks.

I’ve done several of the family recipes over the years, usually with fairly decent success.  I’ve never assayed Mom’s meatloaf, though.  For one thing, she did it better than anybody else.  I can’t imagine that mine would even be edible compared with hers.

But, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I got my sister to write down Mom’s recipe (I watched Mother; she didn’t have a recipe, she just knew what she was doing); my sister had stood behind her taking notes.  I wish either of us had done so for her chocolate pie….

So it’s in my Magnalite roaster right now. 

It calls for 1 egg, but I used more of everything, so I used 2 eggs.

I’m persnickety about eggs.  I like ‘em uber-fresh, and I buy only organic, antibiotic-free eggs from cage free, free roaming hens.  They’re $5 a dozen.  One of my little splurges. 

So I got the eggs at the store when I bought oats (OATS?  Mother always put them in—so I bought them.  Jeebus, the box will mold before I ever use that many, I hate oatmeal).  Went in to crack them and…

MUTANTS!!!!

2 yolks PER EGG!!!!  Ok, maybe that’s common but **I’ve** never seen it!

(We’ll see how the meat loaf turns out.  Mom never had Whataburger spicy ketchup to put on it, either ). 

Cheers again, Mom!

 

A quick internet search says “they lucky!” so by golly, I’ll take all the luck I can get!

What do you think?

Soap

Two of my current round of TV shows wound up this week (or at least I watched the final episodes of the season this week):  Downton Abbey and House of Cards.

I confess, I have a weakness for soap opera.  I came by it honestly.  When I was a tyke, my Mother still worked at Southwestern Bell.  My grandmother lived with us; she and my cousin Neda came to stay when Mother was pregnant with me and never left.  Neda married and moved out, but Grannie lived with us the rest of her life.

Grannie had a crew of “running buddies”; Mrs. Ledbetter, Mrs. Bidwell, and our next-door neighbor, Mollie Fowler.  Mrs. Fowler was a scream.  Every morning, she’d wait for her grown son, Furman (with whom she lived) to leave for his job at Ford Motor Company.  Ford had a huge plant in Dallas at the time, and Furman had a pretty nice job there; he had the first Mustang any of us ever saw, a 1964 1/2 red Mustang convertible. 

Anyway, Mrs. Fowler would wait till Furman left; then she’d peek out the curtains and wait for Mother to leave, first on the bus, then, when we became a “two-car family”, in her shiny black Chevrolet.  As soon as Mom was good and gone, Mrs. Fowler would scoot through the hedge and over to our house, usually bringing doughnuts or bear claws or fried pies or whatever.  She and Grannie would pile up on Mother’s smart sectional with coffee and doughnuts, with me on the floor with my own coffee (yes, they let me have it) and doughnuts while we watched “Love of Life”.  They’d sit there and shout advice (“You’d better watch out, girl!  He’s up to no good!”) at the actresses.

A quick aside about “the girls”.  They played bingo at the American Legion Hall every Friday and Saturday night.  Mrs. Bidwell was the only one who still drove, and the only one with a car—a red Falcon.  They’d pile in the Falcon and go to the Legion Hall, play bingo and drink beer (one each per night) till the place closed, then come home late.   Astonishingly, Mother let me go with them occasionally, and I remember the Hall and the Caller and the bingo cards.  They had these little sliding things that slid over the numbers, very professional.  When somebody got a bingo, they’d holler “BINGO”, and one of the workers would come over and read the card off to the Caller; if it checked out, they won whatever prize was offered that round.  I still have 2 items Grannie won playing bingo.  They’d let me have a card, but those old bats would have 4 cards going at once.  They were in it to win it, play hard or go home.

Anyway, from there, my soap watching progressed to 1965 (summers only then, as I was in school).  A new show came on, Days of Our Lives.  It profiled the Horton family, a doctor and his wife, their children, and all the trials and tribulations of the small town of Salem.  The first real bad-guy on there (there were lots of baddies, but this was the first “supervillain”) was Victor Kiriakis.  (This is important for later in this blog).  (The part of Victor has been portrayed for the entire run by John Aniston, father of Jennifer Aniston).

2008 version

I’ve followed the goings-on in Salem on and off for almost 50 years.

A friend of mine is a fellow Days fan; we lived through the Salem Stalker and the abduction of most of the town to Melaswen Island (New Salem spelled backward); we lived through Bo and Hope; Kate and Roman; the trials and tribulations of John Black/Roman/John Black (as of this writing, he’s back to not knowing who he really is); the great Brady-DiMera feud, etc.

When I was in college, we scheduled classes so as to be at home to watch Days.

Then, my senior year, an astonishing thing happened:  CBS piloted a show that was a night-time soap—and it was set in DALLAS.  I was in college in Waco, and we thought Dallas was the be-all and end-all, so we were delighted—until we watched the first episode, in which—astonishingly—a hurricane strikes Dallas!!!  And it’s a SURPRISE hurricane, nobody knew it was coming!  “It won’t last”, we sighed sadly.  Of course, we all know the rest of that story…and it spawned Knots Landing, and inspired Dynasty and Falcon Crest….

I remember this Dallas. The Village is directly behind the gold tower.

I was with that same group of friends, but in my apartment in Dallas 2 years later, when JR Ewing was shot—and we all collectively screamed.  You could also hear screams from all over the complex, there were Dallas watch-parties all over in our age group.  We all lived in The Village, a huge group of apartment complexes in Dallas that were singles-ville.  It was like the dorms, except we were all grown up and had jobs….

Ol’ JR.  Make mine a bourbon and branch, darlin’.

There have been other soaps through the years, and of course the hysterical parody “Soap”, starring the divinely hilarious Katherine Helmond.  Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman!  And who could ever forget Carol Burnett’s hysterical send-up of the soaps as Marian in “As the Stomach Turns”, occasionally featuring Harvey Korman’s most hilarious drag sequences ever, as “Mother Marcus, Canoga Falls’s leading yenta and chicken soup pusher.”  When last we left Canoga Falls…

Marian consults Mother Marcus

So that brings us back to the present.  I love Downton Abbey.  I love House of Cards.  Dallas is back with a new generation of Ewings, John Ross and Christopher, and the Barnes-Ewing feud is still going strong. 

And on Days of Our Lives, the hot supercouple is a beautiful (naturally—this is soap!) young gay couple.  Their names?  Will Horton and Sonny Kiriakis.

Long live the soaps!

Will Horton and Sonny Kiriakis

1957 Classics

Lots of classics came out of the year 1957!

1957 Classics: Chevrolet Bel Air.  I like big muscles…

1957 Classics:  Chateau Lafite—Rothschild.  I’ve never had any.  Wouldn’t somebody like to buy me a bottle?  It’s only $1,682….

1957 Classics: First Boeing 707's delivered in 1957. Others are bigger, others are faster, most are more fuel efficient and all are a whole lot quieter--but this is the most beautiful airliner ever designed. A study in grace, balance, and proportion.

1957 Classics: In Philadelphia, a young local TV guy started a show for teens to review current songs and dance. "We're going hopping! We're going hopping today, where things are popping! The Philadelphia way, we're gonna drop in on all the music they play at the Bandstand (Bandstand!)....(now, those of you "of a certain age" will have that song stuck all day...you're welcome! Don't worry, though, the next 57 Classic will have you whistling a different tune--then the next or so.

1957 Classics: My very favorite Cadillac of the 50's, the '57. This is the Fleetwood 60 Special in "Mountain Laurel".

1957 Classics: "Bridge On the River Kwai"--1957 film, in 1958 winner of Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Director, Best Writing, Best Cinematography, Best Scoring, Best Music. Nominated: Best Supporting Actor.

One of the great opening scenes of all time….

1957 Classics: The Music Man opened on Broadway, with Robert Preston in the title role. All together now, "Seventy-six trombones led the big parade!..."

1957 Classics: The Monsanto House of the Future opened at Disneyland. In the immortal line from a movie 10 years later, "Plastics!"

1957 Classics: Speaking of Disneyland---Disneyland Lunchbox, complete with thermos. (No, it's not mine. I had a "Munsters" one.).

1957 Classics: Wagon Train set out from Missouri, headed for California. It was a good show and a classic Western. Lots of big-name guest stars.

Cool theme music too; thanks Larry Scott for finding this.

1957 Classics: Can't leave out the amazing Imperial LeBaron Crown Coupe. Outrageously longer, lower, and wider, it sported a 392 Hemi and would corner flat at speed--astonishing for an almost 6,000 lb car on bias-belted tires. The height of Virgil Exner's "Forward Look" styling (Harley Earl's Cadillac crest was '59).

I’m in love (uh) I’m all shook up!

1957 Classics: #1 on the Billboard Top 100 for 1957 (it's a good song, good beat, you can dance to it, I'll give 95).

1957 Classics: Henry Fonda gave one of the most riveting performances of his career in this movie, which was a classic, directed in suffocating fashion by Sidney Lumet. It was nominated for a slew of Academy Awards, but had the misfortune to be up against the epic Bridge on the River Kwai.

 

1957 Classics: 25 Top books from 1957 (What's surprising to me is the number of these I've read; most of them)

1957 Classics: People

1957: Next to last. This picture is dated "Feb 57", so it was literally the day they brought me home (it took a week to get the film back...). Everybody got a turn in the rocker holding the baby, but you know, gotta have Mom....

'57 model, 57 years. If it ends tonight, it's been a good ride. Hopefully a few more years left to go. Thank you to all my wonderful friends who have wished me a happy birthday today. It was a fairly mundane day at work (conference calls, screaming--the usual), and it was cold and rainy--but your kind thoughts, good wishes, and friendship made the day great. I hope you enjoyed my little trip back to 1957 today as much as I enjoyed doing it.

>>o<<

I posted this stuff all day on facebook and had a blast doing it.  I hope everyone else enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed putting it together.  Tomorrow:  the stuff that I didn’t post on facebook and some commentary.