Billy Bailey won't you please

 If you read Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood," you remember that the murders he wrote about in his groundbreaking non-fiction-as-fiction book were removed from the rolls of the living at the end of ropes in Kansas. I myself oppose the death penalty, but they are always looking for find new ways to accomplish it, like in Alabama, where they gave a murderer a fatal case of hypoxia by filling his face mask with nitrogen gas. 

It was still legal in Delaware in 1996 to hang a man until he died, and so that was how the state bade farewell to Billy Bailey, who had killed an elderly man and wife in 1979. Delaware built a gallows 15 feet off the ground (larger than the one the January 6 rioters intended for Mike Pence) and then they boiled 30 feet of 3/4" Manila hemp rope. Boiling the rope took away stretchiness and the tendency to coil up. Then, to make sure they got the most efficiency out of the loop meant to snap Bailey's neck, they coated that sliding part with paraffin wax. 

Bailey, center.

There was no doubt in the mind of anyone involved that Bailey did indeed kill the old couple. He never denied it, and since he was caught running from the scene of the crime by a State Police helicopter (upon which he fired and missed) he was in no position to claim noninvolvement. 

Before his execution, "the condemned man ate a hearty meal" (as the old novels and movies always played it). Bailey tucked away a well-done steak, a baked potato with sour cream and butter, buttered rolls, peas, and vanilla ice cream. It's unclear whether anyone present cautioned him about his cholesterol intake.

And, during the final days of his life, this man who committed horrible murders was offered the chance to go by means of lethal injection, which had become the prescribed method for Delawareans since his conviction. But this contemptible, odious scourge, who violated the Sixth Commandment so callously, played it straight and took the rope because, as he said, "The law is the law." 

Start out small

Early in January 1926, a man named A.E. Lefcourt (born Abraham Elias Lefkowitz in England in 1876) assumed ownership of the Hotel Normandie on Broadway at 38th Street in New York City. He and his family moved to New York in 1882, settling in the legendarily hardscrabble Lower East Side.

While still a young man, Abe was working in the garment industry and soon bought out his employer and was running a wholesale business. But he moved into real estate, buying a 12-story building at age 34, and changing his name in an apparent effort to Americanize it.

He went on to build more structures in Manhattan. The area of the city now known as the Garment District was basically built around his properties, most notably the Lefcourt Building on 49th Street...the building that went on to house the offices of so many musical composers and publishers, now called the Brill Building.

He even founded a bank, Lefcourt Normandie National Bank, which was to become part of the JP Morgan Chase financial empire.

By the time the Depression hit following the 1929 Stock Market Crash, his net worth (said to be around $100 million) began to dwindle, as his company went into foreclosure, the buildings sold off, his kingdom in tatters. So great was the pressure on him that he died of a heart attack in 1932, at age 55, as creditors and lawyers piled on.

The day he took over the Normandie must have been a highlight of pride and accomplishment, because he could look back and see himself at age 9, shining shoes and selling newspapers out front of that very hotel, earning the first pennies that started his success.

 

Mitch Writer

Well, that was one hell of a game, the Ravens and the Chiefs, huh? Playing for the American Conference Championship at Baltimore's M&T Bank Stadium before a packed house...

And I wrote this on Friday night, so I have no idea how the game turned out. I'm not Mitch Albom, the verbose, bewigged Detroit writer who once wrote one of his patented cornball melodramatic columns about two former college basketball players who attended a game together and took a lovely stroll to Memoryville and back. 

The problem was that neither of the guys showed up for the game, and neither did Albom, author of Tuesdays With Morrie, a bestseller about the visits Albom paid to a former college professor and all the valuable life lessons he learned at the old man's bedside. By the time he found that the two were no-shows, it was too late; the article was printed, but Mitch blamed his fiction on an "incorrect assumption."

If you're smug in a mugshot, 
that's a Smugshot!

It's a great book if you have a kitchen table that has one leg about 3/4" shorter than the others, because propping up a wobbly dining board is all that book is good for, since Mitch clearly didn't learn lessons about honesty. He made the "conversations" and observations those two men out of plain cloth, and for that reason, nothing he ever writes can be deemed trustworthy. 

So, no, I am writing this column about the AFC Championship at 10:22 on Friday night, but I wanted to share something interesting Peggy and I heard this afternoon. We were in a small store and the lady behind the counter was talking about her plans to take her husband to dinner on Sunday for his birthday, but she realized that all the restaurants in town would be filled with football fans and all their hooting and hollering, so maybe one night during the week...

And then she threw us for a loop and said she plans to watch the game on Sunday anyway. She went on to say she doesn't know what's what in football (she just learned the other day that a first down is a good thing, not a bad thing) but she knows the Ravens are doing well and she wanted to experience the game. 

I got to thinking it might be fine to go into something bereft of knowledge about it, to experience something new on a blank slate.  Might be worth a try.

For crying out loud, there are hundreds  - thousands! - of things about which I know nothing. I'll choose one and get back to you.

------------------------------------

Added late Sunday night:  Yes, the Ravens lost, but that's the way life is. Somebody's gonna win, and someone else is gonna lose. But almost as disheartening as that loss was seeing the social media outcry that the game was rigged because the National Football League wishes to see Taylor Swift's boyfriend in the Super Bowl, My radar goes off instantly when I see that word "rigged." It's sad to see so many people greet defeat with an attitude of "this can't be real" and "it was all rigged, set up to favor the other guy. Surely nothing I did wrong was involved."

I wonder where they get these ideas.

Sunday Rerun: The Eagle's Greatest Hit

 Clark (no relation) is 19, and has already found a good career. He works in public relations, and travels the nation spreading the good news about conservation. He gets a lot of frequent flier miles, and even though he travels with a support staff, he gets his own hotel room at overnight stops. He likes to watch TV, mainly cartoons and nature shows.

Oh, and he has a tarpaulin spread over the hotel room, because Clark is... a bald eagle!

Now it all adds up. Clark is not suited to life in the wild - the scales on his talons did not develop, so he would surely die of pneumonia if he were on his own - so he flies around as an ambassador of World Bird Sanctuary in south St. Louis. 

He earns his supper (rat chunks 😬) by attending graduations, convocations and such, flying overhead while inspirational music plays. In so doing, the eagle raises consciousness about conservation and raises money for the Sanctuary.

Clark is named for William Clark of Lewis and Clark fame. (There's an eagle named Lewis back at the sanctuary). His work schedule is not grueling, calling for him to make four to six appearances yearly.  

When his handlers take him through the TSA checkpoint, the agents look into his crate and the carpet that lines it. You never know what he might try to smuggle in - crackers, maybe?

And people at the airports are ill-advised to try to stick their fingers into his crate. I mean, really?

Southwest is the only airline that allows Clark to fly in the main cabin. All the other carriers make him fly in the cargo area. Once, he got lost doing that, just like your luggage when you came back from Cincinnati, so don't feel too bad.

Southwest puts him (in his crate) in two seats, snugged up with three seat-belt extenders. The other seat is occupied by one of his human companions, who feeds him his rat bits and keeps him company with small talk and cartoon noises.

Oh, and this King Of The Sky, our fearless national symbol of freedom travels well...from the airport staff to the pilots, every effort is made to make his travel free of jostling. He hates turbulence.

The Saturday Picture Show, January 27, 2024

    

If you have to get out the snowblower and boots and all that, might as well put on a fun outfit and make the kids think that unicorns are really real!

I loved to read the Sunday funnies in the day they were funny. Blondie, Bringing Up Father, Little Iodine...good old days!

So this man knows how to order breakfast at a diner, how to play some of the most famous tunes on a guitar ("Sweet Child Of Mine" for example) and how to leave a nice tip - 200 smackeroos. All right, Slash!

What a shame that a stupid color line kept some great ballplayers having to ride buses and playing exhibitions all over instead of being major leaguers. Thank the Dodgers and Jackie Robinson for standing up for what was right.

Before actor Joyce Randolph passed away recently, she made it a weekly habit to sit in the bar at Sardi's and greet her fans and lovers of classic TV (she was Trixie Norton in "The Honeymooners.") I'm sure she enjoyed every minute she shared.

Baltimore Fans are taking that FAFO equation all the way to the Conference Championship game tomorrow! And I think we'll find out that they will win.

There is nothing so patronizing as calling a fully grown female a "girl," but such was the sexism of the "good" old days that some people miss so wistfully. 

I have a real weakness for these "Four Seasons Of The Same Scene" pictures, especially if one of the seasons brings snow!

In their haste to increase profits by cutting employees hours and staffing at large, many corporations are now learning that many customers will steal a stick of gum if they get half a chance. So now, all of a sudden, self checkout is a bad idea. They should have asked several years ago; we could have told them what would happen.

We have several of these around - old type drawers from print shops. They make terrific display boxes to show your bric-a-brac and whatnot.
 

"But, I'm famous!"

Here's a good way to get in hot water: fool around with hot water!

Pierce Brosnan, actor by trade, has pleaded not guilty to a charge of walking through a restricted area of Yellowstone National Park.

The charges were filed in federal court in December after Brosnan, aged 70, was found on foot in a thermal area of the park known as Mammoth Terraces. Visitors to Yellowstone are warned to stay on the trails provided and look at the fountains and hot springs that dot the landscape from a safe distance.

That scalding water is hot and acidic, and can cause severe or fatal burns. One warning should be enough for most people, but through his lawyer, Brosnan is declining to say just why he thought it a good idea to go tramping through a dangerous area.

 

Yellowstone is the park better known to cartoon lovers as Jellystone, home of Yogi Bear, the picnic-stealing rascal so beloved by children.

Brosnan seems to want to play Yogi's sidekick Boo-Boo now. How about just following the rules a little, huh, James Bond?

But her face rings a bell...

It's been 60 years now for Jozsefne Szedlak, or "Aunty Ilonka," as they call her in Tereny, Hungary, where she lives north of Budapest.

60 years keeping up the family tradition, twice a day, ringing the bells in the tower of her church twice a day. She is one of the few remaining bellringers in Hungary, but, "As long as my hands and feet can handle it, there won't be an automatic system," says the grandmom of three at 80 years of age.  

And this isn't just ding-a-linging a little handbell, no sir. One of the bells weighs 1,000 pounds.

She does not wish to turn her bellringing chores over to a machine, "because people say, and it's true, that bells die when they are automated, so a bell working by the press of a button does not chime the same.  The bell summons the living, mourns the dead and breaks the storms."

Just as so many jobs have been mechanized and replaced by motors and machines, so have bellringers. Ferenc Bajko is a campanologist who studies the history of church bells, and he reports that, "In Hungary, usually Protestant churches have them, where the bells are only used on Sundays. It is really unique to have someone manually ring the bells several times every day."

The mayor of Tereny,  Andrasne Brozso, says Aunty Ilonka is a great blessing, and that news crews and curious tourists are regular sights around town. Hungarian President Katalin Novak came to see her last June.

Most days, the chore is not too demanding physically. She only needs one hand to ring that bell at noon or in the evening. But for important Christian holidays such as Easter, she needs to get all three bells ringing in that old church. That's when she sits on a stool and uses both hands and her right foot.

She's a sunny soul, because get this: she says with that sort of workout, she doesn't need to hit the gym.

She is proud to carry on a tradition begun by her great-great-great grandfather. 

I need to know more about my great-great-great grandfather before I promise to carry on his traditions.

 

 

 

 

Stanley Streamer

One day some years back, I was perusing Facegram or Instabook or whatever, when a friend of mine pointed out that wearing Champion brand leisure wear was suddenly cool, and she knew this because her very cool daughter suddenly wanted Champion hoodies and sweats and I don't know what-all else.

I looked down and noticed I was wearing a Champion hoodie and Champion sweatpants, both purchased for cheap at the sadly-departed Gabriel Brothers store, where all of us cheapskates bought our clothes. I was thrilled, I was accidentally cool, and I don't even know if the young people still like Champion or not, but I still have both of those garments, because what's a couple of stains and holes?

It's funny how brand names can suddenly be popular. Take these Stanley drinking cups (and some people do!)

Police in Roseville, California have cleaned up the case of the theft of $2500 worth of Stanleys and are charging a Sacramento woman in the case. The evidence against here seems damning, since employees saw her putting the merchandise in a car and hauling it out to her car, brazenly filling the trunk as employees howled for her to stop.

Exhibit A: Trunk full of loot.

The woman is 23. When the police showed up, they made her pop the trunk, and there were the 65 mugs. So they took her for a mug shot. 

These cups, known as Quenchers, cost between $20 and $60, if you stop to pay for them.

The City of Roseville Police Department issued this Crimefighter's Note:  "While Stanley Quenchers are all the rage, we strongly advise against turning to crime to fulfill your hydration habits."

I know the urge is strong for kids and people who act like kids to have the latest, coolest, hippest thing.

I also know that the latest, coolest, and hippest thing is to have the character to do and like what you do and like. 

If you encourage him...

Everyone knows James Earl Jones, the actor whose very voice bespeaks dignity and authority ("This is CNN." “No, I am your father.”)

But that mighty voice was almost not to be heard, because Jones had a very severe stutter as a boy - so much so that he went nearly eight years without speaking to anyone but people and animals around the house. He would not speak in school unless called upon, because the other kids tormented him about his stammer. Kids will do these things, sad to say.

It was to be his high school English teacher, Donald Crouch, who gave Jones, and the world, the gift of his voice. Crouch noticed that young James did not stutter when he read poetry he had written himself, so he hatched a clever plan.

James Earl brought in a poem he had written, but Mr. Crouch said,  “𝙄'𝙢 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙚𝙢, 𝙅𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙀𝙖𝙧𝙡... 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙠, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩. 𝙐𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙪𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮, 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙚𝙢. 𝘿𝙞𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙮 𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮?"

Of course he had not done so, and he said so. Crouch then said that if he had written the poem, he could recite it in the class from memory.

Which he did, flawlessly.

And the teacher said, "We will now use this as a way to recapture your ability to speak."

And the student, the great Jones, said, "𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤, 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮, 𝙢𝙮 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙚𝙘𝙝 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝 𝙨𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙡, 𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.”

And from there, you know how it went. Roles, acclaim, awards, for the man regarded as one of the greatest actors ever. Sometimes, we just need a little boost. 

My blessing

 

OK, here's the thing. Exactly half of us who live here, out of the two, are Roman Catholic. And I'm not the one. Peggy is, and she wonders why I got this blessing in the mail. I don't know the Edmundite Missions or even anyone named Edmund. This came randomly in the mail the other day, and even though it was clearly not meant for me, I am holding on to it. Just in case.

It's always possible that they got my name in 1964, when I was not quite thirteen, and at the time, reaching thirteen was no sure bet when I got sick that March. They thought it was polio or encephalitis or meningitis or any of another handful of problems they tossed around. An ambulance took me to Church Home and Hospital down on Broadway near Baltimore's now-fashionable Fell's Point section, and that Sunday evening, while my parents met with a doctor, they sent in a priest to offer me the last rites.

I should say the last "rights" because nothing felt right. I can still see this kindly old priest, reading from a book and preparing me for extreme unction. I knew I was in the right church or the wrong pew or something when the priest crossed himself and looked at me, expecting the same. When I did not make the appropriate gesture, he looked at me quizzically. I said, "Uh, I'm not Catholic."

Even at 13, I was a master of what to say to whom and when.

He asked what I was and seemed satisfied when I told him I'm Protestant. I'm sure he would have recoiled in horror had I been anything else.

But he told me he knew I was sick and didn't really feel like talking a lot (see? He didn't know me at all!) but he told me that when I went to sleep that night, I might wake up in a totally different place, surrounded by angels and happiness and no more pain and suffering.

I suppressed my urge to say, "Wow! I'm going to Los Angeles!" and kept it fairly serious, by my standards. It was not a subtle point he was making, and even I caught on quickly that he was hinting that my next stop was the Elysian Fields, with the virtuous and the heroic. 

If that were to be the case, I would need a hall pass, and maybe this is it! Perhaps that priest jotted down my name and saved it for all these years, and now, they pulled my name out of a bulging file cabinet and sent the free pass to me to hold onto until such a point arrives that I am in need of a blessing.

Since my life is a daily blessing, I don't expect to cash it in anytime soon, But it's nice to have it in my hip pocket!

Sunday Rerun: On An Open Fire

 

I can list 273 reasons for loving fall and winter, and maybe 3 in favor of summer. So it's fall now and time for chestnuts! As you see to the left, chestnuts are ready to toast in the oven and wind up in the snack bowl or in the stuffing for turkey next month! 

There was an old guy at the firehouse who always carried a chestnut in his pants pocket on the grounds that it drew the rheumatism from his aching old bones. We used to scoff at this. Now I'm willing to try it!

And here's another use for chestnuts if you want to keep the kids occupied. The English have a game called "Conkers." To play the game, you get a chestnut, drill a hole in it, and string it up on a lace, then you find another conkerer and hit each other's chestnut until one of them breaks.

 

But this year, as the excitement of the annual upcoming World Conkers Championships reaches a fever pitch, the officials in charge have started a buzz by creating a rules change because too many of the chestnuts around this year are squishy.

 

"It's one of them mad British little pastimes," says James Packer, chair of the World Conkers Championship's organizing committee.

St. John Burkett is also on the organizing committee and serves as a spokesman for the event, and he reports that they will be baking the nuts this year to harden them. Normally, that's not allowed, but this year's chestnut harvest came in soft and mushy on account of all that rain they had this year in England. The nuts fell off the trees early this time, and did not fully mature before that.

But naturally, traditionalists are howling mad! They see this as heresy for their beloved sport of conkers. Just listen to Yanny Mac, organizer of the Waveney Valley Conkers Tournament. He says, "We do not hold with the idea that there is a conker crisis. I just checked my stash ... and conkers are emphatically not softer this year."

As the always do, the English will work this out amongst themselves in time for the World Championships, set for Sunday in Northamptonshire.

I'll have to check to see which network will have live play-by-play.

The Saturday Picture Show, January 20, 2024

 

A Polish street artist, a young lady called Rak, beautifies her world with her art.

Someday, you'll explain to your grandchildren that a serious, deadly virus swept the world in 2020, and almost everyone took it seriously enough to wear a mask in public. The only exceptions were the benighted few who always go out of their way to demonstrate how little they know. 

It's been 15 years now since Captain Sully Sullenberger's plane took a bird strike and the good pilot was able to "land" on the water and save all those lives. 

You know what I miss about work, is the chance to support youths (yutes) in their athletic and citizenship endeavors. And somehow, the amazing World's Finest fundraising chocolate bar has kept the same price, while getting just a tad smaller.

Here we see a waxing crescent moon. Come back next week, and I'll show you an unwaxed crescent moon.

I threw the switch and I'm not going to throw it back!

This must be in some senior community named something like Sunrise City or something...you sit here, and some old timer is going to come and talk your ear off. At least, you'll hope he does.

You remember Black Oak Arkansas from the 70s? This is White Oak Firewood from the 20s. 

Five cents for fresh air might be a bargain, who knows?

We take you now to the Corinth Canal, in Greece, where the Little Tug That Could brings a luxury liner to its destination.

King of Fools

The late Larry King had a long career in the media - as a radio host, television talk show operator, and he even had a "three-dot column" in USA Today (e.g. "For my money, no sandwich satisfies like a BLT...I'll watch any movie that has George Peppard in it...Question: why do men wear suits with T-shirts? Make up your minds, fellas...").

I spent a lot of time listening to Larry when he did an overnight show on Mutual Radio. He interviewed guests, took phone calls, offered personal highlights, and the occasional story from his own checkered past. One such story was what he called the Carvel Ice Cream Story. He would mention that he would be telling that story in an upcoming segment, and it was as if Lynyrd Skynyrd was on there saying they were fixin' to play "Free Bird." It was Larry's Greatest Hit.

The story was that Larry and his friends (one of whom was Sandy Koufax, the legendary pitcher) got into an argument when one of the claimed to know of a Carvel Ice Cream shop that served three scoops of ice cream for 15 cents. As the story unfolded like a worn-out road map, the yutes from Brooklyn went to New Haven, Connecticut, site of the allegedly affordable ice cream, and found the story to be true...and after their ice cream desires were sated, they found themselves at a rally for the reelection of the mayor, and wound up introducing the man at his rally...

King's mugshot from his 1971 arrest for passing bad checks (he was in debt to a bookie)

The late King, born Larry Zeiger, polished that Homeric tale to a fine sheen, adding just enough details so that no one would question its veracity at all. But leave it up to the Washington POST, whose writer, David Finkel, contacted Koufax for a 1991 story about Larry.

Koufax said he had never been to New Haven, was never a teenage running mate with Larry, was never his friend at any age, and never even met him until he had achieved prominence on the radio, which was long after Koufax had been a star ballplayer. 

But there came a time when Sandy had the chance to ask Larry why he told this fiction so often.

"I asked him about it," Koufax remembered.  "He just laughed."

I hear there is a psychological term for someone who tells the same story so often and so forcefully that the speaker actually believes it is true. We non-shrinks call it "fooling yourself," and it should be avoided.

Whole Lot Of Love

Probably more than one or two of my dear readers will remember listening to WKTK-FM in the early 70s where evening DJ Joe Buccheri would play "Stairway To Heaven" from LED ZEPPELIN IV on two turntables at once, one spinning just a half a second behind the other. 

The effect was psychedelic, man. Herbed-up listeners thrilled at the sonic phasing and then ordered 17 pizzas from Village Pizza to quell the munchies.

Down the road at the country station, I tried spinning two copies of  The Philadelphia Fillies by Del Reeves, but no one noticed the slightest bit of difference.

But you will remember sitting there on the floor in the rumpus room in your bellbottoms and tie-dyed tank top, listening to Zep and looking at the album cover and wondering, "Who's that guy?"

And then, someone you knew who knew a guy who knew the guy who used to carry Robert Plant's dry cleaning home said the word was that the fellow known as "stick man" was "Jerry Garcia, man." 

Well now, our top researchers, having cured the world of the common cold and poverty, have the time now to look into these important matters, and we know know who the man was, so read no further if you want to continue wondering.

The album itself doesn't give up anything, no name, no nothin', just a picture of a bent-over man hobbling along on a cane with a bindle of twigs on his back. This photo is seen hanging on a wall with tattered, peeling wallpaper, just like at Sluggo's house.

No less an authority on all things Led Zep than the BBC now weighs in with these facts. They say the band's lead singer, Robert Plant, was looking through the stuff for sale in an antique store in Berkshire, England. He bought it to use on the album jacket.

And now 50-some years later, University of the West of England historian Brian Edwards found an original of the picture while rummaging through auction house news releases on the internet.

Edwards is a Zeppelin fan, so he knew what he had there (“Led Zeppelin created the soundtrack that has accompanied me since my teenage years, so I really hope the discovery of this Victorian photograph pleases and entertains Robert, Jimmy and John Paul") and he got the Wiltshire Museum, which had presented an exhibition of his three years ago, to pony up $515 to buy the original, which was in a photo album entitled  “Reminiscences of a visit to Shaftesbury. Whitsuntide 1892. A present to Auntie from Ernest.”

And the museum verifies that the photographer was one Ernest Howard Farmer, a Victorian photographer.

What's more, the museum says the stick man was Lot Long, 69 at the time, a widowed roof thatcher living in a small cottage.

It is for sure that he didn't even have one record player, let alone two.

 

  

Gimme Dat Ding

I have consulted with many renowned legal authorities both here in the US and globally, as well as the mouthpiece I keep on retainer (Mal Praktiss,  Attorney at Law), and all agree that calling "dibs" on something is a recognized legal principle.

Most often heard on playgrounds and school cafeterias, "dibs" establishes the right of ownership and awards it to the first person laying claim. 

"Dibs" also precludes the very notion of sharing anything, as established by the precedent-setting "Halfsies" case (1948) in which a person claiming halfsies on a Three Musketeers bar was entitled to the east side of a nickel candy bar brandished by a playmate. "Dibs" is different legal turf. Someone who is clearly not going to eat their tapioca pudding may be enjoined by a classmate calling "dibs" on it.

Where does the term come from? Americans have been using it since the early 1900s. The word comes from an old game called dibstones, which seems to be a variation on the game of jacks, involving tossing up small objects and catching them before a ball landed.

Jacks is one of those toys and games that enjoy cyclical popularity. One minute, everyone in school was tossing jacks and yo-yos, and then they gave that up for pitching pennies and tossing baseball cards at a wall to see who could get theirs closest.

By the way, I got dibs on your tapioca pudding. I love that stuff!

 

 

 

Mindful eating

In what might have been the MOST NPR story ever, a woman named Lilian Cheung, who is the director of mindfulness research and practice at Harvard University, appeared on "All Things Considered" with NPR Life Kit host Marielle Segarra  to advocate for mindful eating.

"Mindful eating" is a way of sliding food down our necks which asks us to slow down and notice our food. I notice it, all right, and I usually regard it with rapt attention, because I am usually the person who cooks it.

Fletcherizing your dinner sounds like something that is illegal all across the Bible Belt, but it's a way to really pay attention to your chow 32 times. Fletcherizing is  “chewing food slowly and thoroughly, 32 times, so as to get all the nutrition from it and make it easier for your belly." That's the belly which is often asked to process half a pepperoni and salami pizza, remember, so as "to extract its maximum nutrition.” The process of getting chewy is named after Horace Fletcher, who lived from 1849 to 1919, and never came in contact with a Wendy's Pretzel Roll Baconator. 

One pretzel baconator to go, please

Ms Cheung also believes that we will eat fewer Fritos if we have to take just a handful out of the bag and put them in a nice serving bowl, and then, while slowly munching on that good corniness, thinking about how nature sent sun and rain to help the corn grow, and thinking about the corn being harvested and taken to the factory and then the bags coming off the production line and being boxed up and taken to the store, where it is shelved and ready for us to buy.

Then the discussion took a comedic turn as Ms Cheung recommended that 6 or 8 chips would be enough for anyone's snack.

 

In Honor of Dr King (from 2016)

  “With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.” - Dr Martin Luther King, Jr

Dr Martin Luther King, Jr. was a preacher in from Atlanta, serving as minister of a Baptist church in Montgomery, Ala. It's hard to believe, but this occurred in America sixty-some years ago: Black citizens were required to ride in the back of the municipal buses (they did pay the same fare as all others), and were not allowed to shop in certain stores, dine at some restaurants, or even use public toilets or water fountains. Or Vote. 

Inspired by the resistance of a hard-working seamstress named Rosa Parks, who refused to give up her bus seat to a white man and move to the back of the bus, Dr King led a boycott of those buses.  It took almost two years, but in the end, the buses in Montgomery were desegregated, open to all.  

Today, we pause from the day-to-day to honor a man who had the courage to lead the nation away from the awful practices of legal racial prejudice and discrimination.

 He went on to lead the fight to allow all citizens to vote.  Again, I am writing this for the benefit of the young, who might find it hard to believe there was a time and place in this country when a man or woman of legal voting age could be denied the right to vote because of the color of their skin.

Of course, even the young can see that a political platform that damns an entire race or religious group or seeks to keep them from coming to the Land Of The Free is based on "hair-brained" foolishness.

There was an interesting article in the Washington POST the other day about the Dr King Memorial in Washington.  National Park Service guide John W. McCaskill, stationed there, encounters all sorts of visitors to the monument.  Some are just learning about the fight for civil rights in the US, and some are people who were there on the front lines of the fight - literally.

One day, he met Rev. C.T. Vivian.  In 1965, Rev. Vivian was on the steps of the Birmingham municipal building, trying to register new voters. And a violent sheriff, one Jim Clark, stood in their way and said they could not register.  

Vivian stood firm for the right to vote. Clark hit Vivian so hard that he broke his hand. As blood poured from his nose and mouth, Rev Vivian had the courage to say this to the news cameras recording this horror:  

   "We are willing to be beaten for democracy."

And that courage flowed from the heart of the man whom we honor today. 

Please remember that, the next time that voting seems an inconvenience, or kindness to persons of a different faith or background seems to be too much trouble. 

Sunday Rerun: Job Core (FROM 2011)

 We were talking at the office the other day.  This is what they used to call "talking around the water cooler" but the only time anyone is seen at that oasis is when they are filling their 4-gallon water jugs or Mr Coffee carafe or Tervis Tumblers.  Anyway, the topic was, when choosing a professional to hire to take care of a certain task - be it plumbing, electrical, medical, what-have-you, do you

a) choose the most skillful person for the job, no matter how prickly or arrogant their personality

or

b) choose a lesser craftsperson in favor of having someone around that you can stand to be around

                                               Tervis, the tumbler

It's a tough call.  I know a car repair shop owner who had to let a guy go once.  The guy was an excellent mechanic, honest, skilled, good at dealing with customers, but he had the fatal habit of chasing women around the shop - in particular, the owner's wife's niece, who was working there.  Bad move.  He lost his job because he just couldn't stop reaching for the nookie jar.  

We've all had people working on things for us who were abysmally dreadful to be around, and yet, when they (finally!) drove away, or you were rolled back to the recovery area, it felt good to have things fixed correctly.

And then there are times when you really enjoy being around the person, but they have not a clue about what they're doing.  This is an absolutely true story: before fate led me to the wonderful Dr Neal Naff, King of All Neurosurgeons, the man who restored my back to its pre-injury glory, I spent some time with another surgeon, who earned points at least for honesty by saying, "I see what your problem is, but I have no idea how to fix it."  

We don't hear that very often.  And perhaps we should.

Take this simple test.  If you want a critical surgery done, or your house rewired or a drain cleaned or your engine tuned up, you wouldn't call Regis Philbin, now would you?  Sure, lots of fun, good to be around, wonderful chap.  But not the man for the job.

And by the same token (we hear about this token all the time, but never get to see one) if you want someone shot in the face, call Dick Cheney!  He's a proven professional in that field.  You wouldn't want to be around him, you'd never think to call him to go to Red Robin and grab a burger, but he's got the skills you seek.

The Saturday Picture Show, January 13, 2024

 

Here's one picture that says a thousand words about being cozy.

The only way I like turnips is in a stew or soup, and this bad boy would make enough soup to fill the Superdome.

Last week, we were promised a hint of snow and we got bupkis. So I'll post this as a hint to Mother Nature.

In my life, I have been told many times that popular popularity means something is good. I mean, McDonald's sells a lot of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, and John Grisham books fly off the shelf at Price Club, and many people watch Sean Manatee, so there! Sew buttons. 

It takes a Ford-driving oaf to pull off the world's record for selfish parking: six spots at once. Congratulations.

It's never a good idea for a political candidate to invite Mariano Rivera to have a game of catch, and then be unable to catch. 

Possibly the first selfie in history was taken by this Japanese couple in the 1920s.

I keep hinting....

"So the kid wants to study Geology! We encouraged him to start by collecting rocks..."

Just to keep things fair and balanced, here's what your world would look like if you lived where the pink flamingos live.