Things I don't understand, #13,294

You may recall the 2012 train accident in Ellicott City, MD that killed two young women.  Elizabeth Nass and Rose Mayr, both 19 and both just about to return to their respective colleges for the fall semester, were doing what countless other people have done in the little town for years...sitting on the CSX Railroad bridge that overlooks Main Street, passing the time, as people will do.  They were tweeting pictures of their view of the town.  "Drinking on top of the Ellicott City sign," read one tweet. "Looking down on old ec," read another.

And then the train came along at 25 miles per hour. It was was 3,000 feet long and weighed 9,000 tons. The train derailed and the load of coal it carried spilled over, asphyxiating the young women.

At first, the speculation ran towards the notion that the engineer saw Elizabeth and Rose, hit the brake, and tried to stop the train, causing the derailment, but that seems not to be the case.  We can't be sure what the train driver saw, but this week the National Transportation Safety Board released a long report about their investigation of the accident.  One item brought out is that a break in the rail, a break that was somehow missed when the track was inspected the day before the accident, likely was the cause.  This is a long and curvy track, and it's interesting to note that it is part of the very first commercial rail line in America, running from Baltimore to Ellicott City.

In spite of the fact that the two women were on railroad property at the time, "The families and our attorneys are determined to hold CSX fully accountable," said Eric Nass, father of Elizabeth. The Nass family is represented by by the law firm Baum Hedlund Aristei & Goldman, which specializes in rail disaster litigation nationwide.

(Tell me, sir, was there a day while you sat in law school, and you decided on which type of suit to pursue as a living?  Did "I'll sue railroads!" just come to you out of the blue?)

According to the story in the Baltimore SUN, "Ronald Goldman, lead trial counsel at Baum Hedlund, said given all the problems noted with the local tracks, the families want a "public apology" from CSX for their daughters' deaths.

"CSX owes this family a public apology for what occurred, rather than hiding behind arcane trespass statutes," Goldman said.
He said the families also would seek a financial settlement.

Arcane means "understood by few; mysterious or secret."
Trespass means "the crime of going on someone's land without permission."

Crash aftermath

Sorry as I am that these two young ladies lost their lives, I don't see how the families have a claim against the railroad upon whose property they were sitting, without permission, at the time of the tragedy.  If someone were to walk into my house without my permission and cut his finger off with the Ginsu knife he was using without permission, I would not feel like it were my fault.

But just to be safe, I am checking with the legal team at Baum Hedlund Aristei & Goldman.  Their website brags about recovering over 1.2 billion dollars through over 8,000 cases successfully handled since 1973.  They must be really good at this.

Moving along

The noted former basketball star, sports commentator and commercial pitchman Shaquille O'Neal recently took to Instagram to convey his thoughts on the LeBron James commotion.

For the benefit of our many reader in Latvia, Mr James is a professional basketball player from the state of Ohio who stepped right out of high school and went to work in his home state, playing for the Cleveland Cavaliers for a few years.  Then, sensing a chance to play with better players and make that big championship money, he left Ohio to move to Florida.  Capping off the media frenzy that had all of America agog, LeBron went on live TV and said "Um, in this fall -- man, this is very tough -- um, in this fall I'm going to take my talents to South Beach and, um, join the Miami Heat."  Spurned Ohioans revolted, burning his replica jerseys and posting "LeBum" signs all over town.  They seethed as he played in Miami and won several championships, yet they had no way to know that somehow, deep within, he yearned to return to Cleveland, home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Drew Carey.

So this year, after the Heat lost in the championship series, LeBron's restless feet took him back to Cleveland, where he will once again resume playing for the Cavs this fall.  And now, people in Miami are all worked up about it, sort of like when the guy your girlfriend left you for hollers because she came back to you.

It's so confusing, but O'Neal puts in perspective with this fashion show of the many jerseys he wore during his storied career.  He's making a good point.  We love the American Way, where a person can develop a product and sell it for whatever the market will bring, right?  And we love the rags-to-riches story of Bill Gates, after being picked on by every other kid in his school, coming up with this computer thing so they can play World Of Warfare all day long while he warms up his quiche with lighted hundred-dollar bills.

If you work at a grocery store and another store offers you more money and better hours, you are free to turn in your apron and scoot on out, and the customers don't find you disloyal, but let an athlete change jobs, and the air turns blue with people screaming that he lacks devotion.

As long as they don't do it in the middle of a game, it's got to be OK.

"Do you know who I am?" "No, who are you?"

The NFL season hasn't even started yet; the local eleven, the Baltimore Ravens, start their summer rehearsals in nine days are already leading the league.

In arrests, we're number one.  

This past Saturday, starting cornerback Jimmy Smith was arrested in The Greene Turtle in Towson.  This is one of those places that has a double life...Cobb salads and burgers for the courthouse lunch crowd weekday afternoons, and cocktails and beer for the people who should be home long before they close, but aren't.  According to county police, Smith was in the ladies room propping up a woman who was doing the technicolor yawn all over the place, and he refused to leave when EMS arrived to treat her properly.  He got all up in the officer's grille ("What the f*** are you gonna do?” F*** you, what the f*** are you gonna do?”) and what the officer did do was walk him past the grill and then past the grille of a Ford sedan before placing him a) under arrest and b) in the back seat of the Ford. 

I am not writing about the actions of Smith.  I have come to expect very little in the way of decent behavior from young men who, from childhood, have been told they can behave any way they please because they can catch a ball or tackle someone trying to do the same.  He'll be fined by the County and dealt with by the Ravens and the National Football League, whose attorneys are busier than that Dog The Bounty Hunter guy at a buffet. Smith will realize, many years from now, that as long as he was able to flatten ballcarriers on a football field and separate other men from a ball they are trying to catch, we will be paid well, and once he loses those abilities, he will be another palooka selling his memorabilia.

I'm thinking about the people who broke their necks to write on the news sites all weekend about how those dirty coppers had no right to stop Smith, when all he was doing was helping his friend. While HE was in the ladies room with said friend. Who was drunk. In public. And blowing groceries all over a restroom.  And who refused to follow the lawful orders of a police officer and cursed the police.  You have to believe that a large portion of his supporters are otherwise strong law-and-order supporters who would be outraged if the person cursing and challenging the cops was Jimmy Smith the guy who delivers the deodorant cakes to the urinals.  But no!  This guy is a RAVEN!  So look the other way!

My favorite part, from the police report: 

 While at Towson Precinct, Defendant Smith informed Ofc. Slenker “The only reason you arrested me is so you could get on the news.”  Ofc. Slenker informed the defendant that he did not know who he was and it would not have made a difference in the outcome of the incident.

The defendant then stated “You will see this tomorrow on ESPN.” 

Of course, this brings to mind the classic story of the man arrested and hauled into court, saying "Do you know who I am?" and the judge holding him for mental evaluation since he apparently had amnesia or something. 

In happier days.

John Harbaugh, coach of this motley crew, will sputter and stammer all over the place and vow to get them to behave. They are young men with tons of money and not enough to do until it's time to play ball.  Good luck with that. 

That Rendezvous

Alan Seeger, Harvard-educated, was killed in war.  He wrote the masterful poem "I Have a Rendezvous with Death" before joining the French Foreign Legion to fight in World War I.  I don't often share poetry here, but I would like you to read this one.

"I Have a Rendezvous with Death"

I have a rendezvous with Death  

At some disputed barricade,  

When Spring comes back with rustling shade  

And apple-blossoms fill the air—  

I have a rendezvous with Death       

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.  

  

It may be he shall take my hand  

And lead me into his dark land  

And close my eyes and quench my breath—  

It may be I shall pass him still.   

I have a rendezvous with Death  

On some scarred slope of battered hill,  

When Spring comes round again this year  

And the first meadow-flowers appear.  

  

God knows 'twere better to be deep   

Pillowed in silk and scented down,  

Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,  

Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,  

Where hushed awakenings are dear...  

But I've a rendezvous with Death   

At midnight in some flaming town,  

When Spring trips north again this year,  

And I to my pledged word am true,  

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Seeger mentions pretty Spring days with apple-blossoms, little signs of new life returning in the flush sunny afternoons of April and May, and he mentions midnight in some flaming town.  We don't get to choose between the two.

My mother's recent death came between the deaths of two other people, two friends who left entirely too early...In April, a friend was taken in a house fire, and just the other day, a young woman very dear to us succumbed to meningitis.  As opposed to Mom's passing, which came after years of battling several debilitating conditions and four-score plus years of a sweet and happy life, both of the others were taken by foes that came out of nowhere, like thieves in the night, carrying away lives, loves and futures.

We don't get to choose.  It just doesn't seem to matter how many times we get a reminder that when we bid a friend or loved one goodbye, it might be the very last chance we ever get to do so. We'll still fret about stuff that won't mean doodly in two weeks or two minutes, or get steamed because someone butted up in line at the carwash, or envy the neighbor's new vacation getaway in the Gilligan Islands.  A precious child is killed in a freakish wind-and-rain storm,  while at the same time, people are spending time arguing about some stupid political matter.

We don't get to choose. We'd all like to go in our sleep, or just after a great round of golf (Bing Crosby) or just dashing through a field of a field of forget-me-nots on a spring day "when the first meadow-flowers appear."

We don't get to choose. We have no options as to the time of year or the time of your life, so you might as well go have the time of your life right today. That's the message I keep getting from beyond.

Sunday Rerun: Book review corner: "The Entertainer"

When people talk about Lyle Talbot these days...well, they really don't talk about Lyle Talbot all that often.

You remember him if a) you've been around a while and b) you like B-movies and 50's sitcoms such as "The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet," in which Lyle played that annoying neighbor who always borrows your hedge clippers.

His career ended in many years ago; his life ended in 1996.

And yet, there is renewed interest in ol' Lyle these days because he and his fifth wife Paula gave the world four outstanding children.  Steven Talbot played Beaver's troublemaking buddy Gilbert on "Leave It To Beaver," and is today a well-known director of documentary films.  David, his other son, is an author and the founder of the great website Salon.com.  There were two daughters: Cindy, who is a family physician and medical school professor, and Margaret, who is a writer for the greatest magazine of all time, The New Yorker.


Margaret has written a book, just out, about her father - and as she weaves his tale, she also does a simply splendid job interweaving the history of American entertainment in the 20th Century. Lyle was born Lisle Hollywood Henderson (not to be confused with Thomas "Hollywood" Henderson of the Dallas Cowboys) in 1902.  His middle name came from his grandmother's maiden name, and the Henderson was lost when his mother died shortly after he was born.  His grandmother took the infant in and gave him her married surname, Talbot.

From an early age, young Lisle (he changed that later too!) was involved with magic shows and traveling tent shows that played the midwestern circuit around his native Nebraska, finally hooking on with a theater troupe as a teenager.  From there, it was a few magic steps to winding up in Hollywood at the beginning of the talking pictures era, being a founder of the Screen Actors Guild and settling down after four failed marriages and a significant alcohol habit.

His Wikipedia page will give you the details about the hundreds of shows - movies, TV, Broadway theater - in which Lyle Talbot was involved.  The book is fascinating, as it carries his story through the development of the movie, TV and theater industry.  Lyle was there for everything, and while he never became a big star, and is certainly not all that well-known as compared to guys like Bogart and Gable and Cagney, his story is every bit as interesting.

The title of the book, "The Entertainer," says a lot about the man.  Toward the end of his life, long after he retired, he went with his son to a revival showing of one of his 30's pictures, and as the lights came up at the end, the audience recognized him and the old showman in him enjoyed every second of the adulation.  How gratifying that must have been!

The Saturday Picture Show, July 12, 2014

You need to hydrate all year long, and it's never more important than it is in summertime.  Peggy was out front watering the hydrangea one time and the newspaper delivery guy asked if he could have a turn at the hose.  She turned it over to him and he guzzled like Ahab's camel Clyde.  Hose water is not the gourmet choice, but it's still wet and it gets cool enough if you let it run awhile. This person is very kind to share their water this way.

This is the final stage of a mural that someone painted on their child's bedroom wall.  They projected the original Calvin and Hobbes artwork onto the wall to make a pencil outline, and then filled in the colors with watered-down acrylic paints.  I just hope they never move, or they will want to remove the entire bedroom wall.

I have a friend from work who once donated a couple of feet of her stunning red hair to Locks Of Love, the outfit that makes wigs of donated human hair for cancer victims who have lost their own. My friend got the loveliest note from a young lady who was then able to walk around without being stared at, and she was kindly appreciative.  The woman pictured here gave up 17" of beautiful blondeness, and says she is getting criticized for her new hairdid.  I think it looks fine either way and I have to shake my head if her friends know why she got it cut and still run her down.

 You remember "Surfin' Bird" by The Trashmen, right?  Well, say hi to the surfin' llama, and please call him a "yama" instead of a "lama" unless you also agree to say "torTILLa" instead of "torTEEya."  "LL" is a letter all to itself in Spanish.

 How about this rusty old '61 Chevy in an auto waste yard?  Some sort of Buick - maybe an old Special - is in the left foreground and that looks like a Pontiac Bonneville from about 1966 or so. What makes this different is, this is a RUSSIAN auto wasteland!

I saw this tip someplace and pass it along out of my love for reusing things and for preventing thefts.  Take your old bottle of sunblock, wash it out thoroughly and use it as a beach safe, putting keys, money, cell etc in it while you frolic in the waves.  I also saw someone recommend hiding your essentials in a diaper and sealing it in a beach bag, on the grounds that only a maniac would open up what appears to be a used diaper.

A hero forever

The fire scene

Several weeks ago, there was a house fire in Baltimore City.  A little fellow named Decerio Coley died in the fire.  He could have escaped, but he stayed in the blazing house on Bruce Street to find his little sister Wynter and drop her safely into the arms of someone on the sidewalk.

He could have escaped then, too, but he knew his brother Sean was still in the house, so he went back in to save him. Neither boy was to emerge.

I've dealt with emergencies and fires since I was a teenager, and this story bears out one thing I've seen a thousand times:  it doesn't even matter how old one is.  If it's in you to respond correctly in a jam, you will do so.  Even at 8 years of age, Decerio knew.

“We mourn his passing, but we need to celebrate the actions of this little 8-year-old boy in his life,” said Councilman William “Pete” Welch. “We very seldom see adults do what he did. And, in a very short period of time, to develop that type of character and love is enormous,” he added.

To honor his commitment to family, the city named the young man's block Decerio Coley Way as a way of reminding all "what it means to be loving and brave," said community members at the recent street-naming dedication ceremony.

Right after an emergency or tough situation, you will often find people strutting around, talking about how much they did to help, what they would have done had they been in charge, or how everyone else did everything wrong.  It's a good idea to avoid these people.  It's July, after all, and if you need hot air, you can just step outside and get all you want.

The next time you see an emergency unfold, watch for the person who is not running around hollering, but quietly doing what needs to be done.  Their instincts to do the right thing kick in, and they get the job done.  Young Decerio had those instincts.  I doubt that he had studied what to do to rescue his baby sister.  He saw something that needed to be done, something that required the biggest sacrifice of all, and he did it.

If you would like to help the McCullough family, M&T Bank is administering a fund. Contact them at any branch, in honor of a little guy who did more than a lot of big guys ever would.

Them Modern Gimcracks

The most cursed-at object in our home, beside the autographed picture of Shirley Phelps, is the combination printer/scanner/copier/deep fryer/carpet steamer with the personal computer.  It suffers paper jams, it gets balky, it makes 0 copies when I want 10 of something and 10 when I want 1 of something.  Sometimes I even hear it laughing at me as I press its power button again and again and again.

And yet, when it works...what a miracle!  When Peggy brings me a legal document or a bill of which she needs a copy, it's a lot faster to use the old HP Deskjet F4440 than it is to run to the grocery store with a few quarters in my pockets.   If they even still HAVE those Xerox-Ur-Self machines at the Try 'N' Save.  Where would be without our pcs and printers?

And remember heating up leftovers in the oven, or waiting 45 minutes for a TV dinner to cook in the Norge oven?  Half the time, I gave up, put a stick in it, and made a beef dinner popsicle of it.  But microwaves came along and where would be without them?

We'd be in the dark, often, without flashlights, and now that they have the LED variety instead of the old 1/2-watt bulb, we can actually see stuff in the dark!

The Keurig machine, which took away the need to make enough coffee for a beatnik convention!  The cordless house phone, so we can sit on the porch and use our Electric Bug Zapper while enjoying a nice summer evening swelter!  Pre-Wash fabric sprays to take away the shame of a coffee stain from your new white polo shirt!

And Google maps, with the talking geo-person in your cell phone to figure out how to get from point A to point B. Quite literally, where would we be without GPS?

What they don't know

Except for suits and other bespoke apparel, I get all of my clothing from the good people over at Eddie Bauer (shirts) or LL Bean (jeans and pants), so I don't know from American Apparel. I certainly don't believe they'd have the sort of retired-guy-casual clothing that I favored long before becoming an actual retired guy, and it would be like repeating my Zumiez experience if I were to ankle into one of their stores.  I needed to purchase a gift card for a young friend of ours once, and entered a Zumiez store, only to be regarded like a cheeseburger in a punchbowl at a high-class party.  The kids working there, in speaking to me, managed to lower one eyebrow while raising the other, no mean feat.

But this weekend, AmAp made a BooBoo that you need to be aware of in case you need an excuse for not knowin' stuff. To salute the Fourth of July, they ran a picture on Tumblr of the 1986 Challenger space shuttle explosion, with a red sky as background, and hashtags “#smoke” and “#clouds.”

Of course, as anyone with 1/2 an education knows, this is the picture that shows the Challenger being blown to bits, taking seven brave souls with it.  It was in all the papers and everything, but this person with a position of importance in this company did not know that.  The company hastened to blame it all on his/her youth:

So, while we take a moment to shake our heads at just what these smarty-pants kids DON'T know and don't seem to care about not knowing, it now looks like you can be blissfully unaware of the following events, if they took place before you assumed your place among the quick:

The Magna Carta, Marco Polo's travels, the Renaissance, the bubonic plague, the Canterbury Tales, the Gutenberg Bible, Columbus's voyage to the New World, Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel, the Gregorian Calendar, the construction of the Taj Mahal, the Industrial Revolution, Mozart, Beethoven, the US Declaration of Independence, the US Constitution, the Revolutionary War, Darwin's "On the Origin of Species," the telephone, the electric light, the airplane, the theory of relativity, World War I, the birth control movement, the Bolshevik Revolution, the “Spanish flu” epidemic, television, the U.S. stock market crash, World War II, Atomic bombs, the electronic computer, the discovery of DNA's structure, and Brown Vs. Board of Education. 

Ain't it fun, not knowin' nuttin'?

"...Shock DJs...whose cruelty and profanity amuse us all!" - Bart Simpson

It was a random comment someone made on Facebook the other day, in reference to this Anthony Cumia person, of "Opie and Anthony," a pair of shock jocks on the satellite radio that people on long car rides listen to out of sheer boredom.

Last week, late one night, Cumia went to Times Square in New York City and pulled out his camera to start taking pictures of people.

Who does that, outside of a Walmart?

Anyway, a woman did not like him taking pictures of her, although the law does tend to favor his side of it.  They got into a tussle, a melee, a fracas, you might say.  He took her picture, she didn't like it, words were exchanged.  That used to be where it ended.

But this is 2014, so Cumia had to go on Twitter to tell his story and say some really nasty things about the woman, and because his rants were so hate-filled, he was fired by the satellite radio network that people listen to on long car rides.

And then it was really on!  Fans of his radio show piled on, erroneously claiming that his First Amendment rights were being infringed upon.  The Constitution does not forbid your employer from firing you for making insane statement, however.

Cumia's posh Long Island home

And then the other side weighed in, saying that Cumia should have just stayed in his posh Long Island home and not bothered people by waving his camera at them.

And then came the comment I saw:

"When did being obnoxious become acceptable?"

They pay him millions
and he still can't be nice

A good question.  It seems to me that we - and by 'we' I mean most every person in the world except for a few cloistered religious who only speak to call the others in for vespers and meals, and lighthouse keepers on the rocky coast of Maine - all have a tendency to say things we shouldn't.  I'm certainly well ahead of the pack on that one, and I do try to stop picking on fools as often as I do.  But to call other people vicious hurtful names because they don't like posing for your late-night pictures in public places?  To wish that politicians would die in fiery infernos?  To post pictures of others photoshopped to look like they were doing something awful? To leave your shopping cart rolling around in the parking lot so it hits another car? To use vulgar language in public for the shock value of it?  To humiliate a service worker whose first language is not English?

We can do better than that.

The Sock Connection

Not to get all theological with you, but it's my belief that our friends and kinfolk up in Heaven can look down here and see what's going on, and check in on us.  

For all I know, that's true.  One thing that is certain about heaven is that no one on earth knows what it's like up there, though.

But I go with my theory because many times here on this mortal coil, I have been helped by angels unseen.  "Don't connect that red wire with the green one!" they importune.  "Don't try to pass that truck on the right during a heavy thunderstorm in the dark!" they entreat.  "That's enough garlic!" they plead.  

Mr Keillor

My father has been a resident of Heaven since 1997 and he just recently had my mom move up there with him.  He's been busy these 17 years, advising me on many topics.  And every Saturday night, we commune for two hours with the radio show "A Prairie Home Companion," whose host is Garrison Keillor.  Keillor is a fascinating polymath, a man who knows a lot about most every important thing and can do most every worthwhile task, e.g. writing prose and poetry, radio and commercial announcing (listen here as he makes seven words for Honda sound like a book's worth), singing, and acting.  I don't know if he can dance...

Dad liked him from the start, which was 40 years ago this past weekend.  "APHC" began on the Fourth of July, 1974, at Macalester College in St. Paul, MN, before an audience that numbered in the dozen (after a few walkouts.)  The show is based on Mr Keillor's devotion to another Saturday night radio staple, the Grand Ole Opry out of Nashville, which also presents country singers, comedians and live commercials for Martha White Biscuits and Goo-Goo Clusters.  In the case of the Opry, the commercials are for real products; Mr Keillor's "sponsors" are made up entities such as Powdermilk Biscuits and Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery.

You can get to know him a little better by watching this recent interview/book plugging appearance with Craig Ferguson, and also catch this edition of his weekly "News From Lake Wobegon" on the radio show. 

My left foot

Notice that at all times, Mr Keillor is wearing red socks.  (As did Studs Terkel, as does former British Ambassador to the US Sir Christopher Meyer, as did Truman Capote. Yes, as do 25 ballplayers in Boston, but I pretend they don't matter.) And that's why I like to wear red socks, so that Dad and I can keep making that connection.   I figure he looks down and sees things are still all right.

Sunday Rerun: "All my work has been from God, for God, and for my people." - Thomas Dorsey

I find it interesting when a person learns to do one thing well, and fascinating when someone can do two things well.  For someone who can do three things well - for example, writing, singing, and performing monologues - we have the example of Garrison Keillor.  There aren't many others like Mr Keillor, the host of "A Prairie Home Companion" on the radio.  

I will bet you a nickel that Mr Keillor has sung the songs of Thomas A. Dorsey on his show.  His later songs, that is.  Thomas A. Dorsey was an interesting man.  

Thomas A. Dorsey

For one thing, he is not to be confused with the big band leader Tommy Dorsey, who gave Sinatra his big break a hundred and ten years ago.  This Thomas A. Dorsey (1899 - 1993) is today known as the father of black gospel music, which would seem to come naturally to someone whose father was a preacher and his mother, a piano teacher.  Starting in the Roaring Twenties, he was part of such bands as the "Wild Cats Jazz Band," and he performed under names such as Barrelhouse Tom and Texas Tommy or Georgia Tom, under which sobriquet he partnered with a fellow named Tampa Red to compose the pretty love ballad "Tight Like That."  He wrote hundreds of such songs.  Local residents who used to listen to The Greaseman on the radio will remember how Grease would use Dorsey's jazzy "Somebody's Been Usin' That Thing" for comedic effect.  

However, Mr Dorsey was also dabbling in gospel music at the same time, performing at the 1930 National Baptist Convention and working as musical director in several churches.  Music, and his religious upbringing, brought the gospel out in him.

And then, in 1932, his wife Nettie died in childbirth.  Compounding the tragedy, the child she bore died two days later.  Out of the anguish of the man who only years before had written ribald barrelhouse blues came the gospel classic "Take My Hand, Precious Lord."  This song was most famous in its version by Mahalia Jackson, and it was the song played at the rally led by Dr Martin Luther King the night before he was assassinated, and the favorite song of President Lyndon Johnson, who requested that it be played at his funeral.


Mr Dorsey also wrote "Peace In the Valley" and many many other songs performed in churches of all faiths the world over.  Rock 'n' roll music has as one of its foundations the gospel music tradition, and in Thomas A. Dorsey we saw the faithful world meeting the secular long before Elvis and Little Richard joined the two.

I keep waiting to hear Paul Harvey tell us that this was the rest of the story, but oh well...

The Saturday Picture Show, July 5, 2014

 Marsupials are way ahead of people when it comes to child-toting!  They don't need to go out and buy a papoose sack.  This does remind me of a very popular gag from third grade.  Why did the baby kangaroo get in trouble?  For eating crackers in bed.

 This cat knows he/she is related to the King of the Jungle, and therefore struts confidently down the lane.  It's good to have connections.

 This makes me happy in the summertime.  It makes me happy in winter, too, but I'm crazy about snow and cold.

 This is Neuschwanstein Castle, in Germany.  If the Neuschwansteins ever invite you over, plan on a fun evening if you can get them to play Hide And Go Seek with you.

 So they held a redhead convention.  Interesting fact:  red-haired boys in Baltimore are called "Reds," while, everywhere else in America, people call them "Red."

Meanwhile, millions of Englishmen and women gobbled their Bile Beans every night, since they promised to make them healthy, bright-eyed and slim.  This is an old sign in an English village.  They don't make this product anymore, but the village paid a sign painter to redo the sign just for old timer's sake. Bile Beans were touted as a cure-all for just about anything related to digestion or general health.  The small, black, gelatin coated beans could be used to treat biliousness, cirrhosis and other liver complaints, blackheads, all female complaints, indigestion, constipation, rheumatism, sciatica, lumbago, gout, general debility, dyspepsia, headache, insomnia, and piles.  During the influenza epidemic of 1899, Bile Beans were said to alleviate symptoms and speed recovery.

Happy birthday USA!

They Stick It To Me

Every three months, I get to get out of bed and drive over to the big building at Joppa Rd and Fairmount Avenue to leave behind several gallons (seems like it, anyway) of blood for testing purposes.  My doctor seems surprised that I can even get out of bed at all, given my advanced age, but the tests are to prove that I have plenty of gas left in the tank.  Not much blood, but plenty of gas.

The Quest test lab opens at 7:30 in the yawning, and don't think for a minute you can roll in early and have a seat in a waiting room, waiting for 7:30.  No, they do not open the doors until 7:30, although you are allowed to wait outside the waiting room. We who have fasted since midnight (did I mention that you can't eat before having the blood drawn?  Well, you can't!) stand around in the hall and rate our surgeons, general practitioners, physical therapists and prescription providers.  This lively banter is broken up at 7:30 as the receptionist for the blood-a-rama weaves her way through the crowd and opens the door.  Participants in the fun then re-create the order in which they lined up, and roll up their sleeves.  

There is no joke to
which I will not stoop.

I have to say that the waiting is the hardest part, not to be Petty about it.   Once registered, we are called back to the House of Blood and a needle is inserted, and the bloodletting begins.

But here's the thing!  Those people who draw the blood are so nice!  Can you imagine, having that job and having to sit hungry jumpy people down and drive a needle the size of a railroad spike into their inner elbow (armus bendus)? And then, as the claret flows, they are nice enough to chatter about the weather, the Orioles, the Ravens, the need to maintain a calm demeanor while being trampled in a mall on Black Friday...

They tell me they are Phlebotomists, but I don't care what their religion is, they are nice people doing a job that I would rate on the desirability scale between "highway toll collector" and "Jenny McCarthy's medical advisor." 

Even though, every now and then, they hand me an empty cup...

Everyone loves a quitter

The oldest joke in the world is not the one where the caveman walks into a prehistoric Walgreens and asks the lady at the counter to show him where the talcum powder is*. 

It's actually the one where someone says, "It's easy to quit smoking!  I've done it hundreds of times!"

Bart's aunt, Patty Bouvier

I used to be a slave to the cigarette habit; I started smoking in my nico-teens and continued doing so for many years, until September 17, 1988, when I snubbed out one last KOOL and declared it would be my last.  

It was, but what followed was a couple of months of tingling, jangling, irritability and irrational behavior.  And that was Peggy!  I was even worse!!  

Another cheap joke. Peggy was her usual sweet supportive self and I was stomping around like a king-sized Earl Weaver until Thanksgiving.  That year, we went to New York to see "The Phantom Of The Opera" on Thanksgiving Eve, and I got a nice nap during the show, which I found impenetrably dense and overdone. But I woke up to see a chandelier descending and heard people hollering about the music of the night slowly, gently unfurling its splendor, tremulous and tender.  

All I could do was turn my face away from the garish light of day.

That was two months and a week since I last lit up, and I've "stayed quit" since.  The answer is, just don't light any more cigarettes, and you'll be fine.

A young couple we love is in their first week of not spending a fortune on butts and I know they can do it!  Think of the savings! The money!  The clothing not ruined with burn holes! The walls, the drapes, and the whole house not turning that brown color! And the health!  

*and the lady says, "Certainly, sir. Walk this way!" and the guy says, "If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the talcum powder!"

Just in the nick of Prison Time

Mercantile establishments, such as credit unions where police are members and therefore tend to be in the building cashing checks and turning peanut butter jars filled with coins into folding money, tend not to have to worry about the criminal element hanging around because of that very police presence.

The first rule they teach you in Crime School is to commit your crimes in areas where you have 1/2 a chance to get away with it without getting pinched, nabbed, booked, bagged, busted, collared, popped, nailed, nicked or pinched by a copper in a prowl car who will take you back to headquarters and wise you up but quick.

(I really have to spend less time watching old movies on TCM.)

Not guilty (yet)

I bring all of this advice about where NOT to commit a crime by way of introducing you to Master Criminal (ALLEGED!!!) Nicholas Ishmael.  Up until last Tuesday, Nick was a Baltimore County Police Cadet, in which position he was working in the evidence room, where seized materials are stored awaiting trial and/or their eventual return to their rightful owner.  Nick was not the rightful owner of the items in the evidence room, but he made fools of the people who recommended him for the job by ripping off drugs and money, including cocaine and 3,000+  Oxycodone tablets from the evidence room where he worked in a position of trust.

Nick is 20, and there's a good chance that on the day he can legally buy himself a glass of beer in Maryland, he will be locked up in a place with no beer.

It's funny, to think about it.  He was so sure of himself and his criminal mastermind larceny skills that when he was arrested in the police parking lot, he was carrying $40,000 in cash in a backpack.

Don't get caught eating caramels in your dentist's waiting room. Don't send a message that says "I love you more and more everyday" if you're dating an English teacher, and for the love of Pete, don't try to steal stuff from a building filled with police officers and detectives.

They tend to know what you're up to!

Farewell, Mom

I hated the way my mother's life ended.

A proud and dignified woman for most of her 88 years, she was plagued with illness leading to the horror of dementia in her final years.  She went from being a wife and productive worker to retiree to widow to resident of a senior high-rise and then, at last, resident of the nursing care section in that marvelous building. The staff and a special splendid friend cared for her, we did our best to make her comfortable, and doctors and physical therapists did what they could, but let's face it.  When you're up against the aging process, the best you can hope for is to hold it to a tie or distract it long enough to add a little more fun to the day.  Forget about winning that fight.  You're not going to.  Mom even recognized this, and told me, the last time I saw her - two days before she lapsed - that she was going into her "final days."

I've often pointed out that I am a Milton Berle sort of guy from a John Milton sort of family, but I believe that my mother put up with my raffishness because deep inside, the stately among us want to be the guy who asks the x ray technician for "a dozen 8 x 10s if they turn out ok," just as those of us who regularly reel off off-color quips wish we could sit down and work out a real estate deal, repair a reel-style lawn mower, reel in a 105-lb marlin, or really dance the Virginia Reel well.  Really!

But I saw both of my parents (Dad passed in '97) cede just a little of their staid solemnity as the pages on their calendars started flipping more quickly.  And I, the lifelong cutup and bon vivant, have actually done mature-type things such as preparing a will (you're probably not in it) and formalizing my plan for my later years (you're definitely in it!)  So we grow and adjust.

Two more things about Mom, although there are thousands yet to be said:  I am a good sleeper, and generally, when I wake up for some reason, I go right back to sleep (which always annoys my passengers).  But, on the morning that Mom left, I awoke at 0337 and it was as if I had slept until noon.  I simply sat in bed and waited for the call I knew was coming, and when my sister called at 0355 to say that Mom had passed ten minutes before, I knew that's how she chose to say goodbye for the last time.

And this: I should not start mentioning the names of the many wonderful people who where there with us and for us, because I would surely leave someone out.  But I have to say that the Rev. Margery Schammel, Assistant Pastor at Towson United Methodist Church, delivered a homegoing service that filled hearts with gladness where sadness had been dwelling for almost a week. She took the time to learn about Mom so she could speak about Mom, and Mom's children, family, extended family and many friends are grateful for Rev. Schammel's deft handling of a sad service.

I remember reading Sam Levenson's book "Everything But Money," in which the humorist mentioned that years after his mother's death, if he found himself out late at night, he still expected her to touch him on the shoulder and say, "Go home!  Nothing good happens after midnight!"

But there hasn't been an after-midnight yet that didn't turn into a whole new day. I expect to hear from Mom for the rest of my days.

To ALL of you who were there with us, who sent emails, or messages, or called, or sent flowers, or sent that incredible pan of Sloppy Joes so that Sloppy Mark and Elegant Peggy could have a nice dinner, or sent hugs virtual or real, THANK YOU from my heart and Peggy's and all of ours. I love life and I love you.

Sunday Rerun: Where the title came from

IN the earliest days of writing this blog (2007), I decided to explain where I got the idea to call it "Castles Made of Sand." I should have included a link to listen to the theme song.  Here 'tis!
________________________________________________

I suppose I ought to explain where the title of the blog comes from. 'Castles Made of Sand' has nothing to do with beach activities, but, rather, the old maxim that the wise person builds his house upon a rock - the rock being love, friendship, family, faith and devotion...all those old-fashioned notions that were considered things to be desired, back before everyone became so avid about material possessions and earthly power. I think we sang a song in Sunday School about building one's house upon a rock. And then Jimi Hendrix wrote the song whose title I humbly borrowed for my blog; certainly this is one of his more introspective songs:

Down the street you can hear her scream "you're a disgrace"
As she slams the door in his drunken face,
And now he stands outside and all the neighbors start to gossip and drool.
He cries "Oh girl, you must be mad,What happened to the sweet love you and me had?"
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,And his tears fall and burn the garden green.

And so castles made of sand fall in the sea, eventually.

A little Indian brave who before he was ten, played war games in the woods with his Indian friends,
and he built a dream that when he grew up, he would be a fearless warrior Indian Chief.
Many moons passed and more the dream grew strong,
until tomorrow he would sing his first war song,
And fight his first battle, but something went wrong,
Surprise attack killed him in his sleep that night.

And so castles made of sand melts in the sea eventually.

There was a young girl, whose heart was a-frown,
Because she was crippled for life, and couldn't speak a sound
And she wished and prayed she would stop living, so she decided to die.
She drew her wheel chair to the edge of the shore, and to her legs she smiled "You won't hurt me no more."
But then a sight she'd never seen made her jump and say
"Look, a golden winged ship is passing my way"
And it really didn't have to stop...it just kept on going.

And so castles made of sand slips into the sea,
Eventually.


The web address "truly regal manners" comes from Thoreau's Walden: "I called on the king, but he made me wait in his hall, and conducted like a man incapacitated for hospitality. There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree. His manners were truly regal. I should have done better had I called on him."


My manners may never be truly regal, and I might not build all my dream houses on the firmest rock, but welcome to my blog. Please come back often!

The Saturday Picture Show, June 28, 2014

While we're still doing reruns...here is the very first Saturday Picture Show, from November 17, 2012.  I used to use just four pictures every Saturday, until faithful reader and gentle friend John Gross asked me to use six, and who am I to say no to that request?

I enjoy surfing the web, obviously, and many times while getting my feet wet doing so, I see pictures floating out in cyberspace.  So I dried these off and thought I'd share them...

 This one makes me laugh and also makes me wonder about that old expression about having "feet of clay."  I don't know what that means and I can't seem to get a sensible explanation.

 I know Peggy would like to live in this sort of isolation, but I need to know where I could park my SUV.  It would be nice to tell certain people, "Next time you're in the neighborhood, drop in!"

 Cat pictures are all the rage, but I share the question that others have raised...what if cats have their own Facebook, full of pictures of US???

I have no idea why I have never gotten a tattoo, but if I ever do, it will look a lot like this.

Be Back Soon

The entire Castles Made of Sand team is taking a few days off to prepare for Mom's funeral and take care of the business associated therewith.  I can't even say enough about how much everyone's love and comforting thoughts have buoyed me and all the family these past few days, but I thank you and I love you for it.

Monday rerun: Think about what you'd be!

If I were a month I'd be November
If I were a day I'd be Saturday
If I were a time of day I'd be evening
If I were a font I'd be Gill Sans MT
If I were a sea animal I'd be a starfish
If I were a direction I'd be Northeast
If I were a piece of furniture I'd be a bookshelf
If I were a liquid I'd be Iced tea
If I were a gemstone I'd be an onyx
If I were a tree I'd be an willow
If I were a tool I'd be sandpaper
If I were a flower I'd be a black-eyed susan
If I were an element of weather I'd be a rainy day
If I were a musical instrument I'd be a drum
If I were a color I'd be orange
If I were an emotion I'd be laughter
If I were a fruit I'd be a lemon
If I were a sound I'd be the sound of happy laugh
If I were an element I'd be mercury
If I were a car I'd be a Camry
If I were a food I'd be roast beef
If I were a place I'd be my bed
If I were a material I'd be cotton
If I were a taste I'd be bread
If I were a scent I'd be gingerbread
If I were a body part I'd be a backbone
If I were a song I'd be "Don't She Look Good"
If I were a bird I'd be an oriole 
If I were a gift I'd be heartfelt
If I were a city I'd be Cape May
If I were a door I'd be open for friends
If I were a pair of shoes I'd be Rockports
If I were a poem I'd be "America" by Allen Ginsberg

Sunday Rerun: Diner's Card

I really find the suffix "ie" irritating, as in "Oh you know her, she's a newsie at Channel 75" or "All the foodies were at the new restaurant, seeing what Chef Boyardee is doing with his new balsamic reduction of hazelnut salad..."

Newsie.  Foodie.  It's all too cutie, consarn it.

But I love to read the restaurant reviews in the newspaper. Here in Baltimore, the chances are good that if you write a food column in the newspaper, your review of that hot new bistro will be read by someone who is using your paper as a tabletopper while they smash steamed crabs, or as a fishwrap for the trout they caught down at Herb's shore place the other day.

They opened a new restaurant in a shopping center in the city that is so close to the county that I once saw a young county police chase a young city thief from the county into the city.  I think the kid figured once he was over the line that the chase was over.  At least, I'm sure that's what he hold the judge. Anyhow, there was a shoe store in the shopping center, and now they are trying to make a restaurant happen there.  The previous two iterations, "Taste" and "Crush," both opened to great fanfare and closed with none.  So now, restaurateurs have opened "Shoo-Fly" in that spot, and you can read the review here. Please note that the people involved with this restaurant wish to be known for running a "farm-to-table" restaurant.  As if there could be food, be it served in the finest joint in town or in the greasiest spoon in town, that did NOT come from a farm and is NOT served on a table of some sort. This is the sort of wordplay that led carmakers to use the words "road car" to describe their products, seemingly to separate them from "ocean cars" or "space cars."

Unless someone else is paying, don't look for me at Shoo-Fly, just as I was a stranger to the maîtres d' at Taste and Crush. Nutty idea here, but it just might work: If you want diner food, go to a diner. If you are tired of "disco fries, a bowl full of fries, with cheese curd and a fried egg on top," (left)  come with me to the Double T and I'll show you a menu that's as thick as the Oxford English Dictionary without mentioning cheese curds, or bourbon slushes, for crying out loud.

Notice that diners tend to stay open for decades and these farmie to tablie places close down within six months.  Hmmm.

The Saturday Picture Show, June 21, 2014

 This is the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. There really is a lot to see in this country, so cancel that planned vacation in Iraq and see what we have here!

 This is what you would get if you hired a plumber to install a water spout.

 This is Sunset Island in Lake Superior in Canada.  Pretty, but a bit tough to walk out there....

 The love for this movie continues unabated worldwide, although I never was a fan. I remember these guard outfits as being sort of unisex.  And the Lion outfit must have been a bear to wear all day.

 My buddy Dennis Schroeder worked at WDMV 540 AM in Pocomoke City MD, where some coworker went a bit wild with the Dymo Label Maker and labelled everything in the studio. Whenever I see something completely labelled, I think of the rock they used as a paperweight.  Its label said "rock."

For those unfamiliar with Baltimore cuisine, say hi to the Lake Trout sandwich.  It's a piece of fish deep-fried in cornmeal or crushed crackers on white bread or a Kaiser roll with hot sauce - but this fish never saw a lake, unless it went on vacation, and it is not a trout. It’s whiting or silver hake. It's delicious, too.