Sunset # 2 - this is when the lake your lake house fronts on is Lake Erie.
Saturday, May 23, 2020
The Saturday Picture Show, May 23, 2020
Friday, May 22, 2020
Take it from him
Let's take a little trip to Palm Beach, FLA, where a fella by the name of Brian Lee Hitchens is in the hospital, one of tens of thousands in this world recovering from the coronavirus. From his bed at the Palm Beach Gardens Medical Center, he's telling reporters that he used to be a big skeptic on the topic of the disease that laid him low.He can't figure out how people can't understand that the virus is a real danger to people's health, even though he used to be one of those non-believers.
“To these protestors I say, how did I go to the ER and test positive? How can I make that up?” he asks.
“I didn’t test myself. This isn’t a made-up thing.”
You might have met Hitchens if you've been to Palm Beach; he's a driver for Lyft and Uber. Right now, he's not driving anywhere except for wheeling down to the occupational therapy room in the hospital. He's coming along, getting better, but he'll still be down for a while.
Worse yet, his wife is in critical condition in the same hospital, on a ventilator, with the coronavirus.
He told the newspaper down there that he thought at first that the virus was no problem. He says this happened because he "heard so many different things that it was unclear what was real and what wasn’t.”
On April 2, he posted on his Facebook that "I’m honoring what our government says to do during this epidemic, but I do not fear this virus because I know that my God is bigger than this Virus will ever be.”
So he figured, why wear a mask and take certain precautions?
So it came to pass that a week into the shutdown, it dawned on him that he and his wife should wear masks when they went out.
But that was too late, it would seem.
He and his wife started with the symptoms at the same time ("I started to feel out of breath, like I ran a 10-mile marathon or something. My energy was zapped. I was so tired and lethargic") and his wife couldn't keep food down. Hitchens thought it was a cold or flu, but he knew worse was happening soon.
His April 18 Facebook: “Been home sick for over a week. Both my wife and I home sick. I’ve got no energy and all I want to do is sleep.”
He's still in the hospital waiting for a second negative test before they will send him home. He has only seen his wife once, when he was being wheeled from room to room and passed hers.
It's sad that it took such a dangerous few weeks to bring Hitchens to this revelation. But he has this to share with non-believers and "Re-Open" agitators:
"I want to encourage people to comply, because this is a plague and we have to be careful."
His words.
Thursday, May 21, 2020
Martin!
Let's walk down Memory Lane and remember the good old days when Martin Shkreli was smugly smirking his way onto the list of America's Top Jerks.
He's 37 now and dwells in a federal ironbar hotel in Allenwood, PA. He founded some hedge funds and now he has a job trimming hedges in prison! For real, he made a ton of moolah as co-founder of Elea Capital, MSMB Capital Management, and MSMB Healthcare. He was also co-founder and CEO of a biotechnology firm called Retrophin, and founder and former CEO of Turing Pharmaceuticals.
Lotta money, and he was in with those guys who make a billion dollars a day trading money for money. But the ship hit the sand for him in 2015, when he bought the license to manufacture a drug called Daraprim, which is used to treat pneumonia in HIV/AIDS cases. It's an important lifesaving drug.
Knowing this, Shkreli raised the price per pill from $13.50 to $750. That's called raising the price by a factor of 56. For this act of benevolence, Shkreli came to be known as "Pharma Bro" and "The most hated man in America."
For his part, he said, "Everybody's doing it. In capitalism, you try to get the highest price you can for a product."
Here's the secret to this sort of operation: if someone brings your villainy to light, quickly have pictures taken where you're delivering hams to the needy or paying to have old bicycles fixed up to give to children. Don't sit there and brag about bleeding others for every nickel you can squeeze out of them.
But by being a flagrant reprobate, he became the target of federal prosecution. He was charged and convicted on two counts of securities fraud and one count of conspiring to commit securities fraud. The Feds SAID it had nothing to do with the whole Daraprim thing, but you know...
SO off he goes to Club Fed for 7 years, and will pay $7.4 million in fines.
AND SO this past weekend, a judge looked over his request to leave prison. He applied for early dismissal, claiming that he wanted to research a treatment for the novel coronavirus.
Officials said this was the sort of “delusional self-aggrandizing behavior” that got him sent up in the first place.
Shkreli posted a request to get out, because the pharma industry's attempts to create Rona-No-More pills or vaccines are "inadequate.” He points out, with no support, that he is “one of the few executives experienced in ALL aspects of drug development.”
After all, Martin says the cure “so far eluded the best medical and scientific minds in the world working around the clock.”
U.S. District Judge Kiyo Matsumoto said, don't start packing, Sunny Jim. After all, she said, that Shkreli was “healthy,” with no “recent history of preexisting medical conditions that place him at higher risk” and there was no report of any cases at the virus at Allenwood.
But the judge noted that the “Defendant requests to be released into, among other places, an apartment in New York City, the epicenter of the covid-19 pandemic.”
Shkreli’s attorney, Ben Brafman, says he and Shkreli were “disappointed” by the decision but that it was “not unexpected."
I expect that Martin's going to do every minute of his term. I hope I'm right!
He's 37 now and dwells in a federal ironbar hotel in Allenwood, PA. He founded some hedge funds and now he has a job trimming hedges in prison! For real, he made a ton of moolah as co-founder of Elea Capital, MSMB Capital Management, and MSMB Healthcare. He was also co-founder and CEO of a biotechnology firm called Retrophin, and founder and former CEO of Turing Pharmaceuticals.
Lotta money, and he was in with those guys who make a billion dollars a day trading money for money. But the ship hit the sand for him in 2015, when he bought the license to manufacture a drug called Daraprim, which is used to treat pneumonia in HIV/AIDS cases. It's an important lifesaving drug.
Knowing this, Shkreli raised the price per pill from $13.50 to $750. That's called raising the price by a factor of 56. For this act of benevolence, Shkreli came to be known as "Pharma Bro" and "The most hated man in America."
For his part, he said, "Everybody's doing it. In capitalism, you try to get the highest price you can for a product."
Here's the secret to this sort of operation: if someone brings your villainy to light, quickly have pictures taken where you're delivering hams to the needy or paying to have old bicycles fixed up to give to children. Don't sit there and brag about bleeding others for every nickel you can squeeze out of them.
But by being a flagrant reprobate, he became the target of federal prosecution. He was charged and convicted on two counts of securities fraud and one count of conspiring to commit securities fraud. The Feds SAID it had nothing to do with the whole Daraprim thing, but you know...
SO off he goes to Club Fed for 7 years, and will pay $7.4 million in fines.
AND SO this past weekend, a judge looked over his request to leave prison. He applied for early dismissal, claiming that he wanted to research a treatment for the novel coronavirus.
Officials said this was the sort of “delusional self-aggrandizing behavior” that got him sent up in the first place.
 |
| Smirking at a Congressional hearing. |
Shkreli posted a request to get out, because the pharma industry's attempts to create Rona-No-More pills or vaccines are "inadequate.” He points out, with no support, that he is “one of the few executives experienced in ALL aspects of drug development.”
After all, Martin says the cure “so far eluded the best medical and scientific minds in the world working around the clock.”
U.S. District Judge Kiyo Matsumoto said, don't start packing, Sunny Jim. After all, she said, that Shkreli was “healthy,” with no “recent history of preexisting medical conditions that place him at higher risk” and there was no report of any cases at the virus at Allenwood.
But the judge noted that the “Defendant requests to be released into, among other places, an apartment in New York City, the epicenter of the covid-19 pandemic.”
Shkreli’s attorney, Ben Brafman, says he and Shkreli were “disappointed” by the decision but that it was “not unexpected."
I expect that Martin's going to do every minute of his term. I hope I'm right!
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
The best sort of gift
Out in Troy, Kansas, lives a man named Dennis Ruhnke. He's a farmer by trade, and he had grain bins on his farm. This is not something we think about when we gobble granola, but storing grain involves a lot of dust.
So farmers wear masks, and the smart thing to wear is one of those N95 respirators, so named because they filter at least 95% of airborne particles.
Dennis is in his 70s now, so is his wife, and she suffers from severe health problems that would make it very risky for her to come down with an infection such as COVID-19. He found five of the masks while digging through his stuff in the barn.
Dennis and his wife Sharon figured that each of them could make do with two masks, and that left one up for grabs at a time (March of this year) when those things were scarcer than hen's teeth (sticking with the farm angle).
The Ruhnkes saw the daily press briefings on TV and were familiar with the shortage of masks that New York's Governor Andrew M. Cuomo described, so they mailed him their extra mask, with a note asking that he pass it along to a healthcare worker.
“Please keep doing what you do so well,” Dennis wrote, “which is to lead.”
Gov. Cuomo was touched by this kindness, so much so that he almost cried as he read the letter during a televised news conference last month. He praised the farm family for their generosity.
And, as so often happens, something good came of it.
You see, Ruhnke had to drop out of Kansas State University in 1971, two credits shy of his diploma. He needed to leave school and run the farm after his father died suddenly, but not getting that degree always nagged at him.
And then, last week, Kansas Gov. Laura Kelly presented him with his diploma in a ceremony at the statehouse. And she made sure to point out that the degree she awarded him was not some honorary title, but quite official, in respect for his years of work in the business of running a farm.
“He provided a dose of inspirational strength to America just as soon as we felt ourselves beginning to buckle under the crushing, prolonged weight of this crisis,” she said. “He has proved to us that he has mastered all the most important lessons that a university has to offer.”
As the years went by, Ruhnke had asked KState about finishing his degree somehow, but was told that too much time had passed, and he would have to start the paper chase from the beginning. But university President Richard Myers said the practical experience was enough to earn the degree.
At the ceremony, he said he had heard from a lot of people who were inspired by his example. They wanted to know how they, too, could help.
“Just pay it forward as much as you can afford to do so to honor all of those who lost their lives to the C-19 virus,” he said. “And also to honor the first responders, who in some cases also lost their own lives in the line of duty — the ultimate sacrifice.”
For his part, Cuomo called the gift a “snapshot of humanity.”
“It’s that love, that courage, that generosity of spirit that makes this country so beautiful,” Cuomo said. “And it’s that generosity for me makes up for all the ugliness that you see. Take one mask, I’ll keep four.”
"Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be fair, 'Tis a gift to wake and breathe the morning air," in the words of an old Shaker song.
Embrace the gift!
So farmers wear masks, and the smart thing to wear is one of those N95 respirators, so named because they filter at least 95% of airborne particles.
Dennis is in his 70s now, so is his wife, and she suffers from severe health problems that would make it very risky for her to come down with an infection such as COVID-19. He found five of the masks while digging through his stuff in the barn.
Dennis and his wife Sharon figured that each of them could make do with two masks, and that left one up for grabs at a time (March of this year) when those things were scarcer than hen's teeth (sticking with the farm angle).
The Ruhnkes saw the daily press briefings on TV and were familiar with the shortage of masks that New York's Governor Andrew M. Cuomo described, so they mailed him their extra mask, with a note asking that he pass it along to a healthcare worker.
“Please keep doing what you do so well,” Dennis wrote, “which is to lead.”
Gov. Cuomo was touched by this kindness, so much so that he almost cried as he read the letter during a televised news conference last month. He praised the farm family for their generosity.
And, as so often happens, something good came of it.
You see, Ruhnke had to drop out of Kansas State University in 1971, two credits shy of his diploma. He needed to leave school and run the farm after his father died suddenly, but not getting that degree always nagged at him.
And then, last week, Kansas Gov. Laura Kelly presented him with his diploma in a ceremony at the statehouse. And she made sure to point out that the degree she awarded him was not some honorary title, but quite official, in respect for his years of work in the business of running a farm.
“He provided a dose of inspirational strength to America just as soon as we felt ourselves beginning to buckle under the crushing, prolonged weight of this crisis,” she said. “He has proved to us that he has mastered all the most important lessons that a university has to offer.”
As the years went by, Ruhnke had asked KState about finishing his degree somehow, but was told that too much time had passed, and he would have to start the paper chase from the beginning. But university President Richard Myers said the practical experience was enough to earn the degree.
At the ceremony, he said he had heard from a lot of people who were inspired by his example. They wanted to know how they, too, could help.
“Just pay it forward as much as you can afford to do so to honor all of those who lost their lives to the C-19 virus,” he said. “And also to honor the first responders, who in some cases also lost their own lives in the line of duty — the ultimate sacrifice.”
For his part, Cuomo called the gift a “snapshot of humanity.”
“It’s that love, that courage, that generosity of spirit that makes this country so beautiful,” Cuomo said. “And it’s that generosity for me makes up for all the ugliness that you see. Take one mask, I’ll keep four.”
"Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be fair, 'Tis a gift to wake and breathe the morning air," in the words of an old Shaker song.
Embrace the gift!
Tuesday, May 19, 2020
Bananaramarama
So you say you haven't been to the office since the shutdown?
Did you...leave something behind as you scurried out hurriedly...or did you leave work the Friday before all that happened, fully expecting to be back on regular hours?
Are you wishing you had taken that favorite jacket with you...or turned off your monitor...or not left a banana in your desk?
You might want to get in touch with Mhairi-Louise Brennan over in Glasgow, Scotland. She was home for nine weeks, and besides all the anxiety that the pandemic brought to us all, she also had to worry about what was going on with the banana she left in her desk drawer at work.
"Knowin there is a banana in my desk drawer in work, which has been there since a week before lockdown is makin me feel anxious," she Tweeted.
People replied, as they always will...
"Anxious, it must be driving you bananas," one user joked.
"If it’s any consolation, it’ll no longer be a banana in any sort of recognizable form," another wrote.
9 weeks into the shutdown, Brennan decided to hie herself o'er to the office and see how Chiquita was doing. That's enough time for any science fair project, don't you think? And she had all her Tweeters wantin' to know how the banana was faring.
"The unknown was killing me so I've drove to work to see wit the damage was. I present...a 9 week old banana," Brennan wrote. "Safe to say its deed [sic]."
It sure seems to be.
"I came here from the viral tweet hoping for a resolution. Thanks for following through," a fan wrote to her, as he or she ran down the hall in a hurry.
"It looks how I feel during this lockdown," someone said.
Another simply replied: "RIP that banana."
It reminds me of a time when I was working shift work, and one Saturday evening we decided to do Salad Bar Night. We all brought in various items in Tupperware and laid out a nice selection, and then promptly put the leftovers in the dispatch center refrigerator.
Three weeks later, we decided to do Salad Bar Night again, and when someone opened the tub o' raw cauliflower that had been a-moulderin' for 21 days, well...I'm not gonna say it was lethal (although I led a delegation to take the tub and its foul contents out to the dumpster in the Judges' Garage) but the United Nations came that Monday to investigate rumors of chemical warfare taking place in the Baltimore County Courthouse.
Did you...leave something behind as you scurried out hurriedly...or did you leave work the Friday before all that happened, fully expecting to be back on regular hours?
Are you wishing you had taken that favorite jacket with you...or turned off your monitor...or not left a banana in your desk?
You might want to get in touch with Mhairi-Louise Brennan over in Glasgow, Scotland. She was home for nine weeks, and besides all the anxiety that the pandemic brought to us all, she also had to worry about what was going on with the banana she left in her desk drawer at work.
"Knowin there is a banana in my desk drawer in work, which has been there since a week before lockdown is makin me feel anxious," she Tweeted.
"Anxious, it must be driving you bananas," one user joked.
"If it’s any consolation, it’ll no longer be a banana in any sort of recognizable form," another wrote.
9 weeks into the shutdown, Brennan decided to hie herself o'er to the office and see how Chiquita was doing. That's enough time for any science fair project, don't you think? And she had all her Tweeters wantin' to know how the banana was faring.
"The unknown was killing me so I've drove to work to see wit the damage was. I present...a 9 week old banana," Brennan wrote. "Safe to say its deed [sic]."
It sure seems to be.
"I came here from the viral tweet hoping for a resolution. Thanks for following through," a fan wrote to her, as he or she ran down the hall in a hurry.
"It looks how I feel during this lockdown," someone said.
Another simply replied: "RIP that banana."
It reminds me of a time when I was working shift work, and one Saturday evening we decided to do Salad Bar Night. We all brought in various items in Tupperware and laid out a nice selection, and then promptly put the leftovers in the dispatch center refrigerator.
Three weeks later, we decided to do Salad Bar Night again, and when someone opened the tub o' raw cauliflower that had been a-moulderin' for 21 days, well...I'm not gonna say it was lethal (although I led a delegation to take the tub and its foul contents out to the dumpster in the Judges' Garage) but the United Nations came that Monday to investigate rumors of chemical warfare taking place in the Baltimore County Courthouse.
Monday, May 18, 2020
I myth you
There are many differences between humans and animals. Humans are the only inhabitants of earth who willingly eat chickpeas, find an evening watching "The Phantom Of The Opera" an enchanting way to pass the time, and read bodice-ripping romance novels on the beach. Most squirrels know nothing of Nora Roberts or Nicholas Sparks, and look how happy they are!
Animals accept nature, since they are part of it. We fight back at every turn, since we want to be large and in charge of everything. Animals hear thunder or big winds, and they just figure it's time to curl up and nap for a while, and then go find some berries or something later.
Humans jump up from their chairs, run to the porch, cry, "What the deuce was that?" and get all worked up. And then they ask each other what it was, and call the guy down the street who always watches The Weather Channel.
We demand explanations, and more often than not, we want explanations of the inexplicable.
Let's say you were an ancient Greek. We'll call you "Stephanopoulos." One day, you were sitting around the house when an enormous peal of thunder rocked all of Athens. You went over to ask your neighbor Savalas what happened in the sky. Neither of you were versed in modern meteorology, but in order to satisfy the need you have to understand what was going on, you and Savalas concoct a story - the Greek word for story is "mythos" - that involves three brothers. In your story, Poseidon was in charge of the seas, Hades ran the underworld, and Zeus ruled the sky.
The way you and Savalas told it, old Zeus could throw lightning bolts around when he was mad, and that's how we get thunder and lightning.
These ancient myths were how people could sleep at night without being tormented by not knowing all the mysteries of life, how natural phenomena occur, and why Coke always tasted better in those little bottles.
When the Romans came along, they reinterpreted the Greek myths to suit their own ideas. They took the Greek God of love, a fellow named Eros, and called him "Cupid," based on the Latin word for desire. Cupid was pictured as having wings (because love is like a butterfly) and being boyish, because love makes no sense and neither do boys.
And don't forget the Mayans, down Mexico way. They came up with a god of wind and storm named Huracan, and he had charge of the natural elements. We still use his name every year from June 1 through November 1: it's Hurricane Season.
Ancient people thought of earthquakes as the result of some god or other being mad at earth, so he or she shook the world to get us to calm down up there!
Today, with our superior wisdom, we know that pandemic viruses are part of nature, and we will conquer them as we always have, and we are sure that the guy who co-founded Microsoft did not cook up the virus in his diabolic quest to make everyone run out and get a new iPhone.
At least, most of us are.
Animals accept nature, since they are part of it. We fight back at every turn, since we want to be large and in charge of everything. Animals hear thunder or big winds, and they just figure it's time to curl up and nap for a while, and then go find some berries or something later.
Humans jump up from their chairs, run to the porch, cry, "What the deuce was that?" and get all worked up. And then they ask each other what it was, and call the guy down the street who always watches The Weather Channel.
We demand explanations, and more often than not, we want explanations of the inexplicable.
Let's say you were an ancient Greek. We'll call you "Stephanopoulos." One day, you were sitting around the house when an enormous peal of thunder rocked all of Athens. You went over to ask your neighbor Savalas what happened in the sky. Neither of you were versed in modern meteorology, but in order to satisfy the need you have to understand what was going on, you and Savalas concoct a story - the Greek word for story is "mythos" - that involves three brothers. In your story, Poseidon was in charge of the seas, Hades ran the underworld, and Zeus ruled the sky.
The way you and Savalas told it, old Zeus could throw lightning bolts around when he was mad, and that's how we get thunder and lightning.
These ancient myths were how people could sleep at night without being tormented by not knowing all the mysteries of life, how natural phenomena occur, and why Coke always tasted better in those little bottles.
When the Romans came along, they reinterpreted the Greek myths to suit their own ideas. They took the Greek God of love, a fellow named Eros, and called him "Cupid," based on the Latin word for desire. Cupid was pictured as having wings (because love is like a butterfly) and being boyish, because love makes no sense and neither do boys.
And don't forget the Mayans, down Mexico way. They came up with a god of wind and storm named Huracan, and he had charge of the natural elements. We still use his name every year from June 1 through November 1: it's Hurricane Season.
Ancient people thought of earthquakes as the result of some god or other being mad at earth, so he or she shook the world to get us to calm down up there!
Today, with our superior wisdom, we know that pandemic viruses are part of nature, and we will conquer them as we always have, and we are sure that the guy who co-founded Microsoft did not cook up the virus in his diabolic quest to make everyone run out and get a new iPhone.
At least, most of us are.
Sunday, May 17, 2020
Sunday Rerun: Tell me about it
Collectors of 911 lore always enjoy hearing my story from just after 9/11/01, when the nation was in the grip of anxiety from people mailing anthrax to others.
And then some joker started sending emails to others, with the message that by opening the email, the addressee had been exposed to anthrax.
And some of those people called 911 to report their exposure.
So you understand the level of concern that unknown powdery substances can bring about in Americans, and justifiably so. Biochemical warfare is a scary thing, and who knows where the next attack might take place?
And that's why the person involved in this story needs to go sit in a corner (of a jail cell) and think about his foolish actions.
A man whose opera mentor recently passed away brought a vial of his cremains to the Metropolitan Opera in New York. And then, during the second intermission to the afternoon performance of Rossini's "Guillaume Tell" ("William Tell"), he sprinkled those ashes into the orchestra pit, forcing Met officials to cancel the rest of the show as well as an evening performance of a second opera.
The New York Police Department said they know who the man is, that he is from out of town, and John Miller, the NYPD deputy commissioner in charge of intelligence and counterterrorism, said the disposal of ashes at an opera house may violate city codes but, "I don't believe at this point that we see any criminal intent here."
One person attending the show requested medical attention, and the general manager of the opera, Peter Gelb, said, "We appreciate opera lovers coming to the Met. We hope that they will not bring their ashes with them."
The investigation meant that the Met had to cancel that evening's performance of another Rossina opera, "L'Italiana in Algeri," ("Algebra is Even Harder in Italian"), another Rossini opera, because of the investigation.
So the well-dressed audience filed in from the intermission, and so did well-equipped NYPD tactical officers. Shortly thereafter, an announcement was made that there was a delay caused by technical problems, and then, the announcement came that the audience could leave without having to sit there for the fourth act. And people in the seats who were all ready to shout "Bravo!" at the end started hollering that they wanted their money back.
Just like when a ballgame is rained out, disappointed ticketholders will be allowed to come back another time.
Maybe the Met will hand out William Tell bobbleheads to being the crowd back.
They had not performed that opera for more than 80 years until this season, which means that while the hit song became known to all as the theme from the "Lone Ranger" tv show.
All cultural references aside, what sort of unthinking goof thinks that spreading the cremated remains of a human being in a public place is a good idea?
And then some joker started sending emails to others, with the message that by opening the email, the addressee had been exposed to anthrax.
And some of those people called 911 to report their exposure.
So you understand the level of concern that unknown powdery substances can bring about in Americans, and justifiably so. Biochemical warfare is a scary thing, and who knows where the next attack might take place?
And that's why the person involved in this story needs to go sit in a corner (of a jail cell) and think about his foolish actions.
A man whose opera mentor recently passed away brought a vial of his cremains to the Metropolitan Opera in New York. And then, during the second intermission to the afternoon performance of Rossini's "Guillaume Tell" ("William Tell"), he sprinkled those ashes into the orchestra pit, forcing Met officials to cancel the rest of the show as well as an evening performance of a second opera.The New York Police Department said they know who the man is, that he is from out of town, and John Miller, the NYPD deputy commissioner in charge of intelligence and counterterrorism, said the disposal of ashes at an opera house may violate city codes but, "I don't believe at this point that we see any criminal intent here."
One person attending the show requested medical attention, and the general manager of the opera, Peter Gelb, said, "We appreciate opera lovers coming to the Met. We hope that they will not bring their ashes with them."
The investigation meant that the Met had to cancel that evening's performance of another Rossina opera, "L'Italiana in Algeri," ("Algebra is Even Harder in Italian"), another Rossini opera, because of the investigation.
So the well-dressed audience filed in from the intermission, and so did well-equipped NYPD tactical officers. Shortly thereafter, an announcement was made that there was a delay caused by technical problems, and then, the announcement came that the audience could leave without having to sit there for the fourth act. And people in the seats who were all ready to shout "Bravo!" at the end started hollering that they wanted their money back.
Just like when a ballgame is rained out, disappointed ticketholders will be allowed to come back another time.
Maybe the Met will hand out William Tell bobbleheads to being the crowd back. They had not performed that opera for more than 80 years until this season, which means that while the hit song became known to all as the theme from the "Lone Ranger" tv show.
All cultural references aside, what sort of unthinking goof thinks that spreading the cremated remains of a human being in a public place is a good idea?
Saturday, May 16, 2020
The Saturday Picture Show, May 16, 2020
For the day when weddings and parties happen again...a peacock-cupcake party.
Friday, May 15, 2020
Everybody Must Get In Rolling Stone
I have to tell you, there was a day and time when the news that a new Bob Dylan album was coming out was even more exciting to me than when someone calls to say they are bringing me a raspberry pie. As America's Greatest Living Poet has faded into mumbled obscurities, my interest has waned, but seeing that his new "Rough And Rowdy Ways" album is coming out on June 19 still gives me at least one goosebump.
I can't even say that the people on the album cover even look either rough or rowdy, but that's not up to me. It is interesting, though, that this picture is 56 years old.
The photographer is an English guy, Ian Berry, 86 now, from Salisbury, England. He told Rolling Stone magazine that he's more a visual guy than a musical one, but adds, "I have, though, spent quite a lot of time with people like Miriam Makeba, but most of the profiles I’ve done on musicians have been more classical, people like [David] Ashkenazi.”
He was happy to be asked if Dylan could use the photo on his new album: “I was delighted,” he says. “A record cover for Dylan is a great compliment.” Oh! By the way, Dylan has not put his own mug on one his albums of new music since 2001’s "Love and Theft."
Rolling Stone says the image, taken in 1964 at a club on Cable Street in Whitechapel, London, "crackles with intrigue and romance." Well, now. The one guy is checking the selections on a jukebox, and that was always a lot of fun when you had a fistful of dimes, and the couple seem to care about each other. That's romantic. They're doing the kind of dancing where holding hands is part of the fun!
Berry says he had not asked for permission to shoot photographs in the club, and after 20 minutes or so, the pub's habitues were indicating that they wished for him to leave. They did this by throwing empty beer bottles at him, which is the universal signal that it's time to haul ass.
He's not one of those sensitive artists, clearly. This was originally a black-and-white photo and he had no problem when Dylan's people asked for permission to tint it. "I didn't mind at all," he said. Being 86 will do that to a person, make them a little more practical and less artistically stringent.
Berry even admits that he's not a huge Dylan fan. "I like the sort of singers where I can actually hear the words, people like Joan Armatrading or Joan Baez.”
He shouldn't think twice. It's all right.
I can't even say that the people on the album cover even look either rough or rowdy, but that's not up to me. It is interesting, though, that this picture is 56 years old.
The photographer is an English guy, Ian Berry, 86 now, from Salisbury, England. He told Rolling Stone magazine that he's more a visual guy than a musical one, but adds, "I have, though, spent quite a lot of time with people like Miriam Makeba, but most of the profiles I’ve done on musicians have been more classical, people like [David] Ashkenazi.”
He was happy to be asked if Dylan could use the photo on his new album: “I was delighted,” he says. “A record cover for Dylan is a great compliment.” Oh! By the way, Dylan has not put his own mug on one his albums of new music since 2001’s "Love and Theft."
Rolling Stone says the image, taken in 1964 at a club on Cable Street in Whitechapel, London, "crackles with intrigue and romance." Well, now. The one guy is checking the selections on a jukebox, and that was always a lot of fun when you had a fistful of dimes, and the couple seem to care about each other. That's romantic. They're doing the kind of dancing where holding hands is part of the fun!
Berry says he had not asked for permission to shoot photographs in the club, and after 20 minutes or so, the pub's habitues were indicating that they wished for him to leave. They did this by throwing empty beer bottles at him, which is the universal signal that it's time to haul ass.
He's not one of those sensitive artists, clearly. This was originally a black-and-white photo and he had no problem when Dylan's people asked for permission to tint it. "I didn't mind at all," he said. Being 86 will do that to a person, make them a little more practical and less artistically stringent.
Berry even admits that he's not a huge Dylan fan. "I like the sort of singers where I can actually hear the words, people like Joan Armatrading or Joan Baez.”
He shouldn't think twice. It's all right.
Thursday, May 14, 2020
Show me
We got to talking the other day, as we so often do during these times when looking backwards is a lot less scary than looking forward, about the times in elementary school when Show And Tell was the order of the day.
Some kids were not so willing to get up in front of the class and show and tell about their model cars or Howdy Doody marionette or war surplus scabbard that their father brought home from the war. Big surprise, I was not one of
those kids. Week after week, I showed up with discarded police memorabilia, bashed firefighter helmets, flip books, out-of-town milk bottles, polliwogs, an Indian blanket my mother bought from a real Navajo, a deck of marked cards, and what my grandfather promised me were real wooden shoes from Holland.
My grandfather was such an avid collector of junk that he was unable to park his car in his garage, which bulged at the seams with car parts, tools, wood, extra sinks and toilets, and literally anything one could imagine. One day my father needed an angled pipe of a certain diameter, threaded at one end, and my granddad had just what he needed. So I come by my ways honestly.
I don't even know if kids do Show And Tell anymore in school. If they ever have school again. I think it would be a good idea, even though with current equipment being what it is, the kid could just bring in a video of his home atom splitter, which is not as cool as bringing the atom splitter in for the rest of the class to use.
BUT - are Facebook and Instagram and Snapchat and Whoozit and Whatsit and all those social media platforms just the modern form of Show And Tell? "We got a new car!" "Hildegarde chose her prom dress!" "Tonight's dinner: French Dip Halibut with Axolotl Pudding!" "Our dream vacation to the Gilligan Islands!" And on and on.
Same concepts, bigger audience. Although, I am proud as punch to be on Facebook with lots of people from Show And Tell days!
Some kids were not so willing to get up in front of the class and show and tell about their model cars or Howdy Doody marionette or war surplus scabbard that their father brought home from the war. Big surprise, I was not one of
My grandfather was such an avid collector of junk that he was unable to park his car in his garage, which bulged at the seams with car parts, tools, wood, extra sinks and toilets, and literally anything one could imagine. One day my father needed an angled pipe of a certain diameter, threaded at one end, and my granddad had just what he needed. So I come by my ways honestly.
I don't even know if kids do Show And Tell anymore in school. If they ever have school again. I think it would be a good idea, even though with current equipment being what it is, the kid could just bring in a video of his home atom splitter, which is not as cool as bringing the atom splitter in for the rest of the class to use.
BUT - are Facebook and Instagram and Snapchat and Whoozit and Whatsit and all those social media platforms just the modern form of Show And Tell? "We got a new car!" "Hildegarde chose her prom dress!" "Tonight's dinner: French Dip Halibut with Axolotl Pudding!" "Our dream vacation to the Gilligan Islands!" And on and on.
Same concepts, bigger audience. Although, I am proud as punch to be on Facebook with lots of people from Show And Tell days!
Wednesday, May 13, 2020
Every word of this is true; it just doesn't seem like it.
If you thought the craziness with pop star names reached its apogee when Amethyst Amelia Kelly from Australia changed her name to Iggy Azalea, sorry.
There is this Elon Musk guy, not a pop star in the strict sense but a member of the pop glitterati (his net worth is estimated at 39.4 billion semolians) and the founder of Space X and the Tesla Motor Co, which I guess is an electric car that drives itself while you sit there eating Goetze's Caramel Creams and listening to Grimes.
Grimes is a singer of sorts, composer of electronic tone music from Canada. Her real name is Claire Elise Boucher, but she changed it to Grimes because she calls her music "grime" music, which indicates to me that it sure doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard.
She hooked up with Musk a couple of years ago, and lo and behold, these two marvelous people have procreated, and on May 4 she gave birth (he's probably working on a way to bear their second spawn himself) to a live human male baby.
Quiz time: Did they name this child:
A) Gerald
B) Rudy
C) X Æ A-12
You know doggone well they named him X Æ A-12, but really, they might as well have named him C. Tell you why in a minute, but for now, let's focus on the fact that they can't settle on how to pronounce little Junior's name.
Grimes says that Æ is how elves spell AI, which is what the brainiacs call articial intelligence.
Someone with a lot of time on their hands asked her on Instagram how you pronounce the kid's name, and she wrote back, "It's just X, like the letter X. Then A.I. Like how you said the letter A then I."
That seems clear enough, but then proud papa Elon told a podcast that Grimes is the one who named the child, but doesn't pronounce it correctly:
"I mean it's just X, the letter X. And then, the Æ is, like, pronounced 'Ash'... and then, A-12, A-12 is my contribution."
These two interesting people currently inhabit the state of California, where somewhere along the line it became necessary to set a rule that says a child can be named only with words that use the 26 letters in the English language.
That means you could move to Los Angeles and name your child "Los Angeles."
And if you're curious, here's her breakdown of what the name means:
She says "X" stood for "the unknown variable," and Æ -- AI -- means artificial intelligence and that means "love" in several languages.
Grimes, or "Grimey" as she likes to be called, adds that part of the boy's name refers to the couple's favorite aircraft. Get this:
"A-12 = precursor to SR-17 (our favorite aircraft). No weapons, no defenses, just speed. Great in battle, but non-violent," she added.
And then Musk came along and she said was, in fact, talking about the "SR-71."
As Little Richard would have said, "Aw Rootie!"
Remember when I said they may as well have called the baby "C"? Grimes, the woman born Claire Elise Boucher, now says she wants to be known as "c" because that's the symbol for the speed of light.
Yeah, she's that quick.
There is this Elon Musk guy, not a pop star in the strict sense but a member of the pop glitterati (his net worth is estimated at 39.4 billion semolians) and the founder of Space X and the Tesla Motor Co, which I guess is an electric car that drives itself while you sit there eating Goetze's Caramel Creams and listening to Grimes.Grimes is a singer of sorts, composer of electronic tone music from Canada. Her real name is Claire Elise Boucher, but she changed it to Grimes because she calls her music "grime" music, which indicates to me that it sure doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard.
Quiz time: Did they name this child:
A) Gerald
B) Rudy
C) X Æ A-12
You know doggone well they named him X Æ A-12, but really, they might as well have named him C. Tell you why in a minute, but for now, let's focus on the fact that they can't settle on how to pronounce little Junior's name.
Grimes says that Æ is how elves spell AI, which is what the brainiacs call articial intelligence.
Someone with a lot of time on their hands asked her on Instagram how you pronounce the kid's name, and she wrote back, "It's just X, like the letter X. Then A.I. Like how you said the letter A then I."
That seems clear enough, but then proud papa Elon told a podcast that Grimes is the one who named the child, but doesn't pronounce it correctly:
"I mean it's just X, the letter X. And then, the Æ is, like, pronounced 'Ash'... and then, A-12, A-12 is my contribution."
These two interesting people currently inhabit the state of California, where somewhere along the line it became necessary to set a rule that says a child can be named only with words that use the 26 letters in the English language.
That means you could move to Los Angeles and name your child "Los Angeles."
And if you're curious, here's her breakdown of what the name means:
She says "X" stood for "the unknown variable," and Æ -- AI -- means artificial intelligence and that means "love" in several languages.
Grimes, or "Grimey" as she likes to be called, adds that part of the boy's name refers to the couple's favorite aircraft. Get this:
"A-12 = precursor to SR-17 (our favorite aircraft). No weapons, no defenses, just speed. Great in battle, but non-violent," she added.
And then Musk came along and she said was, in fact, talking about the "SR-71."
As Little Richard would have said, "Aw Rootie!"
Remember when I said they may as well have called the baby "C"? Grimes, the woman born Claire Elise Boucher, now says she wants to be known as "c" because that's the symbol for the speed of light.
Yeah, she's that quick.
Tuesday, May 12, 2020
Honoring a man of honor
Here's some good news. A Go Fund Me campaign for something worthwhile has reached its goal of raising $30,000. It's sad, but it was set up to cover the funeral expenses of Greg Zanis, the man from Aurora, Illinois, who was often seen on the news setting up crosses, Stars of David, and crescent moons where mass shootings and other horrors had taken place.
He was 69. Late last year, he came down with bladder cancer, and the Friday before last, his daughter arranged one of those uniquely CovidAmerican events, with people driving by to wave to her dad as he stood greeting them all from the porch.
Zanis started his Crosses For Losses in 1996, after the murder of his father-in-law. By the time he retired his campaign in December, the total was 26,680. About 21,000 of them were for mass shooting victims. He told CNN that each cross took an hour to make, paint, and letter.
He was probably best known for bringing 58 crosses and Stars of David to Las Vegas after 58 people were gunned down at the Route 91 Harvest Festival country music show. The city of Las Vegas honored him with a key to the city and a Greg Zanis Day commemoration.
He also showed up with mementos at natural disasters, bus wrecks and boating accidents - and Martha's Vineyard, where John F. Kennedy, Jr. and family died in a plane crash.
Aurora Mayor Richard C. Irvin said:
“Mr. Greg Zanis was a giant among men. He was a man of action who simply wanted to honor the lives of others. In return, his life was one of honor and one that was celebrated throughout our nation and world. Heeding to the scripture ‘pick up your cross and follow me,’ Mr. Greg Zanis did just that. He picked up the crosses he made and followed his mission in the noblest of ways. His legacy shall forever be remembered in his hometown of Aurora and around the globe.”
Here's a way we can continue to honor the work and spirit of Greg Zanis. How's about we stop shooting each other 58 at a time?
Monday, May 11, 2020
The hands-off policy
You've probably seen that commercial for Liberty Mutual Insurance that shows an emu running around as the mascot. Actually, there are three stars in the ad: Limu The Emu, a dude named Doug, and a painted-up 1970-72 Plymouth Duster.These are the commercials they show to try to lure me away from the Geico gecko, and that won't happen. But like the gecko spot, the one with the emu uses anthropomorphism - the ascribing of human qualities to animals - to try to sell car insurance.
Now, I know this has been going on forever. Even when I was a young cub (!) the Kellogg's people used Tony The Tiger to sell Frosted Flakes, and we all knew better than to try to reach into a tiger's cage. But now, I can't say that wisdom is pervasive.
ITEM:
A woman who was killed in an alligator attack last week in South Carolina was visiting a client for an in-home nail appointment when she was drawn to a nearby pond and yanked into the water by the animal, according to NBC News.
The story goes on to say that the woman named Cynthia Covert, and she was 58. An alligator grabbed her leg and pulled her underwater several times, and she drowned.
Covert was a nail tech, and of course nail salons are closed under state orders due to the coronavirus, so she was doing home visits in her field, and went to the Kiawah Island home of a client to give a manicure to a client who told the police later that " (Covert) was acting strange and speaking more than she does at the nail salon where she works. She saw the alligator in the pond and was fascinated.
After completing the manicure, Covert stood on the porch of the client's home and took pictures of the creature. OK, but then she went down to the water's edge...
“(The client) stated that she was cleaning up the porch when she noticed Covert down by the water,” Detective Keith Herriott of the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office wrote in a report.
And Herriott also wrote that when the client yelled to Covert that the alligator had grabbed a deer the other day, Covert replied, "I don’t look like a deer," then moved to touch the alligator.
That, as they say in novels, was her last mistake. She fell into the water, and came up long enough to catch a rope that neighbors flung into the water to save her, only to have the alligator grab her and drag her down.
Police and firefighters were called, and they arrived to find the water calm and nothing apparent, when suddenly the alligator broke the surface, his maw still clamped onto the woman's leg. In a desperate attempt to save the woman, an officer shot the alligator. It let go, but the woman was dead.
This is the third fatal alligator attack in The Palmetto State in the past four years.
On Saturday, with an exquisite but sad irony, an emu escaped from a sanctuary on the west side of our county, and although caught by wranglers after it roamed in traffic on LIBERTY Rd, it was not a MUTUAL pleasure to find later that the emu died of exhaustion and stress - probably because it was chased around the street by locals unaccustomed to seeing the world's second-tallest bird species walking by the seafood carryouts and 7-11s that dot their landscape.
Even worse in South Carolina (where the state motto is Dum spiro spero - Latin for 'While I breathe, I hope'): a human being and an animal are dead because humans cannot seem to leave animals the hell alone. While I breathe, I hope we can learn to do better.
Sunday, May 10, 2020
Sunday Rerun: What to do
One thing I like about REALLY old people is that they become REALLY honest!
Take Tony Bennett, if you will. The longtime saloon singer, born Anthony Dominick Benedetto 90 years ago, was a guest on NPR's "Fresh Air" not long ago, and the host, Terry Gross, asked him what could be the reason for the longevity of his career.
"Talent" was his one-word answer.
Yes, it takes talent to stay popular in show business for over 65 years; Bennett's first hits came in 1950 - 51. That's a while. And you know what? There are plenty of singers just as good as Tony Bennett. I'll daresay there are many, but he knows something that has kept him around a long long time.
He went on, in the radio interview, to tell Ms Gross that Jack Benny and Bob Hope (who advised him to change his name) gave him lots of advice in the early stages of his career. In fact, he said the best advice was telling him that it would take him a few years of knowing what to do before he learned the more important lessons - knowing what NOT to do.
I've told a million people, seven of whom actually wanted to hear it, that a great lesson I learned as a supervisor was that if you did a favor for one person, the others would not say, "Wowie! What a great guy he is!" Nope. What they said was, where is my slice of that pie, please. And who can blame them?
One of the first things I learned in my lifetime of driving everything from cars to trucks to fire engines is that you can see an car approaching with its turn signal flashing and the driver's arm out of the car giving a back up signal. I don't care if the driver hollers out the window "I'm turning here! Go ahead and pull out!" I'm not going anywhere until he/she clears the intersection...not that I mistrust my fellow drivers. I just don't trust them, you see. I remember the sage words of my father, who taught me to assume that every other car on the road was being driven by a drunken sociopath, out to kill me.
Half the time, he has been proven right.
Knowing what NOT to do pays off. Frying an egg? Adding three more minutes of pan time is something to avoid. Speaking before a crowd? Don't keep speaking any longer, once you've seen two people stick out their wrists to check the time. Washing your brand new white polo shirt and your brand new blue jeans? Unless you want a periwinkle colored shirt, better make that two trips around the Maytag.
Take it from Steve Harvey <<< or Tony Bennett and me: two old men who will tell you, it doesn't matter if you're repairing a Singer sewing machine or trying to be a professional singer, knowing what NOT to do is something to do.
Take Tony Bennett, if you will. The longtime saloon singer, born Anthony Dominick Benedetto 90 years ago, was a guest on NPR's "Fresh Air" not long ago, and the host, Terry Gross, asked him what could be the reason for the longevity of his career.
"Talent" was his one-word answer.
Yes, it takes talent to stay popular in show business for over 65 years; Bennett's first hits came in 1950 - 51. That's a while. And you know what? There are plenty of singers just as good as Tony Bennett. I'll daresay there are many, but he knows something that has kept him around a long long time.
He went on, in the radio interview, to tell Ms Gross that Jack Benny and Bob Hope (who advised him to change his name) gave him lots of advice in the early stages of his career. In fact, he said the best advice was telling him that it would take him a few years of knowing what to do before he learned the more important lessons - knowing what NOT to do.
I've told a million people, seven of whom actually wanted to hear it, that a great lesson I learned as a supervisor was that if you did a favor for one person, the others would not say, "Wowie! What a great guy he is!" Nope. What they said was, where is my slice of that pie, please. And who can blame them?
One of the first things I learned in my lifetime of driving everything from cars to trucks to fire engines is that you can see an car approaching with its turn signal flashing and the driver's arm out of the car giving a back up signal. I don't care if the driver hollers out the window "I'm turning here! Go ahead and pull out!" I'm not going anywhere until he/she clears the intersection...not that I mistrust my fellow drivers. I just don't trust them, you see. I remember the sage words of my father, who taught me to assume that every other car on the road was being driven by a drunken sociopath, out to kill me.
Half the time, he has been proven right.
Knowing what NOT to do pays off. Frying an egg? Adding three more minutes of pan time is something to avoid. Speaking before a crowd? Don't keep speaking any longer, once you've seen two people stick out their wrists to check the time. Washing your brand new white polo shirt and your brand new blue jeans? Unless you want a periwinkle colored shirt, better make that two trips around the Maytag.
Take it from Steve Harvey <<< or Tony Bennett and me: two old men who will tell you, it doesn't matter if you're repairing a Singer sewing machine or trying to be a professional singer, knowing what NOT to do is something to do.
Saturday, May 9, 2020
The Saturday Picture Show, May 9, 2020
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The land where our house is located is probably the least arable soil I've ever seen. I think that there used to be a gravel pit in the area, which is why the dirt is a rich parfait of stones, ginger ale bottles, and old car parts. So I envy anyone who gets things to grow anywhere, like a sunken rusted old hull. |
Friday, May 8, 2020
With a cane that he twirled on his diamond ring finger
I have so many tunes in my iTunes that I can go a long time on random without hearing some certain numbers, but when you hear the opening note of "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll," you can't stop, it's such a compelling song.
The writer and singer is Bob Dylan, of course. A lot of people don't find his voice all that appealing, but for my money, he wrote songs that only he could sing. And the story of this song is interesting, and local to Baltimore.
On February 9, 1963, a rich snotty young man named William Devereux "Billy" Zantzinger, 24, went to the "Spinsters' Ball" at the Emerson Hotel in Baltimore. This is the sort of ridiculous debauched activity that used to pass for society life here. Zantzinger was from Charles County, tobacco country in Southern Maryland, where segregation was still very much in practice. He was every bit the sort of person you would expect to have a middle name like Devereux, and he was drunk, and he was strutting around with one of those stupid bamboo canes they used to hand out at carnivals and fairs as consolation prizes for those who couldn't quite master the art of tossing darts.
Hattie Carroll, age 51, was a barmaid at the Emerson, mother of ten (or nine, according to the Washington Post article in 1991. Working a shift that night, she encountered Zantzinger, who had got himself all drunked up before the ball at the Eager House, another swank spot downtown, and then lurched over to the Emerson, barking out drink orders all along the way.
In the most awful disgusting language, Zantzinger ordered Hattie to bring him bourbon and hit her with the cane when she did not produce it in a trice. He hit her on the head and shoulder as she ran away in tears as the "B" and "N" epithets poured out of his foul mouth. He also hit his wife with the cane.
It wasn't five minutes later that Ms Carroll fell against a coworker, saying, "I feel deathly ill, that man has upset me so." Her speech thickened and her arm became numb as she collapsed and was taken to Mercy Hospital.
Within eight hours, Hattie Carroll was dead. The autopsy revealed that she was arteriosclerotic (had hardening of the arteries) and had high blood pressure and an enlarged heart, medical factors that some lawyer used to help Zantzinger more or less get away with it. The cause of death was established as a brain hemorrhage.
Initially, Zantzinger was charged with homicide, but upon discovery of Ms Carroll's underlying medical conditions, the charges were changed to manslaughter and assault.
His trial was moved to Washington County in Western Maryland, and concluded on August 28, 1963. Zantzinger was found guilty of manslaughter and assault, and given a six-month sentence. Conveniently, the six-month big allowed him to avoid spending time in the state prison system, where his presence might have not been welcomed by the other inmates. He was also made to pay the Carroll family $25,000 blood money.
Dylan recorded the song on October 23, 1963 for his third album, "The Times They Are A-Changin' " (probably the most prophetic title for any album anywhere!). It was the last purely-acoustic folk record of his career.
Fresh out of the hoosegow, Zantzinger forsook tobacco farming for real estate. Apparently bent on being a worthless scoundrel to the end, he bought up some shabby houses, charged rent for them from poor black farm workers in Charles County, and lost the houses when the county foreclosed on them for unpaid taxes he owed.
Even though he no longer owned the houses, he kept on taking rent from his hard-luck tenants. He even had the gall to sue some of them when they failed to come up with the rent for houses he did not own. Dylan didn't write about it, but Zantzinger was arrested anew, convicted, and put in prison for 19 months , plus some time in work release and a fine of $50,000.
William "Billy" Zantzinger left this earth for parts unknown on January 3, 2009, He was 69.
Remember his first conviction for the Carroll manslaughter/assault, and the trial ending date of Aug 28, 1963? Remember what else happened that day?
This:
The writer and singer is Bob Dylan, of course. A lot of people don't find his voice all that appealing, but for my money, he wrote songs that only he could sing. And the story of this song is interesting, and local to Baltimore.
On February 9, 1963, a rich snotty young man named William Devereux "Billy" Zantzinger, 24, went to the "Spinsters' Ball" at the Emerson Hotel in Baltimore. This is the sort of ridiculous debauched activity that used to pass for society life here. Zantzinger was from Charles County, tobacco country in Southern Maryland, where segregation was still very much in practice. He was every bit the sort of person you would expect to have a middle name like Devereux, and he was drunk, and he was strutting around with one of those stupid bamboo canes they used to hand out at carnivals and fairs as consolation prizes for those who couldn't quite master the art of tossing darts.
Hattie Carroll, age 51, was a barmaid at the Emerson, mother of ten (or nine, according to the Washington Post article in 1991. Working a shift that night, she encountered Zantzinger, who had got himself all drunked up before the ball at the Eager House, another swank spot downtown, and then lurched over to the Emerson, barking out drink orders all along the way.
In the most awful disgusting language, Zantzinger ordered Hattie to bring him bourbon and hit her with the cane when she did not produce it in a trice. He hit her on the head and shoulder as she ran away in tears as the "B" and "N" epithets poured out of his foul mouth. He also hit his wife with the cane.
It wasn't five minutes later that Ms Carroll fell against a coworker, saying, "I feel deathly ill, that man has upset me so." Her speech thickened and her arm became numb as she collapsed and was taken to Mercy Hospital.
Within eight hours, Hattie Carroll was dead. The autopsy revealed that she was arteriosclerotic (had hardening of the arteries) and had high blood pressure and an enlarged heart, medical factors that some lawyer used to help Zantzinger more or less get away with it. The cause of death was established as a brain hemorrhage.Initially, Zantzinger was charged with homicide, but upon discovery of Ms Carroll's underlying medical conditions, the charges were changed to manslaughter and assault.
His trial was moved to Washington County in Western Maryland, and concluded on August 28, 1963. Zantzinger was found guilty of manslaughter and assault, and given a six-month sentence. Conveniently, the six-month big allowed him to avoid spending time in the state prison system, where his presence might have not been welcomed by the other inmates. He was also made to pay the Carroll family $25,000 blood money.Dylan recorded the song on October 23, 1963 for his third album, "The Times They Are A-Changin' " (probably the most prophetic title for any album anywhere!). It was the last purely-acoustic folk record of his career.
Fresh out of the hoosegow, Zantzinger forsook tobacco farming for real estate. Apparently bent on being a worthless scoundrel to the end, he bought up some shabby houses, charged rent for them from poor black farm workers in Charles County, and lost the houses when the county foreclosed on them for unpaid taxes he owed.
Even though he no longer owned the houses, he kept on taking rent from his hard-luck tenants. He even had the gall to sue some of them when they failed to come up with the rent for houses he did not own. Dylan didn't write about it, but Zantzinger was arrested anew, convicted, and put in prison for 19 months , plus some time in work release and a fine of $50,000.
William "Billy" Zantzinger left this earth for parts unknown on January 3, 2009, He was 69.
Remember his first conviction for the Carroll manslaughter/assault, and the trial ending date of Aug 28, 1963? Remember what else happened that day?
This:
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| Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King's March on Washington |
Thursday, May 7, 2020
Home Alone
I'm sorry if I seem to delve into history a lot these days, but I'm just trying to help the social studies teachers among us with my good-old-boy reminiscences of the good old days. I feel that a lot of young people are interested in my rambling walks down Memory Lane. Many of the people who have my memories foisted upon them use such laudatory adjectives as hypnagogic, somniferous, somnolent, sleep-inducing, and soporiferous to describe those narratives.
At least they got their rest!
Going back to the days when people would go away, sometimes for school, sometimes for jobs, sometimes in the service, they would communicate by letters or the occasional long-distance phone call. People would wait until the rates went down at 6 PM, and then they would use a three-minute egg timer to make sure they didn't get charged for a longer call.
It resulted in conversations like, "I saw the O'Hoolahans at the mall the other day...he told me he needed to see you about something next time you're here...Hutzler's had a sale on those plaid pants you like. but that was last week...It seems to be getting dark earlier now...the best way to make oatmeal is to get the steel-cut oats and let them soak overnight...gotta go! Bye!"
And then along came the cell phone, with its free long distance calls all over the world and messaging platforms. This means that no one individual is ever un-reachable. I've known people fighting in wars overseas who call their family back home at night. A student having a hard time dealing with being away from home can hear the welcoming voices of Mom, Dad, and Uncle Franz saying that Thanksgiving isn't that far away, and long distance truckers can hear the same radio programs over satellite radio, be they in Portland, Oregon, or Portland, Maine, and can also help tuck in the kids as they haul another load of potatoes away to market.
That's the new world of today, everyone is connected, and there's no time to be alone.
Or, there WAS no time, until the quarantine began. It's my hunch that people who are older (ahem) are used to the days of solitude and not having people all up in either their grill or their grille. By that, it's easy to see why this quarantine is not such a big deal. When you have spent a significant amount of time crouched underneath your elementary school desk with your hands over your head to protect yourself from nuclear fallout, when you grew up with the choice of only channels 2, 11, and 13 (plus 5 from Washington on a good day), and when you had to drive to the Drugs 'N' More with a dime to make a photocopy of your tax return, staying home and doing nothing with anyone is not all that hard to take.
At least they got their rest!
Going back to the days when people would go away, sometimes for school, sometimes for jobs, sometimes in the service, they would communicate by letters or the occasional long-distance phone call. People would wait until the rates went down at 6 PM, and then they would use a three-minute egg timer to make sure they didn't get charged for a longer call.
It resulted in conversations like, "I saw the O'Hoolahans at the mall the other day...he told me he needed to see you about something next time you're here...Hutzler's had a sale on those plaid pants you like. but that was last week...It seems to be getting dark earlier now...the best way to make oatmeal is to get the steel-cut oats and let them soak overnight...gotta go! Bye!"
And then along came the cell phone, with its free long distance calls all over the world and messaging platforms. This means that no one individual is ever un-reachable. I've known people fighting in wars overseas who call their family back home at night. A student having a hard time dealing with being away from home can hear the welcoming voices of Mom, Dad, and Uncle Franz saying that Thanksgiving isn't that far away, and long distance truckers can hear the same radio programs over satellite radio, be they in Portland, Oregon, or Portland, Maine, and can also help tuck in the kids as they haul another load of potatoes away to market.
That's the new world of today, everyone is connected, and there's no time to be alone.
 |
| For the record, this gentleman is not I. |
Wednesday, May 6, 2020
Rock Star
My birthday comes up at the end of June (send checks to the usual address, please) and Peggy was asking what I could possibly need at the time of a Coronavirus birthday.
Not a thing. I have enough ties, and some dress clothes and enough of my patented two-T-shirt combinations to last me a long time. Now and then, someone writes a book I want, and I generally get it from the library, free-for-nothin'. Socks, boxers, sweaters, jeans, I have more than I need.
I get my antihistamines from the Amazon now, and one of these days, I'm doggone well gonna get a bottle of histamines and let them battle it out.
But just then, along came an idea. See, I've been in the market for a new paperweight. Loose papers on my desk tend to fly around then the oscillating fan gets around to them, and while the Dymo® LetraTag® labelmaker is sufficiently hefty to hold the ephemera down, it lacks a certain style. But..
The perfect thing is for sale at the famed Christie's auction house. It's a piece of the moon, even bigger than "Big Muley," the 26-pound rock that Apollo 16 brought back in 1972!
And we didn't even have to pay a shipping charge for this one. It's actually a lunar meteorite, known to NASA as NWA 12691, and it landed in the Sahara Desert two years ago.
This hugger is the 5th-largest lunar meteorite on earth, Christie's said. They also said that it probably got knocked loose by a collision with a comet.
I have a friend whose headlight got knocked loose by a collision with a Mercury Comet on the A&P parking lot, but that was worth a lot less than the $2.5 million that Christie's is asking for the rock. Even if Peggy and I put our stimulus checks together, we'd still be short $2,497,600. Plus the tax. I'm sure there is a tax on these things.
Quick question for NASA? How do we know there aren't more meteorite chunks hurtling toward our houses at this very moment? Sure, if they land in the Sahara, no biggie, but hey, I'm not looking to get the roof repaired anytime soon.
Here on in, I'm not walking down the driveway to get the mail without a helmet.
Not a thing. I have enough ties, and some dress clothes and enough of my patented two-T-shirt combinations to last me a long time. Now and then, someone writes a book I want, and I generally get it from the library, free-for-nothin'. Socks, boxers, sweaters, jeans, I have more than I need.
I get my antihistamines from the Amazon now, and one of these days, I'm doggone well gonna get a bottle of histamines and let them battle it out.
But just then, along came an idea. See, I've been in the market for a new paperweight. Loose papers on my desk tend to fly around then the oscillating fan gets around to them, and while the Dymo® LetraTag® labelmaker is sufficiently hefty to hold the ephemera down, it lacks a certain style. But..
The perfect thing is for sale at the famed Christie's auction house. It's a piece of the moon, even bigger than "Big Muley," the 26-pound rock that Apollo 16 brought back in 1972!
 |
| I'm not trying to start trouble, but doesn't this look like a chunk of every back road you know? |
And we didn't even have to pay a shipping charge for this one. It's actually a lunar meteorite, known to NASA as NWA 12691, and it landed in the Sahara Desert two years ago.
This hugger is the 5th-largest lunar meteorite on earth, Christie's said. They also said that it probably got knocked loose by a collision with a comet.
I have a friend whose headlight got knocked loose by a collision with a Mercury Comet on the A&P parking lot, but that was worth a lot less than the $2.5 million that Christie's is asking for the rock. Even if Peggy and I put our stimulus checks together, we'd still be short $2,497,600. Plus the tax. I'm sure there is a tax on these things.
Quick question for NASA? How do we know there aren't more meteorite chunks hurtling toward our houses at this very moment? Sure, if they land in the Sahara, no biggie, but hey, I'm not looking to get the roof repaired anytime soon.
Here on in, I'm not walking down the driveway to get the mail without a helmet.
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
The truth about Cash
If you have Amazon Prime Video on your television machine, you can go here and see a great movie called "My Darling Vivian."
It's the story of a woman named Vivian Liberto Cash, who married Johnny Cash, the country singer identified by Robert Klein as "the only man who ever talked flat." He always cultivated the image of a religious family man, but that's far from the truth, and now you can see the movie that tells his first wife's story.
Vivian was 17 and living with her family in San Antonio, Texas, when she met Cash, at the time a USAF Airman, at a roller rink. This was 1951. The mutual attraction sparked right away, and the two kept steady company for three weeks until the Air Force sent Cash to service in Germany for three years, during which time the two were engaged (Cash mailed her a ring). He returned stateside in 1954 and they were married right off. His career began to take off when they moved to Memphis and he became a Sun Records artist, and at the same time, he and Vivian saw their family grow four times - all daughters (Rosanne, Kathy, Cindy, and Tara).
Vivian was the type who saved everything - including a thousand letters the two wrote each other during Cash's time in Germany and the roller skates she was wearing the night they met! But Johnny was not that sentimental. Sure, he earned a lot of money and built the family a nice house in Casitas, California, but he left the family there while he cavorted around the world singing and making records and appearing on television shows and commencing an extramarital relationship with June Carter, daughter of two of The Carter Family, one of the country music's founding clans.
The movie will show you in sad detail how the affair tore Johnny's first wife up, and even after they divorced, the humiliation continued, with June Carter Cash constantly talking about how she had seven children, five of them girls. But she counted Vivian and John's four daughters as "hers" even though Vivian was the one raising them.
The movie pulls back the curtain of goodness and humility that Cash put up to hide from his fans the truth about what a callow philanderer he really was. Rosanne Cash, the oldest of his kids, was left to spend every day of her adolescence wondering if that would be the day her mom committed suicide over it all, and there was Johnny, playing around on the road while four kids and a wife lived in sadness.
He became addicted to amphetamines and alcohol, and wove the story of how June helped him kick those habits, instead of him just staying with his wife, and I just don't get the deal with him. Watch the movie - it's better than fiction!
It's the story of a woman named Vivian Liberto Cash, who married Johnny Cash, the country singer identified by Robert Klein as "the only man who ever talked flat." He always cultivated the image of a religious family man, but that's far from the truth, and now you can see the movie that tells his first wife's story.
Vivian was 17 and living with her family in San Antonio, Texas, when she met Cash, at the time a USAF Airman, at a roller rink. This was 1951. The mutual attraction sparked right away, and the two kept steady company for three weeks until the Air Force sent Cash to service in Germany for three years, during which time the two were engaged (Cash mailed her a ring). He returned stateside in 1954 and they were married right off. His career began to take off when they moved to Memphis and he became a Sun Records artist, and at the same time, he and Vivian saw their family grow four times - all daughters (Rosanne, Kathy, Cindy, and Tara).Vivian was the type who saved everything - including a thousand letters the two wrote each other during Cash's time in Germany and the roller skates she was wearing the night they met! But Johnny was not that sentimental. Sure, he earned a lot of money and built the family a nice house in Casitas, California, but he left the family there while he cavorted around the world singing and making records and appearing on television shows and commencing an extramarital relationship with June Carter, daughter of two of The Carter Family, one of the country music's founding clans.
 |
| This is an interesting album title for a record that was made while he was still married |
The movie pulls back the curtain of goodness and humility that Cash put up to hide from his fans the truth about what a callow philanderer he really was. Rosanne Cash, the oldest of his kids, was left to spend every day of her adolescence wondering if that would be the day her mom committed suicide over it all, and there was Johnny, playing around on the road while four kids and a wife lived in sadness.
He became addicted to amphetamines and alcohol, and wove the story of how June helped him kick those habits, instead of him just staying with his wife, and I just don't get the deal with him. Watch the movie - it's better than fiction!
Monday, May 4, 2020
Stripper? I don't even know her.
A fellow I know does a little game called "Stump Google." Simple rules: just put two words together that Google can't match up, such as, say, "breezeway judge." It takes a lot to find two words that can't be linked somehow. But somehow, you can't win the game if your entry is "funeral stripper."
That would be because "funeral strippers" is a thing in China. According to the article I saw, in rural China, people have for years hired strippers to put on a show at a funeral.
After all, you give the people what they want, and they will turn out for your event.
China's state-run newspaper, the Global Times, says, "Scantily clad women in sexy lingerie and revealing clothes showing off their bodies in front an electronic screen (sic) displaying a black-and-white headshot of the deceased with text reading, ‘We offer profound condolences for the death of this man’ are now a modern part of funerals in some rural areas of China.”
But, before you put in a call to hire an ecdysiast, be advised: China's Ministry of Culture now says they are going to shut down these "obscene and vulgar performances at weddings, funerals and temple fairs.”
And, just like here in the Western Hemisphere, they are setting up a public hotline for the public to use to drop a dime on "funeral misdeeds." There will be rewards paid.
(Since there are no pay phones anymore, and since even when there were, it cost a lot more than a dime to call and report someone, does anyone still say "drop a dime"? I need to know so that I am able to remain consonant with the current cool phraseology).
The Chinese officials aren't saying why this crackdown is happening, nor do they explain what happened to their 2015 plan to get rid of the "bizarre and increasingly popular” strip shows because they were “corrupting the social atmosphere,” according to the Global Times.
That paper also mentions that the funeral stripping is a way to worship fertility.
“In some local cultures, dancing with erotic elements can be used to convey the deceased’s wishes of being blessed with many children,” Huang Jianxing, professor at the Fujian Normal University Sociology and History Department, said.
In America, the great sage Yogi Berra reminded us that we should always attend the funerals of others, "otherwise, they won't come to yours."
That would be because "funeral strippers" is a thing in China. According to the article I saw, in rural China, people have for years hired strippers to put on a show at a funeral.
After all, you give the people what they want, and they will turn out for your event.
China's state-run newspaper, the Global Times, says, "Scantily clad women in sexy lingerie and revealing clothes showing off their bodies in front an electronic screen (sic) displaying a black-and-white headshot of the deceased with text reading, ‘We offer profound condolences for the death of this man’ are now a modern part of funerals in some rural areas of China.”
But, before you put in a call to hire an ecdysiast, be advised: China's Ministry of Culture now says they are going to shut down these "obscene and vulgar performances at weddings, funerals and temple fairs.”
And, just like here in the Western Hemisphere, they are setting up a public hotline for the public to use to drop a dime on "funeral misdeeds." There will be rewards paid.
(Since there are no pay phones anymore, and since even when there were, it cost a lot more than a dime to call and report someone, does anyone still say "drop a dime"? I need to know so that I am able to remain consonant with the current cool phraseology).
The Chinese officials aren't saying why this crackdown is happening, nor do they explain what happened to their 2015 plan to get rid of the "bizarre and increasingly popular” strip shows because they were “corrupting the social atmosphere,” according to the Global Times.
That paper also mentions that the funeral stripping is a way to worship fertility.
In America, the great sage Yogi Berra reminded us that we should always attend the funerals of others, "otherwise, they won't come to yours."
Sunday, May 3, 2020
Sunday Rerun (from December 2016): Knowing Nothing or Hearing Everything
Two things kept crossing my mind yesterday while watching the morning news.
First was how the sad passing of Carrie Fisher once again made me feel sorry for her friends and family and fans, and how it makes me feel like I'm in a Lithuanian restaurant and everyone is speaking Lithuanian and the menu is printed in Lithuanian with no pictures and I have no idea what anyone is saying, and all I want is a hamburger and some fries and they can't understand me and I don't understand them.
That's how it feels to know NOTHING about Star Wars. I mean, I have not spent one second of this long life watching any of the 47 Star Wars movies, and that means not knowing what anyone's talking about when they intone, "Luke, I am your father," and what the Millennium Stalker is, or whatever that thing is, and what the point of it all was.
The only way I can relate is to think of the people who say they know nothing about football or baseball and how it must feel to them when people start talking about football or baseball.
Carrie Fisher. When I think of her, I realize I know a lot more about her mother, Debbie Reynolds, and her father, Eddie Fisher, a very good singer from the 1950s whose womanizing overshadowed his great talent for singing a song. Debbie is still with us, fine comic actress that she was, and now Carrie is with her father.
There was another death being talked about on the news. A man died in someone's house, and now the police are trying to get "testimony" from his IoT (Internet of Things) device - that Amazon thing that sits in the house, and you say, "OK Ezra (or whatever the thing's name is) play "Box of Rain," or "What's the weather going to be like today?" and "Turn on the lamp in the study for Colonel Mustard." All those commands to an electronic silent butler, and you don't think there are others listening in?
Maybe I'm suspicious, but when the cable company offers a system that puts cameras in the house so you can see what's going on there while you're at work or on the beach sipping a Mai Tai, I have to figure that someone somewhere is also enjoying unfettered video access to Mark - a - Lago, my luxurious mansion, and they're watching me scratch the twig and berries or something.
And if the government forced us to install little black eavesdropping devices in our homes, we would not like it. But make it something that we voluntarily PAY for, and we're lining up to buy them.
First was how the sad passing of Carrie Fisher once again made me feel sorry for her friends and family and fans, and how it makes me feel like I'm in a Lithuanian restaurant and everyone is speaking Lithuanian and the menu is printed in Lithuanian with no pictures and I have no idea what anyone is saying, and all I want is a hamburger and some fries and they can't understand me and I don't understand them.
That's how it feels to know NOTHING about Star Wars. I mean, I have not spent one second of this long life watching any of the 47 Star Wars movies, and that means not knowing what anyone's talking about when they intone, "Luke, I am your father," and what the Millennium Stalker is, or whatever that thing is, and what the point of it all was.
The only way I can relate is to think of the people who say they know nothing about football or baseball and how it must feel to them when people start talking about football or baseball.
 |
| Eddie, Carrie, Debbie |
There was another death being talked about on the news. A man died in someone's house, and now the police are trying to get "testimony" from his IoT (Internet of Things) device - that Amazon thing that sits in the house, and you say, "OK Ezra (or whatever the thing's name is) play "Box of Rain," or "What's the weather going to be like today?" and "Turn on the lamp in the study for Colonel Mustard." All those commands to an electronic silent butler, and you don't think there are others listening in?
Maybe I'm suspicious, but when the cable company offers a system that puts cameras in the house so you can see what's going on there while you're at work or on the beach sipping a Mai Tai, I have to figure that someone somewhere is also enjoying unfettered video access to Mark - a - Lago, my luxurious mansion, and they're watching me scratch the twig and berries or something.
And if the government forced us to install little black eavesdropping devices in our homes, we would not like it. But make it something that we voluntarily PAY for, and we're lining up to buy them.
Saturday, May 2, 2020
The Saturday Picture Show, May 2, 2020
Every time I see one of those big cranes hoisting stuff at construction sites, I always wonder how it would be to be at the controls. It looks complicated, so no, thanks.
I don't know what it was that caught my eye with this picture. It's an alley that goes on for miles and miles. Not long ago, in our county's east side, a developer developed a development of houses with alleys behind them and detached garages in the back yard. I don't know how popular they were, but I haven't seen any similar building that I recall, so...
Friday, May 1, 2020
May I?
Today is the day we flip the calendar to May to begin a whole new month of fun and frivolity, pandemic style. May 1 is a big deal elsewhere in the world. In Europe, it's always been the day that they celebrate the return of spring. This dates all the way back to the ancients, the Greeks, the Romans, the Rolling Stones.
It sounds quaint, but in many places they spend today weaving floral garlands, bringing in sheaves of newly-green branches and wildflowers, and rigging up a Maypole, around which everyone danced. The legend was that such activities would encourage fertility of the earth and its people, and this is why so many people are born in March. Are you one of them? Maybe your parents danced around a Maypole!
Another interesting May Day thing was the belief that washing your face with morning dew would give one beautiful skin. Although it must be pointed out that most May Day rituals never became popular in America, we did happily embrace the Mexican Cinco De Mayo holiday, and on the sixth of May, many Americans wake up with a faceful of lawn for a pillow and comforter.
Just not this year.
No, May Day never became popular here, because the puritanical Pilgrims thought such things to be pagan in nature. But in some quarters, May 1 is the USA is International Workers' Day in celebration of the Haymarket Affair in Chicago, in 1886, when a strike among workers began in the quest to set the 8-hour workday as standard.
Now you know whom to thank for only having to work eight hours a day!
It sounds quaint, but in many places they spend today weaving floral garlands, bringing in sheaves of newly-green branches and wildflowers, and rigging up a Maypole, around which everyone danced. The legend was that such activities would encourage fertility of the earth and its people, and this is why so many people are born in March. Are you one of them? Maybe your parents danced around a Maypole!
Another interesting May Day thing was the belief that washing your face with morning dew would give one beautiful skin. Although it must be pointed out that most May Day rituals never became popular in America, we did happily embrace the Mexican Cinco De Mayo holiday, and on the sixth of May, many Americans wake up with a faceful of lawn for a pillow and comforter.
Just not this year.
No, May Day never became popular here, because the puritanical Pilgrims thought such things to be pagan in nature. But in some quarters, May 1 is the USA is International Workers' Day in celebration of the Haymarket Affair in Chicago, in 1886, when a strike among workers began in the quest to set the 8-hour workday as standard.
Now you know whom to thank for only having to work eight hours a day!
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