She was a Mouseketeer. She was the girl on Spin and Marty. She was a young teenager visiting Los Angeles who met Senor Zorro. And she was a beach bunny who was always the sensible girlfriend of Frankie Avalon. There were songs like "Pineapple Princess", and "Tall Paul".
The "Iron Lady", Margaret Thatcher, may have passed away earlier today, but she only ruled a country in an era when it was a boy's club (and still is for the most part). Her polices did much to harm her country, and the people of her country, and the countries which followed the lead she and Ronnie provided.
Annette ruled our hearts. She partied on the beach like every teenager since wanted to do, following the lead she and Frankie provided. She solved all of the gang's problems, and triumphed over bullies and her often thick headed boyfriend. And she had a sense of humor about it all, even appearing as herself with Frankie on Pee Wee's Playhouse, and in a "Back to the Beach" movie.
In the late 1990's there were rumors that she had a problem with alcohol. Usually a private person, she went public and announced that she had MS. She took it on in typical Annette fashion, and started The Annette Funicello Fund for Neurological Diseases . My Uncle had MS. When it's in the family, one tends to notice things like this.
I hope the youth of today discover her now, and follow the lead she provided. It's a much better path than the other woman who passed on today.
Rest in Peace, Lady. Rest in Peace.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Emma Smith
April the 3rd was a Tuesday that year. The banks had been closed the day before as part of Easter Holiday. People had a little extra money on them. It was an old neighborhood, the large houses the main remnant of the days when it had been fashionable. The French who had built them had moved out to the country. The Irish had come, and then the Jews. The jobs had gone. The big old houses built by and for wealthy merchants had been carved up into rooms.
In the early hours of the morning, Emma Elizabeth Smith was assaulted and robbed on the corner of Osborn Street and Brick Lane. No one knew much about her. There was something in the way she talked that hinted at a cultured and educated life; she might have once been well off. Someone said that she had two children, a son and a daughter who lived in another part of town. Even though she had been injured, she managed to walk the block to her rooming house at 18 George Street. She told Mary Russell that she had been attacked by three men, one a teenager. With the help of another tenant, Annie Lee, Russell took Smith to hospital where she was treated by surgeon George Haslip. Smith fell into a coma and died the next morning.
Two days went by before the police were notified. At the inquest, Dr. G. H. Hiller found that she had been brutally raped with a blunt object which ruptured several internal organs. The police report described her clothing as being comprised of rags so dirty that it was impossible to tell if there had been fresh tears in them. The official cause of death was listed as peritonitis. The police investigation noted that though she was poor and friendless, every effort was taken to find her assailant. Smith and been a prostitute. She was most likely attacked by her pimp or a gang of pimps as intimidation or for refusing to follow orders, they decided.
Several months later detective Walter Dew developed another theory. On the 7th of August, the day after another bank holiday, Martha Tabram was murdered in the same neighborhood. She was a prostitute and had been stabbed many times. At the end of that month, Mary Ann Nichols was murdered. A reporter from the Star may have talked to Walter Dew for the paper soon began to note theories similar to his: all three women had been prostitutes, all in their mid 40's, all from the same area, their murders thought to be the work of gangs of pimps. Perhaps the deaths were the work of the same person.
It was 1888, and in the slums of London, the legend of Jack the Ripper was born.
In the early hours of the morning, Emma Elizabeth Smith was assaulted and robbed on the corner of Osborn Street and Brick Lane. No one knew much about her. There was something in the way she talked that hinted at a cultured and educated life; she might have once been well off. Someone said that she had two children, a son and a daughter who lived in another part of town. Even though she had been injured, she managed to walk the block to her rooming house at 18 George Street. She told Mary Russell that she had been attacked by three men, one a teenager. With the help of another tenant, Annie Lee, Russell took Smith to hospital where she was treated by surgeon George Haslip. Smith fell into a coma and died the next morning.
Two days went by before the police were notified. At the inquest, Dr. G. H. Hiller found that she had been brutally raped with a blunt object which ruptured several internal organs. The police report described her clothing as being comprised of rags so dirty that it was impossible to tell if there had been fresh tears in them. The official cause of death was listed as peritonitis. The police investigation noted that though she was poor and friendless, every effort was taken to find her assailant. Smith and been a prostitute. She was most likely attacked by her pimp or a gang of pimps as intimidation or for refusing to follow orders, they decided.
Several months later detective Walter Dew developed another theory. On the 7th of August, the day after another bank holiday, Martha Tabram was murdered in the same neighborhood. She was a prostitute and had been stabbed many times. At the end of that month, Mary Ann Nichols was murdered. A reporter from the Star may have talked to Walter Dew for the paper soon began to note theories similar to his: all three women had been prostitutes, all in their mid 40's, all from the same area, their murders thought to be the work of gangs of pimps. Perhaps the deaths were the work of the same person.
It was 1888, and in the slums of London, the legend of Jack the Ripper was born.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Whatever Became of...
So there I was, about an hour ago, looking up today's date in an online Almanac. I believe that I have
previously mentioned that several years ago I started an illustrated online daily almanac for a discussion board type website. I enjoy this sort of thing. In the entries I found for this date, two things caught me by surprise.
Today is the birthdate of Ron Palillo, the actor who played the role of Horshack on the ABC sitcom "Welcome Back Kotter" (1975 - 1979). I can't say that I was a fan of the show, or watched it much, but I sure remember his goofball character. I was taken by surprise to note that he passed away last year. I had a vague memory of reading this, but I had to look this up - so easy to do now in these days of an information overloaded internet. As it turns out, he felt his later career was hampered by his identification with that role. He was on the sitcom "Ellen", which I enjoyed watching - but I can't remember his being on it. At one point in his career, he taught at the University in Storrs, CT - the hometown of a friend of mine. Palillo had been living in Florida with Joseph Gramm, his partner of 41 years, when he suffered a heart attack and passed at the age of 63.
Also noted in the birthday list was Debralee Scott, who played "Hotsie" Totsie on the same tv show. I was surprised to note that she passed away in 2005. She played the younger sister on "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman", a 1976 - 1977 oddball tv show I greatly enjoyed. In her bio, it mentioned that her fiancée, a NYC policeman, died in the September 11th, 2001 attacks on the World Trade Center. She moved to Florida to care for an ailing sister. One day she collapsed, went into a coma, and woke a few days later on her birthday. Three days later she went to take a nap and never woke up.
This flow of information suddenly made me remember the "Whatever Became of..." book series by Richard Lamparski. Each of the various editions used to sell quite well back in the 1970's when I was running bookstores in NYC for a living. Lamparski had been a PR guy, and had a radio show on WBAI on the same topic. His comments on the folks in his books were often somewhat pithy (today we would say "snarky"). One memorable remark noted that an actress who once had a famous early tv show, "... by no means considers herself retired and greatly resents being considered a has-been." Of course, I had to look up Lamparki. He seems to be one of the people who hasn't made it into Wikipedia. Imagine that. I did find, however, that he is now in his 80's and has been living in retirement in California. Radio station WFMU (Hi, Wendy!) has a nice entry about him on their blog.
Oops, look at the time. Gotta go.
previously mentioned that several years ago I started an illustrated online daily almanac for a discussion board type website. I enjoy this sort of thing. In the entries I found for this date, two things caught me by surprise.
Today is the birthdate of Ron Palillo, the actor who played the role of Horshack on the ABC sitcom "Welcome Back Kotter" (1975 - 1979). I can't say that I was a fan of the show, or watched it much, but I sure remember his goofball character. I was taken by surprise to note that he passed away last year. I had a vague memory of reading this, but I had to look this up - so easy to do now in these days of an information overloaded internet. As it turns out, he felt his later career was hampered by his identification with that role. He was on the sitcom "Ellen", which I enjoyed watching - but I can't remember his being on it. At one point in his career, he taught at the University in Storrs, CT - the hometown of a friend of mine. Palillo had been living in Florida with Joseph Gramm, his partner of 41 years, when he suffered a heart attack and passed at the age of 63.
This flow of information suddenly made me remember the "Whatever Became of..." book series by Richard Lamparski. Each of the various editions used to sell quite well back in the 1970's when I was running bookstores in NYC for a living. Lamparski had been a PR guy, and had a radio show on WBAI on the same topic. His comments on the folks in his books were often somewhat pithy (today we would say "snarky"). One memorable remark noted that an actress who once had a famous early tv show, "... by no means considers herself retired and greatly resents being considered a has-been." Of course, I had to look up Lamparki. He seems to be one of the people who hasn't made it into Wikipedia. Imagine that. I did find, however, that he is now in his 80's and has been living in retirement in California. Radio station WFMU (Hi, Wendy!) has a nice entry about him on their blog.
Oops, look at the time. Gotta go.
Monday, April 1, 2013
The April Fool
Most of my morning has been spent working on this post. Everything looked great, lined up the way I wanted, etc. That was in the Chrome browser that Blogger allegedly prefers. When I looked at it in the Internet Explorer Web Browser, it was a bit of a mess. I've spent two hours fighting to get the text and photos to line up properly. And I just can't seem to win this one. Sorry, I have other things to do and I'm leaving it the way it is.
The morning was appropriately groggy. So was I. The very first email I opened contained news that at the last minute the Vermont Views website, which was listing our community radio station (which I run) as "non-profit of the month" had changed its mind. As I sank into a resigned sigh, the words "April Fool!" entered in my consciousness. There was an audible low guttural growl which emerged from somewhere within my being. It's April. The poet called it "the cruelest month". The poet may have been right.
Over the last two weeks, I've started many a post for the blog, only to abandon them all for various reasons. I had a cataract removed and was laid low for three days by reactions to the surgery. One partial post was forsaken when there were problems at the radio station which resulted in the rest of my day, and most of the next, being spent in email correspondence. I no longer feel in control of my time. I wonder if I ever really was.
Yesterday was Easter. I became a bit lost in reverie. I spent most of last Easter working with the radio station's engineer wiring our new studio
It had been almost a year since the fire at the Brooks House which had taken us off the air.
We lost everything in the fire - our transmitter was in the studio and our antenna was on the roof. When something like that happens, the station is given one year to get back on the air or lose its broadcast license. Before we left the studio that day, I logged onto one of our new computers and used it to turn on our new transmitter which was now located (with our antenna) at a school on a hill on the outskirts of town. For a few brief minutes, we were on the air. I called Laura over at Austanspace and asked her to tune us in. She heard us. It was real, it worked. While we were working in the studio, the Easter Zombie Walk made its way through downtown. It's an annual local tradition. I hope it was held this year, I haven't been able to find anything on it - I had wanted to go out and photograph it. I made my way out to Austanspace's Shire for Easter dinner. That morning, I'd also put up an Easter blog post which addressed my love for those absurd biblical era movie spectaculars. I'd intended to do another one this year. How on earth did I get all that done? And that list of accomplishment is decidedly meager compared to what I used to accomplish on any given day during my years in New York City. At any rate, two days later, after calling an early halt to the station's Board meeting, I ushered the Board members into our new studio, logged in once more to the transmitter, and returned our station to broadcast mode. This year, I accomplished - nothing much. And I was busy from the moment I got up until the moment I went to bed.
At the offices of Daniel Drew, Jim Fiske hooked up with Jay Gould. Together they assisted Drew in manipulating the price of Erie Railroad stock, which they swindled away from Cornelius Vanderbilt. They eventually swindled the Erie away from Drew for good measure. They were openly allied with New York City's notoriously corrupt mayor "Boss" Tweed in the bribing of judges and legislatures. They also caused a financial panic which ruined many investors when they convinced President Grant to purchase and hold on to gold; they had the United States Assistant Treasurer in on the deal while they manipulated the price. For their offices, Gould and Fiske bought the Pike Opera House building at 23rd Street and 8th Avenue in NYC.
Samuel Pike had purchased much of the old Clement Clark Moore estate and built upon it a five story opulent 1,800 seat opera house which cost over a million dollars, unheard of at the time. Although the area quickly became a theater district, Pike was never able to lure patrons away from the Academy of Music on 14th Street. Within a year of its opening, Pike closed it. Fisk and Gould bought it and spent another million renovating the building, renamed it the "Grand Opera House", and became theatrical impresarios as well as financiers.
Now, Fisk had married young, and lived apart from his wife. She stayed in Boston with a close female companion. He also purchased a building close to the Opera House and had a secret tunnel built to connect the two. The apartment was for his mistress, Josie Mansfield, an actress.
Mansfield's affections were soon shared with one of Fisk's employees, Edward Stokes. Stokes left his wife and children and moved in with her. Together, they attempted to bribe Fisk through the use of letters which detailed some of his underhanded dealings. Fisk refused to pay up, and started a public relations battle. Stokes was arrested on charges of embezzlement. (It's a long story.) One year to the day of his arrest later, nearly bankrupt and ruined, Stokes shot and killed Jubilee Jim Fisk on the staircase of the Grand Central Hotel. Fisk was 36 years old.
Fisk's body was brought back to Brattleboro for burial in the Prospect Hill cemetery where a large monument was erected to his memory. The monument's central stone is surrounded by four scandalously underdressed (i.e. bare breasted) women, each of whom holds something connected to Mr. Fisk. One holds pieces of railroad track. One, a money bag. Another holds a steamship (another Fisk story). The last holds an emblem of the Opera House.
Fisk's story became the subject of a 1937 movie, "The Toast of New York", bears a great resemblance to part of the plot for the movie "Citizen Kane", and was the subject of several best selling books. Edward Stokes served four years of his prison term before being paroled. Fisk had given freely to charity and was in held in esteem by many - upon his release, there were numerous threats made against Stokes who spent the rest of his life looking over his shoulder and feeling hunted. Fisk's wife died in poverty in Boston. Josie Mansfield made her way to Paris where she married before returning to the states. The rest of her story is unknown. She was rumored to have lived under assumed names in Boston, and in New Jersey where she allegedly died, as per a report in the New York Times. There is one published report that she found her way back to Paris where she died at the American Hospital. There are also newspaper reports that, paralyzed and in dire poverty, she entered a convent in South Dakota to avoid the poorhouse, passed and was buried in an unmarked grave.
The Grand Opera House puttered on for many years, never very successfully. It was purchased and turned into a movie theatre, the RKO Grand in 1938. It continued operating until 1960 when it was closed, slated for demolition when the Ladies' Garment Union began redevelopment of the area into the Penn South residential apartments for union members and their families. Two weeks later, it burned to the ground. It was eventually replaced with a nondescript three story office building, the memories of Robber Barons, the Grand Opera House, Jubilee Jim, his mistress, and the Gilded Age long gone.
The morning was appropriately groggy. So was I. The very first email I opened contained news that at the last minute the Vermont Views website, which was listing our community radio station (which I run) as "non-profit of the month" had changed its mind. As I sank into a resigned sigh, the words "April Fool!" entered in my consciousness. There was an audible low guttural growl which emerged from somewhere within my being. It's April. The poet called it "the cruelest month". The poet may have been right.
Over the last two weeks, I've started many a post for the blog, only to abandon them all for various reasons. I had a cataract removed and was laid low for three days by reactions to the surgery. One partial post was forsaken when there were problems at the radio station which resulted in the rest of my day, and most of the next, being spent in email correspondence. I no longer feel in control of my time. I wonder if I ever really was.
 |
| Unpacking at the new WVEW studio |
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| Tuesday, April 10th, 2012 - logging into a computer to turn on the transmitter and return WVEW to the air. |
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| "Jubilee" Jim Fisk |
Today is the birthday of James (Jubilee Jim) Fisk. He was one of the Robber Barons of the Gilded Age. Born on the other side of the state, his family moved to Brattleboro when he was a child. His father became the owner and manager of a hotel on the corner of Main and Elliot Streets, known as the Revere House, in the days when Brattleboro was a resort town famous for its "water cure". At the age of 15, he ran away and joined the circus. There are reports that he made a fair amount of money by smuggling cotton during the US Civil War. He became a stockbroker working in the office of Daniel Drew, another famous thief of the financial world. (Drew's money founded a Methodist Seminary which expanded to become Drew University, which I attended in 1968-1969.) Daniel Drew was the kind of guy who used to have his cattle drink water to increase their weight just before their price per pound sale. His shady deals became known for using phony and unauthorized stocks, thereby lowering their value. Such stock were soon called "watered down" in his dubious honor.
At the offices of Daniel Drew, Jim Fiske hooked up with Jay Gould. Together they assisted Drew in manipulating the price of Erie Railroad stock, which they swindled away from Cornelius Vanderbilt. They eventually swindled the Erie away from Drew for good measure. They were openly allied with New York City's notoriously corrupt mayor "Boss" Tweed in the bribing of judges and legislatures. They also caused a financial panic which ruined many investors when they convinced President Grant to purchase and hold on to gold; they had the United States Assistant Treasurer in on the deal while they manipulated the price. For their offices, Gould and Fiske bought the Pike Opera House building at 23rd Street and 8th Avenue in NYC.
Samuel Pike had purchased much of the old Clement Clark Moore estate and built upon it a five story opulent 1,800 seat opera house which cost over a million dollars, unheard of at the time. Although the area quickly became a theater district, Pike was never able to lure patrons away from the Academy of Music on 14th Street. Within a year of its opening, Pike closed it. Fisk and Gould bought it and spent another million renovating the building, renamed it the "Grand Opera House", and became theatrical impresarios as well as financiers.
 |
| Pike's Opera House |
 |
| Josie Mansfield |
 |
| Edward Stokes |
Mansfield's affections were soon shared with one of Fisk's employees, Edward Stokes. Stokes left his wife and children and moved in with her. Together, they attempted to bribe Fisk through the use of letters which detailed some of his underhanded dealings. Fisk refused to pay up, and started a public relations battle. Stokes was arrested on charges of embezzlement. (It's a long story.) One year to the day of his arrest later, nearly bankrupt and ruined, Stokes shot and killed Jubilee Jim Fisk on the staircase of the Grand Central Hotel. Fisk was 36 years old.
Fisk's body was brought back to Brattleboro for burial in the Prospect Hill cemetery where a large monument was erected to his memory. The monument's central stone is surrounded by four scandalously underdressed (i.e. bare breasted) women, each of whom holds something connected to Mr. Fisk. One holds pieces of railroad track. One, a money bag. Another holds a steamship (another Fisk story). The last holds an emblem of the Opera House.Fisk's story became the subject of a 1937 movie, "The Toast of New York", bears a great resemblance to part of the plot for the movie "Citizen Kane", and was the subject of several best selling books. Edward Stokes served four years of his prison term before being paroled. Fisk had given freely to charity and was in held in esteem by many - upon his release, there were numerous threats made against Stokes who spent the rest of his life looking over his shoulder and feeling hunted. Fisk's wife died in poverty in Boston. Josie Mansfield made her way to Paris where she married before returning to the states. The rest of her story is unknown. She was rumored to have lived under assumed names in Boston, and in New Jersey where she allegedly died, as per a report in the New York Times. There is one published report that she found her way back to Paris where she died at the American Hospital. There are also newspaper reports that, paralyzed and in dire poverty, she entered a convent in South Dakota to avoid the poorhouse, passed and was buried in an unmarked grave.
The Grand Opera House puttered on for many years, never very successfully. It was purchased and turned into a movie theatre, the RKO Grand in 1938. It continued operating until 1960 when it was closed, slated for demolition when the Ladies' Garment Union began redevelopment of the area into the Penn South residential apartments for union members and their families. Two weeks later, it burned to the ground. It was eventually replaced with a nondescript three story office building, the memories of Robber Barons, the Grand Opera House, Jubilee Jim, his mistress, and the Gilded Age long gone. |
| A current view of the corner of 23rd Street and 8th Aveue, New York City |
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
The Spring Bulb Show
It's that time of year.
The clocks have sprung ahead by an hour and nothing seems quite right yet. There were two surprisingly sunny days which warmed into the low 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I was too busy to truly enjoy either of them. Saturday was spent working on my radio show. The first 'official' broadcast of my program was on March the 11th, 2000. I'll tell that story another day, maybe tomorrow. You have been warned. Sunday morning was spent working on setting up the handicapped accessible production room for the station. I'll probably get around to that story, too. Why do I think of all these when I haven't had an idea for weeks and I've already decided upon this entry into the blog? Probably because it's that time of year.
See, here in New England, and especially here in my little corner of Vermont, the skies turn gray in October. And it lasts until April, sometimes May. Over the last week or so, the odor of skunk has reappeared, a sure sign the mating rituals are on - Spring is coming. Unwanted email advertising messages, blessedly filtered out by Norton, have returned in quantity so reminiscent of pre-Easter bunny rabbit litters that one checks to make sure that anti-spam programs and firewalls are still active. At the moment, offers to help me spend monies to be garnered from my new improved credit rating are slightly outnumbered by offers to help in the bankruptcy sure to be caused by my suddenly lowered credit rating. At this time of year, the itchiness rises. Cabin Fever sets in. Meek little housewives finger the carving knife while studying their husband's necks - oh, wait that's hot dry Santa Annas. Sorry 'bout that Raymond Chandler. The where are the snows of yesteryear begin to vanish exposing brown or green grass like so much promise of a smile on a summer night, or the whisper of a "yes". But the promise is as yet unfulfilled. The chalice has been raised but the miracle has not yet happened. "Two, four, six, eight, time to transubstantiate".
One of my coping mechanisms is to go off to Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. Every year around the first two weeks of March, the horticulture department uses the first two rooms of the college's 118 year old Lyman conservatory for a display of tulips, daffodils, and other bulbs which can be tricked into early bloom. There are other rooms to explore, devoted to plants from cool temperate climates, the palm house, a room of succulents, etc.
When you enter the Conservatory, it is through a brick visitor's entrance. Admission is free, but a $2.00 donation is requested. The door to the greenhouse complex leads you into a riot of color and scent. Nearing the end of a New England winter, the perfume of daffodils and tulips upon entry is so overwhelming I can easily imagine being knocked over backwards by its force.
You have to wait a bit, or be exceptionally lucky, to be able to get a shot of the first two rooms (i.e. the bulb show) without people crowding the aisles. Over the years I've been there at various times of day, and I have never entered into an empty room. You might think that since these are very old greenhouse rooms, they aren't all that big. Which, I suppose, is true. But one does not notice as the senses take awhile to recover from the effect of entry; after a Brattleboro winter, the experience approaches lush decadence. The right hand side of the entry way is, in itself, a start down a primrose path...
Once you recover your bearings, you begin to notice that there are wonderful details everywhere. It is easy to once again become overwhelmed. There is so much to see, and so many people you worry there won't be time. Really. We have only taken a few steps inside. Take a few more steps, and the view changes:
The other rooms of the conservatory are also worth every moment one can spend there:
If you wander down the short path in the Cool Temperature Plant Room, there is a waterfall:
I could use a nice sit on the bench across from that waterfall just now. This post is in its second day. To post to the blog, I use the Chrome browser after Blogger decided it did not wish to work with my usual browser. There was a potential security issue with Java, so I updated. The browser now frequently freezes. I've re-installed it twice to no avail. This morning, there was a new version of my usual browser (Explorer) available, so I downloaded and installed it. It opened, but refused to load any pages. Normally, I'd check for reviews and reactions before downloading something important. I guess it was the heady onrush of the promise of Spring that unhinged me so that I took such leave of my normal procedures. Perhaps a visit to the Tropical Room will help.
The following is from my last visit to the Spring Bulb show, back on March the 12th of 2006. The bananas hadn't started ripening yet this year...
There are still other rooms to visit:
This year the hallway of orchids didn't have its usual display, so I've reached back to 2006 for this one:
The hallway did have a few things in it, though:
Of course, the only way to exit all of this is to retrace your steps and go back through the bulb rooms (and see everything you missed the first time).
Well, the parking meters near the college only last two hours, so it was time to leave and go off for lunch. Which, by my 'breath of spring' ritual is at the nearby Miss Florence diner.
On my last visit there in 2006, I was sitting in one of the booths when I realized that my my little digital camera had fallen out of my pocket. I left my contact information with the owner just in case, retraced the days path to the greenhouses, all to no avail. Three days later, I got a call from the diner's owner. He'd been moving the wooden booth seats to clean, and there was my camera! It was picked up by a friend and returned to Brattleboro, as I didn't have a car at the time. I've also been without a car for the past few years; my trip to the bulb show was made on both occasions with my friend, driver, and camera rescuer Ralph Kunkel. Ralph has a great show on our Community Radio Station, "And How That Rhythm", every Sunday morning from 10am until noon. He's very good, by the way, at stepping out of a picture in that moment between pressing the camera button and the movement of the shutter. Still, I did manage to get one taken. Thanks for the excursion, Ralph!
The clocks have sprung ahead by an hour and nothing seems quite right yet. There were two surprisingly sunny days which warmed into the low 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I was too busy to truly enjoy either of them. Saturday was spent working on my radio show. The first 'official' broadcast of my program was on March the 11th, 2000. I'll tell that story another day, maybe tomorrow. You have been warned. Sunday morning was spent working on setting up the handicapped accessible production room for the station. I'll probably get around to that story, too. Why do I think of all these when I haven't had an idea for weeks and I've already decided upon this entry into the blog? Probably because it's that time of year.
See, here in New England, and especially here in my little corner of Vermont, the skies turn gray in October. And it lasts until April, sometimes May. Over the last week or so, the odor of skunk has reappeared, a sure sign the mating rituals are on - Spring is coming. Unwanted email advertising messages, blessedly filtered out by Norton, have returned in quantity so reminiscent of pre-Easter bunny rabbit litters that one checks to make sure that anti-spam programs and firewalls are still active. At the moment, offers to help me spend monies to be garnered from my new improved credit rating are slightly outnumbered by offers to help in the bankruptcy sure to be caused by my suddenly lowered credit rating. At this time of year, the itchiness rises. Cabin Fever sets in. Meek little housewives finger the carving knife while studying their husband's necks - oh, wait that's hot dry Santa Annas. Sorry 'bout that Raymond Chandler. The where are the snows of yesteryear begin to vanish exposing brown or green grass like so much promise of a smile on a summer night, or the whisper of a "yes". But the promise is as yet unfulfilled. The chalice has been raised but the miracle has not yet happened. "Two, four, six, eight, time to transubstantiate".
One of my coping mechanisms is to go off to Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. Every year around the first two weeks of March, the horticulture department uses the first two rooms of the college's 118 year old Lyman conservatory for a display of tulips, daffodils, and other bulbs which can be tricked into early bloom. There are other rooms to explore, devoted to plants from cool temperate climates, the palm house, a room of succulents, etc.
 |
| The Lyman Conservatory (and a late snow covered magnolia) from a picture I took so long ago I don't remember the year. The magnolia is gone now. |
When you enter the Conservatory, it is through a brick visitor's entrance. Admission is free, but a $2.00 donation is requested. The door to the greenhouse complex leads you into a riot of color and scent. Nearing the end of a New England winter, the perfume of daffodils and tulips upon entry is so overwhelming I can easily imagine being knocked over backwards by its force.
You have to wait a bit, or be exceptionally lucky, to be able to get a shot of the first two rooms (i.e. the bulb show) without people crowding the aisles. Over the years I've been there at various times of day, and I have never entered into an empty room. You might think that since these are very old greenhouse rooms, they aren't all that big. Which, I suppose, is true. But one does not notice as the senses take awhile to recover from the effect of entry; after a Brattleboro winter, the experience approaches lush decadence. The right hand side of the entry way is, in itself, a start down a primrose path...
Once you recover your bearings, you begin to notice that there are wonderful details everywhere. It is easy to once again become overwhelmed. There is so much to see, and so many people you worry there won't be time. Really. We have only taken a few steps inside. Take a few more steps, and the view changes:
The other rooms of the conservatory are also worth every moment one can spend there:
If you wander down the short path in the Cool Temperature Plant Room, there is a waterfall:
I could use a nice sit on the bench across from that waterfall just now. This post is in its second day. To post to the blog, I use the Chrome browser after Blogger decided it did not wish to work with my usual browser. There was a potential security issue with Java, so I updated. The browser now frequently freezes. I've re-installed it twice to no avail. This morning, there was a new version of my usual browser (Explorer) available, so I downloaded and installed it. It opened, but refused to load any pages. Normally, I'd check for reviews and reactions before downloading something important. I guess it was the heady onrush of the promise of Spring that unhinged me so that I took such leave of my normal procedures. Perhaps a visit to the Tropical Room will help.
The following is from my last visit to the Spring Bulb show, back on March the 12th of 2006. The bananas hadn't started ripening yet this year...
There are still other rooms to visit:
This year the hallway of orchids didn't have its usual display, so I've reached back to 2006 for this one:
The hallway did have a few things in it, though:
Of course, the only way to exit all of this is to retrace your steps and go back through the bulb rooms (and see everything you missed the first time).
Well, the parking meters near the college only last two hours, so it was time to leave and go off for lunch. Which, by my 'breath of spring' ritual is at the nearby Miss Florence diner.
On my last visit there in 2006, I was sitting in one of the booths when I realized that my my little digital camera had fallen out of my pocket. I left my contact information with the owner just in case, retraced the days path to the greenhouses, all to no avail. Three days later, I got a call from the diner's owner. He'd been moving the wooden booth seats to clean, and there was my camera! It was picked up by a friend and returned to Brattleboro, as I didn't have a car at the time. I've also been without a car for the past few years; my trip to the bulb show was made on both occasions with my friend, driver, and camera rescuer Ralph Kunkel. Ralph has a great show on our Community Radio Station, "And How That Rhythm", every Sunday morning from 10am until noon. He's very good, by the way, at stepping out of a picture in that moment between pressing the camera button and the movement of the shutter. Still, I did manage to get one taken. Thanks for the excursion, Ralph!
Monday, March 4, 2013
The Oscars, Sequestration, and The Age of Snark
Mercury is retrograde again. This is not good; Mercury is my ruling planet. Fleet footed messenger indeed. Harbinger of electronic frustration and disaster is more like it. One of my external hardrives has crashed with a loss of some data. An update to the Chrome browser to make it more secure has rendered it nearly useless. Yup, Mercury is retrograde. It's not that I'm a follower of things astrological. I'm not. I'm much too much of a Virgo for that.
If that comment came off as a little snarky, then I have accomplished at least one goal today. We are, after all, living in the Age of Snark.
The word "snark" is supposed to derive from the combination of "snide" and "remark". In other words, the intent is a sarcastic comment. i.e., one "marked by or given to using irony in order to mock or convey contempt" , "biting", "acrimonious", "snide". The key word is "irony" or "ironic". This implies that there is substance and thought behind the use of a snarky comment. Sadly, in the current practice of snark, there is very little thought or substance to be found. It is cynicism without experience or reason, used in an attempt to be "cool".
A perfect example would be last week's Academy Awards. The host was a properly handsome and multi-talented young man whose name already escapes me; I had to look it up. Seth MacFarlane is the man behind a couple of animated tv shows known for wiseacre characters who make pithy comments about modern life, which includes a talking baby genius of snark. And he was the creator of a top grossing movie in which a main character was the adult hero's hilariously potty mouthed teddy bear. I haven't seen the tv shows or the movie, but even without a working familiarity with them it was obvious that this guy wasn't going to be your average Oscar host. This year's show was produced by the guys from Storyline Entertainment. Storyline's mainstay is Craig Zadan who is an openly gay producer of Broadway, film and tv musicals such as the original "Footloose", and the movie musicals of "Chicago", and "Hairspray". With these folks behind the show, it amazes me that people were shocked at the occasionally infantile humor and inclusion of musical numbers. Why did they think these guys were hired?
In the entertaining, occasionally funny, but too long opening segment, MacFarlane had a song and dance routine tribute to the allure of the movies whose main refrain was "we saw your boobs". The song named names and films. There were reaction shots of many of the women who were named. Anyone paying attention would have noted that the reactions were previously recorded - some weren't even wearing the same clothes as in the live shots. The ladies were in on the joke, lame as it was. The number's finale included the Los Angeles Gay Men's chorus. Paid commentators, and a great host of tweeters, bloggers, and Facebookers went berserk. Negative commentary was literally flying with the speed of light, or at least dsl. The number was instantly denounced as sexist, misogynistic, homophobic, crude and so on and so forth. Excuse me, but what did you folks expect? First off, we're talking the Oscars here - a show famous in modern times for pairing Rob Lowe, just off a major sex scandal, with Snow White for a song and dance. The "boobs" number was as much a commentary on the attitudes of male moviegoers and the selling of an entertainment product by use of nudity as it was an exploitation. It was snark with something behind it. The response was an attempt to be snarky about it all, each writer trying to top the other and so find their fleeting moment of internet fame in what was basically humorless name calling.
The Oscar folks did what they were hired to do. They got the best ratings in years, and MacFarlane's presence brought in a younger demographic for the advertisers.
For anyone who is a reader, the word 'snark' references a nonsense poem by Lewis Carroll, "The Hunting of the Snark" which is told in eight "fits". Varieties of snark are named. Some bite, some scratch. And one, the boojum, can cause someone to vanish away, never to be seen again. It has always been my suspicion that the boojum exists. It is the third named snark. As stated in the poem's preface, "what I tell you three times is true". The boojum does, in fact, make a baker disappear, and drives a banker quite mad. In the poem's original publication as a book in 1876, illustrations by artist Henry Holiday were included. In a moment of prophecy (and modern day snark), the banker bears a stunning resemblance to Republican puppet master Karl Rove. Rove famously engineered the two elections of George W. Bush to the US Presidency by the use of gerrymandering, voter suppression, distortion, misrepresentation, political action committees, and outright lies. In the most recent election, Rove was reduced to the madness of babbling idiocy on Fox News when election returns declared Obama the winner.
Babbling idiocy is very popular just now. It is especially apparent in the reactions to what is being called "sequestration". Technically, sequestration is a legal maneuver in which property is held by a court to prevent it from being disposed of before its proper ownership is resolved. The current use refers to a government policy intended to reduce the government's budget deficit by having the treasury hold back from spending an amount based on a formula set by Congress. We have been told by the commentators, tweeters, Facebookers, and bloggers that there was a political failure engendered by hard-nosed Tea Partiers and Republicans who refuse to budge on the issue of raising taxes, and Democratic ideologues who refuse to budge on issues of entitlement reform and social program spending. They have missed the point. It is all a nonsense poem.
All political sides owe their financial existence to sometimes different, sometimes the same, corporations and their financial aristocrat stockholders. There was no agreement to stave off the latest crisis because there wasn't intended to be one. These folks did the job they were hired to do. The rich are taking what they deem to be theirs. Even the financial publication Bloomberg News has been so appalled by all of this nonsense that they pointed out that the amount of the sequester (i.e. cuts in government programs) is strangely equal to the amount of financial bailouts given this year to the top Wall Street banks. That amount also happens to be the same as the amount of profit those banks are showing. (We're talking roughly $88 Billion here.) Ah, a co-incidence. Like the right horse coming in at the right time on the right track.
Of course, all this is slight of hand. The sequester is a snark. The money, like the 18 Billion cash that got lost from the books during the Iraq invasion, is a snark. "For the snark was a boojum, you see".
If that comment came off as a little snarky, then I have accomplished at least one goal today. We are, after all, living in the Age of Snark.
The word "snark" is supposed to derive from the combination of "snide" and "remark". In other words, the intent is a sarcastic comment. i.e., one "marked by or given to using irony in order to mock or convey contempt" , "biting", "acrimonious", "snide". The key word is "irony" or "ironic". This implies that there is substance and thought behind the use of a snarky comment. Sadly, in the current practice of snark, there is very little thought or substance to be found. It is cynicism without experience or reason, used in an attempt to be "cool".
 |
| This year's Oscars strived to be different. |
 |
| Seth MacFarlane |
The Oscar folks did what they were hired to do. They got the best ratings in years, and MacFarlane's presence brought in a younger demographic for the advertisers.
For anyone who is a reader, the word 'snark' references a nonsense poem by Lewis Carroll, "The Hunting of the Snark" which is told in eight "fits". Varieties of snark are named. Some bite, some scratch. And one, the boojum, can cause someone to vanish away, never to be seen again. It has always been my suspicion that the boojum exists. It is the third named snark. As stated in the poem's preface, "what I tell you three times is true". The boojum does, in fact, make a baker disappear, and drives a banker quite mad. In the poem's original publication as a book in 1876, illustrations by artist Henry Holiday were included. In a moment of prophecy (and modern day snark), the banker bears a stunning resemblance to Republican puppet master Karl Rove. Rove famously engineered the two elections of George W. Bush to the US Presidency by the use of gerrymandering, voter suppression, distortion, misrepresentation, political action committees, and outright lies. In the most recent election, Rove was reduced to the madness of babbling idiocy on Fox News when election returns declared Obama the winner.Babbling idiocy is very popular just now. It is especially apparent in the reactions to what is being called "sequestration". Technically, sequestration is a legal maneuver in which property is held by a court to prevent it from being disposed of before its proper ownership is resolved. The current use refers to a government policy intended to reduce the government's budget deficit by having the treasury hold back from spending an amount based on a formula set by Congress. We have been told by the commentators, tweeters, Facebookers, and bloggers that there was a political failure engendered by hard-nosed Tea Partiers and Republicans who refuse to budge on the issue of raising taxes, and Democratic ideologues who refuse to budge on issues of entitlement reform and social program spending. They have missed the point. It is all a nonsense poem.
All political sides owe their financial existence to sometimes different, sometimes the same, corporations and their financial aristocrat stockholders. There was no agreement to stave off the latest crisis because there wasn't intended to be one. These folks did the job they were hired to do. The rich are taking what they deem to be theirs. Even the financial publication Bloomberg News has been so appalled by all of this nonsense that they pointed out that the amount of the sequester (i.e. cuts in government programs) is strangely equal to the amount of financial bailouts given this year to the top Wall Street banks. That amount also happens to be the same as the amount of profit those banks are showing. (We're talking roughly $88 Billion here.) Ah, a co-incidence. Like the right horse coming in at the right time on the right track.
Of course, all this is slight of hand. The sequester is a snark. The money, like the 18 Billion cash that got lost from the books during the Iraq invasion, is a snark. "For the snark was a boojum, you see".
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Farewell, Lieutenant Cable
One of the things that disturbs me about reading news on the internet is the speed with which certain stories vanish. Oh, they're still out there, but the listings of the various stories on the news services change very quickly on a busy news day. If you don't happen to catch a headline when it appears, it may soon be gone. Sometimes, it takes awhile to catch up with a story, or to even find a story you didn't have time to read when it was first listed. This morning, while catching up with the New York Times, I found one of those stories that got by me.
The actor John Kerr has passed away. He was once a fairly well known name on Broadway, winning the 1954 Tony award for his performance in Robert Anderson's then daring play "Tea and Sympathy". It was a florid little pot boiler which co-starred Deborah Kerr (no relation). They both reprised their roles in the movie version.
Due to the censorship restrictions of the time, the script of the movie suffered a bit. On stage John Kerr's character, 17 year old student Tom Lee, was tormented by classmates who found him less than manly. He knew how to sew. He read books. He liked classical music. Somewhere between Broadway and the MGM sound-stage, he changed from being a suspected homosexual to being a suspected "sister boy". Etc. At the play's conclusion, older woman Deborah Kerr helps the young man's opinion of himself by starting to unbutton her blouse while uttering the now famous line, "When you speak of this in future years - and you will, be kind". Curtain.
(Just as a by the by, in the movie version there is no doubt about the outcome of that final stage scene as a framing device was used to tell the story in flashback.)
John Kerr then took on the role of Lieutenant Cable in the movie version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein WWII musical "South Pacific". Cable falls in love with an Island girl, but refuses to marry her due to the racial prejudices of his family. It is the Lieutenant who, full of self loathing, sings the message song of the show:
You've got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You've got to be taught
From year to year,
It's got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught!
Mr. Kerr was offered the starring role in a major biopic of Charles Lindbergh. Stating, “I don’t admire the ideals of the hero,” (who had been a Nazi sympathizer) he turned it down. It affected his career. He still got occasional roles in B movie fodder like the 1961 Roger Corman drive-in epic "The Pit and the Pendulum". He turned up on tv from time to time as a guest star, and played a recurring role for a season on the mid 1960's soap opera "Peyton Place". He took up the study of law and was admitted to the bar in California in 1970. While practicing law he accepted occasional acting jobs on stage and tv. His last appearance as an actor was in 1986. He passed on February the 2nd, at the age of 81.
Rest in Peace, sir.
Rest in Peace.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Snow day reading
So just after I clicked on the mouse to send yesterday's post to the blog, it started to snow. It was a little fitful at one point a couple of hours in, but it recovered and snowed well into the night. I'm guessing we got about a foot and a half. Certainly, enough that it piled up to the bottom of the sign for St. Michael's Episcopal across the street.I've told you about St. Michael's haven't I? You can't just say "St. Michael's" because we have two of them - one is Catholic. The one across the street used to be downtown next to the Congregational Church, but was moved to what must have been the edge of town in 1953. Well, the edge of the civic section of downtown anyway. Most of the houses around here (big showplaces for the leading families) were built long before that event. I have a scan of the move around here somewhere.... ah, there it is. Where St. Mike's used to be there is now a bank and office building - the (now closed) local IRS office used to be in it at one point.
I've no real information on why the congregation moved its building a little over 5 blocks north. Were they securing a trust fund to maintain the building? Maybe it was the lack of downtown parking? It used to sit back a bit from Main Street, with the Connecticut River and Mt. Wantastiquet as its backdrop.At least the white spire of the Congregationalist Church is still there downtown, very Peyton Place.
It's a beautiful morning here in Brattleboro. Until just about an hour ago there wasn't even any auto traffic on Putney Road, but sadly things are starting to pick up a bit. Too bad, I was enjoying the quiet.
It's not like I don't have things to do. I still have a good bit of work left on my radio show to get done. But it's the kind of morning when one just wants to sit around in one's bathrobe, fresh ground freshly brewed coffee in hand, occasionally glancing at the view while lazily perusing a magazine. People around here are pretty good about dropping their magazines off at all the local coffee shops and doctor's offices. There's always a few things of interest one can pick up...
Friday, February 8, 2013
Storm Warnings and facebook perambulations
It has become my custom these last couple of months (since I took early retirement) to log onto my news servers in the early morning (which has been my custom for many years) and then wander over to facebook. In case anyone is wondering, I know 'facebook' should be capitalized, but that would show a level of respect for it that I just don't have. Don't misunderstand, I greatly respect the achievement. It is easily the largest most important internet portal in existence. The facebook experience is equal parts admiration versus frustration, discovery versus obfuscation, digital democracy versus totalitarian tool, enjoyment versus stupification. It is a labyrinth without Ariadne's string. It can be useful. One can find old friends, stay in touch with our family members kept at a safe distance, or our neighbors and friends we seldom see in our all too busy world. Of course, we don't see some of our friends because they are lost in facebook's hypnotic maze and branched pathways.
Last night on facebook there were many locally oriented posts regarding an imminent blizzard. This morning, the posts informed me that most of the area schools were closed due to snow. Our local almost a movie palace announced that it would be closed tonight and will have no matinees tomorrow. It is now 10:45 in the morning, and we have yet to see a single flurry. The facebook experience is rather like a blizzard with no snow, it is the moment of waiting for the chalice to be raised.
Many people or groups post incessantly. One post isn't enough for them, so they post several times. Every hour. If one political page has a graphic, all of the political pages have it, or make variations of it. Spurious quotes and statistics are commonplace. But so are wonderful graphics, stunning pictures of far away places, and iconic images of pop cultural history and/or cultural trash esthetics. Think of hundreds of WordPress pages displayed in a continuous scroll. I've added to my collection of extraordinarily bad art, abominably cheesy album covers, pulp book and magazine illustration, etc. While some of these are highly enjoyable, there are also a number of images which I wish I hadn't seen.
Naturally, I have the overwhelming urge to share them.
Have a great day.
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