Random Ramblings – the Master Tapes
It’s supposed to be a day of rest
today (Good Friday) and so the Random Ramblings will simply provide a means to
access the full slate of Ramblings. The
real purpose of this exercise is to have something after the end of this
nonsense – to look back on, laugh about, and perhaps trigger a memory as to
where you left your car keys…
It’s also an exercise in trying to tie together a number of media; writing, links to videos, photo’s, music – a real high tech exercise (cue off screen laughter).
It’s also an exercise in trying to tie together a number of media; writing, links to videos, photo’s, music – a real high tech exercise (cue off screen laughter).
So here is a link to the full slate of
pointless, all over the place, confusing, random ramblings…
Random ramblings from the great lock down of 2020, Part I... Tiger King Mania
If you had asked me what the most
bizarre "life story" I had ever seen was, I would, up until now, have
probably thought for a while and come back with an answer of "Andy
Kaufman". Because, after all, it is not often that you see a
comedian/performance artist who had an act that consisted of reading "The
Great Gatsby" on stage, or miming to the "Mighty Mouse" theme,
or transitioning in to the greatest Elvis imitation ever - or bringing the
entire audience for milk and cookies.
Kaufman then morphed in to a sitcom
star (Taxi) who nearly sabotaged his own career by booking himself in
character (terrible lounge singer Tony Clifton) as a guest star on the
same show. That ended badly. So, changing pace he endeavoured to become the
"intergender wrestling champion of the world", got in to a public
feud with another wrestler (which may or may not have been real), and
eventually, when he dies, has screwed with people's minds for so long that, to
this day, there are still those who claim he's not dead. That's a bizarre life.
Hard to beat that.
Until I watched "Tiger
King". Ladies and gentlemen - we have a winner and new champion. Actually,
maybe we have three.
"Now Mike", you say to me,
"What's the big deal?" After all, this is just your ordinary, everyday,
run of the mill documentary about the owner of an exotic big cat theme park who
happens to be involved in a three way gay marriage and is serving time for a
kill for hire scheme targeting another owner of a (currently non-breeding) big
cat theme park who, may, perhaps, have killed her second husband and fed him to
one of those cats and who both were mentored by another owner of a big cat
theme park (how many of these freakin' places are there anyway?) who is
evidently running it as the "Bhagwan" of a cult staffed by sex
slaves. And, sure, it sounds reasonable when you put it that way, but that's
only part of the story. There is also country music involved.
Suffice to say that the sanest
character in this story is a woman who had her arm chewed off by a tiger and
went back to work, at the same place days later for $100 a week and all the expired
meat she could eat. As we all sit inside, a captive audience with little else to take up our time, I get the feeling this will become a runaway hit.
Andy did you hear about this one?
Random Ramblings from the great lockdown of 2020, Pt. II… Secretariat
Being shut in makes you appreciate the times when you experience
or witness the opposite – the freedom of skiing down a slope, running down a
fly ball, watching a dog chase down a frisbee (he won’t get it…, no way he
get’s it… it’s gonna be close…got it!”). Many of those moments (though not all)
are associated with speed, stretching things to the limit, going beyond what
you might have thought you, or someone/something else might do.
That’s the lead in to today’s ramble.
Now, I’m not much of a horse person. In my estimation they’re
above cats but below dogs, and even behind the platypus (love me some
platypus). Still, I enjoy a day out at the track from time to time.
Tattersalls, one of the world’s great auctioneers, is just 10 minutes up the
road, as is Fairyhouse, home of the Irish Grand National.
I was in Saratoga for the 1994 Travers Stakes, the celebrated
“fourth leg of the Triple Crown”, also known as the race for those who were
“told there would be no math”… Anyway, this particular contest was supposed to
be a classic confrontation between Holy Bull and Tabasco Cat, who had duelled
in the year’s earlier Triple Crown races. Instead, the race became an
incredible sprint for the finish between Concern and the Bull, with the latter
staying in front by a nose.
I proudly hold a copy of the ticket I purchased for American
Pharoah’s Belmont win – the first triple crown to be completed in 37 years.
That was quite a stretch. For a time in the ‘70’s triple crowns had been fairly
common, but the norm is for a gap of time to pass between winners of that
honor. Before Seattle Slew and Affirmed put back to back triple crown’s
together in 1977 and ’78 there had been only one triple crown winner in 29
years – but that one had been incredibly special, and is the subject of this
ramble.
Secretariat, coming up to the Belmont Stakes in 1973 was a
national sensation. Appearing on the cover of all the national magazines the
horse stood on the verge of accomplishing what had not been done for 25 years –
winning a triple crown (the previous one - Citation in 1948, is a story in
itself). The big, red horse, ridden by jockey Ron Turcotte, had set track
records in winning both the Kentucky Derby and Preakness – although it is not
often remembered that neither was a sure thing. The second place horse in both
races, Sham, would have set track records himself if he hadn’t been staring at
Secretariat’s bum going across the finish.
The real test was to be the Belmont, a grueling mile and a half
trial of a three-year old’s stamina. The feeling was that Sham would push Secretariat
to the max and, perhaps, break through for the win at the stage where
completing the classic series had proven so difficult for prior contenders. For
whatever reason the attempt at the rarely completed triple crown had caught the
nation’s (and the horse racing world’s) attention like no event in the recent
past, and for at least one day the sport of king’s returned to the center stage
that it had once held in the days when baseball, boxing and the horses reined
supreme in American sport. The stage was set for all to watch – the only
question was whether the horse would deliver the goods.
Oh boy. Did he ever.
As the horses lined up that day CBS was the network lucky enough
to have the broadcast rights. They were also lucky to have the talents of Chic
Anderson to call the race. Anderson’s work that day has become rightfully
acknowledged as one of the great broadcasts of all time. The event is obviously
the major reason for that – what Secretariat was to do that day would have been
special to see even if no one had announced the event. Still, hearing Anderson
at various points in the race makes the happening even more special. Listen,
for instance, for Anderson to nonchalantly take over the call as the horses are
loaded in to the gate – his laconic, relaxed “Thanks Buddy” is the perfect lead
in for a horse racing call, which should always start as if you’re having a
laid back chat with a neighbour about the weather across a fence, and build to
a climax. Anderson clearly knew what he was doing from the get go – but even
better – he understood the moment as the race was proceeding. It would have
been expected for an announcer to hold off until the finish to go in to high
gear – but Anderson grasped, as he was announcing, that he was watching
something extraordinary and he did not wait to let his audience know it. The
call is fairly standard until he announces the ¾ mile split – then he clearly
understands what’s going on and changes his cadence to let the world know. The
wonder of his voice when he says the words “tremendous machine” are most often
cited (and they are memorable) but listen as well to how his voice almost
cracks as he says “Secretariat is ALL ALONE” and then, finally, how it does
break when he sees the ecstatic reactions in the crowd and speaks of this
“miracle horse”.
So what had Secretariat done? He won the Belmont in a record
time of 2:24 (it still stands). He had destroyed Sham and the rest of the
field, winning by an incredible 31 lengths. (This was the one thing Anderson
gets wrong – he said it was 25. It’s hard to call him on this – first, he
acknowledges it’s just a guess. Second – check how the TV camera must pan back
to even find the other horses in the race). In winning the triple crown five
years later Affirmed won the three races by a combined margin of less than two
lengths (a neck and a nose over Alydar in the last two). In this single race
Secretariat was more than 15 times better than that in terms of margin.
On a day in June, 1973 Secretariat, not a machine but a being of
flesh and blood broke the bounds of what anyone thought could be done. As we
sit confined in our homes today it’s worth watching the film of that event and
remembering what it is like to be so unconfined, and know that it can be done.
Amazing.
Random Ramblings during the great lockdown of 2020 Pt III –
Hotels
One of the hardest hit industries of the current crisis is the
hotel/resort sector, which is essentially crippled. Not only is there no travel
(so no rooms being rented), but all the adjunct businesses, from weddings,
restaurants, bars, golf courses, spas – everything connected to a hotel either
as accommodation or vacation spot is shut down. Hopefully things come back
strong for all hotels, but I worry about two in particular, because they
represent a dying breed and because they are truly historic in more than just
the generic sense of the term.
They also both occupy the same State, and though they represent
two entirely different environments they are only about 100 miles apart. The extremes
are the sea and the mountains, the State is New Hampshire and the
establishments are Wentworth-by-the-Sea and the Mount Washington (Bretton
Woods) hotels. The historic connection is that two of the most important
treaties of the 20th century were negotiated in the confines of the resorts, the
Treaty of Portsmouth, which ended the Russo-Japanese War and won Teddy
Roosevelt a Nobel Peace Prize and the Bretton Woods Agreement, which
essentially created the economic world as we know it.
The odds on any two hotels in America acting as the venue for
such diplomatic events are not that great – treaties are usually named for
entire cities (the delegations are kept apart) – so you get the “Treaty of
Paris” or “The Geneva Convention”. There are also government owned castles or
military bases that will house large delegations - the “Camp David Accords” or
“Treaty of Versailles” pop to mind. But for two hotels, (in tiny New Hampshire
of all places) to serve as the venue for such historic events is amazing.
Just to clear things up – Wentworth by the Sea is not in
Portsmouth, it’s right next to it in the truly scenic little town of New
Castle. I cycle by the place every year when I go to the New Hampshire coast.
The treaty is named after Portsmouth because that’s where the Navy Yard, where
things were signed, is located. All the important stuff took place at the hotel
– that’s where the Japanese and Russian delegations stayed and wrangled out the
terms of their disengagement with T.R.’s constant prodding.
Bretton Woods is the resort where the Mount Washington hotel is
located and the treaty that was hammered out there, amongst many of the world’s
nations (great and small), is perhaps the most important document of the last
century. The World Bank, the IMF, the very structure of international economics
was put in place in the middle of the New Hampshire wilderness through the
summer of 1944. (That’s right 1944 – in the middle of the second World War).
John Maynard Keynes and Henry Morgenthau were there along with a gaggle of
Russians (and Russian spies, including one of the most prominent Americans),
Indian delegations before India was even a country, representatives from
Guatemala to Greece, occupied France and a China that was very different from
what China would become. Not a single head of state attended – but to give an
idea of the importance of the gathering no less than seven of the attendees
would go on to be President or Prime Minister of their countries. They
negotiated all day, drank all night for about a month – and in the end largely
constructed the world as we know it.
Both of these hotels harken back to a day when, due to the fact
that it was only possible to create so many places with indoor plumbing,
transport (meaning train) access, staff that could live on site (no one had
cars) and the ability to feed large groups of people – you had to build large
hotels. Sorry “large” is an understatement. These buildings are massive. When
you look at the Wentworth, or the Mount Washington – the sheer scale of the building
is the first thing that jumps out. They aren’t tall like a skyscraper, or
impressive like the Lincoln Memorial or White House. They are – I don’t know –
I guess the word is “dominant”. In places next to the ocean or against the
mountains where you would never expect a man-made edifice to overpower the
setting – they still manage it. The daunting undertaking of walking around in
the place, let alone maintaining it, boggles the mind. Still, they manage to
fit in to their landscapes – I like looking towards the White Mountains and
seeing the Bretton Woods resort. I look forward to topping the rise (usually
after stopping for lunch at the Ice House – recommend it highly) and seeing
Wentworth-by-the-Sea spread out ahead of me.
These types of hotels are impressive, but they are living
fossils – always threatened with real extinction because, while they fit in to
their settings they don’t really fit in to these times. That’s too bad because
I think they’re worth keeping around – not just because of the history they
represent but because they remind us that it is possible to build something big
and not have it look like it was constructed by an alien civilization.
Read “The Summit”, Ed Conway’s book about the
Bretton Woods conference and what it accomplished, or “Mornings on Horseback”
David McCullough’s book about Teddy Roosevelt and how he became who he was –
but if you get a chance after we all get let out – travel to either of the
hotels and maybe spend a buck or two there. It’ll be worth it.
 |
| Wentworth By The Sea |
 |
| The Mount Washington Hotel at Bretton Woods |
Random Ramblings Pt IV – Mad Men (Kids
Version)
Today we will address the attack of
the unbeatable earworms, nothing disease related, but a review of the sorts of
commercials that get in your head, like a pop song, and live there for,
essentially, your entire life. These have been crossing my mind lately as I’ve
been subjected to more than the usual share of advertising as the radio or TV
plays in the background while I’m at home. I realize, as I listen to the same
ads over and over again – that they are all trying to burn their way into my
consciousness (well – probably more my subconsciousness).
I think advertising agencies used to
be better at this – or I was more susceptible when I was a kid. I’m doing some
writing about the old Saturday morning cartoon shows and one of the things I
had to confront was the fact that I remember as much about the continual
bombardment of breakfast cereal commercials as I do about the cartoons. I know,
for example, that A is for apple, J is for jacks – cinnamon, toasty Apple
Jacks. I also know that Honeycomb’s big (yeah yeah yeah) it’s not small (no, no
no). Oh – and Trix are for kids.
I’m
sure some commercials had the opposite effect on me than what they desired. I
never would have bought Chuck Wagon dog food, because, well, I was pissed off
that the dog never caught the little chuck wagon:
(It
seems I wasn’t the only one).
There
were other commercials that just managed to annoy the hell out of me. I don’t
know anyone who liked the little girl who said “and I haaaaaalped” at the end
of the Shake and Bake ad. I mean – hey, kid, don’t squeal on Grandma, and don’t
take credit for doing anything when all you did was shake the freakin’ bag.
It’s like doing one piece of a jigsaw puzzle (a corner piece) and then saying
you helped get it done. I mean “haaaalped”. Screw that kid – you probably make
your family dinners of pot noodles these days.
But
there were undoubted successes. To this day two opposing frankfurters battle in
my head for supremacy. An army of fat kids, skinny kids – right up to
pock-marked children square off against those who wish they could morph in to
elongated tubes of pinkish meat by-products:
Those
weren’t the only successes. I definitely try not to litter. I’m sure I do it
because I understand the need to recycle, to keep the landscape clean, to
preserve a sense of order in the world. I mostly do it because I feel bad for
this guy:
It’s
a short ramble today – but I’ll leave you with an earworm that has undoubtedly
caused numerous Americans to ask Italian tour guides whether they will be going
to “Baloney” when making their way around the old country…
Random
Ramblings during the great lockdown of 2020, Part V. Musical interludes.
Being
shut inside means that there is usually a radio playing somewhere, and while
there is a hell of a lot of important advice being broadcast (evidently
“washing your hands” is the new craze) – there is a huge amount of music to be
heard as well. So the day typically will have a few tunes to be enjoyed, but
there are musical elements that are missing from the current circumstances.
Now, other than largely futile
forays in to learning the guitar and harmonica I am not a musical person – except
for the fact that I really like to listen to music. I also enjoy reading and
finding out about people who are good musicians, I have been known to loosen up
the vocal cords when drunk (though I rarely drink, confining my intake only to
days that contain the letter “Y”), and will use any excuse to see live music.
Of course, while I enjoy all of
these activities – during the lock down the only one I can’t currently indulge
in is the latter. There are no concerts, club gigs, sessions in bars,
festivals, parades, sing-songs around a campfire or other public musical
displays at the moment. (Other than those Italians leaning out the window to
sing – that was brilliant). So in honor of not being able to go out to listen
to the music (including the Christy Moore concert that got cancelled), here are
a couple of memorable musical moments that I’ve had the pleasure of
experiencing. Mind you – these aren’t my “favorite concerts” (though some I’m
sure would be on the list) or “best bands” - they’re just times when music
publicly performed gave me some enjoyment. I might end up doing a couple of
rambles about these times since it’ll be a while before any of us will get to a
concert or hear a band live. Hopefully it triggers a similar memory for
yourselves.
There was one winter night when
a bunch of friends (about six) and I were wandering around Cambridge, for
whatever reason. Having had something to eat and (in all likelihood) more than
a bit of something to drink we were at a loss for what to do next. Then it
started to snow – one of those mixes where there are big fat flakes coming down
with a bit of drizzle – it was pretty clear we weren’t going to be able to stay
outside much longer and so would have to find a port to get us through this
storm.
The storm got more intense and
so we started to look for some place to duck in to. Now, there was (and maybe
still is) a club in Central Square called “The Middle East” and they had a
number of bands that played there – some very good, others less so. We were
coming up to the place and I noticed that a band named “Davy Jones” was playing
there on this night. I figured that they were named for the keeper of the
famous undersea locker and so asked the guy at the door what kind of music they
played. “I don’t know, monkey music I guess”.
I assumed the doorman wasn’t
making a random racial slur so, exhibiting Sherlock Holmes-like powers of
deduction I said – “Do you mean Monkee music as in Davy Jones, former Monkee?”
He did indeed – it seems Davy was promoting a new album and had somehow been
booked in to a place that would more likely have been hosting bands like The
Pixies or The Lemonheads before they made it big. I asked how much it was to
see the shortest of the pre-fab four and was told the asking price was $25.
That seemed quite steep – and taking a chance that there was going to be very
few people venturing out in what was rapidly becoming a major storm I countered
with an offer of a fiver each. “No can do” he answered – but the way he said it
I could tell he was open to negotiation. We settled on $7.50 each, and like a
bunch of snow covered soaked rats we ventured down into the venue.
During Davy Jones' days with the
Monkees they routinely had to be escorted by police through overflowing crowds
that threatened to tear the band limb from limb. This was not going to be one
of those nights. There were about 25/30 people in the place and we grabbed a
table next to the stage.
The first part of the show –
let’s just say, it didn’t go well. Davy was there to promote an album of his
new material and I guarantee you there wasn’t anyone there who really wanted to
explore the new musical directions of Davy Jones. We were all wet, cold, at
least middling drunk and at least some of the other people had paid twenty-five
bucks to sit in a club that was empty enough to have allowed you to set out a
tennis court and carry on a decent rally. There were the proverbial crickets
chirping in between songs. Finally, about 30 minutes in Davy looked out and
said “I suppose you want to hear the old ones”.
I swear he looked right at me
when he said this – I was only about ten feet away, and so I kind of shrugged
my shoulders and nodded yes. Jones gave a kind of resigned sigh and turned to
the band –
“All right guys – plan B”.
Now – you have to understand – there
hadn’t been a single song that anyone recognized through the whole first part
of the concert – so everyone was quite ready for something familiar. The band
probably was as well – after a brief pause they started up with one of the
Monkees hits – not the biggest hit, but one everyone recognized…
Ah, walk out, girl, don’t you
walk out
’Cause we’ve got things to say
Talk out, let’s have a talk out
And things will be okay..
’Cause we’ve got things to say
Talk out, let’s have a talk out
And things will be okay..
Look, Neil Diamond is no Neil
Young. His songs don’t make history, and they don’t define a generation – but man,
can you sing along to them or what? This is one of them. Within about a verse
everyone in that bar was up and singing, moving up towards the stage, not
worrying about how they were gonna get home through the storm – just having a
good time. We were the wretched refuse of the Cambridge streets, somehow ending
up listening to a middle aged musical survivor of a ‘60’s sitcom – but dammit –
we were gonna have a good time. Said good time went on through “Valleri”, and
“She” (which he hadn’t even done lead on with the Monkees) and then he did
another new one, which kind of took the edge off. I swear the guy looked over
at me again.
I don’t know why I did what I
did next – I’m sure it was just instinct - but I put my hand to my ear and
yelled “Do the Brady Bunch song!”.
Remember – there had been drink
taken.
The briefest of smiles went over
his face – for the next song he said “I don’t know why people remember this –
but it gets asked for everywhere we go”.
Remember it? Are you kidding me?
– he promised Marcia he would sing at the prom. He promised. He wrote her a
letter…
The show closed – but there had
to be an encore – and of course you knew what the encore would be. After a
short pause Mr. Jones returned and the band struck up the familiar, jingly
opening chords…
When word came a few years ago
that Davy Jones had passed away I was actually pretty sad. I watched The
Monkees when I was a kid, but I’d also spent a snowy night listening to this
guy make a small crowd happy when he probably would have preferred to be
somewhere else. And while it’s not like being in Newport when Dylan went
electric I can always say I had a front row seat for Davy Jones singing
“Daydream Believer” – and that’s something.
The other musical interlude I’ll
tell you about also involved drink being taken – and since I was one of the
singers at the time that is not to be considered unexpected. It wasn’t snowy
though – in fact it was a summer night in Newport, Rhode Island, at one of the
bars located outside, along the harbor, on one of the docks. A band had
supplied the music through most of the night and the group I was with, plus the
rest of the crowd, had enjoyed a good time. Very much enjoyed – because when
the band ended, and the bar got ready to close – no one wanted to leave.
Instead a dedicated group, of which I must admit I was one of the chief instigators,
began a sing-a-long to whatever songs we might happen to remember.
Now – that no doubt included
such crowd favorites as “Daydream Believer” and “Sweet Caroline” – but I’m
certain we soon ran out of tunes for which we recalled the words. As the staff
desperately tried to get us off the dock the crowd swelled (even the members of
the real band joined in) – and we descended in to whatever songs we could
remember – which was pretty much television theme songs. The aforementioned
Brady Bunch theme made an appearance, as did the theme from “Happy Days” and
the Partridge Family. When it became apparent that we weren’t gonna leave the
staff called the police.
In summertime Newport this
seemed to consist of a number of “rent-a-cops” who would patrol the streets in
the event of just such an occurrence. The town of Newport, however well off it
might be, didn’t supply this force with top quality vehicles. They didn’t even
get golf carts. Instead we were able to look up the sea wall and see, slowly
heading towards us, a series of flashing blue lights attached to what seemed to
be a caravan of mobility scooters for senior citizens.
We could clearly see them coming
– but it was like watching a glacier make its way down a valley. I think from
the time they started towards us we had a chance to get through the theme from
both “Laverne & Shirley” and “The Flintstones”. When they finally pulled up
I remember breaking in to “Doo Wah Diddy” – (the “Stripes” version):
While the scooters were slow to
arrive – the cops moved with remarkable rapidity once they got there. Before I
knew it they were walking next to me – and two or three of Newport’s finest
were picking me up and carrying me off the dock. While I was horizontal we had
a conversation:
“We’re just singin’” I said
“We know”
“We aren’t causing any trouble”.
“We know”.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re a ringleader – are you
going to go home?”
I replied I was actually a
bandleader, and, yes, I would be going home.
“All right then” they said,
placing me vertical, thankfully feet first “…stop singing and go home”.
The crowd made its way off the
harbor and myself and the group I was with filtered back to the place we were
staying. There were a few more with us than when we started, and they all duly
christened me a “ringleader”, which led to much merriment. We were all sleeping
on the floor and every once in a while someone would say “Hey ringleader, do
you know this one” and then burp or fart, which would result in gales of
laughter. After the laughter would die down I’d say “No, but it’s easy to dance
to – I think it’s gonna be a big, big hit” or some such, and the laughter would
resume. Believe me – it was hilarious at the time.
When we woke up the next morning
there were more stories about the fleet of cops who had come to chase us off –
the general consensus was that they should have given those guys something more
dignified to move around in, like skateboards or tricycles. There were people
popping up all over the place – it even turned out that one of the girls
renting the house was from my hometown, which I didn’t know until breakfast and
was pretty weird since there were only about 900 people who lived in the town
(which was about the same number of people who seem to have spent the night in
that house).
For the next few years I’d run
in to a couple of the guys who were “ringleaders” as well when we were out in
Boston somewhere. We’d just laugh, point at each other and say “One of these
days – we’re puttin’ the band back together…”
When this lockdown ends
I get the feeling there are going to be a few parties that have similar ends –
people laughing, singing – and putting the band back together.
Random
Rambling during the great lockdown of 2020 – Pt. V – Pizza
Pizza
– not the most important topic in the world – but up there. It is possible to
get pizza delivered during this most bizarre of times, which is perhaps the
best sign that civilization has not yet completely collapsed and the
apocalypse, while possibly nigh, has not yet arrived. Still – the fact that
pizza can still be delivered to your house, while acceptable, may not in all
cases be ideal. Sometimes you have to/want to go out for said pizza – and
that’s not currently an option.
This worries me – basically
anything that interferes or disrupts the pizza world worries me. I know I would
be joined in this sentiment by many, including my good friend David Goldman, who is worthy of pizza related
nicknames the way Babe Ruth collected baseball monikers. Sultan of Swat,
Collosus of Clout, Behemoth of Bust – meet the Maharishi of Mozarella, the
Caliph of Crust, the Caesar of Sauce. Sure – you can find a reduced number of
pizza places that will deliver – but each delivery risks the loss of valuable
pizza heat, each closed restaurant shrinks the possibility of finding the
perfect slice – not to mention the looming threat of a worldwide cheese
shortage.
Dave – am I right?
There’s no sense obsessing over
this (though I will). Instead I will use this rambling to muse about my top
five pizza list (which I reserve the right to change at any moment). I’ll also
lay down some laws (actually, commandments) about what qualifies as pizza or
pizza toppings, comment on school lunch pizza and generally – well – ramble.
What is pizza? Philosophers have
thought on this topic for years. There is Descartes’ famous statement “Cogito
pizza ergo sum” (“I think it’s pizza, therefore it is”). This offered an open
door to a broad interpretation of pizzadom, accepting things like French bread
pizza, bagel based pizza and “pizza in a cup” as being true pizza. I am tempted
to rely upon Kierkegaard’s refutation of this argument, which claimed it to be
a meaningless tautology – to whit, his position is summarized thusly:
“… that the cogito already
presupposes the existence of "I", and therefore concluding with
existence is logically trivial. Kierkegaard's argument can be made clearer if
one extracts the premise "I think" into the premises "'x'
thinks" and "I am that 'x'", where "x" is used as a placeholder
in order to disambiguate the "I" from the thinking thing.”
I could rely on that, but
instead I think it is clearer to simply state - Descartes was an idiot.
While there are many things that
approximate pizza, they are not truly pizza. I don’t come to this conclusion
lightly but it is true. If you put sauce, cheese and, say, pepperoni into a
paper cup – that is not pizza. That would be like taking the approximately 60
chemicals that make up the human body, putting them in a blender and calling it
“my friend Bob”. Just because the ingredients of “Bobdom” are present does not
a person make. It is the same with pizza.
The Italians knew this. They
understood that form, presentation, soul (“anima”) made up a pizza. If you
changed any one of those, you may have pizza ingredients but you do not have
pizza. For example – if you take a pizza and fold it over – not a pizza
anymore. It’s a calzone. You can still like and enjoy it – but if you call it a
pizza, you sleep with the anchovies.
Good example – I used to go in
to the North End in Boston for lunch, and one of the places I stopped offered a
dish which was a thick piece of crusty Italian bread topped with sauce, cheese,
roasted peppers and (this was really good) some tortellini. It was delicious.
Not pizza.
Here is where I have to take the
first and perhaps the most controversial of my stands with regard to the
question of what qualifies as a pizza and what does not. When I go back to the
States I will often stop in at Uno’s where I will order one of their deep dish…
Items.
Offerings.
Victuals.
Foodstuffs.
Fares.
I like them but for the love of
God they are not “pizza”. It’s a casserole, a cheese/tomato pie, an Uno’s
special – call it whatever you like but not “pizza”. I could open this to
debate, but the judge has ruled and court is no longer in session.
That said I would like to show
that I have an open mind on this topic. To do this I bring you back to that day
in school when the menu read “pizza” and everyone had a bit more bounce in
their step, joy in their heart and sauce on their shirt.
Now, let’s face it – school
pizza was not that great – but it beat the hell out of “Shepherds Pie” or
“Lunch Loaf”. It also wasn’t round, but baked in sheets, wasn’t thin, but a bit
doughy and the cheese may not have been mozzarella. Still – I state that it
was, in fact, pizza. Flat, foldable, capable of being grasped in the hands if
you so chose – it made the grade.
But not that high a grade. At
best it was C+, and a lot of that had to do with the setting and circumstance.
But there was enough potential there for this type of pizza (which is
essentially the “Sicilian” variety) to achieve greatness. In my top five list,
at number 5, I submit that I have found just such a pizza. To find it you need
to travel to that same North End, at lunch time, and stand in line (and don’t
bother for part of the summer because they’re closed). I’m talking about:
This pizza is amazing – hot out of the oven and cut right in front of you, grab a slice or two and maybe accompany it with an arancini, panini or panzarotti. People line up every day, rain or shine, to get this food. So leave a little extra time, bring cash and an appetite. This is great stuff (only open for lunch – this is old school).
Let’s stay in the North End for
our next stop, which you may want to do for pizza at dinner time. Should that
be your desire wander over to Thacher Street where you will find:
This is the acknowledged home of
Boston pizza – and as long as you go to the North End (accept no substitutes)
it gets a big thumbs up from me. The pizza is good, of the Neapolitan type,
(meaning thin crust, which will be the case for all the remaining pizza’s on
this list). It is eaten by the slice and, when at its best, requires very few
toppings to make it as tasty as possible.
This is as good a time as any to
discuss the realm of toppings. I’m a relatively open-minded person when it
comes to toppings on pizza. I’ll tolerate barbeque sauce and chicken. I’ll go
along with meatballs and eggplant. I’ll never order anchovies, but if you do I
will not seek to imprison you, publish your name on a list of heretics or make
you wear a scarlet letter “A” (“Apostate”).
However – “Broccoli Florets” –
no. Chopped hot dog – I don’t think so. Finally – if you bring a pineapple
anywhere near my pizza I reserve the right to shoot without warning and with a
license to kill.
Again – the judge has spoken.
On to happier thoughts (I
shudder each time I think of those poor, unsuspecting cheesy discs that face
the threat of pineapple every day). My remaining pizzas all derive from my
childhood, and two are still out there, though I hope they are using dough that
has been prepared more recently than the 1970’s.
They say you never forget your
first pizza (no, really – they say that). My first pizza likely came from
someplace that was, at the time, called “Shaker Pizza” because it was on Shaker
Road in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts. The fact that it was first would make
it memorable but I can attest to the fact that this pizza was seriously good –
the crust was amazing and I can still remember the smell that permeated the
house when it was brought in the door. Whenever anything approximating that
odor wafts across my path it triggers one of those “sensory memories” that you
get – and I flashback to the times we’d get that pizza. Yes – I get “pizza
flashbacks”.
Another sign that this place had
seriously good pizza is this – it’s still there. I’m 56 years old – which means
there aren’t too many pizza places older than me. There’s another place on
Shaker Road that says it has served pizza “since 1980”. A mere pup. The Shaker
Pizza that I know (now called “The Pizza Shoppe”) website says this about its
restaurant:
“The Pizza Shoppe has been
serving pizza with the legendary sweet crust for over 60 years. The dough and
sauce we use are made right here at the restaurant. It has become a staple of
the community. Medium, large, and extra large sizes are available. Create your
own or get our most popular, “The Cheese.” Eat in or get it to go.”
Over 60 years. Oh – and the
“extra large” if I remember correctly, is two pizza boxes stapled together with
enough pizza to feed an army. All of these combine to make this:
While The Pizza Shoppe may be
where I sourced my first pizza, the establishment that probably holds the title
for having served me the most pizza is a place called The Russell Inn, located
in Russell, Massachusetts. Now – I say “probably” because while I spent many a
night with family or friends in the Russell Inn growing up, and while I would
typically get pizza – the Russell Inn is actually not just a pizza place – it’s
a proper restaurant with a wide selection of other dishes. They’re good too –
but the pizza was (and I trust still is) extraordinary. It’s been a while since
I’ve had pizza there – but I swear when I get back home after all this shit
ends – I’m going there for pizza again. I can’t wait. The Inn is another place
that triggers sensory memories, but not just with food. There was a jukebox
there, which always seemed to be playing “Sweet Home Alabama”, and I’m going to
put that on tonight and dream of tomato sauce cheesy goodness. For people
nearby who can still order out – have a few (dozen) slices for me.
Which brings us to the best
pizza I ever had. This one differs from the others on this list in that it has
gone the way of the dodo, burned down somewhere back in the ‘80’s or ‘90’s –
but for whatever reason I remember the Cozy Spruce in East Otis as being the
best pizza when I was a kid. It wasn’t as close as the Russell Inn (or maybe
just not on the typical path) – but when we’d be up that way the pizza at the
Cozy went to the top of the list. That’s the benchmark – a hot pie being
brought to your table, checking to see if the pieces were cut unevenly and
trying to get the big one if you could – bringing it to your mouth even though
you knew the cheese would probably burn a couple layers off the roof, and then
tasting everything meshing together perfectly, cheese, sauce, crust – heaven. I
can’t find a picture of the Cozy Spruce on line – (if someone has one please
post it) – but I can still conjure it up when needed.
Pizza does that.
Random Ramblings Part VI – from the great lockdown of 2020 – See Here…
In
1940 the United States passed the Selective Service Act, subjecting all men
between 21-44 years of age to the draft, with one year’s mandatory service. In
1941 the length of active service was stretched to 2 years (the extension
passed by one vote) and, as a result, the country had the framework of a
military in place when it was attacked on the 7th of December, 1941.
So - the draft was a good thing,
and never caused any difficulty for the rest of the country’s history.
What is that you say? There
actually was a problem with the draft at various times? They actually ended the
draft? Well it seems to have gotten past some people…
Yes, there was one – and to tell
you the truth it caused problems even during the time before Pearl Harbor.
There was a lot of resistance to the institution of the draft and it only
survived the move to extend it by that one vote. However, once it was in effect
the selective service did manage to create one of the most formidable fighting
forces in history. To get the serious discussion of this phenomenon read a book
like “Citizen Soldiers” by Stephen Ambrose – to get the low down on what it
really meant to the people drafted I’d send you to the book that is the subject
of the photo attached to this article – “See Here, Private Hargrove” by Marion
Hargrove, a journalist drafted in to the Army in 1941 who chronicled his experiences
and put them down in this bestseller. The book is hilarious, was a runaway hit,
spent 15 weeks on top of the NY Times charts and was later made in to a movie.
The best part about reading the
book now is the irreverent tone Hargrove strikes about all things military –
which he is entitled to do since he was on the inside looking out. Here’s his
take on a draftee’s back and forth with a career Army Sergeant who challenged
him about walking sentry duty:
“Suppose you saw a battleship
coming across that drill
field over there. What would you do”?
field over there. What would you do”?
The guard thought furiously. The
answer – General
Order No. 9 – didn’t come.
Order No. 9 – didn’t come.
“What would you do?” the
sergeant insisted.
A light came into the sentry’s
eyes. “I’d torpedo the
thing and sink it”.
thing and sink it”.
The sergeant gasped. “Where
would you get a torpedo?”
he demanded.
he demanded.
The guard smiled brightly. “The
same place you got that
damn battleship,” he said.
damn battleship,” he said.
Heroes are born not made.
This ability to mock, criticize
and still respect and serve the military was once a characteristic of a large
majority of the (admittedly, male) population of the United States. My father
served in the National Guard, my uncles and cousins from my parents’ generation
all spent time in the service, and one of the things they all were able to do,
without reservation, was call out the military when they felt it was full of
shit. They respected the military but did not revere it. Supported it but did
not worship it. Defended but did not defer to it.
They also loved to make fun of
it. Listening to them tell stories about how screwed up the military could be
was always enjoyable.
One of the things lost when the
draft was ended was that sense of shared experience. I took the ASVAB tests and
talked to recruiters when I got out of high school, they came to our house and
made a case for going in. The Marine recruiter also made a strong case for not
signing up “Look” he said, “We’d love to have you but if you’re not 100%
committed to this – don’t do it. It’s a volunteer service now”.
So, along with most of the people
I went to college with – I didn’t enlist. I think the recruiter was correct –
in a volunteer force you should be 100% committed before joining up. But the question
is – should military service be a volunteer force – or should national service
be compulsory?
I’ll tell you two groups of
people who are against compulsory service – 18 year olds who don’t want to be
told they have to give a one or two year commitment to something they aren’t
committed to, and, strangely enough, the United States armed forces – who, in
the current world, do not wish to have anyone in uniform who doesn’t want to be
there. They both have valid points, but I’m beginning to think that despite
their legitimate concerns they might be wrong on this one.
The reason this comes up (and I
mean comes up again, believe me, I’ve thought about this before) stems from the
recent actions taken by the Acting Secretary of the Navy, Thomas Modly. As you
may have heard, Modly summarily relieved Capt. Brett Crozier of his command of
the aircraft carrier “Roosevelt” because Crozier criticized the manner in which
the Navy was dealing with the presence of the Corona virus on his ship. Crozier
did not make his criticism publicly, but was deemed to have done so in a manner
that made it easy for the matter to be leaked. Modly acknowledged that Crozier
was simply attempting to safeguard the approximately 5,000 men under his
command, but stated that the way in which he went about it showed “poor
judgement”. It is strongly suspected that pressure was put on Modly to take
this action.
On it’s face the dismissal seems
unjustified, even cruel. Taking a ship away from its commanding officer is
about the most drastic thing that the Navy can do. The ship, in many ways, is
the Captain. If the officer charged with the care and well being of 5,000 men
took actions designed to keep them safe, then it would seem that the officials
overseeing him should at least cut him some slack, even if those actions might
have made things awkward for them. Strict adherence to the chain of command is
nice but when your crew is at risk of dying that may not always be possible.
At least that’s how it looks “on
its face”. The thing is – how things look from the outside doesn’t always
reflect the reality of the situation. What I think to be obvious may, in truth,
be completely wrong, because an even greater truth is that I don’t know a
goddamn thing about how the military works. For all I really know what Captain
Crozier did may be completely forbidden by accepted and valid military rules. I
also would completely understand someone who did serve thinking I ought to shut
my damn mouth about military matters since I never put a uniform on.
That’s understandable, but
unfortunate. The U.S. military is predicated on the assumption that it comes under
civilian control. Those civilians are better off from a knowledge standpoint
having been in service, but it is not required. Still, if you haven’t been in
the service you had best know when to keep your mouth shut. Most of the people
opining on the internal workings of the military without any direct experience
are properly assumed to be talking out of their rear porthole.
That doesn’t mean you can’t ask
questions if you haven’t served – it just means that you can’t assume you know
the answers. Here’s another example. The recent reassignment of the Vindman
brothers, one of whom testified against Donald Trump in the impeachment
hearings, raises just such a question. It seemed to me that removing Alexander
(the brother who testified) may have been justifiable. As long as he wasn’t
demoted it is likely that he wouldn’t be effective in his former role. The
removal of Yevgeny Vindman, Alexander’s twin brother, who hadn’t testified,
from his assignment as an attorney with the National Security Counsel seemed unjustifiable.
He had served for two decades and had a spotless record – why should he be
removed? The question is legitimate – but there’s no way I can pretend to know
the answer.
Similarly, the recent pardon of
Eddie Gallagher, the Navy Seal who had been convicted of murdering captives
also raised questions. Gallagher was convicted in a military court, in
conformity with military rules. His colleagues testified he was “freaking evil”
and many military chiefs criticized the pardon, saying it overruled legitimate
actions taken under Naval law and procedure. Military chiefs (and veterans) can
do that – it’s much harder for those who did not serve to claim the ability to
know what may have driven Gallagher to do what he did.
The fact that there are so many
who fall in to that category (“those who did not serve”) seems to me to be a
real problem – since Gallagher might well be “freaking evil”, having a huge
portion of the population unable to comment on that possibility is not a good
thing. America is becoming increasingly polarized, creating a situation where
even more division – between those who wear or wore the uniform and those who
did not, could end up being downright dangerous. Yet that is exactly what is
happening. As the generations that served up to and through Vietnam pass from
the scene there are large numbers of Gen Xer’s and millennials who have never
been in uniform. Yet, in today’s world, there are an increasing number of
situations where the ability to effectively question and criticize the military
is crucial. Having a citizenry where two-thirds (or more) are incapable of
realistically doing that is a problem. Not, mind you, a military problem – a
citizenship problem.
One way to eliminate that
division would be to bring back the draft, or some version of it. Easy for me
to say, having grown up without facing such an imposed condition, but the mere
fact that we didn’t have required national service in place when we should have
doesn’t justify continuing that mistake. You want free college? – one year active
and ten years reserve. You want to qualify for a national health care program?
Same thing. The military itself may not be thrilled with this – but the
Constitution does encourage the creation of a “well trained and regulated
militia” – so expanding that possibility may well be a critical part of
defending that same Constitution.
I think it’s important
to get back to a time where people can, with a straight face and a degree of
confidence associated with having actually been there, tell the military they’re
full of shit. Where people can (while respecting the institution) still joke
about how screwy it can, at times, be. To tell truth to power and inform them
that they can take their wild assumptions back to “the same place they got that
damn battleship”.
Random
Ramblings from the great lock down of 2020 Pt. VII – You know you’re in Ireland
when…
For
today’s rambling I thought I’d concentrate on a few things close to home. I’ve
been in Ireland now for 22 years or thereabouts, and, being from somewhere
outside Ireland typically the things you look for and pick up on are those that
remind you of where you are from. “That’s not that different from…”, Boston, or
the Berkshires or March Madness or the way they make French toast in such and
such a restaurant – things that are similar. It’s a natural tendency - to look
for and interpret things in a way that makes them familiar.
There is another type of moment
that goes in the opposite direction. Those would be the times when you think –
well – I know I’m in Ireland now. There are many cultural reminders, of course.
When a bus to the city centre goes by it will say “an lár” – Irish gets used
for such simple phrases. When you go to the bathroom in a restaurant the signs
might read in Irish as well. “Mna” and “Fir”. I tried to figure this out myself
the first time. “Mna” I thought – “it has an “M” and an “N” – gotta be the MeNs
room – and that is “Fir” – “F” – must be “Female”.
My logic was perfect and
irrefutable.
It was refuted.
There have been many other
moments when I knew I was definitely in Ireland. Here are a few of them.
1. “Try it sometime”.
I hadn’t been here quite a year
when the first of the moments I’ll discuss occurred. There is an Irish
institution called “The Late, Late Show” which was hosted for years by a man
called Gay Byrne, who was essentially Johnny Carson and Oprah Winfrey mixed
together to make the ultimate Irish talk show host. First thing about the Late,
Late. It’s not that Late, Late. It’s not even that Late. At 9:30 PM on a Friday
night, well before the sun goes down in the summertime, a huge percentage of
the nation turns on the telly.
Back in 1999 it was an even
higher percentage, and on a January day of that year a politician by the name
of Padraig Flynn (commonly known as “Pee Flynn”) proved he was also a
contortionist by placing his foot squarely in his mouth on numerous occasions
throughout the show. The interview, which covered a number of topics, wasn’t
going particularly well for Flynn. Following a question from the audience about
the salary he received for his job as an EU Commissioner it became a disaster.
At one point in the answer Flynn said this:
“I get give or take, it works
out at about with expenses 140,000 a year and I pay 30.3% tax on that, so it’s
about a net 100,000 and out of that 100,000 I run a home in Dublin, Castlebar
and Brussels. I wanna tell you something, try it sometime…”
As soon as that came out of his
mouth I turned to my wife and said – “He’s gonna get some trouble for that…”.
Oh yeah – he got some trouble all right. He pissed off about 90% of the viewers
that night (and one in particular who went on to testify against Flynn in front
of a Tribunal). He also effectively ended his political career. Now – there are
plenty of examples of politicians making statements that damage their careers –
but the combination of Flynn, Gay Byrne, the Late Late Show, a tribunal and the
immediate reaction mark this as a uniquely Irish moment for me.
I wanted to attach a video link
from RTE but they seem to have pulled all of the feeds on the grounds of
copyright (which makes no sense at all – it’s one of their iconic moments). I
did find a second hand video which includes someone clearing their throat as
the video plays. It is still interesting to watch Flynn’s career turn to ashes
on live TV.
I also managed to get a photo of
Flynn taken from a slightly different angle:
2. Cabin Fever
Flynn’s act of self-immolation
occurred on the Irish television network Raidió TeilifÃs Éireann or “RTE”. RTE
is a state sponsored enterprise that also attempts to create revenue through
the sale of advertising and programming. One of the most profitable ways of selling
programming is to come up with a “concept” for a game or reality show and then
sell the rights to that concept to other networks throughout the world. Think
“Do You Want To Be A Millionaire” or “Big Brother”. Whoever created those shows
made money when they first rolled them out, but really cashed in when the
concept was syndicated worldwide.
This was not lost on RTE, which
duly set about trying to come up with a reality show concept that would catch
on. One of their efforts is particularly apt for the current times. Entitled
“Cabin Fever” it involved renting out a tall ship, bringing eleven contestants
on board to act as novice “crew members” and have them sail around the Irish
coast. Essentially it was “Big Brother” on a boat.
In theory this sounds like a
genius idea – it sets up the sort of closed environment that leads to conflicts
(which are what reality television lives off), should be easy enough to film
and even addresses one of the major problems with the “bunch of people shut up
together” genre, which is that the visuals get boringly familiar after a while.
On a boat the “studio” is mobile, so you get a changing shoreline each day.
One thing – about that
shoreline. On the east coast of Ireland the coast and sea are (relatively)
docile. The shore often looks like this:
Low lying sandy beaches, the
occasional island and the best dog ever roaming the shore (hi Gork!). Seriously
– for the waters of the Irish Sea and English Channel the biggest threats to
ships can often be that out in the middle of what appears to be the open sea
you can find a shallow sandy bit where you can damn near step out of the boat.
Since the boat would never be going too far away from shore that wasn’t a real
problem for the Cabin Fever crew.
But the people on RTE didn’t
propose sending a bunch of novice crew members out and around just Dublin Bay.
No – they wanted them to go around the entire island of Ireland. This includes
the west coast of Ireland, where it is not quite as hospitable. Instead – it
very often looks like this:
Or this:
Or, near a place called Tory
Island, like this:
Beautiful, isn’t it? Those rocks
eat ships for dinner.
And so it was that one morning
we all woke up to hear that there had been a wee bit of a problem with RTE’s
latest reality TV show. It seems that it had run in to a little too much ----
reality.
The “crew” had been helicoptered
off after the ship had foundered on rocks off the Tory Island coast. The show
was indefinitely cancelled, but it did produce some of the most impressive
television you’d ever wish to see. The shots of the vessel splintered into bits
of kindling and bobbing around in the waves is hard to forget – but it was
soooooooooooooooooooooooo Irish.
After a shortened run using a
substitute ship (which itself had engine trouble) Cabin Fever crowned a
champion and has never returned to the airwaves (it had problems with all kinds
of waves). A report, issued two years later, concluded that letting eleven,
tired, inexperienced and stressed out people act as crew for a large sailing
ship was probably not a good idea. (Yes – that took two years to figure out).
By the way – RTE actually has
produced a TV show which I think is worthy of copying for format and
syndication. It’s called “Reeling in the Years” and it chronicles the
highlights of a given year through news clips with minimal narration. Here’s
one for 2003 – watch for the segment beginning at around the 17:45 mark.
3. We All Dream...
The next memory doesn’t have any
YouTube video that I am aware of – but there is video, and if any of the people
involved ever run for higher office I am sure that it will surface. It concerns
events taking place on that west coast of Ireland in a County Clare town with
the innocent enough sounding name of “Doolin”. Doolin is near both the Burren
and Cliffs of Moher, and is a beauty spot in and of itself. A picturesque
village with some great little pubs, it is a favourite destination for tourists
– I’d recommend it highly.
It so happens that a large group
of gentlemen (some might say a “group of large gentlemen” but there is no room
for cynicism here), from my neighbourhood rented a bus and went to Doolin for a
quiet weekend of enjoyment in October of 2009. We traveled down on a Friday,
going from Dublin to Doolin, a trip that can take up to three and a half hours.
However, utilizing advance planning and carefully structured stoppages we
managed to make it there in seven hours. Look – we only stopped if it was
absolutely necessary and it would’ve been just rude not to raise a glass with
the locals.
After spending a cracking
evening in the lovely confines of Doolin (it really is a great town),
which included food, drink,
music, laughter and fireworks (the nature and origin of which will not be
expounded upon), we prepared to do it all again on Saturday night. There would
be a major event to attend however – the Republic of Ireland were taking on
Italy in a World Cup qualifier.
Having taken on suitable ballast
we established ourselves at a table in front of the television and ended up
watching one of the better matches that any Irish squad has ever played. Ireland
jumped out to an early 1-0 lead and while Italy pulled one back midway through
the opening half – it was clear Ireland were on their game. As the crowd of
(mainly American) tourists filtered in to the pub and took up places behind us,
someone, potentially my next-door neighbor Tony, began a chant.
Now, let me tell you about Gary
Breen. Breen was a relatively obscure Irish international player (who did not
feature in the team on this night). His career high was scoring a goal in the
2002 World Cup against Saudi Arabia. His greatest claim to fame however was the
fact that his name rhymed nicely with one of Ringo Starr’s peak vocal moments
with the Beatles. The only other way this might have happened is if Ireland had
fielded a player named “Rocktapusses Pardon” so yes, I am speaking of “Yellow
Submarine”. Within seconds of the chant starting our entire table was in a
full-throated chorus of:
“We all dream of a team of Gary
Breens,
a team of Gary Breens,
a team of Gary Breens”
(Repeat)
(Infinitely)
Actually, there are some other
verses. For example:
And Number 1
(is Gary Breen)
And Number 2
(is Gary Breen)
And number 3
(Is Gary Breen)
And Number 4
IS GARY BREEN – AH-HA!
(Repeat Chorus).
The beauty of this song is that
it will work with any “een”. You could dream of a team of:
Mr. Beans
Drag Club Queens
Ruptured Spleens
David Leans
Martin Sheens
Charlie…
(OK – there are some limits).
We sang our way through the
game, loudly proclaiming our dreams for a player who wasn’t on the squad – and then
– unbelievably Ireland broke through to pull ahead 2-1 in the 87th minute. The
happy ending we had all been screaming for was in our grasp. Alas – this is
Irish soccer – Italy scored in the 90th minute to salvage a draw and leave the
glass half full. Still – it was a beautiful, quintessentially Irish moment.
The funniest thing may have
happened when, in the midst of our rapturous singing, I looked around the pub.
There, in the back, were a phalanx of American tourists, dutifully recording
the sight of a table full of eejits murdering a Lennon McCartney tune.
Somewhere, no doubt, our visages pop up when visitors are subjected to viewing
the video of “our trip to Ireland” following a Thanksgiving or Christmas
dinner.
Here’s to the coming
days when we get back in the pubs and sing Mr. Breen's (or Mr. Bean's) praises.
Random Ramblings from the Great
Lockdown of 2020 Part VIII – Up the Creek. -
We’re
all sitting at home, working, getting up, moving around the house. Noticing
that a picture we’ve passed a thousand times is a little crooked. Straighten
it. Ask the wife – “what’re we doing for dinner”. Receive a non-committal
answer. Pick up the candleholder on the mantlepiece. Examine it as if it were a
piece of fine art. Put it back. Wander back to the desk. Do a bit more work.
Back to another picture. Straighten that one too. Ask about dinner again.
Slightly more strained but equally non-committal answer. Back to the desk. A
bit more work. Pick up the Argos catalogue. Randomly open to any page. Lawn
furniture. Look at the lawn furniture. Glance towards the wife. Return glance informs
you that a question about dinner is not advisable at the moment.
So
you grab a book from the nearest shelf. For me the latest I picked up was “The
Seinfeld Scripts” which is a review of the scripts from the first two seasons
of the show. There are classics in there, which include the introduction to
Vandelay Industries, “five, ten minutes”, “Bob Saccomanno” – all the basics.
However - there are complications to be considered.
The problem with reading Seinfeld scripts is that you begin to think in “Seinfeldian” terms. You start to question things as if you were in the show. Like – “Why do they say we are in lock DOWN but then say we are all locked UP? Are we DOWN or are we UP? Who decides these UP/DOWN things? Is there a committee?”
To
give you a further example – I began wondering yesterday how we ever got the
expression “Up shit creek” – or, as it is more often stated “Up SHIT’s creek”,
as if there is some ownership of a Mr. Shit implied. I decided to stop fighting
it and simply give you the ramble today as an excerpt from a purely imaginary
Seinfeld script (apologies to Larry David).
Just play the link each time it appears.
OPEN
– Int. Nightclub
JERRY:
Some of these sayings – I just don’t get them. “Up shit creek” – or is it “Up
shit’s creek”? What kind of mind thinks of these things? The mental image I get
is just too disturbing. Isn’t it enough to say “We’re in a bad place?” Doesn’t
that get the message across adequately?
And the whole “without a paddle” bit. I mean – if you’re up shit’s creek, do you REALLY want a paddle? Would having a paddle make your journey that much more enjoyable? Allow you to extend your trip along this current of excrement? “Don’t worry honey, I found the paddle – we can easily cruise a few miles down-stream now. Just sit back and enjoy…”.
And the whole “without a paddle” bit. I mean – if you’re up shit’s creek, do you REALLY want a paddle? Would having a paddle make your journey that much more enjoyable? Allow you to extend your trip along this current of excrement? “Don’t worry honey, I found the paddle – we can easily cruise a few miles down-stream now. Just sit back and enjoy…”.
My feeling – and perhaps this is just me – if you’re “up shit creek” – get to shore any way you can and get out of the canoe. Do not look for paddles, maybe hip waders. And a clothespin.
ACT
ONE – SCENE ONE – Int. Boardroom. George is at the table with a number of
co-workers. Boss, at the head of the table, speaks first:
BOSS:
So, if these trends continue, this market will dry up completely. Any business
that puts too many resources in to this sector will pay dearly for being
over-extended. I’m afraid they’d find themselves up shit creek.
Cut
to:
GEORGE:
(nodding) Oh, yes, yessir…
Pan
to MORRIS, who is also nodding, and who interjects:
MORRIS:
And “without a paddle!”
BOSS:
- Exactly Morris – exactly…
Pan
to GEORGE who is scowling with frustration…
ACT
ONE – SCENE TWO
Int.
Coffee Shop – evening, GEORGE, KRAMER facing JERRY and ELAINE
GEORGE:
…and then Morris says “and without a paddle” and he reacts like he just said
something…
JERRY:
“Cliched?”
GEORGE:
No – like it was good - smart, original… help me out here…
KRAMER:
Pithy?
GEORGE:
YES! Pithy – like it was a very pithy saying…
ELAINE:
I think that may be the opposite of “pithy”.
KRAMER:
Well – I think maybe he was going for pithiness.
GEORGE:
I can be pithy. I have pith.
KRAMER:
You’re full of pith.
ELAINE:
(muttering) Full of something.
JERRY:
If you must say something at least be original…pithy but original.
GEORGE:
I will be the master of pith. The Pithmaster. He will say something and I will
follow with a pithy add on.
KRAMER:
A piece of pith.
(All
stare at him)
ACT
TWO – SCENE ONE - Int. Boardroom. George is at the table with a number of
co-workers. Boss, at the head of the table, again speaks first:
BOSS:
…So the nerve of these guys. Bringing this proposal to the table. What do they
expect us to do – just sit there and take it? Do they really think we’re going
to happily eat their shit sandwich?
Cut
to GEORGE hanging on every word, waiting to jump in…
GEORGE:
And without even ANY mustard on it…
Awkward
silence. BOSS stares at George.
BOSS:
Why would I want mustard on a shit sandwich?
GEORGE:
(Nervous and flummoxed) It’s a metaphor – a pithy metaphor…
BOSS:
A metaphor for what?
GEORGE:
Pithy – it’s metaphorically full of pith.
MORRIS:
It’s full of something…
(General
laughter – and cut)
Int.
Coffee Shop – evening, JERRY and GEORGE
JERRY:
So, how’d the meeting go?
GEORGE
(downcast): Not well.
JERRY:
Pithiness didn’t work?
GEORGE:
You could say that.
WAITRESS
approaches table:
WAITRESS
(to JERRY): Soup and sandwich special?
JERRY:
Sure.
WAITRESS
(to GEORGE): Same for you?
GEORGE:
Thanks - I’ll just have the soup…
(Explainer:
A “boardroom” is a place in an “office” which is where people once went to
work. A “coffee shop” is a type of restaurant where people would go to be
served in person by a “waitress”.)
Enough
of reading Seinfeld scripts. It makes interactions difficult unless you are
talking to someone from New York. I’ve taken to reading a novel by Hemingway.
The paper is crisp. The book is light in my hand. The words are good. Clean
words. Words that talk honestly. I look at the page. “These are true words”, I
say.
Random Ramblings from the great Lock
Down of 2020 - The We're In Report.
Yesterday the book I picked up off the
shelf was a collection of Seinfeld scripts. Today I grabbed a copy of the
original mass-published Warren Report. This was something that most households
had in the 1960's and is among the most reviewed reports in history. If you
wonder why there is so much skepticism concerning government proclamations
(often with good cause) these days - well, much of it stems from the reception
given this report.
To
tell you the truth - that probably is a bit of a bad rap. While the Warren
Commission's work was often sloppy their conclusions have actually stood the
test of time quite well. One of the main reasons it was seen as shaky was
because government agencies like the FBI and the CIA either flat out lied to
the Commission or failed on numerous occasions to reveal important information.
(For example - the FBI had one of its agents destroy a threatening letter that
Oswald left at Dallas headquarters days before the assassination. This was
likely because they would have been embarrassed to disclose that the President's
assassin was in their offices committing a crime and was just allowed to walk
away. Critics, of course, see it as more sinister. The CIA observed Oswald in
Mexico City in the weeks before the assassination and did not disclose all the
information they gathered. Again - probably done to avoid appearing incompetent
but ending up casting doubt on what they were up to).
In
the case of both of these agencies their poor management undercut attempts to
investigate the assassination in a full and complete manner. It also cushioned
both from what would have been a cry for them to cooperate more fully. The FBI
and CIA have traditionally fought turf battles against each other - and if it
had come out in 1964 that their failure to communicate had allowed a Presidential
assassin to commit the worst crime of the century under their noses - well it
might just have led to them being told to stop acting like spoiled children and
share. Instead, it was another failure to communicate, in 2001, that finally
forced through reforms that made the two groups do what they logically should
have been doing all along. If you need further convincing of how petty the
rivalry was between the groups - read a book called "The Looming
Tower" about how the 9-11 plotters got away with it, and you will see
exactly how this ridiculous feud endangered American lives for decades after
the Kennedy assassination.
But
that's not what today's Ramble concerns - or at least not fully. In looking at
the Warren Report I reconsidered what I believe to be the 5 most likely things
to turn up even all these years after the events in Dallas. Just a little
thought experiment for the times that we are able to spend a bit more time
thinking:
TOP
FIVE THINGS THAT MAY YET BE FOUND IN CONNECTION WITH THE JFK ASSASSINATION
•
5. Documentary Evidence of the CIA's or FBI's recruitment of Lee Harvey Oswald
-
Please
note - this does not mean his recruitment as an assassin. I am referring here
to his recruitment as an informant. The one area that I think has some traction
when it comes to conspiracy theorist's arguments is, to me, the question of why
so little attention was paid to Lee Harvey Oswald by either the CIA or the FBI
prior to the assassination. There appear to me to be two answers to this
question. The first is that there is nothing unusual surrounding the level of
attention Oswald was given. That explanation is entirely possible. The other is
that there was a great deal of attention given to Oswald, but neither the CIA
or FBI wanted anyone to know about this because it would be highly
embarrassing. This also, to me, seems quite possible. Given that the FBI admits
having destroyed Oswald related material immediately following the
assassination, and the CIA admits having followed Oswald in Mexico City, you
cannot discount the possibility that someday a folder will turn up showing that
one or both of these organizations were very much interested in recruiting LHO
to their own uses. I do not believe, as some argue, that one of these uses was
the shooting of the President. I do believe however, that even if the use was
the typical "low-level informant" request - the fact that you thought
having the President's future assassin on your payroll was a moderately good
idea was not something any government agency would be thrilled to have come
out.
•
4. Fragments of Bullets from Dealey Plaza -
The
absolute holy grail of assassination artifacts would be a sizeable chunk of
"the shot that missed" - believe me - there is no such chunk. However
- lead does not rust or corrode in any appreciable way. It is rather like gold
in that way. It is also like gold in that it is a heavy metal which tends to
collect, over time, in the lowest part of sedimentary deposits. It is remotely
(and I stress "remotely") possible that small bullet fragments in or
around Dealey Plaza may have accumulated in such a way. The way to determine
this would be to find a place in the area, where rainwater would pool, and pan
for lead in the same way that miner's panned for gold. If you were to find
small flecks of lead it could be a bit of the missing bullet. It could also be
a bit of a fishing weight - but in your favor there is only one known recorded
instance of fragmented lead being deposited in or around Dealey Plaza - and
that happened on November 22nd, 1963.
•
3. Blood or tissue from JFK -
This
is an extremely morbid topic, and one generally avoided, but it needs to be
noted that in past assassinations the retention of bloody scraps of material or
other medical artifacts did take place. The most notable of these revolves
around the Lincoln assassination, which has had several recent revelations of
bits of the bloody sheets on which Lincoln rested following his shooting in
Ford's Theater turning up in family archives. Typically this is accompanied by
a note along the lines of "Dear Sister - Enclosed please find a memento of
our martyred President taken from his deathbed where I was stationed as a
soldier - please keep it secret and tell only those in our family that we have
it as a treasured keepsake of his memory, blah, blah, blah." Whether you
view such actions as true reverence for a martyr or sick opportunism - that's
up to you. But do not be surprised, given the number of people in contact with
President Kennedy post assassination and the amount of blood and trauma
associated with his wounds, if similar items appear in the future in connection
with his killing.
•
2. A bullet from Oswald's Rifle -
LHO
is believed to have fired his weapon on many more occasions than the two
assassination attempts on Edwin Walker and President Kennedy. Oswald had become
obsessed with firing the weapon in the weeks prior to the assassination,
practicing constantly. There are several areas, (vacant lots in 1963), where
Oswald would shoot. Since bullets typically survive long periods of time in the
ground or embedded in trees (Civil War bullets turn up all the time) it is
quite conceivable that someone, digging randomly, will find an old bullet or
casing in the ground someday in these areas. While it may be impossible to
match the artifact exactly - these are undoubtedly out there.
•
1. A Photograph or Image of Lee Harvey Oswald During the Time between the
Assassination and the Tippit Shooting. -
This, I think, is the most likely as
well as the most significant item that may turn up in an archive related to the
assassination. There were numerous people taking photos in and around Dealey
Plaza (and Dallas) during the period immediately after the assassination, yet
somehow no one seems to have got a shot of Oswald even though he was out the
door of the TSBD, on and off a bus, flagging down a cab and walking the streets
for much of the time before J.D. Tippit was shot. This time period is highly
controversial - and there may be someone out there who is holding on to a
picture of a seemingly innocuous crowd shot which includes an image of Oswald.
Most people have focused on shots of the plaza during the few seconds
immediately before and after the shooting (for obvious reasons) but that
snapshot from a few minutes later may actually be more important. Some
investigator may yet turn this up.
Random
Ramblings from the Great Lock Down of 2020 – Pt. IX – Getting In –
As we obsess daily about how
soon we will be able to get out, today’s ramble will be about getting in –
specifically about getting in without a ticket or invitation. Yesterday I
rambled a bit about the Kennedy assassination (the one in Dallas). As part of
the “research” I watched a documentary called “The Kennedy Assassination –
Breaking the News” which was a review of the TV coverage that took place over
the 72 hours immediately following the assassination. This included the initial
reports, the coverage of the flight back to Washington, the hunt for the
assassin, the arrest of Oswald – right up through the funeral on the Monday after
the shooting.
Included in this was the
coverage that came from Dallas police headquarters. It was amazing how many
reporters got their start covering the events of that weekend. Dan Rather,
Peter Jennings, Bob Schieffer, Jim Lehrer and Robert MacNeil all appeared in
front of the cameras that were allowed to freely patrol the halls of the police
central office. Everyone was permitted to crowd around Oswald whenever he was
moved about the building, the murder weapon was paraded down the hall and
Schieffer even managed to commandeer an office where he entrenched himself with
Oswald’s mother for the better part of an evening. He was nearly allowed in the
room when Oswald was brought down to see his mother, only being turned away
when an FBI agent finally thought to ask “Hey, who are you”?
One of the events that the
Dallas police threw during this period was a “press conference” in which they
brought Oswald down for a meet and greet with a room full of reporters. First
of all – that this even happened is beyond amazing – imagine if a few hours after
capturing him the Boston police had brought the marathon bomber down for a chat
with the world’s press. “Excuse me, is that spelled “Joker”?
So yes, the mere existence of an
event like this pretty much blows the mind. It gets worse. Amongst the reporters
assembled to view and question Oswald was a non-reporter who had walked into
the room with no problem, mainly because he was always dropping by headquarters
with donuts or sandwiches. As the owner of a strip club Jack Ruby needed to
stay on the good side of the cops, so he had very little trouble crashing the
party. The next day Ruby would manage to wander into another police event, with
a bit more impact.
Believe it or not Ruby being at
the press conference may not have been the most improbable person there. For
years, John Peel, one of the BBC’s most influential disc jockey’s, had told the
story of how, during a time that he had been in the U.S. on a working visa as
an office boy for an insurance company he had grabbed a friend, sauntered down
to Dallas police headquarters and simply walked in to the Oswald press
conference. Peel, who broke any number of new music acts from the 60’s on, was
never much of a drug user, but his listeners must’ve put this down to some sort
of hallucinatory flashback. “Sure John – when you were an office boy in Texas
you walked in to the centre of Dallas’ law enforcement community to hang out
with the accused assassin of the most powerful man in the world. Absolutely -
that happened”.
Turns out – it did.
Peel had said to a cop that he
was with the “Liverpool Echo” and his friend was a photographer (despite not
having a notepad, let alone a camera, between them). The cop waved them
through. Peel had told the story so often that even he had got to the point
where he wasn’t sure it ever happened – until he watched a film on BBC TV which
included footage of the press conference – at the end of the clip – there he
was. Here’s a video of him describing the whole thing.
I admire Peel using the whole
“member of the working press” thing – and I also admire the chutzpah he
exhibited in deciding he was going to get in to that press conference. Truth is
– I have used this same ploy on several occasions – and have since found that
such a scam has a proud Irish history.
Even before I knew about Peel’s
ploy (alliteration) I had pulled the same prank (more alliteration). When I was
a junior in college I spent a little over a semester as a Senate intern in
Washington D.C. One of the issues I worked on was the passage of the Martin
Luther King Holiday bill. It was a pretty interesting job as the crazies came
out of everywhere to oppose the Act, sending all kinds of wacky letters to the
office and Jesse Helms, a patron saint of the whack jobs, led the assault
against the bill. I helped coordinate the responses and worked with the other
sponsors offices (including a range of Senators from Ted Kennedy to Bob Dole)
to coordinate the floor actions. Eventually the bill came up for a vote – and I
really wanted to see that go down. However, once I got to the gallery I
realized that there was no chance I was going to get in there – the line was
down the hall and out of sight. When I looked up into the press gallery – there
were a few spots there – but, of course, you had to be with the press.
Lightbulb.
Rushing back to the office I
grabbed one of the standard gallery passes and typed on it “Michael Shea to
Press Gallery – Temporary Press Pass – Hilltown Country Journal”. I figured I’d
take a shot.
To my continuing astonishment –
it worked. I approached the guard outside the Press Gallery and casually asked
“What time will the actual vote start”. He answered it was about 20 minutes
away, I pulled the pass out and – for whatever reason - he just waved me
through. I’d love to say I somehow dazzled him with some impossible to resist
story – but the truth was he was more than happy to wave anyone through if they
just seemed like they belonged there. Here’s a little secret – that’s often the
case.
I watched the vote from the
press gallery – and afterwards got to go to the press conference and the press
reception, meet Kennedy, Dole, Jesse Jackson, Coretta King, Stevie Wonder,
Harry Belafonte – it was quite the day.
I kept the “press pass” (picture
attached) and even included the episode in my end of term paper (got an “A”). I
also learned a valuable lesson – sometimes they key to getting in somewhere is
to pretend that you’re SUPPOSED to be there.
I have used this concept on
several occasions – in 1999 I had a ticket to the All-Ireland football
semi-final, but the seats weren’t great. So, using only my American accent I
managed to convince the stewards that I was there on a freelance assignment to
explain Gaelic sports to the American masses. He escorted me to the press
section of Croke Park and I watched the game from there.
A couple of weeks
later the All-Ireland hurling final was scheduled and I wondered if I’d be able
to pull the same scam without even having a ticket. I walked up to the press
entrance and gave the same spiel to the guy at the gate. He seemed skeptical
until I spotted the guy who had been at the inside gate the week before. I
waved to him and he wandered over. “What’s the craic”? he said.
“Back again for the next part of
the story”.
The guy who I was originally
talking to looked confused until the second steward gave him a nod.
“He’s OK”.
And I was – I went back to what
I now considered “my” seat in the press section (they were good seats for
viewing but a bit basic for all the amenities) and proceeded to watch Cork edge
Kilkenny by a point.
There is actually a long and
proud history in Ireland of insinuating one’s self into sporting events. It’s
even got a name – “blagging”. There was a recent case where two Irish lads
travelled to America without tickets to the Super Bowl on the hope of managing
to pick up a last minute pair of tickets. Having had no luck they were hanging
outside the stadium when a group of first aid workers began to make their way
inside. Seeing no reason why they should not volunteer their services as a
first responder, they fell into line and marched straight in. Long story short,
they ended up in seats with a total value of $50,000, sitting next to
ex-Patriot all-pro Lawyer Milloy and getting their picture taken with the
Patriots mascot. There’s an article about the whole thing here:
Granted, they were Seattle Seahawk
fans so the Patriots happily ripped their hearts out at the end of the game, so
in the end we were all happy.
You might think this was the high-water
mark of Irish “blagging” but really it’s not even close. We’ll get to that a
bit later. I recently had occasion to use blagging tactics at the MLB London
game between the Red Sox and Yankees. I had a ticket for this one and had been
in London for work at the end of the week. I threw a change of clothes into my
computer bag and, on my way in through security they checked it carefully and
then put a green security band through the handles. All this really meant was
that I was cleared to bring my bag in to the stadium and carry it to my
distinctly non-VIP seat. While walking through the stadium I noticed that the
people gaining access to the VIP sections all had similar green security bands,
just that they wore them around their wrists.
Figuring that the average guard
wouldn’t distinguish between the wristband and the bag-band I just held my bag
up and acted like I belonged in the VIP section. Worked again. Free food, free
drink, free program, free radio link with headphones, free souvenir baseball –
the only way to get free things in the UK seems to be to have a lot of money.
Wandering around the corporate section I ran into a meet and greet with one of
my favorite old Red Sox, Reggie Smith and one of my least favorite Yankees,
Bucky Dent. Turning to a Sox fan I said I’d get Reggie’s signature, but
couldn’t be bothered with Bucky. “Definitely, not unless he signs his full
name” was the reply. (Sox fans will understand).
A few pictures are attached. By
the way – it won’t be the Sox and Yanks the next time teams play in London. Kansas City may be out of luck.
 |
| It could be the Reds, Cardinals, Astros, Mariners - or any other team that next represents MLB in London, but if this picture is any indication - it won't be the Royals... |
My personal favorite bit of
blagging in the last year or so was at a sort of “Night With” meeting in Dublin.
The “With” guy was Bob Woodward of the Washington Post, one half of the famed
reporting team of Woodward and Bernstein who helped break the Watergate
scandal. About half way through the night a surprise guest was brought out –
Carl Bernstein was in town so they put the old team back together. It was a
fascinating night and towards the end they announced that “those who had been
invited to the reception should go to the Oak Room” or something like that.
Now, I hadn’t been invited (I’m sure it was lost in the mail), but once again
they seemed to be relying on the wristband method of security. I’d gone to the
hospital to give blood earlier in the day – and I still had the band on my
wrist that they give you when you check in.
So I gave it a shot. Going in with
a group of about five I lifted my wrist up to show my band with a sort of
disdain, an air of “of course I have a wristband – do I even have to go through
this charade”.
It worked.
I got to hang out and have a
drink with Woodward and Bernstein, and since I had brought a copy of “All the
President’s Men” with me in case Woodward was signing I managed to come out of
there with a fully autographed copy of that iconic work. Blagged my way into
that.
So what is the greatest Irish
example of blagging? It has to be the events carried out by a couple of kids
ages 10 and 13 who left their home one evening in the Northside of Dublin,
telling their mothers that they’d be home soon because dinner wasn’t that far
away. They then proceeded to hop a commuter train to Dun Laoghaire, which, for
you Americans is like hopping the gate in Queens and taking the subway down to
the Battery.
Fair enough – that’s a bit
cheeky for a barely teen and pre-teen but probably not uncommon. But they were
just starting. Once in Dun Laoghaire they maneuvered their way on to the ferry
boat from Ireland to the United Kingdom - Holyhead in Wales to be exact.
International travel – that’s the big leagues there, but that only charged
their batteries. Making their way to the train station the pair hopped on a
train to London, specifically Heathrow Airport, international terminal.
Spotting an Air India flight to New York they somehow convinced the attendant
at the gate that their parents were to follow with the tickets. On they were
waved, and they quietly ensconced themselves in seats on the transatlantic
flight. The plane takes off, they watch the film, enjoy a meal and land in New
York. They ventured out in to the terminal and determined to head in to the Big
Apple. In one of New York’s finests finest hours an NYPD patrolman finally
nabbed them when they asked for directions “in to town”. Probably was a bit
suspicious when he heard something like “Hey meester, kin yiz tell us hows ta
get innatown?”
Kept overnight in a five-star
hotel and fed like kings they were sent back to Ireland the next day, holders
of the all-time blagging championship. A movie is supposedly in the works. You
can read all about it here: Absolutely legendary.
I’m convinced that 90% of the
battle when pulling this off is to convince yourself that you belong there. Not
the guy at the gate – you have to persuade YOURSELF that you should get in. I
really would have been upset if someone at the door had stopped me at the
Woodward/Bernstein reception “Whattya mean stop? I’ve got a wristband – I got
yer wristband right here buddy. Wore the thing all day – so what it’s from a
hospital – hospitals are important. I’m goin’ in".
Ah, the places we’ll go when
we get out.
Random
Ramblings from the great lockdown of 2020 – Part X – Jeopardy
In keeping with the Seinfeld script I find myself watching old SNL clips from time to time – and you start to think you could write one of those sketches yourself. The concepts get used again and again and some work better than others – the Jeopardy vignettes are pretty funny…
Screen
begins to fade into a transition…
JEOPARDY – INEFFECTIVE LEADERS EDITION.
WE
OPEN ON THE SET OF THE GAME SHOW JEOPARDY WITH HOST ALEX TREBEK PORTRAYED BY
GUEST HOST STEVE MARTIN. THE CONTESTANTS
ARE ALSO FORMER GUEST HOSTS – ALEC BALDWIN AS DONALD TRUMP, JOHN CLEESE AS
CALIGULA AND MICHAEL PALIN AS NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN – HEY – WE’RE PUTTIN’ THE
BAND BACK TOGETHER…
ALEX
TREBEK - Welcome to Jeopardy – today we have a group of contestants that were,
at one time or another, leaders of their countries or empires. They have asked
us not to tell you the reason for their selection (ONSCREEN FLASHING - “CUZ
THEY SUCKED” APPEARS) but suffice to say we’re absolutely thrilled to have them
here.
Contestant
Number 1 hails from the United Kingdom where he acted as Prime Minister for a
period during the 1930’s – ladies and gentlemen big round of applause for
Neville Chamberlain!
CROWD
BEGINS APPLAUSE – IT IS CUT OFF BY ANOTHER CONTESTANT…
TRUMP
- Why is he Contestant Number 1? – I should be Number 1 – Everyone knows I’m
number 1. Let me be Number 1.
ALEX
- Sorry sir, we were told that you were Number 2. We can only move you if Mr.
Chamberlain agrees…
TRUMP
GLARES AT CHAMBERLAIN
CHAMBERLAIN
- Oh – ah certainly – I don’t see any problem with that if it will keep the
peace.
TRUMP
SHOVES CHAMBERLAIN ASIDE
ALEX
- Now contestant Number 1 – 46th President of the United States – Donald J.
Trump.
MEAGER
APPLAUSE - SOME BOOS.
TRUMP
- Thank you for what is obviously the greatest ovation ever received on this
show.
I
don’t know how anyone could have thought I was Number 2.
ALEX
- Actually, we’ve been told by a number of sources that you are Number 2.
TRUMP
- Fake news – haters and baiters.
ALEX
(A BIT EXASPERATED) - Perhaps it was Number 2 in another context…
On
to contestant Number 3, a former Roman emperor – please welcome Caligula!
MILD
APPLAUSE, CALIGULA, EATING A GRAPE, LOOKS MILDLY AMUSED
ALEX
- And now to play Jeopardy – the categories are:
Shakespeare’s
Kings
Food
and Drink
Abbreviations
Potent
Potables
Drugs
Part I - and
Successors
As
our returning champion the board belongs to you Caligula.
CALIGULA
- Grazie – I’ll go with Drugs Party.
ALEX
– I’m sorry?
CALIGULA
– Next to last category – Drugs Party.
ALEX
– That’s “Drugs Part One”…
CALIGULA
– Never mind then - Abbreviations for 100.
ALEX
- Here we go – The full name of where the King’s English is used – the BBC.
Donald
Trump, you’re the first to buzz in -
TRUMP
- What is the Bogus Broadcasting Company.
ALEX
- Sorry – not quite right.
TRUNP
- Bad British Crapsellers.
ALEX
- Only one question per answer Mr. Trump.
TRUMP:
SCOWLS AND MUTTERS – Same as the Corrupt News Network…
ALEX
- Mr. Chamberlain?
CHAMBERLAIN
- What is the British Broadcast Corporation?
ALEX
- Correct – Your board Mr. Chamberlain
CHAMBERLAIN
- Shakespeare’s Kings for 100 please.
ALEX
- Certainly – This king is noted for the concealed sexual tension with his
daughters who end up the death of him (TRUMP BUZZES IN)
Mr.
Trump?
TRUMP
- What is making me exceptionally uncomfortable right now?
ALEX
- Probably true Mr. Trump but not what we’re looking for at the moment. Mr. Chamberlain.
CHAMBERLAIN
- Who is King Lear?
ALEX
- Correct again Mr. Chamberlain. Your board.
CALIGULA
(INTERRUPTING) - I want Chamberlain’s points.
ALEX
- Caligula – now you know you didn’t answer – those points are Mr.
Chamberlain’s.
CALIGULA
- I want them or I’ll start a fight.
ALEX
- I’m sorry…
CHAMBERLAIN
INTERUPTS
CHAMBERLAIN
- If it’ll avoid a fight…
ALEX
- Ah – this is unprecedented but if you insist on appeasing Caligula…
CHAMBERLAIN
- I think it’ll calm everyone down.
ALEX
- (QUESTIONINGLY) - Ummmm – Okay. Your board.
CHAMBERLAIN - Food and drink for 100
ALEX
- The answer is – A substance that became a great source of calcium for humans
because of a genetic mutation. (CALIGULA BUZZES IN)
CALIGULA
- What are the bones of my enemies crushed into a powder.
ALEX
- No Caligula – sorry. (TRUMP BUZZES IN)
TRUMP
- What are Trump steaks.
ALEX
- Sorry Mr. Trump. Mr. Chamberlain.
CHAMBERLAIN
- What is milk?
ALEX
- Correct – Your board.
TRUMP
- That’s what I said.
ALEX
- I’m sorry – I’m certain you said “Trump steaks”.
TRUMP
- You misheard me.
ALEX
- We have a tape.
TRUMP
- It’s a metaphor for milk – everybody says it.
ALEX
(INCREDULOUS) - Who says it?
TRUMP
- Lots of people are saying it – a metaphor.
ALEX
- I’m afraid not – Mr. Chamberlain – your board.
TRUMP
- I want his points too – or I’ll have to retaliate. Tremendous retaliation.
ALEX
- You can’t… (LOOKS TO CHAMBERLAIN WHO IS NODDING AND POINTING TO TRUMP)– are
you giving your points to him as well Mr. Chamberlain?
CHAMBERLAIN
- SHRUGGING – I believe it will lead to peace in our time.
ALEX,
SHAKING HIS HEAD – Your board.
CHAMBERLAIN
- Successors for 100
ALEX
- The answer is – He succeeded Donald Trump following the election of 2020 – oh
my this seems to have been placed here prematurely…
AUDIENCE
SHOUTS EN MASSE: JOE BIDEN!
TRUMP
- Hey – doesn’t it have to be in the form of a question?
AUDIENCE
SHOUTS EN MASSE: NO QUESTION ABOUT IT!
And
so on…
Maybe someday I’ll submit it to Lorne Michaels. In
the mean time life goes on – a few pictures taken today of wood pigeon that
landed next to our window – snapped the picture just as the little girl in the
house behind ours was swinging so it looks like she threw a saddle on a giant
bird. Then a close up of one of the visitors to our feeder – and a hedgehog
Margaret spotted on our walk tonight. You notice these things more these days…
