Archive for The Way We Were

A little more than an advisory

By comparison, Hurricane Ike was almost gentle.

Then again, it takes something this forceful to get someone’s attention. You probably know this old joke:

A farmer is in Iowa during a flood. The river is overflowing. Water is surrounding the farmer’s home up to his front porch. As he is standing there, a boat comes up. The man in the boat says, “Jump in, and I’ll take you to safety.”

The farmer crosses his arms and says stubbornly, “Oh no thanks, I put my trust in God.” The boat goes away. The water rises to the second story. Another boat comes up. The man says to the farmer, who is now at the second floor window, “Hurry, jump in. I’ll save you.”

The farmer again says, “Oh no thanks, I put my trust in God.”

The boat goes away. Now the water is inching over the roof. As the farmer stands on the roof, a helicopter comes over, and drops a ladder. The pilot yells down to the farmer, “I’ll save you. Climb the ladder.”

The farmer yells back, “Oh no thanks, I put my trust in God.”

The helicopter goes away. The water continues to rise and sweeps the farmer off the roof into the swiftly moving water. Unfortunately, he drowns.

The farmer goes to heaven. God sees him and says, “What are you doing here?”

The farmer says, “I put my trust in you, and you let me down.”

God says, “What do you mean, let you down? I sent you two boats and a helicopter!”

You might take this as an example of By-God Iowa Stubborn; or you might consider that in nearly every natural disaster, there’s someone who won’t budge from the scene. Scaring the heck out of them with a weather forecast seems like a kindness.

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Surely it’s done by now

I mean — shouldn’t it be?

Machines get faster, but files get bigger, and it still takes forever to transfer them. The database that runs this very Web site took nearly 80 minutes to back up on Sunday evening.

Should anyone be curious, cc32e47.exe is the installation file for Netscape Communicator, which includes the Navigator browser (version 4), a newsgroup reader, AOL Instant Messenger, and various other artifacts of a long-departed civilization.

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A girl who once had a dream

Yukiko Okada — call her “Yukko” — always wanted to sing. She’d appear at any audition for anything, hoping to get a break; at sixteen, she finally broke through on one of those TV talent shows and was signed to Japan’s Sun Music Productions.

It didn’t hurt that she had That Look:

Yukiko Okada stretches out

Yukiko Okada in a swimsuit

Her first single, “First Date,” came out early in 1984; her third, “Dreaming Girl,” was enough to win her Best New Artist in the annual Japan Record Awards. It’s — well, listen for yourself:

Why, yes, it is vaguely reminiscent of Tracey Ullman’s cover of Kirsty MacColl’s “They Don’t Know.”

Sponsorship and television deals followed, and Yukko was on her way. But something, somewhere, went terribly wrong:

Okada was found with a slashed wrist in her gas-filled Tokyo apartment, crouching in a closet and crying.

And then two hours later:

[S]he committed suicide on April 8th by jumping off from the roof of the Sun Music building. She was only 18 at the time. Her suicide made headlines and sent shockwaves across Japan. To top it off, several fans of hers followed suite. It caused such a commotion that the term “Yukko Syndrome” came into being to connote follow-on [copycat] suicides. That year (1986), the suicide rate in Japan jumped to an all-time high.

In 2002, the song “Believe In You” was rescued from the vaults and given an orchestral overlay, becoming Yukko’s last single. If only she’d believed a little more in herself.

She would have been forty-eight today.

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All bent out of shape

I have to figure that this product name is, let us say, a trifle optimistic:

Maybe if it had an infinite power source. (Repeat: “maybe.”)

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All pink and curvy and everything

There’s a feature in the current Automobile (September) about the pink AMX awarded to Angela Dorian as part of her 1968 Playmate of the Year, um, booty. Dorian, a small-time actress under her real name — Victoria Vetri — got a small career boost from being PMOY, but careers in Hollywood tend to be shortish. (You have to wonder how things might be different had she taken the job of dubbing Natalie Wood’s voice in West Side Story earlier in the decade.) Still, she held onto the car until 2010, by which time it had been repainted several times and was in bad need of some TLC. Arguably, so was Vetri, who was charged with shooting her husband in the back. The attempted-murder charge filed against her was eventually reduced to attempted voluntary manslaughter; she pleaded no contest and was sentenced to nine years in prison.

Meanwhile, a chap named Mark Melvin happened upon the AMX at a lot in Venice Beach; he bought it and restored it, at a cost of somewhere over $50,000. There exists a Web site for the car, which also includes a recap of Vetri’s career and eventual undoing that was actually written by Robert Stacy McCain, its appearance a product of the miracle of cut-and-paste. The car, of course, now looks utterly wonderful; Vetri, now in her seventies, perhaps not so much.

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Triumphantly so

In 1959, the US found itself awash in foreign cars. Volkswagen, which had set up shop in 1949, dominated the market with its Beetles, but France was selling a fair number of Renaults, Toyota had tentatively dipped a toe into the Stateside milieu with the Toyopet Crown, and the British seemed to be everywhere: my father, in fact, put up some presumably modest sum for a Ford Anglia from beautiful downtown Dagenham. In general, economy was the name of the game, and this Triumph advertisement from 1959 makes darn sure you know that:

Print ad for '59 Triumph

There were no real fuel-economy rules in those days, but 40 mpg doesn’t seem too far out of reach, providing you weren’t doing things like climbing hills in San Francisco. The engine was dinky by American standards: a 948-cc (58 cubic inches, wow!) overhead-valve inline four, pumping out 37 hp, competitive with the Beetle’s flat four. I was amused by this bit: “It will travel up to 60,000 miles without a major overhaul — often 100,000.” Today, needing an overhaul at 60k is the sign of Heavy Citrus, but back then, things wore out a whole lot faster.

Still, the funniest part, at least to me, is that it’s not really a Triumph. This is actually a ’59 Standard Ten sedan, given a Triumph badge because those Yanks know the name, having bought several Triumph TR-series sports cars in the decade. And if you saw “Triumph” and thought “sports-car engine,” who could blame you? The TR3A of that era had an engine twice as big with nearly three times the ponies.

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How little things change

Just an historical note, or a point in the cycle we’re bound to repeat?

The Whigs collapsed in 1856, and the Democrats in 1860, because neither represented the views of the majority of Americans. American politics had been all about slavery since at least the 1830s, but both parties studiously avoided it. You could vote for the Whigs, who stood for nothing but not being Democrats, or you could vote for the Democrats, who were pro-slavery but wouldn’t admit it under torture. The Dems were better at coalition building — some things never change — and were able to cobble together the “Hard Shell,” “Soft Shell,” “Barnburner,” etc. factions together for one election longer than the Whigs were, but when faced with a legitimate protest party, they too collapsed. Their vote split several different ways, Lincoln won the White House, and I forget what happened next.

Today’s Republican leadership, in case you hadn’t noticed, stands for nothing but not being Democrats. And anyone paying attention knows the Democrats’ poster child: it’s a nonwhite female college student who will do anything to not get pregnant, but she won’t do that. (Or rather, she won’t not do that.) I can’t wait for the grownups to start running the playground again.

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Where’s the pound sign?

For those below a certain age, this diagram is utterly incomprehensible:

Old-style phone dial

There is, or at least was, an app for that.

(Via Vintage Los Angeles.)

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Stepping out

Caroline Cossey is a fairly normal Southern housewife with a trace of England in her voice; she’s sixty, she’s tall (6′), and since she lives in Kennesaw, Georgia, she owns a gun. But once in a while someone stumbles across the memory hole, and in this month’s Playboy there’s a repeat of a 1991 pictorial of Cossey under her nom de model Tula, and a new interview with the woman once known as Barry Cossey.

Tula in styleMinor anatomical detail: Cossey was born in 1954 with a variation on Klinefelter’s syndrome; instead of XX or XY, she was XXXY. She transitioned in her late teens, had The Surgery at twenty-one, and began a not-so-low-key modeling career, perhaps peaking with her appearance as an extra in For Your Eyes Only, which led to her first appearance in Playboy, in her capacity as one of several anonymous Bond girls. Things might have leveled off there, except that one of the more odious British tabloids, the News of the World, put her on the front page with the headline “James Bond Girl Was a Boy.”

Playboy asked her: “Has the growing acceptance of LGBT people made life easier?” She replied:

“I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling like a second-class citizen. It’s embedded and instilled from birth. You grow up, you don’t fit in, you don’t belong, you’re bullied. That doesn’t go away in five minutes. I don’t think it ever goes away. When I look back at it all, what I went through was tragic. But how do you deal with pain? You shrug it off. That’s the British way of doing it, at least.”

Would she do another James Bond film, if asked?

“I would never say no to something that’s tastefully done, but I’m not expecting to grace any covers anytime soon.”

Her 1991 pictorial was tastefully done, but, if you don’t mind my saying so, surgical techniques may have improved since then.

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The price of speed

I was going back through that 60th Anniversary issue of Car and DriverTam’s been reading it as long as I have, and probably with better comprehension — when I lasered in on the data sheet from a 1956 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing. Some of the important stuff:

Engine: SOHC 12-valve inline-six, 183 cu in (2996 cc)
Power: 220 hp @ 6100 rpm
Torque: 203 lb-ft @ 4600 rpm
0-60 mph: 7.7 seconds
Quarter mile: 15.9 seconds (no trap speed given)

Damned impressive for the times. I then dialed forward 43 years and change for this data sheet:

Engine: DOHC 24-valve V6, 182 cu in (2988 cc)
Power: 227 hp @ 6400 rpm
Torque: 217 lb-ft @ 4000 rpm
0-60 mph: 8.3 seconds
Quarter mile: 16.4 seconds @ 87 mph

This latter buggy, of course, is my current daily driver, now about to turn Sweet Sixteen. The numbers are not so different, though C/D complained at the time that in their opinion, their tester with 890 miles on the clock was not making full power. Having done zero-to-sixty in the high sevens with a lot more miles, I tend to agree. (This chap did it in 7.1 with the malf light on, which is perhaps more impressive.)

If you’re wondering how much progress had been made in lo, those many years, consider the following. The sticker on the Benz was $8897, or about four Chevrolets of the time; Infiniti asked $31,700 for my car, about two ’00 Chevy Impalas after the usual incentives. And in the decade and a half since my I30 left Japan, those specs have become, well, mundane: today’s V6 Accord will roast my chestnuts without even breathing hard. I conclude that we have some truly marvelous machines to come, assuming the government doesn’t fark things up any worse than they already have.

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Ken Layne hits the road

Ken Layne once described his career path this way:

Local newspapers, domestic and foreign radio stations, consumer computer guides, television newsrooms, glossy progressive magazines, the cartoon page of college newspapers, Washington wire service desks, expatriate post-Iron Curtain tabloids, sporadic appearances in respectable media, occasional musical endeavors, a few forays into traditional book publishing and a long chain of oddball news and satire websites — that’s how I’ve barely earned a living over the decades.

He did get some coin of the realm from me, for a CD titled Fought Down by Ken Layne and the Corvids. From my review in January 2004:

Ken Layne’s voice [is] sort of what you’d get if you transposed Neil Young down a fifth and purged his every last whining overtone, then overlaid him with Tom Waits-level world-weariness. Fought Down tells stories of people who’ve probably downed a few fifths of their own, and it’s a measure of Layne’s skill that it’s almost impossible to hear these tales without wondering if Layne himself might have left Sacramento on an eastbound freight, or wound up in some broad’s Lincoln Town Car, or heard angry voices that not even a case of Two-Buck Chuck can silence. Lesser hands would have taken these raw materials and forged a few minutes of bathos; Ken Layne makes you think, “Hey, I know that poor son of a bitch.”

A couple of years after that, he took over the Wonkette blog, and enjoyed the not-entirely-unique distinction of being named “Worst Person in the World” by Keith Olbermann.

And when he wearied of that bloggy stuff, he went on to something as unlike it as possible:

“I wanted my work to be about the desert,” he says.

He considered doing a radio show like “A Prairie Home Companion” that focused on the American Southwest. Then, last summer, his new off-line venture appeared to him almost fully formed in the midst of a solo four-week drive through Death Valley and the Eastern Sierra. (“It’s what I do instead of go to a psychiatrist,” he says.)

It would be a quarterly regional magazine about the Southwest. The look would be inspired by old desert guides from the ’60s and ’70s like Owens Valley Jeep Trails and Mines of the Mojave, but it would pay homage to the weirdness of the desert with stories about strange desert animals and even stranger desert characters. He called it the Desert Oracle.

“I saw it pretty clearly,” he says. “It was going to be small, it was going to be yellow, and inside it was going to be all black and white. No color, no GIFs, no apps, no content on the Internet.”

So far, it’s not yet as well known as his early blog declaration: “It’s 2001, and we can fact-check your ass.” Fourteen years later, lots of asses are claiming to be in the fact-check business; I can’t blame Layne for wanting to get away from all this.

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Apply Miskatonic as needed

InStyle.com has a little slideshow called “The Weird and Wonderful Past of the Hair Dryer,” from which I have plucked this one item for your dining and dancing pleasure:

1936 hair dryer

Of this particular model, they say:

Alien abduction, or hair styling session? This model, showcased at the 1936 Hair and Beauty Fair in London, featured a series of heat-radiating rods to completely cover the head.

If your stylist should resemble Ithaqua the Wind Walker, you perhaps should try another salon.

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Turn that noise down

This describes me to the proverbial T:

If you’re worried about losing your love of new music, your fears are justified. That’s according to new research that finds listeners reach “maturity” around age 33. In other words, you’re done with discovering new music when you reach your mid-thirties.

The study compared multiple sets of data, including the age and gender of Spotify users, their parental status, and the overall popularity of artists. The study found that teenagers listen almost exclusively to the most popular artists, but their tastes evolve steeply into their mid-twenties, and then slowly until they level off in their mid-thirties.

I was 33 in 1986, and sure enough, the collection begins to tail off a year or two later: there is very little 1990s stuff on my shelves.

However, the trend reversed about ten years ago, basically for these two reasons:

  • I signed up for the iTunes Store, mostly because it had some odd tunes I’d never bothered to get on vinyl, and if there’s one thing the iTunes Store does well, it’s shove new stuff out there where you can see it;
  • I met Trini, who was not quite half my age, and she was happy to fill me in on newer stuff that I might like.

Whether this portends anything happening at age 66, I do not know.

(Hat tip: Erica Mauter.)

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Only the beginning

Uploaded on 23 April 2005, ten years and one day ago, this was apparently the very first YouTube video:

Although the description has changed a couple of times since the original upload.

The chap who posted this particular video, Jawed Karim, is one of three actual co-founders of YouTube; when Google bought YouTube in 2006, Karim was paid approximately $64 million in Google stock. By now, he could buy elephants.

(Via Consumerist.)

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We are always doomed

And we will continue to be doomed for the foreseeable future, if the pattern holds:

My school (Kinkaid in Houston) took speech and debate very seriously and had a robust debate program even in middle school. In 1975-1976 the national debate topic was this:

    Resolved: That the development and allocation of scarce world resources should be controlled by an international organization

The short answer to this proposition should realistically have been: “you have got to be f*cking kidding me.” But such were the times that this was considered a serious proposal worth debating for the entire year. In fact, in doing research, it was dead-easy to build up suitcases of quotations of doom to support the affirmative; it was far, far harder finding anyone who would argue that a) the world was not going to run out of everything in a few decades and b) that markets were an appropriate vehicle for managing resources. I could fill up an hour reading different sources predicting that oil would have run out by 1990 or 2000 at the latest.

And now, of course, we’re awash in the stuff, with storage at Cushing at 78 percent of capacity. We will, of course, run out in 2030, or 2130, or 2525, if man is still alive.

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Sudden start

Percy Sledge was working as a hospital orderly in the middle 1960s, and spent his evenings singing in front of a band called the Esquires, but not these Esquires. Three of them — Calvin Lewis, Andrew Wright, and Sledge himself — came up with a doleful tune called “When a Man Loves a Woman,” which they took to local DJ and record producer Quin Ivy. A demo was cut, with Sledge but without either Wright or Lewis, which Muscle Shoals impresario Rick Hall liked enough to send upstream to the bigwigs at Atlantic Records. Reportedly, Jerry Wexler thought the horns were off key, but would be happy to hear a revision, which the guys duly cut — and which ended up in the vault, because somehow the original tape was the one issued as Atlantic 2326 in March of 1966.

So Percy Sledge was off and running, and he continued to chart as late as 1974: “I’ll Be Your Everything” made Top 15 on Billboard’s R&B chart and registered briefly on the pop chart. Still, it was that one song that made him famous, and it never left the scene, even materializing at #2 on the British pop chart — in 1987. Sledge never stopped performing; he cut a gospel album in 2013, and I’d bet he was booked for some concert appearances later this year, which, alas, won’t be happening.

And this is my favorite Percy Sledge number, live a few years ago at the Mountain Arts Center in Prestonsburg, Kentucky, written by Muscle Shoals stalwarts Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham. It’s every bit as good as “When a Man Loves a Woman,” and played so seldom on the radio that it always jumps out at you.

Oh, the spiffy Philadelphia girl group known as Sister Sledge? Real name, but no relation.

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Turn off the bubble machine

This wacky track just came up on the shuffle the other day (Capitol F-3815), and now that Stan Freberg has passed from the scene, and everyone is going to mention “St. George and the Dragonet” or “Green Chri$tma$” or the obligatory “Elderly Man River,” I figured I’d go for the sheer farce of “Wun’erful, Wun’erful,” the sad story of an accordion-playing bandleader. Since this was recorded on both sides of a 45-rpm record, there are no visuals; however, the chap who YouTubed this gave us a look at, well, an accordion-playing bandleader:

And even when he was trying to make a serious point, Freberg knew funny. I refer you to “The Old Payola Roll Blues,” in which we discovered that (1) he was no fan of that rock and/or roll stuff and (2) we really didn’t mind.

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Hey, nineteen

This here Web site is old enough to vote, though it’s not old enough to drink. Whether this makes any difference or not, I’m not entirely sure.

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Air waived

You might recognize this as a page from TV Guide, circa 1970:

TV Guide 1 April 1970

Now: which edition of TV Guide? The person who posted this on Facebook was from Philadelphia, but these channels don’t match up with Philly then or with Philly now. I resolved to find out without actually having to ask the guy.

The key, it turns out, is that NBC affiliate on channel 79. And while there were a few stations on 79, generally translators, only one fits with the rest of the scheme:

WVIT 30 Hartford once operated W79AI, a repeater in Torrington, Connecticut which is now abandoned.

And sure enough, 30 and 79 are carrying the same programs. So this is around Hartford, probably Springfield, and very likely Boston. The other NBC stations: WBZ-TV 4 Boston (now a CBS station); WATR-TV 20 Waterbury (now WCCT-TV, the CW); WWLP 22 Springfield; WRLP 32 Greenfield (now defunct).

I very likely would not have known any of this had I not been sojourning in central Massachusetts in the 1970s at the behest of Uncle Sam.

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One less guitar

Billed at one point as “The Many Guitars of Jørgen Ingmann,” likely in reference to his fondness for Les Paul-ish overdubbing, the man born Jørgen Ingmann Pedersen in Denmark in 1925 had an enormous US hit in 1961 with Jerry Lordan’s “Apache,” first recorded by Bert Weedon, later turned into a worldwide smash by the Shadows — except here in the States, where Capitol Records’ relationship with then-parent EMI was decidedly rocky, giving rival Atlantic a chance to score with Ingmann’s cover.

In 1963, Ingmann and then-wife Grethe won the Eurovision Song Contest with “Dansevise” (“Dance Ballad”). In the States, his one-hit wonder status continued until his death on the 21st of March.

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The corner of Hampton and Falmouth

Google Maps screenshot of southern BrooklynIn 2003, I found out this rather startling piece of news:

I knew that Michael Brown’s unrequited love was a real person — a real person named Renee, no less — but it never occurred to me that he was also thinking of a real sign that points one way.

It’s at the intersection of Falmouth Street and Hampton Avenue in Brooklyn.

Petite Powerhouse and pop princess Dawn Eden, now far better known as an advocate for Catholicism and chastity, was happy to pass on that bit of information, and I couldn’t possibly have resisted posting it here, inasmuch as Brown’s song for the Left Banke, “Walk Away Renee,” even now pouring into your head, ranks up there with the most indelible musical memories of my adolescent years, possibly even for reasons unrelated to its subject matter. I once called Michael Brown the “spiritual heir to both Johann Sebastian Bach and Brian Wilson,” and I wasn’t kidding.

So anything that happens to this man matters to me, especially his untimely passing:

Brown was sixteen when Renee walked away with his heart, and I’m pretty certain that she could still have laid claim to a piece of it when he was sixty-five. I’ve been there, and by “there” I don’t mean Brooklyn.

Addendum: A proper sendoff from Brown’s hometown paper.

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Meanwhile at the front

WW2 Tweets from 1943 is just like it sounds: history, 140 characters at a time. An example from last week, offset 72 years:

By the 10th of March, the Allies were well on their way to seizing the Mareth Line, and what with Germany having suffered heavy casualties, Rommel had departed Africa:

The Axis retreated to the Wadi Akarit, but were eventually routed.

(Seen by GLHancock before I got to it.)

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Ten years of virals

Almost two hundred clips of viral(ish) videos are squoze down into this 200-second (or so) testimonial to the weirdly compelling nature of YouTube, celebrating its 10th anniversary this year:

I haven’t decided whether I’m impressed or depressed by the number of scenes I recognized.

(Via Miss Cellania.)

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Pave and repave

Anyone who’s ever seen a Western knows that horses’ hooves make this clippity-clop sound, a phenomenon that’s not at all confined to the West:

The bustling streets of Philadelphia circa the 1830s were a noisy place. Chief among the cacophony was the sound of horse’s hooves loudly clopping across the cobblestones, and a solution had to be devised. Thus the local businessmen teamed up with the city government and together they came up with the idea of paving the streets with sound-absorbing wooden blocks instead of resonating cobbles.

A flash of brilliance! But the scheme wasn’t perfect, and this was its number-one disadvantage:

The blocks quickly began to soak up every bit of liquid that fell on them from rain to copious amounts of horse urine. In addition to expanding and warping into a bumpy mess, the roads became unbearably smelly (especially in the summer) as the pee-soaked blocks rotted and crumbled.

Only one wooden-blocked block remains in Philly: the 200 block of South Camac Street, and the new blocks have been treated to give them some liquid resistance.

(Via Finestkind Clinic and fish market.)

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Springtime, if you will

Some time in early 2016, the first German edition of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf since the end of World War II will be hitting bookstores and libraries, and to no one’s surprise, some people have a problem with that:

Charlotte Knobloch, head of the Jewish community in Munich, said she had not vigorously opposed it when the project first surfaced. But her position, she said, hardened after hearing from outraged Holocaust survivors.

“This book is most evil; it is the worst anti-Semitic pamphlet and a guidebook for the Holocaust,” she said. “It is a Pandora’s box that, once opened again, cannot be closed.”

Mein Kampf was never actually banned in postwar Germany, though the copyright for the book ended up in the hands of the state of Bavaria, which never granted permission for reprints. (Prewar copies still exist, but they are generally kept out of sight.) And under German law, that copyright expires on the first of January after the author has been dead 70 years. (Hitler himself expired on 30 April 1945.)

The book’s reissue, to the chagrin of critics, is effectively being financed by German taxpayers, who fund the historical society that is producing and publishing the new edition. Rather than a how-to guidebook for the aspiring fascist, the new reprint, the group said this month, will instead be a vital academic tool, a 2,000-page volume packed with more criticisms and analysis than the original text.

I suppose there will be a Downfall parody video showing what happens when Hitler finds out Mein Kampf is going to be back in print. He wouldn’t be pleased, I’m sure; after becoming Reichskanzler, he distanced himself from the book:

[Hitler] dismissed it as “fantasies behind bars” that were little more than a series of articles for the Völkischer Beobachter and later told Hans Frank that “If I had had any idea in 1924 that I would have become Reich chancellor, I never would have written the book.”

Based on my own copy of an English translation, which runs just over 1,000 pages, I have to assume that this is indeed a hell of a lot of criticism and/or analysis.

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Whither empire?

The Romans, history tells us, basically pissed away an entire empire. Warren Meyer suggests the result of a theoretical urinalysis:

I have a theory about the Romans that is probably shared by nobody. The Romans were strong and powerful and vital when they were creating a variety of citizenship types to accommodate multiple peoples who entered the empire in multiple ways. In particular I think of civitas sine suffragio or citizenship without the vote. But this was just one of many variations. By the first century AD (or CE per the modern academic trend), a lot of people of a lot of cultures and races and over a wide geography called themselves Romans.

By the end of the empire, the “reforms” of Diocletian and Constantine purged all flexibility from both governance and the economy (in sum, their laws amounted to the Directive 10-289 of the ancient world). By the time the Empire started falling apart, they had lost all ability to integrate new peoples or innovate with citizenship models. What was eventually called the Barbarian invasions began decades earlier as the attempted barbarian migrations. The barbarians wanted to just settle peacefully. And Rome desperately needed them — their system was falling apart as their farms and countryside was depopulated from a combination of government policy and demographic collapses (e.g. plagues). Rome desperately needed new people to settle their farms and form the new backbone of the army and the barbarians desperately wanted to settle and had a lot of military skill, but they couldn’t make it work.

I’m not so sure Attila, for one, was interested in settling peacefully; then again, in most statistics of the era, he was pretty much an outlier.

For now, I’m waiting to see which of our ostensible leaders abdicates in favor of a barbarian warlord — and whether said leader was pushing for the word “barbarian” to be forcibly struck from the language.

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We never owned her

What a life Lesley Gore had: a #1 hit while she was still in secondary school, production by the peerless Quincy Jones, a guest slot on the Batman TV series, an actual album for Motown, and finally true love.

“It’s My Party” was the big hit, but this was her anthem:

The fact that the song was written by a couple of guys — John Madara and David White, also composers of such tumultuous tunes as “442 Glenwood Avenue” by the Pixies Three — didn’t matter in the least; nor did the blatant patriarchy-ness of Lesley’s followup, “That’s the Way Boys Are,” by two different guys (Mark Barkan and Ben Raleigh).

Lesley’s official coming-out was about ten years ago, but before that there was Grace of My Heart, a grievously undernoticed Brill Building saga from 1996, written and directed by Allison Anders, to which Gore contributed a lyric. “My Secret Love,” sung by Miss Lily Banquette, then of Combustible Edison, is as blatant as anything in the k. d. lang songbook, and it even sounds like Gore.

I reviewed “Ever Since,” her most recent album, in 2005. I never imagined it would be her last.

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Bheer

When I was a bit younger and no less inclined to spout off, albeit at slower speeds — 300 bps sounds horrible, looks worse — I dealt with the concept of bheer, which was beer with a time value: it was actually present and therefore consumable. (“Beer here,” they explained.) Three decades or so later, while I’ve dealt with craft brews brewed by crafty individuals in places almost all over the map, I’ve still paid only one visit to an old-fashioned macrobrewer, and that was in 1972. You’re familiar with them, I’m sure:

In St. Louis, Anheuser-Busch was never Anheuser-Busch; it was always The Brewery. The Brewery was the reason why the Cardinals still play here. The previous ownership was all set to sell the team to a group which would have moved the Birds to Dallas until The Brewery bought the team, finally convincing owner Bill Veeck that his St. Louis Browns were doomed in this town.

When I played church softball, we took turns bringing the beer. And the only beer that we were allowed bring was AB; nothing else. Granted, none of us were beer konna-sewers back then. Post church-softball beer had one purpose, only one and taste didn’t figure in.

I had turned 18 in 1971, so I was legal in those days. And I figured, hell, if I’m in St. Louis, I might as well drop in on the monolith on Pestalozzi Street. In my capacity as a serviceman on a day pass, I thought this was a swell idea, and so did my traveling companions of the moment.

We were offered Actual Samples; I did not admit that I could not easily distinguish between Bud and Michelob. Then again, I was one of the few teenagers who hadn’t been sneaking drinks all those years. (I paid for that inexperience over the next couple of years, finding tables over my head after desperate attempts to drink someone under them.) And they handed out actual samples of beechwood, with which Bud was famously aged. (More surface area for the yeast, apparently.)

It’s probably not so special today, though:

AB beer really wasn’t that good.

The only difference between Bud Light and club soda is alcohol; if you drink enough of the former, you can get drunk. And when InBev bought AB, The Brewery became just another Big, Multinational Corporation.

Still, that’s a lot of damned beer, even if none of it, for the moment, qualifies as bheer. And as for the St. Louis Browns, you know them today as the, um, Baltimore Orioles.

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The spirit of 76 octane

Bill Quick saw this before I did, and asked: “Remember when filling stations actually filled your tank for you?”

Gas station in Lincoln 1933

For a few days in my adolescence, to help out a friend, I played pump jockey. I wasn’t especially good at it, though I was dead reliable at checking tire pressures.

And yes, E10 was around in those days. (Under that “10% Blend” verbiage: “Development Means Cornbelt Prosperity.”) It never really caught on, and purveyors of the stuff eventually sought antitrust action against Ethyl, manufacturer of another, far nastier, gasoline additive.

Interestingly, this photo was taken in Lincoln, Nebraska in April 1933, eight months before the end of Prohibition. I have to wonder how much of that ethanol was diverted before it got to the gas station.

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That one moment in the sun

Then again, we’re talking Yuma, Arizona, which gets a lot of sun. Curtis Lee was born in Yuma in 1939; in the middle 1960s he joined his father’s construction business, took it over entirely in 1969, and ran it well into the 21st century. Cancer got him this last week at the age of 75.

Why are we talking about an Arizona homebuilder? Because of this:

This was Lee’s third single for Ray Peterson’s Dunes label. Lee wrote the song with Tommy Boyce, before Boyce and Bobby Hart were a name-brand songwriting duo; Phil Spector (!) produced. In the background were the Halos, a doo-wop group from the Bronx who sang on another famed Spector production, Gene Pitney’s stirring “Every Breath I Take.”

Spector also produced the follow-up, “Under the Moon of Love,” another Boyce/Lee collaboration, which just missed the Top 40. (And the B-side, “Beverly Jean,” is a gem.) Further recordings went nowhere, and Lee went back home to Yuma to, yes, build houses.

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